The Ghost of Blackwood Lane
Page 29
A long silence, and then Vincent shook his head.
“Sorry, brother. I just can’t believe you,” Vincent said, his voice sad.
Tony was speechless. After a second, Vincent shrugged and lifted the gun, aiming it at Tony’s chest and pulling the trigger.
Chapter 55
Judy was still out—it was getting dark, and she knew she should be heading home, but she couldn’t face that house anymore. The place was a jail to her, and the woods and fields behind their house were a vast and open jail yard. She had spent the last six hours just walking around, but eventually, she would have to return. So many conflicting emotions crowded inside her mind that it seemed that if she gave in to any of them, she would have to give in to all of them. Suicide, murder, loss, death, anger, regret, pain, and loss—these ideas were her only friends.
There were the feelings of anger: anger at Vincent for hurting her and anger at herself for getting herself into this situation. There was anger at her parents for leaving her so completely on her own, leaving nothing for her but a letter from their attorney and a promise of money—neither of which she could pursue without Vincent finding out.
There was anger at Chris, for proposing and then disappearing, leaving her in Illinois. She tried to blame him...she wanted to blame him for everything that had happened to her, but it was difficult. She had made her own decisions all along the way. His actions had only started her down this very dark and lonely road.
No, she had no one but herself to blame.
She sat in the middle of the large field that separated their house from Blackwood Lane, ignoring the cold and the wetness of the ground. She was looking up at the sky, waiting for the stars and the moon to come out.
Her life had taken a long and painful series of bad turns, and last night had simply been the latest. There was nothing left for her, nothing she was interested in, nothing to look forward to. She felt as though she had fallen down a long well and would never be able to climb out.
Maybe she should just end it all.
The idea sounded so good that, for the first time all day, she smiled. There was no other way out, as far as she could tell. If she stuck around, Vincent would continue beating her and beating her until one day he beat her to death.
And even then, he might not go to jail—he had so many powerful friends now, since he was back in good with his family. Not only could he hurt her badly or kill her whenever he wanted, he could also get away with it. He could push her down the stairs and then just explain it all away.
She thought he might burn down their house, or run her over with his new car, but then neither one of those things were likely to happen. He loved his things, his house full of possessions, and Vincent loved his new car even more. Hitting her with the Mustang might scratch it up or dent the front of the car, or some of her blood might get into the engine or stain the leather seats or the convertible top.
And if he swerved to avoid her, there might be an accident.
The beginning of an idea began to form in Judy’s mind, and for the next few minutes, she followed it through to its multiple logical endings.
Chapter 56
The first three pieces of dynamite detonated along the pier, severing the strong metal supports that held the riverboat in place.
The second group of explosions was stronger, causing the massive riverboat to lurch a foot into the air before it settled back down into the river. As Shotgun sprinted though the smoke and up the gangplank, the boat rocked in the water, moving away from the dock.
The second explosion had freed the boat completely from the dock but had also opened a large hole in the side of the riverboat at the waterline. As the boat settled, it began to take on water. Shotgun saw the gangplank slide along the dock before falling away into the water. The Princess Margaret floated free, moving away from the docks and toward the speedy current of the Mississippi River.
Shotgun readjusted his guns, deciding to drop the rifle and scope—it wouldn’t do any good in the close quarters the boat. He checked his Uzi and the magazines in his pocket, securing the other sticks of dynamite, and then cautiously made his way inside.
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The massive riverboat lurched beneath both of them, throwing Tony into a wall and Vincent to the ground. The gunshot meant for Tony went wide, and he rolled behind one of the desks in the security office and scurried toward the door.
The Margaret lurched around him, and Tony saw desks and plants and light fixtures shudder and fall. Nothing inside the boat had been secured for movement—they hadn’t planned to take the boat out onto the river until long after it had opened for business. The lurching motion clearly indicated the boat had come free of its moorings. Tony had heard the explosions outside—one of Shotgun’s men had somehow survived the warehouse explosion and used the dynamite or something else to blow the moorings.
Tony stood and staggered toward the bridge.
The rudder should be operational, giving some steering control, but the engines hadn’t been put in yet, so he’d have no way to slow the ship down enough to dock. The only way to get the riverboat stopped would be to run her aground on a sandbar.
He didn’t see Vincent, but Tony kept an eye out as he made his way to the bridge. There were at least two other people on this floating casino, and both of them wanted him dead.
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It had been a good plan.
Vincent had known Tony would come looking for him, and somewhere during the waiting, with the gunfire raging outside, he’d decided. This wasn’t the kind of business Tony could run—he’d bankrupt them somewhere along the line, probably over something stupid. He’d lose his nerve or decide that the business made him too “uncomfortable” and unilaterally decide that the Luciano familia would have to get out of the drug business.
But Tony wasn’t the only Luciano, and Vincent didn’t agree with him. Vincent didn’t think they had much in common any more except for their mutual desire to see the familia wealthy and prosperous. But if Vincent and Tony couldn’t agree on the best course of action for the familia, then Tony, as the head of the organization, would have the final say. And Vincent didn’t think he could live with that.
