Paint It Black (29 page)

Heller shoved the door open.

Louis staggered back. Candy—his gun. He had to get to it. He had no choice but to make a complete circle around the boat and pray Heller didn't know what he was after.

Louis ran to his right, slipping down the walkway, away from Heller.

His arm throbbed, he couldn't see, couldn't hear anything over the roar of the rain. The gun . . . he needed to get around the boat to the other side.

Something hit him hard from above, crashing into his shoulders, crushing him into the deck. Heller had jumped him from the top deck.

Louis jerked up, gasping, pedaling backward, until he was pressed against the cabin wall.

Heller came at him, knife raised.

Nowhere to go. No time even to draw up his feet to push him away.

Heller thrust the knife toward his chest.

No choice! Grab it!

Louis grabbed the blade. It sliced into his palm and he let out a yell, gritting his teeth against the pain. He gripped the blade tighter, fighting to angle it away from him. Heller tried to draw it back, wrench it away, but Louis held tight, blood streaming down his arm.

Heller jerked to his right.

Louis snapped the knife to the left. It broke off in his hand and Louis tossed it over the railing.

For an instant, Heller stood there, his eyes riveted to the broken knife butt.

Now!

Louis hit him in the face. Heller fell sideways, the butt skittering across the deck.

He hit him again, and again, but Heller was unfazed, coming back at him. Heller lunged forward, smashing his fists into Louis's face. Slammed backward, Louis could get no leverage, draw no strength. He started grappling for Heller's throat, anything to restrain him.

Oh, Jesus. Jesus.

Heller was pummeling him with blows to the face and head. Louis rolled to his side, shielding his face, inching away, pounded now by punches to his back.

Fighting him off with his elbows and legs, Louis pulled himself up on the rail. The boat lurched and for just a moment the pounding stopped.

A spool of fishing line was at his feet. Louis grabbed it and spun, swinging it upward. The heavy wooden spool crashed into Heller's head. Heller fell against the cabin wall, then slipped to the deck, blood pouring down his face.

Louis wiped the bloody water from his eyes.

Lights! Flashing blue lights far off in the distance.

Hold on . . . just five more minutes. Hold on!

He staggered toward the back of the boat, holding his bleeding palm. He heard Heller behind him and he knew he would never make it around to Candy. He found the open door and fell inside, struggling to close it. It shut and he stumbled toward the rear of the cabin. He heard the door slam open and looked up to see Heller standing in the opening, the broken knife in his hand.

The flashing blue lights were coming closer, swirling faintly in the cabin now. Heller swept a hand over the table and the battery-powered portable light crashed to the floor.

Louis inched backward, his eyes on Heller. Heller moved slowly forward, his bloody face intent on Louis, his chest heaving, the broken knife in his hand.

Back . . . back. There was no way out. Back . . . back. Blue lights swirling. And white now, the searchlight from the coast guard boat.

His heel hit something and he fell, catching himself against a bench as he hit the floor.

The bang stick.

He snatched it up, thrusting it out lengthwise across his chest to ward off the knife butt's blows. He could hear Wainwright's voice calling to him on the radio from across the room.

Heller inched forward. White light swept the room. Louis pressed back, squinting in the light, blinded each time it moved over the room. Each time he saw Heller's bulky form above him, coming closer.

God . . . they weren't going to make it in time!

Then he saw it. There in the beam thrown out by the portable light, he saw the shell.

He grabbed it and pulled the open tip of the bang stick to him. He tried to jam the shell inside, but his fingers were stiff with blood. His hand was shaking, his eyes darting from the shell to Heller.

Damn it! Damn it!

The shell dropped in and he swung it around, pointing it at Heller.

Heller stopped, the knife butt in the air. Louis could hear him panting.

The white lights swept over them again.

Louis got up slowly, using the wall for support, keeping the bang stick aimed at Heller's chest.

Heller took two more steps closer, drawing deep, raspy breaths.

Jesus Christ! He wasn't going to stop
.

Louis drew in the stick as far he could. Heller finally stopped. He looked down at the end of the stick, only inches from his heart, then back at Louis.

Louis stared at him, holding the bang stick with trembling arms.

Suddenly, it was clear. He had been right. Heller wanted to die. He had been trying to kill himself all along, trying to erase himself, and now he wanted Louis to do it for him.

Heller moved, leaning into the stick.

Louis jerked the bang stick downward and it exploded into Heller's thigh.

