Phillip Margolin: Supreme Justice

© 2010

John Finley’s eyes snapped open. His heart was beating rapidly. Something had jerked him out of a deep sleep, but he didn’t know if it was a dream sound or a real one.

Captain Finley sat up. The China Sea was moored at an isolated dock on the Columbia River in Shelby, Oregon, roughly halfway between Portland and the coast. No machinery was running, so every night sound was audible. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he slid his hand under his pillow and gripped his.38. He was never without a weapon on a trip like this, especially with the cargo they were carrying and a crew he didn’t trust completely. The ship swayed gently against the pilings of the dock. Finley’s breathing eased. He’d just convinced himself that he’d been dreaming when a groan slipped through the stateroom speaking tube.

The China Sea was an old supply vessel, originally built to take crews to and from oil rigs. She had been extensively refitted for her midocean rendezvous with the freighter from Karachi. There were intercoms throughout, but Finley had kept the old-fashioned speaking tubes on a whim. There was one on the bridge above his stateroom and one in the engine room.

The seven-man crew had acted professionally during the mission, but everyone had been hired by Belson, the man who had hired Finley. He didn’t know Belson. He wasn’t even certain that Belson was the man’s real name. “Orrin Hadley,” the name that appeared on Finley’s passport and other identification, sure wasn’t his.

Finley crossed the room quietly and pressed his ear to the door. A minute later, he unlocked it and eased it open. Bulbs trapped in wire cages lit the companionway outside his room. Shadows daubed the metal walls between each cage. The floor was carpeted, and the doors to the crew’s staterooms were dark wood like Finley’s. The trip was long, and he’d made sure that each stateroom was as comfortable as the cabins on a cruise ship.

Greg Nordland had the stateroom across from Finley. He was a professional painter who had touched up the scars left on the hull after docking at sea with the Pakistanis. Nordland’s door was slightly ajar. Finley rapped on it gently. When there was no response, he nudged it open. There was no light in the cabin and it took a moment for the scene inside to register. Nordland’s right arm hung off the bed, his knuckles and the back of his fingers touching the floor. The blood pooling on his sheets had seeped out of a deep knife wound in his throat.

Finley was no stranger to death, but the unexpected tableau still shocked him. He backed out of the room and was startled by an explosion that echoed off the walls in the narrow corridor. Then he crumpled to the floor, knocked down by the bullet that had been fired from the other end of the companionway. Steve Talbot walked toward him, adjusting his aim for the kill shot. The radioman’s concentration on his projected point of impact saved Finley’s life. Talbot was so intent on getting his next shot right that he didn’t notice that Finley was armed. Finley squeezed off six shots. The sudden noise and the bullets that tore through him caused Talbot’s shot to go wide, and he was dead by the time he hit the carpet.

Talbot’s bullet had seared the captain’s side. It hurt like hell but no other damage had been done. Finley gritted his teeth and struggled to his feet. His side burned, and he stumbled when he started down the corridor. There was another stateroom between him and the dead man. He knew what he’d find when he pushed the door inward. If the thunderous explosions of the past minute hadn’t brought Ned Stuyvesant out of his room, Talbot had probably slit his throat. Finley took no satisfaction in being right.

It was four A.M. and Talbot was supposed to be on deck on guard duty. It made sense. The radioman had waited until everyone else was asleep before slaughtering the crew. Finley’s habit of locking his door had probably saved his life. Talbot had been forced to use a knife, because the captain would have heard a gunshot in any of the staterooms. Finley guessed that something had gone wrong with Talbot’s plan when he went after the crewman who was in the engine room. When Talbot had been forced to use his gun, the ancient speaking tube had funneled the sound of the shot into the captain’s stateroom.

Finley squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply to deal with a spasm of pain. Then he straightened as best he could and finished his journey down the hall to make sure that Talbot was dead. When he was certain that the radioman no longer posed a threat, he leaned against the wall and tried to think. Talbot had killed the crew and tried to kill him, but there was no way Talbot could move the cargo by himself, which meant that he was not acting alone.

Adrenaline coursed through Finley. He had to get off the ship now. He staggered back to his stateroom and reloaded his gun. Then he grabbed the duffel bag with the money and his fake passports and ID and threw in as much clothing as he could.

Finley felt light-headed but he forced himself to bury the pain and get to the deck. A cloud-covered sky obscured the moon. In his navy blue pea jacket and watch cap he wouldn’t be easy to spot. It was cold outside. Finley turned up his collar for protection from the wind that blew off the river. Then he slid onto the deck on his stomach and scanned the shore. They were docked opposite a warehouse, and he’d parked his car next to it when they went to sea. To get to the car, he would have to go down the gangplank and cross a wide, open strip of asphalt. Anyone waiting for him would have a clear shot, but what choice did he have? If he stayed on board, the men who were working with Talbot would kill him for sure.

Finley sucked in a breath and staggered off the ship. Every step was agony, but he made it to his car without being shot or fainting. The captain’s head was swimming. He thought he might throw up. When a wave of nausea passed, he started the car. Finley could think of only one place to go as he pulled onto the highway. He was so afraid of passing out that he riveted his attention on the road ahead. That’s why he didn’t see the headlights in his rearview mirror.

Tom Oswald got out of the police car just as a gust of raw wind whipped off the river. He ducked his head and bulled his 210 pounds through it toward the warehouse with his partner, Jerry Swanson, close behind. Below the warehouse, the current pushed the China Sea into and away from the dock.

The two Shelby cops found Dave Fletcher, the night watchman, inside the warehouse. He was wearing a rent-a-cop uniform and clutching a mug of hot coffee.

“You’re Mike Kessler’s uncle, right?” Oswald asked to put the jittery witness at ease.

“Bob’s my brother.”

“Me and Mike played ball together at Shelby High.”

“I seen you,” Fletcher said, but he didn’t seem any more at ease. There was a tic near his right eye, and the broken capillaries in his nose told Oswald that Fletcher was a man who likely gave frequent testimonials at AA meetings.

“So, why are we out here, Dave?” Swanson asked. They’d been thirty-five minutes from the end of their shift when dispatch had sent them to the warehouse.