by John Meany
“It might be. I‘m having trouble moving it.”
“Shit!” Part of Davy wanted to yell at Rick, because from the way he saw it, Rick could not have been paying attention to the radio as closely as he had claimed. This squall seemed far too powerful for the weather people to have missed it. Instead of listening to the radio, Rick had probably been focused on the laptop.
When Davy had come up to talk to him before he had shot the people who had killed Kenny Lafontaine, Rick had been on the computer enjoying a Clint Eastwood western.
“What was that?” Rick asked, grimacing. “A rogue wave?”
“It must have been.”
“Well, I hope we don’t get hit with another one.”
“Hey, you and me both. . . Here, grab hold of my shoulder. I‘ll try to help you up.”
“Okay.”
“Easy does it.”
Rick, who had also begun to bleed from his head, used Davy as a crutch and then, with a loud grunt, slowly got back to his feet.
“Wow! What do you know. I guess my leg’s not broke after all,” he said, relieved. “But it hurts like a mother. I can’t believe I fell from up there and didn’t split my head open.”
“You got lucky,” Davy said, breathing fast. “Though, it looks like you did crack your head a little. There’s blood coming from either your ear or your temple.”
***
The storm wasn’t done with them.
The angry squall continued to pound the Norma Jean with punishing blows, until finally it seemed she could take no more.
“Davy, grab that other bucket,” Rick cried out, barely able to keep his balance. “We have to get rid of some of this water. There’s too much of it splashing onto the deck. She can‘t hold much more of this.”
Davy told Rick he would be there to help in a minute. Presently, he was on the radio sending a mayday to the coast guard.
“We’re sinking!” he shouted into the mouthpiece. “We need assistance immediately.” He gave the coast guard their position.
Then, as soon as Davy had gone down onto the flooded deck with the other bucket, another gargantuan wave smashed into the battered boat, again, almost rolling it over. The impact was deafening.
“Shittttt!” Davy hollered, urgently scooping saltwater overboard. His pulse had begun to race so rapidly he thought he might have a heart attack. “We’re going down, Rick. The coast guard is on their way. But I don’t know if they’ll be able to get to us in time.”
“How long did they say they’d be?”
“Twenty minutes. Maybe longer. They‘re sending a chopper.”
“I don’t want to die like this,” Rick said, almost falling over. Due to his injury, and the fact that he was out of shape, it took him more time to throw over one bucket than it took Davy to throw over three.
“C’mon Rick, you have to work that bucket faster than that.”
“I’m trying,” Rick screamed, losing hope. “This is so crazy. It’s as if God is getting back at us.
“Be quiet. I don’t want to hear any stupid talk about religion.”
“I don’t want to talk about it either. I’m just saying this squall seems like the work of the Lord.”
“What are you saying?” Rick hollered, soaked from head to toe. “That you think God wants to kill us because we killed them?”
“Exactly.”
“Hey man, get the hell out of church. You son of a bitch, Rick, if you don’t keep working that bucket, I’m gonna come over there and whip your ass!”
***
They were lucky.
That coast guard chopper arrived just in time.
They had lowered the basket and Davy and Rick were hoisted up to safety, as the Norma Jean plunged into the dark depths of the Atlantic.
***
There was bad news, however.
Davy would go into work the following Monday and find out that he and Rick had killed the wrong people.
The police had apprehended three suspects, one of which had given a full confession, stating that he was the triggerman who had murdered Kenny Lafontaine.
After his shift, Davy drove down to the boatyard to discus the matter with Rick.
They sat down in Rick’s office, knocking back a few cold ones.
But the mood was grim.
Davy, especially, could not believe the terrible mistake he had made.
“Man Rick, I can’t believe we killed the wrong people.”
“Me either.”
“I don’t know what to say. I‘m in shock.”
“Well,” said Rick. “One thing we’re going to do is keep our mouths shut and pretend that this never happened.”
Davy couldn‘t get a hold of his emotions. “How am I supposed to live with myself after doing this? I’m gonna have nightmares about this for the rest of my life. Those people had families, and friends, and I took their loved ones away.”
***
A month later, the guilt had finally clawed its way so deep into Davy’s conscience he couldn’t take it anymore.
Each night he would relive the murders, and would wake up in a frigid sweat.
And on this night, as Davy lay in bed, having suddenly woken up in the middle of the night, he knew what he had to do.
***
At the house next-door where Davy Grotto’s neighbors Rodney and Annette Sheppard lived, they too were suddenly awoken.
Except in their case, it was not because of a nightmare. Rather, they were awoken by the sound of a gunshot.
***
Davy Grotto had taken his own life.
