Chapter Forty-Three
(Friday Night—Owen)
The conversation aboard the Fusty Navel reminded Owen of the family get-togethers his father had quit taking him to after his mother died when he was twelve. He remembered a sense of overcrowding, combined with an uncomfortable sort of self-restraint. Nobody felt free to do or say what he or she wanted, and nobody could leave until the ordeal was officially over.
Where was Johnny?
Owen didn’t want to socialize at all, but there were enough undercurrents running through the room that he felt obligated to try to keep the conversation away from serious topics.
Martina and Faulkner tried to help. They began a discussion of recipes for cooking fish that had Aaron fidgeting and Gordon using the opportunity to scowl at the Hermit, who stared off into space, casually petting Shadow, not deigning to take notice.
How was it, exactly, that those vaguely similar childhood ordeals had come to an end? Not that he actually wanted to throw everybody out; he was waiting for Johnny to appear. But the idea was weirdly compelling. He twice found himself opening his mouth to suggest that everybody clear out, but successfully wrestled the impulse into submission. Maybe he could go out for a short walk?
At 7:25 he heard a thumping noise outside. A cheerful Polish accent penetrated the hull of the boat. “Ahoy, the Fusty Navel! I come bearing GIF’s!”
Yeah, that was Johnny all right. Owen grinned. In this crowd Martina was probably the only other person to get the joke. If Johnny was going to make jokes about image file formats, Owen might have to translate between him and the cops.
Johnny’s voice, fainter now, continued from outside. “Though they’re actually JPG’s, if anyone cares.”
Owen stood to get the door. Martina caught his eye and wrinkled her nose, somehow making it clear she knew what he’d been thinking and fully agreed. This was not a group to reassemble for a party afterwards. Owen gave her a quick grin and firmly quashed his sudden speculations about what “afterwards” might mean.
“Hey, Johnny,” he called, sticking his head out. “Come on aboard.”
Johnny was standing on the dock. He held a jump drive up for Owen to see. “I didn’t think to ask,” he said. “Do you have a laptop or something? I have one in the car, I just didn’t think about it till you opened the door.”
Owen forced a laugh. “Nope. I got rid of all my computers a while ago.” He heard Gordon snort behind him, and knew what the Hermit would say if he got the chance. But Owen just didn’t want a computer at home, that was all. Home was for relaxing, and maybe reading a good book.
“Aw, I should’ve known from what you said the other day,” Johnny said. Owen blessed him silently. “Sorry, dude, I’ll be right back.” He tossed the jump drive to Owen, then turned and walked back toward the parking area.
Owen put it in his pocket. Over his shoulder, he told everybody inside that Johnny was getting a laptop from his car. He stepped out on deck and firmly shut the door behind him.
It was about seven-thirty, and the last flare of the sunset was beautiful. He wished he’d been out earlier to see it all. The offshore wind was picking up, and lighter boats were rocking even in the harbor.
He nodded to Don Peters, who owned the forty-foot ketch two slips away to his right, and idly watched an inept boat handler horsing one of John Sumner’s aluminum outboard-powered rentals around in gratuitously irregular circles about fifty yards out from the dock. Maybe he’d dropped something in the water? The boat was about a 19-footer. It could be the guy was used to a wheel and just couldn’t figure out the tiller. He kept having to pull the cord and restart the engine, too.
Johnny was walking back to the boat. Owen waited patiently. Whatever Johnny had to show them was probably important. So saying the hell with it and going for a walk was out. Wasn’t it?
Johnny passed a laptop case to Owen through the rail and climbed aboard. “Nice boat,” he said. “You really live here?”
“Sure do.” At least for the moment.
The guy in the little powerboat must have given up on whatever he was trying to do, because he was coming in toward the dock at high speed. Owen hoped he wouldn’t run into anything. Everybody had to learn to run a boat sometime. He just wished so many beginners wouldn’t try it at full throttle near other people’s property.
He stepped closer to Johnny and spoke quietly. “There are a couple of cops inside, and some other people who’ve been involved in all this. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, but was there anything you wanted to say privately before we go in there?”
Johnny glanced at the door. “Oh. I figured it would be just you and maybe some cops. But no, there’s nothing private, I guess, except I’m sorry I’m late. I can’t believe Danny had this stuff, though. He’s gonna have some serious questions to answer.”
Danny? Questions? “Johnny…Danny’s dead. You didn’t know?”
“Dead? Wow.” Johnny stared at him.
Gordon opened the door behind Owen. “Coming inside?” he asked.