Heller went down with a groan, disappearing between the benches. Louis fell back against the steel wall, slumping to the floor, sucking in air. Heller lifted his head.

Stay down! Stay down, you bastard!

Heller grabbed his ankle, and Louis jerked away, bringing the bang stick down on Heller's shoulders. He kept coming, clawing at Louis's legs, unfazed by the pounding of the rod. Heller was on him, swinging blindly, spewing blood.

Louis twisted sharply, and Heller rolled to his side, his shoulders caught for just a second under the bench. Louis yanked him back by his collar, then brought the bang stick across the front of his throat. He pulled back with every ounce of strength he had left.

Heller started gagging, his fingers curling around the stick. Louis jerked again. Heller writhed against him.

The white lights swept over the walls. The metal bar was thick with blood from his hands. He could hear sirens and voices.

Suddenly, Heller dropped his hands. His body went limp. “Finish it,” he gasped.

Louis froze.

Heller's face snapped toward his. “Finish it!”

You son of a bitch! I'm not going to do it for you!

Louis shoved him away, slamming his head into a bench post. He grabbed Heller's hair and slammed it again.

Heller went limp.

Louis struggled to his feet, panting. He saw a reel and stumbled to it, bringing it back to Heller. He jerked the line loose and wrapped it around Heller's wrists and arms, pushing it through the legs of the bench and back again. Then yanked it tight, wedging the pole between the bench and the wall.

The lights sprayed the cabin in white.

He pulled himself to his feet, reeling toward the door.

The coast guard boat was abreast the starboard side of the
Miss Monica
now. Somebody was yelling over a megaphone, somebody was calling his name. Louis ignored the voice and staggered around to the port-side gangway.

He made his way to where Candy lay, dropping next to him on the deck. He rolled him over. Candy's eyes were closed. His face looked like wet clay.

Louis pressed a finger to his neck. He felt a weak pulse.

He ripped open Candy's raincoat. Blood was running from his belly down the deck. Louis pressed a hand to the wound, pulling Candy to him, using his body to shield him from the rain.

Oh God, no . . . please. Not again.

The white lights swept over them again.

Someone draped a blanket around his shoulders. He didn't look up. He kept his eyes on the distant wharf. He could see it now, make it out through the rain. He could see the muted colors of the boats, the gray of the restaurant. He could see the blue bubble lights.

They were waiting for him.

The engines of the coast guard boat vibrated with power under his feet. He heard the door of the cabin slide open and footsteps come near.

“We're almost back.”

Louis nodded.

“Your friend, the other officer . . . what's his name?”

“Candy,” Louis said. “Greg Candy.”

He could see yellow raincoats swarming the docks now. He got up slowly, wincing in pain, holding the blanket around him as best he could with his bandaged hands. Slowly, he went over to the stretcher.

Candy's eyes were closed, his face ashen. Louis watched for the rise and fall of his chest but saw nothing beneath the dark blue wool blanket.

“He's lost a lot of blood,” a voice behind him said.

Louis turned to look at the young coast guard officer. “Is he going to make it?”

“We're doing what we can. We're almost back.”

Hang in there, Candy....

His eyes drifted to the other stretcher where Tyrone Heller lay strapped in. He was moaning, muttering something incoherent.

Like fragments from a dream, the details started swirling back to Louis in that moment. The heaviness of Heller's body, the fury of his fists, the feel of the blade as it cut through his palm.

His stomach begin to churn.

The cold wet metal of the bang stick in his hand. The trembling in his arms as he held it against Heller's throat.

Die, you fucker! Die!

No . . . no. I'm not going to help you commit suicide.

The agonizing relief when Heller's head crashed into the floor and he went limp.

Louis moved slowly away, going to stand at the window. They were at the dock. Men were throwing lines. Voices were barking out commands. The sounds of boots on the metal deck outside. The door opened again and four paramedics came in, followed by two cops. The cops wore heavy slickers and Louis couldn't make out where they were from. They swarmed the stretchers, the paramedics picking up Candy and carefully carrying him out. The cops pushed by the other two paramedics, cuffing Heller to the gurney. Louis watched as they moved as a group to the ambulances waiting out in the lot.

The young coast guard officer was standing there holding out a raincoat.

“Paramedics are standing by for you, Officer Kincaid,” he said.

Louis nodded woodenly and allowed the man to drape the raincoat over his shoulders.

The first person he saw was Wainwright, hovering over Candy until they closed the doors on the ambulance. Then Wainwright's eyes swiveled back to the boat. He moved forward, waiting at the end of the dock for Louis. Emily was a small figure in bright green behind him. He went to them.

