I'd been holding my skiff bow into the sea. But now I nudged it into gear and began to turn. I waited until I was atop a wave to complete the turn-which is when I noticed the shell of a dark hull wallowing on the horizon, not more than a mile away.
It was the Hinckley.
Twenty-six
Detective Gary Parrish was not a blue-water sailor. Judging from what I saw, he wasn't much of a sailor at all. As I made my first pass, I could see him on his knees, hanging his head over the transom and vomiting. He'd made quit a mess on the big golden letters: Namesake.
I approached the Hinckley from head-on. If someone is chasing you, they approach from behind, right? I ran at an angle as if I was going to pass them port to port, just as cars traveling opposite directions pass. In this failing light and at a distance, they wouldn't recognize me. There was no color or detail. They would probably just think me some crazed flats fisherman trying to get his skiff back to Everglades City before the big storm hit.
Something else to my advantage: in heavy weather, men standing huddled in a cabin acquire tunnel vision. They don't look out the side windows, they seldom look behind. They stare hypnotically through the slapping windshield wipers and see little else but the glow of their own red and green running lights.
Namesake already had her lights on, obeying the laws, not wanting to attract any attention. The white anchor light was mounted on the antenna stem atop the cabin, which is why I could see Parrish and the mess he was making so clearly.
I was running without lights. Which is why it was unlikely they would notice me.
But Parrish hanging over the stern was an unexpected component. If I swept in close and lobbed one of my Mason jars at Namesake, he would see me. He'd hear and feel the small explosion and see me very clearly for several seconds, at least, as I blasted past. Plenty of time for him to draw his weapon and empty a clip at me.
The chances of a nauseous man hitting a moving target with a 9mm in heaving seas were not good. Still, all it would take was one lucky round.
If possible, I wanted to eliminate Parrish before I attacked. I needed to do it quietly, without attracting the attention of Ivan Bauerstock, whose silhouette I could see in the computer glow of electronics. He was sitting in the yacht's helm seat, head pushed forward as if straining to see through the rain.
Where were Ted and Nora?
No sign of them.
If they were aboard, they had to be together in the cabin below deck. It was an unsettling possibility-no, probability- that sickened me. It also underlined the need to hurry.
I passed the Hinckley a couple hundred yards to seaward, then swung in behind them. Jumped the wake and turned into their jetstream contrail, throttling, closing the distance between us.
Had Parrish noticed?
No. He was still retching. He appeared oblivious to everything around him. I could see the top of his head and shoulders clearly, heaving up and down. He was such an easy, unguarded target that I was tempted to ram Namesake from behind. Any small impact would have flipped him off the back of the boat. That's exactly what I would do if my first attempt to snag him didn't work.
As I bore down on them, I took the heavy Loomis bait-casting rod from the standup holder. It was still rigged with the Bomber lure that Tomlinson had been using. I tested the reel's star drag; tightened it. Tested it a second time and tightened it even more.
Shifted the rod to my right hand, which rested atop the throtde. I was closing distance at twice their speed, planing in fast. I expected Parrish to lift his head at any moment and see me, but he didn't. I was forty yards behind them, then twenty, then ten. When the bow of my skiff seemed almost on top the teak dive platform off Namesake's stern, I pulled the throttle back, and matched her speed, wallowing in her exhaust stream. I pressed my hips to the wheel, holding course, as I cast the plug toward Parrish. The first cast was long and banged on the deck behind him. I yanked the plug back, reeling furiously.
Parrish looked up, alerted by the sound, or maybe the breeze that the lure created as it flew past his head.
Then he saw me. In the stormy dusk, with the aid of the anchor light, I could see the man's expression change. It went through abrupt transitions: puzzlement… awareness… shock… horror. He looked at me, then recognized me. Gary Parrish did not want to believe what he was seeing.
I had the lure back and I cast again, thumbing the line so that it wouldn't backlash.
I saw his grimace of surprise when the lure hit him just below and to the side of his neck. I saw his face contort with pain as I struck hard, arching my back, burying the gang hooks into his cheek and throat. Parrish's right hand flew up to pull the plug away, but he only managed to bury the hooks in his palm, disabling himself.
