by Gina Cresse
The ugly scarred face of the ponytailed thug smirked at me through the open hatch. “Top of the morning to you, ma’am. Permission to board?”
“It’s a little late to ask permission,” I said. “You’re already on board.”
“That I am. How about permission to come below?”
“Get off my boat,” I growled.
“Is that any way to talk to a guest?” he shot back.
He started down the steps. I thought of the gun sitting in my closet. The case was wrapped in duct tape. I could never get it opened, let alone remove and load the gun before he got to me. He stepped off the last stair and gazed around at the interior of the Plan B.
“My. What a neat boat you have here. Must be nice to be able to just up and set sail whenever you want.”
“What do you want?” I demanded.
“Want? What makes you think I want something? My friend and I were just out messing around and saw this cool boat. We thought you might be in trouble, or need some help. Out here all alone?”
“I don’t need any help. Now, get off my boat.”
“Okay. Just settle down. I’ll leave in a minute, but first, how about a little breakfast? My friend and me, we’re real hungry. We’ve been out all night looking for… for whales, yeah, that’s it, we’re whale watching.”
“You’re not going to see any whales around here this time of year. Where’s this friend you keep talking about?” I asked. Then I saw the feet and legs of his partner through the window. He was up on the deck, making his way to the bow of the boat.
“Really? No whales? Where do I have to go to see whales?”
I scowled at him. My cell phone was sitting in its charger on the galley table. I couldn’t get to it without going past him. Even if I could, I didn’t know who I would call. No one could get here in time to help me. He started walking toward me. As he approached, I made a dive for the galley table and scrambled under it. He grabbed my ankle and tried to pull me back. I struggled and kicked hard enough to hit him in the face with my free foot. He let go of my leg and held his hands to his bleeding nose.
He cursed has he struggled to his feet.
I sprung out from under the table and lunged toward the hatch door. He caught the fabric of my T-shirt with one hand and pulled me back against him, then removed a gun he had tucked in his waistband and began waving it in my face.
“You’re gonna pay for this, lady!” he screamed. “You just broke my nose!”
I didn’t have time to think of any elaborate plan. If I was going to get out of this, I would have to act quickly. I saw it sitting there on the counter where I had left it the night before. In one swift motion, I grabbed Marty’s fish bowl and swung it hard against his head. He fell to the floor, along with a thousand pieces of broken glass.
“There. Now were even,” I said. “I broke your nose, and you broke my fish bowl.”
His partner heard the commotion. “Hey, Tommy. What’s going on down there? You take care of her, yet?” he called from up on the deck.
I snatched the gun from the unconscious thug’s hand and hurried up the steps to the deck.
Baldy was hanging over the side, losing his breakfast—not paying any attention to me. With trembling hands, I aimed the weapon at him.
“Get your hands in the air and turn around,” I demanded.
Slowly, he straightened up and stared at me. “Whoa. C’mon, lady. Don’t shoot,” he said.
“Face down, on the deck,” I ordered.
The boat rocked. He started to put his hands down to grab the rail. I fired the gun over his head. “I told you, keep your hands in the air. I’m serious.”
“Okay. Okay. Just please, don’t shoot me,” he whimpered.
“Lie down on the deck and I won’t.”
He fell to his knees, then went belly first on the deck. I took the gun he had holstered under his arm and felt to see if he had any others. I was only wearing the T-shirt I had slept in, and my deck shoes. There was no place to safely tuck the weapon on my body. I was afraid to leave it on deck, in case one of them managed to get their hands on it. Reluctantly, I threw it overboard, then motioned for him to get up and go down below, through the hatch door.
“Get your friend and bring him up here,” I ordered.
Bald-headed thug looked down into the galley and saw his partner lying in a pile of broken glass, with blood running from his nose. “You’ve killed him. Are you crazy, lady? You’ve killed Tommy. The boss is really going to freak now.”
