“I know,” Katherine said. “I don't want that to be our legacy. When we're gone, I want people to remember the Kenwoods as the best owners Boston ever had.”
“You're on your way. Two World Championships⦔
“That's not what I mean. What good does all our money doâ¦if we simply become the new Yankeesâ¦buying the next Japanese starâ¦or the next Cuban defector? I've been talking to Louâ¦about establishing a foundationâ¦or charitable trust.”
“Like the Yawkeys?”
“Something like that. Something that will help peopleâ¦after we're gone. That's how I want to be remembered.”
Katherine's watery blue eyes did not waver from Sam's.
“The opposite of Charles Comiskey,” he said.
“Comiskey was hated by his players, and he hated them. Lou loves his playersâ¦and he's sure they love him. This would kill him if it turns out to be true.”
Sam believed her. Kenwood struck him as the kind of guy who could technically own other human beings and still convince himself that the bond between them was about love, loyalty, and mutual respect, rather than money.
“What about you?” Sam asked. “Do you love the players?”
“I love the Red Sox.”
Sam gazed beyond the sun-splashed deck to the glittering ocean. If it weren't for Katherine's oxygen hose, the Kenwoods would have seemed the most fortunate people on the face of the earth.
“Why do you want me to show you how to shoot a gun?” Sam asked. “You seem pretty safe here.”
“I didn't want to say this in front of Louâ¦when we were in the suite,” Katherine said. She leaned closer to Sam. “Odd things have been happening. I'm afraid someone wants to kill me.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I've had strange phone calls. Hang-ups, when Lou isn't home.”
“Probably telemarketers.”
“No, it's more than that. Paul can tell you. Someone ran a red light, almost hit us on our way into town last weekend. If Paul hadn't seen him comingâ¦and slammed on the brakes⦔
“What happened to the other car?”
“It sped away.”
“Anything else?”
“There was a gas leakâ¦in the basement a few days ago.”
“Who noticed it?”
“One of the boys from the lawn service.”
“Maybe he caused it.”
“I don't know. Maybe. But with this extortion noteâ¦I just don't feel safe. Somebody is coming after us. I want to be able to protect myself. Now, how about that shooting lesson?”
“We can't do it here.”
“Of course not. We'll do it out there.”
She pointed to the ocean.
“Paul, would you bring the car around?” Katherine called. “We're ready to go to the yacht club.”
It took Paul five minutes to get Katherine out of the house and into the car, and three minutes to drive to the yacht club, on the bay side of The Neck. They parked among the Jaguars, Cadillacs, and Chrysler 300s, passed through the weathered old clubhouse, built in 1895, and boarded
The Katy K,
a 55-foot mahogany and teak Chris Craft Constellation built in 1961 and renamed by Kenwood when he bought it in 1980. A special hydraulic ramp lifted Katherine in her wheelchair from the dock to the deck of the yacht.
“We used to haveâ¦lots of parties on this boat,” Katherine said. “The last one was right after last year's World Series.”
She looked off to the horizon as Paul skippered the boat out of the bay, past dozens of anchored sailboats and cruisers, and into open water. In less than a half hour, the coastline was barely visible, several miles in the distance.
“I'm sure this is far enough, Paul,” Sam said.
He stood up and turned Katherine's wheelchair around to face over the stern. There were no other boats in sightâjust a few seagulls. He picked up the Beretta that she had brought with her. It was a small semi-automatic with an eight-round magazine for .25 caliber cartridges, a favorite among women for personal protection. It fit Katherine's hand well, and it was probably the biggest gun she was capable of handling.
“It's a nice gun,” Sam said. “I don't think it's got much of a kick. You might be able to get a few shots off with it.”
“Well, let's see,” she said.
Sam pointed to a darkened spot on the water about 30 feet from the stern of the gently rocking boat and told her to aim for that. He had her place the fingers of her left hand in front of her right hand for a two-fisted grip, and told her to extend her arms and squeeze the trigger slowly. When the gun discharged, Katherine's hands recoiled upward and her chair rolled backward several inches. He looked at her to see if she was hurt or frightened, but the look on her face was one of determination mixed with satisfaction.
“I did it,” she said. “I put that bullet right where you told me to.”
“Not bad,” Sam said.
“I want to do it again.”
“We'd better set the brake on your chair. I don't want to have to fish you out of the ocean.”
