Death Rides the Ferry

by Patricia Skalka

  “What’s the matter, are you afraid of a little water? Scared you’ll melt?” his uncle had said.

  When young Dave said he couldn’t swim, the man grabbed him and carried him kicking and yelling to the end of the dock. No matter how hard the boy protested, his uncle wouldn’t put him down. Onshore, the adults watched the show.

  “Best way to learn to swim,” his uncle said, and with a roar, he tossed Dave into the murky lake.

  The water burned his nostrils and closed over his head. The mossy carpet cloyed at his feet. His eyes stung. Desperate and half blind, he groped for the dock. If he reached a post, he could pull himself up, but there was only water, more water. Panicked, he lost all sense of direction. When there was nothing left in his lungs, when he was sure he would die, a hand grabbed his wrist and an arm swung around his thin shoulders, and he was dragged back into the air and shoved onto the splintered pier, where he struggled to his hands and knees and vomited up his lunch of hot dogs and the lake’s green sludge.

  That evening a cousin told him that he had been rescued by a neighbor boy who had come down to the lake to catch turtles. Cubiak’s father, it turned out, had been too drunk to save him, and the cruel uncle had refused to go in after him, insisting he would do fine on his own.

  “Where to?” Rowe said glancing back at Ubell.

  “North.”

  North. The word snapped the sheriff back to the moment and prompted a different fear. North was away from everything familiar. What the hell was the man up to?

  “North where?” Rowe said.

  “There.” The German pointed into the great maw of darkness that stretched before them.

  “I need more than that,” the deputy said.

  “In due time,” Ubell replied. He sat equidistant between the two men.

  “Do you want me to turn off the running lights?” Rowe said.

  “And draw attention to us? Clever lad, huh? We obey the laws. The lights stay on,” Ubell said.

  After a few minutes, he stood. “Now, go fast,” he told Rowe.

  The deputy hit the throttle and the Sister’s two engines roared. As the boat leapt forward, Ubell lost his balance and tripped over the fake Helen’s foot. When he caught himself he was down on one knee just inches from the sheriff. Their eyes locked.

  “You would cut my throat if you could, wouldn’t you?” Ubell said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  The German laughed and righted himself. “We understand each other, then.”

  Cubiak had suspected no less. Ubell was not the kind of man to show mercy. The sheriff had seen evidence of his ruthlessness. The German meant for only one of them to live to see the dawn, and the sheriff knew the odds were not in his favor. But that would change. He looked toward Cate. It has to, he thought.

  The fake Helen sneezed. “It’s fucking freezing out here,” she said, shivering under a double layer of jackets.

  Ubell gave her a flashlight and pointed to the galley. “Go below then. And take her with you.” He pulled Cate to her feet and pushed her toward the stairs. “If she tries anything, you know what to do.”

  Helen-Marlene flaunted the silver pistol. “Aye, Captain, “she said.

  They were still far enough in that the water was calm, and they made good time. Here and there a light broke the monotony of the inland coast, but along the Whitefish Dunes, the shore was dark. Past that an occasional solitary light glimmered from an isolated house or a summer cottage. When the sheriff least expected it, a cluster of pinpricks blinked out of the void.

  Ubell noticed the lights, too. “Where are we?”

  “Baileys Harbor.” There was a melancholy longing in the way Rowe named the town. He had been standing until then and he sat down.

  “You OK?” Cubiak said.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “No talking,” Ubell said. “You want to say something, you say it to me.”

  Muttering under his breath, Rowe gunned the motor and steered away from shore.

  “What are you doing? Where are you going?” the German said.

  “We have to head out a couple miles. There are some small islands up ahead and a cluster of unmarked shoals. I can’t chance it in the dark.”

  As they crossed into deeper water, the darkness swallowed the last flickering village lights and the wind picked up speed. A sharp chop pummeled the hull of the Speedy Sister. At three miles, the lake depth dropped to nearly two hundred feet. Cubiak wondered if they were that far out yet, as he imagined the lake bottom falling away beneath them.