With my left hand, I turned the wheel sharply as the rod bowed, the spool and level-wind feeding line now, monofilament burning the skin of my thumb as I jumped the big boat's wake once again, surfing away at an angle, still feeling torque and the big man's weight in the butt of the rod. I glanced astern and I saw, for a grotesque microsecond, Parrish's face being dragged through rollers behind me, his eyes wide, his mouth thrown open in a soundless scream as he fought to free himself.
I turned my eyes away, still holding the rod. I held fast, not looking back until the line broke; nearly lost my balance when it did. Then I reeled in the excess line and stowed the rod in its holder.
My attention turned once again to Namesake as my skiff lunged ahead into the waves.
Ivan Bauerstock hadn't noticed that Parrish was missing. More likely, he'd noticed but just didn't care. He'd probably figured the man had fallen overboard. They would have to kill him one day anyway, and what could be easier to explain than an actual accident at sea?
I could see Bauerstock still sitting at the helm seat as I swept in for a second pass. He wasn't looking in my direction. Didn't yet know I was in pursuit, judging by the way he behaved.
I'd stopped just long enough to take all three Mason jars from the cooler and wedge them between my ankles. I'd dealt with enough explosives to be reasonably confident at least one of the jars would detonate if it impacted hard enough against the hull of Namesake. I'd also dealt with explosives enough to know not to ever, ever trust them. Particularly concoctions made with anything less than laboratory-grade chemicals.
This time, I approached from the mainland, coming fast out of the darkness as if to ram them on the starboard side. At the last instant, I throttled back, turning hard toward Namesake's stern. I waited a moment to get my balance, then I threw the Mason jars one after another, holding them like footballs, giving them all the velocity I could.
There was so much adrenaline in me that the first jar spi-raled over the bow; missed everything. The second hit the cabin trunk just aft the side windshield, but didn't detonate. The third jar hit the cabin right outside where Bauerstock was sitting and it did detonate, but with such an impotent little whoof that I was surprised Bauerstock heard it.
He did, though. I saw him jump. He also saw the blue alcohol and ammonia flames riding soap bubbles harmlessly along the side deck; harmless because the fire burned at a temperature much too low to ignite wet fiberglass.
Bauerstock didn't know that, though, and I watched as he slowed the big Hinckley to a crawl and came out onto the deck carrying two fire extinguishers.
I didn't hesitate. I already had my anchor ready, cleated to a few yards of line-the most primitive of boarding hooks. Now I swung in behind the yacht; put my bow against his stern as if attempting to push him out of the way. Touched a toggle switch, turning on my navigational lights, then tossed my anchor over his transom. Removed the ignition cord from my belt and left my engine idling as I crabbed forward onto my skiff's casting deck, fighting for balance. I timed a lifting wave and swung over onto Namesake, then stood to see a very surprised Ivan Bauerstock staring at me. I heard his frightened voice say, "My God, it's… it's you. I thought Parrish killed you!"
I stood there using the gunwale for ba
lance before I answered. I said, "That'll be the day." Then I began to move toward him. There was so much wind and wash of heavy seas that I had to yell to be heard. "Where are they? Where's Nora?"
Bauerstock was backing away. "Listen to me, Ford. You can't blame me for my son's behavior. I have nothing to do with his private life."
"Where are they? Where's Nora!"
"Teddy's going to be a very important man. If you can overlook the last few weeks, we can help you tremendously down the road. Whatever you want!"
Bauerstock had backed into the white helm seat. He was still holding one of the spent fire extinguishers. When I reached for him, he swung the metal canister hard at my head. I caught his arm, locked my fingers under his chin until the fire extinguisher clanked upon the deck. Then I pulled his face close to mine. In a voice hoarse with anger, I whispered, "I don't blame you, Ivan. I just don't like you."
He tried to fight as I swung around behind him, and began to push him toward the water. He was yelling, "I can pay you, I can pay you! Don't do this to me, phase."
