An Incident At Bloodtide

want leads as often to hatred and murder as it does to anything beneficial; that's not a belief or opinion, it's history. And so I believe in mystery, which is much more self-evident than any deity. Look at this river, the moon; think of the sun, and the planets, and billions more like them, but mostly look at this river, and feel its power passing beneath you. Hey, what do you want for your nickel? You want to live forever? How about living right now? For all the beauty and wonder surrounding you right now, there is no power in the river, or sea, compared to the tides of the human heart. I don't mean to sound disrespectful, Mary, but do you really think a god who created this river, the moon overhead, and the human heart is really going to give a shit what you eat, or anything else you do? Give me a break. There is no magic in life, no miracles. But there is a whole lot of mystery, and God is just a metaphor for the mystery. Humans diminish themselves, and miss the mystery, when they worship the metaphor. Love, my friend, is the greatest mystery of all.'

'I love Garth very much, Mongo.'

'I'm not the one you should be telling that to. Start believing in your love, and stop believing in the magical powers of Sacra Silver. Garth will survive if you fail to do that, Mary, but you may not. Beliefs like the ones you seem to have can kill. Stop being a victim.'

'I met him at a time when my whole life was in ruins,' Mary said in a tone that was soft and distant, but not strained. 'The Beatles and the Rolling Stones were in, and the music I was doing was out. Bobby, he made the adjustment-he led the adjustment. Later, Judy did too. I couldn't. I didn't know how to do anything but sing folk songs. My records weren't selling, and finally my record company didn't bother pressing any more. I didn't have a recording contract, and I couldn't even get small-town club dates. It was like starting all over again, playing for private parties and in bars. It was a nightmare. I started drinking a lot and then doing drugs, just to get through each day. I almost died from an overdose of peyote and wound up in a mental hospital. To tell you the truth, I don't remember exactly where I met Sacra; I just woke up one morning in whatever seedy hotel I was in and found him in bed with me. At the time, I thought he was the strongest man I had ever met. He was able to take over my life because he gave me something to live for. He told me what to do, and I did it, because it was easier than having to make my own decisions. Then he started making me do things I didn't really want to do, but did because I was so used to things the way they were. Twice I tried to leave him; I got involved with other men. Those two men died, Mongo-one in a motorcycle accident and the other from bad drugs. Don't ask me how I know this, Mongo, because I can't prove it, but I know those men died because Sacra wanted them to. I kept going back to him. I went back after the first man's death because I was still ambivalent about my feelings for Sacra; after the second death, I went back to him because I was afraid. Mongo, once I entered into a lesbian relationship with another one of Sacra's girlfriends, not because I was sexually attracted to the other woman, but because Sacra was turned on by the idea, and he insisted I do it. I'm not comfortable with a lot of decisions I made during those years, and it's just not something I can calmly discuss with Garth. There are things about my past with Sacra that I don't want Garth to ever know.'

'Mary, believe me when I tell you Garth wouldn't give a shit if you once made love to monkeys, much less to another woman. He might not much care for it if you did it now, but to him the past is past. As far as he's concerned, the best part of his life started when he met you. I might recommend that you try a similar approach. Throw out all that old, ratty baggage, starting with Sacra Silver.'

'Maybe it's too late.'

'Nope.'

'I don't know what to do, Mongo.'

'For openers, throw out Silver. Simply tell him to get the hell out of the house. If he gives you a hard time, call the cops.' I paused, watching her, saw panic rise like a flash flood in her eyes, saw the color drain from her face. I continued, 'It's better for you to face up to him, Mary. It's what you want, isn't it?'

'More than anything, Mongo,' she answered in a small voice. 'But I. .'

Her voice trailed off, but the meaning of the words she hadn't spoken was clear: she was just not up to the job of evicting Sacra Silver from her house, much less of freeing herself from the firm grip he had on her mind, at least not by herself.

I said, 'Let me give the matter some thought, Mary. Maybe I can come up with a solution. In fact, it might be better if I took care of the matter-if you give me the okay to do it. Will you let me handle it?'

She seemed startled by the suggestion, and then frightened. 'Oh, Mongo, I don't want him to turn his anger on you.'

'I can handle his anger. But he has no special powers, and that's the thought you have to keep in mind. Start practicing better mental hygiene.'

'I don't want him to hurt you, Mongo. I couldn't bear that, any more than I could bear him hurting Garth. You still don't understand-or won't accept-what he can do to people who cross him or get in his way.'

'But you'll let me take care of it?' I asked, casting a wary eye on another, larger set of waves generated by a second tanker, and heading our way.

She nodded hesitantly. 'Just remember that I couldn't abide it if anything happened to you, Mongo. Please be very careful what you say to him.'

'I will,' I said, clenching the wine bottle between my knees and bracing my arms on the gunwales as a large bow wave, its foaming crest sparkling in the moonlight, loomed just behind me and to my right. 'Incoming. Hang on.'

The bow wave, a healthy four-footer, rolled under us, lifting the canoe. We dipped down, then started up the face of the following wave. The drift net scraped against the canoe, and the plastic buoy bottles rapped out a ragged tattoo on the stern, just behind my head. Up we went again, down again.

'Oh, my God!' Mary shouted hoarsely as she blanched and put both hands to her mouth. She was staring, wide-eyed, at something just behind me, over my right shoulder. The canoe dipped again, and she screamed.

I turned my head to the right, gagged, and almost vomited as the canoe rose and dipped again, and for just a brief moment a large section of the drift net was exposed. In that moment I saw the net's grisly catch-an arm, its flesh still partially covered with shreds of thick, black rubber. The arm had apparently been ripped from its owner's shoulder, because splinters of bone entangled with long threads of tissue snaked out from the gaping socket. On the limb's wrist was a large diver's watch with a red plastic strap that I had last seen being worn by the keeper of this river that now held his remains.

I untied the painter from the buoy, and we quickly paddled back to shore. Together, Mary and I pulled the canoe up on the beach. Then Mary turned back, wrapped both arms around her body, and began to shake as she gazed out in the direction of the horror in the net, which could not even be seen from where we were standing.

'Mary?'

'God,' she murmured. 'It's Tom Blaine, isn't it?'

'I think so. Listen, I'm going into the house to call the police, but I'd like you to wait for me down here for a few minutes. Will you be all right?'

When she moved her head slightly in what I took to be an assenting nod, I hurried up the path beneath the overhang, up to the house. Not surprisingly, Sacra Silver's car was still in the driveway, and so I wasn't surprised either to find him still in the music room, sitting in Garth's chair.

I went to the kitchen, picked up the telephone, and called the Cairn police to report what we had found on the river. Then I tried to call Garth to tell him that his friend was dead. He wasn't home, or he wasn't answering the phone, so I left a message on his machine. Then I went into the music room. Silver was half dozing, a magazine in his lap. He heard me come in, opened his eyes, and studied me. He seemed amused by something, probably by the way he assumed my conversation with Mary had gone. He picked up his empty glass off the side table, held it out toward me.

'Get me another drink, will you, Frederickson?'

'Sure,' I replied easily as I walked toward him across the polished hardwood floor. When I reached him, I took the glass from his hand, tossed it over my shoulder, then kicked him hard in the right shin, just above his boot top. He hooted in surprise and pain, jackknifed the upper part of his body down, and grabbed hold of his hurting ankle. I grabbed two handfuls of hair, yanked him out of the chair and onto the floor, face down. He started to roll over, saving me the trouble of turning him. I kicked him again, this time directly in the solar plexus. He jack-knifed again, rolled on his other side, and retched, wheezing and gasping for air. While he occupied himself with the task of trying