Paint It Black

Louis backed up again, only a couple of the benches separating them. Heller leveled the bang stick.

Louis felt the wall against his back. His hands searched for something he could grab but there was nothing.

The tip of the stick inched toward him. He thought about kicking up, trying to knock the bang stick out of Heller’s hand, but knew he would be too slow.

His eyes flicked between the tip of the bang stick and Heller’s face, hoping he could see a sign—a flinch—something that would tell him when Heller was about to thrust the stick into him.

Heller stepped closer. His eyes jumped down to Louis’s legs.

Now!

Louis threw out his hand just as Heller lunged. The tip smashed into the wall and exploded.

The blast echoed against the metal, and Heller stumbled backward.

Louis dove to the floor. He sucked in a breath. He was alive. And not hit.

Heller was in the shadows, trying to reload the stick. Louis could hear him. “Shit . . . shit.”

Louis felt along the cold floor until he found a fishing pole. He pulled it to him, easing himself into the darkness behind the post. He curled around it, coming up behind Heller as he was trying to shove another shell into the bang stick.

Louis held the pole in the center, the huge metal reel hanging heavy on the far end. With both hands, he swung.

The reel smashed into Heller’s cheek. Heller yelped and threw his hand to his face. He dropped the bang stick and the shell bounced out.

Louis backtracked toward the open rear door. He would lock the son of a bitch in.

Outside, water rushed off the top deck, pouring over him, and he couldn’t get a good grip on the metal door. He pulled harder, inching it along with each jerk.

A knife shot out the narrow opening, ripping blindly at his arm, slicing into it. Louis jerked back, his hand over the wound, blood between his fingers.

Heller shoved the door open.

Louis staggered back. Candy—his gun. He had to get to it. He had no choice but to make a complete circle around the boat and pray Heller didn’t know what he was after.

Louis ran to his right, slipping down the walkway, away from Heller.

His arm throbbed, he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the rain. The gun . . . he needed to get around the boat to the other side.

Something hit him hard from above, crashing into his shoulders, crushing him into the deck. Heller had jumped him from the top deck.

Louis jerked up, gasping, pedaling backward, until he was pressed against the cabin wall.

Heller came at him, knife raised.

Nowhere to go. No time even to draw up his feet to push him away.

Heller thrust the knife toward his chest.

No choice! Grab it!

Louis grabbed the blade. It sliced into his palm and he let out a yell, gritting his teeth against the pain. He gripped the blade tighter, fighting to angle it away from him. Heller tried to draw it back, wrench it away, but Louis held tight, blood streaming down his arm.

Heller jerked to his right.

Louis snapped the knife to the left. It broke off in his hand and Louis tossed it over the railing.

For an instant, Heller stood there, his eyes riveted to the broken knife butt.

Now!

Louis hit him in the face. Heller fell sideways, the butt skittering across the deck.

He hit him again, and again, but Heller was unfazed, coming back at him. Heller lunged forward, smashing his fists into Louis’s face. Slammed backward, Louis could get no leverage, draw no strength. He started grappling for Heller’s throat, anything to restrain him.

Oh, Jesus. Jesus.

Heller was pummeling him with blows to the face and head. Louis rolled to his side, shielding his face, inching away, pounded now by punches to his back.

Fighting him off with his elbows and legs, Louis pulled himself up on the rail. The boat lurched and for just a moment the pounding stopped.

A spool of fishing line was at his feet. Louis grabbed it and spun, swinging it upward. The heavy wooden spool crashed into Heller’s head. Heller fell against the cabin wall, then slipped to the deck, blood pouring down his face.

Louis wiped the bloody water from his eyes.

Lights! Flashing blue lights far off in the distance.

Hold on . . . just five more minutes. Hold on!

He staggered toward the back of the boat, holding his bleeding palm. He heard Heller behind him and he knew he would never make it around to Candy. He found the open door and fell inside, struggling to close it. It shut and he stumbled toward the rear of the cabin. He heard the door slam open and looked up to see Heller standing in the opening, the broken knife in his hand.

The flashing blue lights were coming closer, swirling faintly in the cabin now. Heller swept a hand over the table and the battery-powered portable light crashed to the floor.

Louis inched backward, his eyes on Heller. Heller moved slowly forward, his bloody face intent on Louis, his chest heaving, the broken knife in his hand.

Back . . . back. There was no way out. Back . . . back. Blue lights swirling. And white now, the searchlight from the coast guard boat.

His heel hit something and he fell, catching himself against a bench as he hit the floor.

The bang stick.

He snatched it up, thrusting it out lengthwise across his chest to ward off the knife butt’s blows. He could hear Wainwright’s voice calling to him on the radio from across the room.

Heller inched forward. White light swept the room. Louis pressed back, squinting in the light, blinded each time it moved over the room. Each time he saw Heller’s bulky form above him, coming closer.

God . . . they weren’t going to make it in time!

Then he saw it. There in the beam thrown out by the portable light, he saw the shell.

He grabbed it and pulled the open tip of the bang stick to him. He tried to jam the shell inside, but his fingers were stiff with blood. His hand was shaking, his eyes darting from the shell to Heller.

Damn it! Damn it!

The shell dropped in and he swung it around, pointing it at Heller.

Heller stopped, the knife butt in the air. Louis could hear him panting.

The white lights swept over them again.

Louis got up slowly, using the wall for support, keeping the bang stick aimed at Heller’s chest.

Heller took two more steps closer, drawing deep, raspy breaths.

Jesus Christ! He wasn’t going to stop.

Louis drew in the stick as far he could. Heller finally stopped. He looked down at the end of the stick, only inches from his heart, then back at Louis.

Louis stared at him, holding the bang stick with trembling arms.

Suddenly, it was clear. He had been right. Heller wanted to die. He had been trying to kill himself all along, trying to erase himself, and now he wanted Louis to do it for him.

Heller moved, leaning into the stick.

Louis jerked the bang stick downward and it exploded into Heller’s thigh.

Heller went down with a groan, disappearing between the benches. Louis fell back against the steel wall, slumping to the floor, sucking in air. Heller lifted his head.

Stay down! Stay down, you bastard!

Heller grabbed his ankle, and Louis jerked away, bringing the bang stick down on Heller’s shoulders. He kept coming, clawing at Louis’s legs, unfazed by the pounding of the rod. Heller was on him, swinging blindly, spewing blood.

Louis twisted sharply, and Heller rolled to his side, his shoulders caught for just a second under the bench. Louis yanked him back by his collar, then brought the bang stick across the front of his throat. He pulled back with every ounce of strength he had left.

Heller started gagging, his fingers curling around the stick. Louis jerked again. Heller writhed against him.