by Mike Befeler
Austin paused. “I can leave you alone if you like.”
I waved my hand toward my chest. “I’d welcome the company. Come join me.”
“This was an exciting night,” Austin said as he sat down next to me. “You’ll never guess what Benny told me about Pierce.”
“What?”
“Pierce tried to beat up a homeless man but something went wrong, and he ended up at the hospital with a broken arm. Pierce’s mom called Benny, asking if he knew what happened—she said Pierce wouldn’t talk about it.”
I thought back to the scene I’d witnessed through the window in Brock’s office. “I’d say that Pierce picked on the wrong person and received his comeuppance. Hopefully, he’ll learn from the experience.”
“Yeah. I don’t think Pierce will try that again.”
“I just finished a snack, and if you’re hungry, there are some cookies in the kitchen.”
“Okay.” Austin went inside and closed the door.
A feeling of contentment rippled through my chest. I had escaped the bad guy, the police were on his tail, and all was good in the universe. Austin had even resolved his problem and seemed in vastly improved spirits. I could now resume the life of a retired gentleman without a care in the world. I’d sleep in tomorrow and spend the day with Marion doing whatever she wanted to.
I looked up at the sky again and then down at the shadows in the yard.
Suddenly another shape emerged.
Chapter 22
I squinted at a shape in the yard below. Was Austin’s mom or dad looking for him? Then I could see it was a man. He came right up to me. I let out a gasp. It was Clint Brock.
Uh-oh. I was in deep poop.
“You enjoying the night air?” I said in my most casual voice.
He pointed a pistol at me. “It’s fortunate that I have a source in the police department. I found out that you’re still alive and here.”
“The police are going to get you, Brock.” I hoped for Austin and Marion’s sakes that neither would hear and come outside.
Brock grabbed my arm. “We’re going for a little ride.”
“Don’t you think we’ve been through enough of that tonight?”
He pulled me down the stairs and gave me a push toward the gate that led to the alley. Suddenly a gray object shot by me.
There was a snarl, and then Brock gasped. “Something scratched my leg.”
I smiled in spite of my predicament. Cleo had taken her best shot at rescuing me.
The cat disappeared after the fly-by assault so Brock collared me again and directed me out the gate.
“You’re a very persistent cuss,” I said. “Why are you bothering me again?”
“Louis was arrested. I received a call from his lawyer that some old man had set the police on him. You weren’t supposed to remember anything even if you survived.”
I gave him my most sincere smile. “Hey, stuff happens.”
He shoved me again as a response.
“The police are going to nail you with or without my assistance,” I said.
“Not if you’re not around to testify.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Think. I had to do something. “I filled out a full report on you, Louis and Harvey. It doesn’t matter what you do to me. You’re going down, Brock.”
“In that case, I’ll make sure you disappear on my way to Mexico. Get in the car.” He pushed me inside his black Lexus.
“This is all such a waste of your time and effort. You should be trying to escape on your own without me slowing you down.”
He laughed. “You won’t slow me down much. Not for very long anyway. I’ll be on my own after you take a little midnight swim.”
“But I hate swimming.”
“Good. It’ll be a most appropriate way for you to go.”
“I’m not ready to cash in my chips yet.”
“You may not have any choice.”
With that he stepped on the gas, and we shot down the alley. Then he slammed on the breaks as a black cat meandered across our path.
“I’d say that was a sign of bad luck for you, Brock.”
“No, I think it was meant for you.”
He turned the corner, driving at a normal speed. I guessed he decided he didn’t want to attract attention. There wasn’t any traffic, but Brock waited patiently at each light and made full stops at every stop sign.
“Nice of you to drive safely.”
He only scowled at me.
I thought briefly of opening the door and making a run for it, but I couldn’t move very fast. I kept looking for a friendly policeman to wave to, but the streets were nearly deserted.
What the hell did this psycho have in mind now?
My question was answered five minutes later when we pulled into a slip at Marina Del Rey. Damn. We were around boats.
He exited the car, came around to the passenger’s side, opened the door, grabbed my arm and lifted me out.
“Easy does it,” I said. I looked out and saw three sports fishing boats moored to the pier. Uh-oh. We were going for a little moonlight cruise.
He shoved me toward the largest boat and made me step aboard. I thought about screaming, but there was no one around, and I didn’t want to give Brock an excuse to shoot me right there.
I didn’t like this one little bit.
Then he pushed me down a ladder, and I slammed onto the floor of the cabin.
“You wait there.”
I heard noises above. I looked around the sparsely furnished cabin—two bunks, a table, cabinets and, between two portholes, a picture of a sailboat. It took him ten minutes or so, and then the engine started.
“Come up on deck,” Brock shouted.
I figured I’d go see what was going on.
I scaled the ladder and came out. We were slowly motoring out of the slip.
“You’ll never get away with this, Brock.”
“Sure I will. I’ll dump your body at sea and then cruise down to Ensenada where no one can arrest me.”
