by Bill Noel
I knew she wouldn’t be fine; neither would I. Unless I woke up and this was all a bad dream, neither would the two of us as a couple.
I walked the short distance to the house and got my car. The temperature was in the high eighties with humidity to match. The sour taste in my mouth matched my mood as I grabbed one of the two empty parking spaces in front of the Mariner’s Breeze Bed and Breakfast. Charles was on the front porch and chided me for being late; I pushed past him and knocked on Heather’s door.
“Thank God you’re here,” she said without preamble. She motioned me into her room and left the door open for Charles, who was a step behind. I had never been in Heather’s room, but it was as I imagined. A beat-up, red vinyl recliner held a prominent place in the corner with a small manicurist’s table beside it with an empty, chrome, picture frame with crystals attached by a thin thread dangling from the top edge. A large, black-and-silver karaoke machine stood near the center of the room with an easel in front of it; sheet music from “Always, Patsy” prominently rested on the makeshift music stand. The door to the closet-sized bedroom was open, and I could see an unmade bed with pink sheets strewn about.
“Tell him what happened,” said Charles. He sat in the recliner while Heather bounced from one wall to another.
“Okay,” she said and focused on me. “I was getting home from Maggie’s—had four massages this afternoon, big, old, hairy-backed guy and three women, sure were hard on these old fingers.” She wiggled her fingers at me.
“And?” said Charles.
“Well—” She looked at Charles and gave him a disgusted look for interrupting her massage story and turned back to me. “I unlocked the door.” She nodded in the direction of her apartment door. “Then I saw Cal in the hall. I usually try to be friendly-like, so I turned to talk, and there was Greg—you know, the one who wouldn’t let me sing two songs—hunkered up close to Cal. I sort of thought he was pushing something in Cal’s back, but I could have imagined it. Anyway, Cal looked like someone killed his pet chinchilla, if he had one. Old Greg wasn’t much happier.”
“Did they say anything?” I asked.
“Didn’t give them time to,” said Heather. “When I saw the looks on their faces, I eased back into the room and shut the door. Turned the deadbolt too—I was pet-re-fied.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“Well, I heard the front door close, so I peeked around the corner. The hall was empty, so I snuck to the front door and looked out. Greg shoved Cal into the front seat of his Toyota, sort of rough-like. They pulled out of the lot, and I called Charles.”
“I was home and came right over,” said Charles. “Heather told me the story, and I called you. And here we are.”
“Think we need to call the police?” asked Heather.
Charles looked at the front door and then at Heather. “To tell them what—Greg and Cal drove off together? Doubt that’ll bring out the Calvary and rescue-sniffing dogs.”
Charles was right, but we couldn’t stand around here and do nothing. I said, “Let’s drive around and see if we can find Greg’s car.”
Heather started out the door. Charles moved between her and the door and held his cane out. “Why don’t you wait here?” he said. “Then you can call us if they come back.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she shrugged. She wasn’t happy with that plan but didn’t protest.
“Now where?” asked Charles.
We were at the corner of Center Street and looked both ways. “Any idea where Greg lives?”
“Nope—off island somewhere, I think.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down much. Let’s go to the bar and see if we get lucky,” I said.
“Good line,” said Charles.
I snarled at him and turned right on Center Street and drove three blocks and then turned right just past the burnt-out law offices and city hall. Traffic was at its usual summer standstill. We inched along at a frustratingly slow pace.
I was struck by the irony of GB’s being across the street from the police department. Traffic was just as heavy in front of the bar, and I had to concentrate to avoid hitting cars stopped in the road waiting for parking spaces to open. Charles looked from side to side hoping to catch a glimpse of the Toyota.
We circled the block twice with several Toyota sightings, but none belonged to the bar owner. “Pull over somewhere, anywhere,” said Charles. “Maybe someone in there knows where he is.”
