Then we were rammed. It was incredibly loud, as though a bomb had gone off. I slid across the polished mahogany floor, along with the others. We were like sausages on a tilted, greasy skillet.
I gathered myself and found the sharp prow of the attacking boat had speared the hull and pierced the parlor wall. It was a gleaming blue wedge, embedded in the dark wood paneling. Waves of salt water surged in with it, and we were already starting to sink from damage below the waterline. Broken crockery and glass were strewn everywhere.
Events were happening so fast, it was hard to process. Footsteps pounded overhead and on the deck outside us, but I didn’t hear any more gunshots.
We clambered wordlessly to our feet. Everyone seemed to be intact, although Ram was quite pale and may have been in shock. In a moment, the door to the parlor banged open, and Frank strolled in with several Maori men. All of them brandished handguns.
“Ahoy!” he called in his gravelly voice. “Hide the women and children. The pirates have boarded.”
“Where the fuck is Jason?” a skinny, goateed Maori barked. His western-style black shirt with pearl snaps, faded jeans, and green lizard-skin cowboy boots created a weird juxtaposition of cultures. And I realized I expected all Maoris to be built like sumo wrestlers. The other men were. There were five of them altogether.
Since no one responded to the cowboy, I spoke up. It seemed like a good idea to cooperate with anyone aiming a gun at us, let alone someone crazy enough to ram a yacht.
“He ran out of the room when we heard the shots,” I said. “I assumed you’d captured him.”
“Are you the Buddha guy?” he asked. He turned to Frank before I could answer. “Is this him?”
Frank nodded. He still looked like a particularly unattractive rat.
“So nobody knows where he is?” The cowboy glanced around the room, although we were all standing bunched together in the middle of it.
Everyone shook their heads and Sam said, “No.”
The Maori, who seemed to be in charge, glared at her. “You try any kung fu shit and Frank’ll shoot you. He likes to shoot people.”
“Yes,” Sam said. “He made us aware of that earlier. Who are you?”
“Tommy T. I run things north of Auckland. Now everybody shut up, and let me think.”
The boat lurched and slid sideways. Maybe we’d all drown before he decided what to do.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Frank, take these people over to the fishing boat. The rest of you”—he turned to his henchmen—“come with me. And stay alert. My cousin Jason can whip all your asses with one hand tied behind his back.”
He said this with an interesting combination of pride and bitterness. The Maoris left, and Frank gestured with his matte-black, squared-off pistol.
“Let’s move it, people. You old farts go in front.”
He herded us out of the parlor onto the far deck of the listing yacht, where the mist had drifted in. I didn’t see any of Ram’s men or, for that matter, any of the pirates. A third boat—not the speedboat that had rammed us—bobbed in the water beside the rail. A large, well-worn commercial fishing vessel, it smelled hellaciously fishy, even from where we stood. Long, vertical poles were spaced across the back of it, and several oversized fiberglass boxes overflowed with netting. Every surface of the wooden boat was either filthy with black soot or covered in slick fish scales. It was disgusting. On the other hand, it wasn’t sinking.
They’d lashed a thick two-foot-wide plank from one boat to the other, and it rocked back and forth over the water. We were in a bay, not a lake, and the water was far from placid. How would this work? Could Ram really get across that thing? The board was about six feet long. I watched him as he eyed the contraption. He didn’t look scared, but he certainly didn’t look confident, either.
Another big Maori appeared on the expansive back deck of the fishing boat. “Send ’em over,” he called.
“I don’t know about the old one,” Frank called back. “Maybe we should leave him on the yacht for now.”
“Save him for last,” the man said. “We’ll check with Tommy.”
“I’ve been kidnapped before,” Ram told Frank. “My directors will cooperate. And the yacht is insured.”
“Shut up,” Frank said. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. By the way, you look like a major doofus in that fucking ascot.”
Sam walked across the plank first. The most challenging part seemed to be climbing over the rail and establishing a solid footing on the lashed end of the plank. The rope they’d used was thick and unevenly shredded. Sam placed her feet carefully and then waltzed across. Two gunmen on the other side of the watery gap trained guns on Sam.
