A Dolphin's Gift

by Watters, Patricia

  Will passed her the wheel. "If there's any chance the guy might be dozing, I've got to jump him," he said. "We might not get another chance."

  "No," Nellie cried. "He said he'd fire into the fo'c'sle. Please Will, don't."

  "I won't do anything to jeopardize Mike," Will replied. "But if the guy's not disarmed before he gets to your uncle, it'll be too late for us. He's only keeping us alive to get to him."

  Nellie tried desperately to reason another way out, but all she could think to say was, "Please, be careful."

  "Just keep us on a straight course," Will said. Turning quickly, he slid down the ladder.

  In the salon, he found the gunman sitting with his legs braced against a low table and one hand gripping the arm of the chair. But his other hand still held the pistol. The man raised the muzzle of the gun. "That's close enough," he said, as Will started across the room.

  Will's gaze narrowed. "If you shoot me you're a dead man too," he said. "We're heading into a gale, so unless you know how to run a boat, you won't get through it without me. Meanwhile, I have to batten down the hatches."

  The muscles in the man's jaw tightened. "You're right, I won't shoot you." He glanced at the fo'c'sle then slowly turned the revolver in that direction. "But we don't need anyone in there to run this boat, so you'd better be damned quick about it."

  Seeing the cold, lethal look in the man's eyes, Will had the queasy feeling the man could easily dispense with human life, even a child's, and would if it suited his needs. He also realized every possible means of escape was closed. With rough seas ahead, there would be little likelihood of the man dozing, which meant no chance of disarming him. They were also heading into a gale, which would require all his strength and concentration to maneuver the Isadora to safety. And he was conscious of his own weariness from lack of sleep, and knew his strength and reflexes were diminished. And Nellie's son was a hostage, a very disposable one at that.

  He looked at the closed door of the fo'c'sle and the key in the brass latch, and broke into a profuse sweat. Nellie's whole life was behind that door. And his whole life was Nellie. The revelation had not been a gradual awakening, but the sudden realization that he had, for the first time in his life, allowed himself to become inextricably bound to another human being. His life no longer mattered. Only Nellie's life and the safety of her son held meaning.

  A combing swell caught the side of the boat, lurching the Isadora violently and burying the deck under water. Hanging on to whatever he could to steady himself as the boat rolled, Will rushed around tightening portholes then scrambled back up the ladder to the wheelhouse.

  "I'll take over now," he said to Nellie. A giant swell struck with a jarring blow. The impact rolled the boat, hurling them across the bridge and pinning them against the wall. When the boat righted again and rose over the shoulder of a wave, Will pressed a switch on the engine control panel to activate the bilge pump.

  "I have to check on Mike," Nellie said.

  As she started for the ladder, Will caught her by the arm, and said, "He might get thrown around some, but he's better off behind the locked door to the fo’c’sle."

  Nellie knew exactly what Will was saying. She'd seen the detached look on the gunman's face and the indifference in his eyes when he'd indirectly threatened Mike. But she also knew she had to see her son. "I've still got to go down and reassure him we'll be okay," she said, without giving Will a chance to protest, she climbed down the ladder and approached the gunman. "Please, let me check on my son," she said.

  The gunman eyed her for a few moments then motioned for her to step closer. Tentatively she walked over to stand in front of him. "You can go in," he said, "but first I want to check you out." Positioning the gun at her ribs, he passed his hands over her, moving down her legs and up her thighs as she stood frozen, jaws clenched. She drew in a sharp breath, feeling her skin crawl as he pressed his broad palm to each breast in his search for weapons. A feral gleam came into his eyes, as he said, "I’ll get back to you later."

  Nellie knew his wasn’t an idle threat. He intended to have her, at some point along the way. The thought of his hands on her was like imagining an unearthly slime oozing over her. Swallowing hard to moisten her dry throat, she asked, "May I see my son now?"

  "You've got about two minutes," the man said. He turned the key, opening the door.

  Nellie darted inside and heard the door closed and locked behind her.

  "Mom!" Mike cried.

  Nellie grabbed Mike in a fierce hug. "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah," Mike said, wiggling out of her arms. "Captain Nate's been telling me stories."

