Jericho Point

by Meg Gardiner

  Marc’s voice was calm. ‘‘I’ll go down the stairs to the boat. You take the wheel. Turn the truck around so that when I come back we’re ready to roll.’’

  We raced out onto the pier, passing oil pumps and equipment sheds, a derrick spiking into the sky, a flatbed truck stacked with drill casings. There was no guardrail, just railroad ties spiked along the edges of the pier like curbs. The ocean spread on either side of us far below, a maw. Straight ahead, where the pier ended, were a crane and hoists and then darkness. Marc steered, eyes straight ahead.

  I looked back through the rear window of the cab. The beach was a thin strip, immensely distant. The Mustang was parked at the foot of the pier, blocking it.

  ‘‘Get ready,’’ Marc said.

  I braced. My ribs were aching. He braked sharply and we screeched to a stop next to the staircase, ten feet from the end of the pier.

  ‘‘Take it.’’

  He leaped from the cab. I clambered over the gearshift into the driver’s seat. He had the gun in his hand. He racked the slide and charged down the stairs out of sight.

  I put the truck in gear. My legs felt like water. Spinning the wheel, I began turning around. The pier was narrow, and when I got the truck angled sideways all I could see, fore and aft, was night. I turned by feel, knowing that the truck’s big tires could easily run over the eight-inch curbs and swan-dive straight down to the water. Inching, forward and reverse, teasing the clutch, I got the pickup aimed back toward shore. I put down the windows, hoping to hear something. Anything. The wind howled. I pulled forward of the staircase so that when Marc returned he could jump straight in. P.J. and Devi could climb in the cargo bed.

  I heard the screech of the wind, and the slur of the ocean rushing through the pilings. The clang of metal from the crane at the end of the pier.

  Low sounds. Hard, popping sounds swallowed by the wind. My airway constricted. God, tell me those weren’t gunshots. In the rearview mirror I peered at the top of the staircase.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs. I saw someone. Wild curls, skirt swirling around her legs. It was Devi Goldman, running toward me.

  She jumped in. ‘‘Drive!’’

  ‘‘Where’s Marc?’’

  ‘‘They’re shooting. Fuck, fuck, drive!’’

  I looked at the stairway. ‘‘Does Marc have P.J.?’’

  She stared at me, wild-eyed. ‘‘P.J.’s dead.’’

  It felt as if an archer had loosed an arrow deep into my forehead. Shock, pain, electricity running down my chest and through my limbs. A high-frequency ringing in my ears.

  ‘‘Go, crap, go.’’ She looked back at the staircase. And screamed.

  A new figure was climbing the stairs. The moon shone off a white T-shirt and a gleaming skull. It was Murphy.

  He had a gun in his hand. He raised it and fired. The back window of the cab shattered. Devi and I jumped, and she screamed again. I slammed the truck into gear.

  And reversed straight into him.

  I hit him, heard a thud, and braked, because the crane was right behind me, and the crane was at the end of the pier. Devi kept screaming. I put it in first and drove forward. I couldn’t see Murphy behind me anymore.

  ‘‘You ran him over. You ran him fucking over.’’ Devi’s mouth was wide.

  I certainly fucking did. I put it in reverse and backed up again. And forward. And back again. I felt like I was in a trance. Up and down the pier, swerving, stomping on the gas and the brake, hearing the tires spin, smelling rubber, trying to cover every inch of wood. Flatten you like a tick, Murphy. But I heard no more thuds. Felt no bumps.

  ‘‘Where’d he go?’’ I said. ‘‘Where the hell is he?’’

  ‘‘Who cares? Get out of here.’’

  Murphy had to be down. Dead or unconscious, or gone over the edge. Otherwise he’d be shooting at us.

  Devi slapped my arm. ‘‘Why are you sitting here? Go. Go, go, go.’’

  I grabbed her by the hair. ‘‘Stop it. Who’s still down on the boat?’’

  Her mouth yawned into an oval. ‘‘What is wrong with you?’’

  ‘‘Toby Price?’’

  ‘‘No, he left.’’

  ‘‘When?’’ I pulled harder on her hair.

  She tried to claw my hands loose. ‘‘Forty-five minutes ago, to get the money.’’

