Red Tide: A Billy Knight Thriller Read online

  Red Tide

  A Billy Knight Thriller

  Jeff Lindsay

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Jeff Lindsay

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition October 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-720-3

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  More Billy Knight Thrillers

  Connect with Diversion Books

  Chapter One

  Things were not going well that last slow month of summer. Business had fallen to an all-time low in the hard and stupid heat of August. People still came down to the docks, but no one wanted to go fishing. Instead, they would amble sideways down to my boat to gawk, scratch their necks, and ask, how much? And when I told them $450 a day some of them would look unhappy for a moment, and some would grin strangely, and some would just stare, and then they would all look behind them, take a funny little step to the side, and wander away with a shy half glance over their shoulder like they were hoping I hadn’t noticed them.

  Art, the 350-pound ex-biker dockmaster, said it was the same with people who called his shack on the phone. They would clear their throats three or four times, ask the price, and promise to get right back to him, but they never did.

  Art said things would get better soon, but Art always said that. I guess he felt like he had to keep up the morale of the handful of guides that worked out of his dock.

  It wasn’t working. My morale was bad, and it wasn’t all because business was slow.

  Things were not going any better away from the docks. The court had finally awarded me salvage rights to BATTLE, a lush 54-foot Alden sailboat I had taken from a guy named Doyle who thought he was the reincarnation of Adolf Hitler. He was dead, blasted to bits by lightning, and nobody else had come forward to claim the boat. So I could count on a nice chunk of money when I sold it. That should have solved a lot of problems. But there seems to be a special rule of life that whenever you have money, everything else goes wrong, and it all did.

  Nancy had moved out a few months earlier, saying she just needed some space for a while and it didn’t really mean anything, but we both knew it did.

  She had moved to Key West from L.A. because working as a nurse in a small ghetto clinic had started to turn her sour—and because, I still thought, maybe we had something.

  And maybe we had. We had tried hard to make it work and for the first few months together, it had worked magically. Even in my small and battered cottage, there was room for two of us and everything we needed because we were in love. Or at least, we thought we were in love, and maybe that counts for the same thing until the fairy dust wears off.

  There is nothing quite like being in love in Key West. Just walking down Duval Street can make you feel more alive than you have ever felt before, like God loves you more than other people and everything you do will always turn out all right. You can almost hear the music playing and you begin to believe that you are Gene Kelly.

  And when the fairy dust wears off there’s nothing worse than love dying in Key West. On the passionate canvas of the tropics the brush strokes are brighter, harder-edged. They hurt more. Everyone holds hands in Key West, and if your hand is empty you feel it more.

  But Nancy and I had not broken up; we had simply moved apart. We would spend an evening together, and Nancy still kept some of her stuff in a closet at my house. Of course that made it harder; if we had just agreed it was over I could get on with life. Instead, the ending was dragging on indefinitely as the relationship twitched into temporary life from time to time, bringing the illusion of hope into a thing that was already as dead as it could be.

  The illusions didn’t last long. The final killing blow came in a way that might not have been able to happen at all, except in that searing, stupefying August heat.

  • • •

  The Moonlight Room was a back street dive. Every waterfront town has one. There are no signs posted to tell you, but it’s for members only. To be a member you have to live in town and work the boats.

  The membership at the Moonlight Room was made up of Key West’s sports-fishing community and a good handful of the commercial fishermen. Any evening would find the place full of guides, charter captains, mates, and shrimpers—and their wives, girlfriends, and families. If an outsider wandered in by mistake, the odds were pretty good they’d get the message quickly and wander out again. If they didn’t take a hint they’d better either buy a round for the house or know how to use their fists.

  You almost had to duck under the small neon sign to get through the door. Once inside you were never sure it was worth it. There were three small tables, a couple of barely-padded high-backed booths, and a row of stools along the bar. At the back was a small hallway, only slighter deeper than a broom closet, with a telephone, a cigarette machine, and a unisex restroom.

  I don’t know where the term “Happy Hour” comes from. I’ve never seen one that wasn’t two hours long and pathetic. Happy Hour at the Moonlight Room was so standard, it might have been a Norman Rockwell, if Rockwell had ever painted All-American shabby degenerate drunken resignation. A handful of idle captains, mates, and retired drunks sat on stools and in booths and just drank with a concentration you could almost call sober.

