Black Water Transit (40 page)

He considered asking Senza what he made out of it, but the silence coming from the front seat was a blank wall, and Jack decided to say nothing. Senza had spoken very little on the trip up and not at all after the newscast. It was clear to Jack that the old man had a lot on his mind. They had talked very little about Creek, mainly because Jack found the idea too damn depressing to think about. Creek was half his life, the only true thing in it, other than the business. They’d known each other for almost forty years.

But the pieces fit. There was even a Canadian connection. Back when they’d had their steaks on the roof of his condo, Creek had mentioned a student he had met, some sexy number, a lit major. The deconstructionist. Yes. She was from McGill. Jack was pretty sure that McGill was the name of a university up in Montreal.
And Frank had told him about the cars, the turquoise ’56 T-bird he was buying for Claire. Flannery too. It was all right in front of him. But why? Nobody could tell him why. What reason could Creek have? All Jack knew was that he’d ask him that very question. In person. And soon. When he had Creek’s answer, he’d know what to do about him. He tried for a breath and felt the pain.

Jack knew what the feeling in his chest was, the tightness and the cold. It was a kind of heartbreak. Senza seemed caught between loyalty to Frank and his suspicions about Jack and Creek, and the closer they got to home the more it looked like loyalty was winning. Jack had asked the old man several times to tell him where they were going, but all he did was grunt and keep driving. Jack could feel the big gray Glock digging into his ribs. He had loaded the magazine with the last of Sharon Callahan’s nine-mill rounds, seventeen in the box, one chambered up and ready to go. He took whatever comfort he could get out of that. About where they were going, he found out a few miles later, when they pulled into the same park in Kinderhook where he had met Earl Pike the week before, Riveredge Park, right on the Hudson. Senza parked the Crown Victoria under a stand of willows and turned around in the seat to look down at Jack.

“We’re here. I want you to stay inna car for a bit.”

“Okay. What’s happening?”

“We’re waiting.”

“For whom?”

“I asked for some help.”

“From Frank?”

“Yeah, Frank. Who the fuck else? The Blessed Virgin?”

“What’s he going to do? Is he going to go get Creek?”

“We’ll find out when he gets here. Inna meantime, stay put and shut up. I gotta go take a leak.”

The big car rocked on its springs as Senza opened the door and got out. The scent of riverside mud and trees and wildflowers poured into the car on a cool breeze and washed over Jack’s face. He inhaled and tried to relax. All he could see while he was lying on his back like this were the branches of the willows above him. They moved in the wind from the river and showed their silver undersides and Jack remembered the last time he had looked at willows like that, only a few days ago, when he was watching them through the leaded-glass windows of the Frontenac Hotel, Creek sitting beside him, and thinking about the amberjack schools swimming in the South China Sea. The sound of the wind in the willow leaves was a feathery hiss. The sky showed through the flickering waves of willow leaves, a deepening blue with a gold-green tint in the west as the sun moved down into the afternoon sky.

He passed several minutes in this way and got his heart rate down to almost normal for the first time in several days, and then he heard three clear gunshots, one light, two heavy. Jack rolled sideways out of the Crown Victoria and landed in a tumble on the stones of the river’s edge. He had the Glock out now and the weight of it in his right hand was solid and reassuring. He was under the willows and the waving leaves made it hard to see what was out there. He moved as quietly as he could until he reached the big leathery trunk of the nearest willow. He got his back up against it. He sat up far enough to look out into the park.

The park was deserted as far as he could see, the only vehicle in it the Crown Victoria. The lot ran parallel to the big river for about a hundred yards, and the park itself for a quarter mile. The banks of the river were lined with willows, but the area closer to the road was rolling grass dotted with picnic benches. Beyond the grass, the two-lane highway that led into Kinderhook baked in
the sidelong sun. Thin purple shadows stretched across the deep green lawn. The river sound was rushing and deep, and the wind stirring the willows made a similar rushing sound, but not as deep and not as steady. Jack could see the surface of the Hudson from his position, not more than ten yards away through the willows. It was broad and brown and flat, with little roiling eddies that spun up in white froth. The sunlight lying on the river looked like little yellow flames. He moved to his left slightly.

