Blackwater Sound (26 page)

She stood in the center of the cabin, tugged to the left, then the right, forward and back. She looked out the narrow doorway and all she could see of Sugarman was his legs and his narrow waist. Steering that old boat, still searching for her father. Her father, Lawton Collins, who had been out of her sight for days. Never in the years that he'd been sick had they been separated this long. Never in all those years had she felt so hollow, so lost, so helpless.

With a hand against the cabin wall, she tottered forward into the narrow V-berth. Looking for the supply locker. A bottle of water was on her mind. Even if it was warm water, or hot. It didn't matter. So parched. Tongue pasted to the roof of her mouth.

She found the narrow locker door cut flush into the wood of the cabin wall. She thumbed back the latch and drew open the door. No water. Nothing but a large file box with a loose lid.

She shut the locker and turned away. Staggered briefly, caught herself. She moved down the narrow aisle, headed toward the sunlight. But she couldn't shake the feeling that she should go back, have another look. Not sure why, not sure what nagged at her. She stopped, stood there, dazed, head throbbing, and then a long sequence of connections fired off in her mind. A box, a box, a cardboard box.

She turned around, went back to the locker, opened it and pulled the lid off and looked inside. She drew a sharp breath, then put the
lid back on and carried the box out to the deck and stood next to Sugarman cradling it in her arms. It weighed maybe twenty-five pounds. About the same as a portable television set.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she said. “Any luck?”

“Nothing yet,” he said. “I've been on channel sixteen, monitoring the chatter. I put the word out, asked if anybody'd seen the
ByteMe
, but so far, nobody's come back. Mostly they're talking about the explosions at the marina.”

She scanned the horizon but saw nothing in any direction. An endless stretch of blue water, blue sky, stringy white clouds.

“We're heading south now. I heard someone on the radio mention another fishing grounds. The canyons.”

She nodded, shifted the box in her arms.

“What's that?”

“I found it below. I was looking for a bottle of water.”

Sugarman nudged the throttle forward, made a small adjustment in their course. Alexandra pulled off the lid and tilted the box in his direction.

He stared down into it for several moments, then looked into her eyes.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Dad must've hidden it the night he was at Thorn's.”

“Jesus, be careful,” Sugarman said. “That could be dangerous.”

Alexandra peered down at the tangle of wires and the clear cells filled with colored fluids. It didn't look dangerous. It looked silly. It looked like a high school science project, a third runner-up in the half-assed terrorist division.

“Alex?”

She looked up at Sugarman. He was steering with one hand, the other reaching out for her as if he thought she was about to take another tumble.

“I'm fine,” she said. “Don't worry about me.”

“I know I don't need to tell you,” said Sugar. “But that thing is evidence in the murder of dozens of people.”

She nodded and settled the lid back in place. And turned around and set the box down in a corner of the cockpit. She stood next to Sugarman, staring out the windshield at the gentle rollers.

“You and Thorn,” she said. “You're pretty good friends.”

She looked out at the empty blue.

“Since grade school,” Sugar said. “Since forever.”

“Tell me about him,” she said. Eyes on the distance. Still smelling the pillow. The scent of his sweat.

“What do you want to know?”

“Whatever you think is relevant.”

“Relevant to what?”

She turned her head and let him have a good look at her face.

“Oh,” he said. “I see.”

A. J. reeled in line and reeled in some more, then watched an hour's work fly off the reel in seconds. It was sweaty labor, hot and wordless. Grunting and lifting and cranking. Harnessed to the fighting chair, Braswell seemed to age a year each hour. His hands turning into cramped claws, muscles in spasm. Sweat tormenting his eyes.