“Jesus,” Wainwright said, his expression going slack.

Emily's eyes filled with tears as she stared at his face.

“I'm okay,” Louis mumbled.

Wainwright took his arm and led him toward the ambulance. The paramedics hurried to get the stretcher out, but Louis waved them off and they opened the door for him.

An officer in a Fort Myers raincoat came rushing up. “Chief, the coast guard says they found a body onboard the
Miss Monica.”

“Who is it?” Wainwright asked.

“They don't know. It was down in the hold, wrapped in a blanket. Looks like it had been there for a while. The face has black paint all over it, but it looks to be a white male, about sixty.”

Louis shut his eyes briefly, then looked at the officer. “Tell them to look at his left hand,” he said slowly. “Ask them if there's a finger missing.”

The cop stared at Louis for a moment, then keyed his radio. A moment later, he heard the reply come back.

“That's affirmative. Left pinkie missing.”

“It's Lynch,” he said softly.

Emily turned away. Louis closed his eyes.

He heard a siren and opened his eyes in time to see a Lee County sheriff's car swing into the lot. Mobley climbed out and hurried toward Heller as they were lifting him into the ambulance.

Wainwright watched him. “He's too late again,” he said. “My guys have him in custody. It's our collar.”

Louis nodded, grabbing the edge of the door to climb into the ambulance. Another siren made them turn.

Candy's ambulance was moving. Louis watched it until it pulled from the lot.

“He'll make it, Louis,” Wainwright said. “You get in there and I'll see you at the hospital. I've got to go ride with Heller.”

Louis nodded.

“I'll go with Louis,” Emily said quickly.

“Good,” Wainwright said.

The paramedics helped Louis into the ambulance. He didn't protest as they strapped him into the stretcher and started an IV. The doors closed, the sirens wailed.

Emily sat hunched across from him, her wet hair plastered to her head, her eyes locked on him. She took off her glasses to try to wipe them dry. He saw the tears in her eyes.

“Farentino, I'm going to be all right,” he said softly. “It's over.”

“I feel like this is my fault,” she said.

He saw the guilt etched in her face. He knew it would be a while before it would fade.

Louis woke to the smell of strong coffee. He grimaced as he sat up, and looked down at his hand.

The tips of his fingers protruded from a thick bandage. His palm still throbbed. His forearm was bandaged in thick gauze. He hurt everywhere.

He slid his legs gingerly over the side of the bed and looked at the clock on the nightstand. Four-fifteen. Jesus, he had slept almost all day.

He used the bedpost to stand. Issy was curled in the covers at the foot of the bed. Someone had left an old plaid robe on the bedpost. He slipped it on and shuffled to the kitchen.

Dodie jumped up from his chair. “Here, lemme help you, Louis.”

He put a hand on Louis's arm, pulling out a chair. Louis sat, letting out a sigh that rippled through his bruised muscles.

“Coffee?”

Louis nodded. He pulled the newspaper over to him.

Heller was being arraigned today. He saw his own picture on the bottom of the page. He pushed the newspaper away as Dodie came back with the coffee. Margaret was on his heels.

“You shouldn't be up,” she said.

“I've slept for two days,” Louis said. The pain in his jaw began to pound again. He sipped at the coffee, but it burned the cuts on his lips.

“You hungry? I can fix you something,” Margaret said.

Louis shook his head. He wasn't sure he could chew.

“Scrambled eggs,” Margaret said. “Soft scrambled eggs.”

She disappeared.

Louis's eyes flicked to Dodie sitting across the table. He was staring at him.

“I'm okay, Sam.”

“Just checking.”

The smell of eggs filled the kitchen. It made Louis's stomach churn.

“Oh, Louis,” Margaret said, “Emily Farentino called. She came over yesterday but you were asleep. She has to leave today and she wants to say good-bye. She said you could reach her at Dan's office till five tonight.”

“Thanks, Margaret.”

Dodie was staring at him again. “You decide yet what you're going to do?” he asked. “I mean, after you heal up and all.”

“I don't know. Go home for a while, I guess.”

“Why? You can't work there.”

Louis tried another sip of coffee. “I have applications out, Chicago PD, Cleveland. I'll find something.”

Dodie stirred his coffee.

“Besides, my car's up there,” Louis said.

“Go get it.”

Louis sighed.

Margaret returned with the eggs. She started to tuck a napkin into Louis's pajama top, and he let her, too tired to argue. He started to eat slowly.

