Jericho Point

by Meg Gardiner

  Though I pressed myself against the wall of the shed, I couldn’t help but turn my head and peek around the corner of the building. I saw Shaun hop over the valve assembly and trot to the oil pump. Murphy came down.

  ‘‘Power,’’ he groaned. Back up.

  Shaun watched Murphy’s feet swing into the air. ‘‘You want me to shut down the power?’’

  Murphy reached the apex, feet twirling above Shaun’s head, and came back down. ‘‘There.’’

  He pointed. At the edge of the shed, where I was hiding.

  Shaun spread his hands. ‘‘Hang on. I’ll cut the power.’’

  Murphy was jerked off his feet. His finger lingered, aimed at me, for just a second. His eyes were holes. He grabbed the cables. The pump hit its apex.

  Shaun climbed over the pipes. ‘‘Here it is.’’

  He hit the emergency shutoff switch. The pump stopped—just past the apex, on the downswing. Murphy’s inertia ripped his hands loose from the cables. He swung, feet pinwheeling, spinning, letting out a strangled roar. His hands tried to reach the cables again, but missed.

  I pushed myself back against the wall of the shed. The sounds twisted the air for long seconds, and stopped. I turned my head. Shaun was watching Murphy dangle from the chain.

  ‘‘Lights out, shithead,’’ he said.

  A female voice said, ‘‘Jesus, shut up with the punch lines. You’re not funny.’’

  It was Sinsa. She had to be riding pillion on the bike. Shaun must have picked her up before he reached the beach—no wonder it took him so long to get here.

  ‘‘Stop smiling, Shaun, that’s sick.’’ Footsteps. ‘‘Fine, stand there preening. I’m going to find out the deal with Delaney and this supposed money.’’

  He spread his hands. ‘‘Don’t be such a bitch. Sin—’’ ‘‘You blew the chance to get her downtown on the bus. You’d better be right that she’s out here.’’

  ‘‘Of course she’s out here.’’ He waved at Murphy. ‘‘What do you think happened to him?’’

  ‘‘Shit.’’ Her boots clunked across the planks, faster. ‘‘Then she’s either somewhere in this junk or she’s down on the boat. Find her. And don’t let her get away.’’ Her voice receded.

  Shaun stood for a moment, looking around. The wind feathered his tangles. He crouched and peered under the flatbed truck. He stood and looked up at the top of the oil pump. He watched Murphy dangle. He took a deep breath. He seemed to be relishing the sight of it.

  Distantly on the night came the sound of tires humming over the road. I laid my head back against the weathered wood of the shed. Cops. Or Jesse. But someone was coming. Just stay here, I thought. Just stay quiet. Don’t move. Make yourself a mouse, an ant, a speck of dust, invisible. Help will come.

  Shaun flipped the power switch. Murphy swung down like a sock puppet. When the body came down, eye to sightless eye, Shaun lifted the revolver from the waistband of Murphy’s pants.

  I crept to the corner of the shed facing the beach. A single car was coming. Fast. No flashing lights or siren. It bucked over the rise in the road and sheared down toward the pier. Sliding sideways, not backing off the power.

  Damn, Jesse knew how to make an entrance. Did they teach that at stupid-ass driving school?

  I couldn’t see Shaun, but I knew he had to hear the engine too. I was going to have to time this right— when Jesse came close enough, run to the Mustang and hop in. He’d have to back it off the pier, fast, to keep out of Shaun’s firing range. I gauged the distance.

  Behind me I heard a choking sound. I turned my head. Murphy was going up and down on the pump like a yo-yo, hanging limp. He was dead.

  The choking sound again. It was coming from the deck, near the flatbed. And then I saw movement, no more than a twitch.

  It was P.J. He was alive.

  40

  P.J. twitched again. He made a choking sound, and his arms flailed. I felt astonished, joyful, and instantly horrified. Shaun’s footsteps headed for the noise. P.J. was struggling to sit up.

  Endgame. Brawn wouldn’t work; running away wouldn’t work. The only way out was straight ahead, finishing what I’d started with Shaun.

  I stood up, counted to three, and strode out from behind the shed.

  ‘‘We’re too late. The money’s gone.’’

  He turned and aimed the revolver at me. ‘‘And you’re full of shit. P.J.’s not home having a beer. He’s right here.’’

  ‘‘You still can’t tell them apart, can you? That’s Jesse.’’