Thorn knew the crushing ache in his shoulders and his lower back and quadriceps. Feet grinding against the deck for hours until his toes were blistered and bloody. Muscles stiffening, in revolt. A. J. was probably having the same silent conversation with himself that all big-game fishermen had sooner or later, a debate about hanging on, balancing the cost of his pain against the shame of defeat. Taking measured sips of the anger and hate that propelled him, that unreasoning, masochistic joy. It was mindless work. Connected to a
creature who had only two reactions, attack or flee. It was, if you weighed it against mankind's vital concerns, trivial in the extreme. Mad and childish.

Hours and hours of agonizing immobility. Every act on display, every slump of shoulder, every groan and squirm and whimper. That old Cuban fisherman in his fictional boat had only himself to please, only his private demons to conquer. But A. J. Braswell had a larger audience, a more complicated one. More at stake in his struggle than simply proving his worth. This wasn't about fishing. This wasn't about any triumph of the spirit. It was the finale to a long sequence of calamities that had wrecked his family and everyone they had come into contact with. Instead of meaning, instead of love, the Braswells had this fish.

Thorn came down off the flybridge and sat on the gunwale and watched the fight up close. He spoke the customary encouraging words, the patter of solidarity. Every time he spoke, Morgan or Johnny glared at him as if he'd uttered a blasphemy, which of course he had. They were their own exclusive church, these three, their own holy trinity. They'd shared the same poisoned communion bowl for so long no one else could possibly know their pain or enter their hallowed sanctum.

Thorn smiled back at Morgan, deflecting her laser eyes as best he could. He was looking for his moment, sensing he only had one chance. And if it failed there would be no recourse but to do it Farley's way and take them head-on, toss each of them overboard and while they treaded water, proceed with a thorough search for Lawton.

The moment he chose was late in the afternoon, nine hours into the battle. The silence was grim, the sun only moments from setting the sea on fire. They might be locked in this contest all night. It might last all the next day or longer. There was no way to tell. Morgan looked exhausted. She had her head down, staring at a square of deck between her feet. Johnny stood close behind his father's chair looking out to the spot where the line entered the water. The giant
blue had not shown herself again. She'd run steadily downward until nothing was left but the last few coils of line. The knot that held the line to the reel was only one layer away. One more run of even a few feet, a swish or two of her powerful hindquarters, and the game was over. A. J. Braswell was soggy with sweat and his arms looked limp and uncertain. Probably hallucinating, having some loony conversation with his marlin, bonding with her, a supernatural union.

Thorn eased to his feet, waited for a moment to see that no one had noticed, then stole across four feet of deck. Johnny still flanking his father, staring out to sea, Morgan watching her toe tap against the deck. Thorn opened the salon door and stepped inside. He was halfway across the cabin when the cold metal hooked around his neck. He stopped mid-step, and in the mirror wall behind the bar he saw the two of them frozen. The crook of the aluminum gaff curved around his throat. Morgan gripped the handle with both hands, the gaff's razor point pricking his flesh an inch below his Adam's apple, pressing so tight against his skin that if he sneezed he'd rip out his own larynx.

“You're not real smart, are you?”

Thorn slipped a breath past the pressure of the gaff. He managed a guttural noise. Holding still, seeing in the mirror a dribble of blood seeping from his throat.

“Did you think I wouldn't recognize you? Or what? I'd just say hello, oh my, what a coincidence, it's the hero from the plane crash. Is that what you thought?”

She tugged on the gaff and the blood began to stream in earnest.

“You came nosing around the plant the next day. I saw you on the security video. Then you're on my boat in the Bahamas. Tell me, Thorn. Give me a good reason why I shouldn't tear out your throat right now?”

He met her gaze in the mirror. Those shocking blue eyes were glazed by a crisp layer of frost. They professed a toughness that her mouth contradicted. Her lips were soft and uncertain, warped by a
schoolgirl's shy discomfort. As if some part of her had been stunted long ago, and just below that crust of harsh indifference there was still a teenager who'd never overcome her unease around adults. A girl who had been banished from her childhood before she was ready. Thorn knew the look. He'd seen it more than once in his own face. A boy who was continually surprised to see the man he'd become.

