Going Dark (Thorn Mysteries) (27 page)

This one time together would be all. This one time.

She shuddered and peeled away his hands and bent forward and kissed him, pressed her lips so hard, so insistently, he could not return the kiss. She tore open his shorts. He arched up, lifted his butt from the bed, and let her drag the shorts away. And she dismounted, whisked her own pants off, slung them toward the door.

From the bedside she bent over him and took him into her mouth, drawing him in, all of him. Back and back against the tight fit of her throat, down the length, then holding him still, she swiveled, brought her narrow butt to him. Thorn on his back, Leslie lowering herself onto his mouth, the soft patch of hair, its tart, intricate folds, spreading open, opposite poles joined, mouths devouring, Thorn learning his way among the petals while she worked her tongue over him, sampled each ball, drawing them in, holding them, letting go, then swallowing him again, all of it, so deep, so sure, Thorn found himself close to the edge, too close, teetering, and began to withdraw from her mouth inch by inch until he was free.

She rose and came back around, straddling his chest, bent forward, brought her mouth to his, a sticky kiss. Long and fragrant.

Caught in the undertow, the flood of pent-up nights alone, an unspoken ache of voluntary isolation. Starving himself. Believing himself unfit for anyone. Now this, breaking his fast with Leslie, a woman risen from the dead, a plotter. Damn him. Damn his body, his predictable hungers, the froth that replaced his reason, the heady, downward, unblinking plunge. Bingeing on Leslie.

A kid who’d fallen in love with an older man and managed to jigsaw the pieces into place so that years and years later on, Thorn was inside her, inside the slick, tight groove of her. Slippery skin in the overheated room, his and hers, oily hands, oily flesh, no place to hold, no purchase. Like the snake on the floor, the python writhing restlessly beneath the bed, its greasy, powerful body.

He couldn’t hold on. She was underneath him, then she was atop, riding him, up there, high against the ceiling, all of it finally, finally, finally overtaking her. Leslie shook her head from side to side, no, no, no, as if trying to cling to a few last precious seconds, shaking her head as if to sling away a drop of sweat tracking across her face. Mouth wincing, an ecstatic grimace. A song rose inside her chest, all vowels, chords so low and deep their echoes might vibrate in the walls of this room for years.

Thorn matched hers with his own grunts and heaves. All hesitancy gone. The coiled spring that was tightening for months, tightening until finally it was sprung, released in one long, unclenching surge. Fission and fusion. And everything went out of him as she collapsed against his chest, their naked bodies slicked with sweat, smearing themselves against each other, shadowing the sheets, sweat burning his eyes. Both of them winded, amazed, chuckling in the giddy, thudding after-thrall, while beyond the window a noon sun rang like a relentless chime above the trees.

Then a car’s horn.

Sugarman’s twin toots. The long crunch of tires on gravel.

Thorn slid away from her, was off the bed and out the bedroom door, jogging across the living room, through the kitchen, out the French doors, naked, still erect, panting, waving both hands at Sugarman to go away, leave, back up, get the hell gone from this place. Go, go, go.

“What is it?” Out of the car, standing, staring at his naked friend.

“Damn it, Sugar, go, now. Now, goddamn it. Get in your car and go.”

“Aw, shit. What’d you do, Thorn? What the hell did you do now?”

Thorn’s prick was wilting. Heart still at redline.

Sugarman’s gaze shifted left, to the slow tread of footsteps on the rock. Her bare feet padding across the sharp, pulverized stone. Thorn turned and watched her come. In her hand the .38. She was naked. Body glistening.

“Hello, Sugar.”

“Leslie?” His eyes slanted away from her exposed body. Shy Sugar. Polite Sugar. “You’re alive. Thank God.”

Thorn said, “A gun, Leslie? A goddamn gun?”

“Come inside. Both of you. We’ll talk. We’ll figure this out.”

Before they could take a step toward the house, Thorn’s VW rolled into the drive, Cameron crammed behind the wheel, Pauly riding shotgun, with Flynn and Wally in the back. Grocery bags in their laps.

Leslie walked toward the VW, waving the .38 at Cameron, directing him to pull in behind Sugar’s Honda. Holding both hands up to measure the distance between bumpers until Cameron tapped Thorn’s car against Sugar’s, blocking him in. Tree in front, Thorn’s Beetle behind.

The four of them piled out, Wally gawking at Leslie, coming closer. “Not bad. Little puny in the tit department, but all in all…”

Pauly told him to shut up.