  Nellie sat on the edge of Mike's berth. "I'm so thankful you're here, Captain Nate," she said, bracing herself against the rocking boat.

  Nate shrugged. "I'm sorry things worked out like this, Cornelia. Your uncle will be distressed you and your boy are involved. That was never been part of the plan."

  "I don't understand," Nellie said. "How can Uncle Vern be alive?"

  "He wasn't in the car," Nate replied. "If you recall, they never found the body."

  "Why is he hiding?"

  "It's a long story," Nate said. "We can’t talk about it here."

  "But... he is okay?" Nellie asked. "You've seen him recently?"

  "I'm still with your uncle, Missy," Nate replied. "And yes, he's fine for now."

  Mike nudged Nellie. "Is that man out there going to kill Uncle Vern?"

  "Heaven's no!" Nellie quickly replied, not wanting to let on how dire their predicament was. "He just wants to talk to him."

  Sharp knocks rattled the door. Nellie kissed Mike. "I've got to go, honey," she said, "so you try and sleep. And don't worry. Will knows how to get the Isadora through a storm, and Uncle Vern will be fine. But you must be very quiet and not anger the man outside the door. Promise me that." When Mike didn’t respond, Nellie said, "Mike, promise me you won't aggravate the man in any way. He's a very bad man, and he has a gun."

  Mike drew in a long sigh and said in a resigned tone, "I promise."

  "Good boy," Nellie kissed him and tucked him in bed.

  "Look," Nate said, "you stay here with the boy and I'll help on the bridge."

  Nellie had little hope that the gunman would allow the exchange, but it was worth a try. "Okay, but I'd better be the one to suggest it." She knocked lightly, and after a few moments, she heard the key turning in the lock. She stepped into the salon and faced the man. "Can I stay with my son and let the other man help on the bridge?" she asked.

  The man began drumming his fingers restlessly against his thigh. "No," he replied. "As long as you're separated from the kid you won't try anything." He turned the key in the lock and motioned with the gun towards the bridge, saying nothing more.

  Taking a last look at the door to the fo'c'sle, Nellie turned and ascended the ladder to the bridge, gripping the handrails tightly to keep from falling. She made her way over to Will. Standing beside him, she saw how tired he looked and wondered how much longer he could hold out. He'd had less than two hours sleep in the last twenty-four hours.

  "How are you doing?" she asked.

  "Fine." Will peered down at the radar screen, his brows drawn.

  "Is there a problem?" Nellie asked.

  "Other than we're heading into a storm, no."

  Nellie glanced at the radar and saw that it was clear. "We must be the only boat crossing the strait," she said.

  "At least we're the only ones within radar range," Will replied, "so the boats I saw earlier must have turned back. But we still have to watch the radar for boats. They can get lost between swells and appear in an instant. Is everything okay below?" he asked, hands gripping the wheel as he attempted to hold a steady course against the constant rolling and bucking of the boat.

  "For now, yes," Nellie replied, while bracing her legs and holding onto the chart table. "But we've got to come up with some kind of a plan."

  Will stood at the helm, hands locked on the wheel, attention divided betw
een the instruments and the darkness beyond the windows. "Right now we're heading into a hell of a gale," he said, "so our only plan is to get through it." Another combing wave hit the boat broadside, cresting over the deck with a deafening roar. Will glanced at the barometer. The pressure continued to plummet.

  "What can I do?" Nellie asked, flinching as spume crashed against the windows.

  "Nothing," Will replied.

  As the wind caught the boat full force, waves roared and hissed and the surface of the sea was rabid with spume. Will no longer held hope that the winds would abate; the winds had been rising steadily, building to forty knots, and he were resigned to riding out the gale. Waves peaked sharper and more unevenly, pitching the bow and exposing the boat broadside to the powerful breaking crests of the swells.

  "Hold on tight," Will yelled. He steered in a diagonal, throwing the boat from trough to trough and sending waves washing over the deck with brutal force.

  Nellie braced herself against the instrument panel and cried over the roar of waves crashing against the hull, "How long do you think it's going to last?"

