Off the Chart (31 page)

When he was done, the Chinese guys talked among themselves for a few seconds, then the whole bunch of them snickered. Looking at Vic and tittering like twelve-year-olds. Like Vic had just told a long and idiotic joke. Like they'd never heard of Drake or Sir Henry Morgan or William Dampier. Doing what they were doing without any
historical perspective, without a sense of the tradition or dignity of their profession. Bunch of savages.

Vic waved his hand like he was washing away a bad smell.

“Marty, talk to these friends of yours. They're starting to piss me off.”

“They're not my friends, Vic. I talk to them on the phone is all.”

“You must've been talking to their goddamn translator then, 'cause we don't seem to be getting through to these guys.”

“They got more English than they're letting on, Vic.”

“Ask 'em why they came all this way if they don't want to deal.”

“You ask them. It's your goddamn party.”

Vic turned back to them again. Toughest audience he'd ever had. He looked around the big dining room, gathering himself. Eyes falling on a small brown thing up high in the far corner. He stepped that way, peered up. Thing was hugging the wood, some kind of brown furry creature.

“It's a bat, Vic. They're all over the place.” Marty pointed around the room. And Vic saw them, counted a dozen, and stopped.

“Jesus Christ.”

“It's the jungle, man. That's the way it is.”

Vic had just been looking at the Chinese guys and hadn't been tuned in to anything else, but now as he glanced around he noticed on the front windowsill the long green shape of an iguana. Sunning itself there. Big saw-toothed hump running down its back. Eyes closed, dreaming of fruit. Twice as big as any he'd seen before in the Keys. Last time he'd been here to drop the girl off, seal up her cabin, and split. He'd taken only the quickest look and liked the lay of the land.

“Fucking place is infested,” Vic said.

“They live here,” Marty said. “We're just passing through.”

Vic looked back at the Chinese men. Six eyes staring at him uneasily like they thought Vic was about to crack. He cleared his throat, rubbed his hands together, got back to it.

“All right, gentlemen. So come on, what's the fucking point here? If you don't want to join forces, why come all this way? You writing this off on your taxes? A little expense-paid holiday?”

One of the Chinamen chattered something back at Vic.

“They want the code,” Ramon Bella said. “That's why we're here, to get the code.”

“You understand that gobbledygook, Ramon?”

Ramon made no gesture, just looked deep into Vic's eyes. Bella's fatigues were scruffier than Vic's and Marty's. Hard-used. Just one more reason that Vic now felt the sudden sting of silliness, like he'd overdressed, overprepared, overdone the whole goddamn gathering, like he was an impostor, a clown, a boy among men. And these guys were the real thing. No bullshit slingers, just ruthless brutes full of contempt for this gaudy American.

The same sensation had come in waves all his fucking life. From the Harlan playground right on till today. Kids mocking him, making fun of his gift of gab, his talk talk talk. And Vic fighting back the only way he knew, with more words and more. Heaping them on, talking till his antagonists were dizzy and exhausted and walked away. Later on he beat back the sensation by listing to himself all his successes. The zeros on his bank account. The yachts he'd taken, the lives he'd snuffed. He didn't need to impress a bunch of Chinese fucks. Who the hell were those little twits? Paint some whiskers on their upper lips, they'd look like mole rats.

Then why the hell was he feeling that rube-from-the-hills thing? That squirmy, holding-back-a-fart feeling that he was being ridiculed, playing the fool. Heat flushing his cheeks. That queasy sense that everything in Vic Joy's world was founded on a lie, teetering near collapse. Why the hell was that, when all the facts said otherwise?

“You want the code, do you?”

The Chinaman in the jumpsuit said, “We don't need history lesson. We know plenty of history already. What we need is the code.”

“So you'll get the code. But you'll damn well pay for it.”

“Of course,” the Chinaman said. “We prepare for that.”

Ramon Bella rose and sighed with exasperation.

