Going Dark (Thorn Mysteries) (11 page)

“Like what, Thorn? I’m curious. What do you really care about? What stirs your passions? Can you name one thing you love?”

Cameron drew another cot close and perched on its edge, then leaned forward, bringing his face inches from Thorn’s, crossing the line from sociable to threatening. Thorn was forced to breathe the vinegar scent of Cameron’s growth hormones or whatever cocktail he was ingesting to bulk up to such a preposterous size.

“You’ve got a python problem. Did you know that?”

“You encountered a python?”

“We met.”

“Did the snake harass you?”

“It tried. It might need first aid.”

“Oh, come on. You hurt a python?”

“I would’ve hurt it more but it escaped.”

“You’re serious.”

“In the cove,” Thorn said. “It wanted to dance. I didn’t like the music.”

“Well, Pauly won’t be pleased you injured one of his pets.” Cameron drew back, returning to his manicure.

“Snapper,” Thorn said.

“Excuse me?”

“You asked what aroused my passions. Fresh yellowtail snapper grilled with lemon and butter. If it’s an hour out of the water, my passions can get fairly aroused.”

Prince gave him a pained look. “You’re mocking me.”

“It’s so easy to do.”

“Maybe I should give you another rabbit punch. Knock the rest of that pissiness out of you.” Cameron worked the clipper around his thumbnail, snipping, then blowing the slivers toward Thorn.

“Did you break my push pole?”

Cameron smiled quietly. “Does that impress you? Brute force?”

Thorn peered into the man’s opaque brown eyes and said nothing. There was no need to respond. A talker such as Prince could carry on both sides of any conversation. Conceit radiated like sour body odor from every pore.

“All right, let’s discuss Flynn, shall we?”

Thorn waited.

“You see, you’ve presented us with a conundrum. You’ve trespassed on our island, barged in uninvited, and now we have to decide how best to proceed, given this new circumstance.”

Thorn watched a cluster of mosquitoes churning in a slant of light.

“Tell me this, if you can. Do you love your son?”

Thorn stared into the big man’s eyes, searching for a biting comeback.

“Oh, you needn’t answer. It’s clear from the look on your face. You feel strongly for Flynn, but you’ve got no clue how to express it because such a thing has never been required of you. Yes, yes, I’m sure you’ve made love to your share of women, and you have drinking buddies and the like, but you’re a confirmed introvert, preoccupied with the minutiae of your day-to-day labors. It’s no doubt a full-time job staring at that complicated navel of yours.

“So doing the emotional heavy lifting required of a father, it’s not a task you’ve prepared yourself for. Am I getting warm?”

“What’re you after?”

“I want to know if you love your son.”

“He’s my flesh and blood. Of course I do.”

“But you barely know him. And he doesn’t seem to have much affection for you.”

“Is there a point?”

Cameron studied his nails for a moment, then used the small file to reshape an edge. When he was done, he puffed the dust toward Thorn. “To be perfectly frank, I’m looking for leverage. To see if safeguarding your son’s well-being might keep you in line.”

“What does that mean?”

“There’s only two ways this can go, Thorn. You join our merry band or the ugly alternative.” Cameron smiled again. It was hard work that seemed to strain the bands of muscles in his neck and jaw and produced something more like a grimace. “I’m told you’re wild and unpredictable, and you have a sordid history of flouting the rule of law, that you live by some badass personal code, the rest of the world be damned. And you enjoy a scuffle and can hold your own against men bigger and more well trained. An eye-gouging brawler.”

Cameron leaned forward into Thorn’s line of vision, one eyebrow cocked. “And when you committed to a cause, you saw it to the end, no matter the risks. If you believed in something, you were dogged, ruthless, stubborn to a fault. You’re passive by nature, but when the bugles sound, you can, if you choose, become a man of action. Is this accurate?”

“So this is a job interview?”

Cameron stared into Thorn’s eyes for a long moment, then huffed an exasperated sigh and rose and reset the cot he’d been sitting on, aligning it in its proper place beside the others. This hulk was not to be trifled with, and Thorn had been doing just that.

“All right, get up. I’ve heard enough. I’m done with you.”

Thorn pushed himself upright. The whirl in his gut had slowed, though his mind was foggy and his knees still soft. But the threat of Cameron Prince was reviving him fast.

