Blood in the Water Page 10

  ‘How long?’ Cap asked.

  ‘One minute,’ Cicero responded.

  Cap looked at his watch as the second hand spun. Then he and Peter grabbed the rope that was tied to the cleat at the stern and began hauling Chaplain back on board.

  Twenty-Seven

  The Holiday Inn in South Boston had seen better days. As Diamond lay in bed, listening to Buddy’s even breathing, she looked around the room. The walls were taupe and matched the rug, except where the stains on the carpet provided some contrast. The headboard was screwed to the wall, and the flimsy bedframe squeaked, which she was sure had raised eyebrows among the passing cleaning staff in the halls in the mid-afternoon. At least the sheets seemed clean, if somewhat stiff and scratchy from repeated harsh washing to scrub each successive guest’s secret sins away.

  Like the headboard, the cheap flatscreen was screwed into the table on which it rested. Securing the television made sense to her, but she wondered whether headboards were a popular target for petty thieves. On reflection, she thought it was probably to keep the headboard from banging off the wall as wives fucked their secret lovers, and bosses fucked their secretaries, and young men from the downtown skyscrapers fucked each other on the down-low on the seedy side of town where no one would know them or care.

  She hadn’t really looked at the place when she’d first arrived, so focused was her desire and so eager were the two of them to be with each other. As he’d kissed his way down her body she’d marveled at his skill and proficiency, and the thought that he must have practiced this a thousand times before with other women crossed her mind only briefly before the waves of physical pleasure chased all intelligible thought out of her mind. Her body succumbed fully to his ministrations three times in the hour they kissed and touched and gave themselves to each other; the last time was an explosion brought on by the furiousness of his rhythm as he climaxed and his muscles tightened, his entire body spasming in and around her.

  He had drifted off to sleep shortly thereafter with his muscular arm draped over her, and she lay on her back, stroking his hair. Lying there, sated and warm, she wondered whether a normal life was too much to hope for. A small, clean apartment with a nice kitchen. A good-looking man who loved her and made love to her the way she wanted – with a passion that was based on his own need and desire, at the same time both selfish and giving.

  It was probably too much to hope for, she knew, particularly with a man like Buddy. He was not a man who would be easily domesticated, and she suspected that if he was, she wouldn’t find him attractive anymore. As she lay there, she imagined the cries of a baby from a nursery, and the babbling of a toddler amusing himself in the living room. By the time she conjured the playful patter of little feet on the floor in the kitchen, she could also hear his heavy work boots heading toward the door, and the finality with which that door would inevitably close.

  He stirred and she kissed the back of his head. She let her fingers trail down through his hair and across his shoulders. They lingered there, enjoying the firmness of his muscles, before they continued down his back, touching his skin lightly … playfully. She could tell that he was awake now, though he hadn’t moved or made a sound. There was something in his body that had changed. She could feel his muscles tighten without motion, ever so slightly, reacting with anticipation to her touch.

  Her fingers trailed down to the small of his back, and then beyond, traipsing lightly over his taut, perfectly shaped ass. She slid her hand up, across his side and under his arm, finding his broad, solid chest. She could feel her excitement grow as she played with his nipples, pinching them firmly enough to at last draw a slight moan. She smiled in amusement as she slid her hand down his chest to his flat stomach. And then lower, and lower, until …

  ‘I gotta take a leak.’

  She giggled. ‘That’s so hot. I can see why you get all the ladies.’

  He rolled over and kissed her. ‘I’ll be right back!’

  He pulled back the covers and stood up. He stretched his arms high over his head, in all his splendor, and let out a loud yawn before he walked over to the bathroom door. He didn’t close it, but stood with his back to her as he relieved himself. She smiled inwardly at the intimacy.

  Before he got back into bed, he went to the window and peaked out through the heavy curtains. ‘It’s snowing again,’ he said.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Jesus, I’ve never seen a winter like this before. Feels like the last time I saw a color other than white or grey was a fuckin’ year ago.’

  ‘I can add a little color into your life,’ she teased.

