by Karen Leabo
The younger man laughed, a high-pitched giggle that one might expect to hear in a psych ward.
Marissa thought she might be ill again. She ducked into the shadows and tried to be invisible, but she kept a wary eye on Clint. He wouldn’t really touch her, would he?
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Clint barked. “I already told you, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me if Jimmy cooperated. So far he hasn’t.”
“He will.”
“But if he doesn’t?”
“I won’t hurt you,” Clint repeated. “But Jimmy doesn’t have to know that. My plan won’t work unless he thinks you’re in mortal danger.”
“And then he’ll tell you where this woman, this …” What name had he mentioned? “This Rachel is.”
“Her name’s Rachelle. And yes, that’s the general plan.”
Marissa shook her head. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. I have no doubt that your girlfriend disappeared, and maybe Jimmy knew her—”
“She worked for him. At his club.”
“Okay, whatever. What I’m trying to tell you is, if she was hurt or kidnapped or whatever, Jimmy didn’t do it. He is not that kind of man. I’ve known him for thirty years, and he is a kind person, even if he has some not-so-nice friends.”
“Yeah? Tell me about these friends.”
Marissa immediately realized she’d said too much. If this guy really was a Fed, he might be angling for evidence that would help him put Jimmy in jail. And Jimmy didn’t deserve that. Yeah, he got involved in some illegal gambling schemes. He probably fudged a little on his income taxes, though Marissa knew nothing for sure. She did know he gave jobs to people without checking credentials and paid them in cash. So did millions of other employers.
“I’m not in a chatty mood.”
Clint’s eyes narrowed. “You ought to get chatty where Jimmy’s concerned. Help me figure out how to get what I want from him. Or this is going to be a long ordeal for both of us.”
The rain had started up again. Clint studied Marissa. She looked miserable, and her arms were probably starting to hurt, tied in that raised position. He decided he couldn’t leave her that way.
He was aiming the Phen-Hu for open water, then up the Texas coast. He planned to beach her at the first opportunity. But at the rate they were going it would take all night to clear Galveston Bay.
He had an idea. “Marissa?”
“Yes?” She looked at him with blazing eyes.
“I found a place where you can lie down. There are some wooden bunks below. It’s pretty primitive, but at least you’d be out of the wind.”
She nodded, her angry gaze faltering. He unfastened the ties at her wrists, then walked her around to starboard where a hatch led belowdecks. She balked at the entrance. “It’s dark. There could be rats or God-knows-what down there.”
“There’s a light.” Clint released her briefly and preceded her down the hatch, hoping she didn’t get it into her head to kick him from behind. But he guessed that she wouldn’t want to incapacitate the only person on the boat with any navigational abilities. Surely she was smart enough to figure that out.
He groped around and finally came up with the chain to the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Marissa peered in, then followed Clint down the stairs. “I don’t know about this.”
“It’s dry, and the fish smell isn’t so bad.” He took her arm and led her to one of the old-fashioned bunks, which swung down from the wall on chains. Using the old hank of rope he’d brought with him, he secured her wrist to one of the planks in the bunk. “There, you can lie down if you want.”
Marissa tried, using her trusty blanket to pillow her head. “Hmm, it’s not terrible.”
“Good. You want to take another motion-sickness pill, just in case?”
“You brought them with you?”
“Yeah. The package is a little soggy, but I think the pills are okay.”
“Leave ’em with me. Right now, I’m feeling okay.”
Clint was unutterably relieved. He’d been worried about her, probably more than he should have been. He felt a silly urge to stay with her, to watch over her while she fell asleep, but he resisted. He couldn’t leave Rusty in charge of the helm for too long. Rachelle’s brother knew next to nothing about steering a boat this size.
The rain was falling in sheets by the time Clint returned to the cockpit. Rusty was standing in front of the wheel, doing his Captain Ahab imitation. A cigarette dangled from his lips. Clint couldn’t imagine how the thing stayed lit, given the dubious protection of the tattered canopy.
