Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1)

by Sebastian Blunt

  She took her eyes off the bow of the boat and glanced down for a second. “It says 290.”

  “Great. That tells us that we are heading 290 degrees. 270 would be straight west, so 290 is west but a little bit north. Now turn the wheel a little bit to port and watch the needle go to 280.”

  “Honey. Which way is port?”

  “Port is left. Port has four letters. Left has four letters. That’s how you remember it.”

  Turning the wheel left, the needle went past 280 and all the way to 250. He watched her panic a little, and then she turned the wheel back. The needle went to 310.

  “No problem. You just did what is called over-steering or over-correcting. Just come back in little bits until you are at 280 and then center it until that red tape on the wheel is straight in the middle.”

  He watched her deftly come to 280 degrees. “Are you sure you’ve never done this?”

  Claire blanched. “Not a chance. I’ve hardly ever been out of Manhattan. My dad did all the traveling, and we only went on vacation to Niagra Falls or the beach. Not the life you’d expect from a big lawyer like Martin German.”

  Not at all, thought Chuck. “Let’s keep this course for a few minutes. Then we’ll make a big circle and head back.”

  “That’s a good idea,” barked Claire. “I feel like shit, and I think I’m going to puke.”

  “Okay, sweetheart. Even a gentle girl like you can use four-letter words when you feel crappy at sea. Good job.”

  By the time they got past the entrance to the marina, she’d made a few dry heaves over the side but remained stoic.

  Clemp gave himself a ‘B’ for his job bringing the Won Again into the slip.

  “Dearest. That was 90% of what it takes to be crew on my boat.”

  She looked slightly recovered. “What’s the other 10%?”

  “You already did that before we left.”

  She scowled at him. “Hilarious.”

  “Different subject. Tonight we’ll sleep onboard. You’ll get used to the motion if we spend the night. Tomorrow we are going to go from here to a marina a little way up the coast. The day after to Messina. You can do it!”

  The voyage from Portorosa up to the next marina was Claire’s cue to do seasickness drama. She stuck her finger down her throat and barfed up her breakfast—it made for excellent theatrics, and her husband missed the finger part and assumed that it was awful seasickness.

  But they made it, and once in port, she seemed to relax and was able to eat at a local restaurant. He was encouraged, and she ate like a wolverine.

  “Tomorrow, my lovely, we go over the top of Sicily and pull into Messina. There will be wind, so we can really enjoy it!”

  “Um. Yeah, I hope so. But if I feel terrible like today, then you hire a guy to go with you on the next part.”

  “Can I hire a female?”

  “Do you have a death wish?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “No. Anyway, even under the worst-case scenario that you feel utterly awful, I can just leave the boat tied up in Messina.”

  Claire looked ashen and fiddled with her silverware like she was thinking about something. “No way. We flew out here so you could do a good bit of sailing.”

  “I don’t care. We can do other things. There’s a lot to do here.”

  “No,” she was firm and resolute. “If I feel bad, then do the next leg, and I will meet you. We can stay the night in a hotel.”

  “That could work. I can sail her alone from Messina to Syracusa further down the coast.”

  His wife almost fell off her chair. “Forget that. You pick up someone in Messina. You want me to spend half the day worrying?”

  “All of this is moot. Let’s see how you feel tomorrow and then make a decision. If it is that bad, then I will take someone and meet you further down. Then we can either leave her in Syracusa, or go piece-meal all the way around and back to the west side.”

  A look of extreme relief lit up Claire’s face. “That works for me. Your sailing around the island is the most important thing. Let’s not forget that.”

  As predicted, the wind was up the next day. Motion sickness was in full bloom, but they made it over the north tip of the island and pulled into Messina with Claire swearing up and down that she was going to kill him. Once they got on dry land, she said she was sorry about fifty times.

  “I understand. Don’t even think about it. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard. Please forgive me and don’t feed me to the sharks!”

  With tears in her eyes, she said, “Not today, anyway. Let’s go to the hotel! I can’t even look at the water right now!”