Owen half-turned and was about to answer when he saw the aluminum boat with its inept driver zoom within forty feet of the dock, moving way too fast. The guy crouched instead of sitting, probably to get a better view ahead with the bow up in the air.
Owen shouted a warning about the no-wake zone in the harbor. The guy in the boat suddenly throttled back and almost fell overboard. That was kinda cool. Owen hadn’t realized he would be so effective.
The guy caught himself, ducked down, and came back up on his knees facing Owen from about twenty-five feet away, his boat pitching in its own wake.
Was that a mask? It looked like he had pantyhose over his face. Owen blinked and leaned closer. Maybe he was just ugly? The guy moved oddly, too. Huh. Looked like he had a gun.
Stupid! Why was he just staring at the guy? He dove to the deck amid flashes of light and the spitting roar of a small-caliber automatic weapon. He landed on Johnny, who had fallen before Owen had reacted.
Gordon lunged back inside, yelling. “Everybody get down! On the floor, now!”
Owen stared at Johnny, who held a hand to his shoulder. Blood already darkened his shirt. Inside, Martina screamed and the Hermit roared something Owen couldn’t make out.
“Damn,” Johnny whispered, half-smiling. “The one time I could have yelled ‘hit the deck’ and meant it literally, I didn’t think of it in time.” He winced and curled up, his other hand going to his thigh. “That gun sounded like God’s own zipper coming down. He hit me a couple of times, dude. What a dick.”
The gunfire had stopped. Owen took in Johnny’s tight grin and decided he’d be okay for the moment. Johnny was already starting to test the range of motion in his leg.
Owen raised his head and risked a quick look at the shooter. He saw a bit of flame arcing toward the Fusty Navel and heard the sound of a pull-cord. Apparently their assailant had stalled out his engine again.
The flame hit the forward deck, spreading out to cover the front third of the boat. Owen shook his head violently, trying to focus on what was happening. What had that been, a Molotov cocktail? Oh hell, the propane tanks were on the forward deck!
The outboard roared to life behind him. Owen turned to see the aluminum boat moving away into the darkness as another bottle arced toward the Fusty Navel. It hit a little farther back, but skittered forward as it produced a second gout of flame.
“Everybody out!” Owen yelled. “The boat’s on fire! It might blow!” He scrambled to the door on hands and knees. The outboard coughed and died, and he heard the pull-cord again.
He got to his feet and ran inside. Aaron, the Hermit and Martina stood over Gordon and Faulkner. Faulkner twisted bloodily on the floor. Gordon knelt by him.
“The shooter’s leaving! Everybody out!” Owen shouted as he heard the outboard start up yet again and roar away. He ran to get Faulkner’s legs, but Aaron beat him to it. He and Gordon carried Faulkner out. Martina followed.
The Hermit stood with
an angry grin. “That was a guy in a boat?”
“Yeah. Come on, we need to go.”
“Hold on a second.” The Hermit’s eyes were flat and calm as he scanned the room. “Ah, that’s better,” he said in an oddly cheerful voice. He grabbed the keys to his speedboat from a bookshelf and tossed them to Owen. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Shadow was lying in a corner. Owen scooped him up on his way out. Was he hit? Owen’s shirt was suddenly bloody. He hissed in sympathy, but kept moving. Leon’s dog was unconscious—looked like a head injury—and Owen didn’t have time to do anything about it. He and Shadow cleared the door, followed by the Hermit.
Gordon and Aaron had transferred Faulkner to the dock, and Martina was helping Johnny stand. “How are they?” Owen asked when he and the Hermit got off the boat. He set Shadow down as gently as he could and started untying lines, hoping to push the Fusty Navel away from other boats in the marina. The flames seemed to be dying away, though, so he stopped and turned around. Other people in the harbor were shouting and screaming, but he didn’t listen.
“We need to call an ambulance,” Martina said.
Gordon reached for his pocket, but Faulkner raised his head and spoke first. “I’m fine,” he said. His head fell back to the dock and he sucked air through his teeth. ”...probably fine. That does hurt. Anyway, go get him!”
“You armed?” the Hermit asked Gordon.
Gordon, on his knees beside Faulkner again, looked up at him. “Yeah. Why?”
The Hermit stared back, suddenly slump-shouldered. “Because I may be an old man, but I’ve got a fast boat not sixty feet from here, and he has the keys.” He jerked a thumb at Owen.
Gordon’s eyes met Owen’s. Owen looked at Shadow, but Aaron moved to him and waved Owen off.