  The water grew rougher. The boat bucked up and down as it rode the crest of each new wave, dropped into the trough, and then went up again. The sheriff felt queasy. He knew the ride was worse for Cate down below. Be safe, he prayed.

  They were heading north again when the sky ahead lit up and a three-pronged fork of lightning knifed into the water. Cubiak shuddered. Jesus, that was close. Since moving to Door County, he had learned how quickly storms could come up on Lake Michigan and how unpredictably they moved across the water. Once on the Parlando, he and Bathard had been caught in a squall that dropped out of a bright blue sky. Lightning was his greatest fear, even though the coroner had explained that on a sailboat the mast acted as a lightning rod. If they were unlucky enough to be hit, the electrical force would travel down the pole, through the keel, and into the water.

  There wasn’t anything on the Speedy Sister that looked like a lightning rod. The boat was little more than an oversized fiberglass tub, a flea on the water, he thought. What the hell will happen to us if we’re hit?

  Another strike speared the lake.

  “You see that, Mike?” Cubiak said.

  “On it, Chief.”

  Cubiak was intent on tracking the storm and nearly missed the splash of light that swung over the water from the west.

  “What’s that?” Ubell said.

  “The lighthouse at Plum Island. We’ll be passing through Death’s Door soon.”

  “Porte des Morts.” Ubell seemed to take perverse pleasure in saying the name out loud.

  Cubiak hoped it didn’t portend their fate. Earlier that week, he had crossed the strait with young Kevin Norling at the helm of a small motorboat. As ominous as that had appeared, he felt safer with the boy piloting the miniature craft than he did on Rowe’s powerboat with the madman holding them hostage.

  Ubell checked his watch. “Good. On time,” he said.

  More lightning blazed along the horizon.

  “We need to slow down and let the weather pass,” Rowe said.

  “The storm is moving away from us. You keep going fast,” Ubell said.

  Rowe cut the throttle and kept the engines at a simmer. “I gotta use the head.”

  “Go over the side. Man’s prerogative,” the German said and laughed.

  “My hands are frozen so bad I can barely grip the wheel. If you want me to keep steering this boat, you’ve got to give me a break. It’s warmer down there. I need a few minutes to thaw.”

  Ubell looked at his watch again. “Five minutes. If you’re not back, I shoot your boss.”

  “We can keep going at a couple knots. The sheriff can handle the wheel while I’m gone,” Rowe said.

  The German roared. “And have two of you with hands untied. You think I’m stupid? Cut the engine and go. You will make up for lost time when you get back.”

  Rowe disappeared down the stairs. Cubiak heard a muffled shout from Helen-Marlene and a sharp retort from his deputy. Ubell yelled at them both to be silent, but Rowe ignored him and said something to Cate.

  “I’m good,” she said.

  “Be quiet.” It was Helen-Marlene again.

  “Go to hell,” Cate said. Her voice was strong and strident. Cubiak knew that she was both taunting the fake Helen and letting him know that she had not given up.

  He called out to her. “Cate, stay calm and we’ll be OK.” Uncharacteristically he added: “I love you.”

  Ubell snickered. “I love you.” His tone
was mocking and harsh. He leaned toward the open hatchway. “You hear that, lady. Your hero loves you.” Then he turned toward the sheriff. “You sentimental Americans make me want to vomit.”

  The German turned sideways and swept his hand up along his neck just as a rogue wave smacked the boat. Cold water flew up into his face and he jumped to his feet. “Goddamn, fucking shit,” he said, shaking his head and arms.

  Another wave hit the stern and drenched Cubiak. Thunder followed each lightning strike. He estimated the time in-between at about thirty seconds, which put them within six miles of the gale. Ubell was wrong; the storm was closing in. The wind whistled over the lake, roiling the surface. In the next flash of light, he saw whitecaps foaming against the black water. The Speedy Sister rose and fell with the swells. They were spinning off course.

  “Deputy Rowe!” Ubell shouted down to the cabin.

  Rolling thunder announced Rowe’s return. He had put on gloves and a fleece vest and carried an extra jacket. “Here,” he said and tossed the coat to Cubiak. The stairs were wet and as the deputy reached for the wheel, he slipped and slid down into the galley. Helen-Marlene yelped.