The bar wasn’t open, and I didn’t see any lights in the front window; that wouldn’t deter Charles. Two blocks later, I struck pay dirt—an empty, sand-covered parking space. Instead of walking to the front of GB’s, Charles headed to the side entrance. The door was slightly ajar, and the smell of stale beer whiffed through the crack along with Conway Twitty’s distinctive voice coming from the jukebox. I stood to the left of the door opening, Charles to the right. He pointed his cane at the door and held out his other hand as if to say, “Now what?”
We’d come this far, and I couldn’t think of a reason—other than avoiding us getting killed—not to stumble on. “Hello, hello,” I said as I pushed the door open. The rusty, steel hinges were nearly as loud as my greeting.
“We’re not open. Come back in an hour.”
I peeked in the near-dark bar and recognized Nick, one of Greg’s bartenders, moving a table to the far side of the room. He slid two chairs under the table and then turned toward Charles and me. “Oh, hi,” he said and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a white bar towel he had draped around his neck.
“We know you’re not open,” I said. “We’re looking for Greg.”
Charles had already walked around Nick and looked around the corner of the counter. He looked like he was chasing a wayward mouse instead of trying to find Cal and Greg.
Nick looked at Charles and said, “Well, he ain’t under there. Fact, I don’t know where he’s at.”
“Seen him today?” I asked and watched Charles continue to check every corner and crevice.
“He was in thirty minutes ago; said something about leaving for a while. Then he was gone.”
I glanced at Charles, who was near the restroom door. He looked from Nick to me and then walked closer. “What kind of boat’s he got?” asked Charles. He tried to act casual, but his jaw was tight and the words came out harsh.
Nick giggled. “Not quite a yacht; more like one of those squatty little boats with the big-ass motor on its butt. He won’t be sailing the ocean blue in it.”
Nick didn’t know it, but that wasn’t the answer we wanted to hear. We thanked him and hurried down the sidewalk.
“Why’d you ask about a boat?” I asked as we crossed the street.
“Figured that if that’s how he tried to get rid of Long, he’d do the same with Cal.”
“A guess, then?”
“A big one,” said Charles. “What else do we have?”
Before we got to the car, Charles asked for my cell phone and punched in a number.
“Yeah … five minutes,” was all I heard before he handed the phone back to me.
“Folly View Marina,” he said and slammed the door shut. “Mel’s taking us for a ride.”
I need to remember to ask Charles why he had memorized Mel’s phone number.
Mad Mel had untied his Magical Marsh Machine from the dock as I slid to a stop in the gravel lot. A cloud of dust billowed up behind us. He must have been on the boat when Charles called.
“Let’s see if I have my mission correct,” said Mel as he threw the last rope into the boat. “All I have to do is find one damned bar owner in a small boat sticking something in the back of one frickin’ country-music-singing cowboy floating around somewhere in seventeen gazillion square miles of ocean, river, or marsh. That about it?”
Charles had already climbed in Mel’s machine
and offered me a hand over the gunwale. He threw his cane on the bench seat and looked at Mel. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Mel rolled his eyes.
“Here’s my thought,” I said. “If Gregory forced Cal to go with him, it wasn’t to give him lessons on how to be part-owner in the bar. He’s in big trouble. If they’re in a boat, he plans to kill Cal—if he hasn’t already.”
“Well, a big duh to that,” said Charles.
“So, where do we go?” asked Mel.
“As I was trying to say before I was so rudely interrupted,” I said and stared at Charles, “Gregory didn’t do a very good job dumping Long, so I’m guessing he doesn’t know the marsh and its waterways that well.”
Charles grabbed his cane and pointed it in the general direction of Secessionville. “He did know his way to where he dumped Long.”
“Got it,” said Mel. He pointed for Charles and me to sit. “If he’s even in a boat,” he mumbled.
That was the last I heard except for the roar of Mad Mel’s Magical Marsh Machine’s macho engine. Mel didn’t let off the throttle until we were across the river and approached a boat pulling two teenagers on a huge truck inner tube. I took advantage of the relative quiet and dialed Karen Lawson. Mel’s machine eased past the other boat, and he looked over at me. I raised one finger to ask him to hold down the noise until I was off the phone.