  My mouth was so dry, my lips so numb, I was surprised I could speak. ‘‘You should have come with me earlier. And you should not have brought Sinsa with you now.’’

  P.J. was fumbling around, uncoordinated. He tried to get to his hands and knees, but his pants were coming down. The Mustang’s headlights swelled. I walked out to the center of the pier, where Jesse would be able to see me.

  ‘‘What in fuck happened here?’’ Shaun said.

  ‘‘It went bad.’’

  He looked doubtful. He aimed the gun at P.J. ‘‘What’s Jesse doing here?’’

  ‘‘He tried to get the money back for the law firm. Leave him. He’s not worth worrying over.’’

  The gun remained aimed at P.J.

  ‘‘Shaun, don’t waste a bullet on a frickin’ lawyer.’’

  He pointed at the headlights, now racing toward us. ‘‘Who’s that?’’

  ‘‘It’s your proof.’’

  ‘‘Of what?’’

  ‘‘That Sinsa double-crossed you.’’

  I balled my hands inside the pockets of my coat so that he couldn’t see me shaking like a popcorn popper. I glanced at the end of the pier. Sinsa had gone down to the dock. But she wouldn’t stay down for long.

  ‘‘She’s setting you up to take the fall for killing Ricky. And then she’s looking to get the big bonus.’’

  The headlights approached, illuminating Shaun’s face. ‘‘Bonus? What bonus?’’

  ‘‘Selling the story to Hollywood.’’

  ‘‘You’re wack,’’ he said.

  Okay, leap of intuition. ‘‘She filmed it, Shaun. Ricky’s murder.’’

  ‘‘No. No, she didn’t. She refused.’’

  Grab the thread. ‘‘Wrong. She just didn’t want you to be the one to get possession of the tape. She wanted an exclusive.’’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘‘You’re fucking with me.’’

  ‘‘There’re CCTV cameras all over Green Dragons. You didn’t know? Karen installed fiber-optics everywhere, to keep tabs on Sinsa. You know how tight she keeps Sinsa’s leash, right?’’

  He grabbed a glance at the stairs. ‘‘She got it on video?’’

  ‘‘Of course she did. And she’s got big plans for that video.’’

  ‘‘The cops? Fuck, that would implicate her too.’’

  ‘‘No. Think, Shaun, who’s on the video? What will it show?’’

  His face seemed to go blank. ‘‘Oh, fuck. Fuck her bitch ass. It’ll show her punching me, make it look like . . .’’

  ‘‘Like what?’’

  ‘‘Like she was trying to stop me. Fuck her. I don’t believe it.’’

  ‘‘Believe it. She plans to sell the tape, big-time. A major studio. Or cable, if the story’s fading. And you won’t get a voice in it. They’ll get some B-lister to play you. Some soap actor. Or a boy-band singer.’’

  ‘‘No, no, no.’’

  ‘‘And she gets all the money. And all the credit.’’ His shoulders swelled. He shook his head and swung the revolver up at my face.

  ‘‘You’re lying. Prove it. Show me proof,’’ he said.

  P.J. crawled out from under the flatbed truck.

  The headlights of the Mustang hit us full force. The engine growled and the car braked to a stop. I couldn’t see beyond the lights, but I knew Jesse could see everything that was going on.

  ‘‘Put the gun down. If you use it on me, you’ll waste the last bullet and never get the
money.’’

  Ping, his eyes went wide. He stared at the gun, and at me, and at the car. He lowered the gun and flipped open the cylinder to check the bullets. I couldn’t see how many were in fact loaded, and the fuzzy expression on Shaun’s face didn’t tell me much either way.

  I looked at the car. I jittered my knee the way P.J. always did and lifted my chin in greeting, his way.

  For a moment we held there, a frieze. Under the blinding high beams, we couldn’t see more than a silhouette. Shaun put his hand up, shading his eyes.

  Jesse opened the door and got out. Hauling himself up, he stood next to the car, leaning heavily against the roof. With the sun-white glare, it looked as though he was casually hanging a hand on the door. We could barely see his face.

  ‘‘I’m just here to pick them up, dude. Okay?’’ he said.

  Shaun’s face shaded into rage. ‘‘Fuck the bitch.’’

  He turned around just as Sinsa came up the stairs. I pointed Jesse back into the car and ran for P.J.

  Shaun walked toward her. ‘‘Lying traitor.’’