  "A couple hours... maybe longer," Will shouted back. "Even if the gale passes, we still won't be out of rough seas until we enter the sound."

  The direction of the wind shifted dramatically, pushing against the swells it had created. As the confused seas grew steadily more violent, waves climbed one on top of another until one spilled like an avalanche, sending the Isadora reeling sideways, the receding backwash moving the boat away to be battered by the next one. Pitting his skill against the waves while fighting the wheel, Will tried to anticipate what was coming, each wave demanding total concentration, and every ounce of strength to handle the boat. Waves grew sharper, tipping the Isadora precariously as it rolled one moment in the deepest trough between mountains of breaking water, then rode high on the crest before pitching headlong down a seemingly vertical incline.

  The rest of the pitch-black night was like a jumbled nightmare of turbulent seas with steep breaking waves, and gusts of wind sweeping them in semicircles first one way then the other, and wind swooping down to viciously tear at the Isadora. The gunman remained below for most of the crossing, periodically venturing up to the bridge, pistol in hand, to remind them he was still very much in command. By dawn, the barometer was rising again and they no longer heard the lashing of rain on the windows or felt the steep breakers cresting over the deck. Will's hands were numb from gripping the wheel chair, his muscles ached from constant pitching, and he was exhausted an drained from lack of sleep, but she felt a closeness with Nellie, an almost spiritual bond with her, that together they'd battled the storm and won.

  Morning light gradually brought the forested shores of British Columbia into view, along with the blinking orb of the Windham Point lighthouse. Soon they'd be in the sheltered waters of Strathmore Sound, and in less than two hours they'd be at their destination—Ocean Bay and Vernon Sinclair. He turned and saw Nellie watching him.

  Reaching out, he pulled her to him and curved his arm around her. Holding her against him, he maneuvered the Isadora toward the mouth of the inlet, and as Nellie stood within the security of his arm, he realized, with a grave sense of foreboding, that although they'd battled the gale and won, their greatest danger still lay ahead.

  ***

  Will stared in disbelief at the vacant homes, stores and buildings lining the streets of Ocean Bay as the Isadora cruised along the shore. He'd expected to find a thriving community. Instead, boards covered windows and doors, streets were deserted, and silhouetted against a backdrop of water cascading over a high dam at the end of Strathmore Sound was what he assumed had once been a pulp mill.

  "It looks abandoned," Nellie said. "I wonder what happened here?"

  "I don't know," Will replied, "but it explains why I couldn't get a signal. The radio transmitting tower's dead." He pointed to a cluster of houses on a bluff adjacent to the dam, and said, "It looks like those might be occupied." Studying the homes, he wondered if one of them housed Sinclair. He tightened his arm around Nellie, realizing how little time they had to carry out the plan they'd hastily formulated—the diversion, the fire, the axe. But Mike and the old man knew nothing about it, and there would be no chance to explain it to them.

  "There's got to be another way," Nellie said, in a hushed voice.

  "There isn't." Will reversed the engines as the Isadora glided alongside a dock. "Just remember, when the time comes, you and Mike run like hell and never look back. Hide in one of the empty buildings until I come calling for you." Until now, he'd counted on Nellie and Mike finding refuge with the police or fire department, but it appeared the town had neither.

  "If something happens to you—" Nellie's eyes met his "—I love you, Will."

  Will gave her a reassuring squeeze, the gesture masking the uncertainty he felt. Their plan was undeveloped, unrehearsed. But it was all they had. Before cutting the engines, he held Nellie. "Okay, this is it," he whispered against the top of her head.

  "I'm so scared," Nellie said, clutching him to her. "So many things can go wrong."

  Will closed his eyes, drawing in the familiar fragrance of Nellie's hair, absorbing the warmth of her body. "Go. Now. I'll be right behind you—"

  "Like hell you will!" The gunman's voice came from behind.

  Will released Nellie. Angling his body in front of her as he looked at the pistol in the man's hand, he said, "Leave her here with her son. You don't need her."

  "That's where you're wrong," the gunman said. "As long as I have her, I'll get what I want from Sinclair." He hitched up his trousers. "And when I'm finished with Sinclair—" his lips curved in a sinister smile— "I have plans for her."