  Chuck shouldered her bag as they made their way up the pier. He thought that his wife looked significantly better with each step.

  “Alright. We’ll spend a couple of nights here, and then I’ll snoop around for someone who can back me up for the sail down to Syracusa. By car, you can drive there in 90 minutes. Maybe scout out a nice place for us to stay.”

  “Charles, that is a plan that I can live with.”

  “What’s your name, again?”

  “Tony Reacher.”

  Chuck looked at the guy’s sailing certificate. “You studied at the north end of the Chesapeake Bay. Sailed offshore, maybe?”

  “Absolutely. I posted my sign on your pier because I was hoping to get a gig doing some offshore. To be honest, I saw you were Americans, like me, and I need to make a few bucks. But I’m not greedy.”

  “I only need someone to do backup. But it won’t be offshore, just around the island and back to the northwest side. I can’t offer you a ton of time in the Med, but the pay is $150 a day. Will that help?”

  “Heck yeah. Like I said, I’m not looking to rip anybody off.”

  Clemp motioned towards the autopilot. “Do you recognize that?”

  “Sure, XT-90. I used the older version in the Bay.”

  “What kind of anchor do you think would be good for the Med?”

  “I guess a fluke. Not what we would use in the Chesapeake, but good for here, I would think.”

  “One second,” said Claire. “Do you mind if I talk to my husband?”

  “Sure.”

  She yanked on Chuck’s arm to get him down below deck and whispered in his ear, “Do you think he is trustworthy? I mean, he’s sailing for money!”

  “Darling, that is standard practice. A lot of busy marinas in the world have men and women hanging around looking to make a few bucks as crew. That’s what’s worrying you?”

  “Does he even know what he’s doing?”

  He smiled at her like a wise old salt. “He passed my test. I think he’ll do for fair-weather sailing out there.”

  Her response was a warm smile.

  *

  The morning breeze off of Pellaro was about the same as usual, and the routine in Mike’s container home was pleasant. He was so deeply in love with Cassie that parting with her really was such sweet sorrow.

  “Do you even know what that is from?”

  “What?”

  “The line you use about twice a week when we go to work. I had an excellent education and good grades in university. Not to brag or anything.”

  He tilted his head and gazed at her with a twinkle in his eye. “Do tell me, my dearest love, thou who doth teach the torches to burn bright?”

  “Holy shit! You are a smart guy sometimes.”

  “Only sometimes?”

  “Well, not when your sleeping and being flatulent.”

  He laughed hard. “That makes sense.”

  “But really, Shakespeare? You’re like a freaking genius.”

  “I read a lot.”

  “Mike, I’ve met smart people. You’re pretty solid, and you figure out how to do things.”

  “Alright. Enough stroking my ego, baby. If I was so smart, I wouldn’t be running from a ruthless dragon lady druglord.”

  “You were a kid when you got into it. Not your fault.”

  “Work time,” he said quiet
ly.

  She kissed him and squeezed him. “Fine. I’ll see you for dinner and whatever.”

  Claire waved from the finger pier as Chuck, and his hired crewman hauled in the stern and amidships lines. The wind was light, which made pulling out neat and clean.

  “I’ll see you in Syracusa, honey. No rush. Do a little shopping and have some fun. I love you!”

  “I love you too!” she shouted.

  He turned to Tony. “Alright. Take the wheel and head out past the jetty. Then come to 160 to get us out a bit. We have some good, simple grub down in the galley, so you’re going to eat well.”

  “Aye, Aye, skipper. 160 and good food. Sounds like a plan.”

  An hour after Clemp left, Claire checked the chart of the Messina Straits. There was no reason to believe that the Won Again would deviate from its course. At 5.5 knots, which was reasonable considering the wind direction, speed, and tacking angle, she figured his position as approximately four nautical miles dead center in the straits. To do that, he must have turned to 195 degrees, not far out from Messina. That was the plan. And Charles Clemp was a stickler for following plans. The course would keep them heading at 195 degrees, putting him further out from Messina and six miles out from the dingy little towns of southwest Italy. Nice open sea, deep, and far enough from the shipping lanes to prevent interference.