Leslie went over to the driver’s window of Sugar’s Honda, reached in and grabbed the ignition keys, slung them toward the lagoon, where they splashed. Then she turned back to the gathering.

“This is Sugarman,” Leslie announced. “The man I told you about.”

Flynn was staring at Thorn, small, outraged shakes of his head.

Leslie handed the pistol to Cameron.

“Take him inside, make him comfortable while we get dressed.”

“That’s it?” Flynn said. “No explanation?” He waved at her nudity.

“It’s what it appears to be. Why? Is that a problem?”

Thorn watched his son absorbing this. Eyes flinching as if he’d taken one blow and was waiting for the next.

“When do I get my turn?” Wally said.

“Everybody inside,” Leslie said. “Put the groceries away, it’s time we discussed the plan.”

“And him?” Pauly nodded at Sugarman.

“He’ll be staying. Our guest. Cameron will watch over him.”

“And afterwards, when it’s done? What then?”

“We’ll see,” she said. “When it’s done, we’ll see.”

Sugar shot Thorn a look. Man, oh, man. What the ever-loving shit had Thorn done now?

Thorn said, “We’re shutting down Turkey Point nuke plant.”

Sugarman nodded as if such a thing were completely routine.

Flynn stripped off his T-shirt and handed it to Leslie, and she slipped it over her head and tugged it to cover herself. A minidress.

She said, “We’re not going to harm anyone or do any permanent damage. It’s a publicity stunt to draw attention to the environmental dangers of nuclear power.”

“You’ll be breaking the law though,” Sugarman said.

“Wrong answer,” Wally said.

Leslie came forward and stood in front of Sugarman. “It’s an act of civil disobedience. We’ve tried repeatedly to make our voices heard through all the normal means—public petitions, demonstrations, education seminars, speeches at commission meetings. We’ve tried to use the political process, but the entrenched power is too strong. No one listens, no one is responding. So now we’re stepping outside the law. Yes, it’s true. We’re putting ourselves at risk for what we consider a greater good.”

Sugarman nodded. Thorn knew that Sugar had stepped outside the law once or twice, put his life on the line for one greater good or another. “And you’re in this, Thorn?”

“A hundred percent.” His lie spoken as resolutely as he could.

“Risk all this?” Sugarman motioned at the house, Thorn’s life.

“I think it’ll work,” Thorn said. “Our intentions are pure.”

“And me?”

“We’re sorry you’ve walked into this,” Leslie said. “We only ask that you don’t try to interfere or escape. Friday, we’ll be done, and we’ll be on our way, then you’re free to go to the authorities or do whatever you feel you must.”

“You try to escape,” Wally said. “We’ll cut your fucking throat.”

“That’s not true,” Leslie said. “Our group is nonviolent.”

“What group?” Sugarman said.

Leslie eye-checked with the others, getting no dissent. She told Sugarman. Earth Liberation Front.

“Yeah, I’ve read about you guys.” Sounding neutral, as if he were making up his mind. Thorn thinking this was the moment they might have to make a break. Picking his path to the woods, yank Flynn by the arm, drag him along.

“You form an opinion from your reading?” Prince asked.

Sugarman drew a breath and smiled at Thorn. “You’re not altogether bad. Well-intentioned.”

“He’s lying,” Pauly said. “He’s saying what we want to hear.”

“I believe him,” Leslie said.

“Can’t allow this,” Pauly said. “Another guy walking in, a lawman.” He edged a step toward Sugar.

“Pauly. Relax. We’ll work this out. It changes nothing.”

“No. Makes it too messy.”

Pauly moved so swiftly Sugar didn’t have time to flinch. Pauly’s roundhouse kick snapped into the side of Sugar’s right knee and crumpled him where he stood. Before Thorn could move, Sugarman was sprawled on the gravel, the right leg bent beneath him at a savage angle.

“You son of a bitch.”

“Put a splint on it,” Pauly said to Thorn. “If he’s any kind of man, he’ll be walking in a month.”

Thorn squatted at Sugar’s side. He was groaning, eyes shut hard against the pain. Thorn tried to ease the leg free from beneath Sugarman, but he moaned and rolled onto his side.

“Maybe two months,” Pauly said.

“He needs to get to a hospital.”

“We all need a lot of things,” Pauly said.

Leslie hung back, her face stricken. No longer in control.

If she ever was.

THIRTY-TWO

FLYNN AND THORN HAULED SUGARMAN
into the guest room and laid him on the bed still warm and rumpled. Thorn tucked one pillow under Sugar’s head and used the other two to elevate his broken leg. Sugar was drifting in and out of consciousness, one minute telling Thorn he was fine, don’t worry about him, the pain was manageable, then sinking away into a groaning haze.

