And now I was about to stop someone. Kurt Jessup's wife would never hold her husband's hand and feel him squeeze back. His mother was going to be forced to attend the funeral of her child. I was going to do this. I was going to make this happen. I knew that he deserved it, but what I wasn't so sure about was whether his mother did or his wife or his best friend, whoever that may be. Did he have a sister? Did it matter?
I pushed against the wall in the little room and felt it give. I walked down the long hall to the elevator and pushed the button. I held my gun in my right hand. I checked to make sure my extra clip was in my back pocket. My stomach churned. The elevator doors dinged open. This was it. I stepped inside, the doors closed behind me, and I began to rise.
I raised the gun at the doors that would open into the mayor's study. The elevator stopped. I heard the bookcases on the other side of the door open, and then the silver doors in front of me parted. The mayor was at his desk, his eyes were open, his mouth slack. I stepped into the room. He didn't move. I fired.
The first bullet hit his shoulder with a silent, sickening tear. His body twisted with the force, but he did not make a sound. I squeezed again, and this one thunked into a pile of papers on his desk, spitting out shreds into the air. The third shot struck him in the neck. A round, red wound slowly poured blood onto his chest. His eyes looked the same as a freshly caught fish--clear and dead.
I took a step into the room. It was very quiet. I looked at him and saw that there was blood on his left temple. He'd already been shot. The fucker was dead, but I wasn't the one that killed him. Shit.
I turned back to the elevator as it began to close. Sticking my foot out, I made it open. I heard voices on the other side of the mayor's door. I pushed myself up against the side of the elevator, letting it block me from view. The door burst open, I heard yelling, and then someone was firing bullets into the elevator as it closed.
Three bullets smashed into the back wall, leaving deep dimples in the metal. The doors closed, and the lift descended. Racing down the hall toward the small anteroom, I was breathing hard and thinking clearly. I jumped on the couch and climbed into the room above. The sign the mayor had used to mash my face lay on its side waiting to be put to use. I ran it under the couch. It stretched across the platform, and I hoped it would prevent it from lowering.
I barreled through the door of the treasure room. Blue was waiting for me, standing next to the hole in the floor that led to my escape. But there was no boat. I stopped breathing, and the room swam around me. There was no boat. Mulberry, that bastard, had taken all the treasure and all the boats and left.
I heard a loud banging, clicking, and then whirling sound coming from way too close. They were coming for me. They would catch me. They would kill me.
Blue whined and shifted on his paws nervously next to the hole. "Fuck," I said out loud. I walked over to him and rested my hand on his head. Glancing into the hole I saw my boat, floating on liquid black. In the boat sat three sacks and one oar.
I lowered myself into the hole. Loud banging came from down the hall. My feet hit the boat. It wobbled until I crouched into it. I motioned for Blue to join me, but he just stood at the edge, looking down at me, whining.
"Get in here," I hissed at him. He didn't move, so I grabbed his front paws and dragged him down. He fell, all legs, into the boat. I fought with the knot holding us to the building. The lights went out. For a moment all sound stopped. The power was gone. I fumbled in the darkness, trying to free us from Eighty-Eight East End Avenue. The building's generator whirled, and the bulb above my head flickered back to life. The knot gave, and the current took us. We headed into an impossible blackness. I stayed low, holding onto Blue, trusting that Mulberry was right. That this would end with the river.
We spent an immeasurable amount of time in that damp darkness. Blue whined softly. I listened to the gentle splashing of water against the hull. When I thought that we would drift in the depths of the city's drainage system forever, I saw a glow. We moved toward it quickly, and in a rush the sky was above us, Queens was to our right, Manhattan to our left. The East River was carrying us through the city, shrouded in darkness. Sirens screamed, and I heard the distant sounds of people yelling and horns honking--the excitement and mayhem of a blackout.
The wind blew steadily, and the waves carried us up and down. Water splashed against the boat, spraying over its sides, coating us in a fine, briny mist. The moon reflected against the black water, and we were gone. Into the night. Into the future.
