by Jon Coon
“Roger that. I’ve got a chopper waiting. Just let me know where to meet you.”
Thirty minutes later they were at the marina and greeted by two state patrol cars.
“No one here yet,” the trooper told them. “Manager’s on the way. Shouldn’t be long.”
“We’re not waiting,” Gabe said and gave them the boat description. He got the bolt cutters from his car and cut the chain. With guns and lights, they searched the docks. Nothing. Headlights arrived in the parking lot. A disgruntled marina manager got out glaring at his broken chain.
“Bo’s Baby? Yeah, she pulled out late this evening. Bodine hadn’t taken her out in years, and I’m surprised she even started. She belched black diesel like an old locomotive. His kid wanted fresh fuel, but we’re out. Won’t get a delivery until Friday.”
“You got cameras?” Gabe asked.
“Yeah, monitor’s in the office, come on.” As he led them down the dock, he laughed and said, “The old man told me he named the boat that so he could tell the girls he’d named his boat for them. Said it worked every time. That man did love to party.” In the office, the manager fast-forwarded the disk until they saw Wyatt Bodine walk alone down the dock, enter the security code, and board the boat.
“He doesn’t have Emily,” Carol said. “What’s he done with her?”
“He still knows where she is,” Gabe said.
They watched the monitor as the boat, black smoke pouring from her exhausts, left the marina and turned starboard, downriver.
“Where could he go to hide?” Gabe asked.
“There are tributaries and creeks everywhere, but he won’t get far with those engines smoking like that. The injectors are fouled, and the fuel probably has condensation. There’s a fuel dock about thirty-five miles west on the intercoastal. They’ve got a mechanic and everything he needs to get her running clean again. After that, lots of swamp. If he knows the river, finding a place to hide won’t be a problem.”
“What time does the fuel dock open?”
“Six. They open early for the barge traffic.”
“We need a boat,” Gabe said. “Something fast.”
After a little negotiation and the keys to the state car for security, Gabe and Carol were cruising downriver in a fast bass boat, using a spotlight to keep in the channel. Gabe called Bob and brought him up to speed. Dawn was breaking two hours later when they saw the ominous shadow of Bo’s Baby tied up at the fuel dock.
“I want the shotgun,” Carol said.
“Again? Okay, you stay on the dock in case he gets past me. He’s got two choices: the dock or the water. Either way, we’ve got him. If you do have to take the shot, remember we need him able to talk.”
Carol stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “Gabe, in case this doesn’t go well there’s something I want to say now. I love you. And I’m certain Charlie would want us to be together. Now be careful, and let’s find Emily.”
I guess it’s now or never. “I love you too, Carol,” he answered. He took her face in his hands and kissed her. “Now get behind something solid. Keep your eyes open and your head down.”
Gabe left the crutches in the boat and painfully started down the dock.
His phone rang. “Welcome aboard,” Wyatt said. “I wondered how long it would take you to find me. Come aboard, keep your hands empty, and don’t get stupid.” Gabe stepped aboard. There were no cabin lights on and no signs of life. When he reached the side door into the main salon, it opened. Wyatt said, “Give me your gun, Gabe. Come in and close the door.”
Gabe handed over the Sig and closed the door behind him.
“Where’s the briefcase and the other stuff?”
“On the way. Where is Emily? Is she all right?”
“For now, but not forever. You disappoint me, Gabe. I’m not messing around here. Those files are the only things that save her.”
“They’re coming, but I don’t understand why you need them. You have all the answers. If you want to even the score, what are you waiting for?”
“I need that briefcase and those files. That’s all you need to know.”
“Okay, okay, I got it. Chopper’s on its way. You win.”
“Right. I’ll fly the chopper out, and then you give me twenty-four hours.”
“Emily?”
“I’ll tell you where she is as soon as I’m out of US airspace. She’ll be fine until then.”
“Right. I’ll make the call and get an ETA. Bob said ten minutes, and he has everything you want. You killed Rogers, didn’t you?”
Wyatt snorted, “Yeah, I finally got him. He killed Nancy, and he helped Conners kill my dad.”
