I glanced over my shoulder at the water below. I can swim well — I’d been on the swim team in high school. But that was in a chlorinated, controlled environment and many years ago. Taking on the Columbia in the dark would be my last resort.
The deckhand lunged for me.
I scooted a few feet down the railing.
He was too slow and still wheezing. He hunched over, grasping the top rail and holding his side with the other hand.
I clenched my fists, fury rising in my throat. “What did you do to my friend, George?” I spat out.
“Don’t know ‘im,” the man rasped, eyeing me.
“How much are you being paid?”
“Not nearly enough.” He shuffled a few steps toward me.
I backed up, keeping two arm-lengths between us.
“Did you know those projectiles leak? That you could be exposed to nerve agent at any time?”
The man’s face went white. “They’re not—”
“Yes, they are. Didn’t they tell you?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pete down below, sliding the lifeboat along the tug’s side, keeping even with us. He had a pistol in his hand, and was drawing a bead on the deckhand.
One of the tug’s engines shut down. Suddenly the vibrations and noise were cut in half. The captain had finally noticed the commotion going on alongside, or had at last decided to do something about it. What if the captain and the rest of the crew were in on the smuggling activity?
The deckhand smirked and lurched forward.
I turned and sprinted to the back corner of the stern where the railing ended. I whirled and crouched, waiting for him.
The tug’s second engine shuddered to a stop.
The deckhand lumbered up, half bent, arms outstretched. I let him grab me, wrapped my arms around his belly and let his momentum add to my muscle thrust as I pushed off the tug’s stern in what would have been a beautiful backstroke dive if I’d been able to arch my back.
We slammed into the water in a pancaked belly flop with him on top of me and plunging me what felt like fathoms underwater with his weight.
CHAPTER 21
The frigid water knocked all remaining breath out of me. The deckhand clawed desperately, tearing at my clothes and hair. I dove deeper, kicking free of him, then let the lifejacket do its job.
I bobbed to the surface and sucked in a burning lungful of air. I shoved my hair out of my face and paddled to tread water and get my bearings, taking great gulps of air every chance I got.
About fifteen feet away, the deckhand thrashed and sputtered.
“Kick your boots off,” I called to him. You’d think that people who work on boats would be comfortable with being in water, but he clearly wasn’t.
We were just beyond the illumination cast by the still drifting tug. The current tugged at my legs, tilting me sideways. I unzipped the lifejacket and pulled it off so I could float horizontally.
I sidestroked toward the deckhand, pushing the lifejacket ahead of me. “Calm down,” I hollered. “Take this.”
He flung an arm over the jacket and tried to climb on top of it. When it sank beneath him, he dove for me.
I ducked underwater and swam out of his reach. Panicked people can drown their rescuers by tangling and submerging them in their attempts to rise out of the water.
I needed to keep a safe distance until he tired enough to do as instructed. If he was smaller or less aggressive, I would try to grab him from behind and tip him back in a headlock, but I was pretty sure he was still wearing his boots. One well-placed kick with those, and I might not come back up.
The end of an oar dropped in the water in front of me. I glanced up.
“Grab on.”
Pete pulled me to the lifeboat and hauled me over the side. I slumped in the bottom of the boat, suddenly exhausted and shivering violently.
Pete ran his hands over my arms and legs, then grasped my shoulders and stared into my eyes. “You’re not hit?”
“N-n-no,” I said through chattering teeth.
“I thought that bullet hit you.”
“R-r-railing. Y-y-you okay?”
“Never better. We gotta go, though. They’ve already gotten a good look at us.”
“Wh-what?” I pulled myself up and peered over the gunwale. A couple crew members on the tug were preparing their lifeboat. “W-we need him.” I waved toward the dark bump that was the deckhand’s head.
“They’ll pick him up,” Pete said.
“Sh-sheriff Marge c-can interrogate him if we b-bring him in. He w-won’t last much l-longer.”