Sydney Rye
The sun flirted with the horizon, reflecting off the clear blue Sea of Cortez. I dug my feet into the sand past the warmed top layer down into the moist, heavy stuff. A plate of oysters and an unmarked bottle of tequila sat on the table next to me. Blue slept under the table, his nose and tail sticking out of either end
"How've you been?" asked a voice behind me. Blue lifted his head to turn and look. I kept watching the sea. I knew the voice, and I knew there was nothing to hurry about. The sun was getting ready to make a plunge, and I didn't want to miss it.
"Have a seat," I motioned to a chair. Mulberry sat. His weight pushed the plastic legs deep into the sand. "You've gained weight." He laughed, his round belly shaking softly.
"I know. I know." We sat for a while, in silence, watching the sun splash the clouds with gold and pink and purple. The ocean changed too. The sky's personal mirror reflected the sun's work, distorting it only slightly to make it more dramatic. The dark blue crept up behind us and started over our heads, invading the sky, forcing the sun to retreat. I turned to my oysters, splashed one with tequila and sucked it into my mouth.
"You want one?" I asked Mulberry, looking him in the eyes. He looked happy, I thought.
"You look like shit. Something haunting you?" Mulberry asked. I soaked another oyster and slid it down my throat before answering him.
"No."
He laughed again. It was filled with ease and comfort.
"You're right where I left you, wasting away down here." I didn't answer him. "What's your plan--sit on this beach for the rest of your life, eat oysters from a dirty fucking shack?" He waved at the shack behind us where I'd bought my oysters from a slow-moving man named Ramone. I still didn't answer him. I had nothing to say. He sat back in his chair. "I want you to come work for me. I've got a business I set up with some people. I could use you."
"I'm happily unemployed." I skipped the oyster this time, going straight for tequila.
Mulberry was smiling. I spent every day nauseous and afraid and every night sweating and hoping it would just stop. and Mulberry was smiling at me.
"You're down here making yourself miserable for no reason." He picked up one of my oysters, and splashed some tequila on it.
"I'm fine."
"The only problem is your name."
I turned back to the sea. Thanks to Jacqueline Saperstein, Mayor Kurt Jessup was exposed for the killer he was. Jackie took my letter and ran with it. She kept pushing until the city was forced to acknowledge the truth. Jackie called me a hero. Others called me a cold-blooded killer. The police call me wanted. I considered myself a failure.
I hadn't told anyone that Kurt was dead when I got there. And no one mentioned that there was more than one type of bullet imbedded in the corpse. Recently promoted Detective Declan Doyle named me the killer, and only I was the wiser. Declan did tell me that Kurt would reap what he sowed. Karma is what he'd called it. Murder is what most people would.
I guessed my Karma would come around someday soon. It turned out the mayor was right about one thing: He owed people, and they came a calling. I was still testing his theory about treasure making you free.
Mulberry laughed. "Don't tell me it's guilt about James." The name stabbed me in the gut, and Mulberry saw it. "Jesus, you think that's what he wants? You think he wants his only sister down here moping away into the sunset because a psycho killed him?"
"He would have never died if it hadn
't been for me." Mulberry laughed and threw his hands in the air.
"Of course he would have died. Everyone dies."
"I mean not so soon."
"Not so soon. Who cares when it happened? It happened. He's dead, and guess what? You're not. No matter how much you try and make out like you are, you're not. So what do you say? Join me?" He was smiling at me, all confidence. I turned back to the sun. It sat on the horizon, wavering between sky and sea, glowing gold and gorgeous.
"I'm a fugitive," I said.
Mulberry pulled out a passport, as dark blue as the sky creeping up on us, and threw it onto the table.
"What's that?"
"Open it." Inside was a picture of me, the new me with the scars, next to the name Sydney Rye. I looked at Mulberry. He was smiling. "Sydney, you've got talent."
"Talent?" I hissed. "I got my brother killed, myself exiled--what are you talking about, talent?" I spit the word at him. He just smiled, so relaxed and unwound.
"Join me."
"I can't." I put the passport down and stared back out at the darkening sky. Mulberry sighed.
"However you want it." He pushed on the table to help himself stand. It wobbled under his weight. He stood over me. "You're never going to be happy here. You're never going to be happy again until you get off your ass and do something right." I looked up. His eyes were locked onto mine, and I recognized him as the man I'd plotted with in New York. "Dammit, Joy." He slammed his fist down on the table, knocking over the bottle of tequila and making the oysters quiver in their shells.