  "You son-of-a-bitch!" Will cried, adrenaline pumping through his body.

  Raising his knee, he knocked the pistol from the man's hand and scrambled after it, but his grappling fingers spun it haphazardly out of reach. The man lunged for the gun, pinning Will beneath him as his hand found the handgrip. Nellie reached for the man's wrist, but before she could grab it, the man cracked Will across the side of the head with the gun stock, the blow sending Will reeling backwards through the portal and plunging into darkness....

  CHAPTER 10

  Runners of pain shot up the side of Will's head. Aware of the distant sound of a voice, he opened his eyes. A face swam into view then faded. "Mr. Edenshaw." The voice sounded thin and far away. "Mr. Edenshaw." The voice came again. Will's eyelids fluttered, and when he opened them again, his wandering gaze drifted over a face hovering fuzzily in front of him. "Mr. Edenshaw," the voice was closer now, more urgent. "You've gotta wake up."

  Will blinked, and Mike's face came into focus.

  "The man took Mom and Captain Nate," Mike said, his voice cracking with fright.

  Will sat up, and for a moment he felt a slipping, sort of headlong plunging as though the boat were tipping. Pressing his hand to the sticky lump on the side of his head, he lay back until the lightness passed. "How long since he took them?" he asked.

  "I don't know," Mike replied. "Maybe a half hour."

  Will realized his feet were bound, and from the rope burns on his wrists, he knew his hands had also been bound, though they were now free. "Get a knife," he said, knowing they had to move fast.

  "Here," Mike replied, handing Will his scout knife.

  "Where did you get this?" Will asked, knowing the knife had been taken from the boat when they were in Campbell River.

  "Captain Nate gave it to me just before the man took him and Mom away."

  Will sat up slowly. "Did you see which way they went?"

  "No," Mike replied. "I was still locked up."

  Will opened the knife. Ignoring the throbbing in his head, he continued sawing through the frayed rope Mike had been working on. He glanced at the undamaged door to the fo'c'sle. "If you were locked up, how did you get out?" he asked, while moving the blade in short, quick strokes.

  "Through the bilges," Mike replied. "Captain Nate showed
me the floor panel in the locker and told me how to get out through the bilges in case I had to get away or something."

  Feeling the rope snap, hastily Will unwound the cord from around his ankles and pulled himself up to stand on wobbly legs, feeling the soreness in his back and shoulders from the fall, and the stickiness of blood where he'd been hit with the gun stock.

  "Come on," he said, dismissing the runners of pain in his head as he moved. He staggered onto the deck, Mike close behind, and they jumped ashore and made their way up the dock.

  "Where are we going?" Mike yelled, as they ran toward the town.

  "I don't know," Will replied. He looked frantically for someone, anyone to direct them to Vernon Sinclair's house. As they rounded the corner of the deserted street, Will spotted a bearded man stepping out of a dilapidated house. The man, seeing Will and Mike running toward him, stepped back onto the porch and moved behind a post. Catching the apprehension in the man's eyes, Will said, "I mean no harm. I'm looking for Vernon Sinclair."

  "Is he a messenger of the Lord?" the man asked, brows raised, eyes wide.

  Will felt his temper rise. With Nellie's life at stake he didn't have time to play games. He grabbed the front of the man's shirt, and said, "Tell me where Sinclair lives, now!"

  The man's brows slurred over puzzled eyes. "The light cometh down... oh yes, it cometh. And a messenger of the Lord cometh with it. Do you know him? This messenger?"

  Will looked into round blank eyes. "Shit!" he said, releasing the man. The only inhabitant in town was deranged. "Come on Mike." He motioned for the boy to follow. As they ran from building to building, knocking on doors while making their way up the street, Will deliberated whether or not to leave Mike in a deserted building. He didn't want him around when he'd face the gunman. They turned a corner and ran up a street lined with cottages that looked as if they'd been deserted only recently—drapes still hanging, furniture on porches. Catching the face of a woman peering through a window he motioned to her then stepped onto the porch.