Twenty Blue Devils (30 page)
"Now what the hell is that supposed to be?” John said.
"It's a flare pistol,” Rudy said. “At least I think it is."
"You can't hurt anybody with a flare pistol,” John said, wishing he believed it. “They have to meet safety specs."
"Do they? Well, we can find out easily enough. Who wants to be the guinea pig?"
"You killed Tari, didn't you?” Nelson demanded. “He found out what you were doing."
John looked at him with something like pride. Nelson had more than his share of faults, but lack of gumption wasn't one of them.
Rudy moved the pistol slightly, so that it was directed more at Nelson than at John. That gave Nelson his chance to look up the barrel and now he quailed visibly, for which John couldn't blame him.
Scared or not, Nelson didn't back down. “You...you wouldn't kill us,” he said, not quite bringing off the intended sneer.
"Wouldn't I now?” Rudy said. “Let me assure you, Nelson, that underneath this feeble exterior lies a tremendous absence of moral character."
It was the sort of wry crack he might have tossed off at a cupping session, and delivered in much the same tone of voice. He's not panicky, John thought. He's in control, he knows what he wants.
"What do you want, Rudy?” he said.
"I want out,” Rudy said. “Nelson, come here."
"No!” said Nelson, white and trembling.
The gun swung around to him again. Rudy extended his arm, took dead aim at his nose. “Nelson, come
here!"
Nelson moved a reluctant step forward and stopped. “Why?"
"Because you and I are leaving. And John will just stay there like a good little fellow and not say peep while we climb into the van and get on our way. Otherwise...well."
Nelson licked his lips but stood his place. “How do I know you won't kill me anyway?” He was barely able to get it out.
The question, a pretty sensible one from John's point of view, seemed to irritate Rudy. “Oh, for God's sake, Nelson—"
"Rudy, what's the point?” John said. “You know you can't get off the island."
"Of course I can get off the island."
And of course he could. There were a thousand places along the shore from which boats could leave and find their way to just about anywhere in the Pacific.
"John,” Rudy said, “you'd better tell him to come here. You know I mean business."
"Go ahead, Nelson,” John said.
"Backward,” said Rudy.
Nelson shuffled backward toward him. His frightened glance met John's once, then dropped miserably to the floor. Rudy put a hand on his shoulder to halt him and moved up closer behind him and a little to the side, the pistol digging into Nelson's hip.
"Now, John,” Rudy said, “we'll be leaving. Move away from the door. Sideways. Lie down over by the wheel, on your face. And stay there, John. I warn you."
"No, I don't think so, Rudy."
Rudy's face twitched. So did the hand with the gun. That shook him up, John thought. Great, now both of us are shook up.
"John—"
"Forget it, Rudy. I'm not moving, you're not leaving,” he said in his calmest, most resolute voice, hoping Rudy couldn't hear the whomping in his chest. He didn't want Rudy panicking; he just wanted him to decide that he had no chance, that his only recourse was to give up. “Now put that damn thing down and we can talk this over."
"I'll kill him, John,” Rudy said and dug the flare pistol into Nelson's side. Nelson stiffened.
"And then what?” John said. “Where does it get you?” His lips were dry but he kept himself from licking them. “You kill him and what do you do about me? There's only one cartridge in that chamber. I'll be on you before you can load another."
"You know, you're absolutely right,” Rudy said. “Maybe I'd be better off killing you instead.” He was getting very edgy now. His glance kept darting through the windows at the activity going on on the deck below. Who knew when someone might decide to come up to the bridge?
"Same problem,” John said. “If you kill me, what do you do about Nelson?"
Rudy was still able to dredge up a dry laugh. “Nelson I think I can cope with.” He moved the gun a little away from Nelson's hip so it was leveled at John's belt. “I'm really sorry, John.” His eyelids squeezed together twice, a queer, nervous tic. Nelson stood frozen, staring straight at John. His eyes looked like bull's-eye saucers.
Christ, John thought, I played him wrong, he's actually going to do it... “Rudy,” he said quickly, “think for a minute, will you? If you shoot that thing off you'll have everybody on the ship up here in two seconds. What good is that going to do you? I'm telling you, you don't have any way out. Don't make it any worse for yourself than it already is..."
