Dead in the Water (18 page)

I sat down on the floor, out of the line of fire of anybody outside the window, and replaced the shell I had used with a new one in the chamber of my pistol. Then I called Sam, softly, and went outside, stopping to lock the door as I left. Sam came with me, alert now, feeling better. The milk had helped him. I put him in his pen and gave him a single word of command, "Keep."

Then I went down beside the dock at the end of my yard and took up the Fiberglas canoe that lay there. The paddle was under it. I carried it out to the water and launched it, making no sound.

Once again I wasn't going by the book. But the book wasn't written for one-man departments in the bush. The book was for guys with men to spare, able to lift the phone and call in the kind of support we used to get for a big push in Nam. I didn't have that kind of clout. If I lifted the phone and called the OPP for reinforcements, the best I could hope for would be a couple of cars full of bored officers with sirens wailing. They'd scare my birds away before I could close in on them. No. It had to be done this way, one man, kneeling in a canoe, paddling silently down to the marina.

I knew that's where they would be.

The
Mary Sue,
a cruiser, George had called it, sleeps six. He meant something big. She probably drew four feet of water. That meant she couldn't make it any closer to my place than the marina to tie up. And that meant that if the hoods had any mind for tactics, they would be tied up at the very end of the dock, giving them room to cut and run in one swoop once the first heavy-footed copper came down the length of the dock. On top of which they would have a well-lighted target for about twenty-five yards. There was nowhere for a man on the dock to hide.

I was hoping they would be expecting their own man. The classic way to handle their situation would be to wait at the end of the dock until their man came trotting back from my place with the envelope under his arm. With luck, that's all they would look out for. They wouldn't watch the channel. And that's the way I planned to reach them.

The water was still. A loon was laughing its idiot laugh away up the lake behind me, frogs were planging away in the weeds at the water's edge, and my canoe was making a tiny singing sound as the paddles made a tiny froth of the wake. I had to force myself to keep breathing. My heart was tense in my chest. I paddled wide of the dock, moving silently, then I turned and came in toward the bow, three-quarters on. It figured there would be no man there. The bow was narrow with no room to sit. If they had a man posted he would be at the stern, in the shadow of the upper deck, watching the only way he expected trouble to come, down the dock.

I inched the canoe through the water. I knew they wouldn't waste any time if they saw a copper coming at them. The best I could hope for was that they would try to run me down in the cruiser. More likely they would level up their pistols and blow holes in me as I got in range. But I couldn't hurry. I had to arrive at the boat with no forward motion to jar them when I touched. One shock and they would be all over me.

Slowly I made my way alongside, turning the canoe so it slid alongside the hull, bringing me under a lighted window.

I braced my fingertips against the hull, inching myself upright. It was like moving on skates for the very first time. An inch too much movement, an ounce too much pressure and my feet would have slid out from under me, leaving me doing fish impressions while the heavies whaled away at me with their artillery.

I managed it. I moved so slowly my flesh felt like it would creep right off my bones. I had aged a year by the time my fingers found the deck level and I could pull myself up straight. The drapes were drawn almost across. I could see through a wedge-shaped slot that made everything inside a jigsaw puzzle with most of the pieces missing.

There was a long tan shape, lower than my eyes. And there was a truncated slab of blue with dark brown below it. And there was white. Two tones of white. Flesh and white nylon.

I stared at it, drawing the missing pieces in with my mind. Then the blue slab moved and I could see it was a man's arm in a short-sleeved shirt. And I could see the white. It was Angela Masters's side. And her brassiere.

It looked as if the boys had forgotten business for a while. Slowly I inched the canoe along the hull until I was level with the dip at the back of the deck. Nobody was there. Whoever should have been on sentry duty was someplace else. Maybe up on the land end of the dock, waiting for the dead guy to come back. Maybe inside, waiting for his turn with the prisoner.

Slowly and deliberately I put my full weight on the edge of the deck. If the boat dipped, nobody felt it but me. Then I shoved the canoe away from me with my foot and squirmed on deck, under the safety line. Moving slowly was agony. Any moment a man could come out of the cabin and jump on my hands and pin me. No clever unarmed combat trick can get you out of that situation. You don't get into it. Period. Unless you're a dumb, single-handed copper, trying to earn his day's pay. When I was all aboard, I rose to my knees, watching out over the side of the hull, toward the end of the dock as I drew my gun.

