Dark Horse

by Doug Richardson

  He ‘d have taken care of that. He ‘d have cut the communications before the kill. The kill! Jesus! It made no sense.

  Yet his instincts broke through the confusion. He knew there was always another radio. On large boats, even three or four.

  The pilot bridge.

  He pulled down the spring-loaded ladder, kneeling to lock it in place.

  “Help me…”

  Mitch screamed, “JESUS CHRIST!”

  Marshall was fetal, tucked up underneath the console and bleeding from a blow to the head. Knees to his chest. Beacon-white and convulsing so badly, he couldn’t buckle his life preserver.

  “I can’t…”

  “Marshall. I thought you were…”

  “He thinks I’m dead.”

  “The captain. Where’s the captain?”

  “All dead.” Marshall helplessly held out the buckle toward Mitch. “I can’t swim.”

  Mitch had but one good hand. With Marshall’s help, he had two.

  No endorphins this time, Mitch. It’s pure adrenaline from here on.

  With the buckles clasped on Marshall’s vest, he nodded upward and asked, “Is there another radio on the pilot bridge?”

  “Hurry…”

  “Say again,” said Mitch, easing closer on his hands and knees. “Did you say ‘hurry’?”

  “Hurry-cane.”

  He followed Marshall’s wide eyes, grabbing hold of the wheel and pulling himself upright. He scanned the hightech display until his eyes rested on the Doppler, a tracking device keyed in to a satellite-fed weather map. Green crystals blinked in his face, forming a swirl off the Cathedral coast and closing fast. Uncle J was wrong. The hurricane was coming in. Dead on for Cathedral.

  He dropped back down to Marshall. He had but one more question. After which would come the clarity that he so awfully craved. A renewed sense of purpose. And a plan so final, it was…

  A final act of public service.

  “After you, is there anybody left but him—and me?” asked Mitch.

  The old campaign dog shook his head ever so slightly. Mitch grabbed Marshall by the vest and lifted him to his feet. “Can you walk?” Nods. “Can you keep your head above water?” Nods. “Then let’s go.”

  Mitch slung on his own vest and hauled Marshall out the door, down two decks, over the rail to the edge of the churning water.

  “The tide’ll carry you back to shore. Just keep your head up! Breathe at the crests.”

  “I’ll hold on to you!”

  “No. You won’t.”

  “But you’re strong!”

  “I’m not comin’.”

  Mitch gave Marshall a shove and the old man was overboard, splashing down between swells and bobbing away from the boat.

  The engine room was warm and steamed. Shakespeare, naked to his Wranglers, tacked ahead with his plot, spilling fluid from the spare diesel cylinders as he prepared to start a fire mat would consume the boat and the evidence of the retribution he’d exacted. He thought them all disbelievers. Judas goats! Plotting against him. Turning tail. Preparing to endorse the front-runner and probable winner, Mitch Dutton.

  If he only knew.

  Madness choked the killer into mental asphyxia. Truth was contaminated. Fact was flipped. Turned over like a pancake. The men he’d killed were his last and only allies, having just put the finishing touches on the deal that would’ve put Shakespeare McCann firmly in the seat of Congress.

  Betraying Shakespeare McCann!

  The rumble of the idling engines was steady, governed by efficient fuel computers. They could run all night at that speed. Shakespeare wouldn’t need that long. Only another ten minutes. Then he’d set the fire and wait for Harbor Patrol to rescue him. They’d find him stranded, clinging to a life raft and ready to tell the tragic tale of a meeting fouled by fire and a surprise explosion.

  But the engines revved and engaged. Shakespeare felt the propeller turn as the yacht suddenly surged against the rising surf.

  Somebody was driving the boat!

  With tools found underneath the helmsman’s bunk, Mitch barred both doors to the bridge, port and starboard. And when it came to the life vest, the best he could do was to forget the buckle and tie the damn thing with a simple, one-handed square knot. Engaging the engine prop, he began slogging the boat forward. It was all coming back. And quickly. The harbor. Wheeling the old shrimp boats toward the first break into the Shoot. From there he could cross the second break over to the commercial side of the harbor along with the other fishing boats, oil tankers, and freighters. All of it navigated by memory and city lights. Landmarks picked off hillsides and structures.