I looked all around. At this time of night, we were the only boat moving in the harbor. Brock kept the throttle at a slow speed to avoid attracting attention, not that anyone was watching us.
We were now moving along a jetty that separated the beach from the channel. I had to do something. My lips were dry, and my heart beat double time at the prospect of dying at sea. I noticed the gun crammed in Brock’s belt. I could imagine the final scenario here.
Then I heard a siren.
“Hell,” Brock said. “The harbor patrol.” He slammed the throttle forward and the engine roared. Then he reached toward the gun in his belt.
In an instant I knew what I had to do.
I removed my jacket, and, as the boat accelerated, I vaulted off the side. Flying through the air, I held the jacket over my head like a parachute.
I hit hard and went under water. I held onto the jacket for dear life, and when my head bobbed to the surface, I collapsed the edges of the jacket to form a bubble. I gathered in the jacket and held the bubble in my right hand. It wasn’t much, but it supported me enough that I didn’t turn into an anchor.
With my inability to swim, I knew I’d sink without that air pocket to hold me up.
I heard the sound of gunshots, but the boat had moved well past me.
I ducked under water, still clutching the jacket bubble as fear surged though my whole body. I was going to either get shot or drown.
Think.
I had to escape from Brock. I spotted the jetty. I sloughed off my shoes and started kicking and paddling with my left arm.
Brock’s boat seemed to be changing direction. The patrol boat continued to approach me.
I desperately waved with my free hand toward the flashing lights, but the police boat aimed toward Brock’s.
The bubble gave me a little support so that I could keep my head above water. I resumed a lame kick to propel myself toward the rock jetty.
It was so far away.
&
nbsp; Could I stay afloat?
I kicked and one-arm paddled.
The bubble began deflating.
It was losing air.
I had to reach shore.
I kicked. I flailed.
What was in the water with me?
Don’t even think about that. Just move your tired body.
I could hear waves lapping on the rocks.
How much farther?
My head bobbed up and I saw Brock’s boat had circled around.
Uh-oh. He had spotted me in the water.
I continued my pathetic one-arm crawl and kick, trying to keep a little air in the jacket bubble.
A small swell smacked me in the face.
I spit out water and saw Brock’s boat aiming right at me. He was within fifty yards when I heard a horn off to the side that caused me to flinch so that I almost lost my grip on the jacket.
Brock’s boat veered off, and I was swamped by a wake as the police boat with flashing lights sped past.
Brock’s boat tried to get away, but I could see the police boat pulling up alongside.
Good. They had nabbed the bastard.
But I was sinking. With all the wakes from the two boats, my bubble had burst, so to speak.
Apparently no one on the police boat had seen me in the rush to catch Brock. I struggled to the surface and lifted my jacket above the water to capture some air.
I swallowed water again, but was able to reform a bubble. I resumed kicking like mad and aimed for the rock jetty.
I gained purchase, and my legs propelled me forward.
Damn. I was actually moving in the right direction.
So close, yet so far.
If only I could stay afloat on my own.
My bubble gave out again.
I sank, but hit something solid. I propelled myself to the surface. The jetty was almost within reach.
I kicked frantically, released the jacket and stroked with both arms.
A swell caught me and thrust me against a rock.
I stuck out my arm and grasped a sharp piece of rock, cutting my hand.
Then slowly I lifted my old body up on the jetty.
I clambered above the waterline and paused to catch my breath.
I felt like I had swum across the English Channel. I shook my head in amazement—imagine me paddling to shore. Damn. Maybe someday I’d even learn to take pills and love lawyers.
Having determined that I only had a small cut on my hand and would live, I climbed to the top of the jetty.
I plopped down on a flat rock and watched the two boats now tied together and bobbing farther out in the channel.
I didn’t know how the police boat had arrived in such a timely fashion but, boy, was I glad they had given me a chance to escape from Brock’s clutches.
With Brock in custody, I shivered in the cool night air. The adrenaline rush of the last few minutes subsided, and I suddenly wanted to take a nap. No, I needed to return home. Marion and Austin would wonder what the hell had happened to me since last left sitting on the steps.
I climbed down the other side of the jetty onto the sand and limped toward the bike path. I spotted a group of people, wrapped in blankets, sitting on the sand. It looked like a Boy Scout campout, except they were all adults.
As I approached, a bearded man stood up. “Look what the ocean spit up.”
“Yeah. Just out for a little night swim.”
“In case you don’t recognize me, I’m Harley Marcraft.” He threw a blanket to me. “Here, dry off.”
“Thanks.” I grabbed it and wrapped it around my soggy body.
“No. The thanks goes to you. The warning from you and your grandson paid off.”
“How so?”
“You said that a big kid was going to attack one of us tonight. We were all keeping a watch out.” He chuckled. “Turns out the kid picked the wrong guy to attack.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I understand the kid had the piss beat out of him.”
“Exactly. Alex looks like a weak, defenseless old man, but he once was a karate black belt.”
I sighed. “For once, justice was served.”
“You want something to eat?” Harley asked, holding out a half-eaten sandwich.
