“Now, let’s talk about this rational,” said Ricardo. “I’m gonna call Lucas. Tell him that he needs to bring me the money he stole in exchange for the Lindsay boy. When he comes, we’ll take him out.”
“What about the boy?”
“What do you think? He saw you, Larry, in uniform, taking that package and puttin it into the trunk of an MPD vehicle. It’s you who brought this on him.”
“This isn’t a marijuana transaction, or receiving stolen property. It’s even bigger than moving guns. This here is a capital crime.”
“It’s not any kind of crime if no one finds out. We’ll do the both of ’em right here and bury ’em in pieces out in the woods somewhere. You don’t even have to get your hands dirty, Larry. Bernard will take care of it. He wants to.”
“I’m out.”
“Uh-uh.” Ricardo wagged a finger at his son theatrically. “That’s not an option. Besides, what are you gonna do? Go to IAB and make a confession? You wouldn’t just lose your job. You’d go to prison, boy. You know you ain’t built for it.”
Larry stood up abruptly. His fists were clenched. Tears had come to his eyes. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t control his emotions.
Ricardo smiled. “Look at you. You about to cry.”
“Least I feel something.”
“I can’t even believe you’re my blood.”
“I wish to God I wasn’t,” said Larry. “I hate you, man.”
“So?”
Ricardo laughed. Larry turned and walked from the room.
TWENTY-TWO
Spero Lucas woke up the next morning without any plans. It was unusual and discomforting for him to have no immediate goals. The euphoria of the money and the satisfaction of having completed his task had worn off, leaving him with an unfamiliar feeling of having been tainted by the job. He’d done this kind of work for a while now, for Petersen and on his own, and his methods had often been questionable and occasionally beyond the law. But he’d never experienced this kind of foul aftertaste. There was dirt in his mouth and he couldn’t spit it out.
It wasn’t the murder of Nance; despite the fact that he could have spared his life, Lucas had convinced himself that he’d acted in self-defense. The retrieval of marijuana money didn’t bother him on the moral level, either. He believed that marijuana prohibition was hypocrisy. He saw nothing wrong with it. He smoked weed himself.
But the violent deaths of Tavon Lynch and Edwin Davis were harder to bear. It wasn’t that he felt personally responsible. They had lied to him, but they were decent young men who had not fully understood the consequences of the game. What touched Lucas like a cold finger on his shoulder was that he had done nothing about their murders. And there was his professional curiosity, too. The question still nagged at him: why had they been killed?
Lucas walked to the living room window and looked up at the sky. It was a glorious day.
He changed into swim trunks, a T-shirt, and waterproof sandals, and packed a lunch. He went to the back porch, lifted his kayak off the ceiling hooks where it hung, carried it through his apartment with his hand gripping the cockpit lip, and walked it carefully downstairs and out to the street. There he strapped it to the crossbars of the Jeep’s roof, distributing its weight on foam pads. He loaded his gear into the rear deck, and drove out of the city and into Maryland via River Road.
A half hour later, twelve miles north of the Beltway, he pulled into Riley’s Lock, high on the Potomac above Great Falls, along the C amp;O Canal. He unloaded his kayak and other items from the back of the Jeep. He drove up a rise and parked in a lot, removed his T-shirt, then returned on foot, where he locked together the two pieces of his paddle, fitted his life vest under the deck rigging, pulled free the stern hatch, placed his soft cooler in the bulkhead, and dropped a large container of water behind the cockpit’s seat. He dragged the kayak to the public boat ramp, put it partially in the water, steadied himself on both sides of the cockpit lip, and lowered himself into the seat. He adjusted the slide locks of the foot braces so that his legs were slightly bent and his thighs fit firmly against the foam pads.
He shimmied into Seneca Creek and slowly paddled west. He passed under one of the two remaining arches of the Seneca Aqueduct and entered the Potomac River.
The river was wide here, with a relatively smooth surface due to a nearby dam. It was a weekday, which meant there was very little water traffic, save a John-boater and his yellow Lab, and a sole kayaker going south. He had the river virtually to himself. A pair of hawks circled above the trees. To his right was the state of Maryland; the left bank was the commonwealth of Virginia. He began to paddle upstream, against the current and into the wind.
He used a high-angle paddle technique for a faster, more powerful stroke. He pushed rather than pulled. When he found his rhythm he began to move at a steady clip. The air in the bulkheads maintained ballast; he was on the river’s surface and also a part of it. He began to sweat. He could feel his whole body-shoulders, abs, and legs-working. His goal was an island a mile or so upriver.
The sky held brushstroke clouds and full sun. The sun’s rays lightened the water and illuminated its depths. He saw many smallmouth bass, brown with dark bands, the females larger than the males. His hands grew slightly cramped and he pushed on. As he neared the island he cruised into the shallows, where catfish lurked in the undulating river grass and in the crevices between boulders. He made a final push and lifted his paddle and let himself glide into the bank of the island. He got out of the cockpit and pulled the kayak up on shore.
Lucas drank water until it dripped down his chest. He retrieved the soft cooler, in which he had stored an ice pack, a turkey-and-provolone with sliced pepperoncinis, an apple, and a bottle of Stella, out of the stern’s bulkhead. He sat on a log facing the Virginia shoreline and ate his lunch. A red-winged blackbird flew across his sight line, and a juvenile osprey lifted off the water’s surface and headed toward shore. Ants tickled his feet, and a ruby-throated hummingbird fed from the flowers of the island’s trumpet vine. He ate his sandwich and apple. He swigged from the green bottle, drinking deeply in the midday sun, and marveled at the beauty of the living things around him. And he thought: my father is here, too.
He strapped his kayak back atop the Jeep, unlocked his glove box, retrieved his iPhone, and scanned it for messages. There were none.
He checked the kayak to make certain it was secure and stood shirtless behind his vehicle, its tailgate up, drinking the remainder of his water. His phone rang. The call-in number on display was unfamiliar. He slid the answer bar from the left to the right.
“Yes,” he said.
“Spero Lucas. My man.”
“Who am I speaking to?”
“It’s Rooster.” Ricardo Holley chuckled. “You know, ain’t nobody called me that for twenty years. And even then, no one had the guts to say it to my face. I’m curious, though: who told you to use that name?”
Lucas did not reply.
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” said Holley jovially. “Here’s why I called: you know that young man Ernest Lindsay? Lives on Twelfth? Well, we got him.”
“What do you mean, you’ve got him?”
“We took that motherfucker off the street. Gonna hold on to him until you and me settle up.”
“Settle up how?”
“Bring us the money you stole out my house. I’ll give you the boy. I believe you took ninety thousand dollars. That sound right?”
“It’s thirty-six now.”
“Then bring thirty-six.”
“You just gonna accept that?”
“Fuck do I care? I can get more money. Anyway, this really ain’t about money anymore.”
“You got that right.”
“Got that right. My, you do talk tough. Big tough marine. Breakin up my bedroom into pieces, leaving lipstick messages on mirrors like some fifteen-dollar trick. But what you gonna do when you come up against men, for real?”