A Matter of Time

by David Manuel

  “All right! It is a police boat!”

  Dupré scanned the horizon behind them. Visibility was deteriorating, but there was nothing to be seen. “What did he mean by the limit?” he demanded of Colin.

  Silence. Dupré raised the Glöck.

  “The twelve-mile limit,” Colin shouted, to keep him from firing. “It’s international waters beyond that.”

  “So they must get here before we get there, n’est-ce pas?”

  Colin nodded sullenly.

  “How many miles have we gone?”

  Colin shrugged.

  “Guess!” Dupré ordered, waving the Glöck toward Eric.

  “Six, maybe seven.”

  “And how long will it take?”

  “At this rate? About an hour.”

  “In the end,” said Dupré pensively, “it always comes down to a matter of time.”

  39 living the nightmare

  Heading east on South Road after the Trimingham roundabout, there was a long downhill straightaway. Dan cranked the right-grip throttle wide open and held it there, as the scooter’s speed climbed past 40, 50, all the way to 60 mph. Good thing it wasn’t raining—and as if the thought had summoned them, the first drops began to hit the pavement.

  With a bend coming up and the road now slick, he backed off a little, but only a little. Until he felt the rear wheel begin to slide out from under him. He was barely able to correct it before losing control entirely. Badly shaken, he thought: A man could get killed doing this! He backed off a little more.

  The wind had picked up—just how much, he discovered as he roared down the hill past the Swizzle Inn and caught his first glimpse of the long causeway that connected St. George’s Parish with the main island. On either side of the causeway, the wind had whipped the sound into an evil, milky-green soup, with whitecaps everywhere and spindrift flying off the tops. The wind was at least 30 knots.

  And blowing directly across the causeway. Waves were crashing against the low concrete wall on the windward side, the tops of them coming straight over the wall and flooding the road. There was no traffic out there, for good reason: The causeway was impassable.

  He started across.

  A wave broke, drenching him and throwing him and the bike sideways. He barely managed to avoid the opposite wall. After that, he hunkered down as low as he could get, his eyes barely above the handlebars. The next wave hit him, but did not move him sideways as much, and he began to believe that he was not going to die out here, after all.

  Once he got off the causeway, it was better. The straightaway past the airport was the longest on the island, and he again cranked the throttle wide, passing a startled taxi in the process. He knew that the police seldom stopped rental scooters (the ones with the red license plates), not wanting vacationers to leave with a bad taste in their mouths. He hoped they’d make an exception for one going two and a half times the national speed limit; he could use a police escort just now. Of course, when you wanted to be arrested, there was never a patrol car in sight.

  The rest of the way into the town of St. George was twisty and tricky, but after the causeway, nothing fazed him. When he reached the dock, there were two patrol cars, and no Care Away. Ducking behind a building to get some shelter from the rain, he called Ian.

  “Missed them by about twenty minutes, I’d guess,” said Dan. “They’re probably in the narrows by now.”

  “Well, we’ve had a bit of help from the wind, and should make it to St. Catherine’s in about ten minutes. Can you get there?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Take your time. It’ll be all over by the time we get there, anyway. Rescue 2 passed us a few minutes ago, going like the proverbial bat. They were on top of the waves and flying!”

  In the cabin of Goodness, Ian was at the wheel, negotiating each ten-foot wave as it came. He glanced over at Brother Bartholomew, and from the latter’s expression assumed he was battling seasickness. “Keep your eye on the horizon,” he shouted, to be heard over the sound of the storm. “Don’t look away from it. It’ll help your ear adjust your inner balance.”

  Bartholomew nodded and managed a weak smile, but it was not primarily a queasy stomach that concerned him just now (though he was doing a fair amount of swallowing, to remind peristalsis it would be inappropriate to reverse itself).

  What was disturbing Bartholomew’s inner balance was a sickening sense of déjà vu.

  For this was the nightmare! The one he’d had after seeing “The Perfect Storm”—in which he’d relived how his father had died.