Katherine fired ten more shots, each of them fairly close to the target Sam had picked out for her, before her hands and arms began to tire. The big cruiser was riding smoothly on the gently rolling waves, but Sam was nevertheless impressed with her marksmanship. He showed her how to remove and insert the magazine, and made sure she knew where the safety was.
“Did you bring your gun?” Katherine asked him.
“Yes.”
Sam took out his Glock 23 from the holster under his jacket and handed it to Katherine.
“It's heavier than mine,” she said.
“More stopping power.”
She handed the gun back to him, and he fired three quick rounds into the ocean, the splashes kicking up in a tight pattern. He hadn't fired the gun since that spring, in Georgia. As he lowered the Glock and continued to gaze at the spot in the water where his bullets had disappeared, Katherine noticed the look in his eyes.
“You've killed someone with that gunâ¦haven't you?”
“Yes.”
Katherine was quiet for a moment, then said, “Is my gun powerful enough?”
“For what?”
“To kill a personâ¦with one shot?”
“If you put the bullet in the right place, it is. Besides, I don't think you could handle anything bigger. Better to hit someone two or three times with a small gun than miss with a big one.”
Paul had begun to turn the big Chris Craft around when Sam noticed a boat coming at them from behind, kicking up a wake. It looked like one of the high-performance ski boats he often saw on White Bear Lake, maybe a 25-footer, with a V-hull and a big MerCruiser engine, possibly 350-horse. There was one person visible in the boatâand he appeared to be heading directly for the
Katy K
.
“Do you recognize that boat?” Sam asked Katherine. She turned to look where Sam was pointing.
“No, I don't think so,” she said.
Sam continued to watch as the boat closed the gap, then changed course slightly to pass the
Katy K
on the starboard side. If the guy at the wheel was just out for a jaunt in the open water, he was coming way too close to their space. Sam put his hand on the butt of his Glock and pushed Katherine's wheelchair away from the stern rail and toward the steering column, which was protected by the boat's gunwales. As he turned back to look at the speeding inboard, the man in the boat picked up a submachine gun from the seat next to him and pointed it at the
Katy K
. Bullets riddled the side of the big cabin cruiser, chipping away at the wood and fiberglass.
Sam dived for Katherine's wheelchair and pulled it over on its side as she screamed and fell onto the deck. He pushed her over to the stairs that led below, and Paul lowered her down to the lower level by her arms. When the gunfire ceased, Sam crawled to the stern and peered over the railing. The inboard was doing a fast, tight circle around the
Katy K
and coming around again from the port side. Once again the machine gun spat fire and bullets thudded into the boat's gunwales. Sam could see the man at the controls of the inboardâa dark-haired white guy wearing a black nylon jacket and blue jeans. He was a good 40 feet from the
Katy K
, but Sam was sure he'd never seen the man before.
“Samâ¦what's happening?” Katherine gasped from below deck.
“Somebody's trying to kill us,” Sam said. “Stay down there!”
Paul scrambled to the steering wheel and crouched behind it.
“What should I do?” he asked Sam. “Make a run for it?”
“We'd be sitting ducks. Hold it steady. If he gets close enough, I might be able to take him out.”
The inboard was circling behind the yacht, and the man at the controls fired off more rounds over and into the yacht as he tried to steer his boat. He put the gun down to turn his boat to the left and come closer to the
Katy K
. The gunman pushed the throttle open again, and as the outboard gained speed he raised the submachine gun. Sam braced his gun on the railing and fired at the man. The shot missed, and the gunman veered the boat sharply to the right when he heard the sound of Sam's shot. He opened the throttle and sped out to sea, but when he was well out of range, he turned the boat and began to circle back toward the
Katy K
.
“He's coming back,” Sam said. “Paul, go below and check on Katherine. Then get her gun and take the port side. I'll go to starboard.”
“This is starboard.”
“So I'm not nautical. Get the goddamn gun.”
Sam crawled on his stomach to the other side of the boat and waited. Then he heard Paul's voice calling to him from below deck.
“Sam! Katherine's been hit!”
“I'm all right,” Katherine called, in a weak voice. “Never mindâ¦about me.”
