Mikael looked up at the sky and then down at the waves slapping at the gunwales of their launch.
“You know, it was a night like this when your father died.”
Rinne’s thoughts froze. This was the last subject he wanted anyone to broach with him.
“I was a rookie,” Mikael continued. “We were looking for a fisherman who didn’t come home on time and his wife was getting worried, with the storm and all.”
Rinne could only manage a nod. He’d heard this all before. The tale both captivated and horrified him, just as it had in his youth when he’d lurked in the doorway while Mikael, then just a young man, recounted the tale to Rinne’s sobbing mother.
“We found the guy on the far end of the lake. Piss drunk, lying in his boat. Your father got him on board the launch and started towing his boat back to town. It was right about there.” He pointed toward the dark hulk of Holloway’s boat, little more than a shadow in the night ahead. “The waves were high, some of them breaking over the boat. I was at the wheel and your father was laughing with the drunk. He was always like that, you know. He didn’t see himself as an authority figure so much as a shepherd, and the town his flock.”
That bit stung, and Rinne wondered if Mikael had meant it as a barb. He knew he wasn’t his father, though he hoped to be some day. He’d done his best considering he’d basically raised himself. His mother had retreated into her grief when Rinne’s father died, and never fully re-emerged.
“I’ll never forget it. I looked over at him and it was like the water just reached up and snatched him out of the boat. It was dark, like now, and I could scarcely see, but the waves looked like jaws closing around him. One moment he was there, the next he was gone.” Mikael hung his head. “I wish we’d found his body for you, Paavo. A proper funeral, and not just an empty casket, might have helped your mother in her grief.”
“I don’t think anything would have helped her,” Rinne said, his throat tight. He glanced back. He hadn’t managed to raise much of a posse, especially with Pieter missing, almost certainly dead. One other deputy and three part-timers, all of whom had taken hours to round up and all of whom protested equally loudly. They returned his look with sullen eyes, half-closed against the driving rain, their jackets and hair whipping, soaked in the powerful wind. The man at the launch’s helm shook his head, lips pressed into a flat line.
Five of them in all, against seven foreigners he assumed were still up to no good out there. But five trained and armed officials against seven fools was no contest. With a sneer he turned back to stare out across the lake. In the distance, through the shroud of the downpour, he could make out pinpoints of light on the deck of the Merenneito.
He forced the dark memories away and grinned. He was looking forward to this.
Chapter 37
Aston managed to yell, “For god’s sake!” to no one in particular, and then Joaquin was on him. Aston ducked his shoulder to meet the big man’s charge and grunted as the impact sent a stab of pain through the injury he’d already put there trying to bust open the cabin door. Joaquin drove him backwards, but Aston had been in his fair share of street fights and had every intention of fighting dirty here. He clasped his arms around the back of Joaquin’s knees and used all his strength to haul the man’s legs together. He had hoped to tip them both over so Aston could land on top, but Joaquin was no fool. Holloway’s henchman tipped and rolled when he realized he was going over and Aston was rattled as he hit the floor and came to rest with the giant bastard sitting on his chest.
Joaquin drew back one meaty fist and Aston just managed to turn and shrimp his body sideways as knuckles like wheel bolts slammed into the deck. Joaquin barked in pain, Aston kept his momentum and drove his legs against the wall to push free from the big man’s legs. He rolled to his feet and threw a wild punch as he moved, exalting as it cracked into Joaquin’s jaw with a satisfying thwack. But the hit didn’t even rock the big man and Joaquin swung a return punch of his own. Aston ducked, but those massive knuckles still clipped the top of his head and everything went gray and glassy for a moment.
Aston desperately struggled to maintain his feet, staggering without any equilibrium. He heard a clang and a grunt of pain, and then Slater yelped. As his vision came back, Aston saw Slater crashing back against the opposite wall, blood on her lips. She held a SCUBA tank in one hand and Joaquin was on his knees looking dazed. She’d obviously managed to brain him with the tank, but not hard enough to stop him punching her.
Aston lifted his knee and drove a kick at Joaquin, who tried to twist away but didn’t quite make it. Aston’s boot glanced of his cheek and into his shoulder, but Joaquin rolled with the hit, went to hands and knees and then drove himself to his feet.
“Just let us go!” Aston yelled. “Keep your monster and your money. We just want to leave!”
Joaquin said nothing, but his face spoke volumes of rage. He came at Aston again, slamming into him with his full weight, and they crashed down among SCUBA tanks, wetsuits and weight belts. Joaquin dropped quick, short punches, rocking Aston’s head back against the deck. Stars burst out all around as Aston’s hand fell on a strip of nylon loaded with square, lead weights. He whipped it up and it bounced off the side of Joaquin’s head, and the big man grunted and tipped to one side. As Aston circled the weight belt around for another hit, Joaquin caught himself on one hand, the other coming up in a block. The belt wrapped around his wrist and he wrenched it from Aston’s grip. With a roar of triumph he sat up tall and raised the belt high above his head.
“You killed Carly!” Slater screamed. A loud snap of rubber cracked through the air.
Joaquin stiffened and looked down at the three-pronged claw of metal protruding from his chest. He coughed and blood bubbled over his lips. His eyes were wide in shock and disbelief as he looked back to Aston. Aston didn’t dare move, still wincing at the possibility of that lead belt crashing into his head, and Joaquin fell sideways to thump into the deck and lay still.
Slater stood behind, a diver’s harpoon gun dangling limply in one hand. She stared at the dead man, her mouth hanging open.
“Slater? You okay?” Aston asked.
She didn’t say anything, just looked at Joaquin and the widening pool of blood leaking from his chest and back.
Aston struggled out from under the man’s legs and hurried over to her. Gently, he took the harpoon gun, slid an arm around her waist, squeezed her tight. “It’s all right. You saved my life. You saved us both.”
“I killed him.” Her voice was flat, emotionless.
“You had no choice.” He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head so she gazed up at him. “They killed Carly — him and Holloway. And who knows what else he’s done for that madman over the years. It’s justice and self-defense all rolled into one. There are so many reasons for you to not worry about killing that bastard.”
“I’ve never killed anyone before.” A high pitch of hysteria entered her voice and she began to tremble.
Aston squeezed her tighter. “Of course not. And it’s going to take a while to process that. But remember, you had no choice.”
Her body shook as she began to cry, deep, racking sobs rising from her stomach. She buried her face in his chest and wrapped her arms around his neck.