Owen nodded, turned, and ran to the Hermit’s boat. Old man? What was the Hermit playing at? Behind him he heard the Hermit telling Gordon to move, that he and Martina would take care of Faulkner. God, he hoped Shadow would be okay.
Owen had the lines off and the speedboat’s twin engines started before Gordon climbed aboard. He could still see, faintly, the wake of the aluminum boat. He couldn’t hear it anymore. But it sputtered out in the Bay somewhere, probably running with its lights off.
Owen pulled away from the dock, accelerating as he left the marina. A buoy with the legend “No Wake Zone” bobbed crazily behind them.
Gordon grabbed Owen’s shoulder and yelled into his ear. “Does he have a loudspeaker on this thing?” Owen nodded. He flipped a switch and pointed to the hand unit.
Gordon picked it up and leaned over again. “Just get us within about twenty yards, then hold your position!”
Sure. He’d try, but matching direction and velocity with a boat that was trying to get away was a difficult proposition under the best of conditions. About like Gordon’s chances of hitting anything he aimed at with the Glock .40-caliber pistol he’d set on the dash.
Besides, first they had to find the shooter’s boat. It probably wouldn’t follow anything resembling a straight path. The wind was rising, and the speedboat was crashing through 3-foot swells. Must be a storm coming in.
Owen planned to make a giant loop, making the most of their speed advantage and assuming the shooter wouldn’t head for land right away. If that didn’t work, he’d either do it again or try looking along the shore.
But they got lucky. Gordon spotted the aluminum boat on their first loop. Its pilot must have gone in a straight line after all, because it was farther out than Owen had thought possible. Not a bad plan, really—but it hadn’t worked.
The little boat was mostly a whitish shape in the darkness, its foamy V-shaped wake mingling with whitecaps behind. Owen nodded to Gordon and throttled back. Its pilot raced on, heedless of pursuit. Who was this guy? If he was connected with the NSA, he should have been more effective, shouldn’t he? And better-equipped.
“This is the police!” Gordon called with the loud-hailer. “Stop your engine and put your hands in the air!” He pulled out his cell phone and handed it to Owen. “When you get the chance, call 911 and tell them what’s happening.” He kept his eyes on the boat ahead.
Owen nodded and flipped on a searchlight. He put it out on the dash, banging it to be sure Gordon noticed. Gordon set the loud-hailer down and picked out the boat ahead with the light.
The pilot jerked his head around, simultaneously pulled on the tiller, and nearly capsized. He set off in a new direction.
“Holy shit.” Owen turned the speedboat to follow. The shooter had removed his mask. Owen had glimpsed his face. “It’s Frank Serno!” he called to Gordon. Should he have recognized him earlier? Maybe it didn’t matter. But…God. Serno? He’d never struck Owen as dangerous. Just obnoxious.
Gordon nodded impatiently, apparently not caring who it was, and gestured for Owen to move in closer.
Serno, probably realizing he couldn’t outrun the speedboat, cut off his engine and dove toward the bow of his boat, scurrying out of view beneath the gunwale. The aluminum boat pitched and rolled wildly in the steepening sea.
Serno might come up shooting at any moment. Owen knew he was unlikely to be hit—it would be an almost impossible shot, with both boats in motion—but “unlikely” wasn’t strong enough for comfort at the moment. Besides, Serno had at least one automatic weapon.
Gordon kept the light trained on Serno’s boat, holding it to the side at arm’s-length from his body. Owen nodded. Gordon didn’t want to make himself more of a target than he had to either. They exchanged glances, and Owen saw Gordon too thought it would be over soon. Somehow that made him nervous, as if they were inviting disaster. He put it out of his mind and concentrated on handling the boat.
“Stay back here until he comes up,” Gordon said. “No need to take any risks. We’ve got him, one way or another.” He put the gun back on the dash and picked up the loud-hailer. “Frank Serno!” he called. Owen nodded again. So Gordon had been listening. “This is the police! We know who you are, and you cannot get away. Stand up and put your hands on your head.”
Serno’s back bobbed in and out of view as he worked frantically on something. Owen flinched when Serno’s head suddenly popped up.
Serno smiled. He looked…peaceful. Owen’s stomach tightened into a spiky ball.
Serno ducked his head under the gunwale, and when he came back up he was partially obscured behind the head and shoulders of a young girl. She wriggled in his grasp, trying to get away.
Owen tried the cell phone, but it beeped loudly when he pressed “Send.” He looked at it. “No signal,” he told Gordon, who shrugged.
“Back off!” Serno yelled. “If you aren’t leaving in thirty seconds I’ll shoot her in the head!”
