Devil's Harbor (33 page)

“I've been thinking about how markets work,” she went on. “I've given it a lot of thought. You've heard those guys on CNBC say how the market determines the price of a commodity, right? So let's say you need a commodity like a child-size kidney, blood type O-negative. You'd think something rare like that would be expensive. It turns out in Mexico, it's just five thousand dollars. And apparently in Egypt, they're even cheaper. Other places, too. Bangladesh, Africa … It's funny how the market decides things like that. What people are worth according to where they're born.”

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “But
funny
isn't quite the right word, is it?”

“If you hurt Mona…”

“Have you ever thought about how our lives are determined by the smallest things, Finn? Look at Lucy. If her father and I hadn't both been carrying the same gene, she'd be a healthy little girl. And if she had any other kind of blood type, then I could've given her a kidney myself, and maybe she'd be in school right now, instead of dying in a hospital bed.”

Finn heard something that sounded almost like a sob.

“Anyway, what are the odds of you and Diego stumbling across Espendoza's body like that? In all the vast sea, you happen to drift into the exact tiny patch where the sharks were feeding on Espendoza. I mean, what are the odds?”

Finn's throat constricted. “Tell that to the jury,” he said.

“Oh, Finn, please. Don't be na
ï
ve. They have the murder weapon and it belongs to you, not me. I'm just a widow with a sick child. Who do you think they're going to believe?”

He thought of the confession that Mona had recorded on her phone.

The same phone Linda was calling him from now.

“Listen, Linda. I understand why you did what you did. Any parent would've done the same. No one can blame you. But Mona can't help you. Hurting Mona can't help you. So what we need to do is, we need to come to an arrangement.”

There was a pause on the line.

“What are you proposing? A deal?”

“That's right. A deal.”

“What could you possibly have that I want?”

Finn looked down at the sleeping child. “Give me Mona and I won't harm Lucy.”

Linda laughed. “You're not going to hurt Lucy, Finn, and you know it. Not even to save your wife. You don't have what it takes for that kind of … that kind of ruthless action. You have scruples, Finn. I've seen them.”

Lucy asleep looked like the most peaceful thing in the world and Finn knew that Linda was right.

“I'm sorry about your wife,” said Linda. “It's obvious you really love her, and that's a rare thing. But I can't let her live—not now. We'll be in Two Harbors before dawn. I promise she won't feel a thing. I promise you that. And, of course, I won't breathe a word to her about us. Oh, Finn. I'm sorry it had to end this way. But we'll always have Escondido.”

Murderous rage surged through him. “You even touch Mona, I'll hunt you down to the end of the earth and kill you. You understand?”

“I'm so glad we had this little chat, Finn,” said Linda. “They should be arriving any minute now.”

“Who?”

“When the nurse told me that my husband was visiting Lucy, I made a point of telling her that my husband died in 2010. She sounded as shocked as I did. She promised she'd call the police right away. That was ten minutes ago. I also called 911 myself, just to be sure. I told them I'd seen you in the hospital, that I'd recognized your photo from the TV—that border agent who the police were looking for, the one who shot his partner? They said you were very dangerous and that I shouldn't approach you under any circumstances. I'm going to heed their advice. Good-bye, Finn.”

The phone clicked off.

Finn let out a roar from the darkest depth of him.

Lucy opened her eyes.

“Mommy?” she said.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

There was pandemonium in the corridor. Nurses were shepherding bawling kids to the elevators. Finn went against the flow of the crowd, heading toward the fire escape, but when an LAPD SWAT team member in a balaclava and black body armor emerged from it, he turned a quick 180 and hustled back toward the elevators.

“You! Stop!”
screamed the officer. Finn, his heart pumping, made like he hadn't heard. He saw the red dot of the guy's laser site tracing along the wall next to him. He kept walking. A kid to his left looked up at him. A nurse yanked the kid away.