“No, I had a snack a little while ago.”
After the blanket had soaked up some of the water from my clothes, I excused myself and headed home, hobbling gingerly in my sock feet. When I arrived back, there were lights on in our apartment, the main house and in the yard between.
“Looks like a party’s going on,” I said.
Marion raced out and gave me a big hug. “We were all so worried about you.”
George, Andrea and Austin all appeared.
Austin had a big smile on his face. “You’re safe.”
“Damn straight. I lucked out. A patrol boat saved my butt.”
Marion put an arm around me. “You have Austin to thank for that.”
I peered at him. “Obviously, there’s a story here.”
He beamed at me. “I heard what happened on the stairs. I called nine-one-one on my cell phone and reported that you had been kidnapped.”
“Good work. How did the police think to send out a patrol boat?”
“I jumped on my bike and followed the car,” Austin said. “When you went to the boat, I was still on the cell phone with the police and told them what was happening.”
“Smart lad.”
“I stayed at the marina until I saw the police boat chasing you, then rode my bike home. Man, am I glad you’re okay.”
Just then there was a knock on the door.
Marion opened it to a short man with a black twitching mustache. “Come in, Detective Quintana.”
“Welcome to our party,” I said.
“I need to take a statement from you, Mr. Jacobson, and from Austin Kanter.”
“Be my guest, Detective. You can speak with Austin first while I go change into some dry clothes.”
I walked across the carpet with a few drops of water falling from my pant cuffs. After a brief shower, I put on Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt and returned to the living room as Austin completed recounting his part of the story.
“Now, you, Mr. Jacobson.”
“It was pretty simple. Clint Brock kidnapped me for the second time tonight. These young twerps never seem to learn when dealing with old farts like me. He was going to shoot me and chuck my body into the Pacific on his way to Ensenada. You gotta admit that he didn’t give up. Fortunately, Austin got word to the constabulary, and a police boat picked up Brock’s tail. I managed to swim to shore.”
“But you hate swimming and the ocean,” Marion said.
“I still do and can’t swim worth a tinker’s damn. But somehow I made it to the rock jetty. And, Detective, Brock has a spy in the police department. You better check it out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some informer told him where to find me.”
“I’ll look into that right away.” He jotted down a few notes in his pad and then looked up at me. “That’s enough for now, Mr. Jacobson. I’ll stop by tomorrow for any further questions.”
“You do that, Detective. Then you can clear my good name of all these spurious charges.”
Quintana actually smiled. “We’ll see, Mr. Jacobson. We’ll see.”
Chapter 23
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but my old body is ready for some sleep now,” I said to Marion and her family as I stretched my arms.
I excused myself and went into my room. But before hitting the hay, I sat down and documented the adventures of Paul Jacobson, kidnap victim extraordinaire.
* * * * *
Needless to say, I slept late the next day. I woke without even a hazy recollection of the wild events of the night before. Reading my journal refreshed my memory of the Brock episodes. I couldn’t believe that someone with as much mileage on his ticker as me had been through all that turmoil the night before.
I ambled into the
kitchen to search for some vittles.
“Well, Sleeping Beauty is finally up,” Marion said.
I gave her my dentist-perfect smile. “I had a tough night.”
She hugged me. “You certainly did. I’ve already eaten, but I’ll fix something for you.”
“Thanks, but I’ll rustle up a big bowl of cereal and make some toast.”
After I finished my brunch, I was contemplating what to do for the rest of my life when I heard a knock on the door. I opened it to find a short guy in a suit with a black mustache. “Detective Quintana, come in. Your mustache isn’t twitching today.”
He winced, like I had slapped him, then a brief curl at the corners of his mouth appeared. He almost looked sheepish. “I guess I feel calmer today. A large amount of my caseload has been resolved.”
“Well, I’m anxious to hear all the details. My bride is hoping that you’ll give me the green light for our upcoming Alaskan honeymoon cruise.”
He stared at me, his mustache still not twitching. “We’ll discuss that.”
I pointed to the easy chair. “Please sit down and give me the latest police-beat poop.”
He sank into the chair, and I plunked down on the couch.
Marion appeared. “May I join you gentlemen?”
Quintana nodded. “By all means, Mrs. Jacobson.”
Marion sat on the couch next to me.
“To begin with, Mr. Jacobson, you were implicated in several crimes.”
“Yes. I’ve been a busy guy this summer.”
He looked at me askance and then continued. “Let me review the list. First, you reported finding the floating body of Frederick Vansworthy. We’ve now determined that Clint Brock committed that murder.”
“Good job, Detective.”
“Next, you were in the room when Harold Koenig died at Saint Andrew’s Church.”
“Poor Harold,” Marion said. “Have you learned more about his death, Detective?”
“Yes. Mr. Jacobson is in the clear. Mr. Koenig died of a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry he died,” I said. “But I’m glad I’m no longer a suspect.”
“Third, Mr. Jacobson, you found the bludgeoned body of Mr. Maurice Murphy.”
“I don’t know any Maurice Murphy.”
