Marquez woke to footsteps on the gravel, soft steps stopping near his truck before moving on. After whoever was there moved away he eased out of bed and very slowly clicked the deadbolt back and opened the door. Cold flooded in. A white moon was out over the water. He read the roofline of the marina building and saw part of the deck, but no one on the road. Another night he might have gone back to bed. He looked toward Perry and Torp’s room, then dressed and slipped on his shoulder harness, felt the cold gun against his chest.
Torp and Perry’s white van was still in front of the room they’d rented. The two rooms between theirs and his were empty. No lights were on. He didn’t hear any sounds, and this was probably needless worry. He softly shut his door, threw the deadbolt, and then, rather than walk past Torp and Perry’s room and down the road to the marina building, he went the opposite way up to the levee road.
Now he looked down on the roofs of the rooms Lisa rented and the big marina building, the boats docked below, the light on the river. He stayed in the shadow out of the moonlight and knew there was a footpath somewhere up here that led back down. It took a few minutes to find it. Then he climbed over the guard rail and dropped steeply on the path through mud and brush until he was down to where Lisa’s car sat in a narrow carport.
He worked his way to the dark corner of the marina building. He knew he hadn’t imagined the footsteps but wondered now if it had been Torp or Perry going outside for a smoke. He kept one hand sliding along the wood siding of the marina building as he worked his way around it, moving toward the river and the moonlit deck.
When he rounded the corner and was under the deck he heard movement on the deck. Soft footsteps. They stopped, then started again. He edged his way around to the river face of the deck, staying low, listening to a scratching noise, and then moved onto one of the deck steps and saw someone at the bar door, his back turned to him. He climbed the steps slowly and moved toward the figure, knew if the man turned he’d see him on the deck in the moonlight. It’s Torp, he thought, looking at the back of him. Heard the faint rattle of the door lock, Torp trying to get the door open, and not turning around until Marquez was within ten feet of him.
“I’m getting a drink,” Torp said, jumping back, startled and surprised.
“There’s a whole river you can drink. Where’s your friend?”
He saw a blur of movement or maybe he heard a chair scrape, or Torp was too quiet, too slow to answer. When Perry charged across the deck Marquez was already in motion. Perry’s blade sliced through his coat, and Marquez swung a deck chair with his left hand, missed Perry but caught Torp in the face and broke a leg of the chair. He saw Torp go down moaning and faced Perry, was close to drawing his gun but swung the chair instead, kept Perry circling. Torp started to rise, and Marquez swung at Perry again, then kicked Torp in the head, watched him stagger, lie flat, and surprisingly start to get up yet again.
“Do him,” Perry said and advanced on Marquez, the knife blade flashing in the moonlight. “Liam, shoot him.”
Marquez swung the chair at the advancing Perry, and Torp was on his feet again. He reached into his coat, and Marquez jumped toward him with the chair and with a slashing swing forced him to block with his arms and jump back before he was hit. In the same motion he continued around with the chair and caught part of Perry. Then he was on Torp clubbing him to the deck, his big fist hammering down on the back of Torp’s neck. Marquez pulled the gun from Torp’s belt and aimed at Perry.
“Drop the knife.”
“Are you going to shoot me, Fish Boy?”
“Right now.”
He clicked the safety off, aimed at Perry’s midsection, and heard the knife clatter onto the decking. He backed Perry up, picked up the knife, then walked them both up the road to the rooms and had Perry lie face down on the gravel near their van as a bleeding Torp staggered around getting their stuff out of their room. Then he had Perry get in and start the van. After they drove off he sat out in the cold for an hour and talked to Cairo, who was down the street from Crey’s house where the lights were on still. He was still shaking from adrenaline.
“These guys are operating outside of Crey,” Marquez said.
“You need to bag it and pull out tonight, Lieutenant. We can get a police cruiser to sit out there and watch the marina.”
Marquez looked at the knife and gun, knew that they wouldn’t be back tonight and that things were in motion now with Torp and Perry in a way that wouldn’t stop until satisfied. He left it with Cairo that he’d find him around dawn, then went back into the room, lay down with his gun near him, his heart still pounding.