He did know.
Barrett fumbled in his jacket pocket for the naloxone. He’d been through a training seminar about this once. There was a process. What in the hell was the process?
Inhale it.
Yes, that was it! It was a nasal spray; you just squirted it out and breathed it in and it bought you time, bought you life.
He was surprised to find another syringe in his hand. It did not look like a spray. Maybe it worked the same, though. Just depress that plunger and breathe?
His heavy, clumsy fingers managed to get the cap off. The world was peeling back in the bright fog, and the fog was gaining speed and color, and it wasn’t so bad at all. It was compressing his lungs, and that scared him a little because each breath took more effort, but otherwise, the bright whirling fog was not so bad.
Just relax and let it take you, then. Ride the fog and chase the colors.
A wave threw spray over the boat and into his face, and he sputtered and choked and suddenly the syringe in his hand made sense once more. It was not a nasal spray. This was either an older-school approach or a stronger one. This was simple. Stick yourself and push that plunger down.
The bright fog rippled and danced and now it had a spinning motion in addition to its speed, and his breath was very short and the urge to just ride with it was overwhelming.
Hurry, a voice distant and dull said from somewhere behind that whirling fog. You’ve got to hurry.
And make it count. He had to find a vein. What vein? He’d never injected anything. The wrist was good, wasn’t it?
He tried for his wrist, but the boat was beam-to against the water now, and another wave knocked him sideways and he missed his wrist entirely in an awkward lunge. He fell and landed on his left elbow on the decking but managed to keep the syringe.
He struggled back up, hunting for a good vein. Why was this so hard? A million addicts succeeded at this task every day, but he couldn’t? Good veins were easy, they were big and blue and led right to the heart…
That’s it, he thought, and jabbed the needle at his heart. He missed again, his unsteady hand swinging high. The needle pierced the skin just over his collarbone, in the side of his neck. He felt the sharp pain and decided it was success, and then, just before the next wave hit the boat broadside, he remembered the plunger.
He depressed the plunger and felt a warming sensation in his throat as the wave hit and he stumbled and fell again.
Only after his legs cracked off the side of the boat and he went airborne did he realize what a mistake it had been to stand.
Then he was in the water, and sinking fast.
55
The stunning cold of the North Atlantic didn’t bother him. Sinking deeper into it didn’t bother him. All that bothered him was that the water seemed to be dimming the splendor of the fog.
He’d begun to enjoy that, and if he was going to drown, he wanted to drown in the fog, not the water.
He fought for the surface with little consideration of survival. He was merely chasing the bright, pleasant warmth and whirl of that fog, which seemed to have been left behind.
Then he broke the surface, choked on the water as a wave lifted him and deposited him into the shallow trough between swells, and he leaned back, trying to float. If he could float, that would be a good thing. He could lose himself within that bright swirling fog then.
So just float. The easiest thing in the world, a natural thing for the body, and yet he couldn’t seem to achieve it. The waves drove him under each time, and each time he had more trouble getting his head above water again, and then he couldn’t remember how he was supposed to position his body to float.
His breathing wasn’t so tight anymore, though. He’d noticed an improvement there. The vise around his lungs had loosened, and if he could just keep them clear of water, he thought that he’d be able to keep breathing. The problem was the water, the damned chopping, slapping water. Too much weight; too little body control. It was better down below, he decided. Darker and colder, but better, because it was easier.
He was ready for something to be easy.
He took as deep a breath as he could and held it, and the next time a wave drove him under, he didn’t resist. He let it hammer him down and was disappointed when it didn’t drive him deeper, when he began to rise despite his best efforts. Something was raking over his face, a cruel hand determined to pull him back up and not let him have his peace down here.
He fought back, struggling to push the unseen enemy away from his face, and it snapped at him, trying to rip his hand right off his wrist, a savage pain that forced him to open his eyes.
His hand was caught, but it wasn’t by anything with teeth. It was wrapped in a net. The braided mesh jerked again, sending a fresh bolt of pain from wrist to shoulder and on up to his brain, and for the first time a rational thought rose: This is help. Take it, and hold on.
He got his left hand up and wrapped that in the net as well, and now he needed to breathe but knew that he shouldn’t, not just yet.
The mesh bit into his hands and tugged him upward, and he tried to kick to help it, but all of his motions were clumsy and weak. Just hang on, then. Just hang on and see where this thing leads.
It led up, up, up. The cold stayed with him but the shadows receded and he could see the daylight like something viewed through fractured glass. It was far away, but it was there.
He broke the water with what seemed an extra burst of speed. He gasped in a breath, and this time when the waves lifted him, they dropped his whole body into the net, and it was easier to stay afloat now. He wondered where the net had come from, and a sudden dark fear gripped him.
Mathias. He’s caught you.
He tried to free himself, kick loose and let the water take him again, but he was too tangled and the net was pulling too fast. He slid over the surface of the water, and he turned to face the boat as he was dragged in, thinking that if he got in even one punch at Mathias, it would be better than nothing.
