“Of course it worked, but if we don’t get him out of here fast it ain’t gonna matter. He’s bleeding to death.”
“Let’s get to the car. Where is it?”
“Down by the dock. Come on.”
Jim had his doubts when he saw the old Rambler station wagon up close. The windshield was cracked, two windows were gone, and the frame looked like it had been dipped in saltwater and left to corrode. The tailgate was down and rusted in place. He walked around the car and examined each tire. All four needed air.
“This thing sure looked better from a distance.”
“Check and see if the keys are there.”
Jim stuck his head through the driver’s window. The interior reeked of mildew and rotten fabric. The seats were piled high with trash and old boat parts, but he didn’t see a key. He opened the door and climbed in. He spotted a stubby screwdriver attached to a chain just long enough to reach the ignition. He picked it up, glanced at the key slot, and then inserted the tip of the screwdriver and gave it a turn. The engine coughed twice and stopped. “Come on.” He tried again. The crankshaft turned over once, then twice, and then as if awaking from a deep sleep, the spark plugs fired and the old pistons kicked in. A puff of gray smoke shot from the tailpipe. The engine roared to life. Jim revved it twice and got out.
“Let’s get—” Jim paused as a sharp pain coursed through his side. Breathing became difficult. He waited a few seconds, took a slow deep breath, and then continued. “Let’s get Rico in the back.”
“Jim, you don’t look so good.”
“I’ll survive. Help me.”
Jim grabbed Rico by the belt. Sharon climbed onto the tailgate and grabbed him by the shoulders.
“All right,” she said, “pick him up.”
“I’m trying.”
Jim had never felt weaker. His legs tingled, his insides throbbed and his head teetered on what seemed to be the edge of unconsciousness, but somehow using pure willpower he managed to lift Rico onto the tailgate. Sharon did the rest. She grunted and pulled and pushed him around and finally got him situated in the back of the station wagon with his feet elevated on a canvas sail bag. The makeshift surgical tube protruded from his chest, sucking and blowing and trickling blood with each labored breath.
“Get him to Regional, Sharon. Get him there fast. Fast as you can.”
“What about you?”
Jim pulled Rico’s .45 from his belt.
“I’m going after Val.”
“How? You can’t even stand.”
“Sharon, just go!”
Sharon climbed into the car and hit the gas. The old Rambler lunged forward, tires flapping and engine sputtering, smoke pouring from the exhaust. Jim wanted to laugh. He prayed instead. He watched them cross the boatyard and turn onto the dirt road that led to the front gate, then he turned around and gazed into the darkness of the sound.
“Okay, Val. I’m coming, baby.”
Chapter 53
The Rambler had plenty of power left under its hood but it weaved back and forth like a tired sot, shocks squeaking and tires flapping as it lumbered up the road for the boatyard entrance. Sharon passed the graveyard of boats that lined the driveway and aimed for the front gate, but suddenly as if the front wheel had become completely detached, the car swerved left and headed for the trees. Sharon yanked at the steering wheel but she might as well have been trying to control a wild bull. The car jumped the dirt berm and started down the dark grassy hill beside the road. She slammed her foot against the brake pedal. She heard a loud twang. The brake pedal sank to the floor.
The car rolled out of control and raced down the hill into the weeds beside the gate. And the crash was head on, Rambler versus pine, with the unnatural sounds of snapping limbs, bending steel, and heavy forces shifting and changing direction all around her. Sharon felt her body thrust forward as if shot from a cannon. The seatbelt caught. Her torso stopped. Her head continued forward in a whiplash motion that smacked her face against the steering wheel. Her jaw and lips went instantly numb. Then it was over. Dead silence surrounded her.
Sharon did a quick self-assessment: she could see…she could breathe…she could move her arms and legs. She smelled pine sap. She touched her chin and felt something wet and sticky, but the jawbone felt intact. Her teeth were still there. She felt her lip with her tongue. She tasted blood. She unfastened her seatbelt and climbed out of the car, dazed, unsure at first as to exactly where she was or why. Then it came to her.
“Rico!”
