Paint It Black (28 page)

Candy let the car idle for a minute, watching the rain pummel the windshield. Louis could barely make out the white blur of the
Miss Monica.

“This rain is what they call a Palmetto Pounder,” Candy said.

Louis didn't reply. He was too preoccupied, trying to figure out something that had been bugging him during the short drive from Heller's trailer to the wharf. Heller had set up his own disappearance. But why?

To see if Captain Lynch reacted with concern? Or to see who showed up to take the report?

“Sereno base to Sereno three, come in.”

Candy keyed the radio. “Go ahead, base.”

It was Myrna the dispatcher. “Is Louis with you?”

“Right here.”

“Emily Farentino wants to talk to him. Switch to channel three, please.”

Candy handed Louis the mike. Louis waited. Now what?

“Louis, this is Emily.”

“Go ahead,” he said.

“I had a thought after you left,” Emily said. “It's about Heller.”

Louis had to lean in toward the radio to hear her over the sound of the rain on the roof of the car. “Go ahead,” he said.

“Something's been bothering me and I haven't been able to figure it out,” she said. “Something Heller said in the shack. I mentioned it to you when you came to see me at the hotel.”

Louis felt Candy's eyes on him. “What is it, Farentino?”

“When Heller asked me why I was there . . . I had the feeling he was expecting someone else.”

“You told me that already.”

“I know, but I think he was expecting someone else to show up and take the report. I just remembered something else he said to me. He said, ‘Where is he, where is he?' It was the first thing he said to me. It didn't register. I guess I was too scared.” She paused. “He was expecting one of you.”

Louis hesitated, his finger poised on the mike button.

“Do you understand what I'm saying?” she asked. He did. Heller had been expecting him to show up that night.

“Be careful,” Emily said.

“We will,” Louis said. He clicked off and glanced at Candy.

“Are we getting out or are we going to sit here?” Candy asked, reaching for his rain cap.

Louis turned off the engine. “Let's go,” he said.

He slid out, squinting into the rain, hoping Lynch was still onboard and that he still had not heard the news about Heller. Television wouldn't have had it yet, unless someone had leaked it. There was still time for Lynch to get the bad news the right way.

They hurried toward the docks and Louis stopped at the rear of the
Miss Monica.
He could hear the engines idling. He hesitated, a knot gathering in his gut. What was wrong? He had always been able to deliver bad news before. But now, now he was seeing Roberta Tatum, Anita Quick, and June Childers. And he didn't want to see Lynch's face when he told him. For the first time, he was really beginning to understand why Wainwright had refused to walk up that last hill in Michigan.

“Man, I hate getting wet,” Candy said. “Let's get this over with.”

Louis glanced at Candy, who was huddled down into the upturned collar of his yellow raincoat. Louis looked at the open bar. There were only a handful of customers, including a sheriff's deputy. Louis saw a second sheriff's department car swing into the parking lot.

“Why don't you get a cup of coffee,” Louis said. “It might be better if I talk to Lynch alone.”

“I hate coffee,” Candy said. He stopped fumbling for the latch on the boat's railing and hopped over.

Louis climbed over the rail after Candy. He slipped and his feet hit the metal flooring with a thud and a skid before he caught himself.

“Lynch!” he called out.

Louis shaded his eyes from the rain and looked around the boat. There was a large enclosed cabin, its roof forming a second deck. A steel ladder connected the two.

Candy ventured to the left toward the bow, easing down the narrow walkway that ran along the side of the boat. Louis could barely see the blur of his yellow raincoat.

“Lynch!” Louis called again.

No answer. He squinted, trying to see inside the cabin. He saw another yellow blur moving around inside. Lynch couldn't hear him over the rain.

Louis stepped over some large spools of fishing line and slid open the heavy steel door of the cabin. He stepped inside, wiping the water off his face.

There were ten or more rows of padded red benches and tables. Large rectangular windows paneled both sides, under them knee-high metal storage boxes. Life jackets and looped twine hung on three posts that ran along the center.