  “Keep him away from the viol,” Ubell shouted to her.

  For an unguarded moment, the German’s back was turned, and the sheriff pushed to his feet. Struggling to stay balanced on the undulating deck, he stepped forward. If he was quick, he could take Ubell by surprise. But with his hands tied, he couldn’t do anything more than shove him toward Rowe, who was coming up the stairs again. Caught off guard, the deputy would tumble into the galley. The idea was a fiasco. Reluctantly, Cubiak fell back. It was too dangerous to try to outmaneuver their captor on the open water. Ubell needed Rowe to pilot the Speedy Sister. He might take a chance on wounding the deputy but he wouldn’t hesitate to kill the sheriff. He had to stay alive until they reached their destination. On land, he and Rowe might have a chance to fight back.

  Rubbing his elbow, Rowe retook his place behind the wheel.

  “Are you hurt?” Cubiak said.

  The German raised his voice. “No talking.”

  The deputy answered anyway. “I’m all right,” he said as he scanned the dials. Then he restarted the engines and reoriented the boat north. “I’m not going back to full speed until we’re clear of the storm,” he said.

  Ubell grunted but this time he didn’t protest.

  They moved beyond the reach of the beacon from Plum Island and plunged back into complete darkness.

  Rowe spoke up. “Washington Island’s coming up. You’ll see the lights at Detroit Harbor soon.”

  “Washington Island, the scene of the crime,” Ubell said.

  “The first one, you mean.”

  The German ignored Cubiak’s comment.

  Ubell wore only a light windbreaker but he seemed oblivious to the cold. Cubiak tried to sit on his hands. He had managed to get the extra jacket over his shoulders, but despite the additional layer, he was cold. He tried conjuring up the warm weather at Dixan V, but thinking about it only made him feel worse. At least Cate was out of the wind and would be warmer in the cabin. It was a small thing for which to be grateful, but it was all he had at the moment.

  “Where are we?” he asked his deputy.

  “We should be near Rock Island. After that we’ll go through the Rock Island Passage and cross the state line into Michigan.”

  “Between the forty-fifth and forty-sixth degrees of latitude,” Ubell said, as if he were their schoolmaster.

  He had done his homework, Cubiak thought, chagrined that their captor knew more than he did about the region.

  “What’s up there, anything?” the sheriff said.

  “Ultimately we’ll run into the Upper Peninsula,” said Rowe. “But before that, there’s an archipelago of deserted islands. Saint Martin. Poverty. Summer. Little Summer. The chain starts with Washington Island and runs pretty much in a straight line to the UP. There used to be a few fishing villages and summer resorts scattered around there, even a couple old hunting camps. In the really old days, the Indians used the islands as staging grounds for their hunting forays. They’d come down from up north looking for deer and bear and whatever else they could shoot with a bow and arrow. Now the land’s been converted to bird sanctuaries and wildlife refuges.”

  Ubell cut in again. “There’s nobody there, gentlemen. No one to hear your cries of distress. Only ghosts and peeping birds.”

  He swept his arms out toward the water. “That’s what I love about your country. All this spectacular wilderness. The great open spaces. In Europe, we’re crammed together, everyone knowing everybody else’s business. But here in America, there’s plenty of room where a man can get lost.”

  Or dump the bodies of those he kills, Cubiak thought.

  A tremor shook the Sister. When the boat stopped vibrating, a sharp grinding sound churned below the floorboards, and they began to slow down. Rowe pumped the fuel line, but there was no response. “We’re losing power,” he said.

  Within minutes, they were dead in the water.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “What’s wrong?” Ubell jumped to his side.

  “I don’t know. Something with the engines.”

  “You fucker!” He raised a fist at Rowe and then whirled toward Cubiak. “You tricked me. You told me it was a good boat.”

  “It is a good boat,” Rowe said. “But it’s a used boat, OK? And we’ve given it a real beating tonight. I own it with my friends. We had the engines overhauled when we bought it. No guarantees, the guy said, but we trusted him.”