I got my right hand on his belt, my left hand in his hair, then I ran him toward the transom. He gave a terrible soprano yelp as I lifted him airborne and vaulted him overboard.
Ivan Bauerstock was still screaming at me as we idled away, his words indistinguishable in the wind.
The door through the aft bulkhead was locked from the inside.
Someone was down there, hiding in the cabin.
I lifted myself between the companionway entrance and used both feet to kick the door open. It took awhile. The boat was solidly built. Finally, the door shattered, brass hardware flying.
There would be no surprising Ted now. He'd be waiting.
I squatted and looked down the steps into a beautifully appointed cabin. I got a whiff of something as I did: a metallic, human odor that I couldn't identify. The room was dimly lighted; had a candle softness. Music was playing through the built-in sound system. Willie Nelson. The place might have been set for a romantic dinner but for the storm outside.
I looked beyond the dinette table and stainless steel galley to the cushioned V-berth, and felt a sickening panic at what I saw there. A human figure lay motionless beneath a sheet. A pillowcase covered the head, as if draped for execution.
There was a black swash of blood on the sheet. More blood on the pillowcase; heavy in the area where the face would have been.
Where the hell was Ted?
Because there was no other option, I swung down into the cabin. The moment my feet hit the deck, the door to the toilet came flying open. I didn't react in time and felt a tremendous impact as someone clubbed me behind the neck. He clubbed me again, grunting with effort, and I went down on one knee. I got my elbow up and blocked the next blow, saw a pair of bare feet braced on the deck. I reached, yanked and rolled hard. Felt his body weight collapse on top of me. I wres-tied myself into control, pulling my fist back to flatten the nose of Ted Bauerstock… but instead I was looking into the tear-streaked face of Nora Chung.
I froze, my fist poised a few inches from her chin, as she whispered, "Doc? Doc! Oh, thank God! Thank God it's you!"
I got to my feet and pulled her up. She was wearing only a white bra and panties, blood on both. She'd used a fish billy to club me, and now I retrieved that, too. She was shaking, seemed on the verge of hysteria. I sat her in the settee booth and kissed her forehead, then cheek, trying to calm her.
"Where's Ted?"
She made a gesture that asked for a little time to get herself under control. It appeared as if she might faint. "This can't be real. Doc, are you sure this is real? Is this really happening? I can't tell the difference anymore."
She was probably still suffering the effects of scopolamine. "Did he give you something? Did he make you drink something or give you a shot?"
Nora's expression became savage and she looked at the motionless figure beneath the sheet. "Him? You mean that son-of-a-bitching animal? He gave me a shot, yeah. He gave Delia one, too, before he strangled her. Know what he did? He ate one of her eyes. I saw him. He made me watch. Like it was a grape. Then he raped me. And he kept on raping me. I had no choice, Doc. You have to tell the police. Lot of times they don't believe women, but I had to do it. I had to make sure he could never hurt me again."
I patted her back for a moment, then went to the V-berth and pulled the pillowcase away. Ted Bauerstock lay there blinking up at me, recognizing me, his pupils gigantic. He still hadn't moved and I had to lean to hear his weak voice as he gasped, "I'm paralyzed. The bitch stuck a needle in my neck. You've got to get me to a hospital."
I looked at Nora. She sat there tapping her fingers together, very nervous. Her speech became accelerated. "He thought I was unconscious. I grabbed the needle when he turned his back. After that… after that…" She began to cry. "… I'm not sure what happened after that."
I pulled the sheet down, looking at what she'd done to him, then covered him as Bauerstock whispered, "She's going to jail for this. I'll make sure of it. She'll never have a free day."
I said, 'Jail? Teddy, the lady ought to get a reward. Or a bounty. After what you've done?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't done anything wrong. I'm running for the senate-"
I put my hand on his mouth, silencing him. I didn't want to hear it. After a moment, I said, "You need to answer one question. If you expect me to help you, it'd better be the truth. Why did you kill Dorothy?"
"I'm not answering anything. I need a doctor."
"No answers, no doctor. Why'd you murder that child?"
