Blackwater Sound Read online

  “I was coasting? That’s what Casey was about?”

  “You want a bunch of lies, you should get a new friend.”

  Thorn turned his head, squinted through the dark at Sugarman.

  “You’ve been reading those self-help books again, haven’t you?”

  “Go on, make a joke. But it’s true, Thorn. You need people to smack you in the head sometimes. Tell you the truth. How else you going to figure things out?”

  There was a boat out on the sound. A big one, going full-bore along the dark channel toward the mouth of Dusenberry Creek, that narrow passage through the mangroves over to Tarpon Basin. The vessel was a fifty-footer, maybe sixty. A rarity that time of night. Usually the traffic died out after sunset, just a shrimper or two or some midnight yellowtailers heading out to the reef.

  “What you need, Thorn, is a woman who likes to dance on tables. Somebody in full celebratory mode. Foie de vivre.”

  “A wild woman.”

  “Wild, yeah. Fun. Able to let go. Somebody that makes you laugh.”

  “Thanks, Sugar. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  “You’ll find somebody,” Sugar said. “You always do. But this time, you should hold out a little longer, be picky. You deserve the real thing, Thorn.”

  “I’ve had the real thing. I’ve had it a few times.”

  “And it hurt so bad when they left, you chose Casey this time. Someone that wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Okay, okay. Enough.”

  Without slowing down, the boat took a hard left out of the channel and headed toward shore. Thorn peered out through the dark. None of his neighbors had boats that big. No one he knew.

  “Did you throw your pistol away like you were planning?”

  “Yeah,” Thorn said. “Just before the plane came down.”

  “You stay close to home today?”

  Sugar topped up his glass again.

  “You mean did I go poking around anymore in the Braswells’ business? No. I’m finished with that. I don’t give a shit who they are, what they’re up to. I did my good deed for the month. I’m back in retirement.”

  “Good,” Sugar said. “Very mature. Very level-headed.”

  The yacht was less than half a mile from shore, its running lights on, all its deck lights, too, a big, sleek, white boat, Hatteras, Bertram, one of those. It was just after high tide, so there was four feet of water about twenty yards from shore. Then it got shallow very fast, except for the one channel that ran due west from his dock. That boat was on a heading that took it just south of Thorn’s house.

  “What’s that dumbshit doing?” Sugar stared out at the dark water.

  “Just some drunk.”

  “Yeah,” Sugar said. “One of our own.”

  “Well, here’s to the brotherhood of drunks,” Thorn said and raised his glass. “Another of our clan, lost at sea.”

  The yacht had slowed to an idle a few hundred yards south of Thorn’s. He heard voices calling back and forth from the boat to someone on the land. Sounded like the boater was lost, asking one of Thorn’s neighbors for directions.

  “Okay, so yeah, I’ve been reading all these books,” Sugar said, “trying to figure out what I did wrong with Jeannie. Maybe there’s some way I can patch things up, get the girls back. But every time I finish one, I think I’ve got the answer. I loved too much. I was overly enmeshed. Then I read another one, and I think, no, I was too distracted, too caught up in my own world and didn’t see how depressed Jeannie was. I’m reading a new book every week and every week I discover I got a different neurosis.”

  “Maybe some people are just meant to live alone.”

  Thorn was watching the yacht head out to deeper water, then make a sweeping turn to the north. By the time it got out to the channel it was doing at least thirty knots, throwing a giant bow wake.

  “Isolation isn’t healthy, Thorn. You gotta be around people, socialize a little, or you’ll turn into an ape man. You know, reverse the evolutionary process, slide back down the greased pole of civilization. Before you know it, you aren’t bathing anymore, forgotten your table manners, stopped brushing your teeth, shaving your beard. Next thing happens, you’ve lost your motor skills. You’re nothing, just some blob, sitting there, half-alive.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad.”

  The big boat’s spotlight swept back and forth across the shoreline. Now the yacht was on a heading for the dock where the Heart Pounder was tied up. The spotlight stopped moving and held tight on the old Chris-Craft.

