Troubled Waters (23 page)

Rap had deliberately done the number with the boat; these Latinos were inlanders, not used to the water, and he liked to take the starch out of them by showing them what he could handle that they couldn't. It equalized the fact that he'd never put electrodes on a guy's balls—and they had.

Jan waited till the boat was out of sight of land before she turned on her flashlight. Even with Rap far away, on the boat, she hadn't dared risk a light he might glimpse and remember. She had no illusions about her safety if Rap knew she'd spied on him.

She let the flashlight make a tiny second moon on the path, following its erratic course back to her car. She'd hidden it in deep reeds, where it wasn't visible from the main drive. As she walked toward it, her feet sloshed into marshland. She hoped the car was all right; she hadn't realized the tide was rising.

By the time she reached the car, panic had set in. The wheels were deep in mud. What if she couldn't get the car out before Rap came back? What if he caught her? God, it would be so easy to dump a body out here in the reeds.

She opened the car door with sweaty hands that shook as she put her key in the ignition. What if the noise of the car starting carried across the lake? What if—

No, that was stupid. The
Layla
would be making her own engine noise. Rap couldn't hear or see her car, if she got it out before he came back. If she didn't get stuck in eight inches of merciless Lake Erie mud.

The engine started with a grinding sound. “Okay, here goes,” she said to herself. “The acid test.” She shifted from park into reverse and found herself literally spinning her wheels. Mud flew from under the rear tires; she felt the car sink deeper into black ooze.

Rap could come back any time; he wasn't necessarily meeting the
Esmeralda
at the daylight rendezvous point. If he came back and found her, what would he—

She knew all too well what he'd do, what he'd have to do. She had to get the hell out—and fast.

She stepped out of the car and turned on her flashlight, aiming the beam at the rear tires.

The flashlight startled Dale Krepke. Who else was out here? And how had anyone managed to get so close without him seeing? He left his dirt bike and crept through the brush toward the source of the light.

The sound of a car starting guided him closer to the spot. He grinned as the unmistakable whine of wheels spinning in mud greeted his ears. Whoever was out here was stuck like a fly in a spiderweb. And he was going to be the spider.

“How long?” The Snake's accent turned the
h
into a
j
. It was an accent Rap could, and did, mimic with comic effect. But the voice was a harsh rasp, used to being obeyed. Nothing funny about the voice; it had all the cold-blooded menace of the man's nickname.

Rap shrugged, then shouted above the motor's roar. “Not long. We should see the
Esmeralda
in five or ten minutes.” Abruptly he cut the engine and sat back on the lake-soaked seat.

“Why we stop?”

“We wait,” Rap answered. He pulled a pack of soggy cigarettes from his pocket. “Smoke?”

They all smoked. Rap didn't inhale anymore, just lit the thing and held it in his hand to show how friendly he was. An act of solidarity. First the henchman, then the Snake lit up. The moonlight and the boat lights were joined by three tiny red circles in the silvery darkness.

When he'd had five puffs, Rap tossed his butt into the lake. It hissed as the lit end hit cool water. Then he pulled the Luger from under the control panel, savoring the hard swish of metal on metal as he pulled back the clip. The sound echoed across the water; the passengers jumped at a noise they knew as well as the babble of their own children.

Rap had one second to enjoy the stark terror in the Snake's eyes before he pulled the trigger. The man fell backwards into the lake. That was the beauty of a thin boat like the
Layla
; there was only one place to fall and that was off. Over the side. Man overboard.

The henchman jumped up and rushed Rap, huge ham fists making for Rap's neck. Two shots this time, both in the heart. Blood to spare, some of it on the seats, some on Rap's wind-breaker. Shit! He liked things neat, but sometimes a mess couldn't be helped.

Rap hefted the man's bulk over the side and watched him float next to his boss.

He swabbed fresh blood from the deck with a mop and pail, turned the engine back on, and headed for the Ohio shore.

