The Last Family (29 page)

Laura slapped his shoulder.

“She is a beauty,” Thorne said, changing the subject.

“She’s been in dry dock getting a new coat of paint, some cabin alterations, new navigation equipment,” Reid said. “Few more years and I’m going to retire, and then maybe I’ll live on her.”

“I hear boats are holes in the water to throw money into,” Thorne said. “My present Hollywood employer has one of those power racing boats—a Cigarette boat. Goes like thunder.”

“Bales and bales,” Reid said, laughing. “But it’s okay to enjoy a sail on someone else’s boat.”

“Appreciate the invitation,” he said. “I’m getting a little stir-crazy watching TV screens all day and half the night.”

“Well, the thought of your sitting on the pier waiting for us to return would have displaced some of the pleasure. Besides, you guys are the best baby-sitters we’ve ever had,” Reid said. “We can sail without a worry in the world.”

“We try,” Thorne said as he sipped the cola Laura had handed him.

Reid was standing at the wheel, the wind pressing his hair against his head, the nylon windbreaker flapping in time with the sail as the boat came around. He looked to Thorne like a model in a Rolex ad.

“You make sailing this monster look easy,” Thorne said.

“It’s the way it’s rigged, so I can sail it alone from the bridge. It’ll literally sail itself on autopilot. Set it once, and it’ll go till it slams into the coast of Scotland.”

“Or right into a ship,” Laura said.

“The autopilot doesn’t have eyes or a brain. It just holds a set compass course.”

“Nice,” Thorne said. “How deep’s the lake?”

“This lake is man-made. About twelve feet deep in most places. Twenty-five miles across, and I’d say about the same wide. You can head out to the river and from there sail to anywhere water touches. This is a safe port unless a hurricane ever comes up the river, pushing water into the lake and into the city. New Orleans is eight to ten feet below sea level.”

“Great,” Thorne said. “Can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Back to the safety of earthquakes, mudslides, and fires?” Laura said, laughing.

“According to statistics New Orleans is the most dangerous city in the country. But it is also the most charming. How’s that for a paradox?” Reid said. “The Pontchartrain Bridge there is the longest on earth.”

Thorne looked up at the twin spans, which seemed to go from the south shore to the end of the earth. The lights from cars streaked along a good forty feet off the water. He had always thought being trapped in a car underwater would be the worst way to die. The way his baby had died.

“You don’t have to worry about how shallow it is? This is a big boat.”

“Boat only draws six feet of water.”

“Ever thought of sailing across the ocean?” Thorne asked.

“In fact, I was thinking of a sail to the Caribbean in a couple of weeks.”

“Be careful down there. There are dangerous people on the seas.”

“I heard there used to be.”

“Still are. Pirates will steal a boat that’s large enough to fill up with drugs, or loot it. Then, after they take everything of value or run their drugs, they scuttle or just abandon it. But they like powerboats these days. Big powerboats.”

“They always kill the occupants?”

“Oh, Reid, that’s horrible,” Laura said.

“It’s reality in some parts of the world,” Thorne said.

Laura said, “It’s so peaceful spending the night with the waves caressing the boat. It’s the most restful way to sleep there is. Like being rocked in your mother’s arms.” She was trying to change the subject.

“Keep an AK-47, M-15, or something. Might want a twelve-gauge too.”

“A shotgun?” Reid asked.

“Perfect if you aren’t much of a shot.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Laura showed them a frown.

“I’m sorry,” Reid said. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about guns. The idea of shooting someone …” He let the thought hang.

“I’m gonna shoot the next person that talks about shooting, guns, or violence of any sort.” Laura looked toward the bow and let the wind push the hair out of her face.

“It’s like old times,” Thorne said.

“Too much like old times,” she said.

“I’d give anything to get ’em back,” Thorne said. “Back to the days before my hair was gray and my belly looked like an Easter egg.”

“Your belly is almost perfectly flat, and you know it.” Laura smiled at Thorne. “And gray is in. Don’t you keep up? Have a beer—or is it still bourbon?” Laura put a hand on his shoulder.

“No. I don’t care for anything.”

“The fridge is full,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”

“You sure have all the comforts,” Thorne said.

