Black Tide (51 page)

When I got out to the lawn I was about a hundred feet or so behind Felix as we both ran down the soggy gravel driveway. I could just make out Roger in front of us as he ran past the open gate, and then Felix fired twice in his direction. Roger ducked and ran across the street, up the berm of dirt and rock, and then dropped from sight. Felix was there a few moments later, and then so was I, running across empty Atlantic Avenue and up the mound of sand and stones. Felix was below me, nimbly jumping from rock to rock, and Roger was farther up, about fifty yards or so.

On this part of the New Hampshire coast, there are no sandy beaches --- just great lumps of rock and broken granite, jagged and sharp, with fissures filled with foaming sea water from the constant onslaught of the waves. Roger was running along, jumping about like all three of us, and we were alone on these rocks. The cold rain and evening hour had deserted the rocks of vacationers.

A sharp, popping noise, and I ducked. Roger was firing at us.

I looked up, breathing so hard it felt as though my lungs would collapse upon themselves from overwork, my face wet from the rain and the splashing spray from the sea. The rocks were a maze of hardness, and there were twigs and driftwood and dried seaweed and broken seashells all about. An empty beer can was at my elbow, jammed into a crack in one of the stones, the brand name having been scraped away by the corrosive salt water. I shook my head at the madness of it all. A gunfight occurring on one of the busiest coastlines in the world, within near view and distance of hundreds of people, and I was taking part in it.

Unbelievable.

Felix yelled my name, and I saw that he had ducked down some yards in front of me. He motioned to himself a couple of times, and then waved to the right. He pointed to me and held up his gun, making shooting motions, and I waved at him. I understood. I swallowed and my throat hurt. I eased up my head, seeing Roger still up there, moving slowly from rock to rock. In a few moments he would be far ahead of us, and I drew up my Beretta. I tried to swallow again, thinking of the lunacy of what I was going to do. Then I remembered what Roger had said, what he had done, and what he wanted to do, and I pulled the trigger, three times.

Roger fell. Felix started moving quickly, and then Roger poked his head up and I fired and he returned fire, but I think I spoiled his aim. This went on two more times. Felix edged closer, moving back and forth, jumping and scrambling over the rocks. Each time I saw a movement, saw Roger aim and fire, I shot at him. I was shooting at a person, at a man I had lunched and drank with, and all I could think about was that my wrists and knees hurt, and that even in August, it was getting damn cold out here in the rain and the dampness.

Then Roger started to run again, I shot once more, and he disappeared behind some rocks. Felix raced up and was over a boulder, and then there was no sound, no more shots, and nothing except for the cry of a few gulls and the rush of the waves across the rocks.

It took me a long time to get to the place where both Roger and Felix had dropped from view. It was fear that was dragging me along.

I was afraid that at any moment Roger would stand up in front of me, ten feet tall and teeth bared in that hellish grin. I was afraid that I would find Felix dead among the rocks, alone. I was afraid that Roger had gotten away and that he would always be free, and that I would have to leave Tyler Beach and go away, because I would never sleep comfortably again knowing he was out there.

So I went from rock to rock, boulder to boulder, slipping some in the rain and noticing for the first time the faint stench of oil among the rocks. As I came over one rise of sloped rocks, there was Felix Tinios, sitting by himself below me, resting his head in his hands. His pistol was at his feet. He looked up at me, in utter exhaustion. There was blood around his lips. Then I noticed my own jaw was aching, from where Roger had struck me.

"You can put your gun away, Lewis," Felix said. "It's safe. Come on down."

I holstered my 9 mm under my jacket and came down to where Felix was sitting, trying not to fall. One boulder was particularly slippery and my hand was soiled as I touched it on the way down. It smelled of oil. An old gift from the
Petro Star
and the dead Cameron Briggs.

Felix was sitting on a piece of granite in front of a small tidal pool, and rocks and sand were at his feet. He managed a small smile and he said, "See that smear of oil up there?"