Ahead of me three steps led down to the covered area around the door of the cabin. I went down them, a millimeter at a time, straining my ears to hear what was going on. The only sound was a faint mewing as if somebody was playing too roughly with a kitten. I covered my gun with my left hand while I cocked it, muffling the little click. Then I straightened up, slammed the door open, and stepped inside, crouching low and to the right.

"Hold it," I said.

Blue Shirt looked around as if his mother had caught him playing with the little girl next door. He was big and blank faced, his chin almost as blue as his shirt with five-o'clock shadow. Angela Masters was sitting in a chair. She was tied there. Her mouth was gagged with a towel. Her brassiere was pulled up over her breasts. Her eyes were wide with ten kinds of emotion. For a moment I wanted to pull the trigger. Instead I told Blue Shirt, "Face down. On the floor."

God. I was slow. So slow. I should have done what was needed. I should have put a hole through the far door in the saloon. I would have, but I'm not a soldier anymore. Just a policeman.

Blue Shirt looked at me, rolling the whites of his eyes, and sank to his knees as if I were an idol.

And then, in the first moment that had tasted like victory since the case began, the voice spoke from the crack in the far door. "I've got a gun on the broad, copper. Drop the gun."

I still could have fired. In that echoing eternity before the voice died away I could have put two shots through the door, hoping that one of them at least would hit the other man, take his mind off murder.

But I didn't. I am not a killer. The girl might die. Maybe I might, but that was old news. The girl was a stranger to death. As a peace officer, I had to see she stayed that way.

The door opened a crack more and I could see the gun barrel trained on the girl's back. It was a big gun. A Magnum. It would pulp her, flinging her torn meat around the cabin like dishrags. And then Blue Shirt was getting up off his knees again, careful not to come between me and the doorway. He was grinning, a big stupid grin that showed teeth with a lot of gold in them.

"Keep to one side and take his gun," the voice said. Blue Shirt came closer, still not sure. And then the voice told me, "Put it on the floor, facing you."

There was only one emotion in the girl's eyes now. If it had words to it, it would have been a prayer.

Slowly I did as I was told.

The door opened then and the other guy came out. He was dark and slick, his hair swept up on his head and lacquered in place, as shiny and metallic as the .357 he held in his left hand. He beamed. He had done his trick.

I kept my face blank. It wouldn't help to let him know that his skin was cruddy and he stank of cologne and that I could see no need for him in the cosmic scheme of things.

Blue Shirt pounced on my gun, grabbed it as if it were hot, and sprang back, pointing it at me. He looked so happy I thought the other guy was going to pat him on the head and tell him "good boy."

The other guy didn't. He said to me, "So you're the big tough guy, are you?"

There was no answer. I made none.

The other guy was slinging my gun from hand to hand like Billy the Kid. He cackled with laughter. "Hey. I'm a cop, Joey. How 'bout that."

Brooklyn, I thought. And waited while the .357 pointed at me. I memorized every line of the face, every detail of the clothing. He was perhaps fifty. A little round in the waist. Wearing an expensive monogrammed sport shirt and pale green slacks held up with an alligator belt.

He came up to me and slapped me across the face. "Gonna remember me, are you? Maybe this'll help," he said, and slapped me again. I pursed my lips to save my teeth and waited. He did it a couple of times more, breaking the skin with his fancy diamond ring. Then he changed tactics and swung at me with the gun barrel. I hit him hard, up under the armpit, close to the heart. He went ooomph and for a moment it felt good. Then the other guy, Blue Shirt, was leveling my own gun at my chest and I knew it was no use.

Fancy Shirt straightened up, the gun still in his left hand but hanging low as he stared at me with a hatred more intense than anything I had ever seen before. Slowly he raised the gun level with my chest and I thought it was over. Instead he spoke to his workhorse. "Kick him," he said.

I've been worked over before. But this bastard was an expert. I managed to save my face and my testicles. One kick in either spot and it was their game. And I fell and rolled under the table where he couldn't get a clear swing at me. But he hurt me. He hurt me a lot.

Finally his master's voice said "okay" and he stopped, as neatly responsive as Sam might have been.

I lay there, waiting for the next move. My mind was working at enormous speed. I knew that they would not shoot. Not now, now I was cornered. They didn't want the neighboring people to hear. I was safe. Until they took this rig out of the dock and up to mid-channel. Then any fighting I had to do would be for the big money.

