Dead of Night (6 page)

Furious. I certainly was. So mad I behaved irrationally. I turned my skiff toward the white hedge of wake created by the bass boat, then slammed the throttle forward.

Or maybe it
was
a credible reaction. A military maxim came into my mind:
When defeat is certain, the only practical course is to charge the bastards and attack with all assets.

Reasonable or not, I took the offensive. If I was going to die by their hand, I wasn’t going to die running.

I backed the throttle slightly when my skiff began to push sixty-five; then slowed again when I saw the first ski buoy sweep past. I stayed low, using the front of my boat like a gun sight, aiming it directly at the black vacancy that marked the terminus of the bass boat’s expanding white wake.

They would be there in the blackness.

We would soon meet.

Once again, I spotted their boat in the panning car lights of the adjacent road. I closed within forty yards before they saw me. Maybe they thought they’d scared me off, or hit me with one of their wild rounds.

I saw their vessel fishtail, and recover—a measure of their surprise.

I wasn’t done, nor were they.

Off to my left, two abrupt geysers of water kicked spray onto the deck. Shooting again as they tried to accelerate away.

Ahead and to my left, I could see the vague outline of the ski ramp. Did they see it?

Yes . . . but only at the last second. I was close enough to watch them veer sharply, ramp to their right, then swerve back on course. They would soon pass directly in front of the ramp, with me only a few yards behind, if I continued at my current speed. But our intersecting angles, I realized, gave me an unusual attack option.

A ski ramp at an intersecting angle . . .

It was an option too crazy, too lunatic risky to deserve rational consideration. But I wasn’t rational, so I didn’t pause to think about it. I just did it. Let it happen, watched it play out as if from a higher aspect, making up the moves as I went.

I touched the dead man’s switch to make certain it was still attached to the ignition and my belt. I removed my glasses and jammed them securely into the baggy front pocket of my fishing shorts. Then I pointed my skiff at the base of the ski ramp where the ramp’s incline entered the water. As I did, I used the throttle switch to tilt my engine upward, moving the angle of the spinning propeller toward the sky. Gradually, instead of pushing the hull only forward, the propeller’s thrust was also pushing the back of my boat lower in the water while raising the bow.

I had plenty of speed. With my hand fixed on the throttle, I gauged the bass boat’s speed and angle, trying to time it just right. I continued to steer toward the ramp, determined to hit the thing dead center.

Spend time around Florida’s waterways and you’ll acquire all kinds of useless information that may become useful if you live long enough. I’d seen boats go over ramps at boat shows, which was maybe where I’d learned that the standard competitive ski ramp is several boat widths wide and five or six feet high. The ramps have a gentle, engineered pitch that can vault a skier, or boat, a couple hundred feet through the air.

But what was the optimum safe speed? That figure was buried in my brain somewhere. Had I heard that boats towing ski jumpers travel at forty miles an hour? Or was it fifty?

I couldn’t remember. A troubling lapse.

To compensate, every few seconds I glanced at the speedometer, aware that if I hit the ramp too fast I might not have time to bail out before my skiff nose-dived back into the water. Watched the needle read 50 . . . 45 . . . 48 ... 45 ... figures varying with my indecision as the ramp grew huge before me . . . the bass boat out there in front now . . . maybe going faster than I thought.

Which is why I panicked, burying the throttle forward as I hit the ramp bow-high. It added a final rocket thrust of acceleration that sent me careening toward outer space—stars bright up there—as the deck beneath me listed wildly to starboard, accompanied by a terrible screeching of fiberglass on fiberglass.

I was on the ramp for only a couple of seconds, but it seemed longer . . . and suddenly my boat straightened itself as we went airborne. I was floating, weightless, holding the steering wheel, fighting to steady myself like some novice astronaut experiencing zero gravity for the first time.

Intense concentration can add to the illusion that things are happening in slow motion. From high over the water, I turned my head to look. I could see that the bass boat was directly beneath me—a circumstance I hadn’t anticipated. If I bailed, and landed on their boat instead of in the water, the impact would probably kill me.

Slow motion or not, I knew I had very little time to react. Yet, I now had to wait a scary, tilting instant longer before throwing myself out of my skiff.

The sense of weightlessness continued as I shoved myself away from the steering wheel and floated out into the dark and spinning stratum that partitioned sky from water....

In the instant before I plunged through the lake’s surface, I could see my skiff above the bass boat, falling toward it in a ponderous arc. It looked as if I’d timed the intersection perfectly.

In the silence of that micromoment, I heard a woman scream. Or maybe it was the man: a shrill, atavistic sound so energized by fear that it was without gender.

They saw my boat, too. They knew they were about to be crushed.

Then gravity slammed me earthward.

My body had been traveling over the water at more than forty miles an hour. Add another twenty-five miles an hour to that, because, if you jump from a plane, that’s the approximate speed attained during the first second or two of free fall. Mitigate the impact slightly because of the trajectory created by the combined forces of gravity, air drag, and velocity. But it was still one hell of a collision when I hit the lake’s surface. I skipped over the water like a rag doll, and then was augured deep into blackness.

I’ve jumped into dark water many times. Jumped from fast boats, helicopters, and parachuted from planes. But there is only one other time when I’d experienced a water landing as violent—and that was not so long ago on the headwaters of the Amazon.

I tried to swing my legs beneath me but hit hard on my left side, shoulder first. I knew enough to have arms and elbows pulled in tight against my body, chin firmly on chest, both hands shielding my testicles. Hit any other way, arms can be ripped from their sockets, teeth shattered, necks broken.

