Chapter 43

Vithu’s dream had come true—for him. Samay watched Vithu’s Lexus approach in the darkening twilight, chrome and black metal gleaming. Vithu lived away from the tenements now, and his drug business paid for a luxury apartment and a fleet of new cars. The gang had become his personal servants, muling coke and heroin. And Pon?

Pon was nowhere to be found, and rumor was Vithu had put an end to him so he could become the new leader of the Asian Boyz. Vithu himself hinted that Pon shared the same grave as William O’Neil.

The Lexus’ headlights lit the road between them, and Samay felt like the blinding beam blazed in inquisition whenever he stood before it. Vithu stepped onto the road, retrieved a duffle bag from the trunk, and slowly came forward. The diamonds in his gold pinky rings glittered, and the thick chain on his neck shifted with each step.

“Samay,” he said, smiling. “Bring this to your brothers, Samay. Tell them to work through the night—cut the product and deliver it. And tell them to be grateful, Vithu’s the one looking out for them now.”

Samay bowed his head and slung the heavy bag over his shoulder. Vithu had won; to fight against him was pointless because he was everywhere, all-seeing, all-knowing. The Asian Boyz were slaves to Vithu now, until the day they were caught and imprisoned—or killed.

He watched Vithu head back to his car and turn the ignition key. The motor turned but did not catch. Odd—the lights were bright and the starter whirred insistently.

Samay adjusted the strap that bit into his neck and turned to the courtyard, trudging through cloying mud, past a high stand of still weeds, The growth rustled behind him, the straining straps relaxed, and the bag fell away.

Samay turned. Pon held the bag with one hand and sliced a knife through its side. White powder spilled out and drifted across the weeds like a cloud.

“Go home, Samay,” Pon said and headed toward the car. “Tell the others to sleep. Tell them peace has come.”

****

A week after Channary left, Conley and Stefanos answered a call to the bank of the Saugus River. Spring rain had thickened ragweed and cattails. Dark ruby eyes stared through the brush. A pink pair joined them. The rats blinked, almost in sequence, and waited.

Flies and maggots didn’t. They crawled over Vithu’s dead flesh and made it seem a living thing.

Conley stood over the corpse as cops strung crime scene tape around them. The body lay on its back, face staring at the sky, arms spread, legs straight, as if crucified on the cloying gray mud. The face was intact. The hole in his chest must have been an easier meal.

The right hand held a gun—Lloyd’s undeserved fate—a new SIG Sauer gleaming with moisture. The left held a knife—just as wet, reflecting a single point of light, a kiss from the setting sun.

A gift.

From who? Did it matter? After so much bad luck and heartache, why question an unexpected bit of good fortune for Ocean Park?

He studied the corpse for a long time. A warm breeze teased the tall grass and rippled the river.

Conley signaled a patrolman and dispatched him to notify the Aunties. One of them needed to identify the body, but not here, not now. He left Vithu and combed the area. Rusted junk, the same color as the earth, seemed to be melting and bleeding into the ground. Plastic grocery bags, wrinkled and bunched, caught on high weeds, a stiff breeze filling them like wind socks.

Conley worked his way to the water, leaving wooden stakes as markers for the crime scene techs. He plunged a stick into the soil near a footprint that looked fresh, also marked a piece of newspaper that hadn’t yellowed yet. A campfire had burned in a clearing. Charred, ribbed bits of wood were all that remained.

A brown drop line ran a serpentine course across the sand. Rowboats lay tilted on the beach, dull gray oarlocks thrust upward from their gunwales.

He spun an oarlock and remembered the sound and feel of the straining oar when he and Lloyd rowed together so long ago. The delicious pull that brought movement, the rush of sliding across the glassy harbor, the small sounds of the oar blade in the still harbor, stirring, swirling, dripping, waking the water. These were working boats too, seats worn from tackle boxes, sun, rain, writhing eels, struggling fish. Knife marks decorated the wood, scars from honest work.

Dark puddles sat in their holds. A plastic milk jug, handle intact, its top cut open to make a bailer, floated on the puddle, tacking back and forth under a pleasant gust, passing over a treasure glittering in the dark water.

Conley knelt and reached toward the sparkle. The water was greasy and cold, thick and heavy. He felt a small chain with smooth plates attached, and lifted it out of the water. Sage’s words regarding the relationship between her parents, and between herself and William, came to him.

See without sight.

He closed his fist, felt the small, freezing beads numb his fingers, and squeezed the plates so hard the edges dug into his palm. He ran fingertips over engraved letters.

Speak without words.

He sank back in the fetid mud, opened his hand, and let the last rays of a brilliant sunset shine on the dog tags.

William O’Neil’s name was cut into the hard metal in stark letters—deep, straight, and bold.