Worth the Trip

by Penny McCall

  Norah fielded more than one leer, but Trip kept his body between her and the treasure hunters, and the lure of fifty million dollars was more than her powers of allure could overcome. Not that she was trying to be alluring. Hell, she was radiating ugly as hard as she could.

  “Okay,” Norah said when they were gone, “which boat—ouch.” Trip let go of her arm, stepping aside so she could see they weren’t alone. “Oh,” she said, rubbing her arm but glad he’d stopped her before she’d gotten to the part of her statement that included boat theft, especially since the guy they’d left on guard had a long gun resting across his thighs. He was also about eighty and a Santa Claus look-alike—if Santa had been armed to the teeth.

  “He’s old,” she whispered to Trip, “probably can’t see very well. And I really don’t want to be here when those guys come out empty-handed,” she added. Trip knew that, of course, but it couldn’t be emphasized enough, since she figured there’d be a hell of an ugly scene and she didn’t want to be the consolation prize.

  “That’s a shotgun,” Trip said, not keeping his voice down. “I figure it’s loaded with wide-pattern shot, and we have to go right past him. Even if he was legally blind he’d hit us.”

  “But you’re thinking about it, ain’t you,” the old guy said with a smile—an oddly sweet smile since he also hitched the gun up higher. “What do you think your odds are of getting to me before I can shoot you?”

  “Pretty good,” Trip said.

  “I’m inclined to agree with you,” the old man said. “Name’s Digger.” He picked the gun up by the barrel and handed it to Trip.

  Trip grinned. “Thanks.” He dug his wallet out of his back pocket and took out a hundred dollar bill, handing it to the guy.

  “Gun ain’t worth that much, son.”

  “You want to give it back?”

  “Nope.” The bill disappeared into Digger’s pocket.

  “It’s not for the gun anyway,” Trip said. “It’s for looking the other way.”

  “Don’t matter,” Digger said, winking at Norah, “eyesight ain’t too good anymore anyway.”

  “Evidently your hearing is fine,” she said, letting Trip help her down the stone base.

  “Don’t hold with hurting a woman,” Digger said. “That thing’s got all the pickup of a floating tub,” he added as they headed for one of the larger boats. “Kizi’s boat is the best of the lot, but you take that and he’ll never stop coming after you. And what Kizi goes after, Kizi finds. That one there would stand you in good stead.” Digger pointed to a smaller aluminum boat that was dented and dirty.

  Norah couldn’t see into the small cabin belowdecks, but judging by the rest of the picture, she didn’t want to.

  “Guy who owns it don’t care about the outside, but he’s a wizard with an engine . . .”

  They heard a ruckus from inside the lighthouse.

  “Maybe he won’t be needing it,” Digger finished as Trip slung the shotgun into the boat and boosted Norah over the side. “And just so you know, the gun’s only loaded with rock salt.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Trip said.

  Norah was making herself useful, hauling the anchor out of the water, but keeping her eye on the lighthouse, where the sounds of a full-blown argument spilled out of the door and windows.

  “Relax,” Trip said, “they’re not finding anything so they’re turning on each other. Let’s get out of here before they decide the real culprits are getting away.”

  “Too late,” Norah said.

  Before they’d done much more than get the boat in motion, the treasure hunters piled out the door of the lighthouse, slung themselves into their boats, and set up pursuit. Digger was right, it turned out; the boat they’d taken was the fastest of the lot, but not by much. It had a fairly shallow draft, especially at top speed with the prow nosing up out of the water. But at about eighteen feet long with what sounded like two big, and probably heavy, engines, the reef must have presented a problem since Trip steered away from it, even with the other boats heading for them at top speed. In her limited experience, Trip was a daredevil; his preference for boats full of men with guns over the shoal told her a lot.

  “As long as they think we know something they won’t shoot at us,” he yelled over the roar of the engines.

  “All we have to do is not get caught.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Not fast enough. But she knew he was doing everything he could. She did a mental rewind of the guys at the shoal, which only made her more desperate since she really did not want to find herself at their mercy, and while she trusted Trip, and after the book fiasco she knew he’d rather she kept out of his way, she couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. She went below, fighting for balance with Trip turning the boat on a dime every five seconds, trying to pick her way through a cesspool of junk she chose not to identify, but making a note to scrub herself with bleach later. Considering the amount of random flotsam and jetsam there really wasn’t much to find, but in a small cabinet at the very front of the cabin she came across emergency supplies. Including a flare gun.

  TRIP LET THE OTHER BOATS HERD HIM TOWARD the shoal, watching for his opening, waiting while half the boats set up a scrimmage line on the landward side and the others drove him straight for them. Hard to feint in a boat, but it was just as hard for his opponents to move at a second’s notice. He steered toward one opening, then cut the wheel hard left, laying his boat practically on its side as he poured on every last ounce of speed, cut right again and shot through the narrow opening between two larger wooden boats. One of the occupants to his right started to climb onto the rail; Trip lifted Digger’s shotgun, and the guy had a change of heart before he even brought the muzzle to bear.

