The Blue Edge of Midnight

by Jonathon King

  “What about the knives,” I said, and thought about the one I’d buried in Blackman’s throat.

  “I brung ’em home from the war,” he said. “I give a few out to some of my… acquaintances.”

  He put the bag down next to the bed and turned to go.

  “You might better keep that one there,” he said, nodding at the table where I could see he’d laid one of the German blades. Without another word he slipped out the door and was gone.

  I lay in the flicker of the lamplight for some time. My head spinning with Blackman’s mad defense of territory and survival, half dreaming of green water and the pale dead faces of children.

  I heard the motors first, deep downriver, the sound burbling and groaning through the trees and slipping through the dense fern and slowly growing loud.

  Then I saw the flashes of light through my windows and heard their careful voices. I felt the thunk against the dock piling and the tread of feet, more than a few, coming up.

  “Max?”

  It was Diaz, unsure of my sanity, not wanting to put himself or his people in danger if he’d totally misjudged me.

  “Max? You in there?”

  “I’m here,” I called out, my voice weak and watery.

  I heard him whispering.

  “It wasn’t me, Diaz. You’re going to have to trust me,” I said, trying to reassure him.

  I lay still, knowing movement would only spook them. Diaz finally came through the door, low, following the muzzle of his own 9mm. I didn’t move. Sudden movement only makes them shoot you.

  “Sorry I can’t get up and spread ’em,” I said, looking yet again at the wrong end of a gun.

  “Christ, Max,” Diaz said, holstering his gun.

  Richards was the second cop in. The kerosene light caught several strands of blond hair that had come loose under her baseball cap. Behind her was an officer I’d never seen before. He was carrying an MP5 assault rifle, standard issue for SWAT teams. All three of them were wearing bulletproof vests.

  “We’re clear inside,” the SWAT officer said into a radio microphone that was Velcroed to his shoulder. “Looks like we’re gonna need an evac litter and a med tech up here.”

  Richards popped on a flashlight and sat down in the chair next to me. She did a once-over with the light, stopping at the crude splint and then moving it on to the blood-soaked pants leg.

  “Bullet wound?” she said, probably knowing the answer. I could smell her perfume, so odd in this setting that it didn’t take much to stand out.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve got some bad habits, Freeman,” she said, but I could see the small smile at the corners of her mouth.

  More SWAT officers appeared in the door, their night- vision goggles hanging loose around their necks. They called Diaz over and spoke in low voices.

  “Christ!”

  He gave them some instructions and came back to stand over me.

  “They found another body upstream. This one looks like a knife to the throat.”

  He said it as information to her and a question to me.

  “Blackman,” I said and then went into a spasm of coughing from the effort.

  “He the shooter?” Diaz said.

  All I could do was nod.

  “All right, Max, let’s get you out of here. Hammonds is going to have to hear this firsthand.”

  They loaded me onto a litter, got me down the steps and then into a Florida Marine Division boat. A med tech had cut away the backwoods splint and encased my arm in an inflatable cast. My leg wound was bandaged and wrapped tight. I heard them say something about blood loss. I was drifting in and out again. I thought I heard other boats but the rocking set my head sloshing even more. Spotlights were slashing through the trees. Radios were crackling with traffic. There were too many people in my shack, too many on the river. I heard the grumble of engines and watched again as the canopy sailed by.

  Sometime down the river, I thought I recognized the spot where Cleve’s boat had been. The trees around it were draped in yellow tape. From low in the boat I had lost the moon and I asked where it was and my voice sounded like I was speaking into the bottom of a pail.

  “What?” It was Richards.

  “Where’s the moon?” I said again.

  “What?” She bent her cheek to my lips.

  “The moon. Where’s the moon?”

  “Save your strength, Max,” she said, and squeezed my hand.

  I thought I saw red and blue lights flashing at the boat ramp, spinning like a carnival ride. I thought I saw people standing in line to see. I thought I saw a black Chevy Suburban and I was sure that I was lost.

  CHAPTER 26

  Richards was right about my bad habits, hospitals and gunshot wounds among them. This time I stayed at least half conscious through most of it; watched the paramedics hover over me in the ambulance, taking vital signs and pushing IVs, felt the rocking back and forth with the turns and stops and slow-downs and accelerations through every intersection, heard the siren whining and then chattering through traffic.

  I was awake when they wheeled me into the E.R. of yet another hospital; saw the ugly fluorescent lights, heard the rake of curtains on steel rods, listened to the repeated questions that I could hear but could not get my throat to answer. I heard a doctor ask the paramedic if this was it.

  “Yeah, the rest were dead at the scene,” he said.

  I was conscious when they dug the bullet out of my thigh, heard them comment on how shallow it had penetrated into the muscle, heard the metal click into a hard plastic container, heard someone speculate on how misshapen the round was and that it must have hit something first and tumbled.

  “Made a messy entrance wound, though,” I heard the doctor say. “Not nearly as clean as this old one.” And I felt his cold gloved finger touch the scar tissue on my neck.

