Authors: John R. Maxim
Johnny G. stopped reading when he saw her approach.
He covered the notebook with his hand. Parker took that
to mean that the girl is not in this. She turned and started
back down the hatch but suddenly she stopped. She
seemed confused. Now her eyes were darting all over the
waterfront as if she hears someone calling her but can't place the source. Now she's looking up at these phones. She seemed to be looking right at him.
But no. Who she's looking at is Doyle. Looking daggers
at him. She must have somehow figured why he's up here
making calls. She brings both hands to her face, gives
what looks like a sigh. Fallon's asking her what's wrong. She shakes her head, waves him off, climbs back down
below.
Good, thought Parker. One less pair of eyes. Now if those two would just go down after her, he could take
Doyle right here. March him into the shower room, leave
him dead in one of the stalls, leave the water running on
him so no one would look in. Then call Hector and Tami,
get them down here, finish this and go.
Doyle hung up his phone. He started back, but stopped
and turned toward a door marked
Men.
A toilet stall would
do. Parker was about to follow when a couple of college
kids walked in after Doyle. Parker waited, lit another ciga
rette, and an inspiration struck him.
Fire. Fire was the way to do it. We burn them, boat
and all.
He tapped out the number of Hector's cellular.
Come on, schmuck. Answer.
We have two extra gas cans on board. We have empties of Snapple Iced Tea, thin glass, good for Molotov cock
tails. Nothing panics a crowd like explosions and fire. Lots
of running and screaming and yelling. Hey, Baron? What
do you think? Is this worth a bonus or not?
Hector's not picking up. Or he's shut off the ring.
Parker broke the connection. He'll go pour the gas him
self, have it ready. Let Doyle take his piss and go back.
It's no good to kill him and have Fallon come looking for
him before they have a chance to set this up.
Okay, thought Parker, let's think this out.
Fire is noisy. People scream and run. If we have to use
guns that will cover the sound. But no automatic weapons,
no blasting away with 9 millimeters. We use strictly the
.22s. Against all that racket they'll sound like Rice
Krispies.
Tami will toss the bombs. He can light them in the
parking lot and throw them from there. One into the cock
pit, then one down the hatch, and a couple more into the
crowd. He, Parker, will wait on the dock to pop anyone who makes it off.
Parker nodded, satisfied.
You guys like fires? You like burning houses? I'll show
you a fucking fire.
He flicked his butt and started back down toward the
dock.
Dear lord, here's another one,
thought Lena Mayfield.
A black man, loping up the street. She raised the bike
high, still fending off the shadow man, but ready to swing
it when the black man got in range. The subway man was back on his feet but he was thrashing around in that garden
as if he dropped something in the bushes. He found it. Looks like a ditty bag on a belt. Oh, my, thought Lena. He's pulling a gun out. The gun got stuck on the zipper.
He tugged at it, cussing. Just then a beeper in his belt
went off.
The black man heard it, saw the gun. He veered in just
a hair, snatched at that gun, ditty bag and all. The subway
man never saw him coming. But he saw that gun leave
his hands, float up, then smash back down across his nose.
Now he's falling back into that bush and the black man
hardly broke his stride. He's no friend to these two, she
realized.
“Throw it,” he said. “Throw the bike.”
Lena hesitated. She knew he meant throw it at the
shadow man, that he meant to go in behind it, but the
bike was her only protection. Too late now. Shadow man
backed away, shifted his knife to his other hand, and
whizzed something shiny at the black man. The black man tried to spin from it but it caught him high on the shoulder. It stuck there. The black man pulled it free, tossed it away,
kept coming. Lena saw what it was when it bounced. It
was one of those throwing stars from kung fu movies.
The beeper in the bush was still beeping.
Shadow man is dancing now, flicking his knife. He's
making squealy Chinese noises like from those same mov
ies. Black man slows and stops. He doesn't look afraid.
