The land masses around me looked black, totally devoid of color like piles of coal, while the sea and sky were an eerie gray luminescence. Normally at this hour, you could see lights along the coast, evidence of human habitation, but apparently the power was out all over and the coasts had slipped back a century or two.
All in all, the weather was still a horror show, and it would become deadly again once we cleared Shelter Island and got out into Gardiners Bay.
I knew I was supposed to turn on my running lights, but there was only one other boat out here, and I didn’t want to be seen by that boat. I was certain he wasn’t running with his lights either.
Beth said, “So the Gordons didn’t have time to go back for a second load before the Plum Island patrol boat came around again.”
“Right,” I answered, “a rubber raft can hold only so much, and they didn’t want to leave the bones and so forth unguarded on the Formula while they went back for a second trip.”
Beth nodded and said, “So they decided to get rid of what they’d already recovered and come back for the main treasure some other time.”
“Right. Probably that very night, if the temporary clove hitch was an indication.” I added, “They had to pass Tobin’s house on Founders Landing on the way back to their house. I have no doubt they pulled into his boathouse, maybe intending to leave the bones, the rotted sea chest, and the four coins—as a sort of souvenir of the find—at his house. When they saw that the Whaler was gone, they figured Tobin was gone, so they continued on to their house.”
“Where they surprised Tobin.”
“Right. He’d already ransacked their house to simulate a burglary, as well as to see if the Gordons were holding out on any treasure.”
“Also, he’d want to see if there was any incriminating evidence in their house linking them to him.”
“Exactly. So the Gordons pull into their dock, and maybe it’s at this point that they raise the flags signaling Dangerous Cargo, Need Assistance.” I added, “I’m sure they’d raised the Jolly Roger in the morning, signaling to Tobin that this was, indeed, the day as agreed. Calm seas, no rain, and a lot of confidence and good vibes, or whatever.”
“And when the Gordons pulled into their dock, Tobin’s Whaler was in the wetlands nearby.”
“Yes.” I thought a minute and said, “We’ll probably never know what happened next—what was said, what Tobin thought was in the chest, what the Gordons thought Tobin was up to. At some point, all three of them knew that their partnership had ended. Tobin knew he’d never have another opportunity to murder his partners. So … he raised his gun, pressed on the handle of the air horn, and squeezed on the trigger of his pistol. The first round hits Tom in the forehead at close range, Judy screams and turns toward her husband and the second round hits her in the side of the head…. Tobin stops squeezing the air horn. He opens the aluminum chest and sees that there isn’t much gold or jewels in it. He figures the rest of the loot is on board the Spiro-chete, and he goes down to the boat and searches it. Nothing there. He realizes he’s killed the geese that were supposed to deliver the golden eggs. But all is not lost. He knows or believes that he can complete the job himself. Right?”
Beth nodded, thought a moment, then said, “Or, Tobin has another accomplice on the island.”
I said, “Indeed.” I added, “Then killing the Gordons is no big deal.”
We continued east through the passage, which is about four miles long and half a mile wide at its narrowest. It was definitely dark now—no lights, no moon, and no stars, only an ink-black sea and a smoke-black sky. I could barely see the channel markers, and if it weren’t for them, I’d have been totally lost and disoriented, and would have wound up on the rocks or shoals.
To our left, I saw a few lights onshore, and realized we were passing Greenport where there was obviously some emergency generator lighting. I said to Beth, “Greenport.”
She nodded.
We both had the same thought, which was to make for this safe harbor. I pictured us in some bar at a traditional hurricane party—candlelight and warm beer.
Somewhere to our right, though I couldn’t see it, was Dering Harbor on Shelter Island, and I knew there was a yacht club there where I could put in. Greenport and Dering Harbor were the last of the big easily navigable ports before the open sea. I looked at Beth and reminded her, “As soon as we clear Shelter Island, it’s going to get rough.”
