Authors: John R. Maxim
The man almost smiled. He raised both his hands to
show that they held nothing. He said, “Come on, tough
guy. Let's dance.”
Michael lunged, not at him, but at the porthole. He cried, “Push, Megan. Push!” She could not. She was
groping blindly for the Python. She felt Michael gag and
go rigid as the other man's fist slammed into his kidney.
Still, he held on. The man kicked at Michael's knee.
“You like karate, tough guy? How was that for
karate?”
Michael's whole body sagged. The frame sagged with him. It tore free. Michael fell. Megan heard him thump
against the outside hull and she heard the splash as he
slipped between hull and pilings.
The man said, “Shit!” as if with disgust. In her mind,
she saw him looking around, eyes down, searching for his
weapon. He found it. She saw him look up. Through his
eyes, she saw Moon still struggling to rise but he could not. She saw Johnny Giordano, not moving. A man she
did not know, dark skin, soaking wet, was kneeling at
Johnny G.'s side. He was wringing his hands and wailing.
He was tearing at his hair.
“Oh, for Christ's sake,” the man muttered. He dropped
to his knee, peered down through the pilings, and listened
for sounds of splashing. He heard and saw Michael. He
fit the muzzle of his gun between two planks.
Megan fired through the hull.
Chapter 45
T
here are
days, thought Parker, when you just
can't win for losing.
He sat at the edge of the public landing, picking at one
of the splinters that were lodged in his scalp. The girl had
damned near killed him.
Little bitch.
She's stuck in a burning boat—the thing's melting all
around her—so what's the first thing she should do? Get
out, right?
She doesn't even try. She starts shooting. Everywhere
he moves she starts blasting through the hull like she has
fucking X-ray vision.
What's that Kenny Rogers song? You gotta know when
to walk away, know when to run. The question was what
to do now.
Whether the girl got out or not, he didn't wait around
to see. Fallon drowned or he didn't. But Johnny G. and
Moon, at least, were both probables. Moon might still be
worth some money. The ambulance that took him didn't
seem in much of a hurry.
Hector figured to be dead. If Yahya's alive, Hector must
be toast. That first boat, the one that exploded, had to be
theirs. So how does he get off this island?
Shouldn't be hard. The ferries are out of the question
but there's about a thousand other boats to choose from.
Some of these houses have their own docks. Pick one,
knock on the door, say take me where I want to go and
I won't kill your wife.
“Don't move a hair,” said the voice.
Parker tried not to stiffen. His fingers crept toward the
butt of the nine. He turned his head slightly. He saw an
odd smallish shape in the shadows not ten feet behind him.
”Um . . . You talkin' to me, pal?”
“Hands where I can see them, asshole. Stand up. Back
up slow.”
“Hey, look. Long day. You want my wallet, take it.
Here, I'll give you my watch.” Parker held out his wrist.
His other hand gripped the pistol.
A bullet slammed into his elbow. He could not believe,
at first, that he'd been shot because he saw no muzzle
flash. But he saw the blood, his arm was broken, and he
knew he was as good as in prison. He had to go for it.
He spun in a crouch and brought up the nine, searching
for the shape behind him. It had moved. All he saw was
the shoe coming up at his face.
“You can walk?” the voice asked.
Parker shook his head. He felt with his tongue where a
row of teeth were missing.
“You can walk,” the voice decided for him. “Just over
to that car.”
Parker could see him now. All but the face. What was
odd about the shape was that he held a briefcase against
his ribs. One arm was inside the briefcase, the other under
neath it with a little charred hole in between. Gun's in the
briefcase. That was why he never saw a flash or heard
much of a noise. This guy wanted him alive. But he didn't
want a crowd.
The voice moved closer, into the light. ”I have to tell
you again?”
Oh, Christ. It's the lawyer.
It's Brendan fucking Doyle.
Chapter 46
Dr.
Berman,
the internist, had been called in
from home.