  I grabbed P.J. and pulled him, crawling, toward the car. His breathing was slow and labored. His pupils were pencil dots. He made it to the edge of the pier, put a hand on the railroad tie, and tried to stand. He collapsed on the deck like gelatin.

  ‘‘Something’s weird.’’ He looked at his cargo pants and the undone zipper. ‘‘Oh, man.’’ A moment of pain erupted on his face. He bent double.

  Sinsa and Shaun were striding toward each other.

  ‘‘Shaun, what’s wrong with you? It’s Delaney. Do her,’’ Sinsa said.

  ‘‘She was telling the truth. P.J. wasn’t being held out here. You lying bitch.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean? That’s him right there.’’ She waved. ‘‘Peej.’’

  P.J. pulled himself up onto the railroad tie. ‘‘Sin?’’

  Checkmate.

  Shaun stopped, swung the gun around, and aimed it at P.J.’s head. Out of time, out of luck, out of everything. There was only one thing to do.

  I yelled to Jesse. ‘‘Go.’’

  I pushed P.J. over the edge.

  He dropped like a stone. Shaun gaped. Shouting, ‘‘Shit,’’ he fired down at him. I leaped from the pier into the night.

  Air surrounded me. I flung my arms wide, feeling the cold, sensing my feet swing out. How high, thirty feet? Falling through the wind at the black ocean roaring below me.

  I hit. Hard, like getting whacked with a door right in the ribs, and I went down into harsh cold, solid dark. The air bubbled out of my mouth.

  I kicked for the surface. My clothes dragged on my limbs. My boots filled with water. I broke the surface gasping, mouth wide, and inhaled seawater. I coughed, choking, and my head slipped under. I kicked maniacally back up. Hacked and spit. The wind sheared water across my face. My ribs were stabbing with pain. I couldn’t breathe in.

  ‘‘P.J.’’

  Nothing. The water heaved, lifting me. I could hear it rushing through the pier. But that was all—I didn’t hear the Mustang. Shit. Jesse had to get out of there.

  Above on the pier, Sinsa’s voice cut through the wind. ‘‘Hey, stupid.’’

  ‘‘I’m not stupid.’’ I heard Shaun’s footsteps. ‘‘Calling me names when I’m holding the gun, that’s stupid.’’

  What had happened to Jesse? And where was P.J.? The water lifted me. The pier was far above, the water deep below. So deep, the thirsty mouth of the earth. I floundered around and looked toward the beach. Jesus God, it was three time zones away. Panic cinched around me.

  Beyond me in the dark I heard thrashing. A swell passed, dropping me into the trough. There was P.J., wallowing.

  I splashed toward him. He was ten feet away, toward shore. The tide was going in. I went with it, my legs kicking like stones, and grabbed his hand. He sank. I scissored my legs, holding on to his arm, and brought him back up.

  He looked at me, terrified. ‘‘Evan?’’

  ‘‘I gotcha.’’

  Above us Shaun cried, ‘‘You were going to go public and take the credit.’’

  A gunshot cut through the wind and the roar of the ocean. On the far side of a pier came a splash. Body-sized. God, why didn’t I hear the Mustang?

  I had to get P.J. to shore. Get behind him, I knew that much. Turn him on his back. Cup a hand under his chin to keep his head above water, and so he couldn’t grab me in a panic and take us both down.

  I slung my arm around him. Water washed over our faces. I choked. He didn’t. Shit, the heroin was suppressing his respiratory system. Could he drown without even submerging? Frantically I felt for the naltrexone. It was still jammed in the pocket of my T-shirt, but I couldn’t possibly give it to him now.

  Half a mile to the beach. Five minutes earlier I’d assessed that I couldn’t run that far. Swimming that far would be immensely harder. But I didn’t have to make the beach—I could swim back to the boat landing platform. Waiting for a swell, I looked. It was about eighty yards behind us, farther than I’d thought. The tide was giving us a real run. Terror, like a smooth, cold sheet of metal, planed through me.

  My arms were stiff with the cold. My legs were burning with the effort of merely treading water. I had to get my clothes and boots off.

  ‘‘P.J., keep your head back and spread your arms. Float faceup.’’

  He must have heard me, because he did it. Kicking hard, I slipped off my coat. Then I fought my feet out of the cowboy boots. The water slid us into a trough. I unzipped my jeans and wrestled them down. For a jarring second I went below the surface with my Levi’s around my knees, binding me so I couldn’t kick. My chest went tight. I shoved them off and scissored back up.

