Lights Out (12 page)

“Anything else.” The jeep fishtailed over the sand. Packer was shouting something at the top of his lungs.

Mandy glanced around wildly. Her eyes fastened on
Fearless
. “Who’s got the boat keys?”

Eddie answered: “I do.”

“Let’s go.”

“In the boat?” Jack said.

“Why not?” said Mandy.

“What do you mean, why not?”

Mandy looked at Jack. “Relax.” She tugged at Eddie’s hand.

Jack opened his mouth to reply, closed it.

“What the hell is going on?” said Trimble.

Eddie and Mandy started for the path.

“Wait,” Jack said.

At that moment, the jeep came bouncing over a dune and into the fish camp. Packer saw Eddie, swerved in his direction. He roared right by Trimble, recognized him too late, glanced back to be sure, hit the brakes, and lost control of the jeep. It plowed into Mandy’s cabin, flattening it like a doll-house, and came to a stop at the edge of the bush.

Packer staggered out, bloody and dazed, but still holding the gun. He swung it in Eddie’s direction.

“There’s not going to be any violence,” Trimble said, pointing at Packer with the butterfly net.

Mandy took off. It was all happening quickly, and Eddie was only eighteen. He ran too. There was a cracking sound behind him. He ran faster.

The sea was calm, the charts clear,
Fearless’s
tank filled to the top. They sighted Bimini before noon. By that time, Eddie had the answers to his questions.

Her last name was Delfuego. She’d come to Packer as an office temp, been hired full time, gone out one night for drinks with the boss. He wasn’t as bad as Eddie thought. His wife was a cold bitch, he had lots of worries, but he treated Mandy well and had big dreams that she was part of. Et cetera. The answers to his questions: he could have heard them on afternoon TV, but what did that mean? Packer was out of the picture now, wasn’t he?

“Of course,” Mandy said, wrapping her arms around him.

Fearless
skimmed over a glossy blue sea. “I’m supposed to go to USC,” Eddie said after a while.

“I know. You’ll meet Raleigh.”

“Raleigh?”

“Raleigh Packer. Brad and Evelyn’s son. That’s how they met, Jack and Brad.”

“I thought they met through some kind of alumni booster club.”

“Brad? He didn’t graduate high school. That’s what he’s making up for now.”

A voice came over the radio. “
Fearless
? That you?” It was JFK. “Come in,
Fearless
. Listen good. Don’ you—” Then nothing.

“What was that?” Eddie asked.

Mandy stared out to sea. Eddie could feel her thinking, but she didn’t answer. He repeated the question.

“I don’t know,” she said.

They waited for JFK to make contact again. He did not.

The sun was still high in the sky when the mainland came in view, at first not land at all, but the high-rises of Lauderdale floating on the horizon.

“Aim to the right of that pointy one,” Mandy said.

Eddie turned the wheel. “What if he’s waiting on the dock?”

“There’re a zillion marinas here,” Mandy said. “But he wouldn’t come anyway.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll be too busy trying to pacify Evelyn.” She was quiet for a moment. Then she said: “He’s in love, you know.”

“With Evelyn?”

“With her connections.” Now they could see the land itself, a low brown hump; other boats appeared on the water. “Have you got connections, Eddie?”

“No.”

“What about Jack?”

“Jack’s not a connection. He’s my brother.”

She gave him a kiss. “I don’t have connections either. But at least we’ll be all right for money. We’re going places, you and me.” She took binoculars from under the console and studied the shoreline. “Make for that little gap.”

Eddie steered for a gap between two buildings. A red, white, and blue cigarette emerged from behind a trawler and swung around in their direction. Mandy watched it through the binoculars for a few seconds, then focused on a seagull flying by with a fish in its beak.

“Going to the head,” she told Eddie. “Back in a flash.” She went below.

Eddie, one hand on the wheel, pulled out his wallet, counted what he had. Sixty-seven dollars. Why would they be all right for money?

When he looked up he saw that the red, white, and blue cigarette was much closer, moving very fast, coming right at him. Eddie was sure he had the right of way but changed course nevertheless. The cigarette changed course too, still coming at him.

Now it was near enough for Eddie to see that there were four figures on board, all dressed in orange. Eddie had heard stories of pirates in the islands, but he wasn’t in the islands now, he was in sight of the mainland. He changed course again; the red, white, and blue boat mirrored his move.

