“They beat me senseless and bloody and when they were done they rolled me off the pier, so my corpse would float out to sea.”
“I didn’t want that to happen,” said Straczynski.
Another lunge. SWAK. This time a backhanded blow against the justice’s right shoulder.
“A barge dragged me out of the water.”
“Stop this.”
“I was unconscious,” said Tommy. “Near death.”
“Get hold of yourself,” said Straczynski.
Another lunge, SWAK, this time a sharp downward flick of the wrist that slapped the sword against the justice’s chest.
“All I had on me was my new ID. My old friend Eddie Dean had died of leukemia while still in his teens. I was planning to use his name, his Social Security number in my new life. I had already obtained a Delaware driver’s license in his name. So it was that when I woke up, Tommy Greeley was dead and Eddie Dean was on life support.”
Tommy lunged again, trying to slap at the justice’s right cheek, but this time the justice ducked low as the blade passed over him. When he stood again, the other sword was in his right hand, held off slightly to the side, the blade pointing up toward Tommy Greeley’s eyes.
“Passata soto,” said Tommy with a nod. “Nice tierce position.”
“It’s coming back to me,” said Straczynski.
“Let’s see.”
Tommy lunged, trying to slap down upon the justice’s chest, but this time the justice, with a flick of his wrist, raised the blade into the air horizontally and parried the blow.
“Quinte,” said Tommy. “Very good.”
“You’re not as fast as you used to be,” said Straczynski.
“I never fully recovered from what you did to me. But I’m still fast enough.”
Tommy Greeley lunged, Jackson Straczynski parried, and they went at it for a moment, two middle-aged men with swords in their hands, the ringing grate of steel on steel, the slap of their feet on the black linoleum, the clash of metal sabers one on the other. It would have been stirring, almost, if after their moment they both hadn’t been leaning forward, hands on their thighs, gasping desperately for air.
“What,” said Tommy Greeley between his fitful breaths, “no riposte?”
“I’m not,” gasped the justice, “going to – fight you – Tommy.”
“Of course – you are. That’s why – you’re here.”
“No, it’s not. I’m here – to take my wife – home.”
“She’s not going home.
“Yes, I am, Tommy,” said Alura Straczynski, holding her notebooks tight to her chest.
“But you said – you loved me. You said you always would.”
“I did, yes. And I suppose I do. But Jackson is a part of me. I can no sooner leave him as leave my heart, my lungs, my journals. I couldn’t leave my life then, I can’t do it now.”
“And you would take her back, Jackson? Again?”
“Again and always,” said the justice. “Without hesitation. Her life is my adventure.”
“What does that mean?” said Tommy.
“She knows.”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “Let’s go home, Jackson.”
Tommy Greeley stared at her for a long moment, his waxy face betrayed by the emotions flitting through his eyes. He turned his face to his old friend Jackson Straczynski. He raised his sword high, prepared to give a brutal blow, when he stopped at the sound.
We all stopped at the sound. From out in the hallway. From down the stairwell. The sound of metal sheeting clanking loudly, the fishing lines strung across the stairs being tripped, first one, then the other.
Colfax raised his hand to quiet us, pulled back the slide on his Beretta, walked over to the door. With two hands on the gun, he leaned on the door frame and carefully aimed his gun at the edge of the stairway where I was certain, positive, that Phil Skink, who had obviously missed my signals, who had clumsily set off the alarms, where Phil Skink was about to appear. And I feared at that moment that Skink’s life depended on me having to do something courageous, something athletic, which only meant that Phil Skink was in serious trouble because courageous and athletic was not me, really, honestly, not me at all.
Chapter 73
“HELLOO?” CAME A familiar voice from the hallway and with it I let out a breath of relief. “Helloo? Is, like, anyone home? For some reason I’m tripping all over these wires, like what is that all about? Wires? Helloo?”
“Bloody Kimberly,” said Colfax. “Get in ’ere.”
“ ’Sup with the gun, Colfax? Put that away before you hurt someone. What are you, shooting the rats? This place is a major creepazoid. Why can’t you just stay in a hotel or something? I know, I know, the boss wanted to get the feel of the old ship, but really now. Puhleeze. Just know I’m not staying. Sooner I get off this old bucket the happier I’ll be.”
Kimberly Blue entered the room carrying a brown paper grocery bag. She was dressed down, blue jeans, a loose white shirt, and maybe that was why I thought there was something different about her. Something wary maybe, without her usual obliviousness, something sad yet determined. Different.
“Victor?” she said, still holding the bag. “What are you doing here? And Justice Straczynski and Mrs. Straczynski? And those swords? What, is it a party? You should have told me, I would have dressed. I have this really mad sailor’s outfit. And instead of lunch meat I would have gotten something festive.” She walked, seemingly unconcerned, to the bar, put down her bag. “Maybe a bottle of imported vodka and some hors d’oeuvres. I could go for some hors d’oeuvres, couldn’t you? Those little quiches, with the spinach. Yah. No fish, of course, I learned my lesson, but how about crab puffs? Are crab puffs okay?” She looked at her boss, and then at me, took in the strange scene, the somber tone. “So, everyone,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“Did you see anyone outside the ship on your way up here?” said Colfax.
“Ah, no. Like, everyone’s got someplace better to be than a rusting bucket sinking in the harbor. And I still don’t know why I couldn’t just put the supplies myself onto the little boat. I mean, I put them in the truck, I could certainly take them out and put them in the boat. I’d rather stay there than here any day. At least that boat has a bed. But Colfax is all, don’t go on the boat. And I’m all, but where do I put them? And he’s all, just leave them in the truck. And I’m all, but that’s pretty stupid.”
“Kimberly?” said Colfax.
“Yes?”
“Just shut up.”
“Okay.”
“Where’s the boat?” I said.
“At the end of the pier,” said Kimberly. “Maybe you didn’t see it because it’s hidden by the warehouse. For some reason that’s where Colfax docked it.”
“I said shut up,” said Colfax.
“So that’s where she is.”
“Who?” said Kimberly.
“Beth. Colfax kidnapped her and put her on the boat.”
Her eyes widened, her head came around and then again like an old-time comedian doing a perfect double take. “Excuse me.”
“And the FBI is searching for your boss,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because he’s been a fugitive from justice for twenty years. Because he’s really Tommy Greeley.”
She took a step back and staggered onto a stool, looked over at Tommy, still standing with a sword in his hand.
He shrugged and smiled.
“And now,” I continued, “he’s trying to have a sword fight duel with a sitting Supreme Court justice, whose wife was planning to sail away with you guys to the Caribbean but has decided to stay. And everybody is looking for money that isn’t there. That nails it pretty much, doesn’t it? Except maybe for the murders.”
“Murders?” said Tommy.
“Yes. Murders. I thought it was you who had done all the killing, I was certain it was you, following the path of betrayal, meting out your wild justice, but now I’m not so sure. Because the guy who committed the murders is the guy who’s looking hardest for the money. And that doesn’t seem to be you, does it? You’re looking for something else.”