  “Johnny,” Claire turned to one of her long-time associates, a man who was utterly loyal and completely reliable when there was a hefty paycheck. They’d worked on a dozen “incidents” over the last five years, and he’d never botched up a damn thing.

  “Yes.” He leaned towards her on the boat he’d rented in cash and with no questions asked. With the right connections, it was possible to get almost anything in Sicily.

  “We should leave soon. Look at the chart and confirm my timeline.”

  He looked. “You got it right. We can make 20 knots if we need to. The radar will also cut out our risk of overshooting them.”

  “Do you have a weapon?”

  “An AK and a small pistol,” he grinned.

  “Good enough. Let’s get ready to pull out.”

  Johnny scratched his scruffy chin. The man was trim, muscular, and looked like he could and would stare down a gorilla.

  “You need some motion sickness pills, boss?”

  “Amusing. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  As time went on, something about Tony Reacher started gnawing at Chuck’s sixth’s sense. It wasn’t highly unusual for hired crew to bug the hell out of boat owners, but this was after only three hours. Something about his mannerisms, the way he talked. It was creepy, so Chuck decided to ditch the guy in Syracusa and figure out some other solution for getting back around to Portorosa.

  With the wind blowing about 40 degrees off the bow, but not very intensely, their upwind velocity was sticking around five to six knots. That would do.

  “Hey skipper, it’s eleven. How ‘bout some lunch? I’m an ace in the galley.”

  Clemp’s stomach had been grumbling at nine, and now it was positively growling. “What do you have in mind?”

  “What do you like?” asked Reacher.

  “Hmm. A sub with mayo, turkey, and tomato?”

  “Beer? Just kidding. Okay, how ‘bout some soda water?”

  “Perfect! You need me to give you the galley tour?”

  Tony shook his head. “Nah. I can figure it out. I’ll even clean up good. I’m an ace at cleaning up messes.”

  Again, something about the way he said that was screaming at Chuck’s early warning system. Reacher descended the stairs and whistled the whole way down below.

  Surprisingly, the occasionally busy straits were fairly light on commercial traffic. To be safe, he’d made sure to keep about a half-mile west of the shipping lanes; even so, there was just one ship barely visible heading north. But, he wanted more clearance and steered further away from the lanes. Up ahead was one small fishing boat. Late morning—the guy was either a novice or someone who could magically convince fish to give themselves up in broad daylight.

  Chuck slowed and got close enough to wave and see the guy. He didn’t look Italian. Could he have been a tourist? They both reached for binoculars simultaneously, and a kind of kindred recognition passed between them. Just then, Tony climbed back into the cockpit with lunch.

  “Watcha looking at?”

  “We have a possible American,” he answered while pointing to port. Tony turned, and there was no doubt that the other boat's skipper was gazing right at him with binoculars. Not good. They were barely 70 meters apart. How sharp could the guy’s vision be?

  “Good luck to him with his fishing.” He put Chuck’s sandwich down on the fold-out table. “Hey, can I have the binoculars? Go ahead a eat.”

  The fisherman was gradually moving out of range, but Tony had great eyes. He got a clear look at the other skipper and memorized the face.

  “Enjoy that awesome sandwich, Mr. Clemp.”

  Chuck waved to the fisherman as they continued south. “What are you having, Reacher?”

  “My usual cheese, pickle, and peanut butter.”

  “For real?”

  “Hard to believe, ain’t it. I think it will either kill me or cure me. Or just raise eyebrows. Cheers.”

  Thirty minutes after lunch, Chuck flicked on the autopilot because his gut and chest were on fire.

  Tony sat on the starboard side, further up with his feet hanging over the gunwale.

  Clemp was bent over, clutching his abdomen. He stumbled to the bench seat in the cockpit. “Tony.” The agony was beginning to get extreme.

  “Are you calling me, Chuck?” His crewman turned to see the skipper. “What did you eat? Are you seasick?”

  “I don’t know. Call for help. Give them our position. Ah.” He could barely get the words out. His body was wracked in pain.

