Kirk Russell - Shell Games

“You were hard to find,” he said, and leaned over her. She tried to smile and he touched her face. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”

“I’m really tired, John,” she said, and then as he turned to go, she added, “He saved me, John. All the way along he had them fooled.”

“Marquez saved you,” Stuart cut in, but Marquez understood. He turned back and leaned to hear her last sentence, saw tears flood her eyes. “Don’t let them wreck his name,” she whispered.

Marquez caught a ride out to the Bosporus the next morning from the Marlin. Douglas was already aboard, wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt that read FBI in black letters across the back, a casualness of dress Marquez had never seen in him. Douglas’s face bore the marks of the emotional ride of the last day and they were both quiet and stood on the main deck looking at the San Francisco skyline before going below to the cold storage where the abalone was. There had to be five thousand.

“What happens to it?” Douglas asked.

“We hand it off to charities. Why don’t you take a couple home? Tenderize them, pound them, and then cut them into steaks. You’ll find out what this is all about.”

“I might take you up on that.”

He knew what Douglas had on his mind and waited for it now, heard him clear his throat and suggest they go to the walk-in where Marquez had fought with Kline. They climbed back to that level and followed the narrow passageway through the galley with Douglas talking as he walked in front.

“You finally got him, Marquez.” Douglas opened the door of the walk-in and Marquez saw the arcing blood splatter dried on the walls, the dark, almost black pool of blood at their feet. “Life or death,” Douglas said, and Marquez knew where Douglas was going. “We recovered the telelocator in case you’re wondering.”

“Keep it. I don’t want to lose another one.”

Marquez stared at the pooled blood, his blood mixed with Kline’s. He waited.

“Did you really keep the hood on until he was holding a knife on you?”

“Yes.”

“How’d you keep yourself still?”

“I knew I had to.”

“Man, that’s unreal, that’s just unreal.” He could hear the edge in Douglas’s voice, Douglas working him. “How’s it making you feel looking at this now?”

Marquez looked at the blood and thought of his friends in Mexico and silently told them it was done. He knew where Douglas was going and shrugged, not giving away much yet.

Douglas asked, “So you struggled with him and you managed to get control of his knife?”

“We wrestled.”

“Rolled around on the floor?”

“Something like that.”

“Was he losing strength from blood loss?”

“He was going to,” and they looked at each other. “He might have even bled out.”

“They’re telling me the neck wounds weren’t fatal. They were bad but not fatal.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s what they’re saying. The other one was definitely fatal. You wrestled and what happened? You get on top of him and all of a sudden you’ve got the knife in your hand?”

Marquez pointed at the floor where the struggle had left long streaks of blood, smeared by a knee, a shoe, an elbow. There were stainless shelves on either side with frozen food products sitting on them, bloody handprints on those where he’d stood as he got up off Kline’s body.

“Yeah, I was able to pin him down.”

“Was he still struggling?” Marquez looked at him and nodded. “But you had the upper hand by then. You must have seen how he was bleeding.”

“Sure.”

“And what were you thinking, or do you remember? Did you realize those wounds weren’t fatal?”

“He made one more attempt, tried for my eyes.”

“So you made sure.”

Marquez stood silent with emotion sweeping through him, all the inner promises he’d made to the dead, all the years wondering and knowing Kline was out there still. Yeah, he’d driven the blade through Kline’s heart and he’d known what he was doing, which was the question Douglas was asking. He’d pushed down until he felt the tip of the blade slide off a rib and snap on the metal floor. He’d crossed Davies’s abyss.

“You’re asking if I had a choice,” Marquez said. The Feds had anticipated capturing Kline. Douglas had counted on questioning him.

“Maybe I am, but I don’t want an answer. Or maybe you don’t remember. Basically, you were defending yourself, trying to save your life.” Douglas paused. “You’re going to get asked a lot of questions this afternoon, but I can understand the actual moment being a little hazy. They say the knife went in and then was pushed through with great force and the tip snapped on the floor decking after it exited his body. The ribcage was compressed enough by force to allow the knife to go all the way through him. You sliced a rib almost in half and buried the knife hilt in his chest, but then you’re a big man. Still, you’re going to get questioned about it.” Marquez felt Douglas’s hand on his back. “Let’s go back up top.”

“You go up; I’ll be there in a minute.”

Marquez stepped out of the walk-in and shut its door. He laid a palm on the cold metal door and knew he’d had a choice. He’d held the knife over Kline and brought it down into his chest with all his strength. Douglas was letting him know not to say or remember much about the fight, but that didn’t feel right either. Marquez lifted his hand away, walked out the passageway and climbed the stairs into the sunlight. He stood at the rail looking out across at the City again, at the mare’s tails of cirrus fanning from the west, thinking about Kline, just the things he knew Kline had done, the people he’d killed. He didn’t hear Douglas walk over, but then felt a hand on his back.

“You answer some questions this afternoon and then it’s over, Marquez.”

“It all happened fast, but I had a choice.”

“No, you didn’t, and fuck him.” Douglas pointed at the Marlin, Hansen clearly visible at the wheel on the top deck. “There’s your ride. When they ask, you say you were rolling around fighting on the floor. Kline had the knife, then you had it and you don’t even know what happened. You were fighting for your life. Or say noth-ing.” Marquez didn’t answer that, wasn’t sure what he’d do yet, and Douglas moved the conversation on. “Where do you go now?”

“A bear poaching deal.” The answer sounded hollow and out of place.

“Never ends, does it?”

“Not really.”

Douglas offered his hand and Marquez shook it. “We owe you, Marquez. You take care of yourself.”

“You, too.”

He rode across the bay without looking back. He knew he wouldn’t be able to lie about killing Kline and decided he’d say nothing. If they wanted to take it further, that was their call. The boat dropped him and he spent the afternoon with the FBI and their many questions about Kline, about whether Marquez had a personal score to settle. They read his silence as an admission and they brought Douglas into the room and walked through the sequence of questions again, let him know they’d put a lot of resources into finding Kline and had expectations about unraveling his network, following the tentacles back to the cartel and the murders of three American judges. Cases that had gone back years in addition to the new killing here in San Francisco.

He watched the nostrils of the man across from him flare as he insinuated that Marquez had murdered a suspect. They walked him through the sequence again, coming up to the point of holding the knife, to the point where if he’d seconded the empathetic voices in the room who suggested he was fighting to defend himself, he could have walked out easily. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that and when they let him leave at dusk, he knew he’d left them to an internal debate.