I stared at the two of them side by side. Neither wore the black leather vest. No inscriptions to identify them. Which one? I didn’t know. It was a mirror in a funhouse. I searched for the distortion . . . a sign. There was none.
They approached me almost in lock-step, hands in supplication, exhorting a stay of execution, a final chance to breathe, to continue their work. Either the soaring of the spirit, or the defiling of all that is human. Two sides of the same coin, one the incarnation of evil, the other a savior. Sunny hadn’t yet reached the Sig, and Vee stood by the bike, as if waiting for the final chapter of a long, and sad, story.
They continued to stalk me. I had one round left. What would I do with it? Suddenly a vision of Solomon appeared before me. He had told the women he would cut the child in half and give each of them a portion. I gasped for breath. I thought I knew. I pointed the derringer and fired. The hole in the forehead was neat, but I could already see the blood spatter into the sand. I had done it, but what was it I had done? I looked to my left.
The woman held the Sig, but it was the wrong woman. Vee trained the .40 on me.
“Idiot. You have killed the wrong man. It is the one who understands the way. The world is filthy, corrupt. It knows no god. The only thing is you. The strong live. They prosper. The weak suffer . . . the ones who are stupid, the ones who hold things that do not matter. It is destiny. It cannot be denied. So one must choose. I choose the winner.”
Carlos knelt over his brother. He rose, tears trailing down his cheeks. He took a step toward her, but she held the Sig tightly, gritted her teeth and emitted a low growl. It said no.
Pedro had stepped onto the porch. He heaved through halting breaths and brandished a Glock. Vee looked at him.
“Now, big man, you follow me. We must finish what Francisco has started.”
He nodded and pitched down the stairs.
So this was the time, and this was the place. Sunny and I would die, and maybe Carlos. Perhaps no one would know the difference. In a sick sort of way, it was fitting. Maybe Vee was right . . . survival of the fittest, Darwin’s evolution gone mad.
Sunny dusted herself off. Her face was a portrait in stone, her eyes ablaze with something rooted in hell. She took a tentative step toward Vee. The dark haired vixen had beat Sunny to the Sig. She trained it on her blond nemesis. Suddenly Sunny charged. Vee aimed the pistol and pulled the trigger. There was an ominous click, but no report. She fired again. Nothing.
Sunny hit her in full stride, arms around the legs. Vee fell backwards onto the sand and grabbed for a handful of blond hair. Sunny’s fist caught her in the nose. A flood of thick red blood immediately poured from Vee’s swollen nostrils. The two rolled and tumbled over the bare ground. Pedro rushed to the fight, watching with poorly concealed glee . . . waiting and pointing the Glock, eager for a clear shot. But none came. I eyed the Taurus. It was still on the ground where I had dropped it. Pedro was focused like he was watching Ali and Frazier. I crawled a few feet to his left. The grip of the .38 felt warm and secure in my hand.
“Freeze, and lose the Glock,” I screamed.
Pedro turned quickly and I caught him in the right shoulder. His arm fell limp at his side and the Glock with it, while the blood painted his t-shirt in brilliant red blotches.
Sunny and Vee were still at it, tearing at each other like two wounded lionesses. Blood, spit, tangles of hair and torn clothes littered the battleground like the detritus from a brutal war. That’s when I heard the sirens.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Frank’s cruiser skidded on the loose sand. Behind him was a squad car with two blue uniforms. They exited in one smooth motion, crouching behind the open doors, service weapons drawn. Their voices were loud and commanding.
“Police. No one move. Hands over your heads.”
The savages stopped. Sunny rose first. Her lip was split again and she was still barefoot. Vee was next. Her eye was swelled and the blood still ran from her nose in clumps. The front of her blouse had been ripped open. Her chest was riddled with scratches. She snatched the thin fabric together and pulled her vest around her torso. The knees of her leather pants were brown with dust. It was obvious she had gotten the worst of it.
Frank pointed. He covered the suspects with his 9mm while the uniforms handled the cuffs. Carlos stood silently, a look of helplessness, and a sense of betrayal dominating his dark features. Vee stared at him for a moment, and sucked at her bloody lips. Then she whispered what looked like, “I’m sorry,” and the patrolman pushed her head down to enter the caged back seat of the blue and white.