He would eliminate Tony tonight.
Doing it during the gunfight, Vincent could blame it on one of Shotgun’s men, and with that one small move, Vincent would be in charge of everything. In charge of making the decisions, in charge of deciding who they would do business with and which businesses they would be involved in.
In charge of the familia.
That prospect far outweighed any respect or emotion he felt toward his brother. The man had kicked him out of the familia years ago, only coming back to him when he desperately needed Vincent’s help. And now that Vincent had finally gotten back into the familia, Tony was going to kick him out again? No, that wasn’t going to happen.
Tony’s precious riverboat was floating down the river, somehow broken free of the dock, and Vincent was stumbling around in the main casino, looking for his brother.
Suddenly, someone was firing at him. He ducked behind an upended roulette table—he’d tipped all the tables over to afford more cover. Someone else was firing at him! He’d only gotten a glimpse of the guy, but he knew immediately that it was Shotgun. Tony had said he was dead—had that been a ruse, a trick to get Vincent to surrender? Or was Tony just so incompetent that he didn’t even make sure that Shotgun and all his men were dead? Either way, it was just more evidence that Tony wasn’t cut out for running a criminal organization.
The boat lurched to one side, tilting the deck. Vincent leaned from behind the roulette table and sprayed the far end of the room with bullets, then ran for the stairs up to the second and third decks.
He wasn’t sure, but Vincent thought he saw a figure moving to follow him.
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Tony was on the bridge, looking out the front windows of the riverboat, desperately trying to steer, but things were not going well.
They
were already in the middle of the river, and the current was picking up fast. The boat’s speedometer read seven knots—he was surprised the gauge was even operational—and Tony was trying to steer the boat out of the fast current. The heavy riverboat was turning sharply to one side, tilting in the water.
A hundred yards in front of the riverboat, a massive barge floated in front of them, taking up a third of the river channel.
Gunfire roared behind Tony, from the back of the top deck. He jumped as bullets shattered the windows behind and in front of him. Bullets punched into the rudder controls and the gauges. From the ground, Tony grabbed at the wheel, trying to steer the boat, but it was pointless. As he crawled into a corner and prepared for the impact, a sudden wind buffeted him with spray from the river below.
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Shotgun topped the stairs and fired again as he stepped up onto the top deck. There was a small motorboat and a large deck strewn with tables and chairs. At the back of the boat was a small bandstand, and for a moment, he noticed the dazzling city lights reflecting on the dark water. There was an open central area that looked like a dance floor.
He walked slowly to the wheelhouse. There was no one in the small room—just a central control panel that was smoking, and a large wheel. The room was surrounded with shattered windows.
Shotgun glanced out the windows. He saw the barge a moment too late.
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The Princess Margaret smashed into the back corner of the massive barge, and the superstructure of the riverboat bent in half as the boat began to wrap itself around the barge. Laden with almost four thousand tons of wheat destined for processing in New Orleans, the barge didn’t move. After a few moments, the riverboat slowly detached itself from the massive barge and spun dizzily back into the river.
The entire middle of the riverboat was punched in, as if some god had picked up the long, floating casino and bent it in half. The two halves, still connected, bent around the straining middle, tearing out walls and wires and pipes, spilling tables and chairs from the open wound into the churning water.
As the Margaret floated slowly away from the wheat barge, she began to twist slowly in the water and founder.
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Tony grasped the side of the railing, making his way along the outside of the second deck. He’d dropped down when the boats had collided, catching himself on the second deck railing. There was only a small ledge here. Below him were the windows and railings of the first deck, and, below that, only dark churning water.
He’d been thrown out the bridge window but was trying to find a way to climb back up onto the third deck. The entertainment deck, full of tables and chairs, would be the last place to sink. If he could get to the motorboat....
Tony lifted himself up onto the top deck, cursing with the effort. His beautiful ship was sinking, and there was nothing he could do but abandon her.
Tony was running for the bandstand when he saw that someone was already there, working on the motorboat.
It was Vincent.
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Shotgun peeked up from the bridge, looking out onto the top deck. It was railed on all sides and most of the tables and chairs he’d seen earlier had toppled over. Someone had climbed over the railing and was running across the dance floor. Shotgun didn’t hesitate—he opened fire.
Vincent almost had the boat hooked up to the winch ropes. It was only a small motorboat—could probably hold only four people, but he didn’t care. It only needed to hold one person and one exceedingly large bag of money for about ten minutes.
The Margaret lurched around him, and he cursed again. Vincent glanced up to see where she was going—the deck was lurching and he could see the stars over his head spinning lazily. He went back to the winch—Vincent needed to hook it to the motorboat before he could lower it into the pounding froth of the Mississippi.
