Black Tide

by Brendan DuBois

  Damn fool, I thought. There they were, Felix and Roger, going into the house and you had the drop on Roger. If you had gone out there with the Beretta, it would have been over. Right there.

  Sure. My hands were shaking, and if Roger had looked over at me and said, no, I'm not doing a thing, would I have shot him? And would I have hit anything? And if I did hit something, wasn't there a good chance that it would be Felix?

  Damn. I got up from my hiding place and ran to the side of the house.

  At the picture window I got a good view as Roger slapped a wide piece of masking tape across Felix's mouth. Felix's arms were already taped and part of me was impressed. Roger was good, damn it, to have taped up Felix's arms so quickly. And then I saw something that made my insides quiver. There was a black box in Roger's hands and some wires that led away from the box and to Felix. The wires disappeared up the legs of his khaki shorts. The side windows were open and I could make out Roger's voice easily enough as he talked.

  "Well, we all have our setbacks, and the fact that your writer friend didn't show up is one I'll have to live with," Roger said, putting the black box down on a coffee table in front of the couch. "I'll just visit him tonight, maybe 2 A.M. or so, and I can tell you, Felix, I don't plan to discuss writing methods with him."

  Roger sat down on the coffee table and I could see a side holster in the waistband of his pants. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped, and he said, "But you were trying to give me a problem back there, Felix, when you tried to flash your lights at that York police cruiser, and that's something I'm not going to tolerate."

  And as casually as if he were turning a television switch on, he flicked a button on the black box and there was a muffled bellow, as Felix arched his back On the couch, his arms straining against the tape, his face red and eyes screwed tight. I thought I heard a crackling noise but I wasn't sure. I had to look away, and then the sound stopped. I forced myself to look back inside.

  Roger was now standing, and Felix was slumped on the couch, his head bowed forward, his shoulders shaking. Roger was rubbing his chin, looking perplexed. "Learned this technique back when I was in a little desert adventure that never made the news. Against all civilized rules of warfare --- hell of an oxymoron if I've ever heard one --- but when you're fighting against a culture and religion that makes martyrs of dead people, and you need questions answered quickly, this box can work wonders. Of course, it doesn't look like you're a martyr right now."

  Roger walked back to the couch and sniffed. "I'm afraid you've wet the couch, Felix, but I don't think anybody will mind. Time for a phone call. The idiot of the evening is waiting at a motel just up the coast."

  He went to the side table, where the phone was. Throughout the phone call, he kept his eyes on Felix. Despair started gnawing at me as I sat there, huddling next to a blueberry bush on a piece of property that was once owned by a now long-dead crime lord. I shifted a bit and my knees struck lengths of firewood that had been dumped here by the side of the house, and I tried not to gasp. Felix moved some against the couch, and I remembered the outline of the room. Two couches and a coffee table, an old television set and the glass doorways leading to the addition, off to my right. The draperies had been closed, hiding the sunroom and the paintings.

  Roger murmured something on the phone and then hung up. He came back over and there was something else in his hands. He juggled it as he walked and I thought it was another box for more torture, but when Roger sat down I saw that it was a VCR tape. Roger talked some more to Felix, and I couldn't make out what he was saying. While all of this was going on, my 9 mm Beretta was in my hand. I switched off the safety and waited, muscles taut and creaking, and I listened to the sound of a boat whistle, so quiet and peaceful out on the ocean. I could leave at this moment, and in ten to fifteen minutes I might have the York police department at this house, but the look and the actions of Roger Krohn made me wait. I couldn't do much, but I certainly could do something if he reached for the gun in his holster. If I went away, I didn't think I could ever come back, being too fearful at what I might find here later.

  Roger Krohn. About as clear as a full moon at the end of a cloudless night, and I had missed it all along. Everything that had to do with the paintings started right after he came to Tyler Beach for the exchange program. That was a trigger I should have seen or heard. Instead, I had gotten sucked into his glad-handed approach and his interest --- no doubt faked --- in the police chief's job in Tyler.