Gordon sighed. “Can’t do it,” he said to Owen. “If we back off he’ll kill her anyway.” His mouth twisted. “Eventually.”
Gordon raised the loud-hailer. “Frank Serno! The Coast Guard is on the way! You will not be allowed to leave here with the girl! Release her, drop your gun in the water, and stand with your hands on your head!” He put the loud-hailer down and shrugged at Owen. “Might be better if we had a professional negotiator here.”
Owen didn’t see that it would make much of a difference. He pressed “Send” on the cell phone every few seconds, hoping the signal would get stronger.
Oh. Owen tossed the cell phone into an open cooler. Idiot! He started rooting around in the storage compartments he could reach from his seat. Hell, Gordon had even mentioned the Coast Guard.
Gordon glanced at him. “What are you doing?” He turned back to Serno and the girl.
“Looking for a…got it! VHF radio!” Owen turned to Channel 16 and began transmitting. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is…shit.”
He hadn’t paid any attention to the name of the Hermit’s speedboat. He bent over the side. When he saw the name and registration he closed his eyes briefly. Damn the old bastard’s sense of humor anyway. He was not going to identify himself as the “Mary Cele
ste.”
He read the registration number into the radio instead. “Mayday. We are outbound from the Corpus Christi City Marina, at an estimated three miles east-northeast. Please home in on this signal.” Gordon kicked his leg before he could give more information. “What?”
“He’s starting it up again.” Owen looked up and saw Serno, the gun in one hand, pulling on the cord to restart the outboard with his other. His gun hand waved wildly, and he was pinning the girl between his body and the gunwale.
Gordon pursed his lips. “Doesn’t look like good technique, does it?”
Owen shook his head and brought the radio back to his lips. The Coast Guard monitored Channel 16 at all times. When he’d stopped talking, they should have broken in with questions.
“We have a kidnapping and hostage situation,” he began, then shrugged. “Over.” He put the radio down. He didn’t think they could hear him, and he wanted to focus on what was happening. If somebody answered, he’d give more details.
Up ahead, Serno had his engine running. The aluminum boat began to move forward. Serno was looking back at them, accelerating quickly. Relatively speaking.
Owen winced as he saw Serno turn broadside to the waves. He’d unbalanced the boat by bringing the girl back to the stern with him, too. The bow rode up almost completely clear of the water.
Serno yelled something, but Owen didn’t catch it. Serno’s boat rolled. The starboard side rose into the air, exposing what looked like luggage lashed amidships. Had Serno planned to leave town by boat?
Serno’s gun fired as he threw up his arms, nearly falling out of his seat. Owen’s heart jumped as the girl grabbed her chance. She scuttled to the bow of the boat, using her hands and feet for balance. Owen opened up the throttle, racing to get closer.
Gordon braced his legs and held the searchlight and gun directly before him. “Get in there!”
Serno killed the engine again. The little boat pitched and rolled, but Serno kept his grip on the gun. He fired wildly in the direction of his pursuers and scrambled forward toward the girl.
She looked up. Serno nearly had her again. She turned her face toward the light and hunched down slightly. Was she giving up? But she suddenly spun around, climbed the far gunwale, and dove into the water.
Serno fired again toward the speedboat and hurried aft, trying to simultaneously look for the girl and pull the cord. His body jerked, and his right arm lifted, gun in hand, to point toward something in the water.
Gordon fired from ten yards away. Serno jerked again, but he hadn’t been hit. Gordon had fired off to the side, just getting Serno’s attention. From the speedboat, Serno and the girl were in nearly the same direction.
Owen moved in closer, worried about a collision but figuring he had no choice. He picked up the loud-hailer. “Frank Serno! Drop the gun and put your hands over your head! This is the police!”
Serno did a double-take and his face twisted with rage. Had Serno recognized his voice? If so, could Owen be charged later with impersonating a police officer? Anyway, Serno wasn’t looking at the girl anymore.
They were now only about five yards from the other boat. Serno’s arm came up again, gun in hand, pointing directly at Owen. Owen hunched down quickly. At this range Serno might actually be able to hit one of them.
Gordon fired twice. Serno’s body jerked back. His gun fell out of his hand and into the boat. Owen caught a glimpse of the girl’s head, now well beyond the aluminum boat, as she rose with a swell. He shoved the transmission into neutral and dove over the side, swimming strongly in her direction.
“Damn it, Tremaine!” he heard Serno shout. “You can’t have her! She’s not for you!” Owen kept going. Gordon shouted too, but he didn’t use the loud-hailer. Owen was too busy to try to make sense of whatever Gordon was saying.
