The Shadow Box (73 page)

Fallon was frozen. He turned his head, once again, to
their apparent source. Two more bursts came in quick
succession. Megan's boat was ablaze. The blue cockpit
cover became wisps of ash. The main sail, furled on her
boom, was melting. It was dripping hot globules of dacron.
Flames lapped at the main hatch, sucking air from the
cabin below.

He screamed Megan's name. Another voice, Johnny's
or Moon's, screamed his own. It said, “No, Michael.
Don't!”
He heard gunshots over the screams. He ignored
them all. His only thought was of Megan.

“Hector, don't do this,” a horrified Yahya had pleaded.

“Hold it steady,” barked Hector.

He had moved the boat out, abeam of the sailboat, he
told Yahya to come hold the wheel. “This is only to help
us get away from
h
ere,” he said.

Yahya watched, stricken, as the first two bottles soared
high overhead. He could only pray that they would land
harmlessly, that they would frighten, not burn. That Parker
would jump back on his boat and then they could all
be gone.

“Fifteen,” muttered Hector who was counting aloud.
He lit two more bottles and on “Eighteen” he threw them.
But these were not arched high over the sailboat. These
were thrown like the dunking of basketballs. They ex
ploded in the boat not six feet away. Hector's hair was
smoking from the heat they gave off. The force of the
blast caused his nose to start bleeding again.

“Are you crazy?” cried Yahya.

So many screams. From all over. And now the crack
of gunshots.

“I'll take the wheel,” said Hector. “Get below.”

Hector was lighting two more. But these he set down on the deck. He left them sitting as if they were lamps.

”I said get below,” Hector told him. “You need to
hide.”

Yahya looked into his eyes. He saw, in an instant, what was now in the Mexican's heart. He saw Hector lean down
and reach into a camera bag. That bag contained nothing
but pistols. Hector knew that he knew. “I'm sorry to do
this,” said Hector.

A gun in one hand, Hector came forward. He reached out with the other to pull Yahya away from the wheel.
Yahya wanted to scream, to demand to know why, but
fear had taken his voice. He could only grip the throttle
with all his strength so that Hector could not yet shoot
him. Hector saw this. He moved to strike at Yahya's grip
ping hand. Yahya tried to kick him but he missed and he
fell. The throttle came with him, back and down. The boat
underneath them roared. It bucked and then charged in
reverse. Hector went tumbling. The bottles came tumbling.
Behind them was a row of small launches. This boat was
going to smash into them.

Yahya let out a yelp. He threw himself over the side.

Parker heard the grinding crash. It came from down
near the ferry.
He turned to see a fireball rising and at least two more followed as other fuel tanks ruptured. He saw what must
have been a man, totally ablaze, staggering through the
flames of one burning hulk.

Panic everywhere in sight. Sailors shouting, trying to
cut their lines. Good man, Hector. Too bad I have to kill
you once we're clear of this island.

He could no longer see Childress's boat but it's now
forty seconds. It should be heading toward that big con
crete landing by now.

His own luck was holding but not as he'd hoped. Gior
dano was down, not moving. Parker had snapped off three
shots when he saw him running to the jig. At least one
had hit him, hit him square. The jig is definitely Moon.
He has a gun out, is creeping toward Giordano, carefully, because he still doesn't know where the shots came from.
Too much going on all at once.

And now a woman, another jig, was coming down
around the corner on a bicycle. The bike wobbled badly,
the front wheel was bent. The woman, Parker realized,
had to be the one who belted Hector. He says she was the
one from the subway. God knows how she figures in this.
She sees Moon. She's yelling his name. He tries to get
up. She reaches him, drags him back down.

Parker
could
run over there. Yell out he's a cop. He could blow Moon away before he knows any different.
But the real cops, goddamn it, were already here. There was one not fifty feet from Moon, his gun drawn but still
in shock, trying to understand what was happening to his town. And there were fire engines coming. He could hear
them wailing just a few blocks away.

Okay, he decided. Forget Moon. He looks like he's half
dead already. Tami must have got a piece. Go take what
you can get, which is Fallon.

