Harsens Island (17 page)

Moon was pleasantly featureless. Her shoulders were as wide as her hips, her stomach was flat and proportional to her chest, and her back was proportional to her flat bottom. Her black hair, parted from her right, was thick and shiny and signaled a natural health. She wore a white, short-sleeve blouse, black pants, and black flats. Her lips were thin, yet thick enough to create an air of nubile sexuality. Her skin was perfect. 

“Please forgive her,” Moon said. “She has not had time to properly mourn her daughter’s untimely death. The events of my departure colluded to provide her the greatest of burdens, one that I share with her, and one that I hope you never bear. If you are of the right spirit, you know that one must honor the dead but sacrifice for the living – sometimes at great expense.”

Sam watched and listened with cool detachment.

“My family died in the river, so we thought it fitting to give Ann to the river. We used the compound you spoke of, and as you’ve accurately stated, it damaged her body, her shell, but not her spirit. She suffered here in this time, but she suffers no more.”

Moon’s voice bore a northeast accent.

“Her daughter was an addict. She overdosed on a cocktail of her own making. She arrived with her mother Friday night, and by Saturday morning she was dead. Her mother had no control over her actions. I will testify to that. And as you can see, she is in deep shock and grief.”

Lynn Hunter seemed to regain control of her emotions, her sobs now erupting in short, hot gasps.

Sam said, “You’ll make a great character reference, that’s for sure.”

Moon sat erectly, obviously offended.

“What does that mean?”

“You’re lying.”

“You do not believe me?”

“Not a word, not a vowel, not even the punctuation.”

“Why not?” Moon demanded.
“It is the truth!”

Sam smiled rapaciously.

“
The truth?
The truth is a sane, loving mother wouldn’t drown her daughter in a river. And no sane, loving mother would assist in the murder of a child. Especially if that mother had already lost her children.”

Moon trembled, raising both hands, making them tiny fists, and shouted, very much like a child throwing a tantrum. 

“You’re an assassin! You’re the daughter of assassins and are here to murder me!”

Sam’s disgust broke through lips that barely moved, from a jaw taut with anger. She addressed Hunter.

“You killed your daughter. Then you both gave her the kaolin, too much kaolin. Moon said, ‘Here’s something my mother used, we’ll give her this, it absorbs water’, not knowing what amount to use. Maybe she should’ve given her a teaspoon’s worth but instead gave her a tablespoon. The upshot is she used too much and that’s what brought her body to the surface. You thought she would sink. You were going to claim you’d been on business in Michigan the week she disappeared and then, maybe, with luck, you could put a noose around your husband’s neck.”

Sam turned to Hannibal.

“She screwed you, Four. If Moon was a mother of three, she’d have this
pooch
,” she said, gesturing with a cupped hand over her belly, “something that proves tiny feet had kicked at her from the inside. This isn’t the wife – this is one of the daughters. She hasn’t been pretending to be a child – she
is
a child. Whatever secrets her mother had vanished with her in the river. What you have here is a fake, a pawn for profit.”

As Sam spoke, she saw Redsky’s eyes dart back and forth between her and Hannibal.

“Pay no attention to her Clayton,” Redsky said. “She’s trying to muddy the waters.”

Sam continued working Hannibal.

“This was the first time Houle met Moon, wasn’t it? He took one hard look, sniffed the air, and realized you were screwed. He realized he’s been helping you negotiate for something that never existed. That’s why he walked.”

Hannibal stood, gesturing toward Sam.

“I can’t see why you like this woman.”

Sam refocused on Moon, her voice harsh and demanding, an angry adult talking to a petulant child.

“How old are you anyway? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

Moon, still trembling, was muttering a babel of English and Vietnamese.

“I hope your breast stroke is better than your acting,” Sam said.

“What are you saying? What does that mean?”

“Snake’s your boyfriend, right? You told him you were being helicoptered out of here.”

Moon’s eyed widened and narrowed.

“He’s tied up in the trunk of the Camaro. He said they’re tossing you into Lake Saint Clair.”

“You’re an assassin!”

“As soon as you step on that helicopter Redsky can claim they fulfilled their contract. Anything that happens after takeoff is on them, the other side, whoever they are. I’m curious – do you know where you’re going?” Sam gestured to Redsky. “Who’s paying the cab fare? Her friends or yours?”

She heard tires on the driveway. The arbor, driveway, and the front doors were suddenly bathed in car headlights.

“It’s Rowland,” Redsky said.

“What’s he doing here?” Hannibal said.

“I imagine she invited him,” she said with a dismissive wave.

“He’s an idiot,” Hannibal said.

“Poor, poor Mark,” Redsky said, arms crossed, looking out to the driveway. “He was a good man. Clayton, dear, we don’t have Horatio.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” he responded. “Serhad? Tend to the light and then the sheriff.”

“Yes, sir,” he responded, not moving, and instead reached into his suit pocket for his lighter and cigarettes. His eyes drifted lazily across all of them before he settled on Sam.

“I could’ve taken you,” he said to her.

The left side of Sam’s mouth arched up in mocking amusement.

“No,” she said. “But it’s a pretty thought.”

“Be quick about it,” Hannibal insisted.

Serhad, stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, lighter in hand, and cupped the stick with his hands as if standing in a strong wind.

“Chop-chop,” Hannibal said.

He lit the cigarette and returned the ingredients to his pocket.

“Yes, sir,” he said, and left the room.

“I prefer that he stays,” Sam said, her right hand now filled with a gun she did not want to use. She heard his footsteps echoing from the circular stairwell that led to the lantern.