“You could find work here, Louis,” Dodie said.

“Sam's right,” Margaret added quickly.

He looked up at them. “I'm not a PI.” He looked away, shaking his head. “It wouldn't work.”

“Well, what about Dan?” Dodie pressed.

Louis shook his head again.

“Dan could find something for you, Louis. Lord knows he could use a good man and—”

Margaret put a hand on Dodie's arm. “Sam, you've been chewing on his ear for two days now about this. Let the man be.”

Dodie sat back in his chair. Margaret moved back to the stove.

Louis felt something rub his leg. He looked down to see Issy. The cat looked up at him, then trotted off toward the laundry room. Louis glanced up at the wall clock. It was after four-thirty.

He took another bite of eggs, then slowly rose.

“Where you going?” Dodie asked.

“To say good-bye to Farentino.”

Emily was sitting in the chair facing Wainwright when Louis came in. They were laughing. Wainwright sobered when he saw Louis at the door. Emily turned.

“You still look like shit,” she said.

“You should see me from this side,” Louis said. “What were you two laughing about?”

“Mobley,” Wainwright said. “He's still pissed he didn't get the collar.”

“He'll live,” Louis said. He eased into a chair and looked over at Emily. The briefcase was sitting next to her chair. She saw him looking at it.

She shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe I'll write my memoirs someday,” she said.

He studied her face. She looked like she hadn't slept well. Or maybe like she wouldn't ever truly sleep well again. He didn't know what to say. He didn't want her to leave, but he didn't know what to say that could keep her here any longer. She hadn't been a partner, at least not in the real sense. But he knew he was going to miss her. He'd miss her energy and dedication, the way her mind worked. He smiled slightly. Shit, he was even going to miss her balls.

She was looking at him. “Well, I've got a long drive ahead,” she said. She hesitated, then held out her hand to Wainwright.

“Thanks, Chief,” she said. “It's been . . . an education.”

Wainwright stood up and took her hand. “For both of us.”

She turned to Louis and extended her hand. “Hey, Kincaid.”

He held up his bandaged hand. She smiled and shook his thumb.

“Hey, Farentino,” he said.

“Drive careful,” Wainwright said.

She picked up her green rain slicker and started to the door.

“Farentino,” Louis said.

She turned.

“Got time to go get some coffee or something?”

She smiled. “Sorry. Got a date with Vinny. Later, guys.”

She left.

Louis turned to look at Wainwright. “Vinny?” he asked.

“Vince. The ME,” Wainwright said.

Louis shook his head, smiling.

“I went to see Candy this morning,” Wainwright said. “He was asking about you.”

“I feel bad I haven't been over to see him yet,” Louis said.

“Don't be. He wasn't really up for visitors until today.” Wainwright paused. “He's going to be all right, by the way. The knife missed everything important.”

“Thank God.”

“He said he can't wait to come back to work,” Wainwright said. “Said something weird, too. Said he was rethinking the Miami thing. You know what he meant?”

Louis nodded, smiling slightly.

His eyes wandered over the office, falling finally on the bulletin board. It was empty. His gaze came to the framed photograph of Wainwright's two kids. He looked up to see Wainwright looking at him.

“You feeling any better?” Wainwright asked.

Louis shrugged. “How about you?” he asked.

Wainwright nodded slowly. “Better.”

It was quiet except for the rain on the window and voices filtering in from the outer office.

“I found out something interesting today,” Wainwright said. “It's about the Broward cases. I found out why there was a gap between the first New Jersey killing and the two near Fort Lauderdale. After the Jersey fishing season was over, the
Miss Monica
headed south and put in at Fort Lauderdale for repairs. They were there for a month.”

“Enough time for Heller to kill twice,” Louis said.

“And then the boat came here for the winter,” Wainwright said.

They were quiet again for a moment.

“They're saying Heller's mentally incompetent, that he won't get the death penalty,” Louis said.

“I know,” Wainwright said. “I still think he should fry.” He leaned back in his chair.

Wainwright let a moment or two pass. “Why didn't you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Kill him.”

Louis held Wainwright's gaze, then looked away. He had asked himself the same question in the last two days. He couldn't come up with an answer. He couldn't come up with an answer either about why he felt nothing but ambivalence when he thought of Tyrone Heller being locked up for life rather than dying in the chair.

He looked back at Wainwright. “That day you had Skeen cornered in the bathroom,” he said. “You said you killed him. Why?”

