Kill All the Lawyers (31 page)

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." She seemed to be chanting it between sobs. Steve wrapped his arms around her, could feel the tremors shaking her from the inside out.

The air was greasy and stale, and Steve felt the sweat drip down his arms. He tried to untie the line around her ankles, but it was too tight and she was bleeding where it had cut into her. The other end of the line was fixed securely to an engine mount.

"There's a knife in the cockpit. I'll be right back, Maria."

"No. Don't leave! Please."

Steve sat down with her. He'd give her a minute. "Where's Kreeger?"

The name didn't seem to register. Apparently, kidnappers don't introduce themselves. "The man who took you. Where'd he go?"

She shook her head. She didn't know.

Steve wondered if she was in shock. But then the words poured out. She started at the beginning. Bobby was acting up, and she decided to ride home without him. When she got to her bike, a man was waiting. He grabbed her and threw her into his car. A BMW, she noted. He reached up under her shirt and pulled off her bra, touching her. She thought he was going to rape her, but he just crumpled the bra and dropped it in Bobby's bike bag.

"Then he put my bike in his trunk. And I thought this was good. Like, no matter what he was going to do to me, he'd let me go, let me ride my bike home. But after he tied me up and we drove a little bit, he took my cap and put it in my bike bag."

"Your cap?"

"Well, Bobby's cap. That Solomon and Lord one he always wears."

Including the day we went to Kreeger's office.

"Then the man threw my bike in some bushes."

"Near the road?"

"Yeah. A few feet away."

Where the bike would be found. With strands of Bobby's hair in the cap, his prints and DNA all over it. Another piece of evidence, another nail in the coffin.

"Then he put me in the trunk inside a big bag, and I could barely breathe. I might have passed out, because the next thing I knew, I was down here, all tied up."

She started crying again.

"Did he say anything?"

"Only that we were going for a cruise, but he needed to wait for a store to open. I asked if he was getting sandwiches and drinks, and he just laughed."

A store? It made no sense to Steve, but there was no time to figure it out. Kreeger would be coming back. Steve put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Maria, we need to get you out of here. I'm going up to get a knife. Is that all right?"

She nodded. "But come right back, okay?"

Steve scrambled up the ladder, climbed through the hatch, and took one step before the lightning bolt hit him. He felt his head snap back. He saw the pain itself inside his brain, an electrical flash behind his eyes. He heard thunderclaps. And then the world went quiet and black.

Forty

THE DEAD WEIGHT OF GUILT

Steve had a sensation of being awakened by being tossed into an icy shower.

But I can't be awake. I can't see anything.

He sensed movement. Side to side and up and down. And a sound. A dull roar.

Okay, the boat is moving, the diesels singing.

He felt the wind rushing by his head, sensed he was in the open cockpit, eyes closed. His face felt raw, like chopped meat, and the salt spray wasn't making it feel any better.

Why can't I move my hands?

A hard, cold rain pelted him, a million freezing needles. A rain so strong, it hissed in the air and
ping
ed as it hit the deck.

He felt the boat ride to the top of a swell, then slide down the trough.

Great. Tied up, semiconscious, and I'm gonna be seasick, too.

A throbbing pain in his skull seemed to beat time with the engines. The boat was moving fast. Open water. Ocean, not the bay. He could tell that from the waves, even though he couldn't see anything.

His mouth felt dry. He licked his lips, tasted blood. He felt the spray hit his neck, the boat splashing down the side of a swell.

So why can't I see anything? Aha, my eyes are closed.

He tried to crank them open. A crowbar would have helped. Eyes swollen shut. He wanted to use a finger to push open an eye, but there was a problem. His hands seemed to be tied behind his back.

He concentrated on his right eye, tried to crank it open. It started to come up slowly, like a Venetian blind pulled by a piece of dental floss. He used his tongue to explore the inside of his mouth. He had bitten though his lip, and he spit out a chunk of tooth.

The rain came even harder, a solid wall of daggers. His teeth chattered. He had never been this cold in his life.

"How you feeling, Solomon?"

Kreeger's voice. The eye opened just enough to see his face, rain soaking his bare chest. The boat on autopilot, Steve figured. With any luck, maybe they'd hit an iceberg. If not, maybe run aground on Bimini.