  “Geesh. Part-time sailors. You just can’t function at sea,” Reacher spat out nastily.

  The response was only gasping and incoherent words.

  “Fine. Mr. Clemp.” Tony got up, stepped lightly back to the cockpit, and crouched down in front of his temporary boss. “How are you feeling?”

  Groans and gasps. Spasms cut off the words. “Help—me!”

  “Help you? Let me think about that—how ‘bout—no! But, since we’re short on time, or rather you are—” Reacher scratched his head while Chuck continued to groan. “You know, I suck at drama, so I will just say it straight out—I’m actually working for Claire. And here’s the best part: She gave me the wonderful poison that I put in your sandwich. And you sure were hungry.”

  Chuck’s mind swirled from waves of pain.

  “Yes, Chucky.” Tony whispered. “Your wife murdered you. Doesn’t that suck? You can’t imagine how much money I’m getting for this. It’s a lot—two-hundred grand. The way it looked to me is that she had you so snowed you couldn’t tell your butt from a hole in the ground.”

  “No. Not…poss-ible…” Every breath was ripping his insides apart.

  “She did it, man. And I don’t know what the money situation is, but you are screwed.”

  Clemp could no longer move. He was past agony. His mind only felt as if it was drifting into a black hole. Darkness closed in. His body was frozen. The remaining thoughts in his dying mind repeated, “Why Claire? Cla…”

  “Who’s that guy?” Claire asked.

  Johnny looked up from the compass and gazed off to the port side. A small fishing boat was a little ways off. “Just some fisherman trying to make a living.”

  They motored on at 18 knots. Mrs. Clemp put their GPS coordinates on the small section of the navigation chart that she’d photocopied. When done, she would burn it—standard practice for a practiced killer—no evidence left behind.

  “We should see the Won Again in a few minutes.”

  “I have to say that you look pretty amazing with the blond wig. Now that you’re single, do you want to maybe go out for a drink?”

  “Shut
up. I just became a widow.”

  “Are you serious? You just murdered the man for his money!”

  “I loved him with all my heart.” Her hair moved in different directions from the sea air tumbling over the windshield. She had a sad look on her face. Unmistakably distraught.

  “I’m not sure I follow your thinking, Ms. German.”

  “I loved him. I married him because I loved him. I killed him because it was the right thing to do.”

  Johnny scanned the horizon. The conversation over her feelings for Chuck Clemp was too damn weird to consider. “Right. I guess I wouldn’t understand.”

  She pointed to starboard about 30 degrees off the bow of their boat. “Bingo. Turn right.”

  In a few minutes, they pulled up beside the 45-foot sailboat. Tony dropped the sails, and they did their best to tie up together with fenders protecting the side of the motorboat.

  “Where’s Charles?” Claire asked.

  “I put him down below.”

  “Stupid. I told you to leave him on deck. Bring him back up and wipe up any fluids.”

  A couple of minutes later, the body was lying in the cockpit. Claire looked at him—studied him in death.

  “Johnny. Hand over those blocks. Tony. Slip the blocks over his ankles.”

  In a minute, Clemp’s corpse was weighed down. He looked dead. Really dead.

  “Should I toss him over?”

  “No, Tony, first tell him you’re sorry.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “The man never did one damn thing to you. He gave you a job and fed you. Tell him you’re sorry.”

  Reacher looked pissed. “How ‘bout fucking, no. I killed him because you told me to. Why don’t you tell him you’re sorry?”

  Claire turned to Johnny, who waited by the rail of the small boat. “Johnny?”

  Her trusted partner pulled a small pistol from his jacket and pointed it directly at Reacher. Tony looked a little confused. “I think if you do what Claire says, then I won’t have to leave you here.”

  “Um. Ms. German—”

  “It’s Mrs. Clemp.”

  “Right, I’m sorry. Mrs. Clemp, I will apologize to Mr. Clemp now.” He turned to look at the body, praying that a bullet wasn’t going to end his miserable life right there. “Mr. Clemp, I’m sorry for poisoning you. You never did anything bad to me.”