He was passing near the aluminum boat, his back feeling very exposed, when he heard the sound of shooting again. Serno had apparently found his gun.
Owen couldn’t do anything about that, so he left it to Gordon. He would get the girl. He caught a glimpse of her, paddling in his direction. She was much closer now.
He caught her and held on. She relaxed and let him keep them both afloat. Owen looked back to see Serno jump up, his gun pointed in their direction. Gordon, only a few feet away by now, fired two more shots. Serno’s arms flew into the air. His body splashed into the water on Owen’s side of the boat.
Owen gulped air, watching Gordon try to maneuver the speedboat. He couldn’t see Serno anywhere. Maybe now it was really over.
Serno’s head popped up, twenty feet from Owen and the girl. “Tremaine!” he shouted.
Owen began to kick, moving himself and the girl away. Did Serno still have his gun? He stopped, transfixed, as Serno howled in sudden agony.
Owen’s lungs quit working when he realized what might happen. If Serno was a shark and he changed now, while they were still in the water…Owen redoubled his efforts, switching direction to kick frantically toward Gordon and safety.
Serno raised his head, screaming. One arm flew up out of the water, and his body was wrenched beneath the waves. He thrashed furiously just under the surface.
Owen kept going. But there was no way they would make it to the boat before Serno finished changing, unless he took a lot longer than Aaron and Andrea had.
A huge fin broke the surface of the water, and Owen stared in awe as the biggest shark he’d ever seen rolled on top of the waves. It stared back, and casual death swam in its expressionless eyes. The thing had to be over twenty feet long.
He looked frantically for Gordon and the speedboat, but couldn’t see them. The shark twitched its tail and dove, heading away from Owen and the girl.
Owen stopped trying to swim. He couldn’t move fast enough to get away. But maybe the shark would lose interest if they were still. If it was true the sharks didn’t have a language, maybe other things didn’t stay with them under the water either. It didn’t seem likely to work, but he couldn’t think of anything else to try. He wondered if his bladder had let go. He thought maybe it had. But in the water, who could tell? Or…would that attract a shark?
He kicked slowly, just enough to keep them afloat. He didn’t understand. This shark wasn’t a hammerhead. He’d thought they were all hammerheads. This one had looked more like a Great White.
He became aware that Gordon was yelling his name. He stuck a hand in the air briefly and waved, trying not to disturb the surface any more than he had to. He didn’t know if Gordon had seen him, but the light seemed to be getting closer.
It wasn’t until Gordon had brought the boat alongside, and Owen had handed the girl up and climbed aboard behind her, that he understood. Gordon picked out Serno’s body in the swells—his completely human body—with the searchlight. He said something about wanting Owen to help him maneuver the boat toward it.
Gordon kept the light and his gun trained on Serno’s corpse as they drew closer, but Owen, lost in his whirling thoughts, didn’t pay it much attention. Had Gordon even seen the shark?
“Jesus Christ,” Gordon said. “He’s ripped apart.” He set the gun down and gripped the gunwale, looking into the water, then calmly moved to the other side of the boat. He vomited into the Bay, facing away from the body. Straightening up, he gave Owen a look that dared him to comment, then glanced at the girl. “Let’s try to put him in the other boat.”
Owen nodded. The girl quietly huddled under his arm. He found a flare, lit it, and tossed it near the body, then began looking for the aluminum boat.
They’d come full circle. This had all started, from his point of view, when he’d found a body and thrown up over the rail. Now it was Gordon’s turn.
The boat wasn’t far off. It had a couple of bullet holes in it, but was floating well enough. Though Owen figured John Sumner still wouldn’t be pleased by the use his rental had been put to.
Owen maneuvered alongside and Gordon tied a line to it. When they got back to the body, Owen gently disengaged fro
m the girl and went to help Gordon.
It took a while to recover the body, because there were parts missing and Gordon kept insisting they had to get the whole thing. They couldn’t find the head or the lower left leg, though, and Gordon eventually gave it up. Owen silently hoped the shark had enjoyed its meal.
They’d tried to shield the girl from the sight of Serno’s body as much as possible, but Owen didn’t think they’d been particularly successful. On the way back in, the aluminum boat bobbing behind them, she crept back under his arm.
He looked down to see how she was handling all this. She gazed directly into his eyes, some of her wet hair twisted around one of her fingers.
She smiled wryly. “Harry Potter,” she said clearly, “can go to Hell.”
Owen nodded. If that was what she wanted, he’d do what he could.
Shiver on the Sky Page 68