Karen answered on the third ring. I gave her an abbreviated version of the events of the last hour. She said she knew where we were headed and said she would contact the Folly Beach police, the sheriff’s office, and the Coast Guard. I told her I could be wrong and that Cal and Greg could be out for a pleasant boat ride. She said we’d deal with that if we had to, but until then, to stay away from Brile.
If we find him, I thought.
Charles and Mel closed in on me as soon as I shut the phone.
“Who was that, and what now?” asked Charles. Mel nodded at Charles’s question.
“Karen Lawson, county sheriff’s office,” I said for Mel’s benefit. “She said she’d contact law enforcement and for us to stay away from Brile.”
Charles turned to Mel. “Did you hear that?” he asked. “We’ve got to find Brile—can’t stay away from him if we don’t know where he is.”
Mel reached for the throttle lever. “Gotcha. If Brile’s going to wipe out your country-crooning buddy, he could have it done and be back home eating pecans before the cops get there.” He rammed the throttle with his palm; the sudden lurch of the boat nearly threw me overboard. I should have followed my advice to stay seated.
A couple of hundred yards from Tony Long’s next-to-final resting place, Mel pulled back on the throttle. This time, Charles lost his footing and grabbed the railing.
Charles glared at Mel. “Do you treat all your passengers this rough?” asked Charles as he regained his balance.
“Nope, you’re special,” said Mel. The boat was almost at a complete stop.
“Thanks,” said Charles.
“Other passengers pay,” responded Mel. He turned the boat to the right shore and pointed to the curve in the channel a hundred yards in front of us. “Didn’t bring my damned machine gun; don’t want to go barreling around that corner and run smack-dab into the killer barman.” Mel pointed to the front of the boat. “Get a life jacket.”
Charles reached under the front deck and grabbed two orange jackets and threw one to me. The idling engine masked the natural sounds of the marsh; we didn’t hear any man-made noises. Mel inched the boat to the curve, where I could see the bow of a small fishing boat bob slightly with the gently rolling current.
Mel growled, “Attack!”
Greg leaned over the prone body of Cal. The Magical Marsh Machine leapt forward. Charles and I grabbed the railing so we wouldn’t need to test the life jackets.
Mel turned us toward the small boat. Greg looked up from Cal, and for an instant, his face registered confusion, and then fear, and then anger. Greg grabbed Cal’s right leg and lifted it over the side of his craft. We were fifty feet from him. I was surprised—and pleased—to see Cal shake his head and then reach up and grab Greg’s left arm.
“Incoming. Down!” screamed Mel.
Greg swung his right arm in our direction. A pistol was pointed at us. He fired two rounds before I knew what happened. The spent shells flew harmlessly into the marsh. Mel yanked the wheel to the left.
My knees were on the boat’s fiberglass bottom. My right hand had a death grip on the side rail.
Cal held Greg’s arm for dear life. Greg tried again to push Cal overboard, but the singer wasn’t having any of it. Greg fired, but Cal had him so off-balance he had a better chance of hitting a pelican than us. Three misses, but how long could our luck hold?
Greg realized that he would have to do something with the human octopus clamped around his arm before he could deal the intruders. He lowered the automatic weapon and aimed it at Cal’s leg.
Charles pointed his cane over Greg’s head and screamed, “Greg, duck!”
It worked. Greg looked around to see what Charles was pointing at. Cal tightened his grip. And Mel had our boat speeding directly at the center of Greg’s. We closed fast on the fishing boat.
I saw what Mel’s plan was a split-second before we rammed the small boat. I grabbed the railing tighter and yelled for Charles to get down.
Our engine was loud, but it was nothing compared to the terrifying sound of metal on metal, fiberglass on fiberglass, and fiberglass on flesh.