Frank had a first aid kit in his car. He called for forensics while I patched up Sunny as best I could. We rode back to the station in his cruiser.
There were the usual questions. We told them everything we knew, but it wasn’t enough. Pedro’s Glock, and the AR 15 had been reported as stolen. The police held him and Vee on assault charges, but our stories were deemed hearsay. There wasn’t enough hard evidence, other than the fact that they were both undocumented.
We went back to Sunny’s apartment and both of us squeezed into a tub of steaming water. She even added a little bubble bath. Not too manly, I admit, but the gentle sound of the bubbles popping and the caress of the heat was quiet and soothing. Afterwards, we slept.
I was still out when the cell rang the next morning. I started to let it squawk, but the sound finally cut through the fog. I picked it up.
“I told you, fool. You have killed the wrong man. Francisco lives. Carlos has gone to his last reward . . . whatever that may be. You are the demon . . . the executioner . . . the agent of the devil. I would advise you to be very careful. In my country, a man does not take the death of his brother lightly.”
She signed off before I had a chance to speak, but I’m not sure what I would’ve said, anyway.
I shook my head violently. It had to be bullshit. The man I shot needed to die. That didn’t make it okay, but I had no options. My lady and I were next. It was him or us . . . better him. But what if Vee told the truth? What if I had shot Carlos, not Francisco, through the forehead? What if it was his blood that leaked into the dirty sand?
I began to shake. Then my eyes moistened. I put my hand to my cheek. I was crying.
Sunny stirred. Her eyes widened and she placed her hand on my forearm.
“What’s wrong? Who was it on the phone?”
I spit it out between sobs that could have come from an overgrown child.
“Call Frank,” she said . . . “Now.”
I sat up and blew my nose. I reminded myself that big boys don’t cry. Yeah . . . fat chance. I pulled up Frank’s number and hit the call button.
“Hello hero. Gonna take on the Mafia for breakfast?”
“Fuck you, Frank. Just listen.”
He caught the tone of my voice and shut up. I told him about the call.
“Ease up, T.K. You got the right guy. You saved your own ass and Sunny’s, too. We tried to hold Vee, but we had to let her go on a tecnicality. At least the real bad guys are behind bars. They can’t get to you. When we run the DNA, it will confirm everything and this shit will disappear like a bad dream.”
God, I hoped he was right.
Chapter Twenty-Three
He wasn’t.
There wasn’t any DNA record for Carlos or Francisco. Both were illegals and any positive identification was damned near impossible. As they faced long jail sentences, the gang members were willing to say anything that might help them. After all, the twins were identical . . . size, shape, facial appearance. The funhouse mirror hadn’t been shattered. It had only become more twisted, distorted, confused, and uncertain. Frank still insisted it was over, and that I had done a job that needed doing. He knew me, and I think, in a way, he understood what I was going through. Neither of us took killing lightly, and though we mostly kept our demons at bay, they were still there and quite active in the dark fever of the night.
At first
, there were just a couple of things. Another flat on my bike, a shot of black spray paint on the door of the Saab, and a feeling slithering up my spine, telling me I was being followed. I tried to write them off . . . convince myself it was paranoia. I was wrong. I suddenly realized these were signs . . . warnings intended to frighten . . . no . . . terrify me. It was working. I was smart enough to know I needed to be ready to defend myself, but against who? Who had I killed? Carlos? Francisco? Would I ever be able to pull that trigger again . . . even to protect Sunny, the woman I treasured and loved?
I knew it was a bad idea . . . that I was turning a corner down a dark alley, but I was drinking more . . . no, make that way too much . . . and smoking enough Marlboros to choke a horse. I didn’t even want to look in the mirror to shave. The creature that stared back at me was gray . . . no animation, no apparent signs of life . . . much less joy. Sometimes I imagined I saw the face of a dark man with a Pancho Villa mustache over my shoulder . . . a specter . . . wavering, fading in and out. There was a neat hole in his forehead and his eyes were blank. The same grisly image haunted my sleep. It came in fits and starts like a rusting pick-up on a pock-marked dirt road . . . rattling, jostling, pounding at my back and kidneys, until I thought my mind and body would explode.