The smile that grew out of his mouth was infuriating. "Honesdy?"
"If you're capable."
"Because it felt good and… I like it. The power."
"That's what I'll tell the cops."
The smile widened. "No… won't happen. They won't believe you. They never have. They never will."
I said, "For them to believe you, Ted, they've got to hear you," and I dropped the pillowcase over his face.
When she'd calmed down, I said to Nora. "You're safe now. You didn't do anything wrong. Get your clothes on. Did Ted bring the wooden totem aboard?"
She nodded. Her face was pale; wet with tears. She looked very fragile in the cabin light.
"Find it and bring it with you."
I touched my pockets as I went toward the steps. The gold medallion was in one. The syringe the old woman had given me was in the other. If I sold the medallion and the totem, the Egyptian cat and the rest of the artifacts, it would make a sizable scholarship fund. Or maybe donate everything to the museum. One way or another, keep the name Dorothy Copeland alive.
Topside, I made sure my skiff was still in tow, then seated myself at Namesake' s helm. I touched the LCD window of the Cetrek autopilot. I saw that it was keeping us on a flawless heading of 312 degrees, directly at Coon Key Light, but at the very slow idle speed of only three knots.
The yacht was equipped with a steering wheel, but also some kind of computer-type joy stick that I didn't know how to operate. I disengaged the autopilot, turned the wheel and the yacht came around. I pointed her bow out to sea. Felt
Nora come up beside me and lean her warm weight against my shoulder, as I listened to the robotic voice from the VHF radio say, "… Hurricane Charles continues to move northeasterly at a speed of eighteen knots, with sustained winds measured at a hundred thirty knots. Charles is expected to make landfall at ten a.m. tomorrow. Mandatory evacuation has been declared for Marco Island and the neighboring cities of…"
I switched off the radio and said, "You remember how to run my boat?"
She nodded.
"I'm going to help you get aboard, then cut you loose. I want you to follow me until I get this boat up to speed, but not too close. Pay attention because I'm going to jump. I'll blink this boat's running lights twice to warn you, then go over the port side. It'll be on your left. All you have to do is put my skiff in neutral. Don't worry about finding me. I'll swim to yo
u. Can you do that?"
Nora's voice had regained some strength, and I felt like hugging her when she said, "Of course I can do it. I'm not an invalid, for God's sake. Don't treat me like one."
I was experimenting with the autopilot, learning how it worked. I also had both radar screens on, watching the scanning arm show blobs of islands, nothing else. I figured out that the Doppler was also linked to the computer screen built into the console, and I accessed a perfect satellite picture of the storm: a red vortex less than three hundred miles away.
That gave me an idea. I touched the cursor to the center of the hurricane, and punched the exact heading into the autopilot, 225 degrees. I clicked on Auto-track and then Engage. Waited for a moment, then felt the autopilot take control of the steering, running direcdy southwest toward the target I had designated.
"What are you doing?"
I said, "Teddy likes eyes? His computer's got him headed for a big one."
A few minutes later, with Nora trailing me in the skiff, I throttled the Hinckley up to a jarring twenty knots. I made sure the servo-systems were vectoring properly. Then I jumped overboard into the black water.
A little after 9:30 that night, Nora and I dragged ourselves through the wind, up the highest Indian mound of Dismal Key. We had flashlights, tent, mosquito netting, sandwiches and beer, each of us muling bags. We were soaked, exhausted.
I'd tied my skiff in the mangroves with a spider webbing of lines to hold her. Even if the storm surge was more than fifteen feet or higher, we'd be safe and so would my boat.
The walls of Al's shack were still standing, the screen broken out of the windows. But I didn't want to be inside a building, not in a wind that was expected to exceed a hundred miles an hour. It took me a while to find what I was looking for, but I finally did: a room-sized hole dug into the shell mound, the ironic hermit's bomb shelter. It wasn't far from the key lime and avocado trees that grew there. The hole would provide windbreak enough that the tent would survive. Even if the tent didn't, we would.
Ten thousand isles df-7 Page 23