  ‘‘So tell me. Who. Is. On. The. Boat.’’

  ‘‘The black man who came charging down.’’

  ‘‘Where’s P.J.?’’

  ‘‘Murphy took him off. Toby told him he didn’t want any mess on the boat.’’

  ‘‘Mess? You mean killing?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Right before he left,’’ she said.

  ‘‘So when Marc came down—’’

  ‘‘It was just me and Murphy on the boat. Let go of my hair.’’

  So where had Murphy taken P.J.? The arrow of pain dug into my skull. He had dumped him. My stomach was churning. I looked at the staircase. No sign of Marc.

  I looked toward shore. Jesse was waiting there for his brother. No, don’t think about it. Think and I would lose it, uncontrollably. I’d be useless. And I had to hold on.

  I opened the door. ‘‘I’ll be right back.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  I stepped carefully out onto the pier. The wind keened around me. My foot touched the wood. Nothing grabbed my ankle. Murphy wasn’t under the truck, pulling a Cape Fear. I reached into the bed for Marc’s golf bag and pulled out the driver.

  ‘‘Marc’s down there on the boat. Is he hurt?’’ I said.

  Her face was disbelieving. ‘‘You’re leaving me here?’’

  ‘‘I’ll be right back. Was he hurt?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  ‘‘Right back. You’re okay. Sit tight.’’

  And holding the golf club like a mace, I charged down the stairs toward the boat landing. The wind needled my hands and face. The water roared below me. After five steps, my courage started flaking off like old paint. I wanted help, but I’d never get Devi back down here. I kept going. Halfway down, the stairs hinged—from fixed to floating, so that along with the landing platform they could rise and fall with the tide. I stepped onto them and felt as if I’d mounted a bareback horse at a gallop.

  I took my eyes off my descent and saw a bad sight: The sailboat had come unmoored from the landing. It was wallowing loose, starting a slow spin. The ocean shrugged and slammed the boat against the landing. Fiberglass shrieked.

  I cupped a hand to my mouth. ‘‘Marc.’’

  The hinged stairs bucked with the rise and fall of the water. The boat slammed against the landing. It jolted me. I grabbed for the railing, slipped, and fell back on the stairs. The golf club twirled loose and fell. I heard my cell phone crack.

  Shit.

  I held fast to the railing, feeling as though I were trapped in a funhouse. And then I heard the carnival music. I heard the truck being put in gear.

  And driving away.

  I ran up the stairs two at a time, out onto the pier, and saw the pickup racing toward shore. For possibly five seconds I stood there, mouth hanging open, watching Devi make tracks.

  Then I got a grip. No, I told myself, this is actually all right. Jesse’s there. When she tells him, he’ll come get me.

  I looked around. All I saw was night. All I felt was wind. All I heard was the dwindling rumble of the pickup, and the chink of the hoists and crane swaying in the wind. Murphy was nowhere to be seen. I had knocked him off the end of the pier. I looked back over the edge, down at the boat landing. The sailboat was wallowing, its bow scraping the pontoons of the platform and rasping on past. The tide was coming in, strong. The boat wouldn’t stay here for more than a minute. If Marc was down there, I had to find him now.

  I looked again at the shore. The pickup’s taillights had shrunk to red bug bites. She was nearing the beach. I held my breath, squinting, watching for her to stop. Come on, Jesse, come on. I’m right here.

  The
pickup hit the road and kept going, without even slowing down. And the Mustang lit out after it.

  I was hosed.

  Gripping the railing of the funhouse stairs, I edged down to the landing platform. I felt nauseated. From the rocking motion, from the roar and chill of the ocean. From knowing that Marc, if he was alive, was hurt. And that getting to him would be a bitch.

  Holding the railing, I stepped onto the landing platform. It pitched on the surf. The surface was wet and slick.

  ‘‘Marc,’’ I called.

  The sailboat was still there. Rolling, lurking just off the platform.

  ‘‘Marc.’’

  The boat rose on a wave, like a beast, and rammed the platform. Metal and fiberglass screamed. The platform juddered. I lost my footing and fell backward on my butt. The platform reared. I slid backward,swearing. Heading for the edge. I flung my arms out and grabbed the bottom stair. I clung to it. Oh, crap.