Bhante crossed next; the yacht shifted abruptly just before he reached the fishing boat. He had to scoot to reach the end of it, landing awkwardly on the slippery deck.
It was my turn, and I surprised myself by how easily I traversed the plank. Prior to my cliff experience, I might have struggled with my nerve. Falling into the water itself wouldn’t have been a big deal—I’m a very strong swimmer—but the boats were so close to one another, it would’ve been easy to be crushed between them. Somehow, I managed to not think about that and just keep moving.
At that point, Tommy T. and his men came around the corner of the yacht’s wraparound deck, prodding Jason from behind.
“Where is my crew?” Ram called to them. “Are my people safe?”
“They’re in lifeboats on the other side,” Jason told him. “We got everyone on board.” He stood tall on the balls of his feet.
“What’s the holdup?” Tommy T. asked Frank. His sharp, commanding voice cut through the sea air.
“The old fart—you think he can make it across? He acts like he’s important—I think it’s his yacht—so I didn’t know how you wanted us to handle it.”
Jason spoke up. “I’ll carry him.”
Without waiting for his cousin’s permission, he strode forward, curled an arm around Ram’s waist, and hoisted him under his arm like a human baguette. It was as if the old man didn’t weigh anything at all. Then Jason scampered across the makeshift bridge.
When they reached the fishing boat, he gently deposited Ram beside him and called to Tommy T. “I’m telling your mother about this,” he said. “It’s not too late to back off, you know.”
“Fuck you, Patariki,” Tommy growled, climbing over the yacht’s railing and heading our way.
Once everyone had switched boats, two of the men unlashed the plank and pushed against the sinking ship’s hull with metal poles. We began drifting away, and someone in the wheelhouse started the diesel engines. Across the water, the Silent Love tipped all the way over. Perhaps the plank had held it in place, although it was hard to believe that a plank could keep a huge yacht from tipping over. The sinking boat generated waves that rocked ours.
We stood on the slippery back deck as the fishing boat pulled away from the yacht and headed toward a flat expanse of the shoreline where a small river joined the bay.
“You’ll never get away with this,” Ram said. “We’re within sight of land. The volunteer rescue fleet will be out here soon. You can’t just—”
Frank stepped forward and slapped him. Ram was rocked but kept his feet. For a guy who had to have been in his late eighties at least, he was pretty durable.
“Let’s go inside and talk,” Tommy said to us. “Frank, you and Trevor and Robert come with me. The rest of you put on that fisherman crap in the bins and try not to look like gangsters.”
The square room at the front of the boat’s interior was stark. Peeling white paint revealed the pea green color underneath. It was considerably less filthy than the deck. Wooden bench seats lined both sides, and a long metal table was bolted to the middle of the floor. At the front end of the room in a glassed-in porch—the wheelhouse—another Maori man steered the boat. He wore shiny yellow rain gear.
“Sit,” Tommy barked, gesturing to the bench on the left side wall. He and
Frank parked themselves on the edge of the table facing us, and we shuffled to the seats. Tommy played with the hems of his jeans to display his green boots. The two other thugs stationed themselves by the back door, guns in their hands. One held a sawed-off shotgun; the other, a shiny revolver.
I ended up seated in the middle of our group. Sam sat next to me on my right, and Jason was next to her. Bhante and Ram perched on the ends. What an odd assortment we were. A Sri Lankan monk, an Indian businessman, a New Zealand athlete, a female American martial artist, and a fucking clone. Hell, I was an odd assortment all by myself.
“So what is it you want?” Bhante asked as Tommy gathered his thoughts again. I was struck by the fact that this was the first time Bhante had spoken since we’d been attacked. His voice was clear and strong.
“The bones, of course,” Frank answered. Tommy frowned; Frank didn’t notice. “You know as well as I do,” he continued, “that religious relics with a good provenance will bring millions of US dollars. And then there’s Sid.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Tommy spoke up. Everything he said had an edge to it. “That’s enough, Frank,” he told him. “I’ll do the talking.”
