Maggie said, “How are we going to handle this?”
Rudy looked at her sternly. “We don’t do anything until Heather’s safe in this boat.”
Chemo grabbed Christina’s arm and pulled her to the console. “Stand here, next to me,” he said. “Real close, in case your jerkoff boyfriend gets any ideas.” He pressed the barrel of the Colt .38 to her right breast. With the stem of the Weed Whacker he steadied the wheel.
As the boat bucked and struggled across the shallow bank toward Mick Stranahan’s house, Christina Marks accepted the probability that she would not live through the next few moments. “For the record,” she said, “he’s not my boyfriend.”
Maggie nudged her with an elbow and whispered, “You could’ve done worse.”
Chemo stopped the boat ten yards from the dock.
The stereo had died. The only sound was the thrum of the windmill and the chalkboard squeak of the Colemans, swinging in the gusts. The house scorched the sky with its watery brightness; a white torch in the blackest middle of nowhere. Christina wondered: Where did he get so many bloody lanterns?
Chemo looked down at Rudy Graveline. “Well? You’re the one who got the invitation.”
Rudy nodded grimly. On rubbery legs he made his way to the bow of the boat; the rough, wet ride had drubbed all the nattiness out of his L. L. Bean wardrobe. The doctor cupped both hands to his mouth and called out Stranahan’s name.
Nothing.
He glanced back at Chemo, who shrugged. The .38 was still aimed at Christina Marks.
Next Rudy called Heather’s name and was surprised to get a reply.
“Up here!” Her voice came from the roof, where it was darker.
“Come on down,” Rudy said excitedly.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” said Heather. “No thanks to you.”
Chemo made a sour face a Rudy. “Now what?”
“Don’t look at me,” the doctor said.
Chemo called out to Heather: “We’re here to save you. What’s your fucking problem?”
Suddenly Heather appeared on the roof. For balance she held onto the base of the windmill. She was wearing a gray sweatsuit with a hood. “My problem? Ask him.” She pulled the hood off her head, and Rudy Graveline saw the bandages were gone.
“Damn,” he said.
“Let’s hear it,” Chemo muttered.
“I was supposed to do some surgery, but I didn’t. She thought—see, I told her I did it.”
Maggie Gonzalez said, “You’re right. Everybody out here is crazy.”
“I paid you, you bastard!” Heather shouted.
“Please, I can explain,” Rudy pleaded.
Chemo was disgusted. “This is some beautiful moment. She doesn’t want to be rescued, she hates your damn guts.”
Heather disappeared from the roof. A few moments later she emerged, still alone, on the deck of the stilt house. Rudy Graveline tossed her the bow rope and she wrapped it around one of the dock cleats. The surgeon stepped out of the boat and tried to give her a hug, but Heather backed up and said, “Don’t you touch me.”
“Where’s Stranahan?” Chemo demanded.
“He’s around here somewhere,” Heather said. “Can he hear us?”
“I’m sure.”
Chemo’s eyes swept back and forth across the house, the deck, the roof. Every time he glanced at the water he thought of the terrible fish and how swiftly it had happened before. His knuckles were blue on the grip of the pistol.
A voice said: “Look here.”
Chemo spun around. The voice had come from beneath the stilt house, somewhere in the pilings, where the tide hissed. Mick Stranahan said: “Drop the gun.”
“Or what?” Chemo snarled.
“Or I’ll blow your new face off.”
Chemo saw an orange flash, and instantly the lantern nearest his head exploded. Maggie shrieked and Christina squirmed from Chemo’s one-armed clasp. On the deck of the house, Rudy Graveline dropped to his belly and covered his head.
Chemo stood alone with his lousy pistol. His ears were roaring. Shards of hot glass stuck to his scalp. He thought: That damn shotgun again.
When the echo from the gunfire faded, Stranahan’s voice said: “That’s buckshot, Mr. Tatum. In case you were wondering.”
Chemo’s face was killing him. He contemplated the damage that a point blank shotgun blast would do to his complexion, then tossed the Colt .38 into the bay. Perhaps a deal could be struck; even after splurging on the car phone, there was still plenty of money to go around.