Thorn scissored off Sugar’s pant leg. The knee was bruised and swelling, turning a deep purple. He went to a hallway closet, dug out two ancient fishing rods. Skinny shafts of fiberglass he’d used as a kid, keepsakes. He broke each in half. Padding the pressure points with wads of gauze, he ran the rods along the sides of Sugar’s leg, and while Flynn held them in place, Thorn added ring after ring of adhesive tape, binding the shafts as tightly as he thought Sugar could tolerate. Then he sent Flynn to the kitchen for a bag of ice and covered Sugar with a blanket from the closet. It was all the first aid he could think of.

In a while Sugar’s breathing evened out, his heart rate resumed a steady tick. No sign of fever, no chills. Stabilized for now.

Flynn stood beside the bed shaking his head in disbelief. “Is he going to be all right?”

Thorn nodded. Sure. Sure.

“It’s just Pauly that’s dangerous. The rest of us are peaceful.”

“I know,” Thorn said.

“Are you with us? You committed?”

Thorn glanced at the open door. From decades in that old house, he knew every creak and crackle of floorboard. Someone was standing just beyond the doorway.

“Absolutely,” Thorn said. “I’m with you to the end.”

*   *   *

Later that afternoon, while Sugar dozed, Leslie laid out the details of the assault. She stood behind the kitchen counter in a fishing shirt, long, baggy trousers, sandals. Her hair still damp from the shower. Over by the French doors, both of them flung open to the warm breeze, Wally was tapping on the keyboard of his laptop, which was plugged into his mobile phone. Pauly lounged in a cocked-back kitchen chair, bare feet on the table, staring at the pots and pans hanging from the overhead rack.

Thorn and Flynn stood side by side at the counter where a nautical chart was rolled open, held in place with beer mugs at each corner. South Biscayne Bay and the Upper Keys. Turkey Point with its long, straight miles of cooling canals clearly delineated, running south of the nuke plant.

When Leslie finished spelling out the scheme, she asked if there were questions. Everyone was silent. No eye contact, each of them waiting for someone to go first.

To Thorn, the plan sounded insane. Insane enough it just might work. “Hauling that box loaded with critters? We can barely lift it empty.”

“We’ll manage,” she said. “Cameron takes one end, the rest of us handle the other. Not far, thirty yards at most. That’s why we’ve been pumping iron. Those thirty yards.”

Flynn asked her about the handcuffs.

She drew a white plastic cable tie from her back pocket. “Flex-cuffs.”

“I don’t know,” Flynn said. “These federal agents, these FBI guys, they won’t be able to get free? You’re sure? They’re SWAT, right? All that special training. That strip of plastic is going to keep them out of action?”

She handed one of the cuffs to Flynn and he examined it.

“They work,” she said. “Want me to demonstrate?”

Flynn handed it back and made a face. Thanks, but no thanks.

Leslie turned to look at Thorn, appraising his silence. He kept his face as neutral as he could manage.

“Getting free of them would require wire cutters,” she said.

“Or a Zippo lighter,” said Pauly.

“It’ll work,” she said. “The force-on-force drill uses NRC protocol. All weapons are unloaded for safety. Lasers mounted on handguns. It’s a ho-hum, routine thing for them. Nobody’s carrying wire cutters, Zippo lighters, any of that. We cuff them, leave them in a ditch. Take their radios, phones. Even if they somehow managed to get free, they’re miles from the action, no way to stop us. They’ll be out of commission at least an hour. By then we’re gone.”

“And after it’s finished?” Thorn said.

“Enter by car, leave by water, like I said. Weren’t you listening, Thorn?”

“I heard you. Take the airboat down the cooling canals. It’s dark, but you know your way. Get as close to the bay as possible, exit the airboat, cover twenty yards of open ground, cross the steel barriers, get in your skiff.”

“Exactly,” she said.

“And where then?” Thorn said.

“Back here.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

“Only long enough to sort things out, then we part ways.”

“They’ll track us. There’ll be cops everywhere, something this big. Coast Guard cutters, choppers in the air.”

“You’re underestimating the chaos. Even on an average day, Miami is teetering on the edge. And timing’s on our side. We’ll be gone before they know what happened. An hour max, we’re in and out. Miami’s dark, Fort Lauderdale, all the way to Boca, maybe beyond. Happens in a blink, we’re already on our way back here.”