I didn’t fight it as momentum took me deep underwater. I was aware of burning cold—Central Florida had had a frost or two this December. Was also aware of changing pressure. I let drag slow me before lifting my head upward, hands and arms out, sculling to end my descent. Then I began a slow swim toward the surface, exhaling bubbles as I went.

Surfacing seemed to take a long, long time.

Finally, I was breathing air again; warm, rich air that floated in layers atop the cold lake; my vision blurry because of water and my bad eyesight. Still, I could see sufficiently well to be, at once, disappointed and also relieved.

I expected carnage, the aftermath of a boat collision. I didn’t relish such a sight, but the Russians had invited attack.

But there was no carnage. Nor had they returned to kill me. Instead, all that awaited was the reassuring silhouette of my own skiff floating upright, engine off, not far away.

No sign of the bass boat. For a moment, I considered the possibility that I had hit it and their vessel had already sunk, the two passengers with it.

No. It would not have gone down so quickly.

I searched the distance until I recognized a fuzzy, flickering image caught in the light of the nearby highway: the Russians’ boat disappearing fast, already more than a hundred yards away, still heading south. Somehow, the woman had managed to avoid the unavoidable. Impressive. But why hadn’t they come back to finish the job?

I began to swim, thinking about it. Could the shock of what I’d done scared them into running? They’d managed to scare me into flight. Maybe I’d returned the volley.

I decided that I would discuss it with Tomlinson in a day or two, when we were both back on Sanibel.

 

 

I couldn’t get the engine started ...

I figured it was because of damage caused by the ski ramp. Or maybe a stray bullet had pierced the motor’s cowling. But then I realized I’d forgotten to insert the dead man’s switch into the little slot next to the ignition. Stupid.

The big engine fired, burbling its Harley rumble as if this night were nothing out of the ordinary.

The skiff seemed okay. A swivel seat was gone, steering wheel bent. That’s all the damage I noticed—until I flicked the bilge switch. A fire hose stream of water began to jettison from the boat’s starboard side. It pumped water for five or six long minutes as I idled toward Night’s Landing.

The hull was damaged. I was taking on water, maybe sinking. Finally, when the pump’s rhythmic whine told me the hull was empty, I jumped onto plane, steering fast toward the island. I’d stop and make certain Jobe Applebee was being cared for, then bust ass back to Dinkin’s Bay.

As I steered, I did some rough calculations. Felony investigations tend to be lengthy. But with a little push, if I kept it simple, didn’t tell the local cops that I’d been shot at—a biggie—I might make it home before midnight.

Wrong.

 

 

I tied up at the same slip. Just to be safe, I flipped the bilge switch again. More water inside.

The hull had taken a beating, was maybe too badly damaged to be repaired. The prospect irritated me. Some people—sailors most often—say they feel affection for their vessels. They can become very sentimental, particularly after a few rums.

I don’t share the feelings. I’ve never felt anything close to emotion for the many boats I’ve owned. Yet, the thought of having to switch from this skiff to another was upsetting. I valued it as a tool. I trusted it. I knew how to make the thing perform. It’d kept me afloat through lots of bad weather, and at least a couple of tough encounters. If I believed in luck, I would have considered this skiff particularly lucky.

Watching water jetting from the hull, I realized there was something else I’d have to deal with: The automatic bilge switch was broken. I’d have to get that fixed, too.

Leaky boats sink. I couldn’t risk leaving the thing unattended for long. Which is one reason that I headed off for Applebee’s home at a jog. A more pressing reason was that there were no law enforcement boats here. No sirens or blue lights flashing in the distance.

So maybe EMTs had come by chopper. Possible. But it was also possible that the local water response teams hadn’t had time to scramble. I’d called 911 around 9 P.M. According to my watch, it was now a little after ten. The idea of that terrified little man alone for more than an hour set off the guilt response. Dread, too.

When Applebee’s house came into view, I stopped running, reassured by what I saw. Standing near the front door was a woman in official-looking blue coveralls, a walkietalkie on her belt, plus a noisy, static-loud police scanner.

I took the porch steps two at a time. “How’s Dr. Applebee doing? Have you already transported him to a hospital?”

I could see that the questions confused her. I thought,
Uh-oh,
moved past her, and tried the door. Still locked.

“He’s not in there alone, is he? He
has
been transported to the hospital? Lady, please tell me someone’s checked on him.”

“Who’s been transported where?”

“Applebee.”

I looked at her for the first time. She wasn’t a woman; she was a kid. Sixteen, maybe eighteen. Pudgy, buttery face, multiple earrings, Cinderella bangs, hair cut boyishly short. But she sounded infuriatingly officious as she replied, “Mister, I have no idea if he’s alone or not, but I can’t let you go inside to check. The sheriff’s department dispatcher told me I’m in charge of this location until they’re ten-twenty. Which means until they arrive. She told me to wait on the porch and not let anyone inside. Especially civilians. That means you.”

I was not in the mood and was already crossing the porch, headed for the rear entrance. “Are you a cop? You’re not old enough to be a cop.”

“I’m old enough. But, no, not officially, anyway.” “Part of some kind of Girl Scouts program or something? I don’t understand why you’re here.”

She didn’t catch the mild sarcasm. “I’m the constable of this island. Of this unincorporated village, I mean. The sheriff’s department contacts me when there’s trouble, but this time I was home listening to the scanner. Now, if you’ll—”

I’d vaulted the porch railing, and was walking fast. Now the girl was trotting after me, calling, “Hey, hold it, mister. Mister? You’re not going into that house. I’m warning you right now, I’ll arrest you.”