The truck's driver, a fat man in overalls, was staring out through the open window at Winter. “You a cop?” the man asked.
Winter nodded, walked over, and picked up Marta's. 22 and his SIG Sauer.
“I used to be a law enforcement officer myself,” the fat man said, getting out. “I was a state prison guard for ten years.”
“Then you know how this works?” he asked the man, holding out Marta's gun.
“That's a Ruger. 22.”
“I'm a U.S. marshal, and I want you to stand here and watch her until I get back.”
“Hellcat, that one is. Sometimes small ones are like that. PCP, probably.”
“She's a professional killer. If she so much as looks like she might be trying to move, you shoot her. Can you do that? I'll be right back.”
“She ain't going to go anywhere chained to that house-raising jack. Weighs about as much as her. But, yeah, dang straight I can shoot her.”
“Stay back from her.”
“I'll be right here,” he promised, nodding at the. 22 automatic in his hand.
“Faith Ann, follow me,” Winter snapped.
He picked up the manila envelope, took the fire extinguisher from her, handed her the evidence, and opened the door to the Stratus. “I need to check on things upstairs. You will stay in the car this time!”
93
Faith Ann locked the doors of the Stratus, positioned the side-view mirror so she could see the fat man in coveralls holding the pistol and one of the unconscious woman's boots extending out over the side. Standing six feet away from the truck, the man with the gun seemed to be considering the woman lying in the debris-filled bed.
The notion that she had saved Winter's life warmed Faith Ann. Pushing aside her terror of Arturo and his murderous companion, she had crept from the car to take the fire extinguisher down from its place on the wall to help Winter. She wasn't sure what the chemicals would do to the woman, but Faith Ann knew that she was going to hurt him and she knew she couldn't let that happen.
She looked down at the soiled and battered envelope in her lap. Squeezing it, she felt the cassette tape inside and the sleeve containing the negatives.
She slipped out the tape and looked at the audio record of her mother's last minutes alive.
Faith Ann looked up, wondering how long it would be before Winter came back. The boat was heading for the Canal Street landing, the woman was locked up, and the man who'd killed her mother had to be arrested by now.
She thought about how many times since Friday morning she had believed it was all over, that she was going to die. But she wasn't dead.
Faith Ann put the envelope down in her lap, and looked at the mirror beside her. The fat man was still at his post, but he was looking at Faith Ann's reflection in the small side mirror-smiling and waving at her. She guessed being deputized by a U.S. marshal was a big deal for a scrap collector.
Faith Ann let her gaze drift to the side of the truck, expecting to see the woman's boot jutting out of the bed, but it was no longer in view.
She started to scream.
Before the man could turn, the woman moved in behind him and swung the steel bottle jack at him like it weighed nothing. The jack hit the man in the back of his head, creating a cloud of gore that spattered the rear window of the Dodge.
Faith Ann stopped screaming. She felt frozen in place as if some great weight was pressing her into the seat back. Her face twisted into a terrifying mask-the woman stood beside the door glaring in at Faith Ann. Faith Ann's fingers closed around the envelope on her lap. She watched the woman raise the jack. I'm going to die, Mama.
Faith Ann hit the horn, scrambled over the console, found the lock, and threw the door open. Mr. Massey was the only one who could keep her alive now.
Faith Ann was aware of something moving behind her, and then of being jerked off her feet. She hit the concrete hard, her left elbow cracking against the deck, sending a lightning bolt shooting up to her fingers. She realized that the woman had vaulted over the car to grab her. Before Faith Ann could do anything, the woman had Faith Ann back up on her feet, a leather-covered arm locked around her chest, squeezing.
“You gonna get wet,” the woman said.
Faith Ann flailed and kicked-she screamed-but it had no effect on the woman, who held the jack by its handle like a suitcase and laughed as she dragged her young captive toward the stern.
94
Winter arrived at the top of the stairs just in time to see Nicky come out a door followed immediately by a battered Adams. Adams said something, suddenly raised his gun, and pointed it at the back of Nicky's head. Based on Adams's surprised expression, he squeezed the trigger without producing the desired effect.
Before Winter could do anything, Nicky ducked, knocked Adams's Glock aside with his left hand, and swung his cane's heavy handle into Adams's skull. There was a sickening crack, and Adams crumpled to the floor, his face hitting so hard it bounced. Winter vaulted up onto the deck, met Nicky's eyes, then knelt beside Adams. “What the hell was that about? He was going to kill you.”
“I don't know,” Nicky said, still gripping his bloody cane. “We took Arturo out. Adams was wounded, and I was coming down to check on you, but I never heard him coming. I saw the gun coming up in the reflection in that glass. Christ, why did he try to kill me?”
The sound of a car horn honking from the downstairs level ended the conversation.
“Faith Ann.” Winter whirled, hurtled down the stairs.
Nicky lifted Adams's Glock, cracked open the chamber, and removed the piece of toothpick he had broken off in it minutes earlier in the wheelhouse to prevent the mechanism from firing.
He tossed Adams's Glock into the stairwell next to the dead transit cop, lifted his cane, and followed after Winter.
95
Faith Ann had only one thought. She still had the manila envelope and she needed to drop it so Winter would have it after Marta killed her, but she couldn't get her hand on it. Despite all her struggling, Marta's left arm remained locked across Faith Ann's chest. Faith Ann, a student of nature, immediately thought of a boa constrictor who had locked its muscles around its intended prey. The harder she thrashed, the tighter the grip around her became, crushing the air from her lungs. Her mind told her that in the face of such strength, any fight she could offer was hopeless, but her instincts were on autopilot.
As the woman carried her toward the stern railing, she spoke Spanish to her captive, cooing words into her ear that Faith Ann, who took Spanish in school, translated, and they were not terms of endearment. “Mono dulce… nina del infierno… mi demonio hermoso.” Sweet monkey… child of hell… my beautiful demon..
Faith Ann saw the bloody jack, shaped like a giant steel Hershey's Kiss, that the woman was holding by the handle the handcuff was hooked to. The fat man with the crushed skull lay on his stomach, fingers still clenched around the pistol Winter had given him. She was aware of Winter coming down the stairs and coming toward them. He will stop her!
She stopped struggling, fighting now just to get one deep breath. She was aware of being lifted into the air as the woman climbed over the rail. For a second, Faith Ann thought she intended to climb into the emergency boat suspended there. The roaring grew in her ears. As her vision darkened, her mind screamed for air.
Faith Ann saw Mr. Massey's lips forming words she couldn't hear, saw him holding his gun out so Marta could see it.
Now it is going to be all right. Now she will let me go.