“Have you ever thought, Morgan, that you might've been better off if you'd stayed in school, finished your degree, married a nice guy with patches on the elbows of his corduroy coat?”

“You don't know me. You don't know anything about me.”

“That's true,” he said. “But I do know something about taking on more responsibility than you can handle. About cracking under the pressure. Trying to live up to some gold standard that's out of your reach. I know a few things.”

She tightened the gaff against his throat.

“I'm not cracking. I'm handling things fine.”

“Oh, yeah, you're doing great, Morgan. Just take a look around you, if you can see over the stack of bodies you've surrounded yourself with.”

“Who are you? What're you doing here?”

“Your dad and your brother,” Thorn said, “do they reciprocate in any way? That's how it's supposed to work, you know? Give a little, take a little. But it doesn't look that way to me. Looks to me like those two are both full-time jobs. And you're working the night shift and the day shift just to keep up.”

Thorn felt the pressure of the gaff slacken.

“I can walk away any time I want. I'm here because I want to be here. Nobody's forcing me to do anything. I'm a free woman.”

“I don't think so. I don't think any of you people are free.”

“What bullshit,” she said, but her heart wasn't in it.

“When somebody's drowning,” Thorn said, “if you jump in and try to save them, you better be a damn good swimmer, because if you're not, the chances are pretty good they'll drag you down with them. That's been my experience.”

“Is that the best you can do? Can't think of another reason why I shouldn't tear your throat out?”

His eyes shifted to the scene behind her, a sudden burst of action in the cockpit.

“Oh, I can think of one.”

“Yeah?”

“Because,” Thorn said, “your fish is coming up.”

Holding the pressure on his throat, she turned him to the door and saw what was happening.

“Go on. Move, goddamn you, move.”

Thorn pushed open the salon door and stepped outside. She pulled the gaff away and came up beside him.

A. J. Braswell was pumping furiously. As fast as his arms could move. The fish was rising with astonishing speed.

“Keep her astern, Farley,” Morgan called up to the flybridge. “Do it.”

Braswell whirled the crank, his hand a blur. Line thickened on the reel.

Johnny spun around, shoved past Thorn, and hustled into the cabin. A second later he was back with a twelve-gauge shotgun. Holding it by the stock, he gave Thorn a humorless grin, then moved to the edge of the fighting chair.

“I'm cramping,” Braswell groaned. He writhed against the safety harness. He looked helplessly at Thorn, then twisted in the chair, muscles in spasm. “I can't hold it anymore. I'm going to lose it.”

“You can do it, Dad. Hold on. You can do it.”

Braswell cried out and wrenched to his right. With his crabbed fingers he unsnapped the clips and thrust the rod at Thorn. Morgan screamed a curse.

The fish must have sensed the uncertain struggle up above and chose that moment to make a run. The reel ratcheted, line spinning free. With a moan, Braswell let go of the rod. Thorn snatched at it but it flew across the deck, clattered against the transom, and started to tumble overboard. Thorn lunged, seized it midair, and grappled
for a hold, the fiberglass pole twisting and jerking like some electrified creature.

One-handed, he fumbled for a grip, finally got hold of the padded handle with his right hand, then clutched the forward grip in his left. He sucked down a breath, lifted himself upright, and levered the butt hard against his stomach. He leaned back and began to crank.

Beside him Braswell had slumped forward in his chair and was peering bleakly out at the water.

Johnny jammed the cool steel of the shotgun barrel against Thorn's cheek.

“Give me that rod, goddamn you. You're not part of this.”

Thorn lifted his elbow and brushed the barrel away, then bowed his back, flared his shoulders, and strained against the monstrous weight on his line. The fish reacted with another surge, catching Thorn off-balance.

He staggered forward, but managed to cock one foot up and brace it against the transom. He bent back, throwing all his weight against a fish that had to outweigh him by at least a thousand pounds. Thorn pulled back on the rod and reeled on the downstroke. Reeled and reeled some more.