"What do you want from me?" I yelled back at him.
"I want you to work for me. I want you to get off your ass and do what's right. I want you to be Sydney Rye."
"I don't think I can." I felt my face grow hot and tears well in my eyes. Mulberry grabbed the collar of my shirt and hauled me out of my seat. Blue stood up from under the table and growled.
"Don't give me that bullshit." I pulled at his hand, but although his belly had softened, his arms were still made of boulders. "You know what you are. There's nothing else you can be. Do you get that? You don't have a choice. You're stuck, as stuck as me." I looked up at him and realized he was right. "You're a detective, God help you. You're Sydney Rye, private investigator now, and you better stop crying and start thanking me for saving your sorry ass." He dropped me back into my chair, turned, and started to walk up the beach. I sat for a moment, regaining my breath. He was right, I thought. I wasn't Joy anymore. I hadn't been for a long time. Somewhere between the beginning of this story and the end, without even trying or knowing or wanting to, I became Sydney mother-fucking Rye.
The last glint of the sun dropped into the sea leaving the sky streaked with violet, soft-pink, and pale baby blue. I looked at Mulberry's retreating figure and yelled, "Wait!" Mulberry didn't turn. "Wait!" I hauled my sorry ass out of that chair and ran down the beach after him, Blue on my heel.
* * *
Start Reading DEATH IN THE DARK (A Sydney Rye novella, #2) Now…
"Wait!" My voice strained against the wind blowing off the Sea of Cortez. I pushed through the sand, running after him. My dog, Blue, stayed by my side, his gait lopsided. Mulberry was a slow-moving figure several yards ahead of me. Solid looking in the hazy light of dusk, he took his time crossing the sand.
He didn't turn until I grabbed his arm. "Wait," I panted. "You're right. I need your help."
Mulberry grinned, pushing his crow's feet into sharp relief as his yellow-green eyes brightened. "I know," he laughed. "You're such a fucking mess."
Mulberry wrapped me in a hug with one strong arm around my waist and the other across my shoulders. He buried his head in my hair and pulled my face into his chest. At first, in that dark intimacy, I felt like I was suffocating. Almost immediately, though, I felt relief wash over me. I was not totally alone in this world; my only companion a limping mutt.
Blue yelped, excited by our embrace, and circled us, churning up the sand. Mulberry smelled like clean laundry, sea salt, and carried an unmistakable odor that was all him. Pulling away, he left his hands on my shoulders and looked down into my face. While Mulberry was only a little taller than me, it seemed like he was so much bigger, so much stronger and smarter, and under control. I felt like a blurry image next to his stark silhouette.
"Come on, I'll buy you dinner." He threw his arm around me and we walked back toward the Oyster Farm. I'd been living there for months, ever since we'd crossed into Mexico. I'd come for the oysters and had stayed for the isolation.
"So, where've you been?" I asked. "It's been what? Four months?" After turning our treasure into money, which made us both rich, Mulberry left, and I stayed at my Oyster Farm, despite his begging for me to come with him. "You went to Paris, right?" I asked.
The sun was beneath the sea now, and the deep blue of the sky was turning black at the edge. "Yeah, Paris, then London. Like I said, I've been setting up a business."
Back at my plastic table, a couple of oysters sat in their half-shells, waiting to be eaten. I righted the fallen bottle of tequila, but did not take a sip. The passport was there, too; dark blue and embossed with the American seal, it sat waiting for me to pick it up and become a new woman: Sydney Rye.
"Go on, take it," Mulberry said. "You might get carded at the bar." He laughed at his own joke, and I smiled.
"Yeah, right. That will be the day."
But I didn't pick up the passport. It suddenly felt like a betrayal to take on a new identity. I was, and should always be, the-fuck-up Joy Humbolt. Didn't I deserve the sentence I'd meted out to myself? Could a new name--a new life--change the darkness that lived inside me? It was the same darkness that haunted my every movement, and drove me to the brink of despair.
I laughed out loud.
"What?" Mulberry asked.