  Simple enough to figure it out. Once Tony Russo gets the necessary information about the safe house and the theft, Tony re-contacts Roger Krohn, tells him that the man they want to deal with lives in North Tyler. Roger checks around, finds out about the exchange program in Tyler --- just one town away --- and he's here for the summer with a perfect cover.

  Roger Krohn. Jesus.

  The sound of a car engine, the crunching of tires on gravel and a car door slamming. I moved a bit from my position and looked in as a door opened to the house. Cameron Briggs strolled in carrying a slim brown briefcase. He walked down the short set of stairs to the sunken living room as if he were inspecting a yacht.

  But tonight the well-tanned face looked troubled and his summer wardrobe of polo shirt and gray chinos looked rumpled, as if he had been sleeping in them. He got right to the point: "Where the hell are the paintings, Krohn?"

  Roger had a grin on his face. If I had been Cameron Briggs, I would have been nervous. Roger had the same grin not more than ten minutes ago as he was sending jolts of electricity to Felix's genitals.

  "In a moment, Cameron," Roger said, standing up behind the couch where Felix was sitting motionless. "It's time you and I had something we used to call a post-mission debrief."

  Cameron look disgusted. "Spare me the old Army vet stories, Krohn. They get tiring." He glanced at Felix and looked away with disinterest, as if he had been seeing a mannequin heading to the dumpster. "Though you seem to be reliving them again tonight."

  "Thanks for the compliment. I also relived them a couple of days ago when I took care of that leech Dummer for you. You should have retired him years ago, and not strung him along with those jobs of yours."

  "He said he had evidence against me," Cameron said. ''And even if he didn't, I didn't want the exposure if the shit went to the newspapers. Your partner should have done a better job of keeping his mouth shut back when you were robbing the museum."

  "So you gave me a little extra to take him out. Because you didn't have the balls for it."

  "That's what you get paid for, right?"

  Another odd smile from Roger. "Sure. I get paid for the dirty work. Just like my days in the desert, doing what comes naturally, once you're told to do it. Now you're paying me again, for the paintings. Right?"

  Cameron hefted up the slim case. "Here's the money," and then his voice got sharp: "But only half."

  Roger's grin faded away. "You were supposed to bring full payment, Cameron."

  It was Cameron's turn to smile. "Right. You show me the paintings and that's when you get this." He held up the case again. "Those paintings get back to my home, you get the other half."

  "That wasn't the deal."

  "That's right," Cameron said, his voice rising. "I made the deal with Corelli, and the deal was that you and your drunk partner were to steal the paintings. And once the heat decreased a bit and the newspapers went on to something else, they got delivered to me six months later. Little behind schedule, aren't we?"

  "Wasn't my fault," Roger said. "The damn drunk was Corelli's number-one cop, and he was half in the bag when we did the job, when he was blabbing about stealing the paintings for some rich local hotshot. And how was I supposed to know that he'd wrap himself around a tree later that night?"

  Cameron shrugged. "Right now, I couldn't give a shit. Right now, all I want to know is this: where are the goddamn paintings?"

  I shifted again, holding on to a length of firewood for balance. Then Roger did something odd
. He started juggling that damn VCR tape again, and his rabid grin returned. Roger said, "Still haven't done the debrief, Cameron."

  It looked as though Cameron rolled his eyes. "For Christ's sake…"

  The juggling stopped. "See this tape?" Roger said, holding it up. "This is all I've cared about, all I've been concerned about, ever since the night me and Cal Maloney stole those fucking paintings. When Cal took the paintings, he also took this tape. Said he was going to take care of it. You know what's on this tape?"

  Cameron looked as if he was trying to control his temper. "Your sister being screwed by the Boston Celtics."

  Roger went on, as though he didn't care what Cameron had said. "Nope. Me and Cal, getting into the museum. This was the main entrance surveillance tape, and it shows me and Cal, clear as day, getting into the Scribner. This is the biggest piece of evidence linking me and that theft, and it's right here."