"Where's Maria?"

"Warm and toasty in the master stateroom. She'll serve her purpose after I dispose of you."

"Bastard."

"That the best you can do, Solomon?"

Steve managed to get both eyes open a crack. "Ugly bastard."

"You don't look so good yourself."

Steve felt like he'd been hit in the face with a baseball bat. Now he saw it was a shovel. Kreeger was leaning on the garden spade Steve had seen in the storage compartment.

"You'd have two black eyes if you'd live long enough for the bruises to show," Kreeger said. "But as you've no doubt ascertained, this is your last boat trip."

Steve's vision cleared a bit, and he saw that Kreeger was wearing surfer's trunks and was shirtless and barefoot. He looked powerful, with wide shoulders and a deep chest. A dive knife was strapped to a sheath on one ankle.

My feet feel funny. I can't wiggle my toes. What's that all about?

Steve looked down. His feet were in one of the aluminum pails he'd seen earlier, his legs sunk up to his calves in cold mud.

No. Not mud. Wet cement.

"You've got to be kidding, Kreeger."

"We wouldn't want your head popping up on the Fifth Street beach, scaring the tourists, would we, Solomon?"

"You've been watching too much
Sopranos.
"

Steve wriggled his feet, just enough to lift them off the bottom of the pail, but not enough for cracks to show on the surface. The cement was hardening fast.

"Maybe we can work this out, Kreeger."

"The shyster wants to settle the case. What's your offer, Counselor?"

"I get you help. Not guilty by reason of insanity."

Kreeger barked a laugh. "Got a better deal right here. Not guilty by reason of not being caught."

"The cops know I came after you. You'll be the only suspect."

"Suspect in what? There'll be no body, Solomon. They'll figure you either fled to South America to escape your legal problems or committed suicide." He shook his head, almost sadly. "This isn't the way I planned it. You were supposed to be safe and sound. How else to suffer the torment of watching your nephew go through hell?"

Steve focused on keeping his feet moving. A small crack appeared in the wet cement around each calf. The pouring rain was helping, too. If only he could keep the cement from setting around his feet, he would have a chance.

"I blame myself for your predicament," Kreeger continued. "I've never been so late leaving the dock."

"Because you had to go to the store to buy cement, that it? Run out after you killed that girl from the Redlands?"

"Always start with a new bag." Kreeger dabbed at the pail with the blade of the shovel. "Leave no evidence."

"Let Maria go. Like you said, I won't be around to be tormented. Why torture Bobby?"

"I'm afraid that ship has sailed. The girl can identify me. Or do you think that she'll so enjoy our forthcoming encounter that she'd never testify? Maybe start sneaking over to my house instead of yours?"

"Ugly, sick bastard."

Kreeger laughed again. Took the dive knife from its sheath, crouched, and stuck the blade into the pail, testing the cement. Steve kept his feet still a moment.

"Quick-dry," Kreeger said, sounding pleased, "even in this fucking downpour. Be ready in a couple minutes. Now, don't go anywhere, Counselor."

Kreeger scrambled up the ladder to the fly bridge, picked up his binoculars, and scanned the horizon in every direction. Not wanting a passing freighter to see him toss a man overboard, Steve supposed.

He wriggled harder now. The cement was firming up, the tops of his feet encased in a solid block. But he had kept it from hardening along the sides and underneath. If he was stuck to the pail, there would be nothing he could do. But if he could lift his feet out, he had a chance.

Steve tried working on a plan, but his subconscious interfered. The dead weight of guilt bore down on him, heavier than the cement. He'd let Maria down. But not just her.

I screwed up everything.

Foam spritzed over the gunwales and stung his face.

I let you all down.

Bobby would grow up without him. Victoria would move on to another man. Even his father would take it hard. Steve's throat clenched.

Jeez, am I crying?

He couldn't tell. Tears taste the same as the sea.

* * *

Moments later, the sky darkened even more as they rode through a squall. Gusts pushed the big boat sideways. On the bridge, Kreeger pulled back on the throttles. Steve felt them slowing down. In seconds, they were at idle speed. The boat was at the mercy of the waves now, sliding up one face, rocking down the other.