Finn got to the end of the corridor, drew his gun, ducked to the right, and bolted toward the elevators. In his way was a male nurse standing by a child lying on a gurney, the nurse frantically pushing the elevator-call button. The nurse turned, saw Finn, and screamed; the elevator door opened; Finn shoved him aside, swiped his card, and hit the Close button. The elevator started speaking, telling him it was going down. Goddamn elevator, doors taking forever to close. The LAPD marksman poked his gun around the corner. The doors finally started closing. Just as the doors met, Finn saw the muzzle flash and heard the shot ring out, and the mirror on the back wall right behind his head exploded. Shards flew everywhere.

The elevator went down, skipped the fourth floor, and stopped at the third. He pressed the button for the ground floor, then stepped out into an empty third-floor corridor, breathing hard. “Going down,” said the elevator.

The third floor had been cleared. He figured the SWAT guys had worked their way up the fire escape, clearing each floor as they reached it. The guy on the fifth floor would've radioed down, letting them know that Finn was in the elevator. They would've seen it stop on the third floor. Finn knew he had only seconds to find a way out before the gunmen came swarming in. He knew the adrenaline pumping through him was helping keep his mind keen and his choices stark; he had three simple steps to follow: first, look and determine his options; second, decide which one is best; third, do it.

There was no time to hesitate.

Finn scanned the corridor and saw a metal box with a handle recessed into the wall, the size of a laundry basket. He pulled back the tilt tray, peered in, and estimated that he would fit down the chute, but not through the tilt tray. He tucked the semiautomatic into his waistband, took hold of the tray with both hands, put one foot against the wall, and yanked hard. The panel came free with a tearing sound. He flung it to the ground and climbed into the chute, feet first. The aluminum sides creaked under the pressure, the noise echoing down the tube like an elevated train passing overhead. Finn wedged himself against the sides to stop from falling, then lowered himself down bit by bit. Sweat dripped from his chin and fell onto the pile of laundry he saw far, far below. He kept shuffling down, aiming to reach a height from which he could let himself fall onto the pile of bedding with a reasonable chance of not breaking anything. He must've been some twenty-five feet from the basket when his sweat-covered hands slipped off the aluminum.

The landing was far softer than he had expected. He lay there for a second, then jumped out of the trolley and scanned the room.

It was a vast laundry, the size of a hangar except with a low ceiling cluttered with ventilation ducts. It had been evacuated—Finn was alone. A long row of industrial washing machines occupied one wall. Half a dozen giant flatwork finishers took up the middle of the room. To the right were dozens of Dumpster-size laundry carts, piled with sheets and hospital wear. Beyond them was a long table with plastic-wrapping machines, where the laundry staff must've wrapped clean clothes before sending them back up into the wards. Finn spotted a set of double swing doors at the far end of the room.

He ran to the piles of clean clothes. The hospital scrubs were sorted by color and size and arranged in piles. He quickly found an XL set of blue scrubs and put them on over his own clothes. At the end of the table, he saw three cardboard boxes full of operating-room garb. He slipped a set of overshoes over his shoes, a scrub cap over his hair, and a mask over his mouth. He pulled the mask down halfway, so that it partially covered his face, making it look as though he'd just stepped out of an operating theater. Then he stuffed the gun under his blue shirt, calmed his breathing, and walked out of the laundry and up some service stairs to the ground floor.

Hospital workers were streaming out of the elevators and stairwells, headed to the green exit signs. Finn slipped in behind a couple of orderlies. But before he had even reached the lobby, he heard the sound of military boots running across the linoleum floors ahead. He darted into the nearest room. A fat man sat in a wheelchair, a drip bag on a hook next to him.

“Where the hell did everybody go?” he said, his unshaved jowls wobbling when he spoke.

Finn pulled down his face mask and glanced at the name on the hospital ID tag on the man's wrist.

“We haven't forgotten you, sir,” he said. He unscrewed the tube from the cannula taped into the crook of the man's elbow. Then he released the brake on the chair.

“What's going on!” said the man.

Finn pushed him out of the room and into the corridor. “Fire drill,” he said.

“I can walk, goddammit!”

“I have to push you, sir. Regulations.”

“Stop!”
screamed a SWAT team officer from the end of the corridor.

Finn stopped pushing and put up his hands. His heart thudded against the inside of his chest like a man buried alive trying to get out.