But Rudy wasn't listening and John knew it; he was steeling himself to pull the trigger. The barrel came up a little higher to point at John's throat. John's mind was buzzing. He saw only one thing he could do, one thing he could try, and it didn't have much going for it: duck unexpectedly and spring for Rudy's legs. Rudy would have only one chance, and if the shot went over his head or merely winged him, maybe he could...
Rudy pressed his lips together. Here it comes, John thought, even as he flung himself down. The squat orange barrel followed him. He was too late, too slow, he was going to take the shot in the face—
Nelson's arm jerked. His hand clamped on Rudy's wrist.
"Damn you, Nelson—” Rudy said testily.
And all hell broke loose. Smoke, flame, noise—banging, whizzing, spitting—and an incredible, hissing, crackling eruption of red-hot sparks, spurts, and streamers that went off in every direction at once.
John stayed low on the floor, on his stomach, while burning chunks of the flare went ricocheting around the room for what seemed an impossibly long time. At one point something fell onto the back of his head and he hurriedly thrust it away before he realized that it was only the flare's unopened parachute.
"Nelson!” he called when he dared to raise his head. The explosions seemed to be over, but bits of flare were still sizzling here and there, visible only as red glows in the billows of acrid smoke that now filled the room. “Are you okay? Where—” He broke off, coughing.
He was answered by a hacking cough off to his right, and he scrambled toward it on elbows and knees, swept out his arm, caught hold of the collar of Nelson's jacket, and dragged him with the same movement out into the fresh air of the gangway, where they sat with their backs against the wall of the bridge, choking and blinded by tears.
"You all right?” John said when he was able to.
Nelson still couldn't speak. He nodded.
"Rudy's still inside,” John said, pushing himself up and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He realized for the first time that his knuckles were singed. His cheek too. “I have to—"
"Help,” someone shouted wetly. “I don't—” There was a break for coughs and gurgles. “I don't swim very well."
John went to the rail. There was Rudy in the water fifteen feet below, sputtering and flopping around in a pathetic attempt at a dog paddle. Apparently he had fallen or jumped through one of the open windows when the flare went off.
"Oh, lordy,” John said, preparing to go over the side but not liking it. Hawaiian or not, he wasn't much of a swimmer either.
But before he could move, one of the Tahitians dove casually into the sea, rising directly under Rudy and hauling him up the ladder in a fireman's carry, then dumping him on the deck. Rudy lay flat on his face, panting and jelly-limbed, hanging on to the metal deck rivets with his fingertips as if he were afraid of rolling off.
"Keep him there,” John called. “Be right down. I'm with the FBI."
The crewman laughed. “Don't worry, this guy ain't going nowhere."
John sank briefly down beside Nelson again. “Nelson, you saved my life. I can't believe it."
Nelson, still hacking away into his handkerchief, shrugged.
"You could have been killed yourself,” John said. “He could easily have pumped that thing into you. I just want you to know that I—I mean, that was really brave of you; that took guts. Not many people—"
"Oh, shush.” Nelson waved him into silence with the handkerchief and finally got his coughing under control.
"I mean, really,” Nelson said peevishly. “You're my brother, aren't you?"
"...highs in the upper thirties, with more of the same— low clouds and drizzle, occasionally turning to sleet—continuing right on through the week. But cheer up, folks; by Friday chances look good for the occasional afternoon sun-break..."
"What's funny?” Julie asked.
"Nothing,” Gideon said, “I was just thinking it's nice to be home."
He reached contentedly across the seat to squeeze her knee and switch the car radio to KING-FM. The Pachelbel Canon in D Major came on, and they listened in cozy, heated comfort to the calm, stately, inexorable chord progressions as Julie swung the car around the forested curves of Highway 101. Downslope on their right, visible through the firs, was Sequim Bay, gray and rain-pelted. On their left, the foothills of the Olympics rose, disappearing into the mist about two hundred feet up. The windshield wipers, making their slow sweep every second or so, kept steady time with the music.
Gideon had arrived in Seattle two hours earlier. He and John had stayed in Tahiti for another day after Rudy's arrest, leaving depositions with Bertaud (they would both have to return for the trial) and having a last sad, hilarious dinner with Nick and what was left of the clan. Then, leaving John to spend another few days with his family, he had boarded the 12:15 A.M. flight to Los Angeles and caught an 8:50 A.M. hop to SeaTac, where Julie had been waiting for him. They decided to go the longer, more scenic way, and she had taken the wheel for the drive across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge and on to the Olympic Peninsula and Port Angeles. For most of it he had been filling her in on the latest developments from the South Seas.
