“Well, I’m pleased to meet you gentlemen,” Blunt said. “And thank you for keeping our streets safe, but, man, I gotta get back—”
“There’s been a noise complaint,” the same man said.
“Couldn’t have been me, sir. I’ve been—”
The zap and hiss of a stun gun scratched the air. Blunt’s feet shuffled, and his knees locked. He hit the concrete floor like a rotten tree caught in a windstorm, and it was a miracle he didn’t bust into a million pieces.
With him lying on the floor, DJ caught a good look at his face. His eyes whirled back in their sockets, and a trickle of spit ran from his mouth.
Instinctively, DJ ripped the Glock out from his jeans. They were here for a shakedown. Probably to rob Blunt. He fingered the trigger, but his better senses took hold—shooting at the three men who were now coming into the garage was the same as shooting himself. Each man had a handgun holstered on his hip. Three-to-one odds weren’t in DJ’s favor.
A better opportunity would come whistling past. Maybe one or two of them would split off. They had to know what Blunt kept in the house, so they’d want to go hunting around for his stash. Splitting from each other would be the last mistake the three of them ever made.
The leader snapped his fingers, and the other two guys sprang into action. Both were in jeans, one with long legs like a spider’s, and the other with short, powerful legs more like DJ’s—except this guy still had every bit of both of his.
They lifted Blunt off the floor by his arms. A finger of blood cast out from his mouth like a fishing line as they got him to his feet and held him up between them. Then they walked Blunt from right to left while he muttered. Their leader yanked the garage door down.
“Better hold onto your breath, muchacho. You’re gonna need it,” one of the cops holding Blunt said as they sat him down beside a stack of window air conditioning units in the corner. He went along with it, putting an arm around one of the units to better hold himself up.
Blunt’s docility surprised DJ. He was probably dazed from the shock, but he should be fighting like hell. If DJ were getting roughed up by these jokers, they’d have to chop off his other leg and rip his arms out of their sockets before they’d get him down to a manageable level.
In his moment of fantasizing about maiming the bad guys, DJ lost track of the leader cop. The other two remained near Blunt on the left side of the garage, standing over him like a vague threat, but the leader was where?
The only logical place was the computer. DJ slid back, careful not to knock down the walls of his makeshift spider hole. The gap behind the fridge was only wide enough for him to slip through sideways, so he leaned on his right elbow, putting it to the ground and lying on his right side.
Peering around the corner of the fridge, he saw the back of the leader cop, standing at the counter with the computer. He was a white guy with slicked-back brown hair, average height and build, wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans.
“Hey, Bobby, where do you keep the rest of your files?”
When Blunt didn’t answer quickly enough, DJ heard a sound like a slab of meat getting slapped onto a counter by the butcher. Blunt sputtered.
“The officer asked you a question, acho.” This second cop had a thick Puerto Rican accent—not that the leader didn’t have one—but this second cop might as well have been talking through a mouthful of mofongo.
“Computer,” Blunt coughed out.
“Figured that.” The leader cop moved to his left, following Blunt’s rental counter until he was on the other side, showing DJ his face.
DJ’s nerves froze. He knew this man.
Back at Jerry’s house, Gabriela talked about the murderer who’d killed the Markels and burnt their home down. She’d said he looked like Christian Bale from American Psycho—and DJ took it as kind of a joke. An assessment of the guy’s mental state.
Gabriela hadn’t been joking.
The leader cop had his hair combed back on his head, a chiseled jaw and—lending some truth to Gabriela’s impression of him—a face dressed with the kind of cruel indifference found in guys like Ted Bundy or Charles Manson.
“You don’t keep no paper records? Nothing in a filing cabinet? Nothing like that?” Christian Bale patted the top of the machine.
“No, man,” Blunt said. “I’m trying to save paper.”
“What a good guy,” Christian said. “Saving the trees.” He locked eyes with his subordinates, then nodded.
A struggle kicked off on the other side of the garage.