  Only he wasn’t asleep now, in his bed at home. He was wide awake. Living it. He swallowed hard. It was not the heaving sea that had put this brackish taste in his mouth; it was the raw terror.

  Taking his eyes from the horizon (just for a moment), he risked a glance at Ian. The man was resolute, even grim. But not afraid. Maybe this fear that gripped him was exaggerated. Maybe what they were doing was dangerous—but not suicidal.

  And then Goodness buried her nose in the next wave, and she took green water over her foredeck.

  “Hate it when that happens!” cried Ian. “Puts too much strain on the engine.”

  Bartholomew nodded and swallowed harder.

  Abruptly Ian pulled back the throttle, and veered the boat to starboard. “St. Catherine’s. Can you see the Chief?”

  “Can’t see anything through this rain.”

  “I’ve got to concentrate on the approach. You keep an eye out for him.”

  “Wait! There he is!” shouted Bartholomew. “He just got there!”

  In five minutes, Dan was on board, and they were back out on the roaring sea.

  “Pull on a slicker,” Ian called to Dan, nodding towards the hatch to the hold. They’re in the port gear locker. It’s a little late to keep you dry,” he said wryly, “but it’ll keep you warm.”

  To Bartholomew, he said, “See if you can raise Harbour Radio on 2182 kHz. I’d like to find out what’s going on out here.”

  Bartholomew turned to the frequency. It crackled, and he said, “Hello?”

  “No, no, let me have it.”

  Bartholomew passed the mike on its coiled cord to Ian.

  “Goodness calling Harbour Radio.”

  “Go ahead, Goodness.”

  “That you, Shack?”

  “Ian, what are you doing out there? Nobody’s supposed to be out on a night like this.”

  “Just trying to help my little brother.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ve got him in sight, seven miles south of Bremer Cut. But listen, Ian, Inspector Cochrane in Rescue 2 said that if we heard from you, we were to send you home. And that it was not, repeat not, optional.”

  “Roger, optional, Harbour Radio—you’re breaking up a little there—we opt to carry on. How about a SitRep?”

  There was silence as the Senior Watch Officer contemplated giving him a situation report. “Well,” he said at length, “if it was my brother, I’d be out there, too. All right, here’s what we’ve got: Care Away is three miles from the limit, making about eight knots, tracking one-eight-five. She’s about four miles from you on a bearing of one-two-zero. You should have a visual pretty soon.”

  “We can’t see jack out here! Where’s Rescue 2?

  “Between you and them. We’ve been vectoring them for an intercept. They should be to Care Away in four minutes.” There was another voice in the background. “Hold a minute; I’ve got to take this.”

  In the gathering darkness, Bartholomew thought he saw something ahead. He pointed to it, and Ian, squinting, said, “That’s a red light on a pole—we’ve got Rescue 2!”

  The radio came back on. “Ian? Shack here. That was Cochrane. They’ve just lost their starboard motor. Can’t plane. He wants you to come by and pick him and one of his men up.”

  “Oh, he does, does he? Well, you tell him—never mind, I’ll tell him myself!”

  40 lukewarm pursuit

  With his back braced against the aft wall of Care Away’s
cabin, the Frenchman trained the boat’s binoculars on the scene behind them. It was almost dark, nearly impossible to see anything. But not quite. He gave Colin and Eric a running account.

  “The police boat, which until a moment ago was in, as you say, hot pursuit, now appears to be disabled.”

  He moved the glasses slightly to the right. “There is, however, another craft farther back—a small, conventional powerboat.” He turned briefly to Colin. “Could this be your brother?” He turned to Eric. “And your father? Coming to your rescue? We shall see.”

  He turned back to the scene in the distance behind them. “The powerboat is stopping alongside the police boat. Someone’s just gotten out of the police boat and into the other boat.”

  He frowned and let the glasses hang down by the strap around his neck. “And now another man. With a rifle. That’s not good.”

  He looked up at the nearly dark sky. “N’importe, in ten more minutes, they won’t be able to see us. Malheureusement, someone ashore is obviously guiding them to us.”