  The wind bit into me. P.J. was ten feet away again. In the time it had taken me to strip down, the tide had carried him farther away from the platform. I dog-paddled to him. I was seriously, crazily scared. I floundered with him, paddling into the wind, swallowing water.

  Above on the pier, the motorcycle buzzed to life. The headlight came on.

  Swim, I told myself. Ninety yards to the dock. Jesus, I hated the ocean. If I got out of the water tonight, I was moving to the desert. The Gobi. The Sahara. China frickin’ Lake. I kicked, I paddled. I looked. The dock was farther away.

  The motorcycle cruised the edge of the pier. The headlight swung back and forth. Somebody was searching for us.

  P.J. looked up. ‘‘That’s my bike.’’

  ‘‘Shaun and Sinsa brought it.’’

  ‘‘Shaun wants to kill me.’’

  ‘‘We’re not going to let him do that.’’ I kicked. My quads were burning.

  ‘‘Because of Britt,’’ he said.

  ‘‘He killed Britt, P.J.’’

  He blinked. ‘‘I know.’’ His voice was distant. ‘‘He shut the door.’’

  The wind sheared water across my face. I kicked for the platform. And abruptly I realized what he had just said.

  ‘‘That night at the party—you saw Shaun shut the bedroom door?’’

  ‘‘Never thought he’d . . .’’ He breathed. ‘‘Never do it.’’

  His voice trailed off. I tightened my arm around him.

  ‘‘P.J.’’ Oh, God. ‘‘You saw Shaun take Brittany in the bedroom to kill her?’’

  ‘‘Not my fault.’’

  The water lifted us. ‘‘What’s not?’’

  ‘‘Sin said.’’

  We sank into the trough of the wave. I felt twice as cold as I had a moment earlier.

  ‘‘Tell me what Sin said.’’

  He gazed nowhere, but seemed to be remembering. ‘‘Shaun’ll take it from there.’’

  ‘‘What, P.J.?’’

  He opened his mouth, seemingly waiting for the words to wind their way to his tongue. ‘‘I just got Britt to the party.’’

  Water washed over our faces. He gagged and went under. He came up gurgling, but still not coughing.

  I gritted my teeth. ‘‘Sin said that if you got
Britt to the party, Shaun would take it from there?’’

  He didn’t respond. I pinched him.

  ‘‘You knew that Shaun was going to kill her?’’ I said.

  ‘‘No. Gonna scare her.’’ His voice faded. ‘‘His friend . . .’’

  I felt ill with shock and disgust. But I couldn’t think about it. Pain seemed to catch him. His head went back and his chin slipped out from under my elbow. I clasped him, kicking, and slung my arm back around him. He was barely breathing. His face was pale, his eyes remote.

  ‘‘P.J. You can’t go to sleep.’’ If he dropped from consciousness, that was it. ‘‘Patrick John Blackburn. Wake up, jackass.’’

  I bit him on the ear.

  His mouth opened wide. ‘‘Ow.’’

  I took a big breath and kicked into the teeth of the wind. I had to make it to the dock. The water lifted us. I held P.J., feeling the ocean pull us up, up, waiting to pass the crest of the swell.

  And then I felt it tipping us backward. It was going to break and surf us toward the shore. I turned and looked.

  And slammed into a pier piling.

  Face-first, full frontal. Stars burst behind my eyes. P.J. was torn away from me. The water swept over my head and I felt what it had become. The black wing, shearing the night. Snapping our lives in two.

  A hand buried itself in my shirt and pulled me to the surface.

  ‘‘Evan.’’

  I hung, unmoored. The stars trailed across my vision like sparks ignited by the black wing. The hand gripped me against the drag of the waves.

  ‘‘Kick.’’

  I kicked. Jesse hauled me in.

  He was clinging to a pier piling with one arm, and to me with the other. He pulled me against his side.

  ‘‘Grab hold.’’

  I gripped the piling. I tried to speak, to say his name, and nothing came out.

  Tears scalded my eyes. ‘‘P.J.’’

  ‘‘I see him.’’

  He sliced away into the ink under the pier. A wave rushed past, echoing off the wood around us. In its wake I heard another sound: the Suzuki, rolling slowly across the planks above our heads. I held the piling. Thirty seconds later Jesse swam back, hanging onto P.J. His stroke was strong but labored. His face was strained. P.J. looked incoherent.

  ‘‘That splash off the pier was you,’’ I said.