A Beautiful Place to Die (20 page)

“No!”

“Yes!”

I slammed the door and threw a look at the sportscar. It was only a hundred yards away, bouncing through pools of rainwater and throwing sand and mud into the air. I trotted around into plain sight and began a limping lope up the trail toward the dunes. I dared not pause to look behind me, but I heard the scream of the sportscar's engine as Billy turned after me and tried to drive up the trail.

But the ground was too rough for the low-slung M.G., and as I gimped over the first dune I heard the whine of spinning wheels. Then I was running down the far side of
the dune, hurting, and then I was climbing the second dune separating the beach from the road. As I topped it, Billy must have reached the top of the first dune, for I heard the crack of his pistol. I leaped down the far side of the dune, tripped and fell, got up, and ran.

I reached the beach and ran east toward Lobsterville. By now Zee should be on her way for help. I wondered how long I could run. I had never been much of a runner even when young and frisky. I was the guy who got a stitch in his side after a quarter of a mile and couldn't stand it. Now I was thirty-five and not frisky at all, and I had shotgun pellets and holes of same all over my body and I was having a hard time standing them.

But fear is a wonderful motivator, as I'd found out in Vietnam when I'd done a lot of running first in one direction then another, never making much progress for long, but too scared to stop. Behind me, over the sound of the waves splashing against the shingle beach, Billy's pistol popped again. Again he missed, but to my right some pebbles rattled. It's hard to hit anything with a pistol under the best of circumstances. When you're half crazy and are running and out of breath and shooting at a moving target, it's even harder.

I ran on. Pretty soon Billy would figure out that he had to run me down in order to get close enough to shoot me. If I could keep running, maybe he'd give up and go home. Maybe I could run him into the ground. Why not? Stranger things have happened.

A hammer hit my left thigh and the leg collapsed and I fell, skidding through pebbles. Not good. I tried to get up, but the leg wouldn't work. I rolled over and looked back. Billy was running toward me, pistol in hand. The bastard had shot me!

He came running up and stopped, panting, and looked down at me. Suddenly, far behind him, I saw Zee come onto the beach. She had her fishing rod.

“You turd,” said Billy, huffing and puffing. “You motherfucker. You chickenshit.”

I threw a rock at him. He ducked and laughed.

“Get away!” I yelled at Zee. “Run!”

Billy turned and saw her, then turned back. “I'll get her next. You first, turd.”

He took a breath to steady his arm and raised the pistol as Zee made her cast. The diamond jig arched through the air and slapped down over his face, and she lay back on the rod and set the triple hook in his cheek. Billy screamed and staggered backward, clawing at his face. The pistol went off, then flew away into the surf. Zee backed and jerked on the rod, and Billy tore at the jig, blood bursting through his hands.

Zee had twenty-pound test line and forty-five pound test leader, and neither was going to break. She backed up the beach while Billy, screaming, reeled after her. Then he fell, and I saw the jig tear loose and fly away. Zee dropped the rod and came running, her fillet knife glittering in her hand. Billy staggered up, blood pouring from his torn face. He saw Zee, slipped on the bloody pebbles beneath him, gave an awful cry and plunged away toward the dunes, scrambling for cover like the wounded animal he was. Zee, her face contorted, swerved, running, toward him, then turned back to me. Billy thrashed up and over the dunes and was gone.

Then Zee had me in her arms, and she was crying and so was I.

By the time she got me back to the Jeep, the M.G. was gone. There were tire marks deep in the beach grass and
a smear of oil, too. He'd done his oil pan a bad turn before he'd gotten away. I didn't think he'd drive too far before his engine let go.

We stopped at the first house we came to, and Zee went in to call the police. The phone was working, and we were promised an ambulance and a police escort to the hospital. My leg was well awake by now and hurting quite a bit. It wasn't bleeding too badly, though, which meant the bullet had missed the bigger arteries and veins. Zee gave me aspirin and held my hand.