  “Thought so,” Trip muttered, slaloming his way around the rest of the boats and managing to get ahead of them by sheer skill and the stupidity of the other skippers. There was probably some pure dumb luck involved, too.

  He headed southeast, toward the house where they’d left the Harley. It was their only advantage, and not much of one with Norah sure to be slower than some of the men chasing them. Otherwise he spared little thought to Norah and what she might be doing in the cabin. Until she appeared at the top of the stairs clutching a gun-shaped object distinctively yellow in color.

  “Look what I found,” she said, brandishing it as she stepped out onto the deck.

  “What do you expect to do with that?”

  “Shoot it at them.”

  “Which will do nothing but make them shoot back. That leaves us with no flares and a shotgun filled with rock salt.”

  “Maybe it will scare them.”

  “I’ve got everything under control.”

  “It doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing,” she said, staring off in their wake and looking worried.

  Trip didn’t need to review the situation. The shore loomed about a hundred yards ahead, but their pursuers were only about half that distance behind them, dangerously close. And then there was Norah with that damn flare gun, heading for the rear of the boat.

  Trip caught her by the back of her coat, and then didn’t know what to do with her since he had to keep one hand on the wheel. She twisted free, and he clutched wildly at her, somehow managing to grab her right arm and throwing them both off balance. They went down in a tangle of limbs. The flare gun went off, the flare plowing through the deck and into one of the engines, which exploded into a raging fireball as they hit shore. Literally. The boat plowed up about ten feet onto the beach, throwing them back toward the gaping hole in the deck with its burning engine.

  Trip latched onto the base of the driver’s seat with one hand, managing somehow to hook Norah with the other arm, then dragging her to her feet and boosting her over the side, just as the second engine blew.

  “Jesus,” Trip said, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the house. The other boats were keeping a safe distance from the fire, but they weren’t going to wait long. Already a couple
of them were landing to the north and south. When they jumped out of their boats, they brought their guns with them.

  Norah was stumbling, a little shell-shocked. Not used to getting blown up. Or shot at, which didn’t seem to be a problem since she wasn’t the main target. Trip went down halfway to the house, his right leg giving out at the same time he felt the burning pain of a gunshot. He took Norah down with him, rolling and boosting her back to her feet. “Go, Norah, get out of here,” he yelled at her.

  She didn’t hesitate, reaching into his coat pocket for the key to the Harley, jumping to her feet, and racing off without a backward glance.

  Trip fought his way upright just in time to meet the first of the guys from the boats. He braced himself on his good leg and ducked under the punch the first guy threw, striking him in the throat hard enough to put him down permanently without killing him. He heard the bike start up then stop, probably because Norah had let off the clutch without giving it enough gas. Worse, Kizi heard it, too, and he drew the same conclusion. He separated from the pack of men swarming off the boats, heading for the garage, not bothering to hurry. He didn’t think he had to. Big mistake.

  The Harley flew through the door with Norah hanging on for dear life. She zoomed past Kizi, past Trip, heading for the lake. Trip heard a splash, spared a glance over his shoulder and saw her stop in about a foot of water, then two more guys were on him.

  He took the first man out with pathetic ease, but the second went right for his wounded leg, getting in a punch to his thigh that took him down to one knee, the guy jumping back suddenly because it was move or eat the front end of the Harley. Norah zipped between them, stopping a couple of feet in front of Trip and yelling, “Get on.”

  Trip got on, at least for a second before Norah did a jackrabbit start that stalled the bike and dumped him off the back of the motorcycle onto his ass in the sand. She restarted the bike, and Trip got to his feet, running and hopping on his bad leg, trying to get on the bike with it jerking forward as Norah fought the gears. He finally made it on just as two more guys were about to grab him.

  Trip elbowed one in the balls; that one jackknifed and took his fellow treasure hunter down with him. Trip put his arms around Norah, found the handlebars, and gunned the bike enough to get away, giving Kizi, halfway down the hill, a wide berth. Once they made it to the road, he let Norah drive just long enough to put some distance between them and their pursuers. Since none of them had a car handy it only took a couple of miles.

  “Let me look at your leg,” Norah said once they’d stopped by the side of the road.

  “It’s just a graze.” But he nudged her off the bike so he didn’t have to move too much, slid forward, then waited for her to get on the back.

  “You still need first aid,” she insisted, slipping on the Bluetooth ear piece he gave her.

  “It’s not my leg I’m worried about, it’s my ass. And yours.”

  “They’ll be coming after us in a car,” Norah said.

  “It’ll be bigger than a car. Most of these year-round snowbelt guys have something with four-wheel drive and off-road capability.” He drove another five miles then pulled off the road and into the forest.

  “Do you have any idea where you’re going?” Norah asked him after they’d been riding through the woods for a little while.

  “South,” Trip said.

  “That’s pretty vague.”

  “We have to hit a road or building sometime.”

  “Not necessarily, Trip. A lot of upper Michigan is state forest. Miles and miles of state forest. And you’re bleeding.”