It wasn’t Mathias on the other end of the net, though.
It was Liz.
She reached down for him and he tried to reach back but couldn’t find her. He was out of strength, and breathing had become a challenge again, and he was trying to tell her that she was too late when he felt himself leave the water and strike something hard. It hurt his shoulders and sent pain rippling through his spine, but it was solid, and that was good. Then he was out of the water entirely and on solid ground.
No, not solid ground—on the boat. A different boat than the one he’d left. This boat had a mast and sails. All of that confused him. So did Liz’s face, hovering above his, asking questions he did not understand and saying his name over and over. He couldn’t follow the questions, but he figured she wanted to know how he’d come to be in the water, and that was complicated. Explaining that would require more energy than he had, and more memory, and so he told her the only thing he could think of: “Needles,” he said. “I need more needles.”
56
He got more needles.
The Maine Marine Patrol arrived first, and they administered a second dose of naloxone. They knew to do it because once they got the tape off Howard Pelletier’s mouth, he was able to explain what was wrong with Rob Barrett a little better than Rob Barrett had managed to.
A Coast Guard cutter from Rockland arrived on scene next, and the medic on board took a look at Barrett and sent the marine patrol boat racing him back to shore to meet a helicopter. He was unconscious by then and had no memory of the medevac flight that followed.
He was at Pen Bay Medical Center before he was finally stable, let alone coherent.
The police got to him first, and so he learned why Liz had been there from them, not her. He’d asked her to keep an eye on Howard Pelletier, she said. When she saw two men on Howard’s boat, she was curious, so she kept watching from her boat but kept her distance. She also put the sails up. People didn’t think of threats coming from sailboats. She was just a fool o
ut chasing wind, not worthy of a critical eye.
The police had a few other updates.
Ronnie Lord had been pronounced dead on arrival, but Mathias Burke was still alive. He’d been transported to Portland, where a trauma surgeon was working on him. His odds of surviving were low.
Howard Pelletier was bloodied and bruised but otherwise well, and he told the police that Mathias Burke and Ronnie Lord had been lying in wait for him on his boat. He’d gotten aboard that morning and walked right into the barrel of a shotgun. From there, he said, things had gotten messy.
Barrett couldn’t dispute that.
He asked about Don Johansson and was told that Johansson’s body hadn’t yet been recovered. They were looking for him, but it was deep water out there.
Those were all the answers the police could provide. They went through them quickly, because what they wanted was to ask questions, not answer them. This time, Barrett didn’t make any calls to a lawyer. This time, he just talked.
By the time he was done talking, George Kelly was in custody.
The first visitor without a badge was Liz.
She sat beside his bed and held his hand to her cheek with her eyes closed, and she didn’t say a word for a long time, and neither did he. Eventually, she kissed his hand and released it.
“Thank you for today,” he said.
She choked out a laugh. “No problem.”
“I never liked the way you kept those old rescue nets on board,” he said. “I felt like they kept you in the past, thinking about your dad out there in the water. I have a different opinion of those nets now.”
He was going for a laugh or a smile, but she leaned forward, eyes intense, her hair falling across her face, shirt pulling away from her collarbone just enough to show the top edge of the inked script about fair winds and following seas.
“Do you remember what you told me on the boat?” she asked. “When it was just the two of us, do you remember what you said?”
“I asked for needles, right?”
“Yes. But before the marine patrol got there, you were trying to explain something else. Do you remember that?”
He didn’t.
“You wanted me to know that the sky looked friendly,” she said. “I thought you were trying to convince me of that because of the story I’d told you about my dad. About his question of how it would look to you if you were drowning in open water. Whether the sky held any hope. You don’t remember telling me that?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t.”
She considered that and then said, “That’s better, actually. I’m glad you don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s more likely that it was true.”
He reached out and touched the side of her face and she took his hand again and kissed it gently.
“How much did you see of what happened on Howard’s boat?” he asked.
“None of it. Once Howard got so far from his traps, I knew there was something wrong, so I followed him, and I saw he wasn’t alone. I was keeping my distance and changing course, but then the fog came in and made it easier to stay out of sight. I couldn’t see a damn thing, though, and I was terrified I’d run right up on them. When I heard the shotgun, I just figured it was time to take chances. I think his idea was to get isolated and get deep. It’s about seven hundred feet deep off those rocks.”
He thought about that and wondered how long it would have taken him to make the bottom.
“Don’s still out there somewhere,” he said.
“Yes.” She studied his face. “I’ve heard that they’re searching his house now. Treating it like a crime scene.”
Barrett closed his eyes, thinking of Megan and David and the police who were surely arriving at their new Florida home. “It is a crime scene,” he said. “But the man still saved me twice today.”
She didn’t answer. He said, “And then you did the same, of course.”
“And then the marine patrol did. And then the Coast Guard. And then the doctors. It takes a village with you, Rob.”
“How’s Howard?”
“Better than he looked, I’m told.”