“I told you,” Wainwright said softly, his eyes unwavering. “I had to.”

Louis nodded slowly. It fell silent again. Voices drifted in from the outer office. There was a knock.

“Yeah?” Wainwright called out.

Myrna poked her head in the door. “Chief? This just came for Louis.” She handed Louis a paper and left.

Louis unfolded the paper and read it. “Goddamn it,” he said softly.

“What?”

“Mobley,” Louis said. “It's a summons. He's busting me for not having a goddamn PI license.”

He crumpled it and threw it across the room.

“Don't sweat it,” Wainwright said. “It's just a small fine.”

The room was quiet again. Louis knew it was time to say his good-byes and get out, but he didn't want to leave.

“So, what will you do now, Louis?” Wainwright asked finally.

“I don't know.”

“I'd offer you something, but—”

“It's okay, Dan.”

Louis's gaze drifted to the window.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Wainwright said. “Roberta Tatum called this morning. Wanted me to give you a message.”

“What?” Louis asked.

“She said, ‘Tell the cookie to come get his money.' ”

Louis stared at Wainwright.

“It's twenty grand, Louis. You earned it.”

Louis didn't answer. He rose slowly and held out his hand.

“Thanks, Dan,” he said. “For everything.”

Wainwright rose, hesitated, then came around the desk. He gave Louis a quick but gentle clasp around the shoulders.

“Thanks for all your help,” Wainwright said. “Keep in touch. Let me know when you get settled somewhere or if you ever come back to Sereno.”

Louis nodded quickly and went to the door, closing it softly behind him.

 

 

The rain was finally letting up as Louis stopped to pay the toll. He went across the causeway and headed slowly down the tree-tunneled road through Sanibel. He crossed the low-slung bridge over Blind Man's Pass onto Captiva Island.

By the time the road took a bend toward the water, the rain had stopped. He glanced to his left as he drove, watching the orange smudge of sun creep toward the gray-green water.

At the tiny town center, he pulled up in front of the Island Deli and Liquor and went in. A bell tinkled over his head as he closed the door.

The store's narrow aisles were crammed with boxes. More boxes were stacked along the back in front of the coolers of wine and beer. To his right there was a shelf crowded with cheap ceramic birds, dolphins, and assorted shells. Colorful beach towels, embroidered with the words
Captiva Island
, hung along a wall.

Roberta was behind the counter ringing up a loaf of bread and a six-pack of Bud for a man in a flowered shirt. She glanced at Louis as she took the man's money. The man gathered up his bag and moved past Louis, out the door. The bell tinkled again.

There was no anger in Roberta's eyes as she looked at him across the counter. Fatigue maybe. Or relief. But the anger was gone.

“Evening,” he said.

She came around the counter. “I see you got my message.”

Louis nodded.

Roberta hollered toward the back. “Levon!”

Levon came around a corner. “Yeah?”

“Levon, you remember Mr. Kincaid, don't you?”

Levon came forward slowly, an apron around his waist, a price-punch in his hand. His eyes settled on Louis's bruised face. “Did I do that to you?”

Louis shook his head. “No.”

Levon sighed. “Good.”

Roberta tapped him on the arm. “Tell the man.”

“I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I got my meds back now.”

Louis nodded slightly. “I hope not.”

Roberta turned toward the cash register. “Watch the front, Levon. I'll be right back.”

Roberta motioned for Louis to follow her to the back. She led him to an office that was so small he could barely get the door closed behind him.

“Sorry for the mess. Today's delivery day.” She sat down at a desk and opened her checkbook.

“You look like shit,” she said, writing. “You doing okay?”

“I'll be fine,” he said.

She scribbled her name with elaborate curves and ripped the check from the book, holding it out to him.

“There you go.”

He looked down at it. All the way over here he had thought about what he would do with the money. He had told himself it was his, fair and square. But now it wasn't that easy. He lifted his gaze to her face and let out a small sigh.

She heard it and narrowed her eyes. “Take it.”

Louis hesitated. “Mrs. Tatum . . .”

She stood and slapped it in his hand. “Don't be stupid. Somebody offers you money, you take it.”

He fingered it, then met her eyes. “It just doesn't seem right to take money from you when you've lost . . . your husband.”

Roberta put her hands on her hips. “You had nothing to do with me losing Walter. But you have a whole lot to do with how I get past it. Put the damn money in your pocket.”

She reached for the door, then looked at him. “I can afford it. Does that make you feel better?”