She peered inside and saw Rico wedged between the front and back seats covered with a canvas sail bag and tangled in a twisted coil of rope.
“Rico,” she shouted. “Hang on!”
Sharon grabbed him by the legs and pulled. A sharp, crippling pain shot across her back between her shoulder blades. She cried out, took a deep breath, and tried again, but the pain was too much. She couldn’t manage.
“I can’t do it, Rico. Can you hear me? I’m going for help. Do you hear me? Hang in there. I’ll be back. I have… I have to…”
Sharon slid from the back of the car and stared past the gate at the dark dirt road that lay before her, a quarter mile path lined on both sides by woods. Beyond that lay the Garden Terrace. She glanced at the boatyard and then back at the road, her mind locked with indecision.
“Oh, God,” she cried. “I cannot do this.”
Sharon started up the grassy bank, walked as far as the gate, and then stopped and held to the chain-linked fence. Frozen. But it wasn’t pain that stopped her, or her mental exhaustion, or even the profound fear of walking up the road through the Terrace, it was the pair of headlights coming toward her. Her first reaction was to raise her hands, to scream for help and jump for joy, but her joy soon turned to fear. She imagined a car full of gang members piling out and attacking her, finishing what they’d started. She ran back down the embankment and climbed into the back of the car with Rico. She covered his body with the sail bag, and covered herself with a tarp.
“God,” she whispered. “Please help me. Please, please help me.”
The car came through the gate and stopped. A door opened.
Sharon held her breath. She heard footsteps. She braced herself, expecting the worst, but instead of the voices of street hardened thugs she heard the most beautiful sound in the world—the crackling of a 2-way radio.
“Ten-four,” the familiar voice of dispatcher Carlos Mendez said. “Three oh-three out at the boatyard.”
Sharon squealed and threw back the tarp.
“I’m over here.”
A bright beam flooded her. She held up her hand.
“Hurry.”
The beam shifted to the ground. A police officer wearing a black jumpsuit ran down the embankment. The beam of his flashlight shone on her as he approached.
“Officer Jimmy Little, ma’am.”
Sharon squinted and covered her eyes. The light moved away from her face.
“Ma’am,” the police officer said. “Are you all right?”
“We’ve been in a wreck.”
“I can see that, but—” The flashlight played over the wreckage. “Z’nyone else in there?”
“Right here,” Sharon said pulling aside the sail bag. “Rico’s been shot.”
“Sarge!” Officer Little keyed his mike. “Three oh-three to communications. I have emergency traffic! Emergency traffic!”
“All other units stand by,” the dispatcher’s voice snapped. “Three oh-three, go ahead.”
“Police officer down! Police officer down! I need an ambulance at the entrance to Bill’s Salvage & Repair at the end of Shell Street. Have them respond code-three. A Police officer has been shot.”
Chapter 54
Jim picked up Rico’s shotgun and limped, totally exhausted, across the boatyard toward the cove. A wave of nausea swept through his aching belly, beads of sweat rolled down his face. His arm felt as if he’d gotten it caught in the ferry’s prop. He had no idea how he was going to make it, but he knew he ha
d to try. He had to find Val. He stopped and stared at the backwater sound. A green light flashed at the end of the channel, beyond that the sound appeared featureless with no sign of a boat. J-Rock had either turned off his running lights to keep him from following, or he was moving so fast he was already out of sight. Either way precious time was passing. He suddenly became aware of a thick stickiness between his fingertips. He spotted an oily rag lying on the ground and crammed it into the broken cast to staunch the flow of blood from his new wound. Then he wiped his brow and continued toward the water.
“You’ll find her,” he murmured trying to believe his own words. “But first, you need to find a ride.”
The diverse gathering of vessels in the cove offered Jim little hope. Two large fishing boats floated next to the docks. Too big. Several sailboats floated at moorings in the middle of the cove. Too slow. Two powerboats floated amongst them. Both looked more than suitable for the job, but neither could be reached.
Jim looked around desperately. There had to be something else.