So had every doctor on the island who was not then on
duty. So had a vacationing cardiologist from New Jersey
and a resident from a Boston trauma center who had hoped
to get in some fishing.
Berman saw to Moon first. Moon's puncture wound had
been cleaned and stitched and he'd been treated
for shock.
He was getting whole blood. He should have been re
sponding. He was not. Berman suspected an embolism.
Moon was also under arrest; a police guard had been
posted. The least of the charges was a weapons charge.
There was also the matter of those two DOAs whom they
found on North Water Street.
His friend, Lena Mayfield, had also been arrested. She
assaulted the Edgartown policeman who had tried to hold
up the ambulance so that he could read Moon his rights.
Berman found Michael in pre-op, barely recognized
him. Most of his clothing had been cut away and he was
strapped to a gurney. Both hands and one shoulder were
packed with gauze, his burned and pocked face had been
greased, much of his hair was gone: Michael begged him
to find out about Megan. Megan Cole. The girl who was
in here last night. And Giordano. Find out about Johnny Giordano.
Berman made a call to the nurses station. He relayed the details as he heard them.
“Giordano's in surgery,” he said. “Head wound. That's
all she knows.”
“Megan?”
“She's here.”
Michael allowed himself to breathe.
“She was sutured in ER,” said Berman. “Got a few
lacerations when the fireman dragged her out of that
boat . . . treated for smoke inhalation . . . right now she's
down in ophthalmology. They say they're hopeful about
the eye.”
“What eye? What's wrong with her eye?”
Berman asked the nurse. “Bullet fragments,” he told
Michael.
Michael strained to get up. He asked Berman to un
strap him.
“You kidding?” Berman hung up the phone.
“I'm fine. This is just cuts and bruises.”
Berman flipped his chart open. He snorted.
“You've got one bullet here.” He touched Michael's
shoulder. “It went in through the arm. Your shoulder is
fractured. A second bullet entered here.” He touched Mi
chael's bicep. “It passed through. It's now down around
your right kidney. You've got blood in your urine—make
that urine in your blood—
call that a
ruptured spleen, and
you'll probably need knee surgery. You've got first and
second-degree burns. Add to that a little sea water in your
lungs but, hey, let's all go roller skating.”
Michael couldn't believe it. The knee, maybe. And some
blood from Parker's kidney punch. He'd been hurt worse
than that playing sports. Hell, he'd been hurt worse than
that by Moon. But he had no recollection at all of being
shot.
“The good news,” Berman told him, “is they're small caliber, copper jacket. Anything bigger, we wouldn't be
having this chat.”
Two orderlies came in. “Surgery. Right now,” one said
to Berman. The other covered Michael and turned the gur
ney toward the door.
“Wait. There was a man named Parker. Did they catch
a man named Parker?”
Berman didn't know.
“And what happened to Doyle? Brendan Doyle, he's got wavy red hair.”
Berman hadn't seen him. He told Michael he'd ask.
“Look, Doc . . . would you go see Megan? Tell
her
. . .
Michael couldn't finish. Tell her what? That he tried?
“Mike
...
go get fixed,” said Berman.
Fallon woke in the recovery room.
He felt at peace but he knew that it was only the narcot
ics. It bothered him that nothing bothered him. In another
few hours, the drug would wear off. He knew that he
would feel just as useless as he was. His eyes grew heavy.
When they opened again, it was early morning. He was in a four-bed ward. The three other beds were occupied.
Burn victims. He had hoped that they'd put him with
Moon.
The corridor outside seemed full of policemen. And men
in dark suits. Some of them looked familiar. One looked in, then spoke to another. The other turned and walked
away. Michael recognized Frankie Rizzo, who was Julie Giordano's driver. The man who left, was named Emil, the maitre d' at Villardi's. Michael drifted off. He dreamed of
Megan. She was holding his hand. She was saying it's
okay. You did okay, Michael.