As the woman carried her toward the stern railing, she spoke Spanish to her captive, cooing words into her ear that Faith Ann, who took Spanish in school, translated, and they were not terms of endearment. “Mono dulce . . . niña del infierno . . . mi demonio hermoso.” Sweet monkey . . . child of hell . . . my beautiful demon . . .
Faith Ann saw the bloody jack, shaped like a giant steel Hershey's Kiss, that the woman was holding by the handle the handcuff was hooked to. The fat man with the crushed skull lay on his stomach, fingers still clenched around the pistol Winter had given him. She was aware of Winter coming down the stairs and coming toward them. He will stop her!
She stopped struggling, fighting now just to get one deep breath. She was aware of being lifted into the air as the woman climbed over the rail. For a second, Faith Ann thought she intended to climb into the emergency boat suspended there. The roaring grew in her ears. As her vision darkened, her mind screamed for air.
Faith Ann saw Mr. Massey's lips forming words she couldn't hear, saw him holding his gun out so Marta could see it.
Now it is going to be all right. Now she will let me go.
Faith Ann felt the reptilian grip around her relax slightly, and she filled her lungs with as much of the delicious cool air as she could suck in. Marta tightened her grip and started screaming at Mr. Massey.
Any feeling of relief that being saved from suffocation had brought the child vanished as her mind filled with new terror. Marta tensed the coil around Faith Ann's chest again. Faith Ann saw a look of terror wash over Mr. Massey's features. Refueled with oxygen, Faith Ann struggled once again, but Marta's grip was law, and they tumbled together over the railing into the river below.
Faith Ann knew two things: The boat was moving away, and she was sinking in the cold water like a coin.
96
The sight of Marta Ruiz dragging Faith Ann toward the stern railing horrified Winter. As he descended the final course of treads, he kept his SIG Sauer aimed at the killer. He didn't have to look back over his shoulder to know that the scrap man was dead, that too many years stood between the time when he was a prison guard and the present. Winter cursed himself for misjudging Marta's strength—her level of threat. Even now, the jack's weight had her listing dramatically, but still she held the struggling child up between herself and Winter's pistol like a shield. A shot would be impossible.
His mind was calculating the situation, figuring the odds. This was a hostage situation—a grab bag of conflicting, self-interest-driven realities, probabilities, and variables—but far, far more than a mathematics equation to be worked out, for a child's life was at stake.
Winter was capable of putting a bullet into a very small target at close range, but this target was in motion and he needed a central nervous system hit, because if he only wounded her she could and would break Faith Ann's neck.
Knowing she had lost, Marta would want to escape. She would assume her partner was incapacitated: wounded, captured, or killed. She had no reason to harm Faith Ann, because the child was her only means of escape.
He watched Marta back into the steel railing and, using only her legs, go straight up to the top and drop, catlike, to the section of open deck behind it, Faith Ann imprisoned in her grip. She passed by the emergency rescue boat—a twelve-foot-long aluminum flat bottom with a thirty-five horsepower outboard motor.
Okay, Winter, now you can't shoot without risking her going into the river. Arresting her isn't your job. She has the upper hand. Just make her believe the truth—in exchange for Faith Ann, you will let her walk away.
Winter held the gun straight out to his side, knelt, and set it down on the deck.
“Okay, Marta, let Faith Ann go and I'll give you a pass.” Faith Ann's frightened eyes were locked on his.
“What kind of trick will you use? What deception do you have in mind? Shooting me when the child is out of the way? I know what a famous shot you are, Deputy Massey.”
“I'm not here as a cop, and I won't shoot you. You have my word on it. I won't try to stop you. I'll give you the key to the cuffs, and you can take that lifeboat. Your freedom for the girl, no tricks.”
She laughed.
“What about Arturo?” she asked.
“Your friend didn't make it,” Winter answered.
Winter was surprised at the change in her expression as she assimilated the news. Her black eyes glowed like hot coals, and her nostrils flared.
