Harsens Island (16 page)

“James!” Angel yelled. “James! Where you at, brother?
Show me the
money! Show me the money!
”

In his enthusiasm, Angel didn’t think to look in the bedroom adjacent to the kitchen.

From the floor of the bathroom, James heard the sound of a short struggle followed by the grunt and thud of a body falling to the hardwood floor. He thrashed about to signal his presence. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled in disbelief as Sam dragged his unconscious ally to the second bedroom.

“He juices doesn’t he?” Sam said. 

Angel Lopez was muscular in the manner of a professional body builder. His skintight, black tee shirt exposed thick, tatted biceps and forearms. He was her height and she estimated he weighed somewhere between 175 and 190 pounds. His head was shaved and he wore a neatly trimmed, almost imperceptible goatee. His sleeping face reminded her of a fat baby boy.

“A word of advice, James Earl,” she said, pausing in her labor. “You don’t need actual muscle for muscle. Agility and flexibility are stronger weapons.”

James Earl rolled his eyes heavenward.

“I’m putting your buddy where nobody can trip over him. I think his ego will be more bruised than his body. And I’m taking your weapons, wallets, phones, and ride.”

She shut the bathroom door, locking it from the inside.

With deliberate, unhurried movements, she stationed Angel in the second bedroom, bound his ankles and wrists with extension cords, and trussed him like a rodeo calf. She locked his door, and then she locked the master bedroom door.

Next, she gathered James Earl’s scattered ammo and gun, placing everything in a grocery bag along with Angel’s Smith and Wesson. She placed their wallets in the grocery bag. She kept their cell phones.

She unhooked the house phone and placed it in the dishwasher. She closed the curtains, turned on lamps, activated the alarm, and locked the rear door.

She opened the garage, retrieved the key from the coffee can, and deposited the grocery bag in the trunk of Haberski’s cruiser. In the trunk’s left corner, there was a Kevlar vest, an emergency kit, a box of flares, and a jacket. It was a neat, deliberate pile. The remainder of the trunk was empty.

She leaned in, pulled the clothing and materials back, and saw disheveled stacks of twenty, fifty, and hundred dollar bills.

“The honor of thieves,” she said to herself, realizing her money was now evidence.

She locked the garage.

She stood silently for a few seconds, and then, assuring herself there were no loose ends, drove away in the El Camino.

The lighthouse was at the end of North Channel, at the tip of the island’s head, and had been erected three decades earlier.

Brian Catanzaro had said the lighthouse had been a boondoggle: a handful of local, hayseed contractors convinced the state and federal city slickers that the short stretch of water between Dickinson and Harsens was a tragedy waiting to happen, selling the idea that a lighthouse would provide an extra level of safety for locals, commercial tradesmen, and the summer yachtsman.

The construction took longer than expected and the cost doubled. The light spun its warning for maybe a month before complaints from homeowners in Algonac caused it to go dark. Three years after its closure it was auctioned off by the federal government. The Catanzaro’s bought the then $500,000 property for $2,000, turning it into a pricey summer rental. 

She steered inland, eventually arriving at the t-intersection of Cottage Lane, and there she parked on the shoulder of North Channel.

She exited the car, leaving the keys in the ignition. She set the stolen cell phones to vibrate, and put one in each of her front pockets. She walked the remaining, short distance to the lighthouse. The lighthouse was as the end of the west road.

There were three houses on the spur: two were dark and the third displayed a lamp in the front window, but was otherwise lifeless. The fading sun cast a watercolor orange on the horizon, and painted brushstrokes of dark gray on the empty road.

Ahead of her, where the road ended, was an arbor of trees. Behind that was the lighthouse tower, a white candlestick reflecting the orange sunset. The house was consumed by shadows, its bright white now a mix of dull blue and gray-black, and the red roof had turned a deep shade of maroon.

When she was within thirty feet of the arbor, she saw the lighthouse entry: two massive red-enameled doors swung inward, exposing a short hallway. The inside glowed with incandescent light. It might have been inviting if not for the solemn pacing of Hannibal’s majordomo.

Serhad was smoking. His suit coat was unbuttoned and revealed the dark strip of a left-handed shoulder holster. He walked left to right and back again. His pace was relaxed and betrayed no sense of worry.