Kreeger slid down the ladder, facing the cockpit, nimble as a sailor hurrying to his battle station.

"There's a thick patch of sargasso weed just ahead," Kreeger told him. "Bet there are some fine sharks looking for lunch down there."

"Let's just get this over with."

"Whatever you say."

Kreeger bent down, dipped the knife into the drying cement. Steve studied the knife. Ridged handle, easy to grip. Titanium blade, maybe five inches long, serrated on one edge, sharp as a razor on the other. You could saw through bone with it.

Kreeger stood, looked down at Steve. "Time to say good-bye, Solomon." There was a tinge of regret in his voice, as if he were going to miss his old buddy.

Steve focused on his own quadriceps. They were the lifters. He didn't know how much weight the cement added to his feet. It didn't matter. He had strong quads and glutes, and an abundance of quick-twitch muscle fibers.

Kreeger looked down, sliding the dive knife into its sheath. As he did, Steve swung his legs up, high and hard. His feet came out of the bucket with astonishing speed. The bucket stayed on the deck. The jagged clump of cement on Steve's ankles caught Kreeger on the forehead. Steve heard the impact, saw Kreeger spin backwards and bounce off the deck. The knife skittered toward the stern.

Steve pushed himself up and tried hopping toward the knife, but he was like a man in a sack race, and with the boat pitching, he fell, then skidded across the slippery deck.

Kreeger got to one knee and wagged his head, as if trying to stir himself awake. Another second and he was on both feet. Shaky but standing. A flap of skin six inches wide hung loose on Kreeger's forehead, and blood poured into his eyes. Rain slashed down. He used both hands to try to clear his vision.
The bastard should have a concussion,
Steve thought,
but look at him. A wounded bull, fixing to charge.
"Kill you, Solomon," the shrink muttered. "Kill all the lawyers."

He staggered toward the stern. Woozy, knees seeming to buckle with each step. Where was he going?

The knife!

Steve saw it, propped on the edge of a scupper at the stern. He couldn't stand. No way to get there.

Spitting blood, Kreeger leaned over, picked up the knife, and wheeled around. He tried using his forearm to wipe the river of blood from his eyes. First one arm, then the other. It wasn't working.

He can't see and I can't stand.

But Kreeger must have seen enough, because he stumbled in Steve's general direction, flailing away with the knife. Wild swings that started above his head and came straight down, like a man using an ice pick. Blood sprayed everywhere from his forehead.

Steve scooted backward on his butt, great white waves sloshing over the gunwales, soaking and chilling him. Kreeger braced himself against the onslaught, then kept coming, swinging the knife sideways now, like a scythe. "Cut your balls off. Your balls off." His voice droning, devoid of emotion.

Steve spotted a graphite tarpon gaff, maybe six feet long, bracketed to the bulkhead. Pushing off with his hands, moving backward on the deck, he slid that way.

Kreeger changed the knife to his other hand. Came at Steve, slashed left, slashed right, edged between him and the gaff, cutting him off. The boat climbed to the top of a wave, seemed to come to rest, then slid back down again.

Steve had run out of room. Inching backward, he'd come to rest against the bulkhead. Nowhere to run, nowhere to crawl. He brought his knees up to his chest, protecting himself from the deadly blows that would come.

Gasping for breath, spouting blood, Kreeger shambled closer.

Steve made one last desperate effort to grab at the gaff, but it was out of reach.

Kreeger stopped three feet away. Wiped the blood off one hand to get a better grip on the knife. The boat slid sideways up a wave, and Kreeger skidded slightly, widened his stance to keep his balance.

Steve felt the boat crest the wave. Would it go over or come back down? After a second it slid down the trough, and Steve straightened both legs, his cemented feet thrust between Kreeger's braced legs. Steve kicked straight up. At the same moment, the boat pitched wildly at the bottom of the wave, the port rail dipping to the waterline. Steve rocked backward hard, felt both knees pop with a searing pain. Kreeger teetered on Steve's ankles like a kid on a seesaw, then sailed over the gunwale headfirst and into the deep blue sea.