And then it was on him, sweeping around
Fearless
in tight
circles of spray. Four figures in orange jumpsuits: four men, all with deep tans and short haircuts. One was the driver, one had a bullhorn, two had rifles, pointed at him. Friends of Packer, Eddie thought at once: Packer had radioed ahead. Eddie considered turning, making a run for the open sea, but knew
Fearless
didn’t have the speed.

“Mandy?” he called. No answer.

The cigarette pulled up alongside. The man with the bullhorn called out, “Cut your engine.”

Eddie slowed down, but held his course. One of the riflemen stood up and fired a shot over Eddie’s head. He throttled back to neutral.

“I said cut.”

Eddie switched off.

“Hands behind your head.”

Eddie put his hands behind his head. The two armed men climbed over
Fearless
’s rail. “Don’t do anything stupid,” one said.

“Packer’s the one being stupid,” Eddie said.

“Say what?” Eddie felt a rifle muzzle in his back, kept silent. “Let’s go below,” said the man.

Eddie twisted around. “You’re going to kill me over something like this?”

“Who said anything about killing? It’s not a capital crime, not yet.”

They went below, Eddie and the four men. The men searched the berths, the engine compartment, the galley, the head. Eddie assumed they were looking for Mandy. She wasn’t there. He noticed that his scuba gear, normally hanging on the wall by the galley, was gone. He said nothing, not wanting to give her away.

The men didn’t seem discouraged. One returned to the cigarette, came back with crowbars and axes. They ripped up the deck boards. Underneath lay densely packed vegetation, tied in bales, looking so incongruous that at first Eddie didn’t know what it was. Then he did.

Herb.

“You’re under arrest,” said one of the men. He took a file card from his pocket and read Eddie his rights.

10

I
f there was a heaven it was a watery place.

In lane five, his old favorite in the pool of his hometown Y, Eddie kept swimming. At first he’d had no rhythm, no technique at all, and had tired quickly. Weight lifting had made fifteen years go faster; it had also made him clumsy in the water. He thrashed up and down lane five for a dozen lengths, twisting around on the surface after each one like a beginner. His mouth filled with the taste of tobacco, nicotine-stained snot streamed from his nose. He decided to quit after ten laps—if he could swim that far … But on the very last length and without warning, his lungs suddenly cleared, the tobacco taste disappeared, the snot stopped flowing; and his body began to remember. On their own, his hands and forearms found the right angles, sculling, not pushing, and he felt himself rising higher in the water, going faster. He recalled the sensation of just skimming the surface that he’d felt when he’d been racing at his best; he wasn’t skimming now, but he wasn’t thrashing either. As he came to the wall, he piked, even remembering to spread his feet as they came over, touched, pushed off, streamlining himself in the thumb-hook position, then rolled as he slowed to swimming speed.

Flipped the turn, he thought, goddamn; and found himself smiling for a moment underwater. He kept going.

Eddie swam. Length by length, lap by lap, he watched the bottom tiles slide by, and his mind shut down, as though its power source was being diverted elsewhere. He stopped thinking, stopped remembering, stopped counting laps, strokes, breaths. His body took over. It swam him back and forth in the old hometown pool. Time shrank to the vanishing
point, at last and too late. If there’d been a pool at the prison everything would have been all right. Eddie lost himself in that cool blue rectangle, and stayed lost until someone swam by him in lane six.

The other swimmer’s body was unfamiliar: pale, thin-legged, with a roll of fat hanging over the drawstring of the swimsuit. But he knew that powerful, big-chested stroke, with its slightly too-strong counterbalancing kick. And now he could place the voice of the man who had been talking into a portable phone by the side of the pool when he’d come in.

Bobby Falardeau was waiting for him at the far end, treading water. Eddie pulled up, shaking droplets off his head. For a moment, Falardeau, studying his face, his shaved head, looked puzzled.

“Eddie?”

“Bobby.”

“Son of a bitch. I knew it. I was watching you and I said to myself there’s only one guy I know swims like that.” There was a buzzing sound. “Just a sec,” Bobby said, and climbed out of the pool. He picked up his phone, lying on a chair, and listened. “Dump it,” he said, clicking off.