The house had a fine view, and I could see the fishing boats and early departing yachts moving out of Menemsha Gut to begin their morning cruises. Several were small swordfishermen with long pulpits. Probably headed for the swordfishing grounds south of Nomans Land, I thought. Then I thought I saw the
Bluefin
heading out as well. But the ambulance came just then, and Zee helped me get into it and then got in back with me and we pulled away toward Oak Bluffs.

As we approached Beetlebung Corner we came to a near stop. I sat up and saw that there were police cars clustered around the red M.G. A young officer waved us by. I didn't see Billy in anyone's custody, but maybe they'd already taken him off. Maybe not.

“If they don't have him now, they'll get him soon,” I said to Zee. I was quite wrong, as things turned out, but I was sincere.

Neither my ambulance nor my police escort sounded a siren on the way, but I got to the hospital anyway and was hustled once again into the emergency room. The staff affected dismay, claiming I was taking up more time than any single person merited. From this I gathered that I was not as seriously shot as I might have been. This proved
indeed to be the case, for after due procedure I found myself again in a clean white bed, another bit of lead removed from my flesh.

“How are you feeling?” asked Zee.

I put on my manly smile. She rolled her eyes to heaven, then kissed my forehead and took my hand and held it and I really didn't feel too bad at all. After a while I went to sleep.

When I woke up I noticed a cop at the door. He glanced at me, then disappeared. A moment later he was back and the chief walked in.

“How you doing?”

“Not bad. Why the armed guard?”

“That's to protect the nurses.”

“Sure.”

“Billy's still on the loose. We missed him.”

Not good, Kemo Sabe. “I saw his car up in Chilmark. He couldn't have gotten far, and anybody who'd have seen him would remember him because of his face. He must still be up there somewhere.”

“We've got a lot of men scouring the area. If he's there, we'll find him.”

“If he's there?”

“There was a lady up there walking. Her morning constitutional. Billy passed her in the M.G. She said it was making an awful noise and finally stopped a ways behind her. A man with a bleeding face got out, and about that time a car came up, stopped, and picked him up, then turned around and drove away.”

“Which way?”

“Back toward Beetlebung Corner. After that, she didn't notice.”

I put a map of the Vineyard in my head. The island looks small, but there are over a hundred square miles of it. I couldn't even guess how many miles of road and driveways wound through the trees and grapevines. From Beetlebung Corner alone you could take three paved roads leading away from Gay Head—Menemsha Cross Road, Middle Road, or South Road. A car could be a lot of places.

“What kind of car was it that picked him up? A black Caddy, maybe?”

“She didn't know. Tan. Two doors. Newish. She doesn't know one car from another since they stopped putting brand names on them. Lots of times I don't either, for that matter.”

“Do you have any other good news for me?”

“Nope.”

“How did the big bust go?”

He rolled an oath out of his mouth and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Small fry only. The big guys got tipped again.”

“Fred Sylvia and group?”

He looked at me hard. “What do you know about Sylvia?”

“I'm an ex-big-city copper, remember. I got contacts. I heard the name in a couple of places.”

He was not at all amused. “You know a lot for somebody who isn't supposed to know anything at all. Being so smart, you could be the guy who tipped Sylvia.”

“Sure I did. I phoned him from the hospital while they were picking number seven-and-a-half shot out of me.”

The chief shook out a cigarette and thrust it at me. “Smoke?” When I shook my head, he stuck the cigarette in
his own mouth and lit up. “I've had a bad night and it looks like I'll be having a bad day, too. It makes me grouchy.” He looked at the cigarette in his hand. “I should give these up.” Instead, he put the cigarette back in his mouth and inhaled deeply.

“How did you miss Sylvia?”

“Whoever tipped them before, tipped them again, so he was gone before we could get there. We think we know what Sylvia was doing and how he did it, but we needed his computer and its programs to make a case.”

“You mean that computer on his desk in his home office?”

“How did you know about that?”

“I visited him once a few days ago. How did his system work?”

