Dead Wood Part 7

Hornsby walked back to the crane's control center, fired it up, and slowly maneuvered the big arm out over the water. He spread the clamping mechanism open, brought it down on top of the log, closed it, and hoisted the three ton, four hundred year old log onto the surface of the barge.

It lay there, still, like a harpooned whale. It was dark brown with a tinge of green on it. Hard to believe beautiful wood could come from that.

This procedure repeated itself over and over again, so that by the time an hour had pa.s.sed, I felt like I'd learned all I could about the fascinating world of lumber recovery. In other words, I was ready for a nap.

I walked back across the barge, jumped onto the deck of the ship, and went into Hornsby's cabin.

Protected from the wind, it immediately felt warmer and I helped myself to a cup of coffee from the pot next to the captain's chair. I was so tired the caffeine stood no chance of keeping me awake.

I took the opportunity to look around. There wasn't much for me to snoop through. Some topographic maps of the lake's bottom. Pictures of Hornsby and his crew. A newspaper article on Superior Salvage Company. A few photographs taped to the wall. In one of them, I saw a grinning Hornsby with his arm around Jesse Barre. They both looked comfortable with each other. Relaxed. Maybe even in love.

I found the head, which was surprisingly clean, and took a leak. I went back to the cabin and drained the rest of my coffee. I looked out over the water and a fine mist was thick in the air. It had gotten colder as well. No time to be out on the deck of a barge, that's for sure. You know those guys who love to be out and fighting the elements? Looking Mother Nature in the eye? I'm not one of them. I figure my ancestors worked hard to figure out it was safer to hide in caves. It would be an insult to their hard work and dedication to be outside right now.

A small cot lay along the opposite wall of the cabin. I stretched out on it, zipped my coat up all the way to my chin. The coffee had momentarily warmed my insides, and I figured that I wouldn't miss much if I took a quick nap.

Besides, I reasoned, I'm a light sleeper.

I dreamed of a nice gnocchi dinner, served by my wife whose attire consisted of fishnet stockings and a jaunty beret. She was just about to suggest dessert when something odd happened. Instead of a pleasant garlic aroma, the gnocchi smelled like gasoline.

My eyes opened and I was suddenly wide awake, scared and disoriented all at the same time.

I was on Hornsby's boat, in the cabin, and my mind tried to take in the fact that it was nearly dusk and that I must have been sleeping for nearly five hours. Holy Christ, what a f.u.c.kup I was.

The early morning had really done me in. I vaulted over the deck of the ship onto the barge. I jogged to the crane control and the area where the chain and harness were, but I saw no one.

I walked to the edge of the ship and looked into the water.

Rollie was on his back, a thick length of the chain tied around his neck. His face was bobbing in and out of the water. His lifeless eyes were bulging, his mouth an open container. Water poured in, water poured back out. A huge log was in the water next to him, and the chain seemed to be holding Rollie alongside.

I looked around the barge, out toward the water. "Hornsby!" I called.

Just as the last echoes of my voice were carried away by the wind, I heard what sounded like a small explosion. More of a wooshing sound. And then the deck of the barge was a column of flame headed right for me. A motor gunned and I saw a shadow crouched at the throttle of a small outboard and then I was leaping from the barge, out into Lake St. Clair.

I hit and the shocking cold of the water made me nearly want to scream.

I went straight down into the water, the sudden silence shocking me as much as the knifing cold.

My jacket weighed a ton, but I kept it on, instead I kicked off my shoes and pants, holding my breath for as long as I could before I had to surface.

When my lungs were burning and I was on the verge of inhaling a mouthful of water, I broke through to the water's surface. Smoke was everywhere. It was like night had come and thrown a stinky blanket over everything. As I struggled to get my bearings, a huge explosion rocked the air. I looked, and could just make out through the smoke that Hornsby's boat was now on fire.

I swam toward Rollie. When I was close enough, I put a hand on the log and tried to get a grip on its slick surface. It was difficult, but at last I found a small notch that served as a handhold.

I tried to think things through.

They had killed Rollie and were trying to destroy the ships. So the question was, where was Hornsby?

Despite the situation, I felt a tug of relief. They, whoever that might be, probably weren't after me. If they didn't know I existed, they probably wouldn't come back to try to kill me.

Which was good.

The bad part was, I had no way of getting back to sh.o.r.e, and my body was already going numb from the cold. I had to get out of the water, and get out fast. Then I had to figure out a way to signal someone back on sh.o.r.e.

And there was still no sign of Hornsby.