“I've set up my laptop, Vic, over here on the big table. Satellite relay. We need a demonstration, then we negotiate the numbers.”

“And then what? Go our separate ways?” Vic said. “Miss this golden opportunity to merge our skills, blend our organizations?”

“We're independents, Vic. None of us are looking for a leader. We
are
leaders.”

“Apparently there was a misunderstanding then.” Vic swung around and stared at Marty. “Or was there?”

Marty gave him back the look.

“You pulling a Salbone on me, Marty? That what it is? Somebody make you a better offer?”

“Fuck, no. They wanted the code, you wanted a meeting. I made both things happen.”

“You sure, Marty? You positive about that?”

“I may have fudged a little about them wanting to work with you. But that's all. I didn't think you'd mind. That's how you operate, right? A little exaggeration now and then. It's a simple deal. You give them the code, make some money, everybody's happy. What do you care? They're over on one side of the world doing their thing, we're over here doing ours.”

Vic rubbed the bristles on his cheek and looked at the gathered men, then back at Marty.

“It's okay when I fudge, Marty. But you don't get the same privileges.”

Ramon walked over to the head table and fiddled with his laptop.

“Okay,” said Ramon. “We will see it before we buy it. And I pray that no one has exaggerated what this process can do. We have all put ourselves in an awkward position by coming here, Vic, and I know I speak for my friends when I say that if this is some kind of hoax, we're going to be gravely disappointed.”

“Go get Anne, Marty.”

“Anne?” Ramon asked.

“My sister. She's the expert in the code.”

“You don't know how to operate it yourself, Vic?”

“Anne's the expert.”

Ramon gave the Chinamen a darting look.

“All right then,” he said. “Someone should go get Anne. The expert.”

Vic was about to say something more, give him assurances, soothe the guy, when he saw the bright green lump on the floor in front of him. A frog looking up at him with red bulging eyes. A frog had hopped out of nowhere during Vic's speech. A goddamn frog mocking him, too.

“Am I seeing things, Marty? Does that fucking frog have red eyes?”

“It's a frog, man. What's wrong with you?”

“I know it's a frog. But look at it. Jesus Christ, you didn't tell me there were all these fucking outer space things here.”

Ramon cleared his throat.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Vic motioned at Marty. “Go get Anne. Time for the demonstration. On your way back point out Thorn. Let her know what's at stake here.”

As Marty was turning to leave, outside on the plaza a woman shrieked and a man barked an order and another man laughed raucously. Vic leaned to the side and peered out a window. Thorn was still swaying in his gibbet cage, but the pack of idiots was no longer tossing rocks at him. They'd moved several yards away and had circled something he couldn't see. Vic walked out to the porch for a better view.

“Marty! Get out here.”

Messina trotted to the porch.

“Some of those coolie dumbshits pulled the boards down and carried that little girl out of her cabin and now they're messing with her. Go get Annie and hurry up. We got to get this done before it all turns to shit.”

“What about the kid?”

“Kid's irrelevant. Thorn'll sign whatever I put in front of him. I'll fucking cut off little pieces of him till he signs. We don't need the girl.”

“Just going to let those wolves have her?”

“Do what I said, go get Anne. She shows these guys the code, we get our money and we get the hell out of this stinking jungle.”

“You wanted a pirate hideaway, Vic. I thought you liked this place.”

“Too creepy for me, man, way too many weird creatures.”

Kirk Graham had been staring at the fuel gauge for the last hour. Glancing now and then at the rest of his instruments, keeping them on course, but mainly watching that needle fall. When they sighted the first dark silhouette of land, he seemed to start breathing again.

“It's a miracle we made it.”

“We haven't yet,” Sugarman said.

Alexandra leaned forward from the first row.

“Hey, whose plane is this anyway?”

“Guy I play tennis with,” Kirk said. “Judge Carney, Seventeenth Circuit. Has a weekend place down in Tavernier.”

“Oh, great,” Sugar said. “A judge.”