It's more like he's thinking this over. He has that gun,
still mostly in the ditty bag, but he doesn't seem to want
to use it. Shadow man tries two of those karate kicks, the
ones where you spin, but all the black man did was sort
of turn his cheek and they missed.
It was then that Lena saw the plastic bracelet on his
wrist, the kind they give hospital patients.
“You'd be Moon,” she blurted.
He glanced at her, startled. Shadow man froze where
he stood.
Lena knew, full well, that this was no time to visit. But
with nobody moving for a second just now, she might as
well say who's who.
“I'm Lena. Friend of Michael's. Man you just hit? He's
the one, last winter, tried to push Michael in the path
of a—”
That's all she got out because shadow man's eyes, peer
ing out from that cloth, had gone real wide and crazy. He
backed up two steps, reached to his belt, and pulled out
one of those sticks-on-a-chain things. He shook the sticks
loose, whirled them over his head, and yelled, “Ay-yee-
yah.” Must be Chinese for “Charge” because, yelling it,
he launched himself through the air, feet-first, at the face
of the black man called Moon.
Lena had always wondered about kung fu and the like.
It seemed to depend an awful lot on the other man stand
ing still. She did not dwell on that now, however, because she had launched her own body into a grunting hammer-
throw pivot and hurled the bike into shadow man's
flight path.
The bike caught him flush between the legs. Worse, the
gear assembly did. He gave a yip only dogs could hear,
did a full midair flip, and came down on his head with a
splat. The bike flipped with him like it was welded to him.
Moon was on him before he could bounce. He snatched
those sticks and wrapped the chain around his throat. He
crossed the two sticks, using one as a lever, and was about
to snap his neck when Lena gasped aloud.
Moon hesitated. He glanced up the street. A block dis
tant, he saw people on foot and they were watching, afraid
to approach. Down the street, just behind him, he heard the sound of feet on pavement. The man from the bush
was running away, stumbling blindly, both hands to the
nose Moon had smashed. Moon cursed himself. He ges
tured toward the Taylor House.
“Are there any more inside?” he asked quietly.
“House is empty. Just these. Man who came on this bike, they left him over by that tree.”
Moon eased his grip on the sticks. Lena saw that it
didn't matter. Shadow man's eyes were rolled up in his
head. His last breath on earth came bubbling up from his
chest. Moon picked up the ditty, tore the gun free, and
walked quickly to the lump at the base of the tree. She
watched as he felt the man's throat. There was no life
there either. He looked up at her.
“Lena? Where might Michael be?”
For the first time, she noticed the blood. It had spread
down Moon's shirt and was starting to soak through his
jacket where the star had hit him. There seemed far too much for a simple puncture.
“That thing stuck you good, Moon.”
“Lena . . . where is he?”
She gripped his lapel. “First we'll see to that cut.”
He was gone a minute later, slipping down through
backyards. “Megan's sailboat, by now,” is what she fi
nally told him.
But at least she had packed his wound. The bleeding
had slowed some. She made him promise he'd find Mi
chael, get right back to that hospital, have it stitched up
proper. She'd wanted to ask him what kind of a man
carries gauze pads and tape in his pocket on the chance
he runs into a ninja assassin on Martha's Vineyard. Even
New York's not that crazy.
Lena's toe touched the business card that the subway
man had crumpled. The card the bike man tried to give
him. She picked it up, opened it, read it. It said, “Parnel
Minter. Medium, Spiritualist, Ghost Hunter.”
Poor man. He wouldn't have to hunt very far now. But
what am I doing reading this damned thing?
Lena ran to the Taylor House. From the phone at the
desk, she dialed 911.
Chapter 44
P
arker eased
his way back to his boat.
He moved slowly, carefully, keeping his eyes on Johnny
G. and Fallon, praying that they wouldn't glance up from
that notebook. They didn't, not even when Doyle climbed
back aboard. Fallon, however, had stopped listening. He
seemed more concerned with the girl who'd gone below.
Parker couldn't see why but he didn't care. Just as long
as they all keep busy.