“We try,” Reid said. “Sure you don’t want a beer? On duty and all that?” he asked.

“I’d love a beer. But AA frowns on drinking.”

“Married, Thorne?” Reid asked.

Laura looked at Reid in disbelief. “Thorne’s wife was one of Martin’s victims, Reid.”

Reid smiled the slightly bleary smile of someone who had not been paying close attention to the conversation. Thorne decided his mind was on the boat.

Thorne sipped at the cola. He had been through the Alcoholics Anonymous twelve-step program, and the fourth step had required that he take a searching moral inventory of his life. He had done that and because of it had left his younger wife and infant son. He had come to realize that Ellen was truly comfortable with him only when he was drunk, and that was because drunk, he was dependent on her. He had loved her and his son, but had left her for the sake of his own survival. He had left their small son with her because a judge thought it better for the boy than living with an admitted alcoholic, even given Thorne’s year of sobriety. She’d married another addict—a cop who would snort cocaine on duty for a pick-me-up, snort for recreation at home, and probably snort any time he had the opportunity. For a cop the supply side was never a problem.

The couple had moved to Deerfield Beach. When Thorne was told his wife and baby had both died in the canal, he had blamed her, and it occurred to him that the deaths were a perfect excuse to drink again. But in the end the thought of starting over at step one after five years had kept him sober. He kept a sealed half pint of bourbon, which he had bought the day he’d learned of
the tragedy, to remind him how easy it would have been to go back. How easy it would always be.

He started to take Reid through his history, but what was the point?

“What kind of electrical system does the
Shadowfax
have?” Thorne said.

“Twelve volt,” Reid said. “When the generator is running, we have a hundred twenty for the fridge, microwave, central unit, and the lights. When we’re moored, we’re hooked up to the land line and the telephone line.”

“That’d be a big help if you wanted to live aboard, I guess. It must be hell down there in the summer without AC.”

“How is the search going?” Reid asked. “Close to an arrest of this nutcase, Fletcher?”

“This job is segmented. We guard, watch. Others read clues and search high and low.”

“Makes selling CAT scanners seem dull,” Reid said.

“This is dull. I don’t mean now. But usually babysitting is just sitting in a room sipping coffee or sitting in a car trying to stay awake. Normally the stakes are smaller, of course.”

“Maybe things will pick up for you,” Reid said.

“I hope not,” Laura said.

“Maybe Fletcher tucked tail and ran when he discovered he’d have to come through you, Reid,” Thorne said, laughing.

Reid laughed, too.

Thorne helped tie the
Shadowfax
to the pier. After Reid locked the cabin doors, the three walked along to a space where a lone fisherman sat on a locker and watched his red-and-white cork floating between two moored sailboats. The trio slowed and watched him cast for a few seconds.

“Biting?” Thorne asked.

The man looked around at them and smiled, showing a mouth filled with gold caps and one milk-coated eye. He mumbled something incoherent that sounded
like a few words about warm water, gave a generalized wave at the bay, and laughed like an idiot.

“I love fishing,” Reid said.

“See ya,” Thorne said to the fisherman, who grumbled something, bobbed his head, and snickered.

The fisherman was certain that he had not been recognized. He turned to watch the trio disappear into the parking lot. Then he twisted around for a better look at the boat parked at the end of the pier.

“Shadowfax,”
Martin Fletcher said as he cranked in the line. Then he propped his back against the closest upright post, closed his eyes, and let the baitless hook dangle beneath the red-and-white float.

31

“S
HADOW ONE, EVERYTHING’S LOCKED DOWN?”
S
EAN SAID INTO THE
radio.

“It’s calm,” the voice of one of the local agents, Alton Vance, came back. “Thorne’s package is ten minutes away.”

The young agent turned and discovered that Erin and Reb were staring at him. The boy seemed wide-eyed, excited; the girl seemed as though she was being inconvenienced beyond reason. Sean looked over her shoulder to the television set, where a clown was offering a balloon to a child.