I got to the ground, my legs shaking. "Couldn't miss it. I got my hand in it."

Felix's smile got a bit wider. "When I got down here, Roger was grabbing his leg. I think he broke it. He slipped on that damn oil patch on the way down."

I sat next to Felix. "Cameron Briggs's revenge, I suppose. Where's Roger?"

Felix motioned out to the ocean, and I looked to where he pointed. I was not surprised. Roger was in the water, gently moving with the swirl of the waves and the tugging of the tide, but I don't think he was in any position to enjoy the movements. He was face down, and his arms and legs bobbed with the motion of the water. I sat still and felt the rain strike my head and face. I was very tired, and a lot of bones and muscles ached.

My voice was quiet. "You said he probably broke his leg. But he hadn't been shot, had he?"

"Nope."

“And I didn't hear any more gunfire after I saw you go over the side."

"That's right."

"So what did you do, Felix?" Felix nodded and kept his gaze out on the ocean, rubbing at his bloody mouth. "Thought it was fitting, he and I being here, at the ocean's edge, probably near the place where they dumped my cousin. Poor Sal, dead because of something I was involved with. It seemed fitting."

"So you tossed him in the ocean?" Felix looked surprised. "No, I'm not that stupid."

"Oh?"

He picked up his pistol, looked at it as if he had just found it after a long search, and he put it back into his waistband. Then he wouldn't look at me.

"No, I'm not that stupid," he repeated. "I held his head down in that tidal pool until he drowned, Lewis, and then I dumped him in the ocean. I wanted things final. I had a chance to do it with my own two hands, and already I'm beginning to feel better. "

I shivered and sat for a minute or two longer in the rain, and I watched as Roger Krohn's body tumbled in the waves. Some weeks ago I had gone out into these same waters to retrieve the mutilated corpse of a diver, and that one act had brought me down some hard roads and with some equally hard people. One act, one effort.

Right now, I was content to see Roger's corpse drift away.

"We should get out of here," Felix finally said.

"That's right."

We helped each other climb back up the rocks.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It was Sunday afternoon, two days after Felix and I had that bloody trip from York to Wallis, and we were on the rear deck of my house, enjoying one of the few Sunday afternoons left in this summer. We were well fed, thanks to Felix, who had taken over my kitchen for the past couple of hours and had worked magic with my stove, coming up with a veal and fettuccine dish that rested fine and comfortable in my stomach. I was moving slower than usual, though, since my muscles and tendons were still aching from that awful workout on Friday. I do try to keep in shape, but it had been hard, after my sojourn in the hospital, and that hellish run across the rocks had stretched out fibers in my body that had been quiet for too long.

When dinner was done, Felix had kicked me out on the deck, and 1 had gone with no argument, as he cleaned the kitchen and washed the dishes and packed away the food and utensils he had brought. Once he had given me a wide smile, saying it was a pleasure to sleep in his own bed again. It was good to see the healing process take hold. I had thought about that during the day, as his smiles seemed a bit too wide, his laughter a bit too forced, and I wondered what memories he would allow himself to keep over the years.

And I also wondered if he dreamed, if he dreamed about an evil cop with a sour taste for electricity. I knew I would have to ask him that, in a few months, for my own particular dreams had been with me for years, and I was resigned to the certainty that they would always be with me.

Out on the deck we sipped from tall lemonades, spiked with a splash of gin, and we said not much as we listened to a Red Sox~Blue Jays game on the radio. I had a sense of contentment for two reasons. The first was that on Saturday evening I had transmitted a column to
Shoreline
over my modem, and the words I had written had been an essay on the
Petro Star
, taking all of us to task for still relying on petroleum-based energy, which sets us up for such disasters. And the second was that the sky was clear and the weather prediction for the next few days was perfect. Tomorrow night was the first night of the Perseids, and I was eagerly anticipating their show. Earlier, while we were eating, Felix said, "You got those shooting stars coming up, right?"

