Dark Light

“Of course.”

The plaque was made of teak, most likely, swollen and black from years of being underwater, and covered with sand. It was the carved nameplate from a boat, a portion of it broken away long ago.

Touch a finger to the letters, and it was easier to read:

ARK LIGHT.

Jeth said, “Dark Light. It’s the wreck your friend said she’d pay us to salvage.”

Tomlinson replied, “Now we’ve got the boat to do it. Even in bad weather. Since Javier’s not here to do the honors, why don’t you go up and tell Augie the good news?”

29

That morning, watching from his condo window as Augie and Oswald pulled away in the Viking, Bern Heller experimented with the idea of using the boat to escape to some foreign country that had islands with palm trees, and straw huts and women who poured coconut milk over their hair and bodies to keep themselves feeling smooth…

Were there islands like that anymore? Were there ever?

Didn’t matter. He could still think about it.

…escape to an island that belonged to a country not interested in a few mistakes a man might make while living in Florida. Not if the man had money, and a yacht as classy looking as the Viking, where he could take the women with their coconut-smelling hair. Keep the air conditioner in the master suite going; make drinks for them while they took care of his laundry, his cooking…his other needs, while they were at it.

Bern pictured himself alone on the flybridge, all his belongings packed below, a trunkload of cash and certified checks hidden somewhere safe after cleaning out the corporation’s accounts. Pictured himself heading out across the Gulf of Mexico…

No, not the Gulf of Mexico. The water had to be calm. It had to stay calm.

…he pictured himself alone on the flybridge, keeping the boat close to the beach where there wasn’t any wind. Ride along nice and smooth, no more worries. He could follow the shoreline around to Mexico, or even Colombia—a favorite hangout of his grandfather’s judging from the passports that were still scattered on the nearby desk along with the leather-bound journal, the photo of the glamorous woman who was now probably an old hag, and documents mostly written in German.

Something new was on the desk, too. A registered letter from the old man’s personal assistant, Jason Goddard. And a package. They’d been sent overnight mail, but they couldn’t have anything to do with the message he’d left on Goddard’s machine: “I was wondering about the woman in the black-and-white picture…”

Or could they? Goddard was prompt. Known for being a step ahead. His grandfather referred to him as “my point man,” as if they were in a war. Or: “My personal son of a bitch,” because Goddard’s the one who did the old man’s dirty work.

But send an overnight package in reply to Bern’s phone message? Nobody responded that fast, not even Goddard. Besides, the envelope had a thick feel—there was a lot more than information about a woman inside.

Nothing good ever came in a thick envelope, that was Bern’s experience. Which is why he still hadn’t opened it. The way his luck was going? The damn thing could wait until tonight. Or tomorrow. He didn’t care.

Bern just wasn’t up to dealing with another shock. There’d been too many, way too fast. Last night was yet another example: The redneck dumping a barrel that contained the body of a woman who’d been quietly buried… nine months?

Yes, about that long. The girl Bern had spotted in a Gainesville parking lot, drop-dead gorgeous, with eyes that were way too good to waste time on him, so he had followed her. Got a little carried away when he dragged her out of the trunk, into a field, because the little bitch was a fighter—a mistake on her part, but his mistake, too, which he could admit to himself.

How long, though, was he going to have to pay for one or two stupid mistakes? Fair was fair, but he’d suffered enough.

The thing that tumbled out of the barrel probably was the girl from Gainesville, though he couldn’t swear to it. Hard to recognize what it was after being packed in a petroleum product for that long—dirty two-cycle motor oil in this instance. Which is what saved Moe’s Hoosier ass.

Very calm and cool, Moe had looked at Bern and said, “Girl? I don’t see any girl.” This, with the girl’s body only a few feet away, all folded up like a paper angel, oil streaming off it. And just after hearing Bern say that the girl looked so tiny, she almost had to be the sort of person no one would care about, or come looking for.

“A crack whore, most likely,” Bern had said.

And Moe had replied, “Girl,” like: What are you talking about? That thing’s not human. Which was a big relief that got better when Moe suggested it was probably an animal of some sort that fell into the barrel then couldn’t get out. And added, still very cool, “Do you want me to bury that mess where I found it, boss? Or do you want to take care of it yourself?”

At the time, Bern had his hands full. Full, because of the Cuban he’d spotted watching them from the twin- engine boat that was green in daylight but looked bluish in the yellow sodium lights.

The Cuban had tried to run. Jumped out of the boat and scampered, Bern on his heels, the Hoosier lagging far behind. When Bern caught the Cuban, he’d looked as surprised as some of the wide receivers Bern had played against, a white guy his size dragging them down from behind.

He had the Cuban’s arm levered up, and his knee on the guy’s throat so he couldn’t cry out, which is when Moe revisited the subject: “Girl? I don’t know why you keep saying that, boss, I’d swear it was some kind of animal. We can use the bulldozer and bury it where it belongs.”

Which saved him.

It didn’t save the Cuban, who was listening.

T he phone on the desk of his condo was ringing. Bern didn’t notice right away because his ears were also ringing. They’d been ringing since about 1 A.M. that morning, when Moe’s unexpected gunshot had temporarily deafened him.

Bern looked at the caller ID, seeing: PRIVATE NUMBER.

There was a trick his wife back in Madison had learned, how to program her phone in a way so her own number was shielded from the person she was calling. She didn’t do it often though. More likely, it was Jason Goddard, who was also an attorney and did tricky stuff all the time.

Bern answered.

Damn. His wife.

Even though impaired, he had no trouble hearing: “Bernard, you said you’d call me last night. I tried three times and you never answered—the last time was ten minutes after midnight!”

At ten minutes after midnight, he and the Hoosier were trying to decide what to do with the Cuban. Call the cops and let them deal with him? Or take care of the situation themselves.

“…which is thoughtlessness, plain and simple. I swear, you haven’t been the same since you took that Florida job. What’s got into you? The money’s nice, I’m not saying I want you to quit, but try and be a little more thoughtful. It’s like Florida has taken all the sweetness out of you, Bernie…”

Sweetness? The woman was still loud and clueless, something that might change about a month after they sealed her coffin and got a few feet of dirt on it.

“…so I’m just gonna come right out and tell you what’s got me so upset. It’s that Augie. I was talking to your sister-in-law yesterday, and Augie told her that you got yourself into another brawl. But this time with some hippie who nearly killed you. Is that true, Bernard? Did he hurt you? You never said a doggone word…”

Augie, the little fucking snitch. If he’d told his motor-mouthed mother, half of Wisconsin would know by next week. A really shitty thing to do to a former pro lineman in a state where fans worshipped their football players. Spread a rumor about him getting his ass kicked by some pansy doper.

Bern interrupted his wife long enough to say, “A hippie choked me? Geez, honey, that’s so crazy it’s funny. The guys at the Cadillac dealership are gonna laugh their tails off when they hear it. No… of course it didn’t happen. Augie wants my job, honey. The whole family knows…”