Authors: Meg Gardiner

Jericho Point (40 page)

BOOK: Jericho Point

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A hand buried itself in my shirt and pulled me to the surface.

‘‘Evan.’’

I hung, unmoored. The stars trailed across my vision like sparks ignited by the black wing. The hand gripped me against the drag of the waves.

‘‘Kick.’’

I kicked. Jesse hauled me in.

He was clinging to a pier piling with one arm, and to me with the other. He pulled me against his side.

‘‘Grab hold.’’

I gripped the piling. I tried to speak, to say his name, and nothing came out.

Tears scalded my eyes. ‘‘P.J.’’

‘‘I see him.’’

He sliced away into the ink under the pier. A wave rushed past, echoing off the wood around us. In its wake I heard another sound: the Suzuki, rolling slowly across the planks above our heads. I held the piling. Thirty seconds later Jesse swam back, hanging onto P.J. His stroke was strong but labored. His face was strained. P.J. looked incoherent.

‘‘That splash off the pier was you,’’ I said.

‘‘Sorry it took so long.’’

‘‘I can’t believe you spotted us.’’

‘‘Ev, your
Star Trek
panties are visible from outer space.’’

The motorcycle grumbled overhead. He kept P.J.’s head tilted back.

‘‘I was swimming for the dock,’’ I said.

‘‘We can’t do that.’’

‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘Don’t you smell it?’’

And I did: oil. Shaun or Murphy must have shot a hole in a pipe.

‘‘But it didn’t ignite,’’ I said.

‘‘Yet.’’ A wave slapped water into his mouth. He spit. ‘‘But if it’s leaking there may be vapors. Heat or a spark could set it off.’’

Such as from the exhaust pipe of the motorcycle.

‘‘We have to swim to shore,’’ he said.

For a second I sensed the black wing circling. There had to be another way.

‘‘We can do it. But you’re going to have to help me,’’ Jesse said.

‘‘How?’’

‘‘My kick is crap. Take my shoes off.’’

His jacket and shirt were already off. By the time I got his high tops untied, I worried that P.J. had taken on more water. But Jesse kept up a stream of chatter with both of us, keeping our attention on him, and not the likelihood of drowning. The stink of crude oil was getting stronger.

His shoes came off. He said, ‘‘Let’s go.’’

We pushed away from the piling. The sound of the breakers hitting the beach was a distant sigh. Beside me Jesse protected P.J., stroking with one arm, glancing up at the pier. The Suzuki trolled up and down, looking for us.

Jesse’s mouth was near P.J.’s ear. I heard him talking to his brother.

‘‘We’re getting there. Stay strong.’’

The wind battered us. The water rode around my face.

‘‘I love you, P.J. Fight this. Keep breathing.’’

I swam harder. Behind me, on the pier, the Suzuki revved.

There wasn’t an explosion, or even a sound. But slowly a red glow emerged from the area near the oil pump. It bloomed, flickering to life. The bike roared away. The pier lit up the night, the water, and our struggling band. Jesse looked at me.

‘‘Six hundred meters, Delaney. Race you to the shore.’’

The breakers were roaring onto the beach. Two sheriff’s cruisers barreled past us on the pier above, racing out toward the fire. They didn’t see us in the surf. I fought the white water, arms thrashing. And felt sand beneath my feet.

‘‘I can touch bottom.’’ Four unbelievable words. I looked at Jesse.

Yards away, he was barely holding P.J. by the arm, and they were being pulled back with the receding wave.

‘‘He’s vomiting.’’ He struggled to turn P.J. onto his side. ‘‘Ev, help, take him.’’

I pulled P.J. through the shallows and dragged him onto the sand. He was unconscious. Under the orange light of the fire I saw that his eyes were rolled back in his head. His lips were blue.

‘‘Turn his head to the side,’’ Jesse called.

I did. Water and vomit drained from his mouth. Jesse shouted over the crash of the waves.

‘‘You have to give him the Heimlich. Kneel down with your legs on either side of his hips.’’

I straddled P.J. He didn’t look to be breathing.

‘‘Put your hands one on top of the other. Heel of your bottom hand between his navel and rib cage.’’ He cleared the surf and pulled himself toward us. ‘‘Lean on him. Use your body weight; give him quick upward thrusts.’’

I pushed. Vomit and water poured from P.J.’s mouth. I kept pushing, hard and sharp, until nothing more came out.