"That's right. Tomorrow night."

"How long?"

"Three, maybe four nights."

"Unh-hunh," he had said, spooning up a helping of fettuccine. “And what do you do?"

"I stay out at night and watch them."

"Do they make any noise?"

"Nope."

“Are there a lot of shooting stars? I mean, do they look like fireworks or something?"

“No, nothing like that," I had said, grinning at him. "You're lucky if you get a good one every five minutes or so."

Felix had shook his head at the insanity of it all. "Jesus, I think I'd rather watch golf."

As the afternoon wore on, we sipped our drinks and listened to the Red Sox and the Blue Jays duel it out for the American League East. We seemed to have an unspoken agreement not to discuss what had happened last week. However, as the afternoon got later and the innings of the game got longer, I was about ready to break that agreement.

I looked over at him. "We were lucky, you know."

Felix was back in his chair, eyes closed, glass in his hand. "Luck is where you find it, Lewis. Let's leave it at that."

"No, I don't mean what happened on Friday. I mean the aftermath. Cameron Briggs is missing and no one seems to know where he is, though it looks like --- according to the evidence in his house --- that he was the victim of foul play. There was a fire at a house in another state, and an unidentified body was found in the rubble, but so far, there's no connection between that body and Cameron Briggs's empty house."

"Which is fine," Felix murmured.

"Sure," I said. “And Roger Krohn has also seemed to vanish. He's just gone. Though I understand the
Boston Globe
did a piece on him the other day, based on an anonymous phone call, saying he's a dirty cop. They seem to think he's in Rio."

"Ocean's a big place," Felix said. "You've got fish, birds and lobsters, all of whom get hungry by and by, and the salt water can do a lot of damage. Don't worry about Roger."

"I'm not," I said as I leaned back. The sun felt good on my face and hands, and I was in a vaguely pleasant stupor induced by the sun, wine and good food. It made me wonder how Felix and his compatriots ever had the energy to do what they did for a living.

So now I looked over at his face and said quietly, "Felix?"

"Hmmm," he murmured in reply, his eyes still closed.

"Felix, where are the paintings?" I kept watch. His face tightened and his eyes slowly opened and then he took a casual sip from his drink. Too casual.

"What paintings?"

Dumb answer. "The Winslow Homer paintings, Felix. Where are they?"

He turned in his chair, surprise etched on his face, but there was something cool and ice like in his eyes. "They're gone, Lewis. You saw them go up in flames yourself."

I raised my eyebrows. "Did I, Felix? Oh, sure, I saw three items that looked like three paintings get burned in York, but were they the real Winslow Homer paintings? Couple of things don't make sense."

Now his eyes were fully open and he was no longer relaxed. "Such as?"

"Such as your reaction, Felix. You've sweated and bled and went to ground and saw your own cousin get killed and your father get threatened over those paintings, and what's your reaction when they supposedly burn up? You say it's over, it's done with, and you never bring them up again. You don't curse your bad luck, or even show any sign that you're upset that those paintings you've worked so hard to make money off were destroyed. Hell, you didn't even go to the house to see if they made it through the explosion. I did that."

Felix's face was set, no expression. "Maybe I'm a guy who hides his emotions well."

"Right," I said, hoping there was enough scorn in my voice. “And maybe I'm a guy who belongs to the Flat Earth Society. One other thing doesn't make sense, Felix, and it took me a while to figure it out. They didn't burn right."

"They didn't what?"

I put down my glass of gin and lemonade on the round wooden table. "They didn't burn right, Felix. Supposedly those were the original Winslow Homer paintings, over a hundred years old and sturdy and painted on heavy canvas. It takes a lot of heat to burn canvas, and what I saw were three objects that went up in flames almost instantly, curling upon themselves like they were made of paper. Not canvas. Like they were poster reproductions you can buy at the Scribner Museum in Manchester."