The Storm King(115)

“No,” Owen said. “He stays here.”

Nate nodded. Like this was a hard-won concession and not another kind of trap.

Because he knew he’d just hooked Owen, and soon the man’s mind would begin to work against him. Psychology was a wonderful tool if you knew how to use it. Owen thought he’d succeeded in holding on to James, whereas in actuality all he’d done was lose Tara. Soon, his cognitive dissonance would begin to use one poor decision to reinforce another. Soon, Nate’s hook would work its way so deep that Owen would beg to be reeled in. Then they could get out of here.

“Hurry back,” Nate told Tara. He turned away from Owen and stepped toward her. “The air up here’s getting worse by the second.” Cast off, Nate mouthed to her.

“Okay,” Tara said, reading his lips. But she didn’t go. Eyes swollen with tears, she glanced back at her twin.

“Go, Teej. It’s already hard enough to breathe!” James croaked into Owen’s sleeve. I love you. Nate watched the boy’s eyes signal to Tara. I love you, and I need you to be safe.



Nate wished Lucy had lived to see these two grow up.

Tara placed the flashlight on the ground, so Nate didn’t see her face as she left. He heard her sniffle and could imagine her tears, but they were all beginning to tear and drip and choke.

“So how’s this going to work?” Owen asked. He still sounded unsure, but now he’d come too far and committed too much to afford doubt. This was a game of confidence, and he had already lost.

“First we have to get off this pier,” Nate said. “The fire boat will be here soon, and we don’t want them to find us. We can go to Johnny’s house to regroup.”

Nate had moved closer to the doorway during Tara’s exit. The baseball bat was in the hallway, hidden from Owen’s sight, but all Nate had to do was stoop to reach it.

“And then?” Owen was desperate to believe Nate. The Storm King always had a plan.

Then it all fell apart.

“And then you turn yourself in.” Tom’s voice came from over Nate’s shoulder. “It’s over, Owen.”

“Tommy!” Owen sounded perplexed, but also somehow delighted. “Just like the old days! Too bad Johnny’s on the disabled list. He always hated being left out.”

“Pete Corso’s with the police, O,” Tom said.

Nate watched most of the doors to the future slam shut.

“The police?” Owen said, still not quite getting it. “You’re police, Tommy, but you’re my friend, too, aren’t you?”

Owen was indeed doomed no matter what, but there was no advantage in him knowing it. Quite the opposite. Even a harmless animal would attack when cornered, and Owen was as far from harmless as Nate could imagine. Tom had ruined everything.

Nate had to come up with another way out.

“Did you hear me?” Tom asked. He had his gun out of its holster. It wasn’t pointed at Owen, not yet. “The kid you’ve kept tied up since last night is with the cops. Officers are at your house. They’re in your basement. They’re with your mother. Do you understand?”



The last strands of the spell Nate had been weaving collapsed around them.

“You lied?” Owen blinked at Nate with the stupefied look of a child who’d just pulled Santa’s beard to find their father’s face underneath. “You were never going to help me.”

“It’s finished, Owen,” Tom said. “There’s no reason for this. Let the kid—” He cut himself off with a stutter of staccato coughs. Nate had covered his nose with his sleeve, but his head still rang from the fumes. They had to get out of here.

“No.” Owen shook his head, the peak of his hood shifting from side to side. “We can still get out of this. We always get out of it.” Heard often enough, even the most audacious lie sounded like the truth.

James’s face darkened as he wheezed in the acrid air and Owen tightened his grip.

“Don’t make it worse than it already is,” Tom said.

Owen had the boy’s slim neck in his titanic grasp. Tom had a gun. The Night Ship was burning. The room was filling with smoke. Nate had no weapon or leverage. They careened toward something terrible, and he was somehow only a passenger.

“We can still figure this out,” Owen said. “What’s another lie or two?” A quake of collapsing infrastructure shuddered across the pier. “Did Nate tell you how I covered for you, Tommy? Did he tell you how I saved you that night you pushed Lucy into the water?”

“I’ve got an idea,” Nate said.

Owen laughed, or it began as a laugh. After a second it turned into a hacking cough, though he didn’t loosen his grip on James, who was now lank in his arms.

“Hear me out,” Nate said. “But first, we’ve got to go downstairs. That’ll buy us a couple minutes before we die of smoke inhalation.” The commands of the Storm King no longer held sway as they once did, but his logic was indisputable. If they stayed up here, they would die, and soon.

Nate walked from the room without waiting for a response. The key was to exit quickly and leave Owen too stunned to do anything but follow.



Once in the hall, he sprinted for the stairs. Flames still hadn’t reached the threshold of the nightclub, but the air up here in the Century Room was poison. Nate’s balance faltered and his vision narrowed as he took the spiral steps. He had to rely on his arms clutching the banister as he half-ran, half-fell down the gyre.