"I just don't know when I got so damn morose." I swiped at a tear that was suddenly moving down my cheek.
"You don't have to be, Joy." We waited in silence, listening to the gentle waves lapping at the hard-packed beach. A bird called out its final goodnight, stars popped out in the sky above us.
I reached out and toyed with the edge of the passport, peeking under its cover to look at the photo again. There she was, Sydney Rye: 5'6", blonde hair, scarred face, steel gray eyes. It would be my first passport. I'd never left the country before coming here. Well, fleeing here. Mulberry waited patiently for me to put the thing in my pocket, to accept that it was my only way out; I was no longer Joy Humbolt. She was a mess. Sydney Rye was a detective. I pushed it into the back pocket of my torn jeans, and turned to Mulberry.
"I'm ready."
At the bar, we were greeted by the owner, Andre. He was excited to see us again. "It's been too long," he called when we stepped under the awning. Andre, an Italian expat, hurried through the packed tables, his white linen shirt glowing under the soft lights strung above the patio. He shook Mulberry's hand with gusto. Andre's jet black hair, gelled into place, lay undisturbed by his large gestures. Spotting Blue, Andre reached over and scratched his ears vigorously. Blue accepted the petting gladly, and his eyelids drifted closed in pleasure.
Andre yelled at a waiter to clear a table near the front of the patio. "Margarita?" he asked me. "You must try my newest creation. And shall I bring you some food? Let me choose. I know what you love." Turning to Blue, he asked, "Have you had dinner yet?"
"He would love some dinner," I said. "And I'll take whatever you think is best." Mulberry nodded in agreement, and Andre hurried back across the patio into the small building where the kitchen pumped out steam, delicious smells, and trays full of food.
Blue settled himself under the table. A giant of a dog, his nose stuck out one end, while his tail stretched out the other. Blue had one blue eye and one brown, the markings of a wolf, the snout of a Collie, and the height of a Great Dane. All these traits added up to a strang looking creature... at least that's how I see him. Other people--some might call them "sane" people--are afraid of him. Blue's
overly protective nature and sharp teeth, which he shows off at even the hint of danger, don't tend to put people at ease.
Settled at our familiar table with Margaritas, chips, salsa, and several varieties of tacos on the way, Mulberry explained the plan. I was going to get some training down here in Mexico. "I know a great guy. He specializes in dogs. I met him at a conference about two months ago. I think you'll like him."
"Dog training?" I asked.
"Well, you guys are a team, right?" Mulberry looked at me over the top of his drink while he sipped off the dangerous top centimeters.
"Yeah, right, of course." I'd never thought of us as a "team" but Blue had saved my life. The bullet that shattered his shoulder was headed for me when he jumped in front of it. And I did pull him out of that pound in Brooklyn, so I guess we'd saved each other's lives once. Why not keep at it?
"After you've got a couple of months of physical training, I'm going to send you to work with an old friend of mine who is taking care of our interests in London. You'll love her. She's in her 50's now. Smart as a whip and totally brilliant."
"Sounds great." But really, I could not picture myself going through months of physical training, and then heading across the pond to work with some woman. It all sounded so unreal. But what was my life if not unreal? For most of the year, I'd lived in a haze of anger, sorrow, and regret. Maybe I could use a little fantasy.
"Remember the first time we came here?" Mulberry asked as our tacos landed.
"Sure. I think we had these shrimps then." I pointed to a plate of giant grilled tiger prawns Andre had sent over as a gift. I picked one up, expertly peeled it, and took a bite. I closed my eyes, and, for a moment, just appreciated the sweet shrimp, with its salty finish and perfect texture.
"It seems like a long time ago, doesn't it?" Mulberry said.
"Was it our first night in town?"
"No, it was our second, remember?" I thought for a moment, reaching back into my mind.
It was pouring rain, and my headlights barely cut the darkness when I rolled across the border between Arizona and Mexico. No one ventured out of the warmly lit hut serving as border control to check my I.D. They waved from the window at my RV to just keep driving. So I did. My relief was so intense that once the lights were no longer visible in my rearview mirror, I had to pull over. I climbed out into the storm, held my arms out to the side, and cried out into the void, "I made it!"