As they completed the arrests the Coast Guard arrived to help clear the boat, which was listing further to port. The fear wasn’t that it would sink, but that more explosives would detonate. Marquez got off with the last group onto a Coast Guard boat. He borrowed a phone and called Katherine and after that he let go. Where Kline had cut him low on his abdomen was only a flesh wound but it had bled plenty and stung. He needed to get a bandage. He sat down and let a medic help him, looking back at the listing vessel as he did, registering the name Bosporus and spotting the Marlin now crossing toward them.
Douglas told him later that nine were arrested, four Mexican nationals and five carrying multiple passports, two that were wanted in Europe, America, and Mexico for murder and drug trafficking. Alvarez and Cairo recovered the Fountain drifting in the south bay and brought it back to its berth in San Rafael. His truck had been towed, but he located it that afternoon.
The FBI had lost two agents. Another died at San Francisco General late in the day. Marquez saw Douglas sitting with senior FBI personnel in the lobby when he came back to check on Petersen that night. Douglas’s face was ashen, his eyes downcast, but Marquez caught a faint nod as he walked by and after he’d passed the group he waited out of earshot before going to the elevators. He saw faces turn his direction and Douglas rose and walked stiffly from the group toward him, offering his hand as he got close.
“The boat isn’t going to sink; they stabilized it,” Douglas said. “There was another charge and if it had gone off, the boat would have sunk in minutes, taking everybody with it. Several people here would like to meet you.”
“I’d like to get back on board the Bosporus tomorrow.”
“I’ll get you on. You want to get to that abalone.”
“Yeah.”
“Let me introduce you here.”
“I’m going up the elevator first. I’ll sit down with you after I come back down.” He put a hand on Douglas’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about the agents who were killed.”
“We’ve got two in surgery.”
“How are they doing?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Petersen was conscious and saw him come in. Stuart was at her bedside dabbing her forehead with a sponge a nurse had left him. She brought her hand up to push the sponge away, and he saw she was very pale, her eyes too bright, Stuart explaining quietly that she had a high fever, the result of a blood infection. They’d pumped her full of antibiotics and were confident she’d be okay in a few days, but the real loss was in her heart and Marquez could see the sad emptiness in her eyes. He’d already been told that what Davies had reported was correct. She’d miscarried in her third day of captivity. He talked to her now, took her hand, tried to make her smile. When she spoke the thoughts were in fragments, the effort at forming sentences evident, and a nurse returned and asked that Marquez leave soon. Keeler had told him earlier this afternoon that a doctor had said she wouldn’t have made it another forty-eight hours without antibiotics.
“You were hard to find,” he said, and leaned over her. She tried to smile and he touched her face. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”
“I’m really tired, John,” she said, and then as he turned to go, she added, “He saved me, John. All the way along he had them fooled.”
“Marquez saved you,” Stuart cut in, but Marquez understood. He turned back and leaned to hear her last sentence, saw tears flood her eyes. “Don’t let them wreck his name,” she whispered.
40
Marquez caught a ride out to the Bosporus the next morning from the Marlin. Douglas was already aboard, wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt that read FBI in black letters across the back, a casualness of dress Marquez had never seen in him. Douglas’s face bore the marks of the emotional ride of the last day and they were both quiet and stood on the main deck looking at the San Francisco skyline before going below to the cold storage where the abalone was. There had to be five thousand.
“What happens to it?” Douglas asked.
“We hand it off to charities. Why don’t you take a couple home? Tenderize them, pound them, and then cut them into steaks. You’ll find out what this is all about.”
“I might take you up on that.”
He knew what Douglas had on his mind and waited for it now, heard him clear his throat and suggest they go to the walk-in where Marquez had fought with Kline. They climbed back to that level and followed the narrow passageway through the galley with Douglas talking as he walked in front.
“You finally got him, Marquez.” Douglas opened the door of the walk-in and Marquez saw the arcing blood splatter dried on the walls, the dark, almost black pool of blood at their feet. “Life or death,” Douglas said, and Marquez knew where Douglas was going. “We recovered the telelocator in case you’re wondering.”
“Keep it. I don’t want to lose another one.”
Marquez stared at the pooled blood, his blood mixed with Kline’s. He waited.
“Did you really keep the hood on until he was holding a knife on you?”
“Yes.”
“How’d you keep yourself still?”
“I knew I had to.”
“Man, that’s unreal, that’s just unreal.” He could hear the edge in Douglas’s voice, Douglas working him. “How’s it making you feel looking at this now?”
Marquez looked at the blood and thought of his friends in Mexico and silently told them it was done. He knew where Douglas was going and shrugged, not giving away much yet.
Douglas asked, “So you struggled with him and you managed to get control of his knife?”
“We wrestled.”
“Rolled around on the floor?”
“Something like that.”
“Was he losing strength from blood loss?”
“He was going to,” and they looked at each other. “He might have even bled out.”
“They’re telling me the neck wounds weren’t fatal. They were bad but not fatal.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s what they’re saying. The other one was definitely fatal. You wrestled and what happened? You get on top of him and all of a sudden you’ve got the knife in your hand?”
Marquez pointed at the floor where the struggle had left long streaks of blood, smeared by a knee, a shoe, an elbow. There were stainless shelves on either side with frozen food products sitting on them, bloody handprints on those where he’d stood as he got up off Kline’s body.
“Yeah, I was able to pin him down.”
“Was he still struggling?” Marquez looked at him and nodded. “But you had the upper hand by then. You must have seen how he was bleeding.”
“Sure.”
“And what were you thinking, or do you remember? Did you realize those wounds weren’t fatal?”
“He made one more attempt, tried for my eyes.”
“So you made sure.”
Marquez stood silent with emotion sweeping through him, all the inner promises he’d made to the dead, all the years wondering and knowing Kline was out there still. Yeah, he’d driven the blade through Kline’s heart and he’d known what he was doing, which was the question Douglas was asking. He’d pushed down until he felt the tip of the blade slide off a rib and snap on the metal floor. He’d crossed Davies’s abyss.
“You’re asking if I had a choice,” Marquez said. The Feds had anticipated capturing Kline. Douglas had counted on questioning him.
“Maybe I am, but I don’t want an answer. Or maybe you don’t remember. Basically, you were defending yourself, trying to save your life.” Douglas paused. “You’re going to get asked a lot of questions this afternoon, but I can understand the actual moment being a little hazy. They say the knife went in and then was pushed through with great force and the tip snapped on the floor decking after it exited his body. The ribcage was compressed enough by force to allow the knife to go all the way through him. You sliced a rib almost in half and buried the knife hilt in his chest, but then you’re a big man. Still, you’re going to get questioned about it.” Marquez felt Douglas’s hand on his back. “Let’s go back up top.”