“Outside,” Prince said.

Thorn pushed through the tent flap and stood for a moment while his eyes corrected to the harsh midday sunlight.

Prince prodded him midback, a solid thump. Onward. Not fucking around anymore.

As they walked, Thorn cut his eyes to the sides, searching for an avenue of escape. But the dense mangroves and wild shrubs looked impenetrable. He could probably outrun Prince, but where was there to go? Get to the beach, dive in, make it a race. But that wouldn’t last long. Thorn was a strong swimmer, but it was over a mile to the nearest land—no way he could outdistance a kayak.

There was the crowbar he’d buried in the sand. Close to the end of the trail. Lunge, scoop it up, swing for Prince’s skull. A slim hope. Something. All he had really. Sand in the eyes, that old ploy. Take out his knees, punt him in the nuts. Run back and locate Flynn and get the hell out of here.

When they reached the edge of the beach, Thorn noted the ruffled patch of marl where the length of steel was buried and primed himself for the lunge, waiting for a moment when Prince was off-balance. In his side vision he kept watch on Prince as they took the last few paces to the water’s edge, past the pry bar, two long steps away.

“Turn around and face me.”

Thorn did as told. Drawing a breath, staying loose-limbed, for that might be his only physical advantage with this cast-iron freak. Though he was beginning to believe his chances of surviving any hand-to-hand encounter with the giant were close to nil.

“Personally, I find you fatuous and inane. I don’t like you, Thorn. But what’s more important, I don’t trust you. I’ve met your type before. You’re an incorrigible maverick who’d make a highly undependable team member.”

“I’m crushed.”

“Okay, I know how I’m going to vote.” Prince spoke past Thorn to someone in the distance. “He’s all yours.”

Prince turned his massive back on Thorn and strode away.

Thorn swung around and watched her step from the shadowy warren of branches and vines about twenty feet down the narrow beach. She was tall and slender and her chestnut hair was still trimmed short. She wore faded jeans and a long-sleeved fishing shirt with mesh vents and lots of pockets.

She came slowly down the sandy strip until she was within arm’s length. As close as she’d been on his dock the last morning he’d seen her, that day when she’d brushed his cheek with the back of her hand and thanked him for teaching her those first simple lessons about the natural world.

“Jesus Christ.”

As she came closer, the light in the cove seemed to fade.

“You’re alive.”

“So far,” she said.

The rush of adrenaline he’d been surfing for the last half hour roared even louder in his bloodstream. “What the hell is going on, Leslie?”

She gave no sign she’d heard, just searched his eyes.

His lungs were thick, the air seemed starved of oxygen. He had a woozy impulse to reach out and touch Leslie’s flesh to see if she was an apparition.

Her eyes flicked past him, scanning the quiet cove, then returned to him and settled on his. As if she’d read his mind, she raised her hand to his temple and touched it lightly, then drew away. Yes, she was real.

“Are you ready for this, Thorn?”

“Ready?”

“I’d like to give you a chance.”

“To do what?”

“To save your life.”

THIRTEEN

SHE TOOK A SEAT NEARBY,
close to where he’d recovered from his battle with the python. Thorn lowered himself to the sand a few feet away.

“Where’s Flynn? I want to see him.”

“He’s fine. Don’t worry.”

He was having trouble seeing the woman who sat beside him. The vulnerable waif who’d fished from Thorn’s dock seemed to hover just below the surface of the no-nonsense woman Leslie had become.

Tethered to some mangrove roots on the north side of the cove was the streamlined flats boat Leslie had been piloting the last day he saw her. A Hell’s Bay Whipray.

They were silent for several moments, then Leslie said, “It’s strange, but for someone who shaped my identity, you’ve always remained a mysterious figure to me. May I ask you some personal questions?”

Another interview. “You can ask.”

Between her outstretched legs, she was drawing circles in the sand, her eyes focused on the shapes. “You’ve committed crimes. Violent crimes.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Is it true?”

“Nothing I’m proud of,” he said.

“You’re good with your fists.”

“Average.”

“Apparently Wally would beg to differ.”

“Wally’s a little less than average.”