Pete’s eye’s narrowed, then he cast another quick glance at the tug. He dug an oar in the water and plied it hard first one side then the other. We quickly skimmed toward the deckhand.
Pete swung the lifeboat around broadside and grabbed the deckhand’s collar. I clutched handfuls of his shirt too, and we pulled his torso up, hinging him over the side at the waist. Pete grabbed his legs and tumbled the rest of him into the boat.
The deckhand groaned and curled into a fetal position. His panting was ragged but regular. He’d probably swallowed a gallon of silty water. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t feel up to attacking me again for a while.
Pete started the outboard motor with a roar, and the boat leaped forward. He throttled it to full speed, and we cruised across the river’s smooth surface. I ducked in the bow and kept an eye on the receding tug.
oOo
Pete made radio contact with the sheriff’s patrol boat, and they met us near the shore and escorted us to the marina. The tug never did launch their lifeboat. We found out later the captain contacted the sheriff’s patrol to announce a man overboard, and then they continued on course under the excuse that they had a schedule to keep.
Sheriff Marge was waiting on the boardwalk and caught the line Pete tossed. She helped pull us into a slip and tied the rope.
The marina had a festive look with multicolored lanterns strung between pilings. A few docked boats were hosting parties, and the loud laughter of slightly intoxicated people carried across the water.
Archie hopped off the patrol craft while Owen was docking it and hurried over. He knelt next to the lifeboat and grasped the deckhand’s collar. “Who do you have here?”
“I-I think h-he was r-receiving a d-delivery,” I said.
Owen arrived with an empty duffel bag. “Need to stow a few things?”
“Got my own,” Pete said.
Owen helped me out of the lifeboat and wrapped a Mylar sheet around my shoulders while Pete shoved an arsenal into his duffel bag and hoisted it over his shoulder. I stood there gaping at him.
“Finney’s still here. We’ll use his backroom.” Sheriff Marge led the procession up the boardwalk to the Burger Basket and Bait Shop — Archie prodding the deckhand along in the middle and Owen taking up the rear.
“What is all that in the duffel bag?” I whispered to Pete.
“Insurance. You sure you’re okay?”
I slipped my hand into his and squeezed.
We passed by the Burger Basket’s big picture windows. A few remaining patrons were polishing off the last of their French fries and hot fudge sundaes inside. Sheriff Marge pushed open the back door, which is actually in the front, closest to the parking lot, and provides direct access to the kitchen.
Finney greeted us with a wide, gap-toothed grin and pointed to a narrow room lined with rolling carts stacked with jumbo packages of hamburger buns, rye bread for Reuben sandwiches and Kaiser rolls.
Sheriff Marge upended an empty five-gallon bucket labeled dill pickle spears and sat on it. The rest of us followed suit, including the scowling deckhand.
He hadn’t said a word since we’d pulled him into the lifeboat. Under the flickering florescent lights in Finney’s storeroom, he appeared pasty and haggard, bloated.
I popped up and slipped out of the room. “Finney?”
Finney was emptying crumbs from his industrial revolving toaster. The thing is almost as big as
a small car. He turned, his eyebrows raised.
“Do you have any coffee left?”
“About to dump it. It’s on the bitter side.”
“We’d be grateful, no matter what it tastes like.”
“Comin’ up.”
“Do you have something dry, like crackers or pretzels?”
Finney nodded. “Noticed that feller was looking a bit peaky. Yep, I’ll rustle up something.” He cocked his head. “How’re you?”
I glanced down at my Mylar cape and pulled it off. “Better than I look.” I wadded the crinkly sheet under my arm and resumed my bucket, pushing the door closed behind me.
The room was stuffy and warm, probably perfect for baked goods, but not so great for six people crammed together, especially when two of them were wet. My clothes started to steam and smelled like algae mixed with moldy canvas and a hint of fish guts.
I was becoming desperate to wash my hair. I’d also lost my cute leopard print ballet flats in the Columbia. My Apricot Blush toenail polish was chipped. Nothing like an unexpected swim to dishevel a girl.
