A wave washed over him. He vanished, then bobbed up again, kicking and whaling away at the water, trying to close the distance to the dive platform.
Steve hobbled toward the stern, using the gaff as a cane.
Some things you plan, he thought. Some things you do by instinct, by notions of decency and humanity. A man goes overboard, you rescue him. No matter who he is, no matter what he's done. You haul the man aboard, take him in, let the system deal with him.
Steve leaned over the rail, holding the graphite gaff.
Kreeger reached for it, missed, went under again. He came back up, and Steve dangled the gaff in his direction.
But sometimes, all notions of decency and humanity give way to something else. Call it revenge or justice or maybe just certainty. The certainty that Bill Kreeger would never ever again hurt anyone. Or was that overly complicated? Was the explanation simply hard-wired into our DNA by millions of years of evolution? Maybe all of us carry the fingerprints of the homicidal animals who came before us.
Kreeger would appreciate that explanation, Steve thought. Proving his thesis right after all these years.
A powerful swell lifted Kreeger, nearly catapulting him out of the water. Down he came, his head slipping underwater. Then, another lift, another slide, this one bringing him closer to the boat. Again, Kreeger grabbed for the gaff. Again, he missed. He shouted something drowned out by the wind's roar. Another wave carried him closer to the stern. Steve held the gaff; Kreeger reached for it; and suddenly, Steve pulled it away. He hadn't planned on doing it. The motion was involuntary, his body not willing to follow his brain's instructions, not willing to save the bastard.
Kreeger swam toward the boat, yelling something. Steve could only make out a single word.
'Just. .'
The rest was lost in the wind.
Kreeger came closer, reached for the dive platform, shouted again.
'Just like. .'
What was he saying?
Bracing himself on the slippery deck, Steve drew the gaff back with two hands until it was poised over one shoulder. A batter with his Louisville Slugger.
'Just like me!' Kreeger yelled over the wind. 'You're just like me!'
Steve swung the gaff as hard as he could, rotating his hips for power. The flat side of the steel hook hit Kreeger squarely across the temple with a shock Steve felt in both arms. A shuddering impact, like driving the ball up the middle.
Kreeger's head snapped to the side and stayed there, his neck at an unnatural angle. A wave hit, swirling him in white foam, spinning him around, and dragging him beneath the cold, gray sea.
SOLOMON'S LAWS
12. When you cut through all the bullshit of career, status, and money, at the end of the day all that matters is love and family.
Forty-One
Steve lay on his back on a rickety raft that rose and fell with the waves. In the distance, lightning illuminated a shroud of fat silvery clouds, and a thunderclap smacked the water. Steve felt the raft pitch and roll, even as he realized he was home in bed. Painkillers will do that.
He had said that to Bobby. Just a few hours ago. Or was it a few years? He didn't know how long he'd been in bed.
Steve had laughed, stinging his lip where the stitches pulled at the skin.
The boy had smiled. They'd pounded knuckles. Bobby doing all the pounding. Steve couldn't lift his arm from the bedsheet. Still, when he saw the boy's grin, he felt he'd won the Nobel Prize for parenting.
A doctor who had once been a client stopped by. Or was he a client who had once been a doctor? Steve's brain was fuzzy. The doc said something about a hairline fracture of the zygomatic bone.
'The zygomatic?' Steve asked. 'The machine that chops vegetables?'
'The cheekbone,' the doctor explained.
Steve remembered now. He had defended the doctor in a couple of malpractice cases. Lost them both.
There was some sinus damage, too, the sawbones told him. Steve could expect his eyes to tear up unexpectedly. No big deal. That should go away.
'And if it doesn't?' Steve asked.
'Sue me,' the doc said.
Crying wasn't so bad, Steve thought. Might be able to use it in closing argument sometime. Then there were the dozen stitches in his fat lip. Plus torn cartilage in both knees. Ice, anti-inflammatories, and rest.
'Don't worry, Steve. You'll be playing eighteen holes in no time.'
'Great, Doc, because I've never played one hole my entire life.'
Now he was cold. Both knees were wrapped in ice. On the bedside table were a variety of pill bottles, a pitcher of water, and the local section of the
He heard a pounding. Was it in his head? A dull
Myron Goldberg and Eva Munoz-Goldberg came by. Myron had Steve open his mouth. Complimented his flossing and advised him to get that chipped tooth crowned. Eva gave Steve a deep dish of caramel flan she had baked. He ate it through a straw. Myron said they were dropping the assault-and-battery case, and Steve thanked him as he slurped up the sweet dessert. Eva patted his arm and said he was as brave as Maximo Gomez and Jose Marti.
Apparently, Maria had told her parents how Steve saved her life. How after Dr. Bill went overboard, Steve came to get her, even though he could barely walk and his face was swollen and bleeding. How he climbed the ladder to the bridge, dragging the chunk of concrete on his feet, moaning in pain. How he brought the boat back, banging into the seawall at the Coast Guard station on Miami Beach, then passing out. Steve was glad Maria told her parents all these things, because he couldn't remember any of it.
'Maria says you're a superhero,' Eva told him.
'How's she doing?' Steve asked.
'Better than we could have hoped,' Myron said.
'I'll bet,' Steve said.
'He's a fine young man,' Myron allowed.
'Of course he is,' Eva added. 'He's had good training.' Then she reached down and stroked Steve's cheek.