She replied, “It’s rough now.” She shrugged, then said, “Let’s give it a shot. We can always turn back.”
I thought it was time to tell her about the fuel, and I said, “We’re low on gas and at some point out in Gardiners Bay, we will reach that legendary point of no return.”
She glanced at the gas gauges and said, “Don’t worry about that. We’ll capsize long before then.”
“That sounds like some idiotic thing I’d say.”
She smiled at me, which was unexpected. Then she went below and came back with a lifesaver, meaning a bottle of beer. I said, “Bless you.” The boat was banging around so badly, I couldn’t put the neck of the bottle to my lips without knocking my teeth out, so I poured the beer into my upturned and open mouth, getting about half of it on my face.
Beth had a plastic-coated chart, which she spread out on the dashboard and said, “Coming up on our left over there is Cleeves Point, and to the right over there is Hays Beach Point on Shelter Island. When we pass those points, we’re in this sort of funnel between Montauk Point and Orient Point where the Atlantic weather blows right in.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“This is not funny.”
I took another swig of the beer, an expensive imported brand, which is what I’d expect from Fredric Tobin. I said, “I sort of like the idea of stealing his boat and drinking his beer.”
Beth replied, “Which has been the most fun—wrecking his apartment or sinking his boat?”
“The boat is not sinking.”
“You ought to go look below.”
“I don’t have to—I can feel it in the helm.” I added, “Good ballast.”
“You’re a real sailor all of a sudden.”
“I’m a quick learner.”
“Right. Go take a break, John. I’ll take the helm.”
“Okay.” I took the chart, gave the wheel to Beth, and went below.
The small cabin was awash in about three inches of water, which meant we were taking in more water than the bilge pumps could handle. As I indicated, I didn’t mind a little water to add weight and ballast to make up for the lighter fuel tanks. It was too bad the engine wouldn’t burn water.
I went into the head and retched about a pint of saltwater into the toilet. I washed the salt off my face and hands, and came back into the cabin. I sat on one of the bench beds, studied the chart, and sipped my beer. My arms and shoulders ached, my legs and hips ached, and my chest was heaving, though my stomach felt better. I stared at the chart for a minute or two, went to the bar refrigerator and found another beer, which I carried topside along with the chart.
Beth was doing fine in the storm, which, as I said, wasn’t too bad here on the leeward side of Shelter Island. The seas were high, but they were predictable, and the wind at sea level wasn’t so bad as long as the island sheltered us.
I looked out at the horizon and was able to see the black outline of the two points of land that marked the end of the safe passage. I said to Beth, “I’ll take the wheel. You take the chart.”
“Okay.” She tapped the chart and said, “There’s some tricky navigating coming up. You have to stay to the right of Long Beach Bar Lighthouse.”
“All right,” I replied. We exchanged places. As she sidestepped past me, she glanced toward the stern and let out a scream.
I thought it must be a monster wave that caused that reaction and I looked quickly back over my shoulder as I took the wheel.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A huge cabin cruiser—a Chris-Craft to be exact, the Aut
umn Gold to be specific—was no more than twenty feet off our tail on a collision course and gaining fast.
CHAPTER 34
Beth seemed mesmerized by the specter of the huge boat looming over us.
It kind of surprised me, too. I mean, I hadn’t heard it over the roar of the storm and the sound of our own engines. Also, visibility was limited and the Chris-Craft wasn’t showing any running lights.
In any event, Fredric Tobin had outflanked us and all I could think of was the bow of the Autumn Gold cleaving through the stern of the Sondra; a Freudian image if ever there was one.
Anyway, it looked as if we were going to be sunk.
Realizing we’d seen him, Mr. Tobin turned on his electric hailing horn and shouted, “Fuck you!”
I mean, really.
I pushed forward on the throttles and the distance between us and him widened. He knew he couldn’t overtake a Formula 303, even in these seas. He greeted us again with, “Fuck you both! You’re dead! You’re dead!”