  ‘I bet you can.’

  He turned to look at her, lying in bed, partially covered by the sheet. He was hard, and she could feel her own excitement grow. Gazing at him, she was shocked at how beautiful she found him fully naked. She’d always been drawn to men, and she had been confident in her sexuality at an early age. She had enjoyed sex with the men she had dated, but she had never consciously been appreciative of the male member. For some strange reason, though, she was truly enamored of that particular part of Buddy’s anatomy. As she stared at him, she blushed at her brazen desire. She wondered whether the pregnancy was pushing her hormones into overdrive. At the moment, though, she didn’t really care. ‘Come here,’ she demanded.

  ‘I should check my phone first.’ He came over to her and sat on the side of the bed, picked his phone off the bedside table.

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘We promised each other the phones stay off. This is our vacation, remember?’

  ‘I should really—’

  ‘No!’ She grabbed the phone out of his hand. ‘I read an article that said that couples are losing interest in each other because they spend too much time on their phones. It’s killing intimacy.’

  ‘Where’d you read that?’

  ‘Some article that came up on my phone’s news feed. See?’ She put the phone back on the table. ‘Come back to bed.’ She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward her.

  He smiled at her. ‘You’ve convinced me.’

  Twenty-Eight

  Nate went into the water twice. The second time he came out Cicero wasn’t sure he was going to live, but after a few moments of coughing and spitting blood, he was able to talk. At that point, there wasn’t anything that Chaplain wouldn’t tell them to avoid going back into the water again.

  He didn’t have that much information, but it was enough. Buddy had been on the phone twice the night of the attack on the Mariner – once just before they went in, and once just as they left. Nate hadn’t heard anything that was said on the first phone call, but as they came out of the bar, Buddy seemed in a hurry and was less careful. Nate heard Buddy clearly say, ‘He’s still there.’ That was all that Chaplain could remember him saying, and then he’d put the phone back in his pocket. To Cicero, it was all the admission that was needed.

  ‘What do we do with him now?’ Cap asked, looking down at the crumpled, defeated figure that had only a short time before been Nate Chaplain.

  ‘Cormack gave clear orders,’ Cicero replied.

  Cap looked uncomfortable, and Peter rubbed the stubble on his chin nervously. ‘It don’t seem right,’ Cap said.

  Cicero took two steps over toward the boat’s skipper, so that he was right in front of his face, so close he could smell the sardines he’d had for breakfast rotting in the teeth of the heavyset man. His hand was in his coat pocket, his fingers wrapped around the handle of his knife. ‘Cormack O’Connell decides what seems right on this waterfront,’ he said slowly and quietly. His eyes bore into Cap’s face. ‘You understand that, you fat fuck?’

  The blood was gone from Cap’s face, and he nodded spasmodically. ‘Yeah, I got that.’

  Cicero stood there, inches from the other man, just long enough to make it clear that he wasn’t moving until he wanted to. Then he looked down at Nate Chaplain. ‘Sorry, kid,’ he said. ‘Orders are orders.’

  Twenty-Nine

  Cormack stood
at the large window of his union office, looking out at Boston Harbor. The office was on the corner on the second floor of a warehouse at the end of North Jetty, just off Fid Kennedy Avenue in South Boston. The warehouse jutted out at the tip of the shore, looking across an inlet at fifty acres of landfill piled high with shipping containers from all over the world. To the northeast, he could see the Boston skyline in the distance, separated from him by the revitalization of Southie’s Waterfront District, with its brand new skyscrapers and trendy restaurants. To the northeast, across the harbor, he could see Logan Airport and East Boston, just beginning the painful process of gentrification that would inevitably drive the immigrant population from one of its last strongholds within Boston’s city limits. To the southeast, he could see Fort Independence, an enormous pentagonal military installation constructed of stone and earthwork rebuilt just before the Civil War. The original military fortification on that site had been built in 1634, and it had guarded the mouth of the harbor for the better part of four centuries.