  Fearing he’d flood the engine with a full-throttle thrust, he eased ahead. If he killed the motor, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to get it started again. There were all kinds of safeties aboard such boats. He pinched two more notches out of the throttle and egged the vessel on. The sharp V of the hull sliced into the growing tide. Cresting and crashing well beyond the safe harbor speed limit. Yet there would be no patrol boats to sound horns and pull alongside the ship. They were all tied down for safekeeping against the coming onslaught. Jasper’s wise voice called to him.

  Sailors in the shit, son. They’re on their own.

  The wheelhouse window began to fog, and Mitch had no clue where the defrost switch was. The only switch he knew that wouldn’t kill the engine was the one marked “autopilot.” And he was saving that one for the end. He just kept wiping the window with his shirtsleeve to keep his bearings. The first break was two hundred yards ahead. The water in the channel would be rough. It would try to throw the vessel sideways if he entered on too wide a trajectory. He had to cut it close and at an angle. Risking the rocks before making what looked like a thirty-degree final turn.

  Fogged again, he worked his shirtsleeve, keeping a close eye on the outcropping. Then he increased the throttle two more notches. The gauge in front of him topped out at thirty knots, twice the projected speed of the oncoming hurricane. In his head Mitch did the math, adjusted his watch, then went to wipe the window again.

  He didn’t see Shakespeare right away. His focus was beyond. To the outcropping of the first break and the channel. His angle was good. Once he hit the channel, he’d only have to turn that projected thirty degrees south and leave the rest to the ship’s computer. From a flash of lightning directly overhead, the bow turned bright white, and with it, Shakespeare. He stood poised with a ten-foot gaff, which he thrust through the window once he found his aim. The glass exploded inward, followed by a rush of wind and pelting rain.

  The gaff caught Mitch right at his heart, a deadly stab guaranteed to kill. But for the life vest. That blessed vest stalled the iron hook millimeters from total penetration, and instead, he was simply thrown against the wall by the force. Another flash of lightning and Shakespeare stood crouching in the window frame like a mountain cat ready to pounce. And he was grinning. “Counselor? I’m not surprised to see you!”

  “No?” said Mitch, pushing aside the gaff.

  “Hell no! God brought me to the Judas goats who were about to betray me,” shouted Shakespeare with a paranoid flair. “And men you to me so I could finally fulfill my Destiny.”

  Mitch returned to the helm as if to face down Shakespeare in a debate of words. As if to engage him.

  “And just what the hell is your destiny?” he shouted to the shorter man, all the while looking beyond into the wind and rain. With a nudge to the helm, he was taking dead aim.

  “My Destiny?” Shakespeare smirked. “That’s between me and the devil.”

  Mitch throttled the boat fully and twisted the wheel to the right before bracing for the crash. Before impact, his eyes locked with McCann’s.

  And the clarity returned. A rare moment of sense and purpose. It was singular and without conflict. It simply…was.

  The rocky outcropping of the breakwater was just off the starboard side. Shakespeare turned to look, but saw nothing but night and blackened water. He coul
dn’t see what was beneath the water—what Mitch knew was there. The hull and the jagged break were about to connect. Then it happened, gouging a four-foot chunk from the Deandra’s underbelly. The impact threw Shakespeare clear from his window perch. Disappearing. Gone.

  Washed overboard, Mitch prayed. McCann was gone. Drowned. Dead.

  Mitch lurched forward and pounded his plaster-casted fist on the autopilot button. The red light blinked as the ship’s computer took over. All he had left to do was to right the boat into the center of the channel until the compass read due south. The rough waters of me incoming tide rocked the boat as it crested and crashed on wave after wave. He kept a grip on the wheel and married the compass with the loran directional. There. That was it! He was now heading dead into the hurricane. From men on there would be no turning back. Five hundred more yards and the Deandra would clear the channel and be in open seas on its due-south heading with destiny.

  With a one-handed twist of a pipe wrench, he unhitched the wheel. The bolt spun off easily, freeing the wheel in his hands. From there he tossed it through the open window, shoved the wrench into his pants, and climbed, crawling up the ladder affixed to the helmsman’s bunk and pushing through a hatch that led to the pilot’s bridge. Water dumped over him and the wind howled in his ears. He couldn’t hear a thing…

  But he felt the animal grab hold of his leg!