But no Lynch. He had gone back outside, or maybe down below.

The door behind him clanged shut.

Louis spun around, seeing only a blur of yellow move by a window. What the hell was going on?

Another flash of yellow at the side windows. Two of them. Candy . . . he could make out his rain hat. But who . . . ?

The other man's face flashed against the glass. It wasn't Lynch. It was Heller.

Louis's heart began to pound.

A blur of yellow slammed against the window. Heller and Candy fighting.

Louis grabbed the radio from his pocket and keyed it as he rushed to the door.

“Chief! Chief! This is Kincaid! We've been ambushed on the
Miss Monica!”

He jerked at the door. It didn't budge.

He keyed the radio again, cutting off the frantic dispatcher. “I'm locked in the cabin,” Louis said, his words rushing out. “Officer Candy is on deck with the suspect. Repeat—we are separated!”

Louis ran to the other door at the front of the cabin. It was locked.

He hurried back to the left-side window. Up near the bow, he could see a man, lying facedown, in a yellow raincoat. But he couldn't tell who it was.

He could feel the vibrations under his feet growing stronger.

Louis slammed his palms against the glass. “Candy!”

The body didn't move.

Louis spun around, his eyes sweeping over the room. He could see no one, hear no one. The rain was deafening against the roof, the engines growling beneath his feet.

He scanned the cabin for a weapon. Fishing poles, rope, life jackets, and nets. Wainwright's voice drifted up to him and he lifted the radio.

“Louis, status. What's your status?”

“We're moving. Repeat—we're moving.” He glanced back at the window. He couldn't tell Wainwright that Candy was probably dead, not over the radio. “Chief, Sereno forty-five is injured. We need assistance. Now!”

“We're on it.”

Louis lowered the radio, drawing in deep breaths.
Stay calm. Stay calm.

He walked slowly through the cabin, taking in every inch of the room. Every few steps he would stop at one of the windows to see if Candy had moved. He had not.

He spotted another ladder in the middle of the room, a small one that seemed to disappear into the top deck. He moved to it slowly and looked up. It opened up onto a small hatch. He could see what looked like a blanket and maybe a bunk above.

A face suddenly appeared in the square.

Heller. But not the shy-eyed young man he had met a few weeks ago. This man stared down at him with unnerving dark eyes and long, dark wet hair that hung to his jaw.

Louis didn't move, locking eyes with Heller. His heart was hammering, but he forced his words out slowly and evenly.

“Why'd you hurt him?” Louis demanded.

“He didn't have to come,” Heller said. “He was stupid.”

Louis turned, grabbed a fishing pole, and came around swinging. He slammed it against the open hatch. Heller's face disappeared and the hatch slammed shut.

Louis swallowed hard and moved back to the windows, throwing the rod aside. The shoreline was growing more distant. Lights flickered as the darkness crept in.

Louis moved back to the ladder.

“Heller!” he shouted.

No answer.

“Tyrone Heller!”

The hatch opened and a face reappeared. “It's Ty!” he screamed. “You going to talk to me, you call me Ty, you stupid motherfucking piece of shit!”

Then he was gone. The hatch slammed shut. A click of a lock this time. The lights in the cabin went out.

How far would he take him? How long would it take Wainwright to get the coast guard out here? How long did he have to stay alive?

He moved back to the ladder.

“Ty!” he shouted. “Stop the boat and we'll talk.”

No answer.

Louis moved around the room. The cupboards were padlocked, the windows too thick to shatter. He tossed pads from the benches, finding only storage and life jackets underneath.

Finally, as darkness engulfed the boat, he sat down, positioning himself in a corner, listening to the traffic on his radio. The coast guard had been notified. Wainwright was on his way to the wharf.

Suddenly, the vibrations under his feet stopped.

He stood up.

He could hear footsteps above him, then saw Heller descend the outside ladder in the back. He had a portable battery-powered light in one hand and a bang stick in the other.

Heller unlocked the door and slid it open. Water was streaming off the upper deck onto his rain cap.