After a few moments, finding his rhythm, she moved to her left as he moved to his right, keeping pace with him until she lost his line of sight. She then moved closer to the arbor, avoiding heavy steps, carefully avoiding the natural sound traps of dead leaves and twigs.

From this vantage point, she saw the driveway, a large swath of concrete built to accommodate trucks and cranes more than automobiles. There was a pearl-white Cadillac Escalade, a silver Mercedes with impenetrable tint, a dark blue Yukon, and Snake’s Camaro. The Mercedes was likely Hannibal’s, and the Yukon had been at Redsky’s mansion. The Camaro was a wild card; it should’ve been in Rowland’s impound yard.

It was a little after nine when James Earl’s phone vibrated.

Sam removed it from her pocket and saw the word “
Sis
” and a local number on the screen. It rang five times before Sam answered and ended the call. She moved around the perimeter of the lighthouse, through a coppice of shrubs and flowers, pausing only to answer and cut off Redsky’s second call.

There were two floors to the house. She went to its backside and saw the kitchen. In a dark, second floor window she saw a brief flame of orange light as a man – perhaps a sniper, definitely a lookout – sparked a cigarette. 

She looked around the yard, its perimeter, and examined the tower walls: there were no motion detection lights; a foghorn or siren was attached halfway up its side.

She moved to the east side of the house. The living room curtains were drawn back and its windows were opened to allow an inflow of cool river air.

Redsky was on her cell phone, pacing. Hannibal and Houle sat in oversized chairs to the left. Moon sat on a couch opposite the men, her arms stretched to either side. Despite her relaxed manner, she was in an animated conversation with Houle. Another oversized chair was against the window, obscuring a view of their legs.

Sam stepped forward until she reached the edge of natural darkness and the cusp of incandescent light. She steadied her breathing to an almost meditative state and became still, her arms to her sides, her hands loose and relaxed.

Redsky ended her conversation on the phone and addressed Moon, yelling. Moon sat upright, lowering her arms, and spoke loudly and sharply. Their voices overlapped and the words were indecipherable.

The majordomo, hearing the raised voices, rushed in, gun in hand at shoulder height.

“Serhad!”
Hannibal bellowed.

The word stopped him; he lowered his weapon.

A woman rose from the chair against the window, her face in profile. Her black hair fell to her shoulders. Her arms bent at the elbows, hovering between waist and shoulders, her hands patting the air with palms open, a gesture for calm and order.

Despite what had happened to her in the last week, Lynn Hunter still did not look a day over thirty-five.

With Serhad away from his post, Sam swiftly moved to the front entrance. She came to a dark spot and checked the time on Angel’s cell, a quick tap on and a quick tap off. There was less than twenty minutes before Rowland’s arrival.

Sam imagined the next steps.

She would intercept Rowland. He would call for assistance – if he hadn’t already arranged for it – and he would arrest all of them. 

With Hunter alive and the poisoned girl in the coroner’s office, there was enough to detain all of them on a laundry list of charges: murder, fraud, conspiracy to commit murder – a harrowing list of felonies. Sam felt a grim satisfaction knowing the dead girl in the river would be avenged.

A distinct, hollow noise came somewhere from her left, and she looked sharply to the trees, arbor, and hedge that formed the property border.

The noise repeated itself, coming from the Camaro’s trunk. The car was ten feet from her, parked behind the Yukon, and both were forty-some feet from the house doors. She went to the Camaro’s driver side, reached in through its open window, and found the trunk latch button. She pressed it and the trunk lid rose. 

A meager light shone from it, and when she lifted the lid she found Snake, who was bound at his wrists and ankles with white clothesline. His mouth was gagged by a blue bandana. His face bore the evidence of a beating. He stunk of sweat, fear, and urine. He was scared to death. His eyes stared at her in fright and wonder.

She placed her first right finger to her lips.

He blinked once, understanding.

She spoke without whispering.

“You must be getting use to this.”

She reached in, disabled the trunk light lens, breaking its hold clips and splitting its wires.

“Couldn’t reach the trunk release?” She pushed the gag from his lips to his chin. “Talk.”

His unblinking eyes fixated on her as if attempting hypnotism.