  I was awake when they x-rayed my arm, heard the metallic buzz and clack of the machine. Heard the orthopedic guy say, “Jesus, these guys didn’t try to set this in the field, did they?”

  I guess I slept some then. I still did not want to close my eyes, but they must have slipped something into my blood to make me sleep.

  I was in another hospital room when I awoke. Sunlight was pouring through a window and painting an obtuse rectangle of light on the wall. Hammonds was sitting in a chair at the end of the bed, looking down at his folded hands. I watched him for several minutes before I cleared my throat and spoke.

  “You need me?” I said, the words coming out softer than I wanted them to.

  He looked up without lifting his head and met my eyes.

  “No,” he said. “Probably not anymore.”

  He stayed in the chair and talked. His tie was pulled tight. His elbows rested on his knees and his hands remained folded as he talked.

  They’d recovered my 9mm from the river bottom just below the dam. Forensics was doing a ballistics test and lifting prints. They had also recovered the GPS unit from my shack and printed that.

  Blackman’s body was at the morgue and the preliminary cause of death was a knife wound to the throat. The M.E. had noted that the cut appeared to have been made with a blade similar in style to the one used on the Alvarezes’ dog.

  Hammonds looked up at me when he said this, and this time I looked away.

  “We also collected a certain piece of cutlery from the table in your, uh, home. I’ll assume you won’t mind that we run some tests on that particular piece?”

  I nodded my assent. There was a long awkward silence, but Hammonds wasn’t leaving. We were both trying to smooth some still rough stones.

  “We had Blackman down as a suspect for some time,” he finally said, talking into his hands. “We weren’t sure, but it was impossible to tail the guy. We couldn’t follow his movements, we couldn’t bring him out.”

  I could see the investigator’s hands start to tighten and then relax in a fidgety rhythm.

  “Then you came along and at first we thought we finally had an ac
complice coming out of the bucket. Then it looked more like you were set up. And after the plane thing, a target. After a while, we didn’t know which side you were on but we figured you might draw somebody out.”

  “Bait,” I said, with neither accusation nor surprise in my voice.

  “Better if he were after you than the kids,” Hammonds said flatly.

  “Even after Ashley?”

  “Ashley could have been our guy. But I couldn’t bet on it.”

  “So you gave him a little confidence with the press conference,” I said, trying to see his eyes.

  “Sometimes,” he said, looking up with no shame, “you have to use them.”

  I couldn’t tell if he meant me, the press, the system, or all of us. Hammonds finally stood up, re-tightened the knot of his tie and smoothed his jacket.

  “I know you’re thinking it wasn’t worth it. You could have stayed out of it. I could have locked you up and kept you out of it. Maybe the rangers would be alive,” he said, looking too tired for a man of any age. “But he would have kept feeding on the innocents, Max.”

  He reached out and offered his hand and I took it.

  “Now it is over,” he said and I watched him walk out of the room.

  A quiet minute after Hammonds left, Billy knocked at the door. He was followed by detectives Richards and Diaz. It was as if they were waiting for some sort of clearance from their boss.

  “You’re l-looking good,” Billy said, standing at the end of the bed, cynically shaking his head.

  “Good like runover dog shit,” Diaz said, putting a hand on the bed covers and smiling his big-toothed smile.

  It was Richards who stepped up to my side and touched my right arm just above the IV.

  “How you feeling, Freeman?” she said.

  “I’m OK,” I said, looking for a brief second into her eyes. Her closeness was making me nervous. She took her hand away and cupped her elbows.

  “Well, take your time lying here getting all that sweet nursing care,” Diaz said. “The press is going ape-shit out there and there’s no way to keep your name out of the public record.

  “Right now you’re a surviving victim who was wounded by some psycho committing a double homicide. Hammonds isn’t even linking it up with the kid killings yet.”

  I looked at Billy but he stayed silent, not willing to speculate with two cops standing there.

  “There’s some reporter out there whose name is Donna. Says she knows you,” Richards said, raising an eyebrow. I shook my head. “Says she’s not really pressing, but knows you’ve got a story and she’s willing to wait for it. I know I don’t have to tell you that those are the ones to look out for.”

  “In the meantime, we got a ton of paperwork to file,” Diaz said, butting in and giving me a reason to look away from his partner’s eyes.

  “You find any, uh, witnesses out there?” I whispered.

  “None. After you called about the rangers we moved as soon as we could. We came upriver and got to the Whaler. The second team came down from where you showed me your smashed-up canoe. They were all in night vision. Only thing they saw was Blackman’s body.”

  I knew the two SWAT teams coming in from both ends was a tactic that would have been used if they thought I’d gone psycho, killed the rangers and then holed up in my shack. I didn’t say anything. It was good police work. You can’t take it personally. But even with that kind of coverage and technical advantage, Nate Brown had slipped through unseen.

  “And how is Hammonds going to play Blackman’s death?” I finally asked, wondering if they even knew.

  “You put up a hell of a fight, Max,” Diaz said, his cop voice back on.

  I shook my head, thinking of Brown poling his skiff out over the Glades in the moonlight.