“You bastard!” Morgan shrieked. “You fucking bastard.”

Ten feet behind the boat the water humped as if somewhere down on the ocean floor a volcano had begun to erupt.

Thorn reclaimed the last of the line and his hands went still.

“Holy shit,” said Johnny.

As they watched, the dark blister on the water's surface doubled in width. Then in a white blast of seawater, the blue marlin exploded into view and soared into the air so close to the stern that any one of them might have reached out and touched her electric blue hide. The fish was lit up, her flesh glowing as if a switch had been thrown from deep inside her molecules. Showing herself completely, her neon stripes, her dark scythe tail, her wild and furious eye.

Thorn watched as the fish stabbed her rapier at the sky, shook her
head, and hung weightlessly before them as if she could suspend at will the gravitational laws. The marlin's glistening eye took them in, each in turn, and whatever reckoning she made seemed to infuriate that leviathan even more. She swiveled in the air, went on her side, and slammed back into the sea, a great belly flop that sent a flood of water over the transom and buckets of cold spray raining down from the sky.

Farley clambered down from the bridge and barked instructions to Thorn, telling him to reel, goddamn it, to tighten the drag, keep his rod tip up, turn that damn fish around before she had a chance to take a breath and flex her muscles again. He pulled on his glove and watched as Thorn cranked a dozen turns, watched as the double line emerged through the blue skin of the sea.

“That's my job,” Johnny said. “I'm the wire man.”

Holding the shotgun one-handed, Johnny stepped forward, but Farley put his broad back to the boy, and Johnny had no choice but to watch helplessly as the black glistening bill appeared and the fish floundered and writhed.

Drenched by spray, Farley whipped off his sunglasses and tossed them away and leaned over the transom and snagged the wire in his hand and took a double wrap and hauled the fish close. Thorn watched the slabs of muscles in his arms and shoulders pump full of blood. The fish was massive. Larger than the great white shark that made such a stir in Islamorada a few years back, a world-record behemoth that hung at Bud and Mary's dock for twenty-four hours till every news organization in America had filmed it. But this was larger. Much larger.

On the marlin's back, the silver cigar-shaped pod glittered in the failing light. The steel hook that attached it to the marlin's gristly back had worked its way to the surface of the fish's hide. It was one good shake away from breaking free.

“Stand back,” Johnny said. He brought the butt of the shotgun to his shoulder. Aiming at the fish's eye.

“No, Johnny.”

Braswell rose from his chair. His shoulders were hunched in pain, his legs uncertain beneath him. He held his hand up, halting his son, and peered over the transom at the fish.

“We're not killing her.”

“Yes, we are. We're killing the motherfucker right now. This is it.”

Morgan picked up the flying gaff and stepped over to the transom and took her place beside Farley. He looked at her and shook his head.

“No gaff,” he said. “I got her fine.”

But Thorn could see a pale light rising in his eyes, the strain already showing in the slightest of quivers in his neck and shoulders. Like the night before when he'd lifted the iron bar loaded with five hundred pounds from the rack on the bench press and held it aloft until his muscles were on the verge of failure.

Braswell stared at the fish, his mouth working as if he were carrying on a silent conversation with the monster, or perhaps mumbling a prayer on her behalf. The fish thrashed, but Farley held it in check.

“We're not killing her,” Braswell said.

“What!”

“Yes, we are, goddamn it,” Morgan said. “Yes, we are.”

“No. We're letting her go. She did nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong! And what about Andy? What about Mom?”

Johnny was still sighting along the barrel, his aim fixed on the fish's right eye. The marlin lurched upward, slashing her sword just inches from Farley's ear. He heaved back, jerking the leader line upward to reinstate his authority, remind the fish that it was caught in an unyielding grip. The marlin's mouth opened and gulped down the treacherous air, and twisted defiantly, but Farley held fast.