“They are taking Moon, during the fireworks, utilizing a helicopter. She thinks they are her allies. They are not. They intend to drop her in the Lake Saint Clair. We cannot allow that to happen. We must stop them. You must help me. Set me free.”

“What agency do you work for?”

“You must trust that I cannot tell you. You must trust me, Sam! We’ve only minutes!”

She looked to the lighthouse’s front doors. Serhad hadn’t returned to his post.

“Hannibal has a man at the door, and Redsky has a lookout on the second floor. Are there any more?”

“No. Redsky advocates a lesser footprint. Small crews and limited firepower.
Please
, you must release me!”

“No. Tell me why your gun is missing a round.”

“My murder was attempted by Steve Haberski on Sunday morning while you were in custody. I fired in self-defense.”

“Where was this?”

“Here. At the lighthouse. I’d come to warn Moon.”

“Huh. And you didn’t bother to tell Rowland?”

“I am fearful of their relationship.”

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore. Haberski’s dead.”

“You’re joking,” Snake said.

“Heart attack. He attempted to murder Bill Catanzaro. It was Bill’s blood on my door.”

Snake’s head, which had been raised, tilted gently to the trunk floor.

“Goodness.”

“How did you end up like this?”

“I was discovered shortly after you abandoned me. Redsky’s men patrol the island, even the most outlying spots. They search for illegals attempting to arrange their own passage, which interferes with their trade. But, to their credit, the practice saves lives.”

“Yeah,” she said. “They’re all happy little elves, aren’t they? Who’s your inside man?”

“Excuse me?” the little man responded.

“You know too much, you’re not trustworthy, and you’re not lucky. Who do you know on the inside? Who’s your contact?”

Snake said nothing. His eyes flickered.

“It’s the girl, isn’t it? Moon.”

Snake remained mute.

“Suit yourself. I’ll leave the lid cracked so you can breathe. Another hour with it sealed and you’ll be roasted.”

She pulled the gag into his mouth; he resisted, trying to bite her.

“Behave.”

She brought the trunk lid down but didn’t seal it. Simultaneously, James Earl’s and Angel’s phones buzzed with a text from Redsky.

(Where are you idiots?)

Sam thought it a fair question, so she responded from James Earl’s phone:

(Tied up
)

Then, from Angel’s phone, she sent a second reply:

(What u wearing?)

She changed Angel’s cell phone from vibrate to ring. She found his number on James Earl’s speed dial, walked up to the open red doors, stooped low, and with an underarm pitch skittered it down the short hall.

She pressed “Send” on James Earl’s phone and with long, sure strides returned to the side of the house. She arrived in time to see the majordomo hand the chirping phone to Redsky.

Hannibal, Hunter, and Moon were engaged in a quiet exchange. The lawyer Houle, briefcase in hand, without elaboration, walked to the front door and exited the house.

Sam disconnected the call and rapidly dialed the number that had been written on the back of Rowland’s business card.

She let it ring three times, long enough for them to realize Hunter’s phone was ringing.

“Horatio!”
Redsky yelled without emotion.
“Horatio! Come down here, please!”

The man from the window appeared at the foot of the stairs. He loosely held a Kalashnikov AKM; a holstered gun was slung around his left shoulder. As Redsky spoke to him, the man nodded eagerly, bouncing his head in an exaggerated fashion. When she was done, he darted to his left.

Sam moved right, knowing he would emerge from the rear, kitchen door.

The soldier named Horatio saw her for a split-second before she knocked him unconscious, bouncing him against the house and slamming him to hard earth.

She used his belt in the same manner as she had with Angel. She stripped him of his ID. She found a vial of powder, assumed it was cocaine, and tossed it over her shoulder. She pulled and half-rolled him to a reasonably safe spot against the side of the house.

She confiscated and dressed in his shoulder holster; she held the Kalashnikov in her right hand, barrel pointed to the earth. She intended the weapon to be a show of force, a defensive weapon. Her experience was that men with guns tended to only respect men with guns. That and there was no reason to be foolish.

She entered the lighthouse through the kitchen door, allowing it to close on its own, creating a gentle announcement of her presence. 

The kitchen was bright, modern, and carried a light fragrance of fish and spices. She passed a ceramic bowl of oranges and apples that appeared as if they had been polished and set up for display rather than consumption.

It was a short distance from the kitchen to the hall, living room, and front doors.