“It's all right,” Kirk said. “Bobby's cool. Did some crazy stuff himself back in the bad old days. If we make up a good-enough story, embellish it a little, he'll love that he was part of something colorful.”

“Embellish it?” Alex said. “Let's hope we have to.”

Lawton shouted from the last row.

“You heard this one?”

“What, Dad?”

“‘A good explanation never explains anything.'”

“That's good,” Sugarman said. “Keep that one in the routine, Lawton.”

Kirk skimmed north along the coastline, jungle, jungle, and more jungle. No clearings. No sign of civilization of any kind. Some rivers, estuaries, lagoons. But Sugarman saw nothing resembling the Gray Ghost Lodge.

“You sure about the coordinates, Kirk?”

“We're close. You said you didn't want me to fly right into the place.”

“Right,” Sugar said. “Yeah, that's good.”

“Another mile or two, if the gas holds out. I'll put it down just short and you can use the inflatable.”

“Keep Lawton amused, would you? While we're gone.”

Sugarman turned and looked back at the old man and Alexandra sitting quietly in the rear. The puppy was curled up asleep in the aisle.

“And how do I do that, keep him amused?”

“Ask him about Ohio, where he grew up. He loves to talk about that.”

Kirk swallowed and looked back at Sugarman.

“I was a fighter pilot in Nam,” he said. “Went through basic, fired an M-16 on the range like everybody else, but I never was much of a shot. I flinch.”

“It's okay, Kirk. We can handle this. You stay with the plane. Wait for us. If someone doesn't get back to you in a couple of hours, then you make your decision. Fly inland, fuel up, go home. We'll understand. This isn't your fight.”

Kirk kept them skimming low, a mile offshore, the jungle still solid.

“You got the right coordinates?”

“I
can
read a map, Sugar. It's up ahead. Right around that point, look.”

And yes, he saw the clearing in the distance. Not much. Might've missed it if he'd blinked. A thumbprint carved out of the dense green
landscape. Small cabins, a tiny marina. Three good-sized yachts anchored offshore.

A good distance short of the camp, Kirk swung the plane out to sea.

“I'll put it down back near that cove. It's maybe half a mile, south. That be all right?”

“I owe you, Kirk. I owe you a big one.”

“We got here,” he said. “But I don't know if we have fuel to go anywhere else.”

“We'll be okay,” Sugar said. “Don't worry. I got a good feeling about this.”

 

All those years Anne had kept herself shut down. Stopped the feelings. Now here they came. A volcanic spew. Like she was going insane. Or no, maybe what it was, she'd always been crazy, driven that way by her childhood, her tainted blood, by the killings she'd carried out as a kid. Always been crazy, from the very start, and now she was going sane.

Yeah, yeah, that's what was happening to her, going sane. Seeing everything clearly for the first time, everything with a bright, stenciled outline. A sharp focus. The world as it was. The world made simple and clear.

They wanted the code. Whether she gave it to them or not, Vic would go on being Vic. And the world would muddle ahead being the world. It didn't matter if she did or didn't. None of it mattered. But as she considered the code itself, the idea hit her. Another lava flow of thoughts, another revelation. All those ones and zeros, that binary stuff. Computers were built on that. Everything was built on that. The whole world could be captured that way; photographs, music, every sense could be caught. If not now, then eventually, just a matter of time before they found a way. Everything was binary. One, zero. Plus, minus. On, off. It was the code, the way it was written. The way her own brain worked. The way her synapses received and passed on data, opening and shutting, yes no yes no. Her heart, too. Pump, relax. Pump, relax. The slow drumbeat. The Morse code of reality.

She'd been off and now she was on. She'd been cold and now she was hot. She'd been dead, now she was alive. Black white. Up down. Yes no. Everything held together by that simple truth, the positive and the negative charge binding into one unit. The yin and yang, the glue of the world. North meant nothing without south. East needed west. Everything was that. She'd been bad, and now she was good. She'd been dead, now she was alive.

