Mean High Tide (Thorn Series Book 3)

by James W. Hall

"Is there a way to get out? Do you know how to get out of this room?"

  "There's always a way to escape."

  Sylvie watched as a car drove into the yard.

  "I'll take you with me," Doris said. "We'll go to Key Largo. I have a home there. We could be safe."

  No, it was not a car. It was a pickup truck.

  "Why did you come back now, Mommy? It was because of the money, wasn't it? Daddy made himself rich, so you came back. That's it, isn't it?"

  "No, Sylvie. No. I came back for you."

  Sylvie watched the truck plow through the water, its headlights shining toward the fish ponds, catching in its light her father digging in the dirt. The truck stopped, left its lights on, and Harden hesitated a moment, then continued to dig. The waves from the truck fanned out across the yard, glittered with silver like sparklers on Independence Day. Sparklers all over the yard.

  Judy Nelson got out of the truck.

  "Sylvie, answer me. How do we get out of here?"

  Her mother's hand was on her shoulder, shaking her gently as though she were trying to wake her. Like that morning when she left, waking Sylvie from sleep to kiss her, sitting on the edge of her bed, Sylvie warm with slumber, looking up at her mother who told her they were leaving now, Sylvie's bag was packed. She needed to get up. They were going somewhere exciting. Shaking her shoulder, bringing her awake.

  "How do we get out of here, Sylvie? What do we do?"

  "You'll never make it," Sylvie said. "You'll never get out. You're here now and you'll never leave again."

  "Show me how you do it. Please, darling. Please."

  Sylvie turned and went to her bureau and dug beneath her underwear and socks and found the screwdriver she kept there, and she went to the window and reached through the grillwork with one hand and began to loosen a screw.

  "Something big kept digging her up," Sylvie said as she worked. "I never found out what it was. All I could do was lie there and listen to it every night. Lie there and hate you, Mommy. I hated you. I did."

  "I know, Sylvie. I know you did. It's all right."

  "We don't need you anymore, Mommy. You didn't need to come back. Daddy and I are doing fine by ourselves. We don't need you. You shouldn't have come."

  ***

  "You shouldn't be doing this, Harden. This is wrong. I can't let you do it."

  Judy Nelson climbed up the embankment where Harden was digging. Twenty yards away, going closer.

  Thorn watched Judy and Harden, and he felt Sugarman behind him, still sawing on the ropes, working on them now for a minute or more, holding his breath under the water, and Thorn could hear the bubbles of his exhalation coming to the surface, Sugarman pushing his limits of endurance.

  "Please put the shovel down, Harden."

  But the man kept on digging, water flooding out at his feet.

  "Why'd you come back, Judy?"

  She laughed bitterly.

  "To apologize," she said, "for my rudeness this afternoon. Can you believe it? I baked you and Sylvie a cake. It's in the truck. And then here you are, doing this. Incredible."

  "Go away, Judy. Don't make me hurt you."

  "Put down your shovel, Harden. I want you to put it down now."

  Thorn saw the dark glint of Judy's handgun.

  The water had risen to Thorn's mouth. He was straining to stay above it, stretching upward, sucking in air through his nose, blowing bubbles out his mouth, feeling the ropes loosen.

  Harden stopped digging and faced Judy. Thorn wanted to yell to her to be careful, warn her that her feelings for Harden were making her stand too close, love was taking the keen edge off her senses, letting her trust this man, making her soft. But the water was covering his mouth now, and he could only watch as Harden spoke to Judy, said something low that Thorn couldn't hear. And in the same second as Judy Nelson began to lower her gun, Thorn saw the shovel catch the light as it swung a half circle at Judy's face and whanged against her skull, and sent Judy tumbling backward down the side of the embankment.

  Behind him, Thorn felt the ropes come loose at last, and he pivoted around and dragged the last knots free himself. Pushing his head above water.

  "Way to go, Sugar. Way to go."

  But Sugarman didn't respond.

  Thorn pulled himself to his feet and turned, and saw Sugar floating facedown, his body caught against a white oak sapling, the water flowing silver around him.