Freddie’s voice was kind of screechy, but maybe that was a result of the electric distortion.
Beth had drawn her 9mm Glock at some point, and she was crouched behind her chair, trying to steady her aim on the back of the seat. I thought she should be firing, but she wasn’t.
I glanced back at the Chris-Craft and noticed now that Tobin wasn’t on the exposed fly bridge, but was in the deck-house cabin where I knew there was a complete second set of controls. I noticed, too, that the hinged windshield on the helm side of the cabin was raised. More interesting than that, the skipper, Captain Freddie, was leaning out the open window, holding a rifle in his right hand, and I assume steadying the helm with his left. His right shoulder was braced against the window frame and the rifle was now pointed at us.
Well, here we were in two wildly moving boats in the dark with no lights, the wind and waves and all that, and I guessed that’s why Tobin hadn’t opened fire yet. I yelled to Beth, “Pop off a couple.”
She called back, “I’m not supposed to fire until he fires.”
“Shoot the fucking gun!”
She did. In fact, she popped off all fifteen rounds, and I saw the windshield beside Tobin shatter. I also noticed that F. Tobin was no longer leaning out the window with his rifle. I called to Beth, “Good job!”
She slammed another fifteen-round magazine into the pistol and covered the cabin cruiser.
I kept glancing over my shoulder as I tried to control the Formula in the steadily worsening sea. All of a sudden, Tobin popped up at the open window, and I saw his rifle flash. “Down!” I yelled. The rifle flashed three more times, and I heard a round thud into the dashboard, then my wind-shield shattered. Beth was returning the fire, slower, steadier than before.
I knew we couldn’t match the accuracy of his rifle so I gave the engines full throttle and we took off, crashing through the tops of the waves and away from the Chris-Craft. At about sixty feet, neither of us was visible to the other. I heard his hailing horn crackle, then his tinny, tiny voice came across the stormy seas. “Fuck you! You’ll drown! You’ll never survive this storm! Fuck you!”
This didn’t sound like the suave and debonair gentleman I’d come to know and dislike. This was a man who had lost it.
“You’re dead! You’re both fucking dead!”
I was really annoyed at being taunted by a man who had just murdered my lover. I said to Beth, “That bastard dies.”
“Don’t let him get to you, John. He’s finished and he knows it. He’s desperate.”
He’s desperate? We weren’t in great shape either.
Anyway, Beth stayed in her firing stance, facing the stern, trying to steady her pistol on the back of the seat. She said to me, “John, come around in a wide circle, and we’ll get behind him.”
“Beth, I’m not John Paul Jones and this is not a naval engagement.”
“I don’t want him behind us!”
“Don’t worry about it. Just keep an eye out.” I glanced at the fuel gauge and saw the needle between one eighth and E. I said, “We don’t have the fuel for maneuvers.”
She asked me, “Do you think he’s still going to Plum Island?”
“That’s where the gold is.”
“But he knows we’re on to him.”
“Which is why he’s going to keep on trying to kill us.” I added, “Or at least witness that we capsized and drowned.”
She didn’t reply for a while, then asked me, “How did we get ahead of him?”
“I guess we were going faster than him. Law of physics.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“Nope. Do you?”
“Is it time to head for a safe harbor?”
“Maybe. But we can’t go back. I don’t want to run into Freddie’s rifle again.”
Beth found the plastic-coated chart on the deck and unfolded it on the dashboard. She pointed and said, “That must be Long Beach Bar Lighthouse over there.”
I looked off to our right front and saw a faint blinking light.
She continued, “If we head to the left of the lighthouse, we may be able to see some channel markers that will lead us to East Marion or Orient. We can dock someplace, and call the Coast Guard or the security people on Plum Island and alert them to the situation.”
I glanced at the chart, which was lit by the faint glow of a reading light on the dashboard. I said, “There’s no way I can navigate this boat in this storm through these narrow channels. The only place I can get into is Greenport or maybe Dering, and Freddie’s between us and those harbors.”