  The platform dropped. The ocean stormed through the pilings. Holding on to the step as though it were my own mother, I tried to see where the sailboat was.

  One more time I yelled, ‘‘Marc.’’

  The boat rolled and snapped upright again. The rigging was coming down. The mooring lines were dragging along the edge of the dock. If I could grab one, I thought . . .

  If I could grab one, the next swell would pull me straight off the platform. Unless I could catch it on the trough of a wave, and maybe wrap it around the railing for the staircase.

  No, it was too much. If Marc was even on the boat. If Marc was even still alive.

  He had gone down here for P.J. Run into the teeth of danger for Jesse’s brother. For me, and for the man I had chosen. And he had children. Two girls, Hope and Lauren.

  I couldn’t leave.

  The boat subsided and lazed toward me. The mooring line hung free from the bow, dragging on the dock. Hunkering down on all fours, I lunged across the platform, sliding across marine paint, arm extended, stretching for it. It swung toward me.

  I grabbed it. Crawled back as fast as I could for the railing. But not fast enough. An incoming swell lifted the boat and heaved it away from the platform. Caught sideways to the wave, it heeled over, near to capsizing. The rope yanked in my arms, pulling me belly-down across the dock. My injured shoulder and arm went loose, uncontrollably helpless. The rope slithered from my grasp into the water. The boat heaved. And was sucked away from the platform for good.

  I lay spread-eagled, facedown on the platform, watching the boat rasp into the pier. Even if I’d been a lifeguard, not in a million years could I get aboard it now. The tide was going to run it aground.

  I got to my feet and staggered for the stairs. The ocean boomed. The wind slapped the crane and hoists around above me.

  I climbed, fighting tears. My ribs and shoulder ached. Everything was screwed.

  And I had to hurry. Shaun was still coming. So were the sheriffs, but I couldn’t count on their getting here first. Eventually Jesse would realize that Devi had run off with the truck and he’d return, but I didn’t know when.

  Just that I’d have to tell him about P.J.

  He had wondered aloud how people dealt with finding a loved one’s body. What was he going to do when they found P.J.’s? A fat sob jumped up my throat. I climbed, hearing clattering and moans on the wind. Ghost hecklers.

  Or not. I looked around. Below the end of the pier where the hoist cables swung in the wind, I saw a big metal hook. Standing on it, clinging to the cable, was Murphy Ming. Staring at me. His varnished skull gleamed in the moonlight.

  He started climbing.

  I ran up the stairs and out onto the pier. Looking back at the hoist cable, I saw Murphy’s head and shoulders appear. The studs on his dog collar shone like nails.

  I’d never beat him to the beach. My ribs hurt like hell. I had to hide.

  Ahead were an oil pump and an equipment shack. Parked beside the pump was a flatbed truck stacked with drill casings. I ducked behind it.

  I stepped gingerly, barely able to see my footing, and set my foot down on a hose. It gave under my weight and I stumbled, hitting a valve assembly.

  I clambered onto the flatbed and crouched next to the drill casings. They were heavy steel, cold under my touch. In front of me was a set of chain tongs. They were a heavy tool, a long metal handle with a length of what looked like bicycle chain attached at the end. Rig crews used them as wrenches, but I could use them as a whip.

  By the edge of the pier, the oil pump thrummed and whined. Its rocker beam swung up twenty feet into the air and back down, as if the pump were a praying mantis dipping its head repeatedly for a drink.

  I heard Murphy running toward the flatbed. His footsteps slowed to a walk. I reached for the chain tongs and looked at the deck for a spot to jump down. I saw the hose I had tripped over.

  It wasn’t a hose. It was P.J.

  He was lying facedown near the flatbed. His Converse tennis shoes were untied. It made him look like a little kid.

  It took my breath away. I crouched there, unable to tear my eyes from his body. Gritting my broken teeth so I wouldn’t cry out loud. From the way his cargo pants sagged on his rear end, it was obvious that they were unzipped.

  Bastard. Son of a bitch. Suck-ass, pissing shithead Murphy.