Rudy, he told her, had so far refused to make a statement on the advice of his
avocat
, but Gideon, John, and Bertaud had pieced together a first, rough set of events that seemed to fit the facts. They believed that the money-laundering operation had been Brian's—that is, Bozzuto's—idea; perhaps he'd had it in his mind from the very time he arrived. Bozzuto, after all, had the racketeering contacts and the firsthand experience with slippery bookkeeping. As if to confirm this, the tricky business with the prices had begun only a few months after he had come to the farm. Besides that, Nelson had now turned up some accounting and telephone records that seemed to show Brian's hand in several of the phony transactions. But Brian wouldn't have been able to do it alone. In the first place, coffee-bean purchases weren't made from the farm but from Whidbey Island, Rudy's turf. In the second, Klingo Bozzuto, even with a new face and a new name, wouldn't have been crazy about going anywhere near his old, betrayed gangland associates.
So Rudy was approached, and whether from resentment of Nick (so much more successful than his own father,
so
magnanimous,
so
open-handed), or from simple greed, or for some other reason, he cut himself in. For five years they used Paradise Coffee as a money-laundering conduit. And then something happened to sour the relationship. Bertaud believed that Rudy simply decided to cut Brian out and keep all the profit for himself, and the most satisfactory way to do that was to murder him. John believed that Brian, changed for the better by his relationships with Nick and Therese, and by parenthood, had finally seen the light and wanted to go straight, and that Rudy had killed him to keep him from putting an end to the arrangement, and perhaps even confessing to Nick. Gideon kept his opinion to himself, but he thought that Bertaud was closer to the mark.
Whatever the cause, they were fairly sure that it was Rudy who had killed him during that lonely camping trip to Raiatea. Proving it was going to be impossible, they agreed, but Bertaud had assured them that Tari's murder alone, what with Gideon's findings, would be enough to lock Rudy up for a long time to come. Gideon had set the final seal on things when he'd examined Tari's hut and determined what the murder weapon was: not the fireplace poker that he'd anticipated, but a
gancho
—a sturdy, five-foot pole with a crook in it that was used to pull the spindly top branches of the coffee trees down within easy reach. Tari had kept one leaning against a corner in the hut, and although Rudy had wiped it clean of hair, blood, and fingerprints, Gideon had been able to show that the shape of the heavy end of it perfectly matched the depressed fracture in Tari's skull.
Julie and Gideon had been quiet while the canon was being played, but when it was done she leaned forward to turn the volume down. “There are still some things that I don't understand."
"You and me both,” Gideon said.
"What about Therese, for example? Did she honestly not know what Brian was doing? Are you going to tell me she's really as pure and innocent as all that?"
"Well, yes and no. We had dinner with the family at Nick's house last night, and it was pretty interesting; a lot of things came out. And the answer to your question is, yes, she did know all about Brian's past. That's why she was so desperate to have the exhumation canceled, you see. She was scared to death that somehow or other his real identity would come out and his old gangland enemies would find out about it and come after her and the twins for revenge."
"Well, I guess that makes sense."
"But as for knowing that he'd been involved in anything shady since he came to Tahiti, that was a total surprise to her. She thought he was completely reformed."
Julie threw him a sidewise glance. “And you believe that?"
"I do, yes."
"Well, I don't. How did she really meet him, anyhow? The Bennington story was just so much claptrap, wasn't it?"
"There you're right. It all came out at dinner. Old Klingo had seen her at that first trial years ago and was thoroughly smitten. Never forgot her. Six or seven years later, with a new name and a new face, he called her from the States, claimed he was a reporter—which he wasn't—and said she probably didn't remember him, but they'd met briefly while he was covering the trial in Seattle—which they hadn't—and he was coming out on vacation to Tahiti in a couple of weeks, and could they get together? She said sure, on most Friday nights she went to the movies in Papeete with her friends, and if he wanted to, they could meet for a drink first. And that was that. They fell in love. Later, he did tell her who he really was."