“He’s not dead. Just get down there and drag him up.”
Bald buy just gaped at me.
“Now!” I shouted.
He carried Tommy up the steps and laid him on one of the cushioned seats. I kept the gun pointed at him as I stepped off the Plan B and onto the speedboat they had obviously stolen from the marina. I tossed a life jacket into the water, then pulled the keys from the ignition and threw them overboard as well. Then, I climbed back onto my boat and untied the speedboat, shoving it away as hard as I could.
“Bring him over here,” I said as I waved the gun at the whimpering, seasick, lowlife scum who was polluting my boat. What a waste of skin, I thought to myself.
He hoisted his partner onto his shoulder and carried him over to the rail.
“Throw him over.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I said throw him over, then you next.”
“He’ll drown.”
“No he won’t. There’s a life jacket out there. You can take care of him. Now, get him off my boat.”
Again, I waved the gun at him. He dropped his partner into the water, then jumped in after him. I watched as he struggled to reach the life jacket, then I pulled up my anchor and started the engine. I only had a few minutes of fuel left, so I cut it off when I was far enough away from them to be safe. Quickly, I cleaned up the fishbowl glass while I formulated my short-term plan.
I raised my sails, opened up my How to Sail book, and headed north. My aunt and uncle had a house on the ocean near Del Mar. They had their own private harbor and dock. They’d repeatedly invited me to sail up for a visit. Now seemed like a good time. I’d only been there by car, so I didn’t know how I would find it from where I was, but I figured when I got in the general vicinity, I would call and ask directions.
An hour had ticked by when my stomach started growling, then I realized I hadn’t eaten breakfast. I secured the wheel and went down to the galley for some fruit. I was feeling quite smug that I had taken care of those two morons—and on top of that—I was sailing my boat successfully. I flipped on the stereo then climbed back out onto the deck with my apple and glass of juice. I checked over my shoulder. Yes, the land was still over there, so I was going in the right direction. I turned and stepped just in time for the boom to swing around and hit me square in the forehead. Bad karma was the price I paid for smugness.
When I came to, I had a pretty good-sized lump on my head—and one whopper of a headache. Broken glass and orange juice littered the deck. When I stood up, the boat began spinning, as if caught in a whirlpool. I reached to grab the rail to catch myself, but I fell back down on the deck. The palm of my hand landed squarely on a piece of sharp glass and made a rather deep gash that gushed blood. Finally, the boat quit spinning. I crawled back down to the galley and pulled myself up to the sink. I ran water over my throbbing hand and looked around for a clean towel to wrap it in. There was a first-aid kit in the head, but I was still too dizzy to maneuver my way around the boat. I got back down on the floor and crawled to the head, then managed to get the first-aid kit opened with my one good hand and cleaned and dressed my wound the best I could. I looked out the window. I was still sailing full blast ahead, with no land in sight. I made my way back up to the deck and brought the sails down, then dropped anchor so I could clean up the mess and try to get my bearings. I checked my watch. I had been sailing aimlessly for several hours. I had no idea where I was. Checking my compass, I realized I was headed southwest.
The Santa Ana winds were blowing, which were predominantly from the northeast. For all I knew, I could have been sailing in circles for the last four hours. I checked my fuel level and estimated about ten minutes of fuel left. After I got myself turned around, I set my sails and headed northeast. Eventually, I would come to land. The only question, would it be Long Beach, or Baja?
When I finally got close enough, I looked through my binoculars toward the land and scanned the coast. I spotted a restaurant with its own dock a little to the north. I could barely make out the name on the sign. It looked like “Swordfish Café.”
I dropped sails again then made a call on my cell phone. “Hello. Aunt Arlene?”
“Yes. Is this Devonie or Monica?” she asked.
“It’s Devonie. Are you and Uncle Doug going to be home for a little while?”
“Yes. We don’t have any plans to go out. Are you coming over?”