A round slammed into the trunk right by his head, sending slivers into his temple. They stung like bees. He crashed away through the long grass, heading for the river. Then he heard the sound of the shot, a cracking boom that rattled around in the trees and then died away under the hissing of the wind and the rush of the river. He reached the bank and pulled himself in behind a huge tangle of willow roots. It was impossible to tell where the sound of the shot had come from, but the round had struck the trunk from the downriver direction. Who was shooting at him? The police? Senza?

Pike?

Creek?

Certainly not Pike. He wouldn’t have missed. Not Senza. Senza could have killed him anytime in the last two hours. It had to be Creek. Creek would have missed. He had never been a great shot, not even in the war. Jack shifted his position again. He raised his head and scanned the park. There was a cluster of sumac and a little knoll of apple trees about fifty yards away. Whoever was shooting at him was using a big pistol, from the sound of the shot, so fifty yards was about the effective range. The apple trees were leafy and full, and the shadows underneath them were blue-black. Inside the blue shadow was a darker shape, rounded, hunched over, moving slightly through the shadow. Jack froze and watched the shape. It moved again, and Jack
saw a blue-white flowering—he jerked away—the round smacked into the root tangle—the booming crack racketed in the air—Jack slipped and fell into the river—the current was frighteningly fast—he clutched at the root cluster with his left hand—felt the branches tearing at his skin—his shoes were pulled off and gone—the water was icy cold and stank of mud and dead wood—he caught at the root cluster again—the slick wet bark peeled off in his hand and he was taken out by the rushing water—it was like being coat-hooked by a freight train—the current was immensely strong—Jack held onto the Glock as the banks went blurring by him—he saw a stony little outcrop coming up at him—Jack hit it hard—felt something pop in his chest—the breath slammed out of him—the current dragged at him—but he held on. The pain inside his chest was razor-thin and chilly and every time he took a breath it cut him somewhere deep inside.

He ignored it, burrowed up onto the riverbank. A shadow moved across the edge of the bank over his head, a black flicker in the standing weeds and the long grass. He was very still. The shadow passed to his right, going upriver. Jack pulled himself carefully out of the water. After three hard kicks he was able to get his head level with the edge of the grass line. He saw a big man in a gray suit moving carefully up the shallow rise, moving in the direction of the root tangle where Jack had gone into the river. He had a large stainless-steel pistol in his right hand. It was Carmine DaJulia.

Jack lifted the Glock, rested it on an outcrop of grassy earth, and aimed at the broad stretch of shiny gray silk over Carmine’s ribs, just beneath his right underarm. Drops of water were running down Jack’s face and into his eyes and it was hard to breathe. Every breath hurt and made the sights of the Glock shake. Carmine was less than twenty feet away, looking upriver,
moving in a low crouch. All his attention was up the river. That was a mistake, thought Jack, who knew something about these things. He pulled the trigger.

The pistol jumped in his hand, jerking his arm, which sent a jagged bolt of pain through his chest. The round plucked at Carmine’s coat, thudded into his thigh bone, splashing a red rose on the shiny gray silk. Carmine, turning, cursing, lifted the Colt—fired it at Jack—the round punched a clod of dirt into the air above his head—he was slipping down the bank—caught himself—he saw Carmine coming toward the bank now—his broken-china teeth showing yellow against the tan skin—Jack lifted the Glock again—heard a voice calling—Carmine jerked around—Fabrizio Senza was standing in the clear a yard to the right of the apple-tree knoll—blood was running from his face and glistening on his shirt—Carmine twisted and aimed the Colt at Senza—and Jack fired again, and Carmine went backward and down and lay still, one arm stretched out and limp, the Colt lying in the green grass a foot from his hand.

Jack pulled himself up the riverbank, stood up shakily, and walked over to where Carmine was lying. He could see Carmine’s big belly going up and down like a bellows. Jack was barefoot and the grass felt warm and dry against his skin. He reached Carmine and stood over him, looking down.

Carmine’s blunt face was flushed red, his mouth gulping air like a hooked fish, his chest rising and falling. He had wet himself and a dark stain colored his crotch. Blood coated his right leg now, shiny and red, and ran down into the green grass, and Jack had a sudden replay of Tank Boy on his side in a wide flat green lake with thin red lines running through it. There was a second bloody wound in Carmine’s belly, low and to the left.