  From the opening below, the little man clawed and ripped at his pants, pulling him back down through the hatch. Mitch kicked at him and tried to pull himself through the opening. But Shakespeare kept his grip, making it to Mitchell’s belt and hoisting himself up. In Mitch’s groin, he found another handhold. Mitch screamed in pain, his howls lost against the wind. He wanted to let go. He wanted it all to end. But he found the strength in his left arm to keep his grip outside the hatch, and swung that hard-plastered right hand downward. Mitch couldn’t see a thing. Couldn’t aim. All he could do was pound away at what he thought was Shakespeare’s head.

  The first blows landed hard, but the wet cast quickly softened with each connection with Shakespeare’s skull. The pain of it shot all the way up to his shoulder. His arm felt like it would explode as he kept hammering until the evil clutch loosened. Shakespeare fell away, leaving Mitch free to climb through the hatch with a dangling right arm and stumble up the stairs that followed.

  The pilot bridge was dark, and because of its height on the boat, it swayed with greater momentum with every crushing wave. Mitch huddled by the wheel to catch his balance, wits, his bream.

  His purpose.

  The right arm was useless, a hanging limb that barely felt attached. So by feel alone, he reached out to connect with the only other wheel on the vessel. The nut felt the same size as the one below. Lucky, he thought. With the wrench, he fit the jaws around the nut. Only this one was tight. He had to stand and drop a knee to the wrench. Finally the bolt gave way, as did the wheel. Once he tossed that overboard, there would be no turning her around. It was head-on into the bitch hurricane. Over and out. The rest would be up to Mother Nature and the incoming tide.

  Mitch burst from the pilot’s bridge, and when he threw the wheel overboard, was nearly cast over with it, clear into the churning water and the thrust of a huge swell. And where was Shakespeare? He didn’t much care. He didn’t want to know. Dead? Unconscious? It didn’t matter. Soon enough it would be over. He only had to reach the stern and throw himself into the channel. The life vest would keep him afloat. The tide would either suck him back into the harbor or crush him onto the rocky break. Either way. It would be over. That was the clarity. The purpose inside him. To live or die no longer mattered. It was simply a matter of doing what needed to be done.

  Kill the evil bastard.

  The rubber on the third step had peeled away, and with the ship yawing wide to the starboard side, bis foot slipped through and he fell, tossed upside down, hanging in the rung, with the back of his head cracking hard against the stairwell. Once again his vision blanked, faded, and slowly returned, only to find the twisted and gashed face of Shakespeare inches from his own. The lips moved. Yet Mitch likened it to a movie out of sync. The words didn’t match, though they rang clear.

  “There can only be one,” Shakespeare borrowed from himself.

  The synapses in Mitch’s brain found a strange new path, relating the fucked-up campaign trail to a mythical trial fit more for Greeks man modern, civilized men.

  But who said politics was civilized?

  “You fought like a man,” continued Shakespeare. “But you done lost.” He began tearing at Mitch’s life vest, trying to wrest it from his upturned body.

  And Mitch didn’t fight He let the evil man struggle with the buckle, forgetting even mat he’d tied it. It was dark and Shakespeare’s hands must have been cold and numb. Not even knowing they were fighting a simple square knot. Yet Mitch didn’t struggle. He simply focused. His head hanging near the belly of his opponent and his eyes trying to fix on the bloodied blade mat rested, sheathed, inside Shakespeare’s belt.

  Frustrated by the unwilling life vest, Shakespeare reached for the knife. He was going to cut the vest from Mitch, slip it on, and throw himself clear of the doomed ship. When he reached to his belt, the sheath was empty, the button unsnapped. The knife gone, yet not so far.

  Mitch closed his eyes and plunged the knife deep into Shakespeare McCann. The sharp blade, sinking into the devil’s flesh, twisted easily until it found an artery. Mitch felt a gush of warmth as the blood spilled over him in the frigid, numbing rain. A massive swell rose up underneath the vessel and the Deandra heaved heavily to the port side, taking on a wall of water, rinsing Mitchell’s act clean with a stinging spray of sea foam and salt. When he opened his eyes, all that was left was the knife in his hands and the sweet relief of a purpose fulfilled.