Carefully but quickly, DJ skittered to his spot behind the entertainment center. The other two cops had pulled Blunt off the stack of AC units and to his feet again. One of the air conditioners tumbled off, but nobody seemed concerned. They were all kicking and shuffling their feet, jockeying for position.
A length of rope hit the floor. Not a coil of it, or a tangle, but one bitter end.
They were tying Blunt up—no, they were doing worse. Spider slipped a hangman’s noose over Blunt’s neck, and the third cop tossed the other end of the rope over the bare rafters in the garage, then, worked the line down, hand over hand, until it was almost tight as a violin string.
DJ kept his eyes glued to the other men. As soon as somebody split off, he had to make his move.
“I ain’t worth it, man, I ain’t!” Blunt pleaded. “Please, you boys take what you like, and I won’t give you an ounce of trouble. I’ll keep my mouth shut—I won’t talk to a soul.”
“You’re a kind soul, Mr. Blount,” Christian said. “You have our appreciation.”
Spider Legs picked up the end of the rope. He took a couple steps around Blount, stopping behind him. DJ couldn’t see what his hands were doing.
“Ready,” one of the cops said.
“Fellas, if you want money, I’ll tell you where I keep my stash. You take it and you go. Never gonna see me again. Nope. Not ever. If I’m not paying my taxes or if somebody wants my territory—they can have it. I’m out. I’m done. Scout’s honor.”
Christian dragged a chair across the floor. The legs howled like a pair of stuck warthogs running through the brush, until the guy stopped, setting the chair next to Blunt.
“Bobby, all three of us appreciate the offer, but we’re not here for scratch. We’re making plenty as it is, and frankly, getting too greedy is a risk as real as any today. A lot of people could save themselves a lot of heartache if they simply lived within their means. Understand?”
Christian Bale waited for an answer. Blunt’s heavy breaths choked away the silence in the garage.
“Sure,” Blunt finally said.
“You don’t really understand, I know. Not enough people do.” He patted the seat of the chair. “Why don’t you step up here, Bobby?”
Sweat trickled down DJ’s back as he watched Blount look between Christian and the chair. Fight, Bobby. Fight like hell. You got nothing to lose.
But, slowly, Blunt put one foot on the chair. Then, with the help of the two cops who put the noose around his neck, he stepped the other foot up. Now, DJ only saw Bobby from the belt down.
“That’s good, Bobby.” Christian twirled his fingers, signaling the other two men to pull the rope tighter. “I want you to know that none of this is personal. If I could let you off for good behavior, I would—because you’ve been as good as they come, Bobby. But, man, the lady paying us says you gotta go, so you gotta go.
“Pull him!” Christian bellowed.
His two cronies pulled the rope tight as it’d go. Bobby wheezed, and his heels lifted off the chair, but he kicked off a flip flop while his toes tried desperately to keep contact with it.
“He’s a ballerina!” Spider laughed. Christian chuckled.
“I’ll save your dignity, Bobby.” Christian kicked the chair over. It clattered to the ground. “Hold him up, boys.”
While the third cop held tight to the rope, Spider grabbed the slack from the floor, found a sturdy-looking pipe running up the wall, and tied the rope on.
“Alright,” Spider said. The third cop let go of the rope.
Blunt’s feet dangled where the chair had been, kicking furiously.
His heavy breathing twisted into a strained noise. Not a grunt, or a yelp, but a mixture of the two. Then no sound came from Bobby’s throat, just the swish of clothes and popping of joints over the echoes of all three men laughing.
“Look at him go! Look at him kick!” One of the cops howled. “Keep fighting boy, keep fighting!”
They were killing DJ’s friend. He was half a dozen steps away, and even with a gun in his hand, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
Before long, the noises coming from Blunt grew more distant and less urgent, until they were not the sounds of a man fighting for his life, but of a man accepting his death and of a body turning off the last few switches before the door was barred and locked forever. The long silence was louder than the thundering of DJ’s heart.
