Final Cut

by Colin Campbell

  “Don’t worry about your friends. Twelve is the number they’ll be crunching.”

  He stared at McNulty and gave the dead smile again.

  “Fourteen is the one you should worry about.”

  He acknowledged the girl for the first time.

  “It is her age. And how many miles we are from shore.”

  The boat groaned and creaked as it rolled with the swell. Light fittings swayed from twisted cords. McNulty let out a sigh of resignation. So that’s why nobody was restarting the engine. The blue lights could flash all they wanted because the cavalry had just been caught on a leash. Twelve miles from shore. Suzanne Cipolletti’s shoulders sagged and a whimper escaped through the gag. McNulty wanted to tell her everything was going to be all right, but he wasn’t sure he’d be telling the truth. It was beginning to look as if the headmaster’s office wasn’t the only place where he’d failed to save the girl. He sighed again.

  “Well, this is disappointing.”

  Visconti shrugged.

  “Depends on your point of view. I look on it as an opportunity.”

  He waved a hand to encompass the bondage chair and the camera.

  “We’ve never done a butt-fucked male snuff video.”

  McNulty looked at the wealthy pornographer.

  “I thought you’d moved on from video.”

  Visconti smiled.

  “Some phrases roll off the tongue despite being inaccurate.” He rested his arms on crossed legs. “Like, once a cop always a cop.”

  A cold shiver ran down McNulty’s back. It was as if Visconti had reached inside his head and picked his brains. Despite leaving the police under a cloud, he’d never been able to shake the feeling that he was still a cop. He’d said as much after Northern X made him front-page news. He glanced at the wall clock behind the camera, then stared at Visconti.

  “Some are less inaccurate than others.”

  Visconti shook his head and sat up straight.

  “It might have been true when you gave the interview. After the massage parlor thing. But it’s so far past inaccurate now that you’ll be wishing you’d stayed out of my business and back in Yorkshire.”

  He uncrossed his legs.

  “Instead you’re going to be my business.”

  He nodded toward the camera.

  “In glorious Technicolor and thirty-five millimeter.”

  He stood up. The three men with guns stepped forward and spread out. The guns were raised. Three sides of a square, leaving only one place for McNulty to go: The bondage chair. He took a step backward and glanced at the wall clock again. His mind raced, calculating how long he’d been in the stateroom and how close the nearest gunman had come. He raised his hands in surrender but then pointed at each gunman in turn, crisscrossing his hands to indicate the overlapping fire pattern.

  “You guys never heard about crossfire, did you?”

  He pointed at the man with the silver revolver.

  “I’d be careful if I were you. Since they gave you the smallest gun.”

  He pointed at the other two.

  “If they get me, they’re gonna get you as well.”

  He imitated wracking a load into a shotgun.

  “Not to mention blowing a hole in the floor.”

  The three men stopped moving. Visconti moved to one side out of the firing line. He didn’t look worried. This was his show.

  “They can blow holes wherever they want. We’re in international waters. And you’re as unimportant as navel lint.”

  McNulty faked a laugh.

  “Bellybutton fluff. I like the way you did that.”

  He pointed at his stomach then twirled his hands in the air. Giving plenty of movement for the gunmen to watch. The shotgun nudged a few feet closer. The gap between the three men widened. The boat continued to groan. The light fittings continued to sway. The seconds ticked by. He was smiling as he spoke, keeping his tone light and friendly.

  “Naval, like the boats hanging back out there.”

  He waved toward the stern doors.

  “And all that nautical rulebook stuff.”

  The clock ticked in the background. The walls creaked and strained with each tilt of the deck as The Manticore rode the waves. Somewhere out there in the blackness Helen was waiting for her signal and the cavalry were just waiting. Helen’s flare was going to be too late and the cavalry weren’t coming to the rescue. McNulty took half a step forward, confusing the gunmen who’d become used to him backing away. He tilted his head as if a thought had just occurred to him.

  “Isn’t there some kind of international pact?”

  He twirled his fingers in the air again.

  “You know, life on the ocean wave? That if you come across a boat that’s sinking you’ve got to offer assistance?”

  McNulty was out of time. He couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. He thought about the canvas bag and Alfonse Bayard. He thought about Helen being tossed about in the darkness with her hand on the flare gun. The face that launched a thousand ships. He smiled at her reinterpretation of that. Visconti lost his patience.

  “We’re not sinking. Just stalled.”

  McNulty met his gaze.

  “Yeah, well. Dead in the water is still dead.”

  Visconti narrowed his eyes. The gunmen moved closer. Then the lights went out and the back doors exploded.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Everybody snapped their eyes toward the stateroom doors. Except McNulty. He used the light from the explosion to step forward and jerk the shotgun upward. It went off, blasting a hole in the ceiling. He yanked down on the butt and up with the barrel and smashed the pump action into the gunman’s face. Once. Twice. That was enough. The big man went down holding his shattered nose.

  Light from the explosion was unnaturally bright. It lasted longer than normal, too. The Fullers Earth compound from the special effects locker was designed to look good on camera, not actually destroy things. It sent sparks of light twinkling into the night, minus the fireball that gasoline would normally provide. The canvas bag didn’t have any gasoline, just explosives and special-effects squibs. The squibs went off along the starboard windows, punching holes in the glass.