“How do you know that?”
“Dirty Billy Johnson has a low tolerance for pain. I didn’t kill him, but he’s not going out for football this season.”
“What about Janna?”
“Devoted to my dad. I would never hurt her. Conners’s goons again. She told you too much. Same with your Captain Brady.”
“How did your dad get messed up with them? Didn’t he know they would kill him too?”
“Money. Lots of money. In the beginning Dad thought it was a game: build cheap bridges and then make a fortune repairing them. Enough work to last for decades. Everyone gets rich. No one gets hurt. Then when his investigator couldn’t find Nancy and Wilson in London, he got worried. Eventually he realized it must have been Conners and Peterson. I didn’t know for sure what had happened until you told me you’d found Nancy.”
“Okay, let’s say you do get out of the country to Costa Rica or somewhere else without extradition. How can I prove what you’re saying is true?”
“That’s your problem. Mine is getting into that chopper.”
“More secrets in ghost river,” Gabe said just before his phone rang again. He hesitated, and Wyatt waved the gun for him to pick it up.
“Speaker,” Wyatt ordered. Gabe complied.
“Bird’s inbound,” Bob reported. “I should be there in five minutes.”
“Tell them to land, leave it running, and clear out. When I’m in the air with the stuff you can leave. Until then we’ll sit tight,” Wyatt said and waved the Beretta at Gabe again.
“Don’t do this, Wyatt. Once you go out that door, there’s no turning back.”
“My second chances here are gone, Gabe, you know that. But my Spanish is good enough, and there’s no better living anywhere. I’m sorry about the cops. They were collateral damage, but Peterson and Rogers are gone. It’s a better world without them.
“Now you’re going to stay here till I call you. I’m sorry, but if anything happens before I’m out of the country, you lose the girl. This would have been so much easier if you had just followed directions, but I guess that’s not your style. Hope your leg gets better. Sorry we had to do it the hard way. I hear the chopper. You sit tight. I’ll call you in just a little while.”
Gabe hesitated, Wyatt moved to the aft cabin doors, left the salon, and a moment later a motorcycle growled to life and launched from the boat deck across the gangplank and onto the dock. Gabe jumped up and out the doors and yelled at Carol, “Don’t shoot.” She stepped out of hiding, and the bike went straight at her. Gabe saw a boat pole laying on the deck. He grabbed it and hurled it at the bike. He hit Wyatt square in the shoulder. The bike went down. Wyatt turned, firing at Gabe.
“No,” Carol screamed. She fired low with the 12 gauge, hitting the bike’s fuel tank. The motorcycle spewed gas, which exploded in flame, and slid directly at her. She jumped out of the way and came up with the shotgun ready. There was no need.
Wyatt Bodine, soaked in gas, was caught in the blaze. He dropped his gun and screamed in pain as the fire reached his face and he inhaled the flames. Gabe tackled Wyatt, and without slowing down carried his screaming, burning body off the dock into the river.
In a rage, Gabe held Wyatt under until the fire was out. Bodine’s body went limp. Gabe surfaced quickly for air, assumed Wyatt was dead and then dove, pushing
him down until they were both caught in the current. Gabe yelled, “Wyatt Bodine, awake.”
Nothing. He’s still alive. Gabe hesitated. If he killed Wyatt he was sure to get answers. But—Gabe pulled Wyatt to the surface and let him breathe. Terribly burned but alert, Wyatt struggled to escape Gabe’s grip. Gabe pushed Wyatt back under and held him down longer. This time, when Gabe pulled him to surface, and he could breathe again, Wyatt gave up the fight.
“Where is she?” Gabe demanded.
“The dive chamber,” Bodine gasped and coughed.
“She still alive?”
“Yeah. I never intended to hurt her. Look, Jones, I’m done. End it here. Put me under and go get her. Please, man, end it, man. The pain is—”
Gabe raised him high enough to see half Wyatt’s face was gone along with the flesh from his shoulders and chest. His ribs were exposed and charred, and the deep tissue beneath oozed blood.