  Slowly Thorn stood up, watching the yacht coming fast across the basin, along the channel that led to Thorn’s deck.

  “You expecting somebody?”

  Sugarman rose beside him. The boat was plowing ahead, thirty yards from the dock, going way too fast to stop in time. The Heart Pounder and his skiff were already beginning to shift against the pilings like horses sensing some approaching calamity.

  “Jesus, look at that asshole!”

  Thorn hustled down the stairs and sprinted across the yard with Sugarman close behind. Thorn yelled into the darkness, waved his arms above his head.

  The dark water curled away from the bow of the big yacht as it headed directly toward the dock with the throttles firewalled. Up in the flybridge the captain was hidden behind the glare of the spotlight.

  The cylinder of light found Thorn, and froze for a second on his outraged face, then blinked off. A second later the captain yanked the throttles back to idle, slammed the gears into reverse and ran the throttles back up to full. The big engines slowly spooled upward as the wake caught up with the transom and started to shove the boat forward as if it were surfing on the crest of a tidal wave. Finally the turbos started to whine with boost and the props grabbed, and in a wild overstraining of gears and pistons, the huge boat, somewhere near a hundred thousand pounds of ungodly momentum, shuddered and shook and was suddenly quiet, only the faint hollow bubble of diesel exhaust announcing its arrival.

  Thorn rubbed at his blinded eyes. By the time he could see again, the rest of the boat’s wake was rolling ashore, coming several feet up his sloping yard. Not even four solid hours of Hurricane Mitch had moved that much water that far inland. The boat itself had run aground, its big bow lodged in the sandy muck two scant yards to the north of his dock. By some miracle of physics he didn’t comprehend, his dock was still intact and both his skiff and the Heart Pounder were bobbing peacefully, still lashed to their cleats.

  “Now there’s one hell of an impressive entrance,” Sugarman said.

  “Oh, man,” Thorn said. “I knew it was a mistake.”

  “What was a mistake?”

  “Throwing away that damn .357.”

  Thorn stepped beyond the harsh glare of the spotlight and watched as a man climbed down the port ladder and stepped carefully off onto the dock. Sugar and Thorn waited in the grass at the end of the dock, watching the man come toward them. He tottered with an uncertain limp or drunken wobble.

  “You armed?”

  Sugar said no, he wasn’t.

  The man stepped off the end of the dock into the damp grass. He halted a couple of yards away. He was white-haired, wearing Bermuda shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. His hands were empty. And from what Thorn could make out, he had spindly legs and a pronounced potbelly.

  “You better have a pretty damn good story,” Thorn said.

  “Are you Dr. William Truman?”

  “What?”

  The old man stepped closer, peering into Thorn’s face.

  “You Dr. Truman?”

  “No, I’m not,” Thorn said. “Dr. Bill Truman was the man who raised me. He died twenty years ago. My name is Thorn.”

  “But this is his place?”

  “It used to be. It’s mine now.”

  “Well, good, I’m in the right spot then. I’ve had one hell of a time finding you, Dr. Truman.”

  “My name is Thorn. The man you’re looking for died a long time ago.”

  “Well, look here, buddy, lik
e it or not, you’re next on the list. I came down here to warn you to take cover.”

  “Take cover?” Thorn said. “From what?”

  “And I wanted to hear what you know about this ray gun thing.”

  “Ray gun?” Sugar gave Thorn a quick eye-roll.

  “Yeah, yeah. Some kind of secret ray gun. I had the damn thing right in my lap and I fiddled with it and it blew out the television at Neon Leon’s. And that’s why Arnold Peretti was killed. The blond kid cut his hand and then Arnold got knocked overboard. I went back for him but he was gone.”

  “You’ve made a mistake, sir. I’m not Dr. Bill.”

  “I wasn’t sure where I was,” the old man said. “It got dark and I thought I was lost, then I found Jewfish Creek, Gilbert’s Marina. It’s been a long time since I was down here in the Keys. But when I saw the Jewfish Bridge I knew it was just a little way longer. Thank the good lord, I’ve still got a pretty good memory some of the time. That’s how it goes. I recall some of it real well and the rest of it kind of evaporates when I go looking for it. That ever happen to you? If it hasn’t yet, it will soon, I can promise you that.”