“He won’t be for long. If they haven’t told him about George Kelly yet, they’ll be telling him soon,” Barrett said. “And when he learns the truth, it is going to be devastating.”
They told Howard that night, and a few hours later, he came by to see Barrett.
His arm was in a sling, and he had stitches in his lip and a bandage on his forehead, but he moved all right. His first questions, predictably and excruciatingly, were all about Barrett—how was he feeling, was there any long-term damage, did he think the doctors here were good enough, because Howard had a cousin who had a friend who worked at a hospital in Boston that was supposed to be the best, and he could call…
“I’m fine, Howard. I’m just fine.”
“Ayuh, good, I just…you know, want the best for you. If you need anything, you just say the word.”
“What have you heard from the police?” Barrett asked.
Howard’s eyes watered, and he blinked, looked away, and gathered himself. Then he spoke facing the wall.
“That Ian’s father was holding a lot back all this time. Is that your understanding too?”
“Yes.”
Howard nodded slowly, as if turning that thought over and giving it due consideration. He started to speak twice and had to stop each time. Then he finally got his voice back.
“I liked that kid,” he said. “I really did. And Jackie? She loved him. Would’ve left the island for him.”
“I know it.”
Howard turned back to him, a slight tremor in his jaw, and said, “I’m real glad she didn’t know that about his family. Or about him.”
Barrett watched him and the memory of George Kelly saying clean grief of tragedy floated through his mind and he couldn’t think of anything to say.
Howard broke the silence. “Mathias might make it, I hear.”
“Really? They told me he was dying.”
Howard shook his head. “Doctors down there got him stabilized, I guess. He’s supposed to pull through.”
“How you feel about that?” Barrett asked, though he wasn’t sure himself.
“He’ll go to prison if he lives,” Howard said. “And he’ll stay in. No question about that this time.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“So it’s fine, then. Maybe I’m even rooting for him to pull through, a little bit. Because maybe now he’ll answer questions.”
“Don’t count on that,” Barrett said.
“Ayuh, I guess I should know better than that by now. People who know things, they don’t share them, do they?”
Barrett didn’t respond. Howard looked at the floor.
“I liked that kid. He was good to her. I need to remember that.” He looked up at Barrett again, and his eyes were hard. “I’m going to need you to remind me of that, okay?”
“Okay. We’ll both need help remembering that.”
“You think Jackie knew about the drugs?” Howard asked. “About all the trouble that was around him?”
“Nothing I’ve heard suggests that she knew about that.”
Howard adjusted his sling, shifting the weight of his wounded arm. When he finally spoke again, his voice was so soft that it was scarcely audible.
“I hope she didn’t.”
57
Mathias Burke would go from his hospital room to the courtroom, where he would be charged with two murders and two attempted murders, among other offenses.
According to Nick Vizquel of the DEA, the charge sheet was much too short.
The DEA had been investigating the link between deaths in six states from devil cat heroin laced with carfentanil. The strand had its epicenter in Virginia and traveled out in the summer in shock waves, carried by students returning home, vacationing, taking internships or jobs. Many of the dead were unusual by opioid demographic standards—educated, affluent, and abs
ent criminal records. They were the types who made the hometown news when they died. They were not like Cass Odom or J. R. Millinock. Or like Kimberly Crepeaux, who’d made headlines when she’d died, but only because of her famous lie.
In most places where devil cat appeared, people either died from it or fled from it. Mathias Burke had collected it. The drill-bit case with the syringes had been recovered from Howard Pelletier’s boat, and the remaining four needles provided matches of the carfentanil cocktail that Vizquel had chased around the country.
“They can charge him with Odom’s murder if they can prove he got it to her,” Vizquel told Barrett. “He’s got knowledge and intent. I want to know when he learned about it, and how much there was, and where else it went. But he’s a closemouthed son of a bitch, even when he’s facing life in prison.”
Barrett asked Vizquel to accelerate toxicology tests on the drug that had killed Kimberly Crepeaux.
“I want her on his charge sheet,” he said. “I want them to read her name in the courtroom with the others.”
“I’ll try, but it doesn’t matter—he’s already going down.”
“I know that,” Barrett said, “but it does matter. I want them to say her name.”
Vizquel didn’t seem to understand that. He left Maine after Mathias refused to answer any of his questions. The death toll from the drug known variously as devil cat, devil’s cut, and devil’s calling was now at 265 nationwide, and Vizquel had eight fresh cases to look at in Colorado. There was no time for him to slow down. Port Hope was an outlier for him, and probably an annoying one, because it had pulled him off course. The drug had taken lives in Port Hope, and then survivors had seen that more lives were taken, but those cases were only quicksand to Vizquel, who was tasked with the questions of origination and supply networks. The drug hadn’t come from Maine or even been intended for it. It had just passed through, that was all.
It had just visited from away.
Four days after his life was saved by a trauma surgeon named Abeo, Mathias Burke was charged with two murders and two attempted murders, kidnapping and drug possession, and a litany of lesser crimes. Mathias entered a plea of not guilty on all counts.
How It Happened Page 30
