Rudy said, “It was sort of a trade.”
“This I gotta hear.”
“Tell him,” Rudy said blindly to Chemo. “Tell him the arrangement with the dermabrasion, tell-”
Chemo reacted partly out of fear of incrimination and partly out of embarrassment. He let out a feral grunt and swung the mallet with all his strength. It was a clean blow to the butt of the osteotome, precisely the right spot.
Only much too hard. So hard that it knocked the chisel out of Stranahan’s hand.
So hard the instrument disappeared entirely, as if inhaled by Rudy Graveline’s nose.
So hard that the point of the chisel punched through the brittle plate of the ethmoid bone and penetrated Rudy Graveline’s brain.
The hapless surgeon shuddered, kicked his left leg, and went limp. “Damn,” said Stranahan, jerking his hand away from the blood.
This he hadn’t planned. Stranahan had anticipated having to kill Chemo, at some point, because of the man’s stubborn disposition to violence. He had figured that Chemo would grab for the shotgun or maybe a kitchen knife, something dumb and obvious; then it would be over. But the doctor, alive and indictable, Stranahan had promised to Al Garcia.
He looked up from the body and glared at Chemo. “You happy now?”
Chemo was already moving for the door, wielding the mallet and neutered Weed Whacker as twin bludgeons, warning Stranahan not to follow. Stranahan could hear the seven-foot killer clomping through the darkened house, then out on the wooden deck, then down the stairs toward the water.
When Stranahan heard the man coming back, he retrieved the Remington from under the bed and waited.
Chemo was panting as he ducked through the doorway. “The fuck did you do to your boat?”
“I shot a hole in it,” Stranahan said.
“Then how do we get off this goddamn place?”
“Swim.”
Chemo’s lips curled. He glowered at the bulky lawn appliance strapped to the stump of his arm. He could unfasten it, certainly, but how far would he get? Paddling with one arm at night, in these treacherous waters! And what about his face-it would be excruciating, the stringent salt water scouring his fresh abrasions. Yet there was no other way out. It would be lunacy to stay.
Stranahan lowered the gun and said, “Here, I think this belongs to you.”
He took something out of his jacket and held it up, so the gold and silver links caught the flush of the lantern lights. Che-mo’s knees went to rubber when he saw what it was.
The Swiss diving watch. The one he lost to the barracuda.
“Still ticking,” said Mick Stranahan.
34
At dawn the cold front arrived under a foggy purple brow, and the wind swung dramatically to the north. The waves off the Atlantic turned swollen and foamy, nudging the boat even farther from the shore of Cape Florida. The tide was still creeping out.
The women were weary of shouting and waving for help, but they tried once more when a red needlenose speedboat rounded the point of the island. The driver of the speedboat noticed the commotion and cautiously slowed to approach the other craft. A young woman in a lemon cotton pullover sat beside him.
She stood up and called out: “What’s the matter?”
Christina Marks waved back. “Engine trouble! We need a tow to the marina.”
The driver, a young muscular Latin, edged the speedboat closer. He offered to come aboard and take a look at the motor.
“Don’t bother,” said Christina. “The gas line is cut.”
“ How’d that happen?” The young man couldn’t imagine.
It was a strange scene so early on a cold morning: Three women alone on rough water. The one, a slender brunette, looked pissed off about something. The blond in a sweatsuit was unsteady, maybe seasick. Then there was a Cuban woman, attractive except for an angry-looking bald patch on the crown of her head.
“You all right?” the young man asked.
The Cuban woman nodded brusquely. “How about giving us a lift?”
The young man in the speedboat turned to his companion and quietly said, “Tina, I don’t know. Something’s fucked up here.”
“We’ve got to help,” the young woman said. “I mean, we can’t just leave them.”
“There’ll be other boats.”
Christina Marks said, “At least can we borrow your radio? Something happened out there.” She motioned toward the distant stilt houses.
“What was it?” said Tina, alarmed.
Maggie Gonzalez, who had prison to consider, said firmly: “Nothing happened. She’s drunk out of her mind.”
And Heather Chappell, who had her career to consider, said: “We were s’posed to meet some guys for a party. The boat broke down, that’s all.”
Christina’s eyes went from Heather to Maggie. She felt like crying, and then she felt like laughing. She was as helpless and amused as she could be. So much for sisterhood.
“I know how that goes,” Tina was saying, “with parties.”
Heather said, “Please, I don’t feel so hot. We’ve been drifting for hours.” Her face looked familiar, but Tina wasn’t sure.
The Cuban woman with the bald patch said, “Do you have an extra soda?”
“Sure,” said Tina. “Richie, throw them a rope.”
Sergeant Al Garcia bent over the rail and got rid of his break-fast muffins.
“I thought you were a big fisherman,” needled Luis Cordova. “Who was it told me you won some fishing tournament.”
“That was different.” Garcia wiped his mustache with the sleeve of the windbreaker. “That was on a goddamn lake.”
The journey out to Stiltsville had been murderously rough. That was Garcia’s excuse for getting sick-the boat ride, not what they had found inside the house.
Luis Cordova chucked him on the arm. “Anyway, you feel better now.”
The detective nodded. He was still smoldering about the patrol boat, about how it had taken three hours to get a new pin for the prop. Three crucial hours, it turned out.
“Wh ere’s Wilt?” Garcia asked.
“Inside. Pouting.”
The man known as Chemo was standing up, his right arm suspended over his head. Luis Cordova had handcuffed him to the overhead water pipes in the kitchen. As a security precaution, the Weed Whacker had been unstrapped from the stump of Chemo’s left arm. Trailing black and red cables, the yard clipper lay on the kitchen bar.
Luis Cordova pointed at the monofilament coil on the rotor. “See that-human hair,” he said to Al Garcia. “Long hair, too; a brunette. Probably a woman’s.”
Garcia turned to the killer. “Hey, Wilt, you a barber?”
“Fuck you.” Chemo blinked neutrally.
“He says that a lot,” said Luis Cordova. “It’s one of his favorite things. All during the Miranda, he kept saying it.”
Al Garcia walked over to Chemo and said, “You’re aware that there’s a dead doctor in the bedroom?”
“Fuck you.”
“See,” said Luis Cordova. “That’s all he knows.”
“Well, at least he knows something.’“ Garcia groped in his pocket and came out with a wrinkled handkerchief. He put the handkerchief to his face and returned to the scene in the bedroom. He came out a few minutes later and said, “That’s very unpleasant.”
“Sure is,” agreed Luis Cordova.
“Mr. Tatum, since you’re not talking, you might as well listen.” Garcia arranged himself on one of the wicker barstools and stuck a cigar in his mouth. He didn’t light it.
He said, “Here’s what’s happened. You and the doctor have a serious business disagreement. You lure the dumb bastard out here and try to torture some dough out of him. But somehow you screw it up-you kill him.”
Chemo reddened. “Horse shit,” he said.
Luis Cordova looked pleased.
“ Progress,” he said to Garcia. “We’re making progress.”
Chemo clenched his fist, causing the handcuff to rattle against the rusty pipe. He said, “You know damn well who it was.”
“Who?” Garci’a raised the palms of his hands. “Where is this mystery man?”
“Fuck you,” Chemo said.
“What I can’t figure out,” said the detective, “is why you didn’t take off. After all this mess, why’d you stay on the house? Hell, chico, all you had to do was jump.”