Carmine shifted, looked up at Jack.

“Fuck you, Jack,” said Carmine, and closed his eyes.

Fabrizio Senza, breathing fast and shallow, moving slowly, reached them, bent down, and picked up the steel Colt lying next to Carmine. Jack saw a black hole in the man’s left cheek, blood running in snakes down the leathery skin. His eyes were black, half shut against the pain in his skull. He lifted the Colt and pointed it at Carmine’s face. Carmine turned his face a little away and Jack could see he was holding his breath, ready for the shot to punch through him. Jack stepped over, put his hand out and placed it on Senza’s arm, pushed the arm gently down. Senza looked at him in confusion, his lips set and thin, his chest heaving.

“I need him,” said Jack.

The cab was still rolling to a stop in front of Casey’s apartment building when Casey threw a twenty into the slot and stepped out. She tried to walk down the concrete path but failed. She was doing a fast trot by the time she hit the glass doors. She still had the cell phone in her hand. It was hot to the touch. She’d called her home number every five minutes during the hour and a half that it took the driver to work his way across the bridge and through the Sunday traffic to Prospect Park. The sound of the line ringing over and over again was still echoing in her mind.

The elevator clanged shut and groaned upward, taking a year to pass a single floor. Casey banged on the doors as they opened, pushed at the edge, and squeezed her way into the hallway. The hall smelled of cooking and she heard the crowd noise of a ball game coming
through one of the heavy wooden doors. She ran all the way down to her door, keys out. She had to try three times, but she got the door open and stepped into the apartment. It was silent.

“Mom? You here?”

Nothing.

She walked into the main room. The sun was pouring in through the casement windows and lay like spilled honey on the polished hardwood flooring. The green leather couch was empty, a dark blue blanket bundled up in the corner. The television was on, showing a CNN channel, but the sound had been muted. The wooden coffee table was littered with drink glasses, pill bottles, the ashtray overflowing, and the smell of marijuana and menthol cigarettes floated in the hazy air. The stereo was on and soft swing music was playing. The door to her mother’s room was closed.

“Mom! It’s Casey.”

Silence.

Casey crossed the floor. The door to her mother’s room was slightly open. She saw a corner of her mother’s bed, unmade, and some clothes tossed on the carpet. She pushed the door open.

The bed had been slept in. Casey touched the sheets.

Cold. And damp, as if her mother had been sweating. The table beside the bed was a mess, coated with spilled red wine. The door to her mother’s bathroom was half open and the light was on. Casey moved toward it. Reached it. Her hand, as she held it out, looked elongated and disconnected. The bathroom was empty. Two minutes later, after a search that grew increasingly frantic, Casey found her mother.

She was lying on Casey’s bed, under the deep blue ceiling covered with thousands of glittering gold stars. A city made out of candles was burning on the bedside table, although the sun was shining in through the white
cotton drapes. Her mother was lying on her back, in a yellow silk nightgown, her hands folded across her breast. Casey’s briefcase was on the floor beside her bed. It had been opened, and the contents were scattered across Casey’s sea-green carpet, pill bottles opened, letters and papers everywhere. Casey came over to the bed and looked down at her mother’s face. It was blue-white, creased and sunken, her cheekbones sharp, her eyes closed, her forehead shining. She leaned down to touch her mother’s throat.

Her mother’s eyes opened.

“Casey.”

“Mom.”

“I was so worried. What time is it?”

“A little after four. Sunday. You found my briefcase?”

“Yes. It came last night. I opened it. I’m sorry.”

“I was calling you. Just now. Didn’t you hear me?”

“I think I did. I may have. I was looking at your stars.”

“For Christ’s sake, Mom. I thought—”

“You thought I was stoned. Or dead.”

“Yes. What else would I think?”

“I took some pills. I took a lot of them. I had myself quite a party last night. But I also read your letters. All the letters. To the doctors. To the detox people. The apologies. The excuses. I read everything in your briefcase. I read about those awful people who kidnapped the little girl last week. Shawana Coryell. I read the court papers, the one where that judge with the lovely name? Euphonia? She let those three men go free. After what they did? How terrible. Your whole life is in that briefcase, Casey. It’s not much of a life, is it? You do nothing but fight. You have nothing else.”