“Man, what a dancer!” Spider broke into a laughing fit.
DJ would’ve kicked over the press-board entertainment center and charged at them headlong, but the soldier in him knew that would be a tactical mistake commensurate with suicide. He swore to himself, in that dusty space between Blunt’s broken fridge and the moldy garage wall, that he would do this right. He would take his time; he would find these bastards one by one—catch one sleeping off a hangover and another lying in bed with his girlfriend—and he’d blow their heads off.
“Get the computer,” Christian barked.
The third cop walked toward Blunt’s rental counter. DJ lost sight of him somewhere off to the right.
“Is the body good?” Spider asked.
“It’ll be fine,” Christian responded. “Nobody’s gonna look too hard into it, once they find the drugs and cash.”
And with that business handled, the two of them walked across the garage to join the third cop with the computer.
Their footsteps came closer to DJ. He turned toward the fridge, waiting for them to pass the gap, offering any goodwill he still had with God for a chance, just one chance, to get a good look at all three of them.
The back door that led out to the patio—the door DJ had picked to get in here—opened and two of the three men slipped out. He caught a look at one of them and committed the man’s face to memory. They had started joking with each other, laughing about something that DJ didn’t catch.
Until Christian hissed at them, “Officer Dos Santos, shut your mouth!”
Christian walked out behind them, quietly pulling the door shut.
Dos Santos—two saints. Maybe God was listening, after all.
Now DJ was left in the garage, but not alone. Blunt was there, a memory that would always burn in quiet moments until, like a salve, the blood of three evil men was spread across it.
When he felt he’d waited long enough, DJ slipped through the gap between the fridge and the wall. His feet were heavier, like Blunt’s ghost clung to his shoes.
Death was nothing new to DJ Martin. He had killed. He had seen men killed. He had helped other men kill and tried to keep men from dying who were beyond hope.
But none of those men were Robert Blount.
When he came around the fridge, he wasn’t prepared for what he’d find. If he ever managed to clean the greater part of the memory formed here, in Blunt’s garage, he would never lose the memory of his friend’s face as he saw it right now.
And DJ would never forget the name Dos Santos.
When I called Collat from Wayward’s flybridge, his replies were clipped, and he seemed a little eager to drag me to the end of the conversation. To say he sounded busy would have been an understatement. But he spared the time to meet up at the Puerto Del Rey marina in Fajardo—a region on the central east coast of Puerto Rico.
Puerto Del Rey had long been on my list of places to sail. But, with my work for Armstrong getting in the way of my lessons, I hadn’t gotten around to visiting. When Wayward motored us within sight of the place, I thought I’d be more excited to catch a glimpse of one of the largest marinas in the Caribbean.
My fear for Gabriela eclipsed any excitement I might’ve felt. Frankly, she looked guilty. She was the only person found at the scene of an arson and double murder. The boat DJ chased counted for something, but to some cops, simply having a person in-hand to take all the blame was enough, guilty or innocent. I hoped Collat wasn’t one of them.
We pulled up to the dock. The smell of coffee had awakened Alicia more than an hour ago, and she jumped out to help me drop fenders and secure Wayward after I’d backed in. I was just tying down the last line when I looked up and caught a glimpse into the salon.
Gabriela and Flor sat on the couch, their heads next to each other. I couldn’t begin to imagine what they were saying, and I had to wrestle with the fact that I was tearing them apart.
My sat phone rang in my pocket.
“This is Jerry.”
“Mr. Snyder, you’re late,” Collat said. “We agreed to meet at the marina office at eight a.m. sharp. Now, I’m here, pacing around like an idiot while you’re—where are you?”
I was on one knee, working on tying the last line, trying to reassure myself that I was making the smart move.
“Marina traffic was worse than I thought. I’ll be up in a couple of minutes.”
“And you have Miss Ramos in your custody?”
“Yessir.”
“Good.” Collat hung up.