Part two of the good news was that I knew the barge was virtually indestructible, unlike Hornsby's ship. So when I spied the chain leading from Rollie's neck to the side of the barge, I knew I had a chance. My hands already felt like frozen claws, so I would have to go as quickly as possible. I kicked off from the log, my clothes pulling me under, my body underestimating the strength it would take to keep me afloat and propel me the twenty feet I needed to cross to get to the chain.

I pushed and kicked, the water tugging at me, the cold washing over me. I felt the chain brush my fist. I grabbed for it and missed, immediately going under and getting a mouthful of Lake St. Clair. The parallel with water going in Rollie's mouth inspired me to panic. I flailed back to the surface and got both hands on the chain. I pulled myself to the barge and tried to lift myself from the water, but my jacket and sweater weighed me down. It was going to be impossible. I was going to die, clinging to the chain for awhile, like Leonardo de Caprio in t.i.tanic, and then I was going to lose my grip and slip to the bottom, landing in a pile of wooden logs.

A giant motherf.u.c.ker of a wave knocked me against the side of the barge and I lost any oxygen that was left in my lungs. I gasped for breath, clawed at the chain, and maybe gained a foot or two.

But it was enough.

A red lever hung just below where I needed to get in order to haul myself out of the water.

It was the power switch for the winch.

My body shook with cold, and the exertion of swimming had left my muscles numb with fatigue. I thought of Anna and the kids back home, probably sitting down to dinner, oblivious to the fact that Daddy was hanging on for dear life in the middle of freezing cold lake, clinging to a boat that was on fire.

The lake seemed to surge beneath me, pushing me toward the winch's control panel. My hands slid up the chain. I grabbed the lever and brought it down, instantly sending the chain into action. The winch pulled it to the surface of the barge, me along with it. I rolled onto the deck and gasped for air. I couldn't believe I'd made it. That I was alive. No life insurance check for Anna. She'd be p.i.s.sed.

A sudden loud thud made me get to my hands and knees and peer over the side of the barge.

It was the log that Rollie had been attached to. The winch, still winding, had brought it all the way to the side of the ship.

But Rollie was nowhere to be seen.

Something was pinned to the bottom of the log, had been trapped out of sight beneath the water.

Nevada Hornsby.

Sixteen.

I'd always wanted to meet someone from the Coast Guard. Somehow, I figured it would be a Sat.u.r.day field trip with my daughters. I'd call ahead, arrange a tour of the Coast Guard place with some guy called Captain Happy, the girls could pretend to steer the ship, we'd get some fake medals and then we'd all take pictures and drink cocoa.

Alas, Captain Happy turned out to be a grumpy middle-aged man who, after a b.u.mpy ride across Lake St. Clair with two men wearing sidearms giving me the cold stare, unceremoniously deposited me with the St. Clair Sh.o.r.es police. Apparently emergency calls regarding an abundance of dark smoke on Captain Happy's lake didn't inspire a warm, fuzzy feeling in the Coast Guard official. No cocoa, and he never even let me steer the ship. Good thing I hadn't brought the girls along.

The cops escorted me to an ambulance that took me to a hospital where after a blatantly cursory inspection, doctors determined I was fine. They didn't even give me the '24-hour observation' demand.

The cops then escorted me back to the station where all kinds of phone calls were made, some in my presence, most occurring, I'm guessing, while I waited in a conference room. A couple of St. Clair Sh.o.r.es cops took my statement. Then they re-took it. And then, to qualify for the hat trick, they took it again. I kept it not pretty much the same, but exactly the same.

After they left, I took stock of my situation. The hospital had given me some doctor's scrubs and my wet clothes were in a paper bag that was now soggy. I had a blanket around my shoulders and was trying to stay warm. I was also trying not to think about Nevada Hornsby, the sight of him lashed to the bottom of the log, his dead eyes staring up at me- The door banged open and my sister walked in.

She took a moment to look at me. Not a glance. A slow, thorough a.s.sessment. When she was done, she turned back toward the door.

"Let's go," she said.

I've found it's a pretty good idea when dealing with my sister that if you're not sure what to say, keep it zipped. So I sat in the front pa.s.senger seat of her cruiser, looking out the window as we left the hospital parking lot, heading back, I a.s.sumed, to my house.

"Listen, I can explain," I said, ignoring my cardinal rule. Why do I even bother to make them up when I so rarely follow them?

"No, you can't," Ellen said.

See what I mean? I cursed myself for ignoring myself.

"I told you what I was doing," I said. Another mistake. Don't defend yourself. Just curl up and let the grizzly bat you around a little bit, eventually she'll get bored and move on.

"You told me you were going to be involved in a double homicide while investigating the homicide I'm working on?" she said. Boy her voice could sound nasty. It was hard to believe we were related. I guess I got all the sugar, she got all the vinegar. I'd have to get confirmation on that from Mom.