“Well, I hope so. I’m on my boat right now, hopefully headed in your direction. Remember that restaurant you and Uncle Doug took me to last year when I bought the Plan B? I think it was called the Swordfish Café?”
“Oh, yes. Wasn’t that the best dinner you ever had? I just love that restaurant. We go there at least once a month.”
“Well, I’m directly west of that place. I need to know how to get to your house from here.”
“Oh, honey. Let me get Doug to direct you. Hang on just a minute,” she said.
Uncle Doug wanted to fax me a map. I had to explain I didn’t have a fax machine on the boat. He communicated the directions to me, and then I wrote them on a piece of scratch paper I found in the galley.
“Thanks, Uncle Doug. I’ll see you in a little while,” I said then hung up the phone.
My head ached and at times, I saw two of everything—making it difficult to head toward landmarks. I finally cruised into the small private harbor that belonged to my aunt and uncle. I dropped the sails and powered up the engine so I could maneuver to the dock. Doug and Arlene were waiting for me on the small pier. I threw them my lines and they tied up my boat while I set the fenders.
Uncle Doug owned a yacht brokerage in Del Mar. It was quite a lucrative business for him. He helped me find the Plan B in a small marina up in San Francisco. He told me that if I didn’t buy her, he was going to snatch her up himself. She was such a sweet deal.
“I’ve made lunch reservations for us at the Turf Club. We’re going to the horse races,” Uncle Doug announced as I shut down the engine and stepped off the boat.
“How fun,” I said, “but I don’t feel too good right now.”
“What’s that bump on your head?” Uncle Doug asked.
“Just call me Devonie ‘Boom-Boom’ Lace, master sailor.”
“No. You didn’t get hit with the boom. Did you?”
“Afraid so. And I think I might have a concussion. I’m seeing double and I feel like I have to throw… well… you know the feeling. On top of that, I fell and cut my hand on some broken glass. I think I might need some stitches,” I said, holding up my throbbing, bandaged hand.
Aunt Arlene took me by the arm. “Oh, honey. We better get you inside to lie down. Our next-door neighbor is a doctor. Doug, call Craig and see if he’ll come over to look at this.”
Uncle Doug grinned at Arlene. “Oh sure, Arlene. Or, we could take her to the emergency room, but there might not be any nice, single young doctors like Craig there.”
“Now you just hush. Craig is a fine doctor and he can probably be here in five minutes. I’m only thinking of Devonie.”
“I’m sure you are. I’ll call Craig right now.”
Aunt Arlene led me into a living room so exquisite you would swear you’d seen it in Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Come to think of it, I believe it was featured in an episode two years ago. One wall, windows from floor to ceiling, overlooked the ocean. The oak floors, finished in a light, natural tone, gave the room a warm, homey feeling. A sea-foam green and blue rug relaxed under the fine sofa and coffee table facing the view. You could sit for hours and admire the living landscape painted just outside the glass. The open beam ceiling, also finished in natural tones, gave the feeling of a cathedral. Everything in the room said, “This house belongs to a sailor,” from the paintings on the walls to the trophies on the mantle. Arlene sat me down on the sofa. “Now, you just sit here. I don’t think you’re supposed to lie down or go to sleep—at least until we have the doctor look at you first.”
“Okay, Aunt Arlene. I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute. I didn’t sleep very well last night, and I’m so tired.”
The next thing I remembered was a hand shaking my shoulder and a voice calling my name. I opened my eyes. There were six concerned faces staring at me. Two Uncle Doug’s, two Aunt Arlene’s, and in the middle, two handsome faces I didn’t recognize. “Tom? You have a twin?” I mumbled, only half-conscious.
Chapter Nine
Mild concussion was the diagnosis. Rest was the treatment. Craig Matthews, the doctor who lived next door, stitched up my hand and gave it a proper dressing. I used Uncle Doug’s phone to call Jason, since I had left my cell phone on the boat and didn’t feel up to hiking back down to the dock to retrieve it.