  “Fools.” Ubell looked around. “Can you fix it?”

  “I can try.”

  Rowe pushed Ubell to the wheel. “Keep heading into the waves,” he said.

  Without power, it was impossible to steer the boat. Cubiak knew that much and waited for Ubell to object. Instead he grabbed the wheel and peered intently over the bow while the deputy knelt on the cockpit floor and raised a panel.

  Rowe leaned into the underbelly of the boat. When he pulled back up, his hands were black with grease. “It’s a loose bolt. I have to tighten it but I can’t do it myself.”

  Ubell said something in German that sounded like a curse. He waved Cubiak forward and untied his left hand.

  “I’m right-handed,” the sheriff said.

  “I know.” Ubell gave him a hard look. “Any funny business, Cate dies,” he said, and then he pushed him down toward Rowe.

  Cubiak didn’t know what his deputy was up to, but he followed his lead. If they were in mechanical trouble he hoped Rowe knew what to do; if this was a ruse, he hoped there was a good reason for it.

  Rowe gave Cubiak a small flashlight. “Hold it. There.” He pointed to the rear of the engine compartment. “No, no. there.” The deputy moved the sheriff’s arm back, and Cubiak felt the small knife that Rowe had taped to the wall.

  “Got it?” the deputy said.

  “Yeah.”

  Ubell leaned over them and watched. A wave hit them broadside and Rowe landed on his chin. Another wave hit, and the boat tilted again.

  “Jesus. I told you to head into the waves. You want this done or not?” With a youthful daring, the deputy yelled at the German.

  Ubell swore. As he turned and tried to correct their course, Rowe pulled the knife free and slipped it into the sheriff’s right pocket. Cubiak didn’t dare look up. If the German suspected anything, it was over for them.

  The Sister shifted erratically.

  “Turn harder, to the left. More.” The deputy looked up and gave the order. Then he fiddled with the engines again.

  The first time he tried to restart them, they didn’t respond. But on the second try, they kicked in. Rowe took over at the wheel and Cubiak went back to the stern. He kept his face blank and struggled to slow the pounding in his heart.

  “On your knees,” Ubell said as the sheriff was about to sit down.

  “You think you put something over on me?” he said as he pulled the knife from Cubi
ak’s pocket. Shouting something incomprehensible, he pressed his boot to the sheriff’s neck and pushed him down to the deck. Cubiak waited. A bullet to the head meant pain and death in the same instant. A shot to the leg or shoulder would hurt like hell and render him helpless. Instead of rescuing the others he would be a burden to them. But what if Ubell shot Rowe?

  The German put more weight into his foot and then, unexpectedly, he backed off. “Get up.”

  Cubiak stumbled to the rear bench, pain spiking his neck and chin. The fucker still needs us, he thought. That’s all it is.

  When he trusted himself to be able to talk, the sheriff picked up the thread of conversation as if nothing had happened.

  “Where are we going? You can at least tell us that much,” he said.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Within minutes, the wind began to die. The storm was moving away from them toward the east. Spears of lightning slashed into the water but at so great a distance that the thunder no longer reached them. As the mist cleared, a solitary star appeared and then another. Soon a small chorus of flickering dots emerged and closed ranks with the nearly full moon to play hide-and-seek with the scuttling clouds.

  Ubell lit a cigarette. With the first inhale, he blew a cloud of smoke at Cubiak.

  For a fleeting second, it almost made him feel warm.

  When the German got down to the filter, he flicked the butt over the side and pulled an electronic device from his pocket. From where Cubiak sat, he could see a glowing green screen but nothing else. The device looked too large for a cell phone. What was it? he wondered. Ubell’s mouth twitched as if he were talking to himself.

  Abruptly, he stood and moved toward Rowe. “Slow down,” he said.

  The deputy cut the speed several knots.

  “More.”

  Rowe eased the throttle and reduced the Speedy Sister to a crawl. An errant swell rocked the boat, and Ubell grabbed the gunwale to keep from tipping over.

  “Are we there?” the fake Helen yelled from below.