She lifted her head, smiled at him, then returned to the sand circles. “I also heard you’ve taken more than one human life.” Her eyes were bourbon brown and had a weary remoteness as if she’d spent too much time staring at something a great distance away. “Have you, Thorn? Have you killed?”

“Only in self-defense. Only as a last resort.”

“Good. Because that’s exactly what we’re doing here. That’s what we’re all about. The last resort. Self-defense.”

“I’m not interested in joining a gang or whatever this is.”

“Hear me out, please.” She brushed a wisp of hair from her eyes and was silent for a moment. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, Thorn.”

He had nothing to say.

“Even though it creates a grave problem for us, I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad to see you again.”

“Did you arrange this? Sending Prince to my house, dropping bread crumbs. Lure me out here.”

She shook her head. “Cameron had strict orders. He was to take a quick look at your property then leave. Have no contact with you. None whatsoever. I was worried something like this might happen. But he insisted on having a look.”

“Why?”

She glanced off and didn’t speak.

“What’re you doing, Leslie? What’s this about?”

“If I tell you, Thorn, then you’re involved. There’s no going back.”

“My son is here. I’m already involved.”

She stared down at the circles in the sand. “All right then.” She drew a careful breath. “We’re going to shut down the power plant. Turkey Point.”

“And why would you do that?”

“For a lot of reasons.”

“Give me one.”

“To take control of our destiny.”

“Your destiny?”

“That’s right.”

“You can do that by yourself. Alone. In a room, anywhere.”

“Like you do? Disengage? That’s what you mean? Retreat into solitude, keep your head down. Push the world away.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I’ve tried that. For years you were my model, Thorn. I barricaded myself from the noise and craziness. Lived as primitively as I could. Actually I got pretty good at it. But things have changed, the earth is in deep shit, and ignoring it, being disengaged, is no longer a luxury we can afford.”

“Save the planet, that’s what you’re about?”

“Save what’s left of it.”

Thorn looked out at the sky beyond the cove. The sun had bleached the ragged clouds of their early-morning pinks, and the air was already fogged with August humidity. Tucked in the dense mangrove branches across the basin, a little green heron scanned the waters. Ripples washed ashore on the small beach as if stirred by something large passing along the mucky bottom. Farther out, a school of mullet were feeding. They dimpled the mirrored surface, sending a school of glassy minnows streaking toward the edges of the cove.

“What happened to the crocodiles? You were helping the planet pretty well working with them.”

“Years ago when I started, the American croc was on the verge of extinction. There were less than a hundred left in Florida. Now their status has been upgraded to ‘threatened.’”

“An improvement.”

“Sure. They’ve got a foothold, they’re reproducing and spreading. They don’t need me anymore. I’m finished with that.” Leslie looked off at the sky above the mangroves, lapsing into silence.

First Flynn, now Leslie, their paths altered in some measure by Thorn’s example. As if he’d been touting some ideal of simplicity when, the truth was, the way he lived was not a choice. It was the only way he knew.

He’d inherited the Key Largo house and land, and with only the skimpy income he made from selling his custom flies, he had to keep things basic, handle maintenance himself. It was how he made it through, patching this, refinishing that, holding it together with duct tape, nails, and sweat. When he could, he relaxed and watched the pitch and plunge of birds, tracked the migrations of fish and the cycles of the moon and tides and observed the flamboyant colors staining the sea and sky at daybreak and sunset. His days were peaceful and gratifying, but nothing he promoted to others.

Leslie came out of her brooding silence, leaning forward, peering intently at the cove as if something in the mangroves had hissed her name.

“What is it?”

After a moment she laughed and pointed at a three-foot croc swimming along the edge of the cove. “Speak of the devil. One of my flock.”

They watched the young croc drag itself up onto some mangrove roots and immediately fall into a drowse. Armored with thick, bony plates, the creature might have been suited up for medieval battle. Its beauty was in the same realm as that of hammerhead sharks and feral hogs. Only a person who could see past its fierce exterior might feel affection for such a beast. Someone such as Leslie, who had been hardened by the hammer blows of a junkie mother and the mother’s string of dog-shit boyfriends pawing at the young girl’s bedroom door late at night; yet somehow that thick-skinned, unloved child had managed to soldier on, grow strong, and keep her vulnerable heart sufficiently intact to love the unlovable.