Fancy Shirt said, "You gonna remember me now, huh?"

I nodded. Obedient now. We'd worry about later when it happened. He took out a pack of Winstons and shook it until one came loose. He lifted it out with his lips, the way they do in movies. His eyes were on me all the time and the creepy movement of his mouth had a sneering, sexual challenge to it.

Blue Shirt kept me covered with my gun while he found a lighter and lit up for his boss. Then the elegant one laid the Magnum on the table. "You got something belongs to her," he said. "Her" came out "hor." Another New Yorker. Another heavy.

I said, "What do you mean?"

He sighed, picked up his gun again, and nodded to Blue Shirt, who landed three quick kicks on the same part of my shin. My eyes watered up with pain.

"'kay," the boss said, and the kicking stopped.

"You got a 'n envelope she gave you," he explained.

This time I nodded. "Right."

My eyes were clearing. I was able to see that his nails were neat, manicured.

"Yeah. Well, she shoulda given it to me, y'unnerstan?"

"You must want it pretty bad," I said.

"Bad enough to keep kickin' you till we get it," he told me.

"I used to play football," I said, and braced myself for the quick flurry of pain.

The boss said, "Shee-it. We got ourselves a goddamn hero." The kicking stopped.

"Maybe we're kickin' the wrong one," he said. "Unless you can think of some other games to play with her."

I looked at the girl. Her eyes were closed but tears were running down her cheeks. Her face had withered. She knew what they could do, without pleasure or remorse, to get what they wanted.

Blue Shirt stuffed my gun into his belt. I hoped for a moment that it was still cocked, that it might go off and give me back a two-second opportunity. But he had closed the hammer. It was safe, a lump of lifeless metal. Now he took a knife out of his pocket and flicked it open.

He went over to the girl and grabbed one breast. As he turned to his boss for the command I gave in.

"Okay. I'll give it to you." I could taste my own bile. I knew now who had cut Winslow's throat. I could imagine his grinning face as the old man gurgled and died.

"Where is it?" Fancy Shirt asked me.

"I hid it, in my yard. I'll take you there."

Angela Masters had opened her eyes again and was looking at me. I did not care what her eyes were trying to say.

"Smart," the boss said. He flicked his head to the other guy. "Get some rope, tie his hands up good," he said.

I said nothing. If I was lucky they would not use my handcuffs. Rope was bad, but cuffs would put me out of the race for keeps. Blue Shirt found some rope and came back. I turned on my face like a good little boy while he knelt on my spine and lashed my hands together. By opening my hands wide and flat I was able to stop him from tightening the rope completely, but he was strong and I felt my pulses throb as the blood started my hands swelling helplessly.

The boss got impatient at last. "Awright already," he said. The guy got off my back. I lay there, looking at the broadloom and at Angela Masters's feet. The boss said, "You stay here, keep the broad quiet. No fooling around, huh? Keep an eye out for Freddie. An' for the local guy." Blue Shirt hoisted me to my feet, levering me up by the wrists. I came up, it was impossible not to, but I was starting to hope. If only one of them went with me, I had a chance. I had Sam.

As I stood there, waiting, I saw the tan shape that I had glimpsed through the window. It was Pardoe, stretched out on a bunk, rolled against the wall blankly, like a bundle of laundry. His breath was ugly, snoring. He had a concussion. The boss considered this. "If the Limey wakes up, don't do nothing. Just keep him quiet, awright"

The kicker said, "Yuh."

The boss man took hold of my hair. He had to reach up quite a way to do it. "Let's go," he said.

I went. My chance was coming.

He pushed me up the stairs and to the side. He balanced me, by my hair, as I stepped over the rail and down on to the dock. He walked me along the dock, keeping behind me, his hands off my hair. Anyone looking out of the port of a cruiser would have thought we were two friends taking a stroll. I checked all around as I walked. He had mentioned a local man. I wanted to see him if I could. But there was nobody there. At the end of the dock cars were lined up. He took me to one of them, a late model Caprice. I couldn't see the license. He unlocked it, then undid the rear door and threw me in, across the seat. "Stay on your face and pull your legs in," he said. I obeyed. My hands were pulsing so hard I was worried about being able to use them again that night, if I got the chance. He sat in the front and started the motor quietly. Then he drove off, moving just as quietly, a discreet, careful tourist not wanting to disturb the other revelers. Nice guy.