Jesse was right beside me. ‘‘I got him.’’

I collapsed on the sand. Jesse began CPR. He cleared out P.J.’s mouth, tilted his brother’s chin back, and when he heard nothing, began breathing into his mouth.

Jesse was shivering convulsively. His hair hung in strings across his eyes. The wind whipped sand over his skin. He ignored it all. Two breaths, slowly, and he turned his head to watch P.J.’s chest subside. He checked for a pulse. Breathed for him again.

Out on the pier the fire writhed in the wind, but it wasn’t getting any purchase. Fire suppression equipment had turned on immediately. The yellow flames were dying down.

I heard a gasp of breath.

‘‘Yeah, P.J., that’s it,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘Come on, bro.’’

His voice was broken with cold. His teeth were chattering. His hand, when he put it on P.J.’s forehead, was shuddering.

P.J. moved his legs. He hacked out a breath and opened his eyes.

‘‘Jess?’’

Jesse pushed his feet out straight and stretched out alongside P.J., trying to warm him with his own body heat. He pulled P.J. against his chest and rubbed his back.

P.J. heaved in a breath. ‘‘You came to get me.’’

Jesse laid his cheek against P.J.’s forehead, holding on to him as if he were three, not twenty-three.

P.J. put his arm around him. ‘‘You rescued me.’’

Jesse looked at me. ‘‘We have to get those deputies’ attention.’’

Nodding, I fumbled the naltrexone packet out of my pocket and gave it to him. I staggered to my feet. I knew what I had seen in Jesse’s eyes: belief. That P.J. could, in fact, be rescued.

I walked. The light bar on the sheriff’s cars flashed red and blue. I wondered if the Mustang had gone up in the fire.

Jesse couldn’t abandon P.J. Not in a million years.

My shoulders jumped with the cold. P.J.’s words rattled in my head:
Sin said.
If he got Britt to the party, Shaun would take it from there.

He knew. He enabled.

I stumbled toward the pier.

He was an accomplice.

When Brittany found the fraudulent credit cards, P.J. must have told Sinsa. Who decided to stop Brittany from exposing their scheme. She knew Brittany was obsessed with P.J. She knew Brittany would follow him anywhere.

On the pier, one sheriff’s car was slowly backing up and turning around.

So at Sinsa’s urging P.J. lured Brittany Gaines to the party on Del Playa, where Shaun Kutner was waiting for her. A big surprise. Not supposed to be back from Barbados yet. Nobody else saw him sneaking in the back of the house, waiting for Britt.

And when Shaun closed the door, P.J. knew what was going to happen and did nothing to stop it. And he could have. He had literally tons of backup: He was in a house full of fired-up college students. Instead he cowered in the bathroom, horrified by the knowledge that he’d set the trap.

I kept walking toward the pier. The flashing lights edged their way back from the fire. The strobe lit up the surf in hallucinogenic colors. The pier looked eerie. The water shone red.

I stopped. On the far side of the pier, where the light faded again, I saw the sailboat wrecked on the sand. My stomach grabbed.

I ran, stiffly, under the pier and out the other side. The breakers thundered onto the beach. The boat lay tilted to one side, mast broken, rigging a tangle.

‘‘Marc,’’ I called.

I ran around the boat. The cabin windows were broken. Spilled on the sand were soggy junk food, the television, and the first-aid box. It was open, and bandages, the flare gun, and Toby’s silver cigarette case lay strewn in the sand. A bunch of gauze packs were ripped open, as though someone had needed them recently and urgently. I staggered around the wreck, trying to find a way to climb inside.

Motion caught my eye. My head popped around. Past the sand was Bermuda grass, the road, the hillside, all deep in shadow. But I’d seen a jet of light.

At the foot of the pier, someone hopped down onto the sand and walked toward me. Almost a hole in the night, darker than dark, hair streaming like a black corona in the wind. Sinsa.

The moon gleamed off her silver earrings and bracelets. And off the pistol gripped in her right hand. She was thirty feet away. Escape was my best option. But the last thing I could shout to Jesse was,
Run
.

I could see her face now. Those eyes, which swallowed light, watching me. As if eating the night, drawing upon it. I stepped back.

Behind her, in the dimness of the grass and road, shadows twisted. Darkness flicking forward. Soundless, air itself striking out. Marc lunged from the shadows, running at her. She saw him and brought the gun up.

I shouted at her. ‘‘Sin.’’