Jan was up to her rear bumper in mud; the only good news was that it was fairly wet. She needed something to put under her wheels, something to give a little traction. She reached into the back seat and stared down at a towel exactly like the one that had been wrapped around Ron's legs during the ride to Crane Creek. Exactly like the one she'd held against Miguel's bleeding stomach.

She couldn't think about that. She couldn't think about the fact that what she'd done to help people could also result in death.

She lifted the towel and placed it under her right front tire. Wedged it under, so the wheel would have purchase when she next turned the engine over. She had to get out before Rap came back.

As she squished her way back to the driver's seat, the sound of a boat engine cut across the night sounds of bird and wave.

Was it the
Layla
returning, so soon?

How could Rap have met the
Esmeralda
in such a short time? It wasn't possible—or did Rap have another rendezvous point, a second contact in Canada? Her thoughts tumbled over one another and she fumbled with the ignition key, her fingers messy with Lake Erie mud.

I have got to get out of here
.

Rap pulled the throttle back and let her roar like a lion. He opened his mouth wide, eating lake water, howling like Coyote. His cargo was dead. He was alive. He had a hard-on the size of Michigan between his legs. Before he took the boat into her slip, he cut the engine, unzipped his jeans, and jerked off, his come shooting into the lake, mingling its musk with the smell of corruption.

The car bounced backwards, fell into the hole again. Jan put the gear into drive and rocked forward, then gunned back into reverse.

One towel wasn't enough. The rear wheels dug deeper into the mud. Jan turned off the motor and rested her head on the steering wheel. What the hell was she going to do?

Rap buttoned his fly hastily, the car noise jolting him into sobriety after his danger high. The cops? Feds? Who was out here in the middle of nowhere? Whoever it was could only be after one thing.

Him.

He jumped off the boat and stumbled through the weeds until he found a break in the bushes.

There was a woman standing next to a shadow that might have been a car. Rap squinted; his binoculars were on the boat.

The woman bent down and he saw the movement of hair.

Long hair. Not Dana, then.

Jan. Jan out here spying. On him.

How much had she seen? And what would she do about it?

No, that wasn't the question. What would he do about her? And how soon?

The second watcher knew what he was going to do about it. Dale Krepke had returned to his bike, binoculars at his eyes. He hadn't bothered following Rap out to the dunes; he'd just staked out the place where the
Layla
was moored.

The fact that Joel Rapaport hadn't even bothered to move the boat confirmed Dale's suspicion that the dealer was paying off the people who were supposed to enforce the law.

And now he had proof that someone else was involved as well. He trained his lenses on the little car trapped in the dune and memorized its license number. He'd run the plate back at the office. And no matter what anybody said, he was going to be the guy who finally brought Joel Alan Rapaport to justice.

Jan took off her jacket and placed it under the other wheel. She hopped back in the driver's seat and rocked the car back and forth, jerking the stick and pumping the clutch in a frenzy of fear. God, please, she prayed, don't let Rap find me.

At last, the car lurched forward and promptly stalled. But it was no longer mired. She started it again and roared out of her hiding place, no longer concerned about the noise. Rap must have heard the car; the only thing she could count on now was that he had no idea who was driving.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

I woke up feeling like hell. Like I was in hell, to be exact. I hadn't turned up the air conditioning when I came home and fell into bed wearing just a pair of panties. The sweat-soaked sheets were tangled around my legs, and to make matters worse, there was a persistent knocking at the door.

It was late morning. That much I could tell by the amount and brightness of the sunlight trying to force its way in through the slats in the mauve blinds.

“Coming,” I called in a voice that could have sung the baritone part in a light opera. I felt as if I'd smoked a pack of cigarettes. My head pounded and I was afraid I was going to be sick before I reached the door to stop that horrible knocking.

I stumbled to the closet and slipped on an oversized T-shirt, then veered toward the door. “What?” I asked, opening the door on Zack, who stood in the doorway with a look of exaggerated patience on his face—and, more to the point, a thermal pitcher of coffee in one hand, a mug in the other.

“Bless you,” I said with feeling, opening the door wide.