“Man, I didn’t know she’d be such a babe,” Rusty said. “You getting any action?”
“No,” Clint snapped.
“Yeah, I don’t blame you. You’re gonna be in enough trouble for snatching Jimmy the Gab’s sister. If you bopped her, he’d come after you with an ax.”
“How do you know so much about Jimmy?” Clint asked.
“Rachelle. She’s a blabber. You know how she is.”
“I don’t suppose she ever told you exactly what she’d found out about Jimmy, did she?”
Rusty shook his head. “When it came to working for you, she kept her mouth shut. Absolutely. I don’t know, man, it’s like you cast a spell on her. She’ll screw everybody else ten ways to Sunday, but she’s always been completely loyal to you, even after the divorce.” Rusty laughed again, that high-pitched giggle that gave Clint the willies.
A bolt of lightning ripped across the sky, followed by a loud clap of thunder. Until now, the storms had been more remote, but it looked as if they were heading directly into one now. The waves were getting worse, the rain harder.
“Turn on the radio,” Clint said. “See if you can get a weather report.”
“I already tried,” Rusty said offhandedly. “Radio’s busted.”
“The radio’s broken?” Good Lord, what if they got into trouble? Calling the Coast Guard would land them in jail, but that was better than drowning. “That’s just great, Rusty. How much fuel we got?”
“Uh, don’t know that, either. Fuel gauge doesn’t work. But they told me the tank was full when they turned over the boat to me, and it’s got a big fuel tank. We’ll be okay.”
Clint barely managed to keep his hands from around the young man’s throat. There were enough unknown elements, enough risks associated with this operation even if the whole thing went like clockwork. To add additional risks was unthinkable to his FBI-trained mind. Yet Rusty had thought it clever to rent this piece of garbage.
Well, Rusty was hardly more than a kid, Clint reminded himself. He’d had no training of any kind. Clint was used to working with the best-trained law enforcement minds in the world. He was spoiled. The boat was working out so far.
That’s when the Phen-Hu bucked as if they’d hit a rock. The engine made a horrific noise, grinding and coughing. Finally it went silent.
“What the hell?” Rusty screamed. “I didn’t do it, I swear. I steered right where you told me to.”
“Take it easy, dude. I didn’t say you did it.” Clint peered over the back of the boat. Even in this weather, it was easy to see what the problem was. A tree—not just a branch, but an entire uprooted tree—was stuck in one of the boat’s huge props. Either the engine had shut itself off to avoid burning up … or it had burned up.
“Where are the life jackets?” he asked Rusty.
Rusty shrugged. “Maybe in there?” He pointed to a wooden storage container. It was padlocked.
“Just what I needed,” Clint muttered. The lock looked flimsy enough. After a couple of good yanks, it gave way.
Inside the box, which stunk to high heaven, he found two of the most pitiful-looking life jackets he’d ever seen. It looked as if rats had been chewing on them. A pair of small, yellow eyes glowed at him from the depths of the bin, confirming his suspicions. With a shudder of distaste he grabbed one of the jackets, shook it to make sure it
didn’t have any unwanted residents on it, and fastened it around his neck.
“What are you doing?” Rusty asked skeptically.
“I’m going into the water to get rid of that tree in the propeller,” Clint answered. “I want you to be ready to throw me a line in case I lose my hold on the boat.” This was a distinct possibility. The waves were big enough to surf.
“Okay.”
The two men climbed down to the main deck. Rusty grabbed a coil of rope, and Clint found the ladder that descended the boat’s stern. The wind was blowing so hard, it was a challenge to hang on. Eventually he was forced to abandon the ladder and jump the rest of the way into the water. He grabbed a handhold for support, but he found that with the boat bucking up and down, he couldn’t maintain his grip. He hoped Rusty could throw a rope with some degree of accuracy.
Clint grabbed a propeller blade and tried to push the tree loose with his feet. It was like a stalk of celery stuck in a food processor blade. It gave a little bit. He kept working at it, knowing that even if he succeeded in dislodging the tree, the propeller blades were most likely bent, the engine burned up. But he had to try. The thought of floating around in the middle of the bay with a dead engine and no radio, not to mention a shortage of life jackets, wasn’t pleasant.