  With Nancy avoiding me and my future with her uncertain, I had taken to spending the last of the late afternoon heat in the dark and moldy coolness of a booth. After the first few times, the residents stopped glaring at me when I came in. I was starting to fit in. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

  Draft beer was fifty cents and there was usually a ball game on the television. I would have two or three beers, watch the game, sulk for a while, and then head out into the evening, my mild buzz a shield against the dying heat of the day.

  Sometimes I would find Nancy and we would eat dinner, talk a little, fight a little, and then either make up and make love or separate to stew in our separate bitter puddings. The next day it would start all over again and I was at the point where I couldn’t tell one day from any other, which is something
that happens in Key West anyway, but now it was worse.

  I had learned that Nancy was one of those people who needs to fight. Not out of any sense of meanness, but from a feeling of worth. If she couldn’t argue about something, the thing had no value. She would take great satisfaction from fighting until terrible things were said and then she’d make up in the face of this new “honesty.”

  I was just the opposite. Nancy thought fighting was a sign of a healthy relationship; I thought it meant something was wrong. Neither one of us could shake these convictions. So the fighting went on, Nancy always pushing at my refusal to fight until she got too frustrated to stand it any longer and left, or I got too mad and gave her the fight she craved.

  And so it had gradually dawned on us that we were even farther apart than we thought. The distance between us grew, and the silence. By now I knew that it was going to take a very big effort to keep the relationship alive. I was willing. I wanted it to work. But Nancy began working later shifts, forgetting to return my calls, staying away sometimes for three days at a stretch.

  She always apologized, saying that her work schedule at the hospital was worse than usual. Or maybe she took somebody else’s shift in the ER as a favor. And when I said she should have called, it would launch us on another three-hour screaming match.

  When you are in love with someone and they don’t see you or call you for three days—unless you are a complete idiot—you begin to think they don’t care for you as much as you care for them. And also—unless you are a complete idiot—you realize that there is not a damned thing you can do about it.

  So with nothing else to do and no work to distract me, I glided into the routine of Happy Hours at the Moonlight Room.

  It wasn’t so bad. Everybody else in the place at that time of day had something they pitied themselves for, so it was quiet. Every so often somebody would play a song on the jukebox, which had somehow been loaded by mistake with a bunch of old songs made up of actual melodies and words that meant something.

  Between the songs and the ball games and the fifty-cent draft, life was full again.

  This evening was no different. There was a game on the blurry old TV set above the bar. The Marlins were losing again. The same happy crowd hunched over the same half-empty glasses. They barely blinked as I came in. I grabbed a draft and found my regular booth in the back of the room.

  Maybe Nancy would find me. Maybe she had forgiven me. Maybe she would even tell me what she was forgiving me for.

  I sat in my booth, trying not to notice the smell from the back room. Apparently they’d just poured some new pine-scented stuff into the toilet, and they figured that ought to do instead of flushing. On top of that, somebody in the small kitchen had found something washed up on the beach and decided to fry it in transmission oil from a Packard they’d pulled out of a canal.

  And if that wasn’t enough, the Marlins were down seven runs in the fifth inning and suddenly my glass was empty. Something had to give.

  I stood and walked over to the bar. There were a couple of boney, rangy guys sitting at the end of the bar, shrimpers from the tough, unwashed look of them. Neither one of them looked up from his glass as I passed by. That didn’t mean anything. I hadn’t seen either one look up from a glass in all the time I’d been coming here. They just sat there, two feet apart, and drank. Never talked, never moved at all except for the slight bend of the elbow as they raised their glasses without moving their heads. So far they hadn’t even gone to the bathroom.

  A very large woman with short hair and an ornate tattoo on her arm refilled my glass without looking up and without saying a word. Maybe she was related to the shrimpers.

  As I headed back to my booth there was a blinding burst of light and the front door swung open. I squinted in its direction.

  Nancy stood just inside, blinking as her eyes adjusted. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a car, except a deer never made me feel weak in the knees. She looked so good that the two shrimpers moved their heads an inch and a half each just to look at her.

  “Billy,” she said, as she was finally able to see in the gloom and caught sight of me gaping at her. I felt warm.

  “Hi.”

  Key West had been good to her. She seemed more relaxed than when I first met her. The smile lines that bracketed her mouth had grown gentler and there was a glow of health under her flawless olive skin. She still had a ripe mouth and the most perfect neck I had ever seen.

  Her hair was pulled back now in what she called her “working do” and even the awful hospital whites could not make her figure look chunky. It flowed like a piece of sculpture, begging for hands to run over it and feel its curves and textures.

  My mouth felt dry. I kissed her lightly and she smiled.