Suddenly a faint glow caught his eye. He spotted a small wooden craft on the other side of the cove. She appeared to be antique—brown, regal and elegant, with chrome trimmings and enough style to serve as a Navy Admiral’s launch. A nifty flagpole stood at attention on her forward bow. The name on her stern read simply, “Speedy.”
Jim liked her small maneuverable size. She looked fast, nimble, and best of all she floated next to a private dock, and from what he could tell, glancing toward the small house at the head of the dock, the owner was home. He hurried around the water’s edge praying the whole way—for Valerie, for strength, and for the person who owned the pretty little boat he was about to borrow. “Dear God, please let this guy be friendly.”
He hurried up to house and stepped onto the porch. The boards creaked and moaned. “Hello,” he called rapping the glass pane with his knuckles. “Is anyone home?”
Muffled barking erupted inside the house.
“Hello,” he repeated knocking harder. “Anyone there?”
The barking grew louder. Jim heard the sound of scampering feet. He backed away. Something hit the door from the other side rattling the windows around it, shaking the frame, snarling and barking as if trying to tear down the door.
Jim stepped off the porch and backed into the yard.
Suddenly the porch light came on. The front door cracked open.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Sir, I need to borrow your boat.”
“My boat?”
The door opened further. The vicious snarling and barking increased. The animal sounded like a hungry wolf, ready to devour whatever stupid human it could find.
“Oh, God!”
Jim turned and ran down the dock. He threw the shotgun into Speedy’s bilge and jumped in.
“Hey, you!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jim called out, “but I have no choice. This is an emergency.”
The front door flew open against its stops. A sleek black killer with sharp pointed ears tore across the front porch and started across the yard.
“Sic him, Max!”
The animal broke free.
Jim pushed the boat away from the dock and covered himself. The dog raced across the planks, baring its teeth and spewing foam. It dug in its claws and came to a stop just short of the water, teetering on the edge, straining every muscle as if contemplating the leap.
The old man cursed and hurried back inside.
Jim leaned over and studied the dash. Speedometer. Tachometer. A waterproof VHF marine radio with a coiled cord leading to a mike. He found the ignition key and turned it. The dials lit up. The radio beeped and began to scan. Jim placed his thumb over the starter. He hesitated and looked up. The front door opened again and the old man came back outside, this time with a gun in his hands.
“Speedy?” Jim pushed the starter button. “I sure hope you are.”
The engine jerked and coughed. It tried to catch then died. Jim heard the door slam. He looked up and saw the old man running across the yard with a double-barrel shotgun in his hands.
“Why you!”
Boom!
Jim ducked. A load of shot sailed over his head. He pushed the starter button again. This time the engine hit and came to life. Smoke poured from the exhaust pipes. He pushed the throttle to engage the forward drive. The old wooden boat leapt ahead and pulled away from the pylons just as the old man got off the next load.
Boom!
Pellets riddled the side of the boat. Jim clung to the wheel. He held on until he was clearly out of range then slowed the boat and yelled over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, mister. You gave me no choice.”
He got the answer he expected—Boom!
Jim pushed the throttle to its stops. He had given up caring. His body hurt, his head ached, and all he could think about was saving Valerie. She was out there somewhere and he was going to find her.
He got the boat up to speed, hurried past Crab Point Village and zoomed under the bridge. With the Port Terminal to his right and Beaufort to his left, he crossed the Morehead City turning basin and raced ahead on a smooth plane, but as he rounded Radio Island everything suddenly changed. The water became a choppy mess, the wind stiffened, and the little boat began to bounce. Jim slowed the craft and took a look around but there wasn’t another vessel in sight. The ICW…nothing. Taylor’s Creek…quiet. The channel leading to Shackelford Banks…zip.
Jim was just beginning to think he’d made a big mistake when he caught sight of a tiny white light. A boat? It had to be. Dead ahead. Close to the inlet. The fool was heading for the inlet. He pushed the throttle forward. Speedy challenged the building seas, slicing hard nosed through the waves as if she knew she was on her final and most important mission. She grew closer and closer to the houseboat, quickly closing the gap, but with each passing wave her situation worsened. The tropical storm passing just off the coast had the inlet in frenzy and Jim knew exactly what that would mean—waves and currents, the likes of which most men had never seen.