  "Fine. Now where are the paintings?" That same grin, and even huddling outside, I could tell that his voice was changing, was becoming calmer. "One more minute, Cameron. Everything else was evidence, too, Cameron. Tony Russo, who you suggested I take care of, which I did. Craig Dummer, who I convinced to take down Tony, and who I visited later. That writer guy, who's on the list for tonight. This house and the paintings and Felix Tinios. This tape. Now it's all being taken care of. Now I'm in line for a chief's job, can you believe it? In one of the biggest resorts in New England, with a harbor and drug traffic and tourists… Man, the money I can make…"

  "Krohn!" Cameron said, stepping forward, and it was as if Roger was snapping back to the fact that he was in this house in York, Maine, and Roger took a couple of steps to the opened sliding-glass doors and pulled the drapery aside. The lights were off in the sunroom and the three paintings were there, shaded some in the darkness. Cameron let out a combination of a moan and a sigh. "My paintings… After all these years. . ."

  Roger beckoned him, opening the sliding-glass doors wider, that smile back on his face. "Here they are, Cameron. All yours."

  Cameron dropped the briefcase and strode forward, with a look on his face that seemed to be a mix of ecstasy and fulfillment. As Cameron went by him, Roger pulled out his pistol and shot Cameron in the back of the head.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  This time it was my turn to move fast.

  After Cameron fell to the floor, Roger turned, pistol still in his hand, and started moving toward Felix. I stood up and I think I yelled, but I know for certain I fired off three rounds from my Beretta, the pistol bucking in my hands. The noise was deafening, louder than anything you hear in the movies. Roger might have fired back. I don't know. But when the shooting stopped he wasn't in the room anymore.

  And then a length of firewood was in my hands and I smashed through the dining room window. In a matter of seconds I was standing there in the living room, pistol shaking violently in my hands, my left ankle throbbing painfully and blood running down my hands from where I had cut myself coming through the shattered glass. Felix looked up at me, eyes disbelieving. The room seemed to tilt and move around me, like an amusement park ride. The air was thick with the stench of burned gunpowder and sweaty fear. The cellar door; was now open. Something gurgled from beyond the couch and I moved a few feet, breathing hard and fast, like a horse after a blue ribbon run at the racetrack. Cameron Briggs's left foot quivered slightly and was still. I tried not to look at the dark mush that used to be the back of his head. His briefcase was gone.

  Things moved oddly. By now I was with Felix, and I tore away the wires from the box and then pulled the tape strip off his face. He yelped and gasped and looked up at me and said, "We've got to get out of here."

  I started tearing off the tape around his legs and arms.

  "Felix, wait, there's ---"

  "Lewis!" he said, his voice hoarse. "The man's got the place wired to blow up and burn. It's set in the cellar and that's where he just went. Move your ass!"

  I helped Felix off the couch and he keened with some sort of anguished pain, but he moved ahead of me quickly enough, as if he was forcing each individual muscle and tendon to work together. Both of my shaking and bloody hands were now back on the Beretta as I kept watch on the cellar door, knowing that even if a shadow moved on those stairs, I would fire away. I remembered something the man had said back at his condo a Wednesday night ago: "You know what they say. There's not a problem in the world that can't be solved by explosives."

  We got up to the kitchen landing and I took my aim away from the cellar stairs. The kitchen was still bright in its garish colors and plastic decorations, and I slapped the lights off. I moved in front of Felix, carefully opening the front door, not wanting to get ambushed. I hunkered down and Felix followed me out to the concrete steps. I turned to tell him that there was only the Lumina parked in the lot, that Roger must have left in Cameron's car.

  But as I opened my mouth, the house exploded.

  I didn't hear a damn thing, which means my ears must have refused to hear such a loud sound. All I remember is turning to Felix and forming the words in my mouth, and then a giant hand seemed to slap me in the back with a warm puff of air.

