The library is closed, the lights off. There are a few fishermen still on the pier, the same kind of guys I saw earlier today, some of them drinking beer, some of them drinking out of bottles with paper bags around them, all of them smelling like cigarettes and fish guts. I walk among them, making eye contact, strolling boldly. They look at me and look away. They can feel, as I do, the change within me, and they sense this the same way a dog senses fear. I stand at the end of the pier and gaze out at the water. It’s rougher than it was this afternoon and the vibrations through the concrete are stronger. The air tastes of salt. I turn my back to the water and lean against the rail. Beware: Action Man is here.
The guys with the fishing poles are in the process of packing up. The way the weather is changing, they’re probably thinking the same thing I’m thinking, that within the hour the skies are going to open. There are others on the beach still walking, most of them with dogs, but they’re moving quickly now, some of them even breaking into slow jogs. Across the road cars are starting to pull away. The day is over for all these people.
I rest against the railing and stare out at the lights of the city. They represent life and activity-and so much ignorance. The pier is empty now and this suits me fine. It will also suit Cyris.
I push off from the railing and walk back halfway to the start of the pier. I stop at a garbage bin a hundred yards away from the library. I stuff the rope and flashlight into it, loading them onto half a dead fish. I keep the gun in my pocket. The wind is making my eyes water. I stay by the bin and I wait and I watch the road.
The killing hour is coming early tonight.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
He likes to drive in silence because silence is golden. His mind is busy with thoughts, and when he spells them out, when he follows them, they all have the background music of one of his wife’s cartoons. When he thinks that he wants to kill Charlie Feldman, he’s thinking it lyrically. It’s annoying. In the past he’s tried getting headphones for his wife, so she can just listen to her cartoons without the need for him to hear them, but the headphones make her scream and cry and thrash about like a fish out of water. So right now his thoughts of cutting Charlie open and getting paid his dues are coming in a sing-song voice.
The headache came back not long after he woke up. And his stomach isn’t any better. The bravest thing he’s done all day is resist the urge to take another shot of morphine, but what he did do was take more anti-inflammatories and over-the-counter painkillers. Okay, that’s not all he did-he brought some morphine along with him. He doubts he’ll need it, but one thing he learned in the army is it’s best to take a gun and not need it than don’t take one and find yourself getting shot at. Same logic applies to pain medication. The result of what he has taken since waking is he still has the headache, but at least his thoughts are his own. Mostly. But there are still random thoughts slipping in there. When he looks at the woman he wonders how she would taste if he bit into her. The hate between them would surely make her taste sour. He knows that’s not normal. She’s looking at him, looking at him, looking at him as if he’s crazy, and he hates that look, and he hates the crazy thoughts even more. He can’t wait for all this to be over.
When they get to the pier he kills the motor. He has very little to say. So does she, apparently, but that’s because he hit her earlier and told her to shut up. He knows he’s going to have to kill her at the end of all this because she knows who he is and where he lives. She is what the army would have called collateral damage. Feldman is too. So was the cop. And the lawyer. It’s been a collateral damage kind of week. All that matters is getting paid. Years ago he might have thought different. But after his wife was hurt, he learned people don’t give a shit about you when you need help. It was only a matter of days after Macy tried to kill herself that he figured out the whole world could go and fuck itself.
He leans to his side. He takes out his cell phone and his wallet and puts them into the glove compartment. He never takes them on a job. He would never take the risk of leaving one of them behind by accident. The next day’s headline would be Killer Leaves Driver’s License at Scene.
“Let’s go,” he tells the woman.
He wraps a towel over her wrists to hide the handcuffs. He pulls her across the driver’s seat and outside. It’s gotten pretty windy over the last fifteen minutes. Feels like rain is on its way. He looks at the pier, but it’s too dark to see if anybody is on it. Feldman is out there somewhere, he can feel it. His car isn’t here. In fact the only car here is. . he looks at the Holden. The Holden. It looks familiar, but he has no idea where he saw it last, if indeed he did. Of course there are probably ten thousand identical ones within twenty miles.
They cross the road. He keeps looking back at the Holden. Something about it bugs him.
They walk toward the pier as the wind begins to pick up around them.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
They cross the road, Cyris glancing at the Holden that was parked outside the shopping mall last night, and I’m starting to wonder if he recognizes it. He can’t. Too many of them on the roads for that. There’s nobody around now. The beach is ours. For all my planning we may as well have been back out in the woods.
They disappear from view as they reach the steps. I take the pistol from my pocket and tuck it into the waistband of my pants around the back. The wind is getting stronger, whipping the sand up much higher now. I’m thankful for the jacket. Cyris and Jo reach the top of the stairs. He lets the wind push the side of his overcoat out so I can see the shotgun beneath. It looks like Landry’s Mossberg, except it’s shorter. Either it’s a different weapon or he’s cut off part of the barrel. I hold my ground. Jo has her arms in front of her with a towel over her hands. No doubt they’re tied together.
He smiles at me when he’s within talking distance. “Glad you could make it, buddy.”
I look at Jo. No obvious signs of assault. “You okay?”
She nods, but doesn’t say anything.
“She’s just peachy, just peachy,” Cyris says.
Jo is still wearing Landry’s pants and jacket, and she’s still wearing her bra beneath it. I try to think of that as a good sign. They stand next to each other, about fifteen feet from me. The wind makes it difficult to hear. Jo lets go of the towel over her wrists and the breeze catches it like a kite and yanks it into the night.
“Unlock the handcuffs,” I shout, looking at her hands.
Cyris pulls the keys from his pocket, turns toward her, then turns back to me. The wind has his scraggly black hair standing on end. The grin on his face tells me he’s about to do or say something he thinks I haven’t expected. He raises the keys in the air and they follow the path of the towel.
“You bastard,” I yell, moving to the side of the pier and looking over the edge. All I can see is black sand and water and I can’t tell which the keys have hit. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“Stop pissing around, partner, and give me the money.”
“The money’s here. Let her go.”
“Looks like we need to develop some trust.” He pulls a knife from his pocket and touches the blade against Jo’s face. I’ve seen how quick he is with that weapon.
I put the bag of money down and step back. “It’s all there, I swear.”
“On your life.” He laughs. I don’t get the joke. “Take another step back,” he says, and I do, so now I’m three feet or so away from the garbage bin.