His screaming turned into a burbling thing and the white foam in the
But I could see the fins coming.
And so could he.
We lay anchor off a far key and didn’t bother with swabbing the back deck of the blood of betrayers. That could wait. Right now we were celebrating our marriage with a couple of cold beers in the galley.
Sitting across from me, still in black latex, a wedding gown of sorts, she said, “What now?”
“Now we find that money. And when we find it, we can decide whether to clear my name or just spend the damn stuff.”
“I can see how you’d figure you’ve earned it by now.”
“That’s right.”
She nodded, once. “Okay. We’ll go treasure hunting. We’ll follow your namesake Sir Henry’s footsteps around the Caribbean. But there’s something else we need to do first.”
“Yeah?”
And the Consummata rose, took off her long gloves before freeing herself from the black latex gown, letting it pool and clump on the teakwood floor, then propping first one foot, then the other, on the little galley table where I sat, as she unlaced and removed the high-heel boots, stripping off the black lingerie, nose-cone brassiere, silk panties, sheer stockings, garter belt, exposing full breasts, narrow waist, flared hips, long muscular legs, attributes that required no kinky accoutrements, all that lovely pale flesh interrupted only by the dark delta that, as she settled herself on the mattress of the forward berth, parted between creamy thighs to reveal the pink portal where life begins.
Those almond-shaped violet eyes taunted me.
“Don’t you think,” she asked, “it’s about time we consummate this damn marriage?”
“Nag, nag, nag,” I said.
PREPARED FOR PUBLICATION BY
MAX ALLAN COLLINS
For 20 years, former NYPD cop Jack Stang has lived with the memory of his girlfriend’s death in an attempted abduction. But what if she didn’t actually die? What if she somehow survived, but lost her sight, her memory, and everything else she had...except her enemies?
Now Jack has a second chance to save the only woman he ever loved—
It was quiet today. Overcast with a snap in the air. October was almost here and a fresh season of trouble was gearing up. Sergeant Davy Ross was standing beside an unmarked police vehicle, talking to a tall, thin guy in his fifties wearing black-frame glasses who had a white trench coat draped over his arm. In his hand was an inexpensive cardboard folder people keep receipts in and when Davy turned his head, glanced my way and said something, I knew they were talking about me.
Hell, I was the living anachronism, the old firehorse they couldn’t get out of his stall, a dinosaur at fifty-six. Had to show up at home base the first of every month just to keep an eye on things.
Sergeant Ross grinned while we were shaking hands and said, “You got a fan from Staten Island, Jack. You remember that place?”
“Other side of the river, isn’t it?”
“Roger. I think it still belongs to New York City, though.” He paused and nodded toward the thin guy. “This is Dr. Thomas Brice.”
When I took the doctor’s hand, he said, “I’m a vet.”
“What war?”
He grinned and the eyes behind the specs were alert and blue. “No, I mean I’m an animal doctor, Captain Stang. Don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.”
“No sweat,” I told him. “I’m an animal lover myself.”
Davy Ross cut in with, “You guys have your conversation. I’m going back to work.”
We both told him so long and watched for a few seconds as he walked away.
When Dave went through the door, I said, “What’s all this about, Doctor? You know, I’m not on the payroll anymore. I draw a pension.”
Brice stared at me for a couple of seconds, his eyes reading me as though he were examining a strange breed of dog. It was an expression I had seen a lot of times before, but not from someone who didn’t want to kill me.
Softly, Brice said, “Is there somewhere we can sit down? You must have a coffee shop around here somewhere.”
I told him Billy’s was down the avenue two blocks, an old cop’s hangout that was about to go into the chopper when the station house shut its doors. Billy was finally going to have to go home and eat his wife’s cooking for a change.
Two of the detectives from the other shift were winding up their tour and waved at me. Both of them eyed Thomas Brice with one of those cop glances that take in everything in a blink and they both had the shadow of a frown when they realized he was one of those clean civilian types and figured he probably was some distant relation of mine.
I winked and nodded back. They seemed relieved.
Over coffee and a bagel lathered with cream cheese, I said, “I haven’t been to Staten Island since I was a kid.” My eyes were cold and I scanned his face carefully.
“I understand,” he told me.
“Neither do I remember ever having a case that involved that area.”
His tongue ran over his lips lightly and his head bobbed again. “I know that too. I did some research on you and...”
“I’m clean,” I interrupted.
“Yes, I know. You have a lot of commendations.”
“A lot of scars, too.”
I took a bite of the bagel and sipped at my coffee.
“It’s a tough job, Captain,” Brice said quietly.
“But nothing ever happened on Staten Island.”
He was staring back at me now. I knew my eyes were growing colder.
“Captain, you’re wrong,” the doctor told me softly. “Something
I laid the bagel on the plate and under the table my fingers were interlaced, each hand telling the other not to reach for the gun on my belt. I didn’t wear the shoulder holster with the old .45 Colt automatic snugged in it anymore. I was a civilian now. Still authorized by the state of New York to pack a firearm. But I wasn’t on the Job anymore.