Sean looked at the other agent in the room. He hadn’t been able to get close to Woody, but they hadn’t actually spent much time in anything more than superficial conversation. Woody was like a closed book. Sean didn’t know why Woody alone was allowed to leave the stakeout when he wasn’t officially on duty. The red
Volvo was an agency car but was Woody’s when he decided to take off for a few hours. Sean knew Woody wasn’t DEA. He had made a comment about assholes, and Woody had asked him why he always called people, even the elderly owner of the house whom they had never met, assholes. When Sean had said that
all
civilians were assholes, Woody had smiled a strange smile and had shaken his head, dismissing him. “Asshole” was standard DEA lingo. Any cop would know that. He also knew that Woody hadn’t participated in the agents’ discussions of well-known operations like Condor, Leyenda, and Snowcap. Any DEA agent couldn’t help but be familiar with the three—they were classic operations. That would be like an FBI agent not knowing who the last attorney general had been. Wherever Woody had been trained, it hadn’t been at Quantico.

“What kinda gun you got?” Reb said, breaking Sean’s thoughts.

“A black one,” he replied.

Reb laughed.

“Wowie kazowie,” Erin said flatly. “Can I go upstairs?”

“Sure,” Woody said. “Sean, take her up.”

“Want to see me do a double flip off the couch?” Reb asked.

“Sure,” Sean said.

“You can’t climb on the couch, Reb,” Erin said.

“Just kidding,” Reb said.

Erin thumped the top of his head.

“Shouldn’t you get one of those lady agents to be with me?” she said. “Since I can’t have any friends over, I mean.”

“Orders,” Woody said.

“Two are enough to watch over,” Sean said. “Can’t have our attention split in too many directions. Sorry about your friends.”

“You guys are too cool to breathe,” she said.

“Can I shoot it?” Reb asked.

“What?” Woody said.

“Your gun,” Reb answered.

“Sure, anytime,” Woody said.

Erin watched Woody take the gun from his holster and hold it out to Reb. “Fire it into the cushions so it doesn’t bring people running.”

“Really?”
Erin said.

Reb’s face was lit like a lamp as he reached for the proffered Glock.

Woody waited until Reb’s hand was inches from the handle, then twirled the gun and flipped his wrist, ending the maneuver with the gun restored to the holster.

He pointed his finger at Reb and cocked his thumb. “Just kidding!” he said.

“I want to go out,” Erin said. “This is boring.”

“Where to?” Sean asked.

“Wouldn’t
you
like to know?” she said.

“Would I?” Woody said. He pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat with his elbows on the back, his legs crossed. “What’s your idea of a perfect place?”

“Well, it depends.” She smiled coyly.

“On what?” Woody said.

“Well, with a boy or my friends?”

“A
boy
with
Erin?”
Reb yelled.

She cut her eyes at him and frowned at the intrusion. “Well, if you’re with a boy, you go to the French Quarter,” she said.

“Why?” Woody looked at his watch.

“Well, it’s romantic. The old buildings and all that stuff.”

“You mean like the Hard Rock Café?”

She laughed. “Maybe. But there’s Roscoe’s Tavern, where they serve you if you can order with a straight face.”

“I’m telling Mom,” Reb said certainly.

“I’ll crush your little thorax,” she said.

“Okay, guys,” Sean said, putting his finger to his earpiece, “your mother’s home.”

“Good,” Erin said. “Now you can go back across the street.”

Sean looked up to find Woody staring at him with a complete lack of expression.

32

P
AUL STEPPED FROM HIS RENTAL CAR AND SCOOPED UP THE FILES HE
had brought along. Sherry had called and asked him to drop by because she had had some ideas she wanted to toss around with him. She said she didn’t want to stay at the office late because she had things to do at home. He knew she had been mirroring his long hours, so he had agreed, and here he was, standing before her door and tapping lightly. He checked over his mental list again as he waited; he had been on and off the phone with Thorne and Joe all day, as usual, and he had been assured that nothing was happening that warranted his attention. Rainey, he hoped, was interviewing the Buchanan child and getting some new information.

Paul could hear music inside. A ten-speed bike was chained to the railing with a lock he decided could be violated in seconds by any crack addict worth his stuff. He shuffled the files into his left hand and was pleased
that the hand had developed so much strength over the past few days of vigorous tennis-ball squeezing. He could drum the fingers on a tabletop with relative ease and surprising dexterity.