She thought a moment, then said, “In other words, we’re not chasing him anymore. He’s chasing us—out into the open water.”
“Well … you could say we’re leading him into a trap.”
“What trap?”
“I knew you’d ask that. Trust me.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” I cut back on the throttles and the Formula settled down a little. I said to Beth, “Actually, I like it this way. Now I know for sure where he is and where he’s going.” I added, “I’d rather deal with him on land. We’ll meet him on Plum Island.”
Beth folded her chart. “Right.” She glanced back over her shoulder and said, “He’s got us outgunned and outboated.”
“Correct.” I set a course that would take us to the right of the lighthouse out into Gardiners Bay, which in turn would put us on a course to Plum Island. I asked her, “How many rounds do you have left?”
She replied, “I have nine left in this magazine and a full magazine of fifteen in my pocket.”
“Good enough.” I glanced at her and said, “Nice shooting back there.”
“Not really.”
“You upset his aim. You may also have hit him.”
She didn’t reply.
I said to her, “I heard that last round go past my ear before it went through the windshield. Jeez! Just like old times back in the city.” I asked her, as an afterthought, “You okay?”
“Well …”
I looked quickly toward her. “What’s the matter?”
“Not sure …”
“Beth? What’s the matter?” I could see her left hand moving over her rain slicker and she winced. She brought her hand out and it was covered in blood. She said, “Damn….”
I was literally speechless.
She said, “Funny…. I didn’t realize I was hit … then I felt this warm … It’s okay though … just a graze.”
“Are you … are you sure … ?”
“Yeah…. I can feel where it passed through….”
“Let’s see. Come here.”
She moved closer to where I stood at the wheel, turned toward the stern and loosened her life vest, then raised her slicker and shirt. Her rib cage, between her breast and her hip, was covered with blood. I reached out and said, “Steady.” I felt for the wound and was relieved to discover that it was indeed a graze running along the lower rib. The gash was deep, but had not exposed the bone.
Beth let out a gasp as my fingers probed into the wound. I took my hand away and said, “It’s okay.”
“That’s what I told you.”
“I just get a kick out of sticking my fingers into gunshot wounds. Hurt yet?”
“It didn’t. Now it does.”
“Go below and find the first-aid kit.”
She went below.
I scanned the horizon. Even in the darkness, I could see the two points of land on either side that marked the end of the relatively calm strait.
Within a minute, we were out into Gardiners Bay. Within two minutes, the sea looked like someone switched the dial to spin and rinse. The wind howled, the waves crashed, the boat was nearly out of control, and I was weighing my options.
Beth scrambled up from the cabin and held on to the handgrip on the dashboard.
I called out over the sound of the wind and the waves, “Are you okay?”
She nodded, then yelled, “John! We have to turn back!”
I knew she was right. The Formula was not made for this and neither was I. Then I recalled Tom Gordon’s words to me on my porch that night which seemed so long ago. A boat in the harbor is a safe boat. But that’s not what boats are for.
In truth, I was no longer frightened by the sea or by the possibility of my death, for that matter. I was running on pure adrenaline and hate. I glanced at Beth and our eyes met. She seemed to understand, but she didn’t want to share my psychotic episode. She said, “John … if we die, he gets away with it. We have to get into some harbor or inlet somewhere.”
“I can’t…. I mean, we’d run aground and sink. We have to ride it out.”
She didn’t reply.
I said, “We can put in at Plum Island. I can get into that cove. It’s well marked and lit. They have their own generator.”
She opened the chart again and stared at it as if trying to find an answer to our dilemma. In fact, as I’d already concluded, the only possible harbors, Greenport and Dering, lay behind us, and between us and those harbors was Tobin.
She said, “Now that we’re out in the open sea, we should be able to circle around and get past him and back to Green-port.”
Plum Island Page 49
