I used our momentum to back him up until he hit the guard railing. The man gave a woof of pain and surprise as we both tumbled overboard into black water.

I surfaced first, as a column of light panned the marina basin. The beam swept across me, then was gone. A moment later, Heller’s massive head appeared. He was sputtering and blowing water from his nose—draconic.

He was within arm’s reach, glaring at me. It must have surprised him when I submerged. I found his legs by feel and spun his back to me, as if I were a lifeguard making a rescue.

This was not a rescue.

I came up behind him and locked my arms around his neck, fingers burrowing into soft flesh beneath his jaw mandible. At the same time, I wound my legs through his legs from inside out. Like a grapevine.

He was immobile. The only thing keeping us on the surface was the air in his lungs, the air in my lungs.

From the parking lot, I heard a man yell. There was a sudden flurry of colored lights, red and blue mixing with the lighthouse’s pale metronome—police. How had they found me? The difference between perfect and imperfect timing is sometimes only a few seconds. Their timing was not perfect.

Heller began to speak, shouting, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Ford—”

I silenced him, closing his throat with the edge of my forearm. An instant later, I ceased applying pressure. He inhaled mightily, then exhaled, making a guttural woof. Immediately, I ratcheted my forearm tight. His lungs were empty; mine, full. I exhaled as I readjusted my grip. I took the man under.

He struggled; I held. He became desperate—my arms and fingers were locked; his legs tied up by mine. Then he panicked, his strength freakish.

I anticipated the three stages. It is the way men die underwater. I had taken men better than Bern Heller beneath the surface. I knew.

Exhale and human lungs still retain a volume of air. Consciously, I relaxed all but those muscles required to control the man. He conserved nothing and therefore expended everything—his breath…his cold composure, once so intimidating. His life.

I waited. Patiently.

Underwater, the human eye fails, but pupils remain apertures sensitive to changes in darkness and light. My eyes moved to the surface where a radiant beam sped past…then another. The lighthouse’s pulse became an exact gauge of Heller’s slowing heartbeat.

Light-light…dark. Light-light…dark.

Unexpectedly, another light then appeared: a spear of incandescence that probed from the darkness above. Then there were several lights above us, much brighter. They were coming from the Viking, or the dock.

Heller’s huge hand had tried to break my fingers free of his throat. His hand was still locked on mine, but now only tapped gently, as if keeping time to a fading melody.

Police were up there waiting, I knew. I wanted only a few more seconds…

They didn’t allow it.

I felt a depth charge percussion, then another—the sound of men jumping into water. Their lights were beside me now. I felt frantic human hands grab my shirt. I pushed them away; they grabbed again. I surfaced, taking Heller with me.

Police, yes. Their lights were blinding…and their hurried questions, to my surprise, were based on a flawed assumption.

“Is he okay? Did he fall overboard?”

Talking about the unconscious man who was still alive: Bern Heller. The man they believed I had gone underwater to save.

T he police wanted me to look at the body inside the duffel bag.

I told them, “I’d rather not.”

They pressed.

EMTs were on scene. Heller was faceup on a gurney inside an ambulance. In the glare of lights and silver rain, efficient silhouettes moved around him working to bring him back.

I hoped they failed. I feared that if I saw Chestra’s body inside the bag, I would lose control and try to fight my way to the ambulance; try to get my hands around his throat—damning behavior for a man being credited for a heroic rescue attempt.

I had told them I followed Heller because I saw him steal what I thought was a box from Mildred Engle’s home on Gulf Drive. I’d ended up trying to save the man when I realized he couldn’t swim.

“We know you’ve been through a lot,” one of the officers now said to me. “But…we found a body aboard the boat. He may have been headed out to dump it when you saw him fall over. Do you mind taking a look at it?”

I minded. But I followed the officer, anyway, feeling sick.

It was nearly 1 A.M. Storm winds gusted, no longer gale force. I had a towel around my shoulders. I felt exhausted.

Unreal reality. I wished I was aboard No Mas, discussing inanities with Tomlinson.

Instead, I stepped aboard the Viking. There were a half-dozen law enforcement people shielding the bag and the body from me. My presence, a civilian, caused them to lower their voices. The officer I was following held up a finger—it would be a minute or two before they were ready.

I turned my back to the group and waited. The lights inside the boat were on, cabin door open. No one stopped me when I stepped inside and took a look.

Three suitcases there, Heller’s name and Wisconsin address on one of the tags.

Yes, he had been attempting to escape by water. But where?

I didn’t give it much thought. I didn’t care.

I had been aboard this vessel enough to notice that along with the suitcases, Heller had brought something else into the cabin. It was a trunk. The old steamship variety: wood and leather, with a brass lock.

The lock was sprung. I opened the trunk.

Inside were packets of letters, some sheet music, and old photos. I looked at one. Marlissa Dorn. Not a glamour shot, but taken when she was about the same age.

A beautiful woman.

The promissory notes were there, too. Some were in an envelope, others scattered throughout the trunk— rectangles of fragile brown paper signed by Marlissa and Frederick Roth. It was the box I’d seen him take from Southwind.

I was confused. When had Heller loaded the bag containing Chestra’s body into the truck?

I stepped outside. People standing around the body made room.

I forced myself to look at the bag. It wasn’t Chestra.

It was a man, his face unrecognizable because he’d been shot execution style in the back of the head— grotesque.

I recognized the straw cowboy hat, though. Heller had called him Moe.

The officer asked, “Any idea who it is, Doc?”

I shook my head. If this was Moe, then Chestra was—oh God. I brushed past the cop, and sprinted toward my truck before he could ask anything else.

Several minutes later, I skidded to a stop in Southwind’s driveway expecting the worst.

C hestra!”

The front door was closed but not bolted. I stepped inside, calling for her.

“Chestra!”

Behind me, the tree canopy flickered with light, bare limbs gray, black, bronze.

I sprinted up the steps, still calling for her…then stopped at the head of the stairs…

Chestra was at the piano, bent over the keyboard as if she’d fallen sleep. The piano’s candelabra was a pyramid of lighted candles. The balcony doors were closed, but curtains allowed moonlight. A white lace shawl covered her head. She looked frail, like an October leaf about to blow away.

“Chestra.”

She stirred. Slowly, then, the woman removed the shawl and looked at me. She had been holding a compress to her forehead, I realized.

“Doc? Doc, thank God you’re not hurt. I was worried.”

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