"Do I look like Dionne Warwick?" I said.

She shot me a confused glance.

"Psychic Network?" I said.

This got me an eye roll. Eye rolls aren't bad. In fact, they're quite good. It usually means the anger-bordering-on-violence is past, replaced with a mere case of irritation. A mild nuisance.

Ellen turned onto Kercheval, headed back toward the Park. It was early evening by now, and traffic was light.

"Where was the call to let me know you were going to question Hornsby?"

"Again," I said. "How was I supposed to know anything would come of it-"

"You're going to back off of this case," she said. I knew where that expression "iron in her voice," came from. She practically had a crowbar between her teeth.

I didn't answer, suddenly terribly interested in the architecture of the houses we pa.s.sed by. After a couple more blocks, Ellen turned onto my street.

"Aren't you, John?" she said.

"Aren't I what?"

"Going to back off this case this minute."

I didn't want to answer. I'd made enough mistakes. I wasn't about to make the granddaddy mistake of all by lying to her. Because I had no intention of backing off this case. In fact, my intention was just the opposite.

"Right?" Ellen asked, not letting me off the hook as we pulled into my driveway.

I imagined a newborn baby, the very picture of innocence. "Right," I said. What the h.e.l.l, three mistakes in a row. Pulled a hat trick myself.

Before I got out of the cruiser, I glanced in the little mirror attached to the back of the sun visor. I looked okay, considering what I'd been through. Pale, water-logged and truth be told, a tad frightened.

"Does she know?" I said, nodding toward the house. My cell phone was on the bottom of Lake St. Clair, and I hadn't called from the hospital, preferring to tell my wife about my unique day in person.

"I didn't tell her," my sister said.

"Good. Your tact typically leaves quite a bit to be desired."

"Quit stalling," Ellen said. "Go on, take it like the man you aren't."

I got out, slammed the door shut as a response, and walked around the house to the back door. In my mind, I ran through a series of explanations, deciding that I'd already lied to my sister, lying to my wife would be even worse. No way was I going to lie. I might sanitize the truth a tad, but no more outright lies. Besides, I'd tried a fib or two to Anna before no, I hadn't eaten the last two chocolate chip cookies, etc. and I'd always gotten busted. The woman was a walking polygraph machine.

I unlocked the back door, which opens into the kitchen, and Anna was at the kitchen table, helping Isabel with her homework. She looked at me, then did a double take.

"Everyone's favorite man is home!" I sang out, my voice as merry as an elf on Christmas Eve.

My wife took one look at me and I knew it was game over. "Isabel, go upstairs," Anna said. "Finish your math sheet in your room."

After my daughter left, without a hug for her Dad I might add, Anna folded her arms and looked at me.

I began describing what happened, editing out the worst moments. I was only about halfway through the story when Anna started crying, and I immediately started feeing guilty. The girls ran down from upstairs upon hearing the sound of a grown-up crying.

"Mommy, what's wrong?" Isabel said, her lower lip immediately starting to tremble.

Anna was trying to get herself under control, but failing miserably. I idly wondered when I would get my framed certificate proving once and for all that I was in fact, the world's biggest jacka.s.s.

I decided to divide and conquer. Leaving Anna in the kitchen, I took the girls upstairs, immediately distracting them with a game of tackle and tickle, then we read some books and I tucked them in for the night.

I went back downstairs and found Anna drinking. Turning to booze was always a bad sign. But a small gla.s.s of Amaretto wasn't a bad thing. I splashed a c.o.c.ktail gla.s.s half full.

"Finish the story," she said as I sat down on the couch next to her.

I told the rest of it to Anna, glossing over the part where I'd almost been blown to a million pieces of man gnocchi and minimizing how close I'd come to drowning. I told her exactly what the doctors had said, embellishing only on the soundness of my overall health. Still, she was p.i.s.sed. Whenever she got upset, she cried first, then got p.i.s.sed right after that. Super p.i.s.sed, in fact.

"Why didn't you take your sister with you?" she said. You have to understand, she was mad, but she wasn't mad at the guy who tried to kill me. She was mad at me.

"She's a cop, honey," I said. "She can't just take off with her brother when he's got a case. Besides, I had no idea this was going to happen. I thought it would be a routine interview. As boring as those Barbara Walters specials. Do you remember the one with Bo Derek? G.o.d that was-"

"What about Nate? Why didn't you take him?"

"Nate?" I said. "Well, he's best in culinary emergencies - you know, when you can't decide whether to have the roast duck or the broiled flounder."

"This isn't funny."

"I know." It wasn't. The part about Nate was a little bit funny, but no, the rest was definitely not.