  Heat soured in my gut. On the far side of the flatbed, Murphy’s footsteps stopped. He knew I was nearby. I picked up the chain tongs and the chain dragged across the flatbed, clinking.

  ‘‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’’ he said.

  His voice was moving. I held my breath.

  ‘‘This can go easy or hard. Your choice.’’

  He stepped around the flatbed. He had a revolver in his right hand. He bent down and grabbed P.J.’s ankle.

  ‘‘Why don’t I show you what’s gonna happen if I have to hunt for you any longer?’’

  He began dragging P.J.’s body, looking around. He saw me. The heat, the arrow of grief, my fear and rage erupted. I stood up, raised the tongs over my shoulder, and swung the chain.

  39

  Twelve minutes.

  Now, counting it, I know that’s how long it took from the time Marc and I crashed through the gate till the end with Murphy. I don’t drink a beer in twelve minutes.

  But that night, adrenaline frenzy drove me out of my skin. I couldn’t reconstruct the choreography if my life depended on it. But it had.

  Murphy stepped around the flatbed. The chain whipped down, hitting him across the shoulders. He staggered in pain. I swung again, hysterically, aiming for the gun in his hand.

  I missed.

  He should have killed me. He had a prizewinning shot. But the chain had wrapped around his neck, and instinct made him claw at it. I pulled up as hard as I could, choking him.

  He swung the gun around, aiming in my general direction. His empty gaze centered on me. I leaped off the flatbed, holding on to the chain tongs. He gurgled. His hands clawed at his throat. The chain had tangled in the studs of his leather dog collar.

  He was fighting for breath, but I knew I couldn’t hold him. His strength was immense. I might as well have grabbed the tail of an F/A-18 as it took the catapult shot off a carrier deck. Damned if I held on, damned if I let go.

  I had to secure him to something, now. And it was right there.

  The oil pump, rocking up and down, humming and squeaking, pulling the pump cables that ran down into the well. I yanked him back, off balance. The head of the pump rocked down. I jammed the handle of the tongs through the rigging of the pump cables and twisted, lodging it there.

  The pump rose. Murphy went up with it, hanging from the chain.

  His legs jerked. His body spun. I watched, thinking, So help me, I just hanged a man. Feeling deep, crazed numbness, and disbelief that his greasy body wasn’t wrapping itself around me. I stumbled back, watching with horrified fascination.

  The pump rocked down. Murphy’s feet landed square on the deck, releasing the pressure on his neck. He reached over
head and scrambled to dislodge the chain from the rigging. The pump rocked up. He gagged and jerked into the air again. But though he writhed he held on to the chain, keeping himself from strangling.

  He raised the gun over his head and fired, trying to shoot the chain.

  That was when fight-or-flight made me crazy. Firearms and oil wells: Don’t try this at home. I scrambled away from him, around the flatbed. He fired another shot. It pinged off the pump.

  And the pier began to rattle, like a faint drumroll. I looked toward the beach. A single headlight was driving toward us. It was Shaun.

  I was so hellaciously tired. And God the lousy comedian had an infinite supply of jokes.

  The motorcycle was still almost half a mile away. He couldn’t see me yet. There was only one place left to hide—behind the equipment shed, on the edge of the pier. I ran and hunkered down against the wall, a foot from the drop. My teeth were chattering from the cold. My hands were numb. The wind ran through my hair.

  Murphy had stopped shooting. I hesitated to look, but the oil pump was just beyond the corner of the shed. I stretched, and peeked.

  He was still swinging from the chain tongs. Alive. He had shoved the revolver in his jeans and was holding frantically to the pump cables with both hands, doing a pull-up. When the pump swung down, he planted his feet on the deck and fought to disentangle himself. When it rose he rode it up, keeping the pressure off his neck.

  The motorcycle cruised closer. The headlight couldn’t reach me behind the shed, but I heard the bike rumble along the pier, driving carefully over the planks. The sound dimmed for a moment as it passed the far side of the shed. Shaun was heading for the boat landing.

  Murphy grunted. I turned my head, saw his feet on the deck, his hands jerking at the tongs. He was watching me.

  Up he went.

  The motorcycle stopped. It idled a second, and the engine shut down. I heard Shaun’s voice.

  ‘‘Murphy. Holy shit.’’