  That’s how Cormack often thought of himself: the defender of the harbor. For all the graft he took from it, and all the illicit activity he sheltered, he gave back much more. He ran the place and maintained the delicate balance necessary to keep war from breaking out between the various underworld factions. He allowed the underground economy to exist, but he kept it in check. And at the same time, he protected the harbor and the city it fed from external threats. He was the first wall in a war that was being waged across the world on multiple fronts. He kept the schedules and made sure that ships were shepherded and docked and unloaded; he provided security when needed; he made sure that every boat in the harbor, from the smallest skiffs to the largest tankers, obeyed the rules and that commerce was served.

  Even now, as he looked out at the harbor, he could see his hand in everything moving on the water. Near the city, a heavy tug pushed a barge full of scrap metal up toward the Mystic River for processing, its three-story pilot house looking over its charge. A high-speed catamaran from Hingham was pulling into Rowes Wharf, serving the commuters who helped to drive the city’s economy. Entering the harbor was a gigantic LNG tanker, over nine hundred feet long and ten stories tall, carrying over thirty million gallons of liquefied natural gas up to a processing plant in Everett. An armada of police and Coast Guard patrol boats surrounded the tanker.

  And Cormack had had a hand in all of it. From the scheduling of the ferry runs to the timing of various ships’ passages, he coordinated the manpower needed to make sure everything ran smoothly. He kept the traffic from being too great to be safe. So often he’d looked out at similar scenes and marveled at the role he played in keeping the city safe and running.

  At the moment, though, he wasn’t thinking about any of that. Right now, all he could think about was his daughter, and how he had failed to protect her.

  ‘Any word?’ he asked, as Cicero hung up from a call.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ he said.

  ‘What about her phone?’

  Cicero shook his head. ‘It could just be that she’s not picking up.’

  ‘Could be,’ Cormack agreed. His stomach was tighter than he could ever remember. He’d learned over the years to stay calm in the most difficult circumstance, but he’d never known the kind of fear he felt right now. ‘What about Buddy Cavanaugh?’

  ‘He’s disappeared as well.’

  ‘Find him.’

  ‘We’ll get him. He can’t stay hidden forever.’

  ‘I swear to God, Cicero, when he’s found, I want him alive. Make sure everyone knows that he’s mine. I need him talking, and then I’ll decide how he goes. I’m pushing his button, too. No one else.’ Cormack felt the anger burning through him.

  ‘I’ve given the word.’

  ‘Make sure.’

  Cicero changed the subject. ‘What do you want to do about Soh?’

  ‘What are his numbers?’

  ‘Tough to tell. We figure twenty core guys who are fully initiated into his crew. Maybe twice that number that he can use on a contract basis. They’re less reliable, though.’

  ‘And we’ve got, what, fifteen?’

  ‘A few more than that who I feel like we can count on. Maybe another twenty-five with less commitment.’

  Cormack considered the options. ‘Even odds. So a frontal assault would be risky, even if we knew where he was.’

  Cicero nodded.

  ‘We need another way to get to him.’ Cormack looked out at the LNG tanker, with the Coast Guard and BPD gunboats zipping around like bees protecting a hive. He had no doubt that, wherever Soh was, there would be protection swarming around him in a similar way. There had to be a weakness in his defenses, though. He knew that he could formulate a plan if only he could focus. Right now, though, there was only one thing he could think about.

  ‘Find her, Cicero,’ he said. ‘I need to know that she’s alive.’

  Cicero stood up. ‘I know. I’ll find her.’ He walked over to the office door and opened it. ‘I’ll make sure she’s OK.’

  Thirty

  Joshua Brooks passed through the security checkpoints at FMC Devens without incident. He carried with him an authorization that identified him as an attorney, and gave him authorization to consult with his client. His client was also named, and at each stage of the process, the guards raised their eyebrows and took a second look at Joshua’s face, the expressions registering combinations of shock and disgust. His briefcase was searched for any contraband, and he was given a thorough pat down to make sure he wasn’t carrying anything of use that could be passed to his client. Joshua wasn’t concerned. He had spent a lifetime representing some of the most violent and hated men on the planet, and it had made him wealthy beyond his dreams. This would be no different.