Out her window she saw Marty crossing the plaza. Love and hate. There was another one. You couldn't know one unless you knew the other. Hills and valleys. Heaven and earth. Good and evil. It was the universal glue. Push, pull. Watching Marty march toward her cabin. Marty Messina, whom Daniel had trusted. Marty, who had taken over all those contacts Daniel had established from years of careful grooming. And in no time Marty had appropriated them, made them his own. And on one of those phone calls that he was always making, he had spoken secretly to Vic Joy. Offered him a deal. Angry at playing second fiddle to Anne. Wanting a bigger slice. He'd told Vic about the
Rainmaker,
times, dates, locations. And that night aboard the ship when they'd been ambushed, Anne had seen Daniel die. Not believing it at the time, creating an illusionary memory instead, that Daniel had rolled out of range and escaped. Holding to that version, over the weeks that followed she'd given it the heft and solidity of fact. But he was dead. She'd seen him die. In the shadows. Her own brother striking down the only man she'd ever loved.

Daniel and Marty were Jesus and Judas. You needed both. No heaven without hell. No grace without sin. Hot cold, life death, good evil, mind heart, truth lies. All of it just an endless balancing of opposites.

Anne Bonny Joy had never let herself think and now she was thinking. She'd never let herself loose and now she was flying. Seeing how it worked. A universal plan. So simple. Plus and minus. Stimulus, response. The gun in her hand, the bullet in the gun. Even a bullet had its opposite. But as Marty came onto the porch, she couldn't think what it was. Bullet and what?

He stepped into the room and looked at her standing by the front window. He hadn't seen the gun, wasn't afraid. He was talking to her.
Telling her it was time to perform. Time to show the others what she could do.

Bullet and what? Bullet and what?

 

Thorn's right hand was loose and he was hard at work peeling open the metal joints. Working on the first band across his face, very first one, he sliced his thumb good and deep. But going on. Stripping it back, popping the joint loose. That band and the one below it and the one around his throat. His head was loose now. Stretching it out of the open face of the helmet, flexing his neck.

While the men and a few women whooped and heckled Janey Sugarman. Reaching out to touch her blond hair, to pinch and poke her snowy flesh, stroke her rumpled party dress. One man tore the binoculars from her grip and pressed them to his eyes and another man ripped them away from him. A scuffle broke out between them. The attention on Janey shifted to the two men who were swatting at each other. The dark clouds massing over the jungle trees sent out a freshening breeze ahead of them.

Working loose a band across his chest, Thorn sliced the other thumb, and blood ran down both wrists, making the work slippery and nearly impossible till he wiped the stickiness onto his belly, then dug his fingernail under the next seam and pried it apart. Two bands across his chest, another across his belly.

Popping open the junction at his navel sent him jolting down, driving all his weight against his feet. He pitched forward, had to struggle a moment to right himself.

The bands around his hips and legs remained, and he had to free the chains that held the contraption to the tree branch. The chains were locked to the thigh bands by stainless-steel fasteners. Sailor's clips. Those Thorn would save for last. Simple enough to open, but hanging in his position, they might be the most difficult trick of all.

Thirty feet away one fighter wrestled the other to the ground and found a headlock and butted the man's skull into a rock, which won an ovation from the crowd. Janey looked up at Thorn and watched him scrabbling at the band around his hips. A stronger joint than any
of the others. It took both bloody thumbs to work it loose and then he was hanging precariously by just the chains that went from the branch to an outer clip on the bands around each thigh. As if he were balanced on a swing set, only instead of the flat wooden seat holding him up, the chains of the swing were hooked to the tops of a pair of hip boots. Clumsy and off-kilter.

Thorn scanned the ground below him. Rocks and patches of weeds. Nowhere particularly inviting to land. The fine mist was turning into a shower.

It was impossible to predict what would happen when he worked one of the clips open. Wrenched to one side? Spun upside down?

