The Kills (49 page)

"Um,
hmm, I understand," I said, beginning to see the light.

"And
it's dated. It was taken on the afternoon Queenie died, just hours before Kevin
and Tiffany got there and claim she was already dead."

"I
see," I said, still pretending to be talking to Sarah Brenner. "I'll
take care of that next week."

"You'll
take care of it right now, Alex. Whoever the agency had let Dulles go off with
that afternoon, whoever he was allowed to visit with, might be the person who
killed McQueen Ransome. Now maybe it's not Graham Hoyt, but until I can get an
answer to that from the child welfare agency, I don't want you alone with him
for another nanosecond."

"It's
okay, Sarah. We're just a couple of minutes away from the yacht. I'm counting
on a delicious lunch from Mr. Hoyt's chef." I wanted Mercer to know there
was a crew on board the boat with Dulles, so I wouldn't be alone for long.

"Call
me when you get there, right?"

Hoyt had
picked up the walkie-talkie again and was speaking to someone on the
Pirate.

"Would
you do me one more favor?" I said to Mercer. I had shifted my body now so
that I was holding the phone to my left ear, my back to Hoyt, with the
magnificent skyline of Manhattan receding before me.

"Shoot."

"Call
Christine Kiernan, will you? She triangulated a phone number for a new case
last week. Tell her it's urgent. Ask her to do a trap-and-trace on my line
immediately. She's got all the forms and the contacts at TARU. She can do it in
minutes. Keep an eye on me till we get back. Track my coordinates,
please?"

"Stay
on with me, Alex. Just stay on the line."

Hoyt shut
off his receiver and hung it in its cradle. He jerked the steering wheel as
hard as he could and pushed ahead on the throttle, turning the boat completely
around, a full one-eighty, heading back to the mouth of the great river. I fell
down against the seat and the small phone flipped out of my hand onto the wet
floor, sliding across out of reach to the other side of the tender.

Find me,
I prayed silently to Mercer. Find me before I'm sleeping with the fishes.

I hugged
the leather seat cushion and tried to balance myself against it on my way to
grab the cell phone. Hoyt had let go of the wheel for a few seconds. Steadier
than I as the boat crossed its own wake, he stepped ahead, leaned over, and
picked it up before I could get to it.

"Is
there some change in-?" I tried to ask without broadcasting my alarm.

"We're
going back to the Chelsea Piers. Just stay where you are. I'm going to bounce
us around a bit." He was looking angry now, under way at excessive speed
and rolling me across the stern of the sturdy Whaler.

He
pressed a button on the phone and held it to his ear with one hand. He must
have hit redial. If he heard Mercer's voice and not Sarah's, he'd know I'd been
lying.

Mercer
probably answered immediately, since we had been disconnected abruptly.

Hoyt
turned to me and sneered, throwing the phone into the water and laughing as he
spoke into the breeze, "Sorry, wrong number."

There
were craft of all shapes and sizes zigzagging across the Hudson on this fall
afternoon. I wasn't able to stand up without falling at the speed we were
going, no one could hear me over the noise of the various engines if I were to
call out for help across the water, and the only option left-waving my arms in
the air-would look like a friendly greeting to most boaters out on a sunny
afternoon.

"Don't
even think about it, Alex. Just sit nice and still."

I was
anything but still, tossing around on the seat cushion as Hoyt purposely
steered the boat back and forth, almost hot-rodding it on the chop to keep me
off-balance.

"Over
here," he said, snarling at me. He pointed to a spot directly next to his
feet.

I didn't
move. Hoyt spun the wheel sharply to the left, hard enough to knock me across
the length of the rear seat and send me crashing onto the floor.

"Damn
it. I said I want you over here."

I
crouched and started moving in his direction, looking everywhere for some kind
of tool that I could use to defend myself.

We were
below Forty-second Street now-I could track the West Side Highway ramp
descending and the roadway curving-but Hoyt gave no sign of slowing down as we
came into striking distance of Chelsea Piers.

"We're
going to let the boy be for a while, Alex. You and I have things to talk
about."

There
wasn't going to be time for a long conversation before we passed the southern
tip of Manhattan heading into Upper New York Bay and the ocean that stretched
out forever beyond the Verrazano Bridge. The Atlantic was a massive graveyard
that I didn't want to visit today.

"Your
captain will be back-"

"I
know, I know. And your buddies will be looking for you all the way from Chelsea
to the Dover cliffs. But I just told my crew that the damn engine in this boat
is acting up again. And my unreliable steering column-I meant to have it
repaired in Nantucket. It would be a terrible thing if I lost control and it
crashed up on the rocks," he said, pausing to glance down at me. "With
one of us still aboard."

There had
to be a knife or bottle opener or sharp-edged object in some compartment or
other. Everything seemed to be stowed tightly in place, and I saw nothing loose
that I could grasp for protection.

Hoyt went
on. "I just told the captain that you insisted on seeing the Statue of
Liberty up close. So this excursion will be, after all, your very own idea,
Alex. That's the way he'll tell it."

