Dead in the Water (19 page)

He drove to my place and stopped, under the Manitoba maple out front. I started to worry about the dead man inside. If Fancy Shirt found the body, I was a dead man too. They would get the envelope first. There's a limit to the pain anyone can stand. After that I would be face down in the lake, what was left of me. I remembered Blue Shirt and his knife and shuddered. As we got out of the car, Sam barked. I recognized his duty sound, an ugly snarling roar that would keep anybody away from him and the envelope.

The driver got out. He stood for a second or two and called "Freddie?" in a soft, inquiring way. The only reply was Sam's bark. The man swore once and opened the back door of the car. My feet folded down and I wriggled backward and stood up. He grabbed my wrists and twisted. I bit down on the pain and came with him. "Where is it?" he asked.

I said, "Turn the lights off or the dog will keep on barking." He leaned into the car and switched off the lights. He was carrying the gun in his right hand now.

"Where is it?" he asked again.

"In the dog pen," I told him and he swore.

"You think I'm gonna believe that?"

"Where would you have hid it?" I asked.

He swore and said, "Let's go."

We walked down to Sam's cage, me in front. Sam was patroling and barking, the way I had trained him over long slow months. "Shut him up," the man said and I told Sam "easy." That was the cue word, warning him to wait for the next command. He stopped barking and stood still, a handsome silent show dog, not a threat.

The man had gone to the house and was trying the door. It was locked. He rattled it a couple of times, then came back to join me. I thanked my good fairy that the dead man's wild bullet hadn't come through the door or the window. It just looked as if he had gone. Fancy Shirt prodded me with the gun. "Get the envelope."

"You'll have to open the door for me," I said.

"Cute," he sneered. "Then what?"

"Then I go in and get the envelope. Unless you want to."

"You get it," he said. "And don't screw around or you're dead."

"Don't do that." I sounded pitiful. I didn't want him tenser than he had to be.

Slowly and carefully he slid the bolt back, keeping his gun trained on Sam now. He was scared. I could tell by the way he kept even the tips of his fingers clear of the wire. The animal in his own little soul respected Sam's ferocity. He was still enough in control not to pull the trigger on Sam. He didn't want to risk that cannon of his waking up the few people who lived within a hundred yards of here. He had that much control, but that was all.

"Don't get cute," he told me. His voice had the rasp of fear in it.

"I won't," I said. "I don't want any more trouble."

He pulled gently on the door, keeping it between himself and the eighty-pound menace of my last trump card. The door was made the same way as the rest of the pen, chain-link fencing over iron pipes. It was on good metal hinges that moved easily. He nudged me in the back of the leg with his foot. "Move," he said. I went into the pen. Sam dropped and fawned in front of me, whining gently. He knew I was in trouble and wanted to help, but his training was keeping him back. I'd told him "easy." I bumped him with my knee. "Easy," I told him again and he straightened up.

My voice was level, the tone I used for commands. He realized it and came to my heel, licking my swollen fingers. "Easy," I told him again and he stopped licking and walked behind me as I went slowly for his dish. When I reached it I knelt down and picked it up, twisting my body sideways to reach it. I turned it over in my clumsy fingers, feeling the envelope that was still taped underneath it.

The man at the gate was anxious. He had lit a cigarette. The glow of the red point made a mask of his features. He called out, "Come on. What's keepin' you."

I turned away from him, pretending to fumble with the dish while my head came down close to Sam's ears. "Come!" I whispered, and saw him stiffen at the command. Holding the dish behind me I came back to the gate.

Fancy Shirt was holding it shut, his foot wedged against the bottom of it. He was puffing his cigarette fiercely, like some exercise his doctor had told him to keep up. "Slip it underneath," he commanded.

"I can't. It's taped to the bottom of the dog dish."

He swore. "Come here," he said.

I went to the door, Sam a few inches behind me and to my left. He was in the classic "heel" position, ready for the next command.

The man opened the door about four inches. "Turn around and hand it to me," he said.