“Please, Gabe, the air burns. Put me under.”
“Why did you do it, Wyatt? It didn’t have to end like this.”
“It’s Catherine. I love her.” He gasped for breath and painfully coughed. “She wanted the company. Worth millions.”
“But if her dad destroyed it with murder and fraud there’d be nothing to sell.”
Wyatt coughed more blood and nodded.
“Then you never intended to destroy the company. You were trying to save it. If you could cover up the murders and the fraud and get rid of her father, she’d get everything?”
“She loves me . . .” His coughing and bleeding were nonstop. Flesh was pealing from his scalp and face.
“I’m sorry,” Wyatt gasped. “End it. Let me go. Please.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry too. Sorry you made so many bad choices,” Gabe said. He released Wyatt into the dark water. As Wyatt sank, brilliant iridescent light welled up from the bottom then was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “What?” Gabe asked. “No, there’s been a mistake. You don’t understand! He doesn’t deserve—”
He saw Carol running along the shore and swam across the current into shallow water. She crawled up the bank and waded in to help him to his feet.
Soaked, covered in mud, and crying, she held Gabe as though she wanted to shake him and angrily said, “He’s dead. We’ve lost Emily!”
“No, we’ve found her.” Gabe took her arm, “Let’s go.” The police chopper, with Bob on board, had landed in the parking lot. Drenched and dripping mud, she helped him on board and climbed in beside him.
“Where is she?” Carol shouted over the engine roar.
“He put her in the dive chamber. Don’t worry. She’s safe.”
“Oh, please, God. I hope it’s not that dream.”
CHAPTER 41
1845
McFarland Barge
Inside the fifty-four-inch diameter, double-lock recompression chamber, Emily was freezing. With river temperature in the low fifties, and only her light clothing, each breath stabbed her lungs like a dull bread knife.
Recompression chamber doors seal from the inside out, designed to keep pressure in. They are not designed to be submerged, where water pressure would be pushing the doors open. When her white steel prison dropped forty feet to the concrete bridge span and slid another fifteen feet to the mud, water began leaking in and compressing the air inside. As the water rose she climbed to the highest point she could get and shivered, alone in the terrifying darkness. In a fetal curl, she cried softly for her mom and dad.
“We’ve been trying to find a crane operator ever since you called,” one of the uniformed officers told Gabe. “So far, no luck. Sorry.”
Gabe climbed up into the crane. He had operated smaller Hendry cable drum cranes in the past. This one was hydraulic. There were no labels on any of the controls, but as he examined them a pattern emerged: boom up, boom down, cable in, cable out, swing right, swing left. Where’s the starter? He found and hit a green button. Nothing. Hit the button again: nothing. He climbed out of the seat, found a battery box with four, hundred-pound batteries. The cables had been cut.
“I need help here,” he yelled. Two uniforms came running. “Get me jumper cables.”
Carol was beside him. “Can you run this thing?”
“Enough. If not, I’m going for a swim.”
The officers returned with jumper cables. Gabe connected them and climbed back into the cab. He hit the green button and the big diesel fired to life. “Please, God,” he prayed and pulled back on the lever he hoped was the cable return lever. The drum rolled and retrieved line. Gabe kept it slow and steady until the boom strained and rocked the barge toward the crane line. Gabe eased the strain, and the barge leveled. The boom was lowered almost parallel to the water, extending as far as possible out from the barge.
Huddled in the dark, Emily screamed when the chamber moved. Jarring the chamber caused one of the oxygen masks to fall, striking her shoulder. She grabbed at it, realized what it was and hit the purge. A blast came from the mask. She hit the metal button again and held the mask to her face. The oxygen was cold and fresh, an improvement beyond the air she’d been breathing. She held onto the mask and prayed. As she fought to maintain consciousness an iridescent light began to glow beside her. She felt warmth. As she stared into the light his face became recognizable.
“Dad?”
