The Water Keeper(2)

I stuffed a portion of his shirt in the exit hole, tucked his Sig behind my vest, and dragged him through the growing smoke and up to the main-deck lounge. While I dragged him, he eyed his worn Sig and said with a smile, “I want that back.” He coughed. “If that pistol could talk . . .”

The waves were tossing the Whaler around like a bobber. With all seven girls safely aboard, I lifted Fingers on my shoulder and timed my jump to the bow platform. We landed, rolled, and one of the girls threw off the line as I slammed the throttle forward. We had cleared a quarter of a mile when the explosion sounded. Fingers turned his head as a fireball engulfed the Gone to Market and a zillion pieces of super-luxury yacht rained down on the Atlantic just off the coast of Northeast Florida. Fingers rested in the bow, filling the front of the Whaler with a deep, frothy red and laughing with smug satisfaction. I cut the wheel toward shore, killed the engine, and beached the keel on a sandy paradise Fingers would never see.

He was having trouble breathing and couldn’t move his legs. How he’d held on that long was a mystery. Patrick “Fingers” O’Donovan had been both hard as nails and tender as baby’s breath from the day we’d met. Stoic. Wise. Afraid of nothing. Even now he was calm.

My lip trembled. Mind raced. I couldn’t put the words together.

Fingers was having trouble focusing, so I started talking to try to bring him back. “Fingers, stay awake. Stay with me . . .” When that didn’t work, I used the only word I knew would rouse him: “Father.” Fingers had been a priest before he started working for the government. And if you pressed him, he would tell you he still was.

Fingers’ eyes returned to me. He feigned a smile and spoke through gritted teeth. “Was wondering when you were gonna show up. ’Bout time you did something. Where the heck you been?” Everything about him was red.

It was never supposed to end this way.

Fingers reached for and then pointed to a worn, orange Pelican case tied to the console. He never traveled without it, which was why the box alone had logged several hundred thousand miles. Whenever I thought of Fingers, the image of that stupid orange box wasn’t far behind. And while he and I seldom talked about our work with anyone, he was—if caught in the right mood—oddly vocal about two things: food and wine. Both of which he protected with a religious zeal. Hence, the crash-rated, watertight, drop-proof box. He fondly referred to it as his “lunch box.” No one, not me, not anyone, ever got between Fingers and a meal or a glass of wine at sunset. Some people marked memorable moments in their lives with a cigar or cigarette. Fingers marked them with red wine. Years ago, he’d converted his basement into a cellar. Visitors were routinely treated with a tour and tasting. A total wine snob, he’d often hold his glass to the light, swirl it slightly, and comment, “The earth in a bottle.”

One of the girls loosed the bungee cord and brought me the box. When I opened it, Fingers laid his hand on the wine and looked at me.

He was asking me a question I didn’t want him to ask, and one I certainly did not want to answer. I shook my head. “You’re the priest, not—”

“Stop. No time.”

“But—”

His eyes bored two holes in my soul.

“I—”

He pushed out the words. “Bread first. Then wine.”

I tore off a small piece of bread and mimicked the words I’d heard him say a hundred times, “. . . the body, broken for . . . ,” then I laid the bread on Fingers’ tongue.

He pushed it around his mouth and tried to swallow, which brought a spasm of coughing. When he settled, I pulled the cork, tilted the bottle, and rolled the wine up against his lips. “The blood, shed for . . .” He blinked. My voice cracked again. “Whenever you do this, you proclaim the . . .” I trailed off.

He spoke before letting the wine enter his mouth. The smile on his lips matched that in his eyes. I would miss that smile. Maybe most of all. It spoke to the deepest places in me. Always had. The wine filled the back of his mouth and drained out the sides.

Blood with blood.

Another spasm. More coughing. I clung to Fingers as the waves rocked his body. One breath. Then two. Mustering his strength, he pointed at the water.

I hesitated.

Fingers’ eyes rolled back; he forced their return and they narrowed on me. Calling me by my name. Something he only did when he wanted my attention. “Bishop.”

I pulled Fingers over the gunnel and into the warm water. His breathing was shallower. Less frequent. More gurgle. His eyes opened and closed. Sleep was heavy. He grabbed my shirt and pulled my face close to his. “You are . . . what you are, what you’ve always been . . .”

I walked out into the gin-clear water up to my waist while Fingers’ body floated alongside. The girls huddled and said nothing, crying while a trail of red painted the water downcurrent. Fingers tapped me in the chest and used one hand to make the numbers. First he held up all five fingers, then quickly tucked three, leaving two. Meaning seven. Without pausing, he held up all five only to tuck two. Meaning eight. Then he paused briefly and continued, making a seven followed by a zero. His cryptic motions meant 78–70.

Having learned this rudimentary code from him years ago, I knew Fingers was quoting the Psalms, which he knew by heart. The numbers 78 and 70 were a reference to King David and how God “took him from the sheepfolds.” In short, Fingers was speaking about us. About the beginning of my apprenticeship. Twenty-five years prior, when I was a sophomore at the Academy, Fingers had pulled me out of class and said the strangest thing: “Tell me what you know about sheep.” We’d walked a million miles since. Over the years, Fingers had become a boss, mentor, friend, teacher, sage, comic, and sometime father figure.