Greg’s boat, less than half the size and weight of Mel’s Magical Marsh Machine, was lifted out of the water by the bow of Mel’s with as much ease as someone snatching a leaf from the stream. The smaller craft twisted in the air.
Cal grabbed for the rail but missed. He looked like a rag doll as he was hurled through the air. He landed on his back in the creek, barely missing the bank and the razor-sharp oyster shells. Greg managed to hang onto the side and landed flat in the bottom when the disabled boat splashed back into the water. His head slowly appeared above the gunwale, and his right hand still held the deadly weapon. How he managed to hold onto the gun?
Mel yanked his machine in reverse and pulled away from Greg’s wounded boat. Cal had pulled himself out of the water and collapsed in the marsh grasses. His left arm and leg sank beneath the soft, pluff mud. His right arm scraped against a row of oyster shells. He let out a yelp and then a string of profanities.
The roar of a boat engine was coming from behind us. I never thought I’d be happy to see Acting Chief King. I was so wrong. He was hunched down behind the wheel of a cream-and-ocean-green Bayliner Capri speedboat. I knew the city didn’t have any watercraft larger than a jet ski, so it must have been his boat.
Greg had regained his balance, and without the burden of Cal yanking on his arm, he aimed the handgun at the rapidly-approaching chief. I screamed to warn King, but he either didn’t hear me yell or chose to ignore me. He was no more than thirty feet from Greg when the killer fired.
The chief twisted, let go of the wheel, and grabbed his chest with his right hand. The boat abruptly turned to the right, and King flew out the left side like he had been jerked by a rope. The unmanned craft rammed the land and slid harmlessly on shore.
I grabbed a vest from storage and stepped off the side of the boat into the warm water. The chief bobbed face-down in the wake of his boat. He hadn’t moved but drifted farther from me. Could I get to him before he went under for good? I had never been a strong swimmer. If it weren’t for the life jacket, I would have gone down with the chief.
I gasped for breath and reached for his head. He had been under far too long, and I could see blood from the chest wound mix with the salt water. We were in the middle of the channel, and his head dipped beneath the surface each time I tried to pull him up enough to get the vest around him. I
was losing the battle and was afraid that he had already lost his. Where was a mermaid when I needed one? I’d settle for Flipper.
It wasn’t a mermaid or a dolphin, but something even better splashed in the water and grabbed my arm. Karen Lawson treaded water and put her arm under King’s torso and grabbed the life jacket from me. I managed to lift his face above the surface. An oar tapped me on the arm. I twisted my head around and saw Brian Newman in a shiny, red speedboat inching up to me. He held the oar out for me to grab. Karen and I pulled and pushed the lifeless body against the side of the boat, and Brian reached over and gripped King’s duty belt. Brian pulled, and Karen and I pushed the unresponsive body close enough for Brian to pull him in.
Brian carefully lowered King to the bottom of the boat. I looked over at Karen; her usually neat hairdo curled in all directions, and water dripped down her face. Her crisp, white blouse was nearly transparent and clung to her body. Mascara streaked down her cheeks. She had never looked better.
She turned to her dad and back to me as I floated on my back. She smiled. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said.
I grinned and then heard Mel yell, “Enough of this crap! Damn the torpedoes!”
Mel pushed his hand against the throttle. His engine coughed and then roared. Water spewed in the air behind his magical craft. Greg had an old, wooden oar and was paddling his dented, twisted, powerless boat toward shore. He was only a few feet from one of the long private piers behind a large, old farmhouse in Secessionville. I didn’t know if he could escape, but Mel wasn’t going to let him find out.
For the second time in fifteen minutes, the Magical Mystery Machine rammed the killer’s hapless craft. Greg lost his footing and reached for something solid. His luck had run out. He was thrown from the wadded-up boat—he flew left, while his gun catapulted right.
“Gotcha!” yelled Mel. He turned off the engine, threw both arms in the air like a referee signaling touchdown, and dove into the water. He surfaced behind Greg and wrapped his powerful arms around him. He would have made a python proud.