Gabe knew raising the boom would increase the lifting capacity. He slacked the crane line and gently pulled the hydraulic lever until the boom began to rise. He stopped at forty-five degrees and returned to the cable drum levers. At a forty-five-degree boom angle, a one-hundred-ton crane should lift fifty tons. Even fully flooded this can’t be over ten or twelve tons. So why isn’t it coming up? It must be mud suction. Either that or it’s hung on something.
“Hang on. This could get interesting,” he said to Carol. Gabe pulled the lever and took a strain on the line, again rolling the barge to its side. He released and then quickly reengaged using the roll of the barge to jerk the cable. It was a valiant, violent attempt that didn’t work. However, in the river fifty-feet below, his effort broke the seal on the outer recompression chamber hatch flooding the chamber nearly to the top.
“Tell them to clear the deck,” Gabe told Carol. “Get them off the barge, I’m going to try that again.”
Carol did as asked, but then came back to join him. “They’re on the bank,” she reported.
“I meant you too.”
“Fat chance.”
“Okay, hang on, here we go.”
He took a strain on the line again, this time rolling the barge until the water was coming over the port side. Unsecured equipment rolled across the deck splashing into the river. He waited. The chamber didn’t budge. Thinking that constant pressure might release the mud suction, he left tension on the cable and locked the spool.
“Let’s see if there’s dive gear in that shed,” he said, getting up from his seat. They climbed down from the crane and up to the dive shed. Most of the gear was gone, but one wetsuit and a tank and regulator remained. He put the regulator on the tank and checked the air. “Half full. That will have to be enough. You took Emily diving? Right?”
“Ten feet in Cozumel. Warm as a bath, clear as glass.”
“But she used a regulator?”
“Yes, for maybe ten minutes.”
“Better than—”
The barge shook violently. The crane’s boom snapped back, rising to its full arc and then folded back, and crashed over the stern of the barge. The cable snapped across the deck like a bullwhip. Gabe pulled Carol down hard and covered her as the cable swung overhead, shredding the roof of the aluminum dive shack.
“Maybe that wasn’t a good idea,” he said helping her up.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Let’s go see.” He led her out onto the deck where they found the frayed end of the crane cable imbedded in a portable toilet. Gabe examined the severed cable. “There’s no way to bring the chamber up now. I’m going after her.”
CHAPTER 42
Gabe’s mind raced as Carol helped him into the gear. The wet suit was too big, the rotting fins too small, and the regulator not serviced since Jimmy Driftwood sang about the battle of New Orleans in 1959.
“Gabe, what are you doing?” Bob asked. “You’re hurt, and you can’t dive with that junk. It’s suicide. Wait for the team to get here and do this right.”
“She may not have time. I have to go now.”
“Please wait—”
“I got them into this mess. I have to get her out.”
Carol returned with an armload of rope and a heavy sweatshirt. “This’s all I could find. Will you be okay?”
“I’ll need a cheater pipe for the hatch dogs and a down line,” he told her. She delegated, and soon both appeared. An acetylene cutting rig on a handy dolly would be sacrificed as the anchor for the down line. Gabe coiled a hundred-foot extension cord over the bottles to use as a tether and search line. He would dive from a McFarland skiff tied off to the barge. Carol was first in the boat. As the boat swung away from the barge out into the current, she took his hands and prayed. Then she kissed Gabe and handed him a decades-old, hard black rubber, round scuba mask, discarded by the dive crew.
Gabe spit in the mask and rinsed it in river water, “Not that I’ll be able to see a thing down there.” It was a hollow laugh.
Sweatshirt on over the ragged wetsuit, rotten mask in place, regulator untested, rinsed and leaking, he did a back roll out of the skiff and was gone. The entry shock took his breath as cold water flooded the tattered suit. He gasped for air but forced himself to focus on the line, pulling his way down through the current. Dear Lord, it’s now or never. Please help me save our girl.
Gabe came to the torch bottles and rested for a second as he uncoiled the extension cord and let the current carry him back. He was so cold his hands were going numb and his legs were cramping. He remembered watching a training film about Navy Seals in which they survived long submersions in ice water by tensing their abdominal muscles and generating massive amounts of body heat. He flexed until it hurt but felt better.