Even Sunny began to squint at me from the corners of her eyes. Eyes that told me maybe I was already a dead man. I guess that hurt more than anything, but it didn’t stop me. I just dove deeper into the booze. The last several nights on KAMALA I spent sucking on a bottle and a cigarette. I could smell it on myself. It repelled and disgusted me deep into my gut. My mind was like the open maw of some giant beast . . . a cesspool, swirling, black, and stinking.
Then I started to wonder. Maybe this was the time for a solution, one that was final . . . even comforting. It was scary and fascinating at the same time. I wanted the screaming inside me to stop . . . quiet . . . that thing I longed for. I had the Taurus. I had the ammunition. Sunny would probably miss me, but no one else. I could cash it all in and destroy that hellish Ghostcatcher shit with it. I even coldly formulated a plan that would keep down most of the gore. Stand on the transom of the boat. Place the .38 in my mouth and fire it so that my body fell backwards into the water. Neat, simple, and effective . . . certainly befitting of a man who once prided himself on his intellect and his ability to adjust . . . now one who was slipping into madness.u
I wanted to embrace it, but there was still plenty of coward left in me.
I hadn’t seen Sunny in a couple of days, and I couldn’t be sure she wasn’t dodging my phone calls. I guess now I knew. It was the time.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The sun had gone down and there was the sliver of a moon. The music from Turtle Krawls and the Raw Bar joined to create a cacophony that had no form or reason. It drifted in and out on the breeze like some tune from hell. I heard the roar of a Harley from the parking lot, a gruesome reminder of why I was here.
I sat in the cockpit, a half-empty bottle of bourbon at my side and the Taurus in my lap. I picked it up and checked the cylinder. Five brass slugs neatly at attention, waiting patiently for a direction . . . an action that would determine what now seemed like my fate. I rose slowly and eyed the transom of my beloved KAMALA. I had stood there many times before . . . admiring a sun rise, trying to spot a friendly vessel, or a landmark that would lead me to a safe harbor. Now this would be that harbor, and I would be embraced by the sea . . . the place where all creatures evolved. Somehow it seemed fitting . . . a return to the gods of the sea . . . a comforting version of the Bible’s “ashes to ashes and dust to dust”. I took one last swig from the bottle and tightened my hand around the Taurus, my finger on the trigger.
Now there was a voice.
“Ah, Doctor Fleming, T.K. I see I have arrive at convenient time. If you have problem, I can help. Even in de low light, I see you wonder. Who is it that speaks? Which man did you kill? I will not let you go to your grave without revealing the secret. You did kill my brother, Francisco. It was what some might say, de right man.”
“Leave me, Carlos. It is over. I will kill no more men. I’m going. Let me go in what peace I might still be able to grasp.”
“Oh, senor, I will. Carlos simply want to make sure de job is done right. One more thing you should know. De Ruedas . . . it was what you call a farce. Francisco was my brother, but he was also my partner. You are a man of intellect . . . de Ghostcatcher . . . but you are a fool. My brother and I create de two gangs to keep your friend Beamon busy and happy . . . and perhaps a bit confused. It help our business be mucho successful. De money . . . de drugs . . . de women. Oh . . . you can no imagine.”
“You bastard.”
“Yes, perhaps . . . but now it is time to complete your task. I give you ten seconds . . . den I complete it for you.”
He leveled a large pistol at me. It looked like a small cannon in the light glow of the moon.
There wasn’t much time, but I didn’t need it. I didn’t even want it. I stepped up on the transom and placed the barrel of the Taurus in my mouth. So this was it. My finger pressed on the trigger.
I barely heard the muted reports. A silencer I guessed. There were two. Both thudded heavily into what had to be flesh.
Carlos had taken them in the back. I turned to catch the shock in his eyes. He staggered, then he slammed face-forward onto the dock. The sound was deadened by the wood. A violent twitch shot through his body. Then the stillness and the eerie silence . . . the silence of the dead.
I heard what seemed like a loud whisper, “Good night, amigo.” It was a woman, but that’s all I knew. I listened to the padding of bare feet retreating on the boards.