Sheriff Marge eyed the deckhand who, in turn, eyed his sodden boots.
“Name?” she asked.
He pressed his lips together as if an answer might burst out against his will.
“Need medical attention?”
He shook his head, his hair flopping against his forehead.
“How many projectiles were delivered tonight?”
His hands gripped his knees, the knuckles turning white, his gaze fixed on the floor.
There was a tap on the door, and I opened it. Finney passed a tray loaded with coffee mugs and a large bowl of his specialty Chex mix with dried fruit and M&Ms and coconut chunks — a sort of glamorous granola he packs for fishermen who know to ask for it. Archie pulled over another bucket to act as makeshift table, and we dug in.
Sheriff Marge took a big gulp of coffee and grimaced. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You’ll be under arrest here in a little bit — for assault at the least.” She peered at me over the top of her reading glasses.
“She was trespassing,” the deckhand mumbled.
“You had no cause to restrain her against her will. But I’m more interested in what you were doing out on the barge, keeping an appointment with the speedboat.”
The deckhand, mid-chew, clamped his mouth shut.
Sheriff Marge arched a brow. “Pete, which tug was it tonight?”
“Nocturne. The one before was the Mermaid. Both in Clearwater’s fleet.”
“We’ll get the crew records. Scrap metal barges both times?”
The deckhand shot a scathing look at Pete.
Pete stared back and nodded.
Sheriff Marge sighed and rubbed her hands on her thighs. “We’ll ask the Coast Guard to put inspection holds on all Clearwater scrap metal barges until we get to the bottom of this.”
“I want a lawyer,” the deckhand muttered.
“I’m sure you do. Archie’ll take you in.”
After Archie had recited the deckhand’s Miranda rights, handcuffed him and hustled him out of the room, Sheriff Marge asked, “How many shots did you fire?”
“Both barrels twice,” Pete answered.
“Hit anyone?”
“Not that I know of. I was aiming for the waterline.”
“He hit the engine too, so you’re looking for a disabled speedboat now,” I added.
Sheriff Marge leaned forward, elbows on knees, her chin cupped in her hands. “How many times did they fire at you?”
“Five or six. I’ll know better once I inspect the lifeboat — there are a few holes.”
“They shot the lifeboat?” My voice pitched up.
Pete laid a warm hand on my knee. “And the tug railing by your head. They weren’t messing around.”
“How many people in the speedboat?” Sheriff Marge asked.
“Two,” Pete answered.
“Can you describe them?”
“Caps and dark jackets. By their size and demeanor, I’d say they’re both male. Sorry, that’s all I can give you.”
“Did you see any projectiles?”
Pete and I glanced at each other, then shook our heads.
“But I’d be willing to bet there wasn’t time to make the transfer,” Pete said.
“So they’re still in the speedboat,” I whispered. “With leaks and engine trouble, maybe they can’t make it back to their base.”
Owen snapped his notebook shut. “Henry?”
Sheriff Marge gave a curt nod, and Owen sidled out of the room.
Someday, I want to meet Henry Parker. He’s a retired Army helicopter mechanic who builds his own whirlybirds as a hobby now. He flies reconnaissance whenever Sheriff Marge needs him, although I happen to know that the experimental nature of his equipment gives her cause to worry about him. He helped search for a missing person last year — a missing person I had a vested interest in, and I’ve never had a chance to thank him.
With Sheriff Marge and her deputies launching into action, Pete and I had the task of getting home. We climbed back into the lifeboat, and Pete motored along the bank the short distance to the Port of Platts Landing and the Surely floating intact at her mooring.
At least she looked intact, aside from her previous injury, in the dark. Pete went over her inch by inch before he let me come aboard. I occupied my time by searching for and counting the bullet holes in the lifeboat — four — all concentrated at the rear of the boat and above the waterline, near where Pete had been sitting. Some had probably whizzed by him through the air.