In the arched front doorway, one foot on the landing and one foot in the hall, the majordomo stood, his left shoulder facing her, a cigarette dangling from the right corner of his mouth, and a gun in his hand. He motioned her to the living room with the gun.

Sam scowled.

“What are you? French?”

He followed her in to the room where the remaining players had reassumed their original positions. Moon on one couch, Hannibal opposite her on another couch, and Hunter creating the tip of their triangle in the chair by the window.

Redsky was behind Hannibal, looking through the living room window to the driveway. Then she faced Sam and sighed with disappointment.

“I had such high hopes for you.”

Sam addressed the majordomo in French.

“Elle dit que vous etes laid.”

“What did you say?” he asked.

“‘She said you’re ugly,’” Sam said.

“Never mind, Serhad,” Hannibal said. “You know how women of her breed like to amuse themselves. You married a similar type as I recall.”

“Always the charmer, aren’t you, Four? Where’d your lawyer go? Off to arrange bail?”

“To higher ground, I imagine,” Hannibal said. “It’s an admirable quality, don’t you think?” 

She smiled at him and flicked her head right.

“Tell your boy that if he flinches I’ll cripple his love life.”

Something akin to a snarl came from the servant.

Hannibal’s lower lip protruded slightly; his eyes narrowed in calculation.

“Tell him,” Sam said.

Redsky put her hands on Hannibal’s shoulders, giving them a squeeze.

“She’s not worth it, Clayton,” she said, releasing him. “There’s larger came afoot. Besides, she’s not at all like her father.”

“How can you be sure?” Hannibal asked.

“He would’ve disposed of Serhad before he entered the room.” She looked to Sam. “Horatio is alive, correct?”

“Of course,” Sam said.

“And my brother and Angel?”

“Angel’s fine. Your brother, not so much.”

“There you are,” Redsky said. “She has the killer aptitude but not the killer appetite.”

Throughout the exchange, Sam kept her eyes on Hannibal, watching his hands and eyes.

The Kalashnikov AKM is lightweight and has a slanted muzzle, both factors that provide balance and accuracy. When properly motivated it fires six-hundred rounds a minute.

“I believe Serhad can take her,” Hannibal said. “What say you, Serhad?”

Serhad smiled; smoke pouring from his nostrils, the cigarette clinging to his lips.

“Say when…”

Lynn Hunter, frowning, spoke.

“And if he misses?”

“I won’t,” Serhad said.

“But mine’s bigger,” Sam said, agreeing with Hunter.

“Two valid points,” Hannibal said, and deftly motioned to Serhad, raising two fingers on his left hand.

Sam’s eyes moved to her right and saw Serhad returning the gun to its holster.

“A gesture of good faith,” Sam said. “An even playing field.”

She leaned the AKM against a wall but, like the majordomo, didn’t relinquish her handgun.

“I can still take you,” Serhad said.

She ignored him, placed her hands on her hips, and faced Hunter.

“Lynn Hunter. Long time, no see. What’s it been? Two months?”

“You’re in over your head,” Hunter said coolly.

Sam responded with a taunting smile.

“In two words or less, name a psychopath that murdered her daughter.”

Hunter said nothing but her Irish-pale skin mutated to a soft pink. 

“You couldn’t stand the idea of your husband taking her, could you? That would’ve been too much like losing. Or was it a daughter goes to work day gone wrong?”

Hunter’s face flushed evenly.

“Was she dead when you brought her over? Or did you kill her here?”

“We’re wasting time, Lauren,” Hannibal said.

“No,” Redsky said, looking at her watch. “We’re fine. Let her babble.”

Sam ignored their comments.

“You drugged her and drowned her.”

Now Hunter’s face appeared sunburned.

“And she helped,” Sam said, and motioned to Moon, who remained silent.

Sam looked at Moon.

“The kaolin was a smart touch. It slowed the coroner down for a couple of days.”

She shifted her words back to Lynn, baiting her.

“By the time he got to her, she was so bloated he thought she’d been in the water for a month. At first he wasn’t sure what sex she was, or if she was even human.”

Lynn Hunter leaned forward, covered her face with the temple of her fingers, and began sobbing loudly, uncontrollably, and with animated drama.

Sam’s voice growled.

“You’ll have to do better than that.”