Blood of Cain

36

My mind made the mental leap before I could physically get to him. Be alive. Nick was lying in St. Michael’s cockpit, his back leaning against the exterior wall of the salon. One arm was pulled near his slumped head, his hand somehow propped on the wall. I ran hard and jumped from the dock into the center of the cockpit.

Be alive. I looked at his face, bleeding from the nose, right eye swollen shut. He was unconscious. His left hand was cocked at an awkward angle, just above his head. An icepick was through his palm, the icepick embedded into the marine plywood. Blood trickled down the white exterior marine board, running over his neck and seeing into his white T-shirt. I felt for a pulse. It was there. Slow. Strong.

“Nick, hold on buddy.” No response. I reached for the icepick and pulled it out of the wood. I held Nick’s hand higher than his heart, checking for signs of other wounds, looking for additional bleeding. Nothing. I wiped blood out of his right eye. He groaned, tried to open the eye. “It’s okay, Nick. Stay still. I’ll call paramedics.”

“No,” he coughed. “Gonna be okay.” Another raspy cough. “It’s just my head and hand. No broken bones or busted ribs. Let’s keep the police outta this one.” He looked up at me, forced a smile, his teeth red from blood, the white of his swollen eye the color of ripe strawberries.

“You need medical attention. You need a tetanus shot.”

“I need to lie down. You worry too much, Sean.”

I reached for my phone and called Dave. Max paced the dock, a slight whimper in her throat. Three rings, no answer. On the seventh ring his voice grumbled through the comatose vocal cords. “Sean … what’s going on?”

“Nick’s been hurt.”

“What? Where?”

“His boat.”

“Be right there.”

Within a half minute, Dave sprinted across the dock from his boat. His T-shirt was on backwards, his face filled with worry. “What the hell happened? How bad is he?”

“No indication of broken bones. Looks like his face took the brunt of the beating. Whoever did it impaled that icepick through Nick’s hand and pinned it to the wall.”

“The bastards … who did this?” Dave knelt down and braced Nick’s face in his hands. “We need to get you to an emergency room, Nicky.”

“No … I’ll survive. I’m a little behind on my health insurance payments.”

I said, “Got you covered. No sweat. Let’s get you checked out.”

He tried to stand. Dave and I grabbed his big arms and steadied him. He said, “Lemme go in. I have one hellava headache.”

“Lean on us,” I said. We led Nick inside St. Michael’s salon and eased him down on the couch, Max following quietly.

Dave said, “I’m wrapping your hand in some clean towels, and then I’m coming back with my first-aid kit. We’ll get you fixed up, Nick. We need to flush out that hand and sterilize the area around the cuts and bruises.” Dave walked into the galley and pulled a wad of paper towels off the shelf. He returned and wrapped a few towels around Nick’s bleeding hand. “Hold your hand up, okay? You must keep it elevated above your heart. We need to stop the bleeding. I don’t think it needs a stitch, but it’s a hell of a puncture wound. Through one side, out the other.”

“Tell me about it,” Nick said, leaning his head back on the leather couch, holding his arm up. Dave left and I got a pillow for Nick and brought it to him, gently putting it behind his head.

“Who did this to you?”

“Don’t know his name.” He coughed and closed his eyes.

“Was it Bandini’s guys, the two who jumped us at the carnival?”

“No, a different dude. Workin’ for Bandini. He made the other two look like Mutt and Jeff. This guy was taller than you. Probably six-five, two-hundred-sixty maybe.”

“What happened?”

Dave arrived and pulled up a chair, opening the first-aid kit, applying antiseptic and gauze to Nick’s wounds. He said, “Hang in there, Nick. All of this will burn some. Especially around your eye.”

“Doctor Dave, do your thing.”

I asked, “What happened?”

“I thought I heard ol’ Joe the cat on the transom looking for a grouper had I left for him in the bucket. But I couldn’t remember if I’d taken the top off the bucket. I cover it up to keep the pelicans from stealin’ Joe’s food. I was sleepy, just woke up. I opened the door to step outside and somebody hit me from behind. Bam! The guy had a crowbar in his hand. I fell and he started kickin’ me in the face and ribs. He had on steel-toed boots. I broke a long marine flashlight over his knee before he pulled a pistol and stuck it under my chin and said, ‘This is payback. Don’t ever come lookin’ again.’ Then he said, ‘Tell your asshole friend he’s next. Now it’s your turn to get the point.’ He skewered an icepick through my hand and kicked me in the head. Lights out. When I came to, you were leaning in my face, Sean. For a split second, I thought you were God, and that scared the shit outta me.”

Dave smiled and said, “In the morning I’m taking you to the medic-clinic for a tetanus shot.”

I said, “You were jumped from behind … wonder how your attacker knew this was your boat. Describe him.”

“Like I said, was a big mother, six-five, two-fifty or sixty. Lots of tats. Hoop earring. Wore one of those pirate bandanas around his head. I remember seeing him swingin’ the tire iron, and he wore black leather gloves.”

Dave nodded. “Probably no fingerprints. He’s a professional knee-breaker.”

I took a step back and gave Dave room to work on Nick. He’d mend in time, the hole in his hand would fill leaving a small scar, but the partial act of crucifixion, impaling Nick to his boat, would forever burn in his heart. He was a proud man, a good man, and Bandini’s soldier had nailed a portion of Nick’s spirit to a wall and left him for dead.

I thought about the Harley that pulled out of the lot when I was talking with Kim inside the Tiki Bar. I played back the license plate number and then filed it in a dark place in my mind that I didn’t like to enter, the attic of the aberrant. It was where I stored old case files from my days as a detective, the profiles of killers I’d hunted. Their faces frozen in time, usually the moment a jury returned a guilty-as-charged verdict. Those images are now like glassy-eyed trophies long-since covered in dust and cobwebs, hanging on the dark inside of my skull, relics of the criminal mind. These were faces I didn’t want to remember but couldn’t forget. It was a shadowy mental hard-drive of stored experiences that taught me how good people can live honorable lives, but evil people exist by cannibalizing the soul of human virtue.

It was time to meet Carlos Bandini.