“Hello, Jason? It’s Devonie.”
“Dev. Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m at my aunt and uncle’s place in Del Mar. Did you have any trouble getting the Jeep?”
“No. I rode my bike over to the marina, loaded it in the back, and brought it home. No one gave me any trouble.”
“That’s good. I was going to see if you could bring it here today, but I had a little accident and I wouldn’t be able to drive you home until tomorrow or the next day.”
“Accident? Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m okay. I got hit in the head with the boom and I have a mild concussion. I’ll be fine by tomorrow or the next day, but for now I’m seeing double and I’m a little dizzy, so I can’t get behind the wheel,” I said.
“Do you want me to bring it up to you Wednesday morning? I could get John to open the shop for me. That would give you a full day to recover.”
“Yeah, I think that would work. Let me get my uncle to give you directions on how to get here,” I said, then handed the phone to Doug. Leaning back on the couch with an ice pack on my forehead, I closed my eyes.
Doug gave detailed directions to Jason, while Arlene thanked Craig for making the house call. “Would you like to stay for dinner, Craig?” I heard her ask him. I knew what she was up to.
“I wish I could, Arlene, but I have to attend a retirement dinner tonight for one of the doctors at the Med Center. I’ll check in on our patient tonight when I get back, and again in the morning to make sure she’s progressing okay.”
“Thank you, Dr. Matthews,” I called to him, not taking the ice pack from my head.
“Any time, Devonie. You take it easy. I’ll check in on you tonight,” he called back to me. “And call me Craig.”
Jason arrived Wednesday morning with the Jeep. I introduced him to Arlene and Doug and they gave him a brief tour of the house. I said I would show him the dock so I could have a chance to talk to him alone.
“Thanks, again, for getting the Jeep, Jason. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all your help,” I told him, as we walked down the path to the dock.
“You’re welcome, Dev. Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“Okay, but you have to promise to keep this to yourself.”
“You know I will.”
“Remember those cases I got at the auction? One of them had a half a million dollars in it. The other one had a nine millimeter gun with a laser sighting scope and a silencer.”
“Come on, Dev. Quit kidding around. You promised you’d tell me what was going on.”
“I’m not kidding, Jason. What’s more, I showed the gun to Joe, over at the pawn shop. He had a friend of his take a look at it, and now Joe is dead. I think his friend might be a traitor. When I went back to
my boat, there were two guys snooping around, trying to get in. I overheard them saying they were supposed to ‘take me out’ after they got the money. That’s why I took off and came here. They followed me and boarded my boat while I was sleeping. I managed to get them off, but I’m really scared, Jason.” My voice trembled.
“You’re serious. Joe is dead? Why haven’t you gone to the police?”
“I don’t know. I guess at first I was afraid they would make me give up the money. But now, after what happened to Joe, I think I’d better go to the FBI or CIA, or whoever the heck you go to when you’re afraid for your life.”
“Why not just go to the police?”
“I think I need the big guns. That file cabinet that I stored in your warehouse is full of newspaper clippings. They all describe the deaths of quite a few prominent people over the last fifteen years. Remember that plane crash in Mexico last year? The one that killed all those people on board?”
“The one where the pilots got off-course and plowed into the side of a mountain?”
“That’s the one. That was the last article. Whoever rented that storage unit was a hired assassin and that plane crash was his last job.”
“This is incredible. But who killed Joe? And why?”
“I don’t know why, but the only other person who knew about the gun was Joe’s friend, Tony Marino.”
“Tony Marino?”
“Yeah. Have you heard of him?”
“That friend of mine I told you about, the one who works for the San Diego Police Department—he told me about a local mobster named Tony Marino. He has some sort of export business that he uses for a front, but his ties to the mob go pretty deep. If he knows about you and the gun and the money, then I’d say you’re in quite a bit of danger.”