I turned, preparing myself for the next moment. The man had to handle his gun and the bowl and keep the gate almost closed. He would probably poke the gun barrel through the wire of the gate as far as the fore sight. That was the way I would have done it. I put out of my mind what would happen if the fore sight jammed in the wire. My spine would be only inches away from the muzzle when he fired.

I felt for the edge of the gate with my fingers, and I spoke to him, starting in a soothing tone. As the gate came to my hand I said, "What's up, you think we'd be fool enough to
fight
?" I roared the last word as a command to Sam, yanking the door open as I did so.

Sam passed me in mid-air, leaping for the man's gun hand. I swung around on one foot, poised for the kick that would win or lose the day.

The gun roared and Sam fell out of the air. And at the same instant my foot caught the gun man squarely in the testicles.

He groaned and dropped his hand, crouching over while I swung the second kick that snapped his jaw like a dead stick. He flew backward. He might have been trying to fire—I didn't stop to check. I jumped, both feet on his abdomen.

His breath came out of him and he lay still.

I knelt down, peering into his face for any sign of a counterattack. I would have smashed his face again with my forehead. But there was no need. The eyes were open, but he was out cold, the face foreshortened with the injury to the jaw.

I crouched and listened for any breathing. There was none. I straightened up, aware that my shirt was sticky with Sam's blood. I stood up and went over to look at the ruin of my dog. And I could have wept for joy. He was alive. The bullet had ripped half his ear away. It was bleeding fast, and Sam was whimpering with pain. But he would make it.

I found the man's gun and kicked it in front of me over to the garage. The door at the side was unlocked and I went in and rummaged in the drawer until I came up with a hacksaw. Working with numb fingers I managed to set it into the vise and crank it up. After that it took only a moment to get free.

I spent a minute rubbing the circulation back into my hands. Then I checked the gun. It was too big for my police holster, so I stuck it in my belt. Then I went back to the man I had beaten. Looking down at him now with two free hands and a gun, it was hard not to think I had gone too far, been too rough. But it had been him or me. His breath had returned. It was ragged and clumsy, but it had the beginnings of a pattern to it. As I looked closely at him his lips began to move. I leaned down close to listen and heard him whisper all the bad language he had ever heard. Then I took out my cuffs and snapped his left wrist to a bar of Sam's cage.

I left him and went into the house. I had to brace myself against the cold fear of entering the room where the dead mobster lay. But I did it. And I dialed the station number. George Horn answered on the second ring. "Murphy's Harbour P'lice." I felt overcome with relief at his voice. Thank god for steady people, good people who would stay where you put them and do the job you gave them. I said "Hello, George…" and the kid was all over me.

"Hi, Reid. That Mr. Fullwell just rang. He says that it's important you get the message."

"What message?"

"About Straiton Chemical." He stumbled over the name in his rush. "He says they're sharing time on the computer with some outfit called Datistics. It's a new company and the guy who runs it did time once for fraud. He says that's likely where the information came from." He paused, uncertain. "Does that make any sense to you?"

"Yeah," I said. "It makes the most sense of anything I've heard since this whole thing started." I paused for a moment, getting my thoughts back in a straight line.

George cut into the silence. "Hey, Reid. You okay?"

"Yeah. But I got a lot of jobs for you. A lot's been happening."

"Shoot," he said and I shook my head at the craziness of the word.

"One guy's been shot," I said. "And another guy needs a hospital. And Sam is hurt bad."

George's voice lost ten years. He was a frightened kid again. "Somebody hurt Sam?"

"Yeah. He got shot too. I think he'll make it, but he's bleeding pretty bad. If you can round up a vet, send him over to my yard, but don't do it first."

"What's first?" he asked in a low voice.

"First off. Call the OPP. Tell them to bring riot gear, tear gas, shotguns, the whole disaster. I want them at the marina. Next, order up a doctor and ambulance for the marina. There's a guy there with a bad head injury. But warn them not to move in until they get the word. You got that?"

"Right." He rattled the details back at me, and I went on. "After that, send an ambulance to the back of my place, there's a sick citizen cuffed to Sam's pen. And get the OPP homicide squad because there's a heavy in my kitchen with a hole in him."