Marissa awoke with the taint of smoke in her nose. She realized that somehow she’d fallen asleep on the hard wooden bunk even with her arm secured to a slat in a hideously uncomfortable position. Her arm was tingling from lack of circulation, but that was the least of her worries. The cabin was laced with wisps of smoke, her visibility rapidly decreasing as the smoke thickened.
Fire. “Fire!” she yelled, her words a split second behind the realization. But what were the chances of either of her captors hearing her above the racket of the storm? Even without looking outside, she knew the weather had worsened. The boat heaved from one side to the other, tipping nearly sideways at times, its hull groaning in protest.
She had to get out of there. Already the air was difficult to breathe, even with the open hatch nearby. She tested the rope at her wrist. Clint had tied only one of her arms, so if she could untie it with her other … but no. He’d cleverly placed the knot underneath the bunk, where she couldn’t reach it.
She pulled in utter frustration. To her surprise, the wooden planks she was tied to split and broke apart, obviously rotten to the core. Another jerk, and she was free.
With the scrap of wood still hanging from her arm, Marissa climbed the stairs, took a deep breath of fresh air, then began making her way toward the back of the boat. It occurred to her then that the boat’s engine had stopped. Lightning flashed overhead, and thunder boomed all around her. She gave up on the blanket, leaving it behind. At this point it was nothing but a dead, soggy weight.
When she reached the back of the boat, she looked up at the cockpit. No one was there. Then she saw the younger man leaning over the back of the boat. He shined a flashlight at something going on below. “You almost got it. It’s moving.”
She stepped up to the railing and peered into the murky depths. Clint was clamoring around on a huge tree. As wave after wave crashed over him, she couldn’t imagine how he managed to hold on. She could see now that the tree was lodged in the boat’s propeller.
The younger man glanced over at her, then did a double take. “What are you doing up here?” He advanced toward her menacingly.
Instinctively, Marissa held up the piece of wood she was tied to and held it aloft like a club. “Don’t you come near me.”
He stopped, backed off. “Okay, chill out.” He returned his attention to the goings-on in the water. “Hey, Clint, your hostage is running loose.”
Clint seemed not to hear. He was doing battle with the tree trunk. At last, with a great shrieking of wood, the tree came loose—and so did Clint. He was flailing around, trying to keep his head above water, and the distance between him and the boat began to grow.
He waved his arms frantically.
“What are you doing?” Marissa demanded. “Throw him the rope!”
The man looked at her. “What do you care if he drowns?”
She wasn’t sure exactly, but she knew she couldn’t stand by and let it happen. Just because she’d been a kidnapping victim, she wouldn’t lower herself to their standards. Without thinking, she grabbed the coil of rope and tossed it out to Clint while she held on to one end. Before the rope could get taut, she secured her end to the railing, tying the best Girl Scout square knot she could. The piece of wood dangling from her wrist hampered her somewhat, as did the boat’s incessant pitching, but she still managed to get the job done.
When she was finished, she shielded her face from the rain with one hand and looked out, then gasped. Clint was fifty feet from the boat—but he had hold of the rope. If he wasn’t completely exhausted, he would be able to pull himself back to safety.
She turned to the other man, her illogical anger suddenly filling her, spilling over. “Nice move. What’s the matter with you? He’s the only one around here who knows anything about boats and navigation. Do you really want him to drown?”
The young man finger-combed his wet hair out of his face, then smiled. “I hadn’t thought of that. You know, you’re pretty smart for a girl.”
What kind of troglodyte was this guy? It was futile to argue with his type. “Why don’t you see if you can help your buddy back into the boat?” she suggested with no small amount of sarcasm. “Then you two can deal with the other problem.”
“Yeah? What problem is that?”
“Something’s on fire. The sleeping cabin is full of smoke.”