She looked. I held the flare gun in both hands. She pointed her pistol at me.

I fired. And made her a star.

The coast guard helicopter medevaced P.J. off the beach. The engines spooled up to a howl and we turned our backs, hunkering away from the sandstorm blown by the rotors. They rose and swooped away over the water. The engines faded. The helo’s running lights skirted the coastline and disappeared.

The roar of the surf remained. And the pinwheel flash of the fire engine’s lights out at the far end of the pier. We had drawn a crowd. Three sheriff’s cars, the engine, an ambulance, and a fire department EMT truck. To the carnival, a free concert of death.

The paramedics were giving Marc the once-over. Bandaging a bloody gash on his head. Murphy had attacked him with a broken Bushmills bottle, and his scalp would need stitches. So would the stab wound in his arm. He had managed to open the gauze packs from the first-aid box and tear his shirt to make a tourniquet, but glass was embedded in his forearm and he’d lost some blood.

I approached the EMT truck. Marc’s face, considering it was the color of coffee, looked distinctly gray. A paramedic was checking him for concussion, flicking a miniflashlight in front of his eyes.

‘‘It’s a headache, nothing more,’’ he said.

‘‘You upchucked,’’ the paramedic said.

‘‘I was seasick.’’

The paramedic put down the flashlight. ‘‘Aye-aye, skipper.’’

He climbed into the truck to find some supplies. Marc sat on the tailgate, pressing a gauze pack against his forehead.

‘‘Damned small boats make me seasick. Give me something displacing a hundred thousand tons. With nuclear reactors and an air wing.’’

I tightened the blanket around my shoulders. ‘‘Devi Goldman said there was shooting onboard the boat.’’

‘‘Afterward.’’ He explained. ‘‘Murphy had her, and I didn’t have a clear shot.’’ He looked away. ‘‘He had a whiskey bottle and was getting ready to use it on her.’’

The wind caused him to squint. Neither of us said what we feared: that Murphy had been taking a break from raping P.J. with the bottle.

‘‘When Murphy hit me with the bottle, Devi made a break and got out. He chased her. He was up the stairs and on deck before I pulled it together and clocked off four rounds. He locked me in the cabin when he left.’’

His face was smooth, but I shook my head.

‘‘Uh-uh. That doesn’t sound right.’’

I pulled the gauze pack off. His head was creased with a long trough of a wound.

‘‘Christ, Marc. Murphy shot you.’’

‘‘Grazed me.’’

My legs felt weak all over again. ‘‘I should have tried harder to get the mooring lines.’’

His eyes remained cool, but his mouth softened. ‘‘You did all right.’’

‘‘So did you. You got Devi out.’’

‘‘Bet she’s halfway to Arizona. I filled the tank with gas this afternoon.’’

The deputy walked up, his utility belt creaking. ‘‘Miss? Think you’re ready to give us an explanation now?’’

‘‘Five minutes. Please.’’

Shaun was dead. Point-blank through the forehead, the deputies said. Some of his last words were a boast—telling Sinsa she was dumb for calling him names when he had the only gun. He was wrong on all counts. Sinsa had a gun wedged in her boot. And Shaun had a gun that had run out of ammunition.

Sinsa was gone, taken away in another ambulance. The flare hadn’t been close enough to kill her, but the magnesium fuel had exploded on her chest. She was down, would be for a long time, and wouldn’t ever look the same. And I couldn’t find any compassion to care.

I exhaled. Toby was in custody. Lily Rodriguez had been onboard the number twenty-two bus when he boarded it downtown—and so had three plainclothes SBPD officers. Shaun may have been supposed to ambush me, but Toby had wanted to grab the money himself. The cops took him without a fight. We were safe now.

Marc reached out and brushed my hair from my eyes. He tucked a lock behind my ear. His eyes were calm. He nodded toward the beach.

‘‘Go on,’’ he said.

I hiked to the verge between the Bermuda grass and the sand, where Jesse sat trying to get warm beneath a fire department blanket. He was gazing at the sky in the direction the helo had flown.

‘‘I need to get to the hospital. I don’t want him to be alone,’’ he said.

‘‘Then let’s go.’’

He looked at the pier. ‘‘Mustang’s gotta be toast.’’ He raked his fingers through his hair. ‘‘And my wheels were in the backseat.’’

I tried to see the end of the pier. I turned to the EMT truck. ‘‘Marc. Can you see Jesse’s car?’’

BOOK: Jericho Point

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