  Trip chose to ignore that, until he felt her hands at his leg. He looked down and saw her slip her scarf around his knee and shimmy it up to the wound on his thigh, wrapping it as best she could on the back of a Harley jouncing through primeval forest. When she was done, when her arms were wrapped around his waist again, he rested his hand over hers, just for a moment. It was only gratitude, and maybe a little camaraderie, he told himself, grateful she couldn’t give him one of those searching looks. He didn’t want to wonder what she was thinking. He didn’t want to think at all.

  Trouble was, he had to spend the next few hours alone with his thoughts. And his feelings.

  chapter 14

  ABOUT DINNERTIME THEY CAME ACROSS SIGNS of civilization, avoiding the small frame house with the tidy backyard carved out of the woods, to pick up the road that ran in front of it. They followed the winding two-lane road into a small town with no name. As far as Norah was concerned it could be called Convenience. A small hotel sat near the edge of town, with a modest strip mall and a couple of restaurants, one fast-food, one mom-and-pop, on opposite sides of that narrow road comprising the main drag of the town.

  Trip pulled into the motel and stopped by the office, keeping away from the window. He handed her money without saying a word. He didn’t have to. She was hardly at her best after a night in an abandoned lighthouse, a run-in with an angry mob, and an explosion, but she had Trip beat.

  “Put your hair up,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Norah lifted a hand, ran it over her hair, then wished she hadn’t. Her hair had to look like hell. It felt even worse, tangled and flat, and her scalp began to itch just at the thought of how dirty it must be. But considering how the rest of her looked, she doubted even such a gnarly case of helmet hair would seem out of place.

  “Color’s memorable,” Trip said shortly. “Never hurts to take precautions.” He dug through a compartment on the front of the Harley, handing her a bit of string.

  Norah tied her hair back, not bothering with the brush in her overnight bag.

  “Whenever you’re done humoring me,” Trip said, gesturing toward the office.

  “I’m not humoring you,” she said. But they both knew that was a lie. Trip probably took it for guilt; Norah felt only sympathy.

  She’d gone over her actions. Repeatedly—heck, she’d had nothing to do but think. She’d decided she hadn’t done anything wrong, or nothing more than Trip had. And sure, the flare wouldn’t have been much of a deterrent, but it would have been better if they’d blown up one of the other boats instead of their own, and that was Trip’s fault.

  He tapped the spot right between her eyes, and she realized she was frowning.

  “Don’t think so much,” he said. “It makes me nervous.”

  Norah wiped the frown from her face and went into the office. When she came out, she handed Trip the room key and headed for the road.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Shopping.”

  “Not like that.”

  She stopped, looked back at him. “We’re hungry and filthy, and you need medical attention. I know you won’t go to the emergency room, so—”

  “Take a breath, professor.”

  She glared at him.

  “You can’t use your credit card.”

  “Those guys aren’t exactly geniuses,” she said. “I doubt they have the connections to track my purchases. I know”—she held up a hand—“precautions.” And she figured she’d caused enough trouble for one day.

  So, apparently, did Trip.

  “She keeps helping me,” she heard him say when she came back into the room an hour or so later. He was talking on his cell phone, probably with that Mike guy in Washington. Judging by the tone of Trip’s voice, the two of them were commiserating over what a screwup she was.

  “It was your fault, too,” she muttered, which earned her a scowl from Trip. She stifled the gesture she wanted to make in his direction. Giving him the finger would be rude and childish.

  They’d gotten away, hadn’t they? After several hours of trekking through the forest, in the cold, with a wounded leg . . . She winced, imagining how much pain he had to be in. But it didn’t stop him from pacing back and forth across the small motel room, shooting her a look every now and then but keeping his voice down for the most part.

  She dumped her bags on the tabl
e, one containing a change of clothes down to the skin for each of them, one holding first aid items, the last a white takeout sack from the mom-and-pop place, filled to bursting with food.

  Trip came over and pawed through the clothes, pulling out a pair of boxers and holding them up. They were black, dotted with little pink hearts and one big red heart right over the placket in front. “I’m a lover not a fighter?” he read the white lettering on the backside. “Wishful thinking?”

  “It was a gift shop. The only underwear they had were novelty ones.” She whipped them out of his hands and tossed them on the table. “Trust me, I didn’t waste my time hoping you wouldn’t give me an earful, so go ahead, get it over with. It’s my fault the boat blew up, it’s my fault you got shot, I can’t follow simple instructions.

  “But if I’d taken off on the Harley like you told me to, you’d probably be in really bad shape now, if not dead, and the boat was just as much your fault as it was mine. If you hadn’t tackled me instead of treating me like an intelligent human being—”

  “If you warned me before you did things I wouldn’t feel a need to tackle you,” he said, talking over her.

  “What was I supposed to do? You had your hands full driving the boat.”

  “Maybe you should stop beating yourself up, Norah. Yeah, I’m not happy about how things played out, but we got away and it was because you blew up the boat. The explosion held those guys off and gave us time to make a run for it.”

  “But I slowed you down.”

  “We were both cold and tired, and running in sand. My getting shot was just bad luck. And you saved my life,” he added, which surprised her—not for the grudging way he said it but because he’d said it at all.

  “At last,” Trip said, lowering himself into the nearest chair with an exaggerated sigh, “peace and quiet.”