“Friend? Turo isn't my friend,” she shrieked. “I don't have any friends! Now you people have killed all I had in this world. Arturo was my heart—my baby brother. My Turo was the last of my blood. It was her! This little demon bitch has ended my world. This little monster must pay!”
In his years as a cop, Winter had never seen such an instant switch from laughter to fury before, such an explosive display of hatred.
“Let her go,” Winter pleaded. “She didn't do anything to you. You people killed her mother. This had nothing to do with her. Please, Marta, let her live.”
Winter saw that Marta was thinking, so maybe he could get to her. “I can't bring back your brother, but I can give you your freedom. Your freedom for Faith Ann. You have my word on it.”
“Words? Freedom?” she screamed at him. “What the fuck good is freedom without my Turo? I cared for him since he was two. I was his mother, his sister, his only friend. What the fuck do you know about freedom? You want to see what freedom looks like, Massey? This is freedom!”
And then she and the child went over the railing and were gone.
97
Faith Ann couldn't believe what had happened. The chugging of the diesel engine dimmed. She kept struggling, trying to break away, but this woman had no intention of sparing her. She would outlive Faith Ann, and when she did relax her iron grip it would be meaningless.
As they sank, both the cold and the pressure grew. Her ears popped. Faith Ann tried to bring up an image of her mother. She expected to see her any moment now, floating in the blackness, reaching out to take her to a better place. They would be together again. Faith Ann's chest felt like it would explode, and another, deeper darkness was closing in.
Don't breathe, Faith Ann, her mama told her.
Something brushed her and then squeezed her shoulder hard. Behind her, Marta started writhing violently.
Faith Ann's eyes were wide open but she couldn't see anything. She was aware of the woman's steely grip. She felt something brush against her and she knew that she was moving, but whether it was up, down, or sideways, she could not tell. She felt as if she was being pulled upward by some force, but she could no longer hold her breath. Although she knew there was no air available—that inhaling so would kill her—she no longer had a choice.
I'm sorry, Mama. . . .
98
Winter hit the water knowing instinctively that his only hope in the pitch-black cold water was to sharpen his angle of descent, increase his speed to close the distance between himself and the pair, and pray he would luck into them.
It seemed certain to Winter that he would miss. If he passed them by inches, he wouldn't know. Chained to the jack, the two had vanished from sight as if sucked under from below. His mind swarmed with doubts and self-incrimination as he kicked furiously and moved his hands before him. He had no way to know how deep he was when his hand brushed something; he clamped down on it and knew it was Faith Ann's wrist. The lack of movement in the appendage told him the child was unconscious. When he jerked the wrist, he felt Marta react to the grab—twist around to fight him, maybe just get a newer, deadlier grip. Marta was too late. Winter kicked away, heading for the surface.
Winter broke the surface first, let out a victorious yell, and jerked her wrist up hard to bring Faith Ann to the surface.
No!
It took his mind a second to digest the fact that the eyes he was looking at belonged to Marta Ruiz, as did the small wrist in his grip.
His mind filled with horror.
He released her wrist.
The police boat was bobbing beside them, a harsh spotlight illuminating her sneering face.
A cop beside Manseur aimed a shotgun down at the woman.
“Oops,” Marta said, taunting him. She raised her hands to show him that the handcuff and the jack were no longer there. “I think you forgot someone.”
Without hesitating, he took a deep breath and dove.
By now Faith Ann had inhaled water, was certainly unconscious, but he could still save her if . . .
The fury, the grief, drove him into the darkness, the pressure constricting his body. He'd promised his son he would keep Faith Ann safe. He was a madman, who believed that he could search a giant body of moving water for something so tiny. He kicked desperately. He grappled about in the icy dark until he was at the point of inhaling water himself. He broke the surface just long enough to inhale as much air as he could hold, then threw himself back into the depths again.