  Sugarman took a turn. “This man is named Thorn, sir. He’s not Dr. Truman. Bill Truman died some years back.”

  “You don’t have to yell. I’m not deaf. I hear just fine.”

  The old man stepped past them, walking up the sloping yard toward the house. He lifted both arms and swung them toward the branches of the trees.

  “Nice place you got here. Rustic and remote. Always did like the Keys.”

  Thorn watched as he swung around and came marching back.

  “Did I tell you, my name is Lawton Collins?”

  The old man put out his hand.

  Thorn smiled and took hold of the man’s hand. It was dry and light, boneless in Thorn’s grip.

  “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “So, like I said, my friend Arnold drowned this afternoon. Do you know Arnold Peretti, the bookie?”

  Thorn said no, he didn’t.

  “Well, anyway,” Lawton said, “it’s not about gambling. It’s all about this ray gun thing. You should know that in case something happens to me.”

  “Ray gun,” Sugarman said. “What kind of ray gun?”

  “That’s what the kid wanted,” said Lawton. “He knew Arnold had it and he wanted it back. That’s all I know. Oh, yeah, and there’s another guy, he’s in the Bahamas right now. He’s involved in this somehow. That’s what Arnold said. This other guy was some kind of friend of Arnold’s. He’s gone over to Marsh Harbor fishing for marlin. After I’m finished with you, I’m headed there. Give him a good old-fashioned third degree. I been over there a dozen times. It’s a piece of cake getting across the Gulf Stream. Piece of angel food cake.”

  The old man wobbled over to the pink buffalo and leaned against it.

  Thorn went over to him and laid a hand on the old man’s arm.

  “You all right?”

  “Oh, it hurt at first. I about passed out. But I’m mostly numbed up now.”

  “You’re injured?”

  “What kind of doctor are you, anyway? It just so happens, I might need a stitch or two.”

  “I’m not a doctor,” Thorn said. “But we can take you to the hospital if you’re hurt.”

  “No, sir. They’ll find me at the hospital. You can bet on that. They have their ways, these people. No, siree. No hospitals.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Lawton?”

  Lawton laid a hand on the buffalo’s mane, gave it an inquisitive stroke.

  “Look, son, you’re second on the list. Arnold was first and we know what happened to him. After it happened and I’d had a minute to calm down, I was out there in the middle of Biscayne Bay, trying to work out what the hell to do next. That’s when I found the list. Sitting there on the table in the salon. And I knew I had to investigate this thing. That’s my profession, I investigate things.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “Retired,” he said. “My daughter Alexandra’s the cop in the family these days. Like father, like daughter. She does crime scene photos. Not a real cop, but close. Me, I’m retired.”

  “Maybe we should call your daughter. She’s probably looking for you.”

  “I’m retired, but to tell you the honest truth, I miss the police business. It might sound like bragging, but I think I still got a pretty good nose for crime.”

  “What list are you talking about? This list I’m on.”

  “Arnold was number one. You’re number two. There’s even a nautical chart or else I wouldn’t have found you at all.”

  “Could I see this list?”

  “You don’t look much like a doctor. You look like a ragamuffin.”

  Sugarman chuckled.

  “Though I realize things have changed. Wrestlers are all bad guys now. Nobody looks the way they’re supposed to anymore.”

  Lawton Collins reached into the pocket of his shorts and came out with a folded sheet of paper. He opened it and handed it to Thorn.

  Thorn stepped over to the edge of the spotlight’s beam and tipped the paper to the light. Sugar looked over his shoulder. It was a page torn from a standard nautical chart, showing Blackwater Sound and an arrow pointing to Thorn’s land. In the upper corner of the page someone had printed:

  ARNOLD

  DR. WILLIAM TRUMAN (FT112)

  At the bottom of the page was what looked like a bloody smudge.