  SIXTEEN

  THE REST would forever be a source of true wonder. What was memory and what was imagination? To have Uncle J tell the story, it was a daring rescue—an old seaman’s last hurrah. Plucked from retirement on the night Hurricane Les blew a messy kiss at the Cathedral shores before it curled back to the sea from which it was born. No sooner had Jasper gone back to his motel when he gave one more look-see though his telescope, only to see that the Deandra was not heading across the second breakwater to the safety of the commercial side, but striking a path out of the channel and into the open arms of the hurricane.

  His uncle, knowing that not even Harbor Patrol would brave the weather, returned to his outboard and set out to chase down the vessel, secretly praying all along that his adopted nephew had an old sailor’s smarts and jumped ship before the Deandra cleared the channel and broke loose in the upheaval of the open sea.

  And the story grew hazier with each recollection.

  Jasper recalled finding Mitch unconscious and bobbing midchannel, with the tide carrying him dangerously close to the rocks. He gaffed him with a boat hook and dragged him onto the outboard, pumping the water out of his lungs until Mitch gagged.

  Mitch only remembered drinking the hot rum and eucalyptus. Jasper served up the sailor’s brew only after he’d capitulated on his plan to take Mitch to the local ER. A bed at the motel served hospice enough for the surviving candidate—in exchange for the promise of a full explanation of the events leading up to the rescue. At least those remembered. Mitch owed him that. And days later he eventually disclosed the entire whale-tale to his Dutch uncle over a bottle of good bourbon, knowing J’s promise to keep it all to himself was golden as long as Mitch returned his phone calls in a timely fashion.

  After that, Mitch connected with Marshall Lambeer.

  “How’s the weather up there?” asked Mitch over a motel hard line. He’d found Marshall at the show runner’s summer house in Maine.

  “Fine. How are you?”

  “Healing up okay. Gotta look my best for the big night.”

  “Four days. You must be excited.”

  “It’s been a long road.”

  “You know, I was
sorry to leave the campaign. But my wife, she was sick. Needed to get away.”

  “I hope she’s better.”

  “Much so. Thank you, Mitch. And good luck Tuesday.”

  “Marshall?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whose party was it?”

  Mitch could hear the static as Marshall weighed his answer.

  “It was our party. We just forgot to invite the guest of honor.”

  “And he thought it was about me.”

  “Gotta go, Mitch.”

  To his death, Marshall kept his secret. After four hours of spitting up the foul harbor water, he had crawled from the stormy waters near the pleasure docks, rested, found a phone booth, called a cab, his wife, then hopped on the first plane out of Houston. Distance was key. His wife’s health, his alibi. Retirement had come a week earlier than scheduled.

  For Mitch, the dreams of the hurricane were indistinguishable from the true recollections. Had he pulled himself free from the stairwell? Crawled aft and jumped? Or had another wave simply washed him over the side and into the arms of the churning waters that eventually sucked him back into the harbor? Only a vague image remained—from the point of view of a man being tossed from crest to valley amongst the waves in the frenzied channel.

  The pleasure vessel, slugging away at the heavy surf, vanishing, then appearing, peak to valley, high water to low, holding a ghostly course into a deadly cauldron of wind and rain.

  The Deandra vanished never to be heard from again. Her passengers only remembered. Sometimes fondly. Always foolishly. Players in just another political battle that ended with a whimper only days after their tragic disappearance. November third, there would be no curtain calls for Fitz Kolatch and Vidor Kingman.

  Or Shakespeare McCann.

  Officially, the front-runner was no help when it came to information about that night and its strange events. According to police records, he’d spent the hurricane with his old Uncle J, drowning his fears in booze and talking hurricanes. When the Cathedral PD tracked him down after the storm had been rebuffed by Uncle J’s all-but-certain high-pressure system, they sadly informed him that his precious Flower Hill home had been torched. The suspects were McCann supporters. Mitch showed true shock and retired to his motel room to inform his wife Connie of the horrible news.