Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

65

John Millner had gotten out of the taxi two blocks away from the marina, paid the cabbie, and, just like he’d been told, walked away from the harbor for a few blocks before doubling back. He thought all the James Bond stuff was a bunch of crap and he was still confused about why them two houses had to get torched. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was to call attention to himself and what they had done all those years ago. He just didn’t see the upside. Still, he had to admit that he liked sticking it to Jesse Stone and that jerk Luther Simpson. He enjoyed the hell out of it.

But the way he figured it, they got away with what they done to them girls for twenty-five years, and that with Zevon out of the picture, all they had to do was wait it out. They all had bad moments before when the guilt got really intense, but those moments passed. Sure, he felt sick about how that had come down. He always felt crappy about that, they all did, but he couldn’t undo what they done. None of it. None of them could. It wasn’t like in the street games he played as a kid in the Swap. No do-overs in murder, whether you meant it to happen or not. Nobody meant for them to get hurt like that. And Zevon? Well, screw him, he brought that trouble down on his own head. He as much as signed his own execution papers the minute he walked back into town. He had to know that, the stupid bastard.

The marina was a ghost town this time of year and it was creepier than a freakin’ cell block a few hours after lights-out. You just knew some bad stuff was going down in the dark, but no one dared cry out or call for help. That was the worst part of being inside: the dark. And Millner didn’t like knowing there was water under his feet. He didn’t like the slickness of the planks or the way they swayed to the will of the water. The thought of slipping off the dock and into the icy-cold water scared the hell out of him. He couldn’t swim worth a damn and drowning scared him more than anything. Even now he panicked at the thought of water rushing into his mouth, choking him, his lungs seizing up. He didn’t want to die cold and alone. That was the worst part of what they did to the girls, leaving them in that cold, dirty hole all them years. At least they was together.

He hoped this wasn’t going to take long, because he had hated boats. Always had. If he hadn’t been so drunk that night, he wouldn’t’ve gotten into that damned rowboat and none of this stuff would be his worry. But he had gotten in that damned little rowboat, Ginny Connolly sitting next to him, taking big swigs of Southern Comfort and gagging, then taking some more in between tokes. Mary Kate sitting behind them, refusing the bottle, passing the joints every time they came her way, asking, like, a million times if Warren was going to be there. You’re sure he’s gonna meet us there? He’s gonna be there, right? If that idiot Alexio hadn’t stabbed her when things got crazy, Millner thought, he would have stabbed her himself just to shut her the hell up about Zevon.

Millner saw the Rainha dead ahead of him in the dark, its cabin lights lit. Of all the boats he hated, he had a special hatred for the Rainha because it smelled like rancid old fish guts. He laughed to himself, thinking that most of the time Alexio didn’t smell too much better. He tried thinking back to high school, when they played ball together. Did he stink so bad then? He couldn’t remember. It was stupid to look back. That’s all he did when he was inside, look back. There was some stuff he liked remembering, like about the other girls he’d been with and about when they all played ball together.

That’s what Millner was thinking when he stepped up to the Rainha and a hand came out of the dark to help him aboard.

“Where’s Alexio?” he asked.

“He’s below, drunk as a skunk. You know how he gets. Looks like I’ll be skippering our little excursion tonight.”

Millner shook his head. “Stupid Alexio and his drinking.”

“You bring the gun?”

“Yeah, here,” Millner said, handing the revolver over. “I don’t want no part of that thing no more.”

“I don’t blame you. When we get out a little ways we’ll toss it and the knife into the water. Wash our hands of it all, finally.”

Millner liked the sound of that. “Good thinking. Be rid of that stuff forever. What’s Dragoa drinking? I could maybe use something, too.”

“We all could. Do me a favor and untie her. Then go keep Alexio company below while I get us out of here.”

Millner shrugged. “Whatever, but let’s move it, huh.” Then he carefully climbed back onto the dock, untied the Rainha, and climbed even more carefully back aboard.

When the Rainha had moved several miles out of the harbor into the Atlantic, Alexio Dragoa and John Millner felt the engines cut back.

“I got to use the head, man,” Millner said. “Then we can get this stupid nonsense over with and I can get back on land.”

Dragoa nodded, so drunk he could barely speak.

While he steadied himself in the bathroom, Millner heard footsteps on the short staircase that led to the cabin. There was a brief moment of strange quiet, then he heard Alexio slur, “What the fuck?” Less than a second later, the world flipped over. Two shots roared through the Rainha’s cabin and something banged to the deck with a hollow thud. Millner zipped up, flung the door open, and stepped out of the head.

He opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on, but the only sound that came out of him was a gasp. He looked down, not understanding the jolt of pain in his guts — the likes of which he had never felt — nor the sudden weakness sucking the strength out of his limbs. And looking down, he saw Bill Marchand’s hand pulling the knife out of his liver and shoving it back in again and again. Millner looked up at his old teammate and instantly understood that he and Alexio had been set up to take the fall for what the three of them had done.

Millner tried to clamp his big hand around his old pal’s throat and squeeze, but it was useless. Any strength left to him, his body was using to keep upright. Marchand laughed at him, swatting the maintenance man’s hand away as if it was a mosquito.

“I hear it really hurts, getting stabbed in the liver,” Marchand said. “I hope it does, you dumb son of a bitch. Before you got here, Alexio told me what you did to Zevon before you killed him. You shouldn’t have beat him with a pipe that way, Johnny. You shouldn’t have done that. He was the best friend I ever had.”

In his head, Millner’s last word sounded like a scream. It came out a whisper. “Alexio?”

“Look behind you, moron. You shot him while he was stabbing you. That’s how Jesse Stone will see it, anyway. Really too bad, the way that worked out for you guys. You shouldn’t have turned on each other when you thought the cops were getting close. At least I’m almost out from under. Jesse’s going to find nearly everything he needs to tie up the case with a pretty red bow. Good-bye, Johnny.”

With that, Marchand stuck the knife into his old friend one last time and pushed Millner to the floor. But Millner wasn’t dead. As Marchand went back up to bring the boat closer to shore, Millner crawled behind him.

Marchand looked down at him from the top deck. “Good boy, Johnny, keep coming. You always were a dumb bastard, but a stubborn one. Your blood on the stairs will make it look like even less of a setup. When I’m done with you and Alexio, there’ll be just one last detail to take care of.”

Millner looked up at Marchand, shock taking control of him, his mind failing. He was gripped with fear like he had never felt before, not even after what had happened with the girls on Stiles Island that night. It wasn’t fear of dying. He knew that was coming, soon. It was the fear that Bill Marchand might throw his body overboard or, worse, throw him overboard while he still had some life in him. He couldn’t let that happen, so he gave in to gravity, sliding back down the stairs greased with his dark, almost black blood, and surrendered to the long-overdue bill waiting for him on the other side.