She actually enjoyed the look of panic that wiped away the jerk’s smug grin. He scampered over to where the rope was tied. “Clint?” he called. “Hurry. There’s a fire!”
Marissa stood at the railing, watching with relief as Clint made steady progress toward the boat, hand over hand, inch by inch. Finally he reached the ladder. He clung there for a few moments, catching his breath, then began his ascent. It was Marissa who offered him a hand of support when he reached the railing. Clint’s buddy stood there, apparently too confounded by recent events to be any help at all.
Clint came over the railing and fell to the deck in a heap, dragging Marissa with him. Rather than try to pull away, she huddled there with him, unbearably relieved to feel the hardness of his body next to hers, real and secure. She’d been frightened for him. He could have drowned so easily. He was coughing up seawater.
“Are you okay?” she asked, alarmed.
He nodded, still coughing. “How’d you … get … loose?”
“Well, you ought to be glad I did, or you’d be fish food by now!” So much for her tender concern. “Your partner in crime is about as useful as a bicycle to a fish.”
“Hey!” the younger man objected. “Don’t listen to her. She threatened to club me to death with that hunk of wood. Can’t you tie her up again?”
“Not now, not in this weather,” Clint replied. “She may need to swim.” He looked at her, really looked her in the eye for the first time since reboarding the vessel. “How come you’re not wearing a life jacket?”
“Show me one.”
“Rusty!” he bellowed, using his friend’s name for the first time. “Get her a life jacket. If she drowns, we’ll be guilty of capital murder, you know.”
The man called Rusty was already donning his own life jacket, a sorry, withered little orange thing that resembled the one Clint had around his neck. “Nothing doing, man. There’s only one life jacket left, and it’s mine.”
Clint swore, then took his own life jacket off and handed it to Marissa. “Put this on.”
“But what about—”
“I’m a great swimmer, a world-class swimmer. I almost made the Olympic team in ’76. Mark Spitz beat me out.”
She let the lie pass, warmed by Clint’s generosity. Maybe he’d rather drown himself than face a capital murder charge, but she suspected he was simply being a nice guy.
There was something about him—something noble. She suspected that this act of terrorism was not his usual style. Something had driven him to it.
She found herself hoping that, for his sake, his lady friend, Rachelle, was somewhere safe and sound.
“There’s a fire somewhere on board,” she said almost matter-of-factly. This whole episode had taken on a surreal feel, as if it were a dream. “The sleeping cabin is all full of smoke.”
“Aw, hell.” He pushed himself to his feet, staggering as the boat lurched. “That stalled prop probably caused the engine to catch fire. Rusty, any fire extinguishers on board?”
Rusty shrugged.
“I saw one,” Marissa said, remembering a red cylinder hanging on the wall in the cabin where she’d slept. “I’ll go get it.”
“Hurry,” Clint said.
She went as fast as the pitching boat would let her, always keeping hold of something nailed down so she wouldn’t get tossed overboard. At times the rain-slick deck was almost vertical. The cabin was thick with smoke by now, but there were no flames. The smoke was seeping in from somewhere else. Marissa held her breath and descended the stairs. At the bottom she turned to the right and felt along the wall until she found the red tank. She pulled it from its moorings and dashed back up to the deck with it, praying the thing would work. Given the state of the rest of this scow, she had her doubts.
When she found Clint, he’d just opened another hatch, this one apparently to the engine room. A huge cloud of black smoke erupted from below, causing everyone to jump back, but the smoke cleared pretty quickly. Marissa handed Clint the extinguisher. He switched on a flashlight and entered the hatch. Marissa still didn’t see any flames.
Clint reemerged a few moments later. “Well, the good news is, the fire appears to be out.”
“Oh, thank God,” Marissa said. Rusty issued a similar response.
“The bad news is, before it went out, the fire burned a big ol’ hole through the hull. We’re taking on water faster than we could ever bail it out.”
“What, exactly, does that mean?” Rusty asked, his voice laced with panic.
Marissa already knew. “We’re sinking, you dolt!”