Three black-clad, body-armored men ran to him, rifles up. Two of them kept going past Finn and the old man toward the laundry. The third stopped, looked at Finn, and said through his balaclava: “You see anyone come out of the laundry?”

“No. We were just told to get out. I was taking Mr. Maxwell to the assembly point.”

“You need to exit the building right now. I'll go with you.”

Finn pushed Mr. Maxwell along the corridor, scrambling to keep up with the officer. The officer took them all the way to the exit. He held the door for Finn to push the wheelchair through.

“Thanks,” said Finn.

Outside, Finn pushed the old man past the line of police cars and SWAT team vans lined up parallel to the hospital, their blue lights spinning, toward the crowd of hospital workers and patients clustered in the parking lot. He spun the chair around so that Mr. Maxwell could watch the action in the hospital.

“That wasn't a fire drill. And Maxwell's my first name, not my last name. Max Fishman. That's me,” said the guy in the wheelchair.

The old man looked around and realized that he was talking to himself.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Finn reached the San Pedro quay and got out of Linda's Tahoe. The stench of fish prevailed. The quay was deserted. Even the gulls were gone, to wherever San Pedro gulls went to roost at night. He saw the empty space where the
Pacific Belle
usually docked and felt the hollowness gaining in his chest.

He peered into the eel-black night. He thought, but wasn't sure, that he could just make out a set of green and red navigation lights on a boat heading out on the quiet sea, bearing toward Catalina. He figured the
Belle,
if that's who she was, was no more than a mile and a half away, two at most. He wasn't that far behind. All he needed was a boat.

Finn got back into the car and sped down the empty road to the San Pedro Yacht Club. He abandoned the car in front of the impassable boom gate to the parking lot and walked down to the docks, where he scanned the pleasure craft for something easy to steal.

He picked a thirtysomething-foot Bayliner, an older model, the name
Slip Aweigh
written in fading letters across her stern. Boats with pun names pointed to owners with cavalier attitudes. He glanced around the dock, saw that he was alone, and climbed aboard. He had a brief moment of compunction about stealing someone else's boat. Then he thought about Mona and Navidad and his compunction evaporated.

He walked across the deck to the cabin. The sliding door was locked but the locker next to it wasn't. He opened it and found a set of keys hanging there on a little hook. He tried the keys one by one until he found the one that unlocked the door to the cabin. He went through to the helm and tried the keys again until he found the ignition key. But when he turned it in the ignition, nothing happened. Someone had isolated the battery. Finn examined three switches on the dashboard. Their function labels had worn off long ago. He didn't know what they controlled, so he flipped all three and tried the ignition again. Bingo. The inboard fired up and the navigation lights went on. He waited for the fuel gauge to power up. She was more than three-quarters full. Bingo again. He had no idea how big her tank was, but he could tell from the size of the boat and the fact that she had berths and a galley that this particular model was a weekender, which meant she had the range to reach Catalina and back.

He went outside, stepped across a kayak fastened to the foredeck, and untied the boat. Then he went back into the cabin, helmed her out of the berth, and motored through the channel leading to the sea.

*   *   *

Finn pushed the
Slip Aweigh
as fast as she could go, but of course the Bayliner was strictly a pleasure craft, which meant she was slow, steady, safe—another man's idea of pleasure—and had nothing on the Interceptor's exhilarating speed. Terrifying images of Mona lying on an operating table, Serpil standing over her, intruded into his thoughts. He kept his hand on the throttle, the throttle pressed all the way down, and his eyes on the sea, as though by will alone he could urge the boat to travel faster. But the speedometer's needle stubbornly refused to go past twenty knots. Slowly, the adrenaline dissipated from his system. He began to notice the cold and searched the cabin for clothes. In a locker beneath a bench, he found a yellow sou'wester, along with a paddle for the kayak. He put on the jacket and laid the paddle on the bench, then went back to the helm. The Bayliner puttered along. Finn stared out the window at the glassy black sea and at the stars reflected in it, gleaming like teeth in the mouth of a shark. He remembered the sharks in the cove he'd drifted into on the south side of the island. He'd never been into that cove before, hadn't even known of its existence. He told himself he'd have to look it up on the chart sometime, see if someone had given it a name.