The deck wasn’t even flat anymore—hitting the barge had thrown Vincent to the ground, and he’d almost lost the bag of money over the side. It had also buckled up the flooring. It didn’t take a genius to realize that the Margaret was going down, and fast.
When Vincent looked over the edge of the bandstand to see where the boat was going, he suddenly saw that the Margaret wouldn’t have time to sink.
The Poplar Street Bridge loomed in front of the boat, arching across the Mississippi River. One of its massive supports, a hundred thousand tons of metal and stone, loomed in front of the Margaret.
Gunfire erupted on the deck, and Vincent ducked, turning to wrestle with the winch controls one more time.
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Tony ducked behind tables and chairs and moved quickly from one place to another, working his way past the bridge toward the back of the boat. Shotgun was in the bridge, and—
The Margaret lurched again. Tony fell onto the deck, rolling into the open.
Shotgun saw the man roll into view—it was Tony Luciano, and he looked unarmed. The man was just kneeling there, and Shotgun followed with his eyes, looking for whatever the cowering man was staring at.
Vincent Luciano stepped from behind the bandstand. Shotgun saw the gun come around as Vincent pointed it at him. Shotgun froze, expecting to be dead in the next moment.
Shotgun watched as Vincent stepped around the edge of the bandstand, his gun trained on Shotgun. Out of the corner of his eye, Shotgun saw Tony climb to his feet, brushing himself off.
“Good, Vincent,” Tony said. “Kill him, and then we can talk.”
Shotgun looked over at Tony, then back to Vincent, who wasn’t looking at Shotgun. He was staring at Tony.
Slowly, Vincent turned, aiming the gun at his brother.
“No, brother. I don’t take orders from you. And I don’t want to talk anymore.” Vincent sneered and pulled the trigger.
Tony collapsed to the deck, his eyes still on Vincent, the shock turning into pain and confusion. Tony held his shoulder weakly—there was blood coming from it in pulsing waves, staining the white deck red beneath him.
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He just shot down his own brother, Shotgun thought.
Vincent Luciano had been pointing the gun at Shotgun and could’ve killed him at any moment. The two brothers could have gotten away with everything: the money, the coke...everything. But when the barrel of the gun had spun toward the older Luciano brother, Shotgun couldn’t believe it. Who could do something that cold?
But in that moment, Shotgun finally understood. Vincent Luciano had only ever wanted one thing—power.
Vincent glanced up at Shotgun and smiled and brought the gun back up, casually squeezing the trigger several times. Shotgun tried to get his gun up in time to return fire as he saw the bullets peppering the deck around him. He felt the impact and then he felt nothing.
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Vincent emptied the clip in Shotgun’s direction—the man was finally down, but Vincent suddenly felt like he could control the world.
The Margaret was nearing the massive bridge support—the Poplar Street Bridge loomed above the foundering riverboat, blocking out a large strip of the night sky.
He walked over to his brother.
The man was dead. Too bad. He had a few more things he would have liked to say to his brother.
Screw it. The man had been weak. To run the familia in the way it needed to be run would take a man of courage and vision, someone who knew what they were doing.
Someone like him.
The boat lurched again, more violently this time, and Vincent watched without emotion as his brother’s body rolled toward the railing along the edge of the deck. The bridge support loomed larger in the corner of his eye. Vincent didn’t move at all as his brother’s body slipped over the side and splashed into the water below.
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The front of the Margaret bore down on the massive bridge support. Eddies and currents tried to move the foundering riverboat around the bridge’s footing, but the bulk and momentum of the boat carried it into the large concrete island surrounding the base of the s
upport structure.
Crumpling like a huge tin can, the Margaret split in two. The naked decks opened to the roaring might of the river, flooding the interior spaces and washing the roulette tables and light fixtures and desks and a thousand other items into the water. The bandstand crumpled and crashed to the deck. Chairs and tables crashed through the railing, twisting in the air and falling into the black water.
The giant paddlewheel at the back of the Margaret reared up into the air as the back half of the riverboat began to sink. The water around the footing of the bridge frothed as large pieces of the riverboat floated and bobbed and finally sank beneath the dark water.
Twenty thousand gambling chips spun away from the wreckage, a small part of the flotsam carried by the river’s current toward the Gulf of Mexico.
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Vincent directed the small boat back toward the docks along Pier 32. It wasn’t hard to find—the fire was lighting up the horizon. As he approached, he could see at least four or fire engines and two dozen firemen working to contain the massive blaze.
He slowed the engine and passed the first dock, moving beyond the Princess Anne, pulling the launch up behind it. He smiled. He guessed the boat was his now.
Vincent tied off the motorboat, grabbed the duffle bag, and climbed up onto the dock.
The entire parking lot was full of firemen and police cars and fire trucks. He circled around the parking structure and moved toward his Mustang—thank God the trunk had been closed when Shotgun and his men had opened fire.
Vincent tried to walk as nonchalantly as possible. He avoided the looks from the cops and strolled up to his car, fishing out his keys.