  He turned to Colin. “How far are we now from ‘the limit,’ as you say?”

  “How should I know? Not more than a couple of miles, I should think. I could call Harbour Radio and ask them, but then, we don’t have a radio or a cell phone, do we.”

  The Frenchman shook his head. “You disappoint me, Colin. You take me for a fool. I was informed you have the best navigational equipment of any boat in Bermuda. Suppose you go below and bring your handheld GPS up here.” Colin didn’t move. Dupré jabbed his pistol into Eric’s leg wound. The boy shrieked in pain. Colin swung down the hatch and in a minute was back with the GPS and a folded map. From the coordinates it gave them, they were barely a quarter of the distance from the limit that Colin had estimated. The invisible line in the water was half a mile ahead. Six minutes—at most.

  The Frenchman raised the binoculars and resumed his narrative. “They are, perhaps, two miles behind. And they are definitely gaining on us. It is going to be a close thing. Very close.” He lowered the binoculars and looked at Colin. “Can you make this boat go any faster?”

  “Listen to her bow wave, man! Feel the vibration in her keel? She’s got to be making close to eight knots. She’s never gone this fast!”

  “It’s not fast enough! They won’t catch us before we cross the line, but we’ll soon be within range of that rifle.” He raised the glasses again. “In fact, the man with the rifle appears to be getting ready to take a shot.”

  He said to Colin, “Move over here, so that you are between me and them.”

  “Suck eggs!”

  Dupré aimed carefully and shot Colin in the upper thigh, exactly as he had his nephew. Colin cried out and doubled over, grabbing his leg.

  In the next instant there was a sharp crack next to the Frenchman’s head, and the running block flew to pieces. It controlled the mainsail which, suddenly freed, swung wide, bringing Care Away to an abrupt halt and leaving her wallowing broadside to the waves.

  The Frenchman was shocked. “That was meant for me!” Realization of his partner’s subtle betrayal sank in. “Get that sail under control!”

  “I don’t know if I can,” said Colin, still holding his leg. He pushed the tiller away from him, and the boat swung into the wind.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Dupré.

  “How else am I going to bring the main within reach?”

  Colin retrieved it and looked at the shattered block. “I can’t fix this.”

  “Liar!” cried the Frenchman. “I was told you could fix anything!”

  Blasted Town Crier, thought Colin. He was going to have a word with Mike, if he ever got out of this.

  “Fix it—now!” ordered the Frenchman, waving the pistol in Eric’s direction.

  Wincing and groaning, Colin turned the tiller over to Dupré and worked his way forward, taking the topsail halyard and making it fast to a cleat at the base of the mast. Then, he ran it aft on the starboard side, through the outermost scupper hole to the starboard toe rail. “It’ll work for a while,” he gasped, when he’d finished.

  “Good! Now, as I said a moment ago—”

  The top trim of the hatch, four inches from his face, exploded into splinters.

  “I want you here!” cried the Frenchman, indicating that Colin should position himself between him and their pursuers.

  When the latter did not move, he jerked on the pole, hard, so that the wire re-opened the wound on Eric’s neck. This proved too much for the boy, who until then had bravely held himself together. As blood oozed from his neck, he began crying hysterically.

  Enraged, Colin gathered his good leg under him and prepared to lunge at the Frenchman, when he found himself staring into the muzzle of the Glöck. “Go ahead!” shouted Dupré. “You’re of little use to me now, anyway!”

  Colin forced himself to relax and, as instructed, put himself between Dupré and the other boat.

  He would bide his time, wait for his chance. For the first time in his life, he realized he was prepared to take another man’s life. In fact, he was looking forward to it.

  With the delay to jury-rig a workable mainsheet arrangement, the other boat was almost on top of them. Colin guessed they were beyond the twelve-mile limit now, but at this point no one was thinking about that.

  It had grown too dark for the rifleman to risk another shot, even had Colin not been in his direct line of fire. But in a few more minutes, it wouldn’t matter. Goodness was so close, he could almost make out his brother’s face.