Eddie climbed out too. “Christ,” said Bobby, “you’re in shape.” Pause. “That must be the silver lining they don’t tell you about.” He laughed.

“Silver lining to what?” Eddie knew the answer; he just didn’t think it was funny.

“To going to—you know.” Bobby leaned over the pool, blew out his nostrils. “But you’re out now, right?”

“Went over the wall day before yesterday.”

There was another pause; then Bobby laughed again. “That’s a good one.” His face grew solemn. “I got to tell you, Eddie, I feel really sorry—”

“Forget it.”

“Right. Put it behind you. Look to the future.” Bobby nodded to himself. “What’re your plans?”

“Steam bath,” said Eddie. “Take nothing with me. Quit smoking.”

Bobby blinked. “I mean for what you’re gonna do. That kind of thing.”

“I saw Vic.”

“Coach Vic?”

“What other Vic is there?”

“He’s a sad case, Eddie.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you saw him you know.”

“His drinking?”

“He’s a lush.”

“He says you laid him off.”

“Bullshit.”

“You mean he quit?”

“I haven’t got a clue what he did. We sold out in eighty-six. We had nothing to do with anything that happened after that.”

“You sold Falardeau Metal and Iron?”

“BCC bought us out. One of those junk-bond things. You know.”

“I don’t.”

Bobby shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Turned out they just wanted the railhead anyway. And the equity, of course. They sold off what they could, borrowed to the hilt, the usual.”

“The usual what?”

“Procedure.”

“But what happened to the plant? Vic’s job?”

“I just told you.” The phone buzzed again. Bobby answered it, listened, said, “and an eighth,” clicked off.

“What about your job?” Eddie asked.

Bobby shrugged again. “Gone with the rest. It’s business, Eddie.”

“But what are you doing now?”

“I’m retired.”

“Isn’t it a little soon?”

“I keep busy,” Bobby said. “We’ve got this investment company now. It’s no picnic.”

“You and your dad?”

“Me, actually. The old man’s not really involved anymore.”

“What happened to him?”

“Nothing. He’s in Boca Raton.”

Eddie nodded, but he wasn’t getting it. He glanced at the pool, saw that the waves he’d raised had subsided to ripples;
the surface would soon be calm again. He’d always liked that calm surface, liked being the first one in. Now he understood why:

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.

“You all right?” Bobby said.

“Yeah.”

“Had a funny look there.”

“I’m fine.” He was hungry, that was all. When had he last eaten? He remembered: in F-Block. Eddie walked to the other end of the pool to get his towel. Bobby followed.

“We had some times in this pool, didn’t we, Eddie?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, toweling off.

“You were something. You had a scholarship offer, didn’t you? Clemson?”

“USC.”

Bobby shook his head. “Isn’t that something?” he said. “I ended up swimming for Dartmouth. Just about my speed.”

“That’s nice,” said Eddie, starting toward the locker-room door.

Bobby followed. “Best exercise there is,” he said. “I’m still in here three, four times a week. Nothing strenuous. Long slow distance, keep some of this fucking fat off. But you know something, Eddie, I had an idea, watching you. A crazy idea.”

Eddie stopped and turned.

“What’s that?”

“It’s kind of crazy, like I said.” He looked Eddie in the eye; Eddie didn’t remember Bobby having that look. “Thing is, I think I could beat you now.”

“Do you?”

“Just a hunch,” Bobby said. “You a gambling man, Eddie? I hear a lot of gambling goes on in … those places.”

“I knew a bridge player once,” Eddie said. “He liked to gamble.”

“There you go. What do you say?”

“To what?”

“A little action. One-hundred free. How does that sound?”

“For money?”

“Just to make it interesting.”

“How much?”

“You name it.”

“A hundred,” Eddie said.

“Dollars?”

“Dollar per yard,” Eddie said. “Just for the sake of fearful symmetry.”

Bobby stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “It’s great you didn’t lose your sense of humor,” he said, holding out his hand. Eddie had been wondering when they would shake hands. They shook; in greeting, or simply sealing the bet?

They walked around toward the starting end, Bobby stretching his arms above his head, Eddie trying to remember where he’d read about fearful symmetry. It must have been years ago, long before he’d discovered “The Mariner.”