No time to figure it out. He rocked himself from side to side and got some slack in the right chain and unsnapped the clip and it came away. And he lurched hard to the right, tore free, and was dumped straight down into the rocky soil, where he smacked hard on his right shoulder. Lost his breath but kept his eyes open this time.

The rain was heavier now, but the fighters were still thrashing about, though some of the audience had begun to drift toward the shelters. Janey was headed his way. Behind her one of the Latin men who'd been standing at the back of the crowd was gliding around the edge of the wrestling match, drawing a pistol from the shoulder holster he wore outside his shirt.

Thorn peeled the last few bands off his legs and pushed himself to his hands and knees and tried to stand, but his legs were weak as a newborn's and they buckled and he came back down to a crouch. They'd left him in his fishing shorts, bloody and sagging now with the weight of rain. He was on his knees, working one leg up to make another attempt at standing. Janey was a few yards away, calling his name, hurrying through the downpour.

When the gun blast sounded from a distant cabin, the slender Latino halted and spun around. The fighters continued to scuffle, but the crowd went silent as they watched Marty Messina appear on the porch of the cabin at the end of the row. With delicate steps he came down into the rain, smiling at the assembly, picking his way carefully around the puddles and the piles of trash like a drunk coming home late, determined not to cause a stir.

He ambled down the slope and the crowd parted for him, and Marty continued his stroll, that smile coming into better view as Thorn rose from his crouch. Not a smile at all, but a grim contortion. Gritting his teeth like a man shouldering an impossible burden while he marched mechanically toward the water's edge.

“Marty?” Thorn said as he passed close.

But Messina didn't register the sound and continued to advance toward the lagoon. As he approached, Thorn missed the entry wound, probably because it was hidden by the thick dark hair, but as Marty moved by, he saw the ragged breach behind his left ear, the blood washing across his neck, diluted to pink by the rain.

Janey came alongside Thorn and gripped his hand. Her hair was drenched and hung in matted tangles. The Latino turned and loped off toward one of the buildings, probably to relay these latest events to his boss.

“I thought you were dead,” Janey said. “You were hanging from a tree. I told Daddy you were dead.”

Thorn reached down and picked her up and hugged her and cradled her in his arms. Her wet clothes were sour and her eyes had aged in the days since he'd seen her last.

“Your daddy? Sugar's here?”

“He's coming. He's on the way.”

“I hope he's bringing an army.”

Marty hobbled across the narrow beach, leaving deep prints in the sand, and staggered into the water to his ankles, then his knees. Then halted and tottered for several moments, gazing out at the sea beyond, then he fell forward, splashing onto his face, and seconds later his body rose up to float with hands outspread on the rain-spattered surface like a snorkeler peering down at some colorful spectacle.

“Come on, asshole, you're not going anywhere.” The barrel scraped his ribs. “Go ahead, try something, Kewpie doll, give me reason.”

It was Marshall Marshall with Charlie as backup. In the rain Marshall's crinkly red hair had broken into dozens of lank tendrils. It made his face seem larger and his crone's nose even uglier.

“Can I set the girl down?”

“Go ahead, but do it slow.”

Thorn eased Janey to the ground, took her hand again, then straightened.

“Things are falling apart,” Thorn said. “Sure you want to stay with this, Marshall? Might be a good time for a strategic retreat to the floatplane.”

“Yeah, right. Run off and do what? Tie flies the rest of my fucking life?”

Charlie chuckled.

Janey tightened her grip on Thorn's hand.

“Up that way, to the big building. Come on, cute guy, you got a special part in the show. It's torture time. The left nut first, then the right one.”

Thorn started up the slope, Janey holding firmly.

“What happened to your buddy Marty?”

“Looks like he bought it,” Charlie said. “That or he sure is good at holding his breath.”

They moved past the gang of men. The wrestlers were finished now, bloody but smiling as they shared a bottle of gin. The rest of the pack watched them pass, but no one made a move or spoke a word.