  McNulty swung around and worked the pump action. The ejected shell spun in the air. The sound cut through the pyrotechnics. The other two gunmen turned toward McNulty, guns raised. McNulty fired at point blank range. The shot took out the first man’s stomach and spine and peppered the second gunman.

  Buttfuck from the gay club dropped the silver revolver. Eddy Turk and Hooknose cowered next to the camera. The Fullers Earth fizzled and died, throwing the room into darkness. A flare went up somewhere off the starboard bow and the glow filtered through the broken windows. The brilliant light drifted and swayed as it hung in the air. The cabin lights came back on and the engine started with a throaty roar. Good. Now they could reverse back to the twelve-mile limit and hand over to the authorities.

  Once the flames had died down, Alfonse came through the back doors carrying a gun. McNulty threw him a double take. If Bayard was on the aft deck, who had started the engines? McNulty scanned the cabin. No prizes for guessing who was missing. Or the direction The Manticore was heading. Not back toward the cavalry but farther into the fourteen-mile zone.

  “Cut her loose.”

  McNulty nodded toward Suzanne. Alfonse was already on his way, whipping a cloth from the dining table as he went. The actor was shaping up well. Larry Unger would be pleased. The producer’s other employee, the dolly grip, wasn’t so impressive. McNulty waved the shotgun to corral Eddy Turk, Hooknose and Buttfuck at the rear of the stateroom. The three helped the man with the broken nose to his feet. There was no time for niceties and nobody to help guard them.

  “Aft deck. Now.”

  The four men paused for a moment then did as they were told. They went through the doors, then huddled together in the shelter of the derricks and looked hopefully at the
dinghy hanging from the ropes. McNulty shook his head. He needed them off the boat but not making a fast getaway.

  “Over the side.”

  Turk couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Hooknose simply looked sick. The man from South Shore Hardcore was the first to find his voice.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  McNulty blasted a hole in the access hatch in the deck and quickly wracked in another load.

  “Am I smiling? Dead or alive, you’re over the side.”

  There was no more arguing. All four jumped over the port rail to avoid the twin propellers. The Manticore had already built up enough speed to form a wake. The blue flashing lights seemed farther away than ever. McNulty used the hole from the shotgun blast to get hold of the hatch. He flipped it open and then the second hatch beside it. He wasn’t sure if he was looking at the engines, the propeller shafts or what, but he knew they were important for driving the boat.

  He fired twice into the maintenance cavities and watched sparks fly and metal twist. Something was sheered off and flew through the air, narrowly missing McNulty’s head. He remembered something from one of his Sunday afternoon movies. The one where the ocean liner turned upside down and the survivors made their way to the hull near the propellers. Gene Hackman telling Ernest Borgnine that one inch of steel plate was an inch less than two inches. He didn’t know anything about boats but assumed that design characteristics would be the same. The hull around the propellers was the thinnest part of the boat.

  He dropped the canvas bag into the hole and stood to one side. He fired into the opening until the shotgun was empty and the explosion blasted a hole through the fiberglass. Water spewed into the cavity. The propellers groaned and stopped. Something heavy snapped and twisted and tore itself apart. The Manticore lurched to a stop. Dead in the water again. The cabin cruiser might have been dead, but the girl Visconti had brought aboard was not. McNulty went back into the stateroom to see how Suzanne Cipolletti was holding up, but mainly, he wanted to see a man about a dog.

  Alfonse had raided the forward berths and found some clothes for Suzanne. Not exactly girls’ clothes but under the circumstances more than appropriate. Grey sweat bottoms and a matching top, a pair of deck shoes half a size too big and a waterproof jacket. The clothes were neatly stacked next to a vase of flowers on the dining table away from the bondage chair and equipment. It seemed like a good time to distance her from all that stuff. It hadn’t worked out that way by the time Alfonse came back with the clothes.

  “What the fuck?”

  McNulty dashed over to where the actor lay on the floor. Alfonse had a bump on the head and a cut down one side of his face. His eyes were open but not taking anything in. The girl was nowhere in sight.

  “Come on Alfonse. Snap out of it.”

  The deck swooped and dipped. The movement didn’t help Alfonse get his equilibrium back. His eyes swam in and out of focus. His face was a sickly shade of grey. He blew out his cheeks, then turned to one side and was sick on the deck. He couldn’t speak. His mouth formed the words, but he looked like he was swallowing marbles. He was sick again.

  McNulty didn’t have time to be gentle. He stood up, took the flowers out of the vase and threw the water into Alfonse’s face. The actor spluttered to life. His eyes blinked and came into focus. The flare was low in the sky and Helen fired another one. It soared and exploded and showed her position. Still on the starboard side but closer and toward the stern. Alfonse looked embarrassed. McNulty shook his head and helped the actor to sit up.

  “Where did they go?”

  Alfonse didn’t have time to answer. The slap was like a gunshot to McNulty’s heart. The cry of pain that followed stabbed even deeper. Both men turned toward the sound. The door and stairs leading to the bridge. The second slap was louder. McNulty was moving before Suzanne cried out again.