“Sure, Tommy. No problem,” Frank said, fear leaking out in his tone.
Jason spoke next. “You steered me to Frank for help in the States because you already knew him? He was working for you all along? How do you know an asshole like Frank? You can’t trust him, you know.”
“Jason,” Tommy said, “I know you’re not a bad guy, but I still don’t like you. I never have. So if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to let Trevor pistol-whip you. He’d like that. Guess who his sister is—Eva Mahinarangi. Ring a bell? Wellington? 2009?”
Jason turned and faced one of the men by the door. “Sorry, man,” he said. “I feel bad about how I treated women back then.”
“Fuck you,” Trevor growled. He was about three-quarters the size of Jason, with tribal tattoos covering almost all of his exposed skin—even half his face. He scowled and maintained an athletic stance—ready to move quickly. On an energy level, he radiated menace. If this guy got off his leash, people were going to get hurt.
“I know the relics aren’t in the cave, and they weren’t on the yacht, either,” Tommy said. “What I don’t know is where they are instead.” He glared at Bhante. It was a world-class glare.
“I have been entrusted with them,” Bhante said. “I can no more tell you than fly to the moon.”
Tommy nodded at Frank, who slid off the table, stepped forward, and decked Bhante with a right cross to his upper cheek. The Sri Lankan toppled against me and then fell to the floor.
Somehow, despite all the threats and the earlier slap Frank had delivered, I’d been in denial about our situation. Now I was shocked into reality. They were going to beat up an old man to get what they wanted. My heart raced, and I shrank back against the dirty wall.
Sam sprang into action. Moving even faster than she had back in my office, she lunged forward and dropped Frank with a kick to the side of his head. A split second later, she launched herself at Trevor, who failed to aim his revolver in time. It went off as he went down, and I heard the thud of the guy steering the boat hitting the floor.
Meanwhile, Jason attacked the other thug who’d been brandishing a shotgun. Tommy shrank back to the far side of the room, and several gunmen dressed in raincoats poured through the back door.
I decided in a split second to gamble that they needed me alive. I leapt to my feet and ran toward the wheelhouse. The man on the floor had definitely been shot, and I had to step on him to hurl myself out the open window on the side of the small room. It was a crappy dive—my feet hit the window frame as I knifed through—but I made it into the water.
The cold, salty bay shocked my nervous system. Adrenaline—my new friend—drove me, and I immediately changed direction underwater and swam under the boat. I’d seen this maneuver in a spy movie. Unfortunately, the boat in the movie hadn’t sported external propellers like this one. Partway across the expanse of the wider-than-expected ship’s keel, I realized I was about to be chopped to bits as the big boat lumbered over me. I dove straight down for dear life, hoping I’d have enough breath to make it back up again. I barely made it, despite all those long hours on my bike and in the pool. When I finally came up for air, I didn’t hear anything before I dove again and headed back toward where Ram’s yacht had sunk.
The shore may have been reachable, but a swim that long gave Tommy T. too much time to find me. I figured my best chance was to get picked up by one of the yacht’s lifeboats back at the site of the collision. And I didn’t think Tommy was stupid or desperate enough to return to the scene of his crime. Wouldn’t he be satisfied with making Bhante tell him where the relics were?
After some hard underwater swimming and a dozen more gasps for air, I popped my head up to fully oxygenate and survey the situation. I was a good distance away from the fishing boat now. I couldn’t spy anything else in the other direction; my low-in-the-water vantage point was limited and it was still a bit misty. Had both the Silent Love and the speed boat completely sunk already? Maybe I’d headed the wrong way.
I swam hard for another quarter mile or so, before I paused again to rest and take another look at things.
“Need a lift?” a male voice called from behind me.
This seemed so unlikely, I wondered if I’d imagined it. I turned around in the water and saw the older Hispanic man from the B&B dining room in a rowboat, of all things. An old wooden rowboat.