Fallon was the only one who followed the script. When the boat flew, all three of them were supposed to run back
to help. Parker would pop all three when they
did. But
the jig had shown up out of nowhere and the three of
them split in three directions. No sign of the lawyer. He's
probably looking for burn victims, handing them his fuck
ing card. But Fallon's right on that boat, lit up like Christ
mas, trying to kick through the hatch.

Parker eased the .22 from his belt.

Say goodbye, Mr. Fallon.

Megan had crawled forward, away from the flames and
smoke, into the V-bunks, and slammed the wooden bulk
head door behind her. She tried the forward hatch. The heat had warped it. It was stuck.

Her shower was forward as well. She turned it on,
snatched up some of the bedding, began to wet it down. White smoke from burning teak, black smoke from melt
ing fiberglass were pouring through the grating of the
bulkhead door. She tried to pack it, keep it out, but she
knew that she had only a minute or two. The smoke she'd
inhaled had already made her dizzy. The door was hot to
the touch.

Through it, she heard a furious pounding aft, the sound
of splintering wood. She heard Michael's voice, he was
screaming her name. She yelled, “Michael, get off. Get
off!” The propane in the galley would go soon.

She saw no way out. The two forward portholes were
far too small. Through them, port and starboard, she could
see the glow of more fires. She had the big Colt Python.
It was in her hands when her cockpit exploded into flame
and when a second sheet of flame spread across her fore-
deck. That one, she knew, had made a bonfire of the sail
bags she had stacked up there to make room for Michael's guests. The stack trapped noxious gases that now seeped
down through melted seals.

She still heard Michael. She heard him kicking. But her
main hatch was solid teak and she'd bolted it. He would
need an axe to get through.

The gun was a comfort. She need not burn to death.

Parker had fired twice at Fallon. Hit, miss, he didn't
know. But the din had made the gun almost silent. Get up
close, he told himself. Make like you're coming to help.
He'll recognize you, maybe, but not in time.

Parker approached from the bow end, out of Fallon’s
line of sight. He held the .22 close against his leg, his left
hand on the butt of the nine in his belt. Good. Now get
him to stand up.

  
He shouted to Michael,
''Hey! Let me give you a ha—”
An explosion deafened him. Something stung at his
face, cut into his arm. The .22 fell from his fingers,
bounced, and tumbled off the edge of the dock. Now Fal
lon was leaping off the boat. Straight at him. Knocking him backward. Parker tugged at the nine but before he
could raise it, two more quick explosions. Pieces flew off
the side of the boat. He had to cover up his face.

If the gun was a comfort, it was also a tool.

Megan had snatched up a pillow, held it against the
starboard porthole, and fired at its frame. If she could
shoot out the frame, she just might squeeze through. The
blast set the pillow on fire but a part of the frame and six
inches
of hull blew outward. Still not enough. She moved
the pistol to the part still intact. She fired twice more.

Suddenly, she could see Michael's face. It was pocked
and bleeding from shards of the frame. But he was helping
her. He was tearing at the frame that still clung to the
hull. He used his left hand. His right arm seemed to hang
limp. Even the left hand was nearly useless because the
jagged metal had torn at his fingers. With a desperate
curse, he vanished to one side. She heard him on deck,
and in seconds he was back again. He had gone for a coil
of line. The line itself was smoldering.

He looped the coil on one end of the frame. She reached
through to help him attach it. Above her, the forward hatch
had melted through. Burning sail bags tumbled down. She kicked them away but now she was suffocating. Michael twisted the loop over one shoulder. He braced himself and
heaved. The frame began to come free. She pushed at it
from the inside, her face crowding the hole as she tried
to find breathable air. Through the smoke pouring out, she saw the man. He wore a slouch hat, dark glasses. He was
raising a pistol, aiming it at the back of Michael's head.

“Michael! Down!”

He ducked and wheeled. The man in the slouch hat
fired. His bullet punched a hole in the hull near her face.
A fragment struck her eye. She could no longer see.

And yet she
did
see. She knew that Michael had torn the coil of line free and was lashing the man who was
trying to shoot him. She saw the burning coil strike at his
hand, once, twice, a third time as the man tried to aim his
gun again. Michael must have knocked it away because
she heard the man snarl “Fuck!” and she knew that he
was scrambling back to his feet. She knew that Michael
was reaching for a weapon of his own but the right arm he tried with could not grip it.