  The door opened again. Two charter captains I knew came in with their mates, three women and two other guys I didn’t know. One of them, a guy with a deep tan and a shifty, uncertain look to him, started yelling that drinks for the house were on him. They all pushed past us to the bar, cheering and talking all at the same time.

  I smiled at Nancy. “Have a seat.”

  She looked around the room and then arched a perfect eyebrow at me. “If you’re sure I’m not interrupting anything—”

  “But you are,” I said. “And just in time, too.”

  I settled Nancy in my booth and went to get her a drink. I came back with her spritzer and slid into the booth across from her. That meant I had to sit with my back to the door.

  No man who grew up in America dreaming about cowboys is comfortable sitting with his back to the door. That’s how Wild Bill Hickok was killed, and we’re all half-convinced some cowardly desperado will slink in the door and blaze away at your back. It happens all the time—look at Jesse James.

  Most of that uneasiness faded when Nancy locked her eyes onto mine. “Billy,” she said. “I’m sorry I’ve been so—” she fluttered a hand. It was strong, sleek, and smooth, the nails short and clean. “I guess off-and-on is the phrase. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” I took her hand.

  I held Nancy’s hand and she didn’t pull it away and we hadn’t started our evening’s fight yet. Who knows what might have happened next.

  “Hey,” she said softly in a voice I hadn’t heard for a while. The rum and honey sound of it sent goose bumps up my arms.

  I squeezed her hand. “Hey yourself.”

  “I haven’t seen that smile for a while.”

  I thought of a lot of things I could say to that—that it hadn’t been around, that she hadn’t been looking for it. But I settled for, “It’s been here. It’s always here for you.”

  She pulled her hand away and I wondered what I’d done wrong this time. She looked up over my shoulder and a voice boomed out behind me.

  “Well,” said the voice, “do I smell bacon?”

  I could only think, at least it wasn’t something I said. “Hello, Tiny.”

  “Hello, Bacon,” he said in his annoying voice. “Bacon” as in ex-cop, burned-out pig. He thought that was pretty funny. Tiny had a surprisingly high-pitched voice with a thick Pittsburgh accent that always seemed to pour sarcasm out of his twisted mouth. It kept him talking from the left side. His hairline just missed merging with his eyebrows and his small blue eyes always seemed filled with stupid suspicion. He reminded me of a hornless pink rhinoceros.

  He had been sniping at me for a while, taking cheap shots whenever he got the chance, and they had started to get to me, to eat away at my careful self-control, in that slow, sullen August heat. Sooner or later I knew he would catch me when I was worn down by the heat and the dull desperation of the summer, and then I would hurt him.

  But this wasn’t the time. Not with Nancy here in front of me, smiling and not looking for a fight for the first time in months.

  I turned back to Nancy, but I could tell by her expression that Tiny hadn’t moved.

  I looked. He still stood there, staring down at me with stupid delight.


  “Bar’s over there, Tiny.”

  He curled his lip an extra inch higher. Maybe he thought it made him look like Elvis. It didn’t. “Thanks,” he said. “I didn’t know that.”

  I nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Billy—” Nancy said with a warning tone in her voice.

  Tiny pushed his head toward me. “What’s that s’posed to mean, Bacon?”

  “It means you couldn’t find a fish even if it was in your pants, and you can’t find anything better to do than drool on my shoulder.”

  Nancy stood up. “That’s enough, Billy. Let’s go.”

  Tiny put a hand on my shoulder and leaned down. “Blow me,” he said.

  It wasn’t much as an insult. It was about what you could expect from Tiny. But something about the combination of the stupid retort, the sharp words from Nancy, the beer, the lousy ball game, and that damned August heat made it seem a lot worse. Whatever it was, I’d had enough.

  I threw a sharp elbow into Tiny’s groin and slid out of the booth. By the time he half-straightened I was already standing. “Son of a bitch,” he said, his teeth showing. I hit him again, in the gut this time, and he folded some more.

  “God damn it, Billy,” said Nancy. “If you think—”

  I didn’t think. There wasn’t time. Tiny gave a high-pitched gurgle and charged me. His head went into my mid-section, just above the belt, and drove me backwards.

  I had about three steps back before I was going to slam into the wall. I used one of them to move sideways. Tiny kept going straight until his head smacked the wall with a dull bong. He sat down hard and just blinked a few times.

  I turned to Nancy. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you want to leave now?”

  She looked at me, shaking her head. Then she turned away and headed for the door.

  “Nancy. Wait.” I caught her just two steps short of the door. “Nancy, look—” I started.