“You didn't come the first time. Why?” Heller demanded.

Louis kept his eyes on the bang stick in Heller's right hand. He forced himself to speak calmly.

“I didn't get the message.”

“You should have come! You ruined the plan! You should have come!”

“What plan?”

“It doesn't matter. I changed it.” Heller set the light on a table just inside the door. “You came this time. Now I can finish the plan.”

Louis raised his hand, backing up slowly. “No, you don't have to,” he said. “You have a choice.”

Heller's face changed suddenly. “I never had a choice!” he screamed, waving the bang stick. “I never had a fucking choice!”

Louis backed around a post, his heart hammering, his breath shallow. His eyes searched the floor for a weapon, a pole, anything.

“Ty, they know we're out here. They'll be waiting for you when you get back.”

“I'm not going back!” Heller shouted. He turned, and then spun back, his face distorted. “You should know that! What's wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with you? Why do you pretend you're different?”

Louis stared at him, trying to get a grip on his fear. He knew there were two people inside Heller, but he didn't know which one he was talking to. But he needed to say something. Anything.

“Different than who?” he asked.

“Me!” Heller screamed. “Me!”

Different? Jesus . . . he wasn't different. He was as close to Heller as anyone could get. In age, in build, and in color.

What did he say? What could he say to this man?

“I'm not different than you,” Louis said loudly. “I understand you. I understand everything.”

Heller shook his head violently, spraying water. “No one understands!” he screamed. “I have things I need to do! I have things inside me other people don't have! And I can't get rid of them. Do you hear me? I can't get rid of them!”

Heller's voice had turned thick with rage.

“That's why I'm doing this. That's why I'm taking the boat. He doesn't want it anymore. He doesn't want anything anymore.”

“Including you?” Louis asked.

Heller's face tightened, the muscles stretched hard against the bone.

“Stupid piece of shit . . . stupid piece of shit,” Heller said, repeating it over and over, as he walked toward him.

“Heller, listen to me—”

Heller stopped talking, his eyes drifting to the floor. His breathing slowed.

“Heller . . .”

Heller didn't move for several seconds; then he lifted his eyes slowly. “You came to me. Do you hear me? You tell them,
you came to me.”

This was crazy. How was he going to tell anyone anything?

“Ty . . .”

Heller started shaking his head, coming closer. “Stop talking to me. You're not supposed to talk.”

Louis backed up again, only a couple of the benches separating them. Heller leveled the bang stick.

Louis felt the wall against his back. His hands searched for something he could grab but there was nothing.

The tip of the stick inched toward him. He thought about kicking up, trying to knock the bang stick out of Heller's hand, but knew he would be too slow.

His eyes flicked between the tip of the bang stick and Heller's face, hoping he could see a sign—a flinch—something that would tell him when Heller was about to thrust the stick into him.

Heller stepped closer. His eyes jumped down to Louis's legs.

Now!

Louis threw out his hand just as Heller lunged. The tip smashed into the wall and exploded.

The blast echoed against the metal, and Heller stumbled backward.

Louis dove to the floor. He sucked in a breath. He was alive. And not hit.

Heller was in the shadows, trying to reload the stick. Louis could hear him. “Shit . . . shit.”

Louis felt along the cold floor until he found a fishing pole. He pulled it to him, easing himself into the darkness behind the post. He curled around it, coming up behind Heller as he was trying to shove another shell into the bang stick.

Louis held the pole in the center, the huge metal reel hanging heavy on the far end. With both hands, he swung.

The reel smashed into Heller's cheek. Heller yelped and threw his hand to his face. He dropped the bang stick and the shell bounced out.

Louis backtracked toward the open rear door. He would lock the son of a bitch in.

Outside, water rushed off the top deck, pouring over him, and he couldn't get a good grip on the metal door. He pulled harder, inching it along with each jerk.

A knife shot out the narrow opening, ripping blindly at his arm, slicing into it. Louis jerked back, his hand over the wound, blood between his fingers.