  CHAPTER 32

  Grunting for breath, Thorn pulled Sugar's face from the water, dragged him away from the tree. His body was bowed backward by the ropes, Darcy's knife still gripped in his fist. Thorn pried the knife free, cut loose Sugar's hands and feet, shoved the knife back in the leather scabbard and hoisted Sugar into his arms, then slogged as fast as his body would take him through the knee-high water across the yard. His heart was taking hard whacks at his rib cage. Bruised and sore to the marrow, he headed for the terrace of the swimming pool, which rose a few feet above the waterline, the stone patio glowing white and dry in the moonlight.

  He stretched Sugar out on the deck and tipped his head back, made sure his mouth was clear. Took a quick glimpse across the yard at Harden, the man still absorbed in his digging, the gash in the embankment much wider, then he turned back to Sugarman, pressed his lips to Sugar's and blew. And this time he would not leave the body for a second, he would make no radio calls for help, but stay until he had no more breath to give. Tilapia be damned, oceans of the world be damned. He would do what he could to save the single thing that was in his power to save, the only thing that mattered to him anymore in that jinxed and twisted world.

  ***

  Doris was back home. She was safely in their house again.

  Harden listened to the rasp of his own spade cutting through the dirt, and that single sentence playing over and over in his head. Doris was back home, where she belonged. Doris was home.

  Before him the tilapia flooded out, a thousand thousand thousand fish penned up no longer. Leaning on the shovel for a moment, he watched the tilapia swim across the lawn, the pickup's headlights giving them a ghostly whiteness. They darted like sperm searching for the great womb of the ocean, flitting in every direction, some of them heading inland, but more, many many more drawn to the river, to escape.

  Millions of fish cascading from their pens, an avalanche of fish. He felt the power of their release, the pleasure of their flight, a great orgasm of fish, white fish and black ones, his years of penitent concentration, feeding them, nourishing, protecting them from the predator birds, the algae blooms. And the long grinding labor of transferring the fish from pond to pond as they matured, until they were finally ready to reproduce.

  That was the key. Reproduction. The female tilapia made depressions in the sandy bottom of the ponds, then lay her eggs there, the males standing guard over them, watching the minnows hatch and grow, defending them at every stage. A thousand times more productive than other fish because of that, a thousand times more likely to pass their genes into the future, to outlive themselves, become immortal, simply because the fathers stood guard, protected their families, because the males were more combative, better fighters, more dedicated than any other fish.

  The water rushed through the break in the last of the pond walls, everything that had been stored was now releasing. And Doris was home, Doris was in their house again. Doris who had transformed him into something better than he was. Even in her cruel absence she had kept on changing him, given him a new identity. No longer the dirt farmer's son from Texas, no longer the civil service assassin, but now a creator, an artist who had brought into the world a new thing. A new beautiful conception.

  Harden lifted his head and watched yet another car drive through the gate, watched its headlights sweep across the yard and house as it turned, as its driver must have seen Judy Nelson's truck, with its headlights still shining on Harden and the fish that came in a great gush from the pond.

  The other set of headlights aligned themselves with Judy Nelson's, and a ma
n climbed out of the car. A heavyset man lugging a shotgun. Harden picked up his shovel again and resumed his digging, keeping an eye on the man coming closer.

  "Hey, you!" the man called out.

  Harden kept on digging.

  The man plodded into the path of the headlights, brandishing the shotgun at Harden.

  "You Sylvie's father? Yeah, you. Answer me."

  "I am her father. Yes."

  The squat man sloshed through the water, coming within a few feet of the embankment where Harden worked.

  "You been touching that girl?"

  "What?"

  "You know what, Winchester. You have sex with Sylvie?"

  "Oh, Lord. Good fucking Christ. Is that the bullshit she's telling you guys? Is that how she gets you so fired up? Me, have sex with her? Jesus, what idiots."

  Harden went back to his digging, and the man racked a shell into the shotgun.

  "Listen to me, Winchester. I'm taking the girl away from here. You aren't going to stop me either."

  Harden dug out another spadeful of the wet glop, and he looked over at the man aiming the shotgun at him.