  “Anyway, Hammonds has already told us to find your pilot buddy Gunther,” Richards said. “Seems he left the hospital and disappeared. But we think he might have headed home to New York State. We’ll find him. It’s not so easy to hide in the civilized world. But I guess you knew that.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess I knew that.”

  Both of them turned to leave, but Richards hesitated at the doorway and caught me with her green gray eyes. For a heartbeat I thought I felt an old emotion start to flicker across the room and then I watched as she loosened a strand of her blond hair and tucked it in place behind her ear.

  “See ya,” she said, and slipped out the door.

  I heard Billy ask me if I was all right, maybe twice, before I finally turned to him as he pulled up a chair.

  “You are a l-low maintenance cl-client, Max. But a high maintenance f-f-friend.”

  I tightened my mouth to a grin and thanked him.

  “You m-may convalesce at m-my place,” he said. “Ms. McIntyre and I are g-going on vacation to Paris. She w-wants to walk the c-city.”

  I didn’t answer. I was staring at the sunlight painted on the wall and was already half in a dream. I must have been on the ocean because the horizon was curved and I could no longer hear the grinding. I must have been dreaming because I could feel a soft sea breeze and see Gulf Stream water the color of blue you could hold in the palm of your hand.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank magazine editor Dave Wieczorek for years of lessons, Russ and Marlene for allowing me a quiet place to write, Michael for his reading and guidance and, most of all, Lisa for her deep patience.

  A Biography of Jonathon King

  Jonathon King is the Edgar Award–winning author of the Max Freeman mystery series, which is set in south Florida, as well as a thriller and a historical novel.

  Born in Lansing, Michigan, in the 1950s, King worked as a police and court reporter for twenty-four years, first in Philadelphia until the mid-1980s and then in Fort Lauderdale. His time at the Philadelphia Daily News and Fort Lauderdale’s South Florida Sun-Sentinel greatly influenced the creation of Max Freeman, a hardened former Philadelphia police officer who relocates to south Florida to escape his dark past. King began writing novels in 2000, when he used all the vacation days he accrued as a reporter to spend two months alone in a North Carolina cabin. During this time, he wrote The Blue Edge of Midnight (2002), the first title in the Max Freeman series. The novel became a national bestseller and won the Edgar Award for Best First Mystery Novel by an American Author. A Visible Darkness (2004), the series’ second installment, highlights Max’s mission to identify a dark serial killer stalking an impoverished community. Shadow Men (2004), the third in the series, revolves around Max’s investigation of an eighty-year-old triple homicide, and A Killing Night (2005) tells the story of a murder investigation in which the prime suspect is Max’s former mentor. After finishing A Killing Night, his fourth book, King left journalism to become a full-time novelist.

  Since 2005, King has published his fifth and sixth Max Freeman novels, Acts of Nature (2007), about a hurricane that puts Max and his girlfriend at the mercy of some of the Everglades’ most menacing criminals, and Midnight Guardians (2010), which features the dangerous reemergence of a drug kingpin from Max’s past. He has also published the stand-alone thriller Eye of Vengeance (2007), about a military-trained sniper who targets the criminals that a particular journalist has covered as a crime reporter. In 2009, King published the historical novel The Styx, which tells the story of a Palm Beach hotel at the turn of the twentieth century and the nearby community’s black hotel employees whose homes were burned to the ground amid the violent racism of the time.

  King currently lives in southeast Florida, where he writes, canoes, and explores the Everglades regularly.

  Jonathon King playing basketball for his high school team, the Waverly Warriors, in Lansing, Michigan, in 1972.

  King’s yearbook photo from his senior year of high school in 1972.

  For seven summers, from 1974 to 1980, King was a lifeguard in Ocean City, New Jersey. He’s shown here in 1974 or 1975 with his best friend and fellow lifeguard, Scott Erb.

  In 1976,
King worked as part of a crew hired by boat owners to deliver sailboats from New Jersey to Florida at the end of the summer. He’s shown here sailing a forty-foot vessel down the coast.

  King’s children, Jessica and Adam, at ages ten and eight, respectively, with the mascot of the University of Florida in Gainesville in 2003.

  A handwritten manuscript page from King’s debut novel, The Blue Edge of Midnight. Worried that his years as a reporter would make it difficult to write thoughtfully using a keyboard, King wrote his first two books with pencil on legal pads to avoid sounding like a journalist.

  King’s Edgar Award for the Best First Mystery Novel by an American Author, which he won in 2002 for The Blue Edge of Midnight, the debut book in the Max Freeman series. The Edgars, which are given annually by the Mystery Writers of America, are considered the most prestigious awards in the mystery genre.

  King stands inside of Kim’s Alley Bar, one of the oldest taverns in Ft. Lauderdale. Several scenes in the Max Freeman series take place here, particularly in A Killing Night, in which Max investigates the abductions of several bartenders. An actual bartender from Kim’s Alley even made an appearance in the book.

  King at an isolated fishing camp in the middle of the Florida Everglades.

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