The Taurus slid from my hand. It clattered onto the fiberglass deck and lodged in a corner over one of the cockpit drains. I waited . . . expecting . . . half-hoping . . . to be next. There was nothing but hammering the return of the devil’s symphony from the competing bands.
Frank got there in a hurry. He knew I was smashed, but it was immediately obvious that the Taurus hadn’t been fired. He also knew there wasn’t really much I could contribute in my drunken state.
I guess I was ashamed. That was a feeling that had been notably absent the past few weeks. I didn’t know whether to welcome it, or try to force it back into the darkness. I stumbled back onto the boat and grabbed the bottle. I stared at the black label for a moment, then lifted it to my lips. I stopped, took a deep breath of the sweet bourbon, then went below.
I turned the bottle up and emptied it into the sink. I listened to the lonely gurgle as it rushed down the drain. Then I crumpled the last of the pack of Marlboros and dropped them into the garbage.
The next morning, I was rousted early. I had an all-expenses paid ride to the station with two grim patrolmen. Then a charming interview with Frank and a couple of unidentified fellows who seemed quite humorless. None of them expressed any surprise when I told them Carlos’s story of the brothers’ partnership. I did leave out the part where he called Frank and I fools. It just didn’t seem to add to the narrative, and this time better to neglect the obvious. They told me not to leave town and to remain available for further questioning. Fortunately, that part didn’t happen. I guess they decided I was bled out.
A couple of days later Frank called.
“Okay, my dauntless Ghostcatcher. You ready to hear what you don’t want to hear?” he asked.
I grunted, sighed, and held the phone a few inches from my ear.
“Vee’s being deported. Not sure about our buddy, Pedro, yet. Got a little more on him. Gonna let him sweat some and see if he decides to be a bit more cooperative . . . oh, and you’re free to make travel plans.”
He was right. I didn’t want to hear it, but maybe it was my time to get out of town.
I had talked to Sunny only briefly. She was glad I was okay, but our conversation was stilted and she obviously didn’t want it to go any further. She was back at work, not much worse for the wear, and expected to be
“very busy” for the next few weeks. Translation: Don’t call me and I probably won’t call you. It hurt.
I went to work on KAMALA. She deserved it. Teak, a nice coat of wax, and a thorough cleaning down below. She’d been sadly neglected during the melee and I needed lots of sunshine and a few cold beers while I licked my wounds. The engine and electronics systems were all on “go”. Sails, safety equipment . . . provisions. I double checked it all.
I planned to head out for Bimini the end of the week. Then over to Spanish Wells, down to Eleuthera, maybe Fresh Creek on Andros, and on to the Exumas. A healing . . . or maybe just a sad attempt to staunch the wounds . . . stop the bleeding in my soul . . . at least that’s what I hoped for. And then what . . . I didn’t know.
I missed Sunny. There was a hole in me that I knew I’d never be able to fill. It was dark and it seeped something vile and poisonous, but I couldn’t ask her to patch me up . . . not again.
I didn’t tell anyone but Frank. I called him, but I wasn’t even sure he needed to know.
He was quiet for a few moments. Then he gave me the final report.
“We still don’t know exactly what had happened to Carlos’s sister. Only that she’s gone. The Ruedas de Dios and the Messgeros all made bail. I tried with the judge for revocation, but we just didn’t have enough to hold them. There are rumors about the coyotes and the sale of the organs, but as far as I can confirm, that’s all they are. One more curious thing . . . the old shack burned to the ground on a moonless night a couple of days ago. There was evidence of arson, but it was scant and nobody seemed to care much. So much for the opinion and influence of the Key West Chief of Detectives. Zilch.”
I didn’t go back to Vinnie’s . . . too much blood and too many ghosts. I wanted them gone. I wanted to leave the Ghostcatcher in Key West to commune with the spirits of the dead. Mostly, I wanted to be just another boat bum on some foreign shore laughing and drinking with the rest of the miscreants . . . just like at Buffett’s Roundtable.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I guess I was getting my wish.
I had gone over my list, told the dock master at Land’s End to rent my slip. I wouldn’t be back. It was early, a sunrise that promised to bathe and bake me . . . maybe even salve the aching, and engulf the abyss that was leaden in my chest before it swallowed me.