  "She's my granddaughter," the old man said. "I'm taking her away. As soon as I finish settling up with you."

  Harden laughed at him, this man with his shotgun.

  "Sylvie's grandfather! Now, look here, pardner, I met Doris's father a few times, and believe me, you aren't him. And you sure as shit aren't my old man."

  Harden laughed, then laughed some more, watching the man's face change, watching it sour, watching him shift his hands on the shotgun, feeling for the right grip.

  "Get on out of here, Grandpa, while you're still breathing through the right end of your body." Harden laughed again. "Sylvie's not going anywhere. She and her mother and I are starting our family again. Case closed."

  The man moved closer, bringing the barrel up, the butt snug against his shoulder, aiming it halfway up the embankment.

  "The fuck're you doing laughing at me? You crazy?"

  Harden's laughter died, but he kept smiling, held still.

  "I don't like killing crazy people," the old man said. "I'll do it, but I don't like it."

  Harden reset his feet, watched the man's eyes in the dim light.

  "Go on now, old man, get off my land. I'm too busy for this bullshit tonight. It's only a little longer till the tide turns."

  The man lifted his aim, sighting on Harden now. But Harden believed he could see the barrel trembling.

  "You can't do it," Harden said. "You're just like all the others. Believe me, I've seen a string of fools like you. Sylvie's thinned your blood. The girl's a genius at that. That's her great gift in life. Turning men into simpletons."

  "I'm Ray Bianetti," the man said. "That name mean anything to you?"

  "No."

  "Well, it should. Ray Bianetti of the Petrosino family. Father of Doris Carter. Grandfather of Sylvie."

  "Say that again."

  Bianetti angled closer.

  "You been abusing her," the old man said. "Having sex with your own daughter."

  "The hell I have."

  "Why would Sylvie lie? Why would she do that?"

  "God knows why that girl does anything. Go ask her, why don't you? She's in the house there. Go on, go ask her why she lies."

  Bianetti hesitated, glanced back at the house, then brought his eyes back to Harden. The old man took half a step forward, and Harden saw his trigger finger move, and didn't wait to see if the barrel stopped trembling. He dove forward, and in the same motion slung the heap of mud at the man and somersaulted down the bank, hearing the explosion of the weapon and another blast as he rolled, then found his feet and came up under the hot barrel and tore it from the man's grasp and hurled it out into the gleaming lake of his yard.

  Bianetti stumbled backward, nearly fell. Mud coating his face, spattered across his dark sport jacket.

  He was panting, clawing at the mud in his eyes. A man in his seventies, with gray hair, thick-waisted. And as he lowered his hands from his face, Harden could see his eyes were dazed and lost. He worked to catch his breath, then brought his slow eyes to Winchester's.

  "There's something wrong with that girl. She's not right. You did something to her." A string of foamy spit hung from Bianetti's lip, twirled, catching the light. He put his hands in the pockets of his sport coat.

  "It's 'cause she didn't have a proper family," Harden said. "But all that's about to change."

  "No," Ray said. His voice was suddenly hoarse.

  The old man's hands came out of his pocket. One of them drifted up to grip his own throat. Harden stepped back and watched as Bianetti's knees sagged. Then the old man stumbled to his right, threw his head back as though he were about to bellow at the moon. He clutched his chest with both hands as though his heart had ruptured, Harden watching, cautious. Then the old man caught himself, staggered, and changed direction as if he were about to spiral down into a heap.

  But in the next instant, Bianetti was no longer old, not slow and helpless, coming out of his stumble, lowering his head and bulling forward, growling like a maniac, coming very fast, aiming at Harden's legs, tackling him and lifting him off the ground, then splashing him hard on his back. Harden swiveled quickly, blew water from his mouth, broke Bianetti's hold and tried to come around to face him, their bodies tangled, Harden's fingers groping for one of the vulnerable spots.

  But something wasn't right. Harden Winchester wasn't totally alert, not focused, his muscles weakening swiftly as though he'd taken some buckshot without knowing it. Not feeling the warm damp of a wound, yet knowing something was wrong, something that prevented him from turning his head to either side. Kept him from drawing a breath, his face growing hot and swollen. And finally recognizing it, feeling it, a sharp burn cutting into his Adam's apple. Something he'd felt once before. A bad thing.