I was
sitting in a puddle now, and when Hoyt dipped the boat on its side to throw me
off-guard from time to time, I shivered from my thighs to my shoulders as the
cold water saturated my clothing.

With one
hand, he unlatched a drawer beneath the windshield and reached in, removing a
short length of rope and dangling it in front of my face.

Paige
Vallis. What had Squeeks told me about her cause of death? She'd been strangled
by some kind of ligature. Probably a thin rope.

Hoyt let
go of the wheel for a few seconds while he made a sailor's knot, deftly, as if
he'd done it hundreds of times before. Maybe even in the laundry room of
Vallis's apartment building. Again he let it swing before my eyes.

"What
was it that changed your mood, Alex? What did the detective tell you that
seemed to frighten you so terribly?"

"Nothing
scared me. I-uh, I was just worried about Mike. He was talking to me about Mike
Chapman. Nobody's heard from him since he ran off after Andrew Tripping.
Mercer's concerned, too."

Hoyt
grabbed a handful of my hair in his left hand and smashed my head backward
against the edge of the cockpit door.

"Lying
never helps, Alex. You're smart enough to know that. I heard you say the name
Fabian. Now why in the world would you be talking about him right now?"

I didn't
answer. I had found the man who was the missing link between the two
murders-McQueen Ransome and Paige Vallis.

"Something
the friendly detective said shocked you. Why don't you slip this rope over your
ankles while you think about telling me what it was exactly?"

He
lowered the noose and I fumbled at putting my feet through the opening. Though
I was a very strong swimmer, I couldn't do anything if I went into the water
with a restraint around my legs.

"I
thought about putting it over your neck instead, but then if one of us survives
this little accident-and surely one of us will-I wouldn't want to have to
explain those burn marks that would have been on your throat." Hoyt pulled
up on the end of the rope and it tightened over the cuff of my pants, jerking
me closer to him and lashing my head against the boat's floor.

My hands
were free, and I thought about striking at his knees to bring him down with me.
But the cord on my legs limited my mobility, and although he was shorter than
I, he seemed to be strong-and determined.

"So
you were saying to Mr. Wallace-something about a photograph and a boy-possibly
Fabian Ransome?"

I
couldn't speak. I didn't know what kind of answer Hoyt was looking for.

"Now's
the time to talk," he said, lifting his leg to deliver a swift kick to my
side. "Heard you're never at a loss for words in the courtroom."

I looked
up at him, everything coming into focus. "So you're the one paying for
Tiffany Gatts's lawyers. You're the one she's afraid will have her killed if
she talks."

He was
weaving between a ferry and some smaller boats, maneuvering through heavier
traffic as we got down to Battery Park City and its busy marina, nearing the
southern tip of Manhattan.

I could
see the majestic statue of Lady Liberty straight ahead of us, green copper skin
glinting in the sunlight, her torch raised high as she appeared to be striding
forward. She loomed over the harbor, welcoming the tired, poor, and huddled
masses, her "mild eyes," as Lazarus described them, blind to my
dilemma.

I thought
of the image of Liberty on the face of the Double Eagle. Was I going to die
because of a useless twenty-dollar piece of gold?

Hoyt was
clear of some of the traffic and ready to talk again.

"All
this for what?" I asked. "You and Peter Robelon are both chasing
after the same thing, aren't you?"

"Don't
spend too much of your time thinking, Alex. You should be admiring the
view."

"I
can figure out Tiffany's role in this. Tiffany and Kevin Bessemer. Who's Spike
Logan working for? Which of you sent that bastard after me?"

"Watch
how you speak of the dead."

I looked
up at Hoyt.

"The
sea is a treacherous place, Alex. I told Spike I'd pick him up in the tender,
from Stonewall Beach, the morning after the storm. He seemed to have lost his
footing on the swim platform when he tried to get on board. I went to save him
with the grappling hook, but-well, I missed the mark."

That must
have been just shortly before I saw Hoyt on the
Pirate
yesterday, gassing up in Menemsha. "You killed him
because he didn't bring back what you sent him for?" I was rolling the
words slowly off my tongue, trying to understand what had been going on around
me. "You killed him because his mission was to get from me whatever it is
you think I have?"

"Paige
set you up, Alex. Right before she died. I know you've got it."

I could
see the seven points in Liberty's diadem, one for each of the world's seas and
continents. "That's not true, Graham. She didn't send me anything.
She-"

He kicked
my side again with the bottom of his shoe. "It's ugly when you dissemble.
Think about it. Paige didn't want to die, Alex. She really didn't. She pleaded
with me, on her knees, on the cold cement of the basement floor. I gave her one
chance, and she told me she sent it to you. Help me, Alex," Hoyt said,
patting me on top of my head. "Help yourself."

"What
is
it,
Graham?" I pleaded.
"How the hell can I tell you when I don't know what you're looking
for?"

We were
almost in front of Bedloe's Island now, circling the star-shaped foundation of
Fort Wood, on which the great lady stood. I could see the broken shackles at
Liberty's feet, and envied her escape from tyranny, when all that held me was a
length of rope.

I tried
again. "The coin. Is it the Double Eagle you're looking for?"