His voice was an awed whisper that rasped on me like sandpaper, reminding me who I was and what I did best. "Jesus Christ, Reid. I ain't never met nobody like you."

I didn't comment. "Vet, OPP to the marina, ambulances, homicide. Okay?"

"Yeah," he said. "Ten-four."

I stepped around the dead man on the floor and opened the kitchen cupboard. I keep paper towels in there and I tore off a couple of yards from the roll. Then I opened a drawer and pulled out some clothespins I'd found when I rented the place. I'd never used them before, but tonight they might save Sam's life.

I went out to Sam and pressed some of the towels over the torn ear. Blood was pulsing out and it soaked the paper in seconds, but I knew it would stop if I could apply pressure. I pegged the paper to his ear with the clothespins, three of them close together. They would pinch in and help stop the blood. Sam whimpered once and made to scratch at his ear. I guessed he was still deaf from the explosion and shock, but I raised one finger to him and he lay still. Then I patted him once and went to the hood's car.

I was afraid someone might have heard the gunshot but no lights were showing anywhere. Everyone was too drunk or scared or uninterested to wonder about things that go bump in the night. And if the man on the boat had heard he would probably have just grinned and figured it was his boss finishing me off.

The car keys were in the ignition. I started it up and pulled on the headlights. The handcuffed man on the grass made a feeble gesture in the light. It could have been an appeal for help. I backed up and drove away. He would live.

I thought as I drove. If Blue Shirt was still on his own, I could take him. He was stupid. He would probably try to use the girl as a hostage if it came to a showdown. He had seen that work once. If I was quick enough, he wouldn't get the chance to think that deeply.

There was a tinge of gray in the blackness of predawn as I reached the marina. It would be light in half an hour and all the rules would change again. For now, I had cover.

I stopped the car at the very end of the dock and came out of it on the run. I heard the starter whining as I ran. The fool hadn't thought to start up ahead of time. I could make it. Without hesitation I drew the huge Magnum I'd taken off the guy at my place and fired twice, low down, right at the waterline where the slugs would smash the motor. I heard the starter motor stop with an agonized screech of metal. And then cursing, high and fluent.

I crouched low beside the boat and shouted. "Police. You're surrounded. Come out with your hands up."

The same voice went on cursing. Then there was a quick scream from Angela Masters and silence.

I waited for thirty seconds, hearing a heavy blundering sound as someone clumsy moved around in the cabin. It was my friend with the kicking shoes, tripping over his feet in the dark. Then the swearing voice spoke. Still high and frightened, but talking very slowly. "Hey, copper. You hear me?"

I crouched low. He might be testing me out, waiting to draw a bead on my voice and put a bullet out through the hull of the boat. I could die, but I could not shoot back. Not with two civilians in there with him.

I reached out with the muzzle of the pistol and tapped on the hull, arm's length from my body. "Yeah," I said. "I hear you." No bullet came through the hull. Instead I heard the girl whimper. He was using her as a shield. He could kill her. When he spoke again, his voice was breathless. The girl was struggling. Maybe other men at other times might think her willowy. He was finding her all sinew.

He said, "I got the broad."

I waited and he shrieked, "Okay?"

"Okay," I said.

"So me and her is comin' out. Try and stop me and she's dead. Unnerstan?"

"Then what?" I kept my voice irritated. He was expecting obedience; I had to rattle him.

"You keep outta my way," he shouted. "I'll kill her. I killed people before."

"Big shot. So you kill the broad. Then I plug you." I had to get him angry at me.

He bit. "Just don't try nothin' smart, copper."

Slowly as sunrise, I stood up and paced backward from the boat. Then, standing in the center of the dock, about twelve paces off I threw down my heavy lignum vitae night stick. It clattered like metal on the wooden dock. "You win," I called out. "Come on, I just threw down my gun." I watched without moving as the big man came up out of the shadows. My right hand was behind my back, holding the cocked Magnum. His head rose above the black outline of the deck. Then the girl's head came in sight, only an inch or two below his. I stood and waited, suspended in timelessness while the pair of them came right up on to the deck, their faces white in the blue clarity of the sodium light over the marina.