  A wire at his throat. A goddamn wire.

  ***

  Sylvie was right. Doris was too wide-hipped to slip through the opening. But Sylvie managed it like always, pushing one corner of the grating out, then prying her body past the sharp steel edge, only a few inches between the window frame and the angle of steel.

  She hopped down into the water and Doris said, "Now open the door, Sylvie. Come unlock the bedroom door."

  Sylvie stared off at the two men struggling by the bank of the fish pond. One of them throttling the other. A loud grunt. Recognizing Murtha's car, the red Firebird. Murtha coming all this way to fight for her, win her. Wow.

  "Open the bedroom door, Sylvie. Hurry now. Hurry."

  "No, Mommy. You stay there. I'm going to get something first, take care of some other business."

  Sylvie started across the yard toward her father and Murtha where they were struggling in the headlights. She had an idea. A way to get things back to how they were.

  CHAPTER 33

  A cup of sour water erupted from Sugar's mouth, and just behind it came a thin gruel of vomit. Thorn pulled his lips away, tried to keep his stomach down, but it took a second before he could get back to the cadence of his CPR, kneeling to the right side of Sugar's body, his left hand covering his right, the heel of his hand jamming into the soft flesh an inch or two below Sugar's sternum, one-pump, two-pump, three-pump, working Sugarman's heart from the outside, then leaning forward, pinching his nose and giving him three more quick blows of air.

  Behind him he heard the splash of someone wading toward them, but he didn't turn. One-pump, two-pump, three-pump.

  He heard the person leave the water, climb up the terrace onto the patio, and heard the click of several switches. And all around them, spotlights blazed from the poles scattered about the yard, from the roof of the house, from the barns.

  Thorn glanced up quickly and saw an acre of harsh white light, saw the two cars standing in the yard, saw Judy's body lying on the pond bank, another body lying below it, head in the water. Dizzy now, his knees sore, Thorn leaned forward and blew three more hard breaths into Sugar's mouth. Heard
the footsteps go quiet behind him, but didn't turn. One-pump, two-pump.

  And felt Sugar's body respond, felt a weak tremble beneath his hands. Clumsy with excitement, Thorn's hands slipped, and he fell forward across Sugar's chest.

  Sugarman opened his eyes, blinked, looked up at Thorn.

  "Damn." His voice frail and hoarse. "You need a shave, man. Like kissing a porcupine."

  Thorn sat up and eased the angle of Sugar's neck.

  Sugarman closed his eyes for a moment, breathing on his own. He took a long breath, and his eyes came open again.

  "And mouthwash too," Sugar said.

  "Hush," Thorn said. "Just relax."

  "Peanuts. Tasted them on your breath. Dreaming about baseball games."

  "Don't talk. Just stay calm, Sugar."

  Sugarman's gaze moved slowly over Thorn's shoulder. His eyes making the long journey back from his dream of baseball to this savage August night on the edge of the Everglades. Watching someone who stood behind Thorn, staring at that person as he would at a cottonmouth that blocked his path.

  Thorn rose to his feet and turned. In one hand she carried a silver bucket, in the other, a shotgun. Sylvie set the bucket down and held the shotgun loosely in both hands.

  "Now's your chance, Thorn. My daddy's over there. He's in a weakened condition."

  Thorn stepped closer to her and said, "What I want to know is, Sylvie, what'd you do with his body?"

  "What body?"

  "Lavery's."

  She came to attention, measured him with a long bland look.

  Finally in a sober voice she said, "It was self-defense."

  "Oh, I'm sure it was. Everything you do is self-defense. Isn't that right? Your great all-purpose rationale."

  "If you'd had my life, Thorn, you'd understand. Walked in my moccasins, full of broken glass, you'd see."

  "So what happened to you, Sylvie? What was so goddamn awful it gives you permission to murder people?"

  "It was self-defense with Lavery. I told you. He went for me, tried to kill me, and I had no choice."