  His brother could certainly make out theirs. Ian had a searchlight atop his cabin for feeling his way back into Ely’s Harbour on a foggy night. He suddenly switched it on, momentarily blinding everyone in the sailboat. He must have been overjoyed, Colin thought, to see Eric—alive!

  But now the Frenchman demonstrated his own marksmanship. Disdaining the fashionable two-handed grip, he stood sideways to his adversaries, and, feet apart, gracefully extended his arm like a master of the épée (which he had once been, as captain of cadets at St-Cyr). He fired three rounds in rapid succession. The first went through Goodness’s front windshield, in the vicinity of the driver. The second went through the scope and into the eye of Sergeant Tuttle who died instantly. The third extinguished their searchlight.

  “That should give them cause to reconsider,” gloated the Frenchman, as darkness returned.

  But Goodness continued to bear down on them.

  “Why aren’t they stopping?” cried Dupré, grabbing Colin and jerking him back in front of him. “We’re in international waters!”

  “Maybe Bermuda’s ‘rules of engagement’ make an exception for hot pursuit,” Colin replied, and then smiled wryly. “Make that lukewarm pursuit.”

  There was another light on them now, from a handheld flashlight. The Frenchman, skilled as he was, could have shot whoever was holding it, but he had something else in mind. Something for which that light would be necessary.

  “Time to play my last card,” he informed Colin. “Fortunately, it’s an ace.”

  A small, round hole appeared in the mainsail, less than a foot from the Frenchman. Someone else was using the rifle, sans scope. But he remained unperturbed. “You have life vests aboard,” he asked Colin. “Where?”

  “You’re sitting on them.”

  Dupré glanced at his seat, saw that it was a bench, opened it, and took out two yellow vests, which he chucked into the dark waters. Then, using the pole, he drew Eric to his feet and—pushed him over the side.

  “You—” cried Colin, diving after his nephew. He had to keep Eric afloat, since his arms were taped behind him, and his mouth was taped. If he could somehow locate one of those vests….

  As Dupré had anticipated, with two people they cared about now in the water, his pursuers gave up the chase and started searching for the men overboard. But just to make it a little harder for them…. He took careful aim at the figure holding the flashlight.

  Another hit. The flashlight dropped—p
resumably over the side, since it did not reappear. Dupré took the tiller and sailed off into the darkness, leaving the powerboat frantically circling in the distance.

  There was no question of his being in international waters now. The pursuit had been broken off. He had won.

  41 frog-gone conclusion

  Aboard Goodness there was darkness and consternation. At the wheel, Ian was able to use only his left arm, his right hanging useless at his side. Beside him Cochrane searched the waters ahead for any sign of life, but he was looking at black on black. The same was true of Dan and Bartholomew in the back.

  Then Dan remembered his “piece”—the ancient flare pistol that had belonged to Ian’s father. He fired it straight up, and in the burst of light, they saw movement in the water off their port bow.

  “There they are!” Ian cried, overjoyed. “Both of them!” And sure enough, in the water on the side of the huge wave opposite them, were two tiny figures, clutching a yellow life vest between them. He swung Goodness over and gunned her down the wave, heading for them.

  Only one person was less than overjoyed. As they roller-coastered down the wave towards its trough, Bartholomew realized that this—right here, right now—was the worst part of the worst nightmare of his life. The wave opposite was looming higher and higher. The front windshield already had a hole in it. If they took dark water over the bow now….

  He gripped the side of the boat in frozen panic. Down and down and down the boat plunged. And then the illumination from the flare died away, leaving them in darkness. Again, just as he had in the nightmare, he felt the icy fingers of terror reach up into his entrails and slowly close into a fist.

  But there was a difference between that dream and this reality, he reminded himself. In the nightmare, he had not prayed. Now, he did. Eternal Father, strong to save….

  I will never leave, nor forsake you, came the thought, and the fist of fear in his gut began to release its grip.

  Dan fired another flare. As light returned, they pulled alongside the struggling figures, and Dan and Cochrane hauled them aboard, unassisted by Bartholomew, who could not let go of the rail.