“We got all this from the DEA guys before we began the raids last night. According to them, Fred Sylvia is a leader in a drug-trafficking business that covers a lot of the Northeast. He's been running the organization from his home office just like you might run a legitimate business, and at the same time he's kept his legitimate interests in Brunner International. Because he knows Brunner International's schedules for imports and exports, he's been able to add drug shipments to legitimate cargoes and hide them in his computer inventories. That's how he got the stuff into the States. Pretty slick.

“Then, being the good businessman that he is, and he
is
good at business, he set up an organization he called the Janus Public Service Corporation. He entered agreements with other drug dealers, bought their lists of customers, provided paid vacations for his employees, gave some free apartments and cars, and paid them all good salaries.
We're told the salaries range up to five thousand dollars a week, and that the corporation sold several hundred kilos of cocaine and over a ton of marijuana last year, to say nothing of other drugs.”

“He paid out thousands in salaries, and paid himself a hefty one, too, as corporation president. But he was always fair with his employees, so there was a lot of loyalty throughout the organization. If we'd gotten him, though, we could also have nailed him for income tax evasion, because naturally he never reported the Janus Corporation salary.”

“How'd you get onto him?”

“Not me, them, the DEA. Oh, sooner or later there's a breakdown in the system. Somebody talked and fingered a higher-up. The DEA agreed not to prosecute if the guy would tell all. And he did tell what he knew and so the DEA guys got more names and made more deals. The standard stuff: they let off the small fry to get at the bigger ones and finally learned what I just told you.”

“But without the computer records, all they've got is rumors.”

“They'd have liked the
Bluefin,
too. They figure the Janus outfit used it to ferry drugs here and there when the boat was supposed to be out on long-range fishing trips, and they figured they might find some evidence aboard that would add to their case. And of course they would have liked to have Sylvia and some of his associates in hand, to ask some questions so they could compare stories and maybe get somebody to break and talk.”

“Somebody like Tim Mello, the guy who captains the
Bluefin.”
I'd liked Tim, but who says the baddies are unpleasant? They only make their money differently than
most of us. Aside from that, they're pretty much like everybody else. Some you'll like, some you won't.

“That was one of the names. And a guy named Leon Jax who provides whatever muscle Sylvia needs.”

“And the whole thing went bust.”

“A busted bust. Us locals helped the big guys find their way around so they wouldn't get lost, but it was really their game. They had warrants for Sylvia's house and boat and they wanted his car, but all they found was the car. The house was empty and the
Bluefin
was gone. The guys on the docks told them that Tim Mello had said he was bound swordfishing with Sylvia. Of course they left last night and we didn't find out where till this morning. So all we got for our efforts were some local dealers and users who probably didn't get their stuff from Sylvia anyway.”

“Where was the car? A black Caddy, I take it.”

The chief snubbed out his cigarette. “That's the second time you've mentioned a black Caddy. Why?”

“I saw Leon driving one once. Where did you find the car? Down at the
Bluefin
's dock, I'd guess, and clean as a cat's whiskers.”

“Yep. Right where he'd have left it if he was going swordfishing for a day or two.”

“I imagine you've got the Coast Guard looking for the
Bluefin
out around the swordfishing grounds.”

“They're looking, but I doubt if they'll do much finding.” The chief got up. “I've blabbed enough. There'll be a guard outside, just in case. Just wanted to let you know what was happening.”

“Did you search Mrs. Sylvia's car?” I asked.

He paused as he was stepping toward the door. “No, we didn't find it. Or her, either.” He frowned at me.

“I think you'll find her car up in Menemsha. A tan
two-door Buick. A car like the one that picked Billy up this morning.”

“Why do you think it's in Menemsha?”

“Because I think I saw the
Bluefin
pull out of Menemsha Gut this morning about the time it would have taken Billy to get to Beetlebung Corner and someone else to drive him to Menemsha.”

“A tan two-door? You're sure?”

“I saw her driving one last week. If I were a guessing man, which I am, I'd guess that she picked Billy up and they went for a cruise in the
Bluefin.”