Already off to a fantastic start. I walked aft on the dock, and caught Alicia tossing a spare coil of dock line into one of the cockpit compartments.
“Collat called.”
She looked up at me expectantly.
“He’s in a real cheery mood. I might have to punch him in the nose for his own good.”
“I’ll untie the lines.” She was only half-joking.
“Thanks. Keep Gabriela and Flor here,” I said. “But let Gabbie know I’m heading up to the marina office now. She’ll need to be ready to go on Collat’s schedule.”
Alicia smiled at me with no small amount of pity. I didn’t ever have to say a word about the things in my head when she was around—she read me better than anyone I knew. The day I asked her to marry me, she’d figured out I was proposing before we even set foot on the beach in Big Sur.
“I’ll convince him to let us keep Gabbie in our custody,” I said. “I have to.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“My hope is that Collat interviews Gabriela about last night, I tell him about Dr. Markel’s connection with Luc Baptiste, and the police re-open the investigation into Luc’s murder with Collat in charge. If they do that, we sail off into the sunset with Gabbie and Flor no worse for the wear.”
“And what’re you hoping against?” Alicia asked.
“Revenge,” I said. “Collat was close with Luc Baptiste. He wants someone to blame, and Gabriela might prove too tempting to pass up.”
Alicia shook her head. “He wouldn’t do that, would he?”
“I wish I could rule it out,” I said. “All I can say for sure is I’m going to do my best.”
She smiled, taking pity on me.
“You are. You always have, and you always will. Don’t forget that.” Her fingers played with the zipper at the bottom of her coat. She looked back at the salon—at Gabriela and Flor. “We know you’ll come through—they know it.”
I nodded. I stepped on Wayward’s swim platform and took my sat phone out of my coat pocket.
“I’ll call you from the marina office when it’s time to bring her out.”
Alicia’s hand slowly brushed over mine as she took the phone. For a half-second, my spirit was buoyant—none of the things weighing on me could keep me down forever. Not with her at my side.
“You’re a good man, Jerry.”
Wayward bounced slightly after I stepped from the swim platform onto the dock. I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets and turned to my left.
This meeting with Collat
would take massaging. After nearly forty-eight hours of work, I didn’t have anything that would satisfy him, except Gabriela.
Up the hill in front of the marina, I crossed over a short drive leading to a boat ramp, then went around the south side of the building. Here, I came to the main entrance—a set of double-wide glass doors with boat anchors for handles.
Inside, a girl about ten years younger than me smiled from behind the front desk. Her hair was jet black, shining and straight as a boom line. Even for a Puerto Rican, she had a rich tan.
“Are you the captain of Wayward?” she asked.
“I am.” I approached the desk, reaching for my wallet in my back pocket. To my right sat a couple of shelves with boating utilities—spare lines, oil, filters, spark plugs, and other items.
I spotted Collat to the left, seated in a lounge chair near a window overlooking the marina, one hand holding a small cup of coffee, the other pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyes.
“How long will you be staying?” the girl at the counter asked me.
“Only need a day pass,” I said. “Guess I’d like a refuel too.”
“Of course. Do you know how many gallons?”
I looked at Wayward’s mast gently rocking with the current.
“Honestly, it’s a brand-new boat. I shouldn’t have taken it out, except my wife and I couldn’t stand it anymore.”
She cracked a smile and a laugh tumbled out.
“We get that a lot. If you’d like to give me a credit or debit card, I’ll have one of our dock attendants fill up the tank.”
I slipped her my AmEx Black Card. After she swiped the card, then handed it back to me, I veered to my left. Collat still had one hand around his cup of coffee, the other to his eyes.
“Are you always late to a meeting, Mr. Snyder?” he said without moving.
“Only when it’s inconvenient.” I pulled up a chair to face him, then sat down. The scent of bacon wafted in the air. Behind the detective, a hostess standing at a podium was talking to a young family.
A stack of plates clinked somewhere farther down.
Wayward Sons Page 23