He lost count of how many times he dove. Finally, gasping, he came up for air and heard Manseur yelling at him from inside the nearby boat.
“Winter, it's been ten minutes! She's gone. Get into the boat. I've called for help. It won't help anybody if you die.”
Winter knew it was over. His body was fatigued to the point of torture, his mind was filled with grief and pain and numbed by guilt. Tears of frustration filled his eyes.
Faith Ann is gone.
Dead and alone.
It is over.
“Get in the boat!” Manseur ordered. Winter looked from the detective to the policeman pilot standing beside him. Then, knowing he had lost, that he had failed both a twelve-year-old child and his son, he somehow swam the ten feet, reached up, and let the two men hoist him into the boat. There he sat slumped on the deck, his mind blank with failure.
The first thing he saw was Marta seated on the port bench, her hands behind her, a thin, taunting smile on her face.
Something is wrong. What?
On Winter's left, the young patrolman had laid his twelve-gauge across the passenger's seat, which had been left turned toward the driver's seat.
Suddenly his mind cleared and Winter realized that Marta had defeated the cuffs he had used earlier to join her to the jack. It was as if she was reading his mind, taking that moment to spring and grab the Glock from the young police pilot's holster.
Manseur had his back to her.
Marta shoved the pilot aside and was bringing the Glock around to bear on Winter. When she saw the Mossberg 12 in Winter's hands, its dark eye staring at her, her own eyes widened in surprise.
The muzzle blast lit her against the darkness like a flashbulb—the buckshot erasing her features.
Winter's ears rang.
The wind swept the cordite away.
“It's over,” Manseur said, gently wrenching the shotgun from Winter's iron grip. “There's the evidence. Pond is alive. Faith Ann didn't die for nothing.”
Winter lifted himself up and slumped on the bench.
He knew that he would never allow himself to feel the slightest pang of remorse over shooting a child-killing monster.
“Faith Ann had the envelope on her,” he told Manseur.
“We won't need it. They'll turn on each other.”
Winter knew Manseur was right. Suggs, Bennett, and Tinnerino would all be tumbling over one another to cut deals.
Winter had never felt so completely defeated, so utterly empty.
99
As the speedboat raced toward the Canal Street ferry landing, Winter could see dozens of vehicles packing the ramp. Flashing lights—blue for cop cars and police department technical vans, red for EMT vehicles—washed the crowd standing on the balcony attached to the enclosed pedestrian walkway. There would also be media trucks in the street—their dishes elevated to send electronic signals to every television screen in the region.
How fast they react these days, Winter thought. And why not? At first blush, taking a ferry at gunpoint must have looked like an act of terrorism.
Law enforcement and EMTs swarmed the lower ferry deck, while another group was moving around on the roof near the pilothouse.
Nick Green stood solemnly at the stern of the USS Thomas Jefferson beside a deckhand, who took the line Manseur tossed, and Nicky helped Winter onto the deck. He handed Winter his SIG Sauer, but did no more than glance at the corpse in the speedboat, at the pool of diluted blood in the stern where her ebony hair floated, surrounding her ruined head like a storm cloud.
“It was all Marta Ruiz, Winter. It wasn't your fault.”
“Yeah, I know,” Winter said weakly. He wanted to vomit—to rid himself of the vitriol that filled him like a poisonous cloud. I should have taken the shot I had on Marta. I might have wounded Faith Ann, but she might still be alive.
“How soon can you get a search going?” Winter asked Manseur. “I don't want her in there any longer than—”
“Already under way. The Coast Guard will find her,” Manseur promised. “They know exactly where she went in, and they have computer models, so it's just science to locate a . . .” He stopped when he saw the hard look in Winter's eyes. “Sorry.”
“I looked all around,” Nicky said. “I didn't see any envelope anywhere.”
“Faith Ann put the envelope in her jeans. I saw it when she went in.”