  Darkness for a while, and then I was on my back looking up at the stars in a dreamlike state, wondering why there were trees growing in my backyard. Trees can't grow on beach sand. Then I blinked a few times and sat up and swore as I looked at the bloody mess of my scraped knees. I stumbled up, and Felix was a few feet away, opening and closing his mouth, looking like a fish out of water.

  "What?" I said.

  "Trying to clear the ears," he said, gazing straight ahead. It was hard to hear what he was saying, even though it looked like he was yelling. "You okay?"

  "Beats the shit out of me," I said. I turned and looked back at the house. The first and second floor had crumpled together in a mess of walls, plaster, shingles and jagged beams, and fire was burning merrily in two places. The lawn was covered with chunks of wood and broken glass. Felix called out to me, "We've got to haul ass. This place is going to be crawling in a minute or two."

  "Just a see," I said. "I've got to check on the paintings."

  Felix swore and said, "Screw the paintings!" but I didn't answer him, as I went down the slight slope of land heading for the rear of the house. I went past the collapsed wall that I had dove into, what seemed like a few hours ago, and I watched where I was walking, the heat of the fire warming my skin like a midday June sun, stepping carefully over pieces of wood. It struck me as terribly funny at that moment that my tax dollars had gone toward training Roger Krohn years ago when he was in the Army, and had trained him so well in the art of killing that he had almost gotten me and Felix. I was afraid that if I started laughing, I might hot stop.

  At the rear of the house the force of the explosion had blasted away the beams that had been supporting the addition, and I realized why Felix and I had survived. Because of the way the foundation was set up, with a rear entry underneath the addition, the blast had been channeled away from the front of the house.

  But the addition hadn't done so well. It had fallen upon itself in a confusing mix of floorboards, beams, draperies and broken chunks of glass. It was hard to figure out how the place had originally looked. I clambered up on one main floor beam, hearing Felix calling me again from the front of the house. I thought of those three Winslow Homer paintings, over a hundred years old and stolen away to this place, with their years of history and knowledge and skill wrapped up in the old oil paint, and I think tears came to my eyes at what I saw.

  The three undamaged paintings, still hanging from the wooden framework, leaning against a broken wall, about a dozen feet or so away.

  "There is a God," I whispered, and I moved again, and the beam gave way, almost dumping me into a chunk of wood that had a half dozen exposed spikes poking up, like a Viet Cong booby trap, waiting to impale me. I straddled the beam with both feet and tried again, and I got up a foot, the wood beneath me creaking and snapping. The paintings d
idn't seem any closer, and the dozen or so feet I had to navigate to get there were a treacherous mass of piping, wiring, broken plaster and wood strips.

  I smelled smoke.

  "Lewis!" came the call, and I grabbed at a length of something to haul myself up, and the sharp bite of broken glass made me fall back again. Damn. The smell of the smoke got stronger, and I could feel the warmth on my hands as I tried to climb again. Please, God. Just another minute or two. That's all I need.

  There was now a smell of overcooked pork, of charred flesh. I didn't let my mind dwell on Cameron Briggs's final resting place.

  I got up a couple of more feet, and then started inching my way across the ruins of the rear addition. My left foot slipped and was jammed into a pile of broken wood, and I started wind milling with my arms, trying not to fall on this awful mess. The paintings were getting harder to see through the tendrils of smoke coming up from the debris.

  "Lewis!" Felix yelled again, closer, and I turned and shouted back, "Felix, shut up! I'm almost there."

  But when I turned back, they were gone.

  The flames from the burning paintings were bright enough so that I could see them char and curl up upon themselves, like old leaves in a campfire. I thought then of Winslow Homer and how his ghost must despise what was going on here. I turned away again and got down from the pile of trash that had once been a house. Felix was waiting for me, and he grabbed my arm.

  "Let's go, you idiot," he hissed at me. "Do you want to explain to the York cops what the hell happened here?"

  If I had been any brighter I might have said yes, but my mind was on something else.

  Fog Warning. The fisherman alone in his dory, heading to his schooner, trying to beat a storm, trying to save his life.