“No problem,” he replied. He made for the tiny table next to the television cabinet. “I've been where you are a few times myself.”

“Hey, don't get the wrong idea.” I padded toward the table. “I don't get drunk like this every night. It was the pressure of the situation. I got a little carried away.” Actually, I'd gotten very carried away, staying in the bar with Rap and talking over old times until I got sloppy and maudlin. We'd covered everything from the Fourth of July tornado to Sunday evening band concerts at the Toledo Zoo, with lions and peacocks adding new notes to the Gershwin tunes.

“Using alcohol to push away feelings is one of the warning signs of alcoholism,” Zack replied. There was a fanatic's gleam in his eyes; I was in for the lecture all reformed drinkers seem obliged to deliver to anyone who has more than three in a row.

“Do tell me the others,” I muttered. I could forgive this man almost anything for bringing the coffee, but gratitude could go only so far.

Irony was lost on this guy. He started ticking them off on his blunt fingers. “One is drinking alone. Another is having blackouts, not remembering things that happened while you were drunk.”

“I know what a blackout is.”

“Have you ever had one?”

“Once or twice. Not for a long time. In college, you know how that is.”

“If you're admitting to one or two,” he said quietly, “then there were probably four or five. And not as long ago as you'd like me to believe, either.”

I swallowed the coffee black and hot, letting it scald my tongue. I used the time to think. There were two options here: I could throw Zack out of my room and give him hell for insinuating that I had anything in common with a self-professed drunk—or I could admit that I scared myself sometimes with my dependence on alcohol.

The truth was, I'd gone out with Rap determined to stay in control, to limit my drinks so I could keep my head and use the opportunity to interrogate the man I suspected of keeping so many secrets. Instead, I'd had too many rum-and-Cokes, I'd fallen apart, I'd been brought home and deposited in my room like a sack of potatoes by the guy I'd hoped to put on the defensive.

But I wasn't ready to share all this with a missionary from AA.

“I need to get dressed,” I said, not looking at the big biker. “Could you please give me some privacy?”

“Sure,” he replied. He reached over and took my hand in his huge one. I took quick note that the hand belonged to the “Jesus Saves” arm. “If you ever want to talk, you know where I am.”

I nodded.
Don't call me, I'll call you
.

He left. I stood alone in the disheveled room, noting for the first time that I'd left my clothes in a pile on the floor, my purse overturned on the chair next to the little table.

I had no memory of coming back to this room. No memory of undressing.

No memory of Rap bringing me home.

Blackout.

For all I knew, Rap had thrown me on the bed and—

But who would want to? Who would want a motionless, sodden lump of drunken womanhood underneath him?

Bile rose in my throat. Tears started in my eyes.

I'd get a cab, head to the airport, get on a plane, and go back to Brooklyn.

I couldn't face Rap again, not after last night.

I couldn't face Zack again, not after the pitying look in his eyes.

And if Zack knew, then Ron knew.

I lifted the cup to my trembling lips and tried to stop my tears with lukewarm coffee.

It didn't work; I was sobbing when I put down the cup and ran to the bathroom.

I ran a seriously hot shower and stood in the tub with my face directly under the nozzle. Hot water mingled with tears and mucus until the crying stopped. By the time I stepped out, I was rosy-red and a little more clearheaded. I ran cold water and downed three aspirin. While I was toweling myself off, the phone rang.

It was Luke Stoddard. “I think you and I should talk about this new development,” he said in his dark-chocolate voice.

For one wild, panicky moment, I thought he was referring to my drunken night with Rap. Then I guessed the real reason for his call.

“By new development,” I replied, after clearing my throat, “I take it you mean the fact that your prime defendant is in a coma.”

It was a tremendous relief to talk about something unrelated to my use of alcohol.

“Well, if I've only got one defendant,” Stoddard said, “then I'll have to make my best case against him.”

“Or find out if he knows the things you thought Jan knew,” I replied, hoping to hell I'd made sense. I poured another cup of coffee and lifted it to my lips.