“Moon,” Redsky said.

Moon shrieked loudly and right-foot slammed Sam’s left arm, pushing Sam sideways, forcing her to her right knee.

Sam, rising, flung her weapon at the front window – her target – which cracked and partially shattered, a clear, intentional warning to Rowland and a way to keep the weapon from falling into anyone else’s hands. The AKM remained out of reach.

Moon anchored and pivoted right, cocked back on one leg and kicked like an engine piston firing, striking Sam twice, and landing a blow to her chest and left shoulder.

Sam went low, stayed low, and spinning, swung her left leg, catching Moon’s left knee, pulling her forward.

Moon sprung backward, hesitated for no more than two seconds, and weaved toward Redsky.

Rowland sparked his cherry top, blasted a single, loud whoop, and threw a searchlight on the house.

A deep shudder came from above them, through the walls, and into the floor.

The lights failed; the room went dark save for the lights of Rowland’s cruiser.

From somewhere in the backyard came the sound of an emergency generator.

A flickering glow came from the stairwell as the tower’s emergency power came on line. Next came a grinding screech of metal on metal as massive, iron cogs engaged, a sound that might have once been the murderous fury of a T-Rex, the loud preamble of the lighthouse lantern reluctantly coming back to life.

Sam advanced with two quick steps, delivering fast, hard blows and kicks to Moon’s chest, stomach, and legs.

Sam knew she hadn’t struck Moon hard enough or fast enough to propel her through the window, yet the glass cracked loudly as she reeled and smashed into it.

The majordomo had returned, firing a single bullet at Moon as she tumbled toward the window.

Splinters of flying glass reflected the red, white, and blue of the cruiser’s lights.

Redsky screamed something incoherent.

Hannibal yelled,
“Serhad!

Moon, trying to maintain balance, twisted, forearms pushing against the glass, left leg kicking against the glass, right leg tucking up as if clearing a track hurdle.

In the psychedelic spin of the cruiser’s lights, Serhad fired two more shots, one at Sam and the second at Lynn Hunter, neither of which connected.

Sam recoiled, as did Redsky and Hannibal, and Hunter dove to the floor, behind a couch, obeying the movie-induced perception that sheltering furniture would protect her from a 900 MPH bullet.

“Are you insane?”
Redsky howled.

Serhad looked at her with a leaden expression. 

He returned the gun to its holster, reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, extracted and lit a cigarette. Each movement was unhurried and deliberate.

“Clayton!”
Redsky shouted.
“Do something!”

Hannibal stared at his servant with a dumbfounded expression. He truly didn’t believe what he was seeing.

Serhad re-pocketed the cigarettes and lighter, removed his gun from its holster in a measured fashion, letting the weapon hang loosely at his side. Then, wordlessly, he walked out the front door.

Hannibal transitioned from shock to rage.

“Serhad! Stop! This is madness! Stop at once! Do you hear me? Serhad!”

Redsky followed, speaking rapidly, empathically, imploring Hannibal to control him.

Rowland called out loudly.

“Drop your weapon!”

Serhad yelled back.

“Go home, Rowland! This is none of your business! Go home!”

In those fast seconds, Sam retrieved the AKM and assumed a firing stance in the shadow of the doorway, a partial cover provided by the leading edge of the living room wall. 

The landing, the hallway, and the living room were bathed in the contrasts of black night, blinding white searchlight, spinning primary colors, and the deep red of the door.

Hannibal and Redsky were yelling, animated, speaking rapidly and over each other.

Serhad said nothing; he fixed his eyes on Rowland’s cruiser.

Rowland called out again.

“I repeat, drop the weapon!”

Serhad smoked. He was matter-of-fact.

“Go home or I’ll kill your whore!”

Sam aimed at the back of his head. 

Redsky, her hands in surrender, stepped in front of Serhad.

“Mark! It’s Lauren! Don’t shoot!”

Rowland’s voice boomed with anger.

“Tell him to put the weapon down!”

Serhad gestured to Rowland with his right, middle finger.

Hannibal extended his right hand, palm up, plainly demanding the gun.

Lauren, cowering, stepped away from them.

Serhad, shaking his head, dropped his cigarette, stepped on it with his right foot, raised the gun to Hannibal’s chest and fired once, the force of the shot lifting Hannibal off his feet.

Lauren, shrieking, was able to move her left foot, and then her right – short, agile, and futile motions – before Serhad fired once, felling her.

Rowland fired at the gunman.

Serhad answered Rowland with three rapid shots.

The cruiser’s windshield absorbed two bullets and the searchlight took the third.

He popped the empty clip, pulled a second from inside his coat, reloaded, fired twice more, turned, and entered the house, closing one of the double-doors with his right hand. The other half of the double-door stayed open, creating a tunnel of flashing, pulsing light.

Serhad entered the room, his face wearing the same leaden mask he’d used when he murdered Hannibal.

“Drop it,” Sam said, the AKM at waist level. 

The man looked at her oddly.

While the gun in his left hand hung idly, he sent his right hand into his suit coat. He withdrew the hand from his pocket. There was blood on his fingers, his lighter, and his cigarettes.

He looked at her with clouding recognition.

“Susan...”

One of Rowland’s shells had found a home six centimeters from his heart.

The gun fell from his hand, his knees bent, and he toppled sideways, dead.

“Damn you,” Sam whispered. “Damn all of you.”

Then, from the direction of The Old Club, came a series of explosions and a magnificent array of lights, whistles and cracks, a cacophony of rumbling blasts that were heard ten miles away.