I curled up in the lifeboat and let the Columbia’s waves rock me in a comforting rhythm — in direct contrast with my frantic, clamoring thoughts. Pete had said the guys in the speedboat weren’t messing around. I think what scared me most is that they’d moved from an indirect method — pipe bombs — to a direct method — guns. It was all personal. I started shivering again, clammy in my stiff, damp clothes.
“I’m going to follow you to the Tinsleys’.” Pete had returned and stood on the stern above me.
I climbed onto the deck, shaky and awkward, scraping my knees on the Surely’s charred edge. Pete pulled me to my feet.
“I think we should fill Herb and Harriet in, so they know exactly what risk they’re running,” Pete said.
I nodded and stumbled up the gangplank.
CHAPTER 22
Tuesday morning at the Imogene was surreally quiet. I settled in my stuffy office — hid, really — and submerged into researching Lombok pottery with a minor tangent on to green pit vipers — the creature I was pretty sure Frankie had mangled, postmortem. I was glad I hadn’t stuck my hand into the crate with the reptile still alive.
Herb and Harriet had been beyond marvelous in accepting Pete’s and my news with equanimity. Maybe it had something to do with their eighty years of experience. Maybe it had much more to do with their characters.
Harriet had reached over and squeezed my hand, holding it the rest of the time while Pete shared the details. Then she ushered me upstairs, hovered outside the bathroom while I cleaned up and practically tucked me into bed. I heard the low murmur of Herb’s and Pete’s voices on the back porch as I drifted to sleep — planning their defenses probably. I was so tired.
I was still fatigued, having risen with sore muscles, congested sinuses and a headache. Last night’s activities had taken more of a toll on my body than I’d realized at the time.
I slurped my elixir — a brown sugar sweetened latte that Harriet had packed for me — and toyed with the idea of exhibiting the pottery in a pyramid-style display. Or maybe by function? I was weighing the options when my phone rang.
“How’re you doing?” Sheriff Marge asked.
“Fine. What did you find last night?”
“I’m starting to think it’s a phantom speedboat.”
“Not based on the number of bullet holes in Pete’s lifeboat. So Henry didn’t see anything?”
“It to
ok an hour to wake him up — he’s an early-to-bedder — and for him to get airborne. By then the river was clear except for sparse commercial traffic and a few anchored pleasure craft with drowsy occupants. There are a number of tributaries large and deep enough to handle a speedboat in that stretch, on both the Washington and Oregon sides. Henry suggested the speedboat might be dodging into one of those to hide or even permanently docking at a private ramp tucked into the weeds.”
“That’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“He’s going up again this morning. I’ve sent Archie down to the marina to talk to the bait shop regulars, see if they know of any potential hiding spots or if they’ve encountered the speedboat personally.”
“I expect the speedboat would look a lot different in daylight.”
Sheriff Marge sighed. “Yeah, but we gotta try. They’re a nosy bunch, and they pay attention to boats especially.”
“When they’re not dickering with each other,” I muttered. “What did the deckhand have to say?”
“Clammed up tight. Not even sure we have his correct name. Nothing came up in the database on him. He’s cooling his heels in jail until his lawyer gets here.”
“How’s George?”
“Up and around. Getting his IV out this afternoon. If he can prove he’s drinking enough fluid on his own, he’ll be released tomorrow morning. Told me one of the other residents has been thinking of selling out. He’s going to buy the guy’s trailer and rent his spot.”
“In the same campground?” I groaned.
“Exactly. Not my jurisdiction, so we can’t protect him there. Wasco County deputies have other things to do. He’s going to be on his own.”
“You couldn’t convince him to stay, just a few more days? I’m sure he could bunk at the Tinsleys’ too.”
Sheriff Marge barked a dry laugh. “What do you think?”
“I could steal his dinghy, keep him off the river at least.”
“He’d borrow someone else’s. Nope. We gotta figure this out, fast. And I strongly urge you not to visit George at the campground again until we do. You won’t be so lucky the second time.” Sheriff Marge hung up.
Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4) Page 15