  FORTY-NINE

  James William Visconti III might have been shit-bird crazy but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that his only means of escape now was the dinghy hanging from the stern derricks and that his only leverage was Suzanne Cipolletti. When McNulty came through the door from the stateroom Visconti had the girl in a neck lock with Alfonse’s gun pointing at her head. The slap and the scream had faded. Only fear and crying remained.

  McNulty lowered the shotgun until it pointed at the deck. Visconti smiled that cold, dead smile then put on his serious face.

  “It appears you’re not as adept at saving girls as you are stray dogs.”

  McNulty focused on Visconti but took in his surroundings.

  “It wasn’t a stray.”

  Visconti indicated the girl with a nod of the gun.

  “Neither is she.”

  McNulty took a step forward. The broken cup crunched underfoot. A creased navigation chart was screwed up in the corner. McNulty stepped sideways.

  “She’s not on camera either. No point killing her now.”

  Visconti shrugged.

  “No profit, I agree. The point is I’ll kill her if you make a move.”

  McNulty stopped moving sideways. He was clear of the debris on the floor and standing near a shelf and cabinet. The cabinet was closed but the shelf held a number of books and charts and a battered thermos flask. Some of the books were ring binders with navigation instructions for various areas of the coast. One was a leather-bound volume of the Nautical Rules Of The Road, the bible for sailors around the world. Heavy enough to break a man’s nose if you swung it hard enough. McNulty gauged angles and distance. There was nothing he could do as long as Visconti held the gun to Suzanne’s head. At that distance there was no way the pornographer could miss. McNulty needed to draw his fire away from her. He hefted the empty shotgun in both hands and weighed his options. Once the decision was made, he let out a sigh and nodded at the heavy book.

  “Is this the book that says you’ve got to help ships in distress?”

  Visconti kept the gun steady.

  “This isn’t a ship.”

  McNulty nodded.

  “I wondered about that. If calling something as big as this a boat was kind of insulting. Some men can be touchy about the size issue.”

  Visconti gripped the girl tighter and pressed the gun against her head.

  “The issue here isn’t size, it’s distance.”

  He nodded toward the stern.

  “Fourteen miles out there.”

  He waggled the gun.

  “No distance at all in here.”

  McNulty nodded. He flexed his legs, ready to move.

  “But the bible does say you have to render assistance to boats in trouble on the high seas. Like the Titanic after she hit the iceberg.”

  Visconti smiled.

  “We haven’t hit an iceberg.”

  McNulty relaxed his hands on the shotgun, preparing to swing it up.

  “No. But you are sinking. And your getaway boat is going to be the first thing under water.”

  Visconti’s smile faded. He glanced at the angle of the deck, then toward the rear of the boat. There was an unmistakable tilt to the floor. His shoulders sagged and his gun hand relaxed, but not enough.

  Now. McNulty swung the shotgun and wracked the pump action. The final spent cartridge ejected across the bridge and Visconti reacted on instinct. He swung Alfonse’s gun toward the threat as McNulty closed the distance. The gun went off. The explosion was loud and harsh in the confines of the bridge. The flash of pain was harsher. Point blank in McNulty’s chest.

  Suzanne Cipolletti screamed as the man who’d come to save her was shot in the chest. Her eyes widened in panic and fear. McNulty’s momentum carried him forward. Suzanne ducked out of Visconti’s neck lock and dived to one side as her captor used both hands to fend off the onrushing dead man. Then the dead man swung the butt of the shotgun and wasn’t dead anymore.

  The pain of the blank round burned McNulty’s chest. The gun from the special effects’ locker had only been for show in case Alfons
e encountered resistance planting the squibs. A contact wound to the girl’s head would have been fatal, but fired over distance, the blanks would simply be painful. That fueled McNulty’s anger, although it didn’t need any help.

  He slammed the butt of the shotgun into Visconti’s face and kept on slamming. It wasn’t as symbolic as the Bible in the headmaster’s study, but it was just as destructive. Visconti’s nose exploded across his face. One eye closed almost immediately. The pornographer dropped to the ground and curled up in the fetal position as he tried to protect himself.

  McNulty was in the grips of an uncontrollable rage. He roared his anger and frustration. His body attacked the prone figure. His mind threw up images of all his failures. He saw the missing girls he’d failed to rescue. They were intermingled with faces from Northern X and the smeared makeup of Amy Moore. He battered and battered and battered until his arms ached. His mind ached even more as he remembered the sister he’d been unable to find and the childhood he’d never had.

  The scream came from behind him. It cut through his pain and spun him around. There was no slap this time, only the anguished cries of a girl screaming for him to stop. He didn’t even realize he was shaking until she laid a gentle hand on him then touched his face.

  “That’s enough.”

  Her voice was a whisper.

  “Thank you. But that’s enough.”

  McNulty was shaking. He dropped the bloodied shotgun and sat against the control panel. Suzanne pulled the tablecloth tight around herself, then knelt beside him. She put her arms around his shoulders and patted his back like a mother hugging her child. As the tension seeped out of him, they both began to cry.