“I guess I do,” I called, still very out of breath.
“Hop in,” he said, pulling in his oars.
I swam over and discovered this was easier said than done. My soggy, heavy clothes had been challenging enough in the rough water. In the air, I had to fight for every inch. The man just waited calmly for me to manage it. Why didn’t he help? And surely he’d been privy to all the mayhem out on the bay. Why did he look so serene?
“Where to?” he asked once I’d levered myself aboard and lay on the floor of the boat at his feet.
“Uh, I have no idea. I don’t even really know where I am, let alone where I ought to be,” I said.
“Why don’t we go to my island, then?” he said. “I was heading there anyway—I just came into town for breakfast.”
“Sure. You own your own island?”
“Yes,” he said. “I won the lottery, so I bought one. You can sort through things there. I have a nice dog, too.”
“Okay.” He spoke with a complex accent—not local—and an easy, casual manner.
The man began to row again. He wore old khaki pants, a red windbreaker, and a red ski cap. He certainly wouldn’t be hard to spot if anyone was pursuing us or even just scanning the water with binoculars.
His face was leathery and wrinkled from the sun, but he didn’t have worry wrinkles or any other evidence of emotional stress. In my experience, this was unusual in anyone past the age of thirty. He could’ve been a character actor in a 1950s Western—maybe the retired, half-breed gunfighter who’d had to strap on his guns again for some implausible reason.
I heard a speedboat in the water behind us. It may have been Tommy’s people—perhaps the boat that had rammed us hadn’t sunk—or rescuers. I’d begun to pull myself up onto the other seat in the rowboat, but now I lay back down. I wasn’t eager to find out who it was.
“They’ll probably see you there,” he said. “Why not sit up? I’ll take care of this.”
“You don’t know who these people are. They’re dangerous—violent.”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be fine. By the way, call me Marco.” Again, I was struck by his breezy demeanor. Is he developmentally disabled? Who wouldn’t be alarmed? The speedboat drew closer.
“I’m Sid,” I told him.
“Of course you are,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Chapter Eight
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
�
��Oh, don’t misunderstand. I don’t mean you in particular. I’ve been expecting whoever it is that thinks he’s Buddha’s clone.”
I stared at him. “How do you know about that?”
“I’ll tell you about it later,” he said as he continued rowing. “But first put on my hat.”
“Why?”
“So the men in the boat won’t see you. It’s easier than your diving back into the bay.”
“It’s bright red. They’re much more likely to see me in your cap.”
“They won’t see you if you wear the hat,” Marco said.
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Fuck sense,” he said.
I just lay there. This guy is crazy.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “As a gesture of good faith, I’ll give you some idea of who I am, so you’ll put on the hat.”
“Okay.”
“Think about something that’s completely immaterial—something I couldn’t possibly know.”
“Okay.” None of this seemed as ridiculous as it would’ve the week before. I took a moment and recalled an incident at the San Francisco zoo in which a gorilla had signed to me from his enclosure.
“Interspecies contact can be powerful, can’t it?” Marco said amiably. “And it’s always available on some level. Animals are much more aware than we give them credit for.”
He took off his hat and held it out to me. I immediately sat up and jammed it on my head.
Holy shit, I thought. But I didn’t seem to be feeling much of anything else. Why wasn’t I scared?
“I don’t want you to be,” Marco said. “But enough of that. Now that I’ve established my credentials, I’ll save all the showing off for any pretty mermaids we might meet.” He laughed at his own joke, and his laugh was beautifully liquid—a flow of round, bubbling sound. It was unlike any laugh I’d ever heard.
The speedboat had veered away and bombed around in the bay past us, but now it circled back. The mist had almost completely dissipated, but I still couldn’t see the fishing boat or the yacht. We were about to test the magic red hat. When the launch reached us—the same one Jason had piloted the day before, actually—one of the mastiff-like Maoris throttled back, and Frank called across the water to Marco. I held my breath.
Coattail Karma Page 9