  Thorn handed the sheet to Sugarman, and he stepped into the light and studied the document. Sugar made a noise in his throat, looked at Thorn, then walked away into the dark, over toward the house, stood there a moment, then turned around and came back.

  “What is it, Sugar?”

  “Your license.”

  “License?”

  “FT112. That’s your tag number.”

  “You know my license number?”

  “Hell, I been looking at that damn thing for twenty years. That tag’s been expired forever.”

  “What the hell?”

  “If my memory serves, that plate was on the VW when Dr. Bill was still driving it,” Sugar said. “Some day you should probably get around to renewing the registration. That’s what normal people do.”

  Thorn stared out at the dark bay. Dull moonlight sheening its surface.

  “What kind of person has to draw up a list to remember two names?”

  “We’re not dealing with a genius,” Sugar said. “But then it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve run across a lawbreaker who was a little dim.”

  “What I think,” Lawton said, “this punk kid had two jobs. When he was done with Arnold, he was going to commandeer this boat, come down here, and take you out. What he didn’t bargain for was running into an old goat like me.”

  “How’d you get away from him?”

  “Knocked the little turd overboard. Rammed Arnold’s yacht into a seawall and sent that kid flying.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t sink.”

  “I’m a lucky guy,” Lawton said. “Always have been. I’m Irish.”

  He stroked the buffalo’s big face.

  “You got a gun, son? Some way to protect yourself?”

  “No,” Thorn said. “I’m unarmed.”

  Lawton moaned softly, his face tightening into a sudden grimace.

  “You okay, Lawton?”

  “Little twinge is all.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “A scratch.”

  “Show us,” Thorn said.

  Lawton Collins huffed, then executed a military about-face and lifted his shirt, presenting his back to Thorn. And there, buried in the love-handle at his waist, its wicked glitter catching the edge of the spotlight, was the long, narrow handle of a knife. A wide swipe of blood had leaked from the puncture wound and had dried along his beltline.

  “Christ, we gotta get him to the hospital, Thorn.”

  “No hospitals,” Lawton said. “They’ll find me i
n a hospital.”

  “Who’ll find you, Lawton? Who did this?”

  “That young punk. I don’t know his name. That’s why I gotta go to the Bahamas, talk to this guy down there. Get in his face, ask him some questions. He’s the logical next step in my investigation.”

  “What guy in the Bahamas, Lawton?”

  The old man dropped his shirt tail and turned around. He rested his weight against the buffalo.

  “Man by the name of Braswell. He’s down there marlin fishing.”

  Thorn turned slowly and looked at Sugarman.

  Sugar said, “Would that be A. J. Braswell, by any chance?”

  “You know him?”

  Sugarman shook his head at Thorn.

  “Good God, Thorn, how the hell do you do it?”

  “It’s the magnet on my back. Big goddamn magnet.”

  Nine

  “You sure you haven’t seen him?”

  “Not for weeks, Alex. He doesn’t come in here that much anymore.”

  Alexandra eased her grip on the phone. Across the room a Toyota commercial played on the black-and-white TV, just a minute remaining till the eleven o’clock news. Alex wore jeans and a plain white T-shirt, running shoes. After work she’d unpinned her black hair and it was loose, draping across her shoulders. An inch behind her eyes, a headache clanged. She tapped her foot, every nerve burning. As taut as a sprinter in the blocks, waiting for the starting pistol to fire, waiting and waiting.

  “You tried Captain’s Tavern? He used to hang out there.”

  “They haven’t seen him either,” Alex said.

  “How about Fox’s?”

  “Fox’s, Duffy’s, Gil’s Piano Bar. No one’s seen him.”

  “You been busy.”

  Benny Stuart had been one of Lawton’s closest friends. They’d partnered on the streets when Lawton first started out. And for the next twenty years they’d orbited the same cop bars, regularly lifting a few brews after work. Not a serious drinker, Lawton might still consider one of those old places a safe haven.

  Benny said, “Hey, how about Mikey’s out in Sweetwater?”

  “It’s Cuban now. They haven’t seen an Anglo in months.”