  At the final checkpoint, they took everything he had other than a notebook and a pencil. They even had him take off his white-gold Piaget Polo-S watch and put it in a bag with the rest of his belongings. It was a fifteen thousand dollar timepiece that a grateful hedge-fund manager had given him after an acquittal.

  ‘I can’t wear a watch?’ Brooks asked the guard.

  ‘Not with this guy,’ the guard responded. ‘Nothing that can be passed to him.’

  ‘What’s he gonna do with a watch?’

  The guard shrugged. ‘You’re lucky you get to take in the pencil,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna check to make sure you’ve still got it when you come out, too.’

  ‘You’re afraid he’ll sketch his way out of here?’

  ‘I got my orders.’

  ‘OK,’ Brooks said, turning and starting down the hallway to a lone steel door. Another guard accompanied him.

  ‘We’ve got you on camera,’ the guard said. ‘You stay on your side of the table. Don’t pass anything to him, and don’t allow him to pass anything to you.’

  ‘The camera’s going to be on?’ Brooks shook his head. ‘I’m his lawyer. My conversation with him is privileged.’

  ‘The sound is turned off,’ the guard said. Brooks looked skeptical. ‘We won’t hear anything,’ the guard assured him.

  ‘I want the camera off,’ Brooks persisted.

  ‘You can take that up with the warden,’ the guard said. ‘Given this guy’s past, I think he’s not gonna agree. Right now, I got my orders.’

  Brooks stared at the guard for a moment, and then decided to abandon the complaint for the moment. ‘Make sure the sound is off, and no recording is made,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, I will take it up with the judge, and you will find yourself in a world of hurt.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  Brooks knew what was coming. ‘Sure.’

  ‘How can you represent this guy? With what he did, with who he is, how do you do it?’

  ‘Everyone is entitled to a lawyer,’ Brooks responded. ‘It’s one of the great things about this country.’

  ‘And you get rich from it,’ the guard scoffed.

  Brooks gave him a thin smile. ‘That’s another one of the g
reat things about this country.’

  * * * * *

  The room was windowless and bare. Vincente Carpio sat motionless on the chair on the far side of the metal table, which was bolted to the floor. His hands were cuffed and folded on his lap. His shackled ankles were close together, his feet flat on the floor. Brooks was taken by how young he looked, even with the skulls tattooed all over his bald head.

  Brooks walked over and put the pad and pencil on the table, pulled out the chair across from Carpio and sat down. The two men regarded each other in silence for what seemed like a long time.

  ‘You my lawyer?’ Carpio said at last.

  Brooks felt a small sense of victory that he’d not been the one to break the silence. ‘Your brother hired me.’

  ‘And you are willing to defend me?’

  ‘Your brother was very persuasive.’

  ‘He paid you upfront.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Joshua Brooks.’

  Carpio looked closely at him. ‘You’re Jewish.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  Carpio considered the question for a moment. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Jews make good lawyers.’

  ‘You flatter me.’

  ‘I flatter no American,’ Carpio said. ‘I kill Americans.’

  ‘That won’t be in my opening statement.’

  ‘You have no idea what your people have done to the world, do you? Like everyone else here, you sit in your safe homes and talk to the world about freedom, while your country lets the violence go on far, far away. It spreads that violence. It pays for that violence.’

  ‘Is that why you do what you do?’

  Carpio’s gaze drifted past Brooks, into some distance that only he could see. ‘There are many reasons I do what I do,’ he said.

  * * * * *

  Vincente Carpio had never known a world without war. By his sixth birthday, civil war had ravaged El Salvador for more than a decade. His town of El Calabozo had seen the worst of the war nearly ten years before, when US-backed government forces slaughtered more than 200 people. Since that time, though, the war had only touched the town in indirect ways, siphoning off boys into various factions to fight in other towns and cities, coming back with the thousand-yard stare of those who saw the ghosts of those they’d killed looming in the distance of every field and forest.