“Lord Jesus,” he prayed, “if ever I needed you, it’s now.”
Jim waited until he was fifty yards behind the other boat and pulled back on the throttle. The stern rose, the bow dipped, the wake caught up with him and rushed beneath the hull. The boat began to rock, crashing about in the churning water.
Jim suddenly felt nauseated. His head began to spin again. His stomach cramped. He dropped to his knees and heaved. His eyes blurred. His belly ached. He felt as if he were going mad.
He hung his head for a moment, spitting bile, saliva dripping from his lips. He noticed a chrome spotlight hanging next to the dash. He gathered himself, grabbed it, then slowly rose to a standing position and leaned against the console. He flipped a switch and a white beam as bright as a million candles shot across the wave tops. He aimed it at the side of the other boat, the same white, boxy looking vessel he’d seen leaving the cove. It floated over Iron Shoal, less than twenty yards behind the tall green buoy that marked the shallows. It pitched and rolled and suddenly swung far enough around for Jim to see its bowline pulled tight.
They’re tied to the buoy!
Jim had an idea. He doused the light and started to re-engage the gears, but before he had a chance a barking staccato sound rang out. The boat’s windshield disintegrated.
“God almighty!”
Jim ducked and killed the running lights. He grabbed his pistol and thought of returning fire but then realized he couldn’t. Valerie was aboard. He couldn’t risk it.
“This isn’t happening!”
He felt the rocking motion go to his head again. He tried to shake it off but another wave of nausea hit. He dropped the pistol and fell to his knees. He lowered his head. A strong spasmodic contraction gripped his abdomen, twisting his insides, tripling his pain. Jim bent over, crying, panting and coughing, gripping his side until the spasms ceased. He grabbed the microphone, hesitated, and then pushed the ke
y to transmit.
“J-Rock, if you can hear me, let her go. I’ll do anything you ask, just let her go.”
Another burst of gunfire peppered the boat.
“J-Rock, you maniac!”
Another burst.
“I’m the one you want,” Jim pleaded. “Let her go. You can have me.”
Another burst from the automatic weapon. Bullets ripped through the slick, laminated foredeck.
Jim couldn’t take any more.
“Mayday,” he shouted into the mike. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”
Another burst of gunfire ripped across the deck. Then a cool professional voice sounded…too cool for the moment.
“This is the United States Coast Guard, Fort Macon, North Carolina requesting a hold of all non-emergency radio traffic. Would the vessel issuing the ‘Mayday’ please give your position and status? Over.”
“Help! I’m in a small boat in the—”
Another volley of bullets flew.
“This is the United States Coast Guard Station, Fort Macon, North—” A burst of rounds interrupted the transmission. “—your position and status. Over.”
“God!”
Jim dropped the mike, pushed the throttle forward, and struggled to a standing position. He jerked the steering wheel hard to port and turned away from Iron Shoal. He knew he only had seconds to think. His plan, whatever it was he came up with, would have to work. He suddenly had an idea. He remembered something he’d seen while climbing aboard—a red can…a spare, five-gallon gas tank sitting in the back next to the engine compartment.
“A diversion. I’ll cause a diversion. God,” he prayed. “Let it be full.”
The Coast Guard radioman repeated his call but Jim ignored it. He idled the engine and pulled the bloody rag from inside his cast. Without hesitation he ran to the back of the boat and lifted the tank. It felt full. He unscrewed the cap and doused the rag with fuel, then squeezed the excess onto the deck. Speedy dipped and reeled. Jim persisted, his head spinning, his guts screaming. He crammed one end of the rag into the mouth of the tank and went back to the controls.
He pushed the throttle forward and steered the boat into a slow turn that would take Speedy in a wide circle around the shoal. He waited a few seconds until he was just upstream of the buoy then dropped to his knees and pulled out his lighter. It started on the first stroke. With shaky hands Jim held the flame against the rag.
Tested by Fire Page 30