Winter looked at the Stratus, the shattered side window, the passenger door still open. A crime scene technician took a picture of something inside the vehicle, set the camera on the car's roof, leaned in, and lifted something out, dropping it into a clear evidence envelope.
“Hey!” Winter called out, striding toward the car. “What is that?” He reached out to take the bag. The technician straightened defensively but handed it over when he saw Detective Manseur nod his approval.
The technician said, “It's a cassette tape—no label. Was on the floorboard.”
“You think it's her tape?” Manseur asked Winter.
“Yes,” Winter said, looking at the cassette through the clear plastic. He knew that was the only thing it could be.
“That's great,” Nicky said. “You've got evidence.”
Winter nodded, seeing some light leaking into the situation. “If it contains what Faith Ann heard from her hiding place, it had Arturo implicating Jerry Bennett for sending him to get the pictures back from Amber Lee. It has the murders. It'll add weight to the fact that the negatives Faith Ann had were pictures of Bennett killing the Williamses. Don't tell Suggs we don't have the negatives. Play the tape to him and Bennett and one'll snap quick. At least Faith Ann didn't fail.”
“She was something, that kid,” Manseur said. “She cleared Pond single-handedly.”
“Her mother would be very proud of her.”
“Somebody cleared Horace Pond of something?” the technician said, looking up. “Too bad for him it wasn't of murdering the Williamses.”
“What do you mean?” Winter asked him.
“Horace Pond is a goner.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, he will be in about 25 minutes, give or take the speed of liquids snaking through the tubes. And damn good riddance, I say.”
“The execution was called off,” Winter said.
“No. It wasn't.” The technician looked perplexed. “Who told you that?”
“It sure as hell was called off,” Manseur said. “The governor's office will be announcing it any minute now.”
“A half an hour ago the governor was on TV saying the death penalty was created for creeps like Pond, and his execution would serve all of the people of Louisiana, even those who oppose executions.”
Winter saw the same confusion he was feeling reflected in Manseur's eyes.
“All due respect, Detective Manseur,” the CSI tech protested, “you can walk up the hill to the first news truck and ask them. I mean, there's news coverage on every channel. Caption said it was live from the Fairmont. They had some kind of fund-raiser there. I know one of the patrolmen on the bodyguard detail at the hotel.”
“The gov
ernor's staying at the Fairmont?” Winter asked. And when the perplexed tech nodded, Winter ran.
Manseur was close behind, the sight of the detective serving to get them past the cops on the ramp. From far behind Winter heard the tech yelp, “Hey! My tape!”
Winter arrived at the WWL van ahead of Manseur. On one of the monitors he saw the reporter standing outside the prison interviewing a woman under a KILL POND SCUM banner. A clock beside the monitor was counting the minutes down to the execution.
19:52, 19:51, 19:50 . . .
“What the hell is happening?” Winter demanded when Manseur reached him.
“I talked to Hurt, and he said he would . . . He didn't do it. Maybe they're just waiting for me to . . .”
“We've got to make sure,” Winter said, looking down at the tape in his hand.
“George!” Manseur yelled at a police sergeant, who was standing outside a cruiser, watching over the cops who were holding twenty reporters and a crowd of the curious back from the ferry ramp. “We're taking your car!” Nicky was limping toward them.
“We gotta run,” Winter yelled.
“Go!” a limping Nicky yelled, waving them off. “I'll see you at the hotel later.”
100
Manseur and Winter erupted from the elevator into the hallway where the governor's suite and his staff's rooms were located. Badges out, they met the uniformed highway patrolmen, who had been alerted that the pair were on the way up. The patrolmen pointed them to a set of double doors set in an ornate facade at the end of the carpeted corridor.
As they approached, Parker Hurt opened the right-side door, allowing Winter and Manseur into the foyer. The governor's executive assistant were a red V-neck sweater over a starched white shirt, stiffly pressed khakis, and shiny black loafers with tassels. He looked like a college fraternity rush chairman.
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