Sam had no choice. The inboard was approaching the
Katy K
again from the starboard side, and Paul wasn't there to hold off the gunman. Sam heard several more rounds rip into the starboard side of the boat as the inboard engine seemed to go into idle. Then he heard the engine engage again, and it sounded like the gunman was coming around the bow to get a look at the port side. Sam was ready for him. He braced his gun on the yacht's railing, and when the inboard appeared around the bow, Sam fired a shot that shattered the smaller boat's Plexiglas windshield. The gunman realized he was too close and turned the bow of the inboard toward open water, letting the throttle full out, but as he turned away, Sam fired three more shots. The second and third shots hit the man in the head and back. The inboard shot forward into open water, while the gunman toppled backward into the ocean. He flopped his arms weakly, opened his mouth, and took in crimson saltwater. He eventually stopped moving, and his body disappeared beneath the surface.
Sam ran to the steps that led to the lower compartment.
“Katherine, are you all right?”
He heard her heaving breaths. Paul was already helping her up the stairs, readjusting her oxygen tube.
“I'mâ¦allâ¦right,” she said between gasping breaths. “Theâ¦bastardâ¦justâ¦nicked me.”
Blood dripped from what looked to be a flesh wound on her right forearm. Sam pulled her bloody hand away from the wound and saw that the bullet had indeed just grazed her arm. Paul opened a cabinet under the steering column and pulled out a first aid kit. He applied an antiseptic wipe to Katherine's wound, then covered it with a gauze pad and wrapped it with surgical tape. Sam was more concerned about Katherine going into shock than he was about the wound itself. He had her lie down on a reclining deck chair. Her face had been ashen, but in a few minutes she began to get control of her breathing, and some color returned to her cheeks.
“Paul, are you okay to take us back?” Sam asked.
“Bastard missed me,” Paul said, the Boston accent reappearing. “What happened to him?”
“I shot him. He didn't float.”
Sam looked out beyond the
Katy K'
s bow and saw that the driverless inboard had almost vanished in the distance, headed full throttle to the middle of the Atlantic.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” Sam said to Katherine, who was now sitting up. “And we need to talk to the cops.”
“I'mâ¦all right,” Katherine wheezed. She motioned for Paul to help her back into her wheelchair. “Youâ¦can'tâ¦report this. The police willâ¦ask questions.”
“They tend to do that,” Sam agreed.
“She means, they'll find out about the extortion note,” Paul said.
“How much do you know about it?” Sam asked. He studied Paul's face.
“Enough. And I know cops. They don't keep secrets.”
“Did either of you tell anyone we were going to be on the yacht today?”
“Only the harbormaster at the yacht club,” Paul said.
“Look, somebody knew we were going to be out here,” Sam said. “Somebody tried to kill us. I don't know who, and I don't know why, but this is getting pretty damned hard to keep a lid on.”
“There'sâ¦no body,” Katherine said. “No boat. Nobody hasâ¦to know.”
“I killed a man.”
“He had it comin' to him,” Paul said, in the pugnacious tone of a Red Sox fan who'd just punched a Yankee fan in the face.
Sam knew he hadn't committed a crime. More than that, he knew the Kenwoods were paying him to help them save their baseball team, and if he reported this murder attempt, there would be no way to keep the whole story from ending up in the papers and the evening news.
If a driverless inboard was reported by a fishing trawler, he'd just have to withhold what he knew about it for a while. If somebody at the yacht club noticed the bullet holes in the
Katy K
and asked questions, Katherine would just have to play the proper Bostonian and tell them to mind their own business. But one thing was certain: Sam had been shot at twice within the past seventy-two hours, and he was getting tired of it.
***
When they returned to the Kenwoods' house, Sam helped Paul get Katherine up the steps and into her bedroom, where she said she wanted to take a nap. Paul checked the dressing on her wound, called the Kenwoods' home health nurse to come over for a few hours, and then drove Sam back to his hotel in the Lincoln.
“Katherine thinks someone's trying to kill her,” Sam said to Paul from the back seat. “What do you think?”
“I don't know,” Paul said. He didn't turn his head. “Maybe someone's trying to kill you.”
Sam thought about the events of the last few days, and called Marcus on his cell phone.
“Sammy, what's happenin',” Marcus said. “You back in town?”
“No, I'm headed to L.A. for a few days. You find that drive-by punk yet?”
“Yeah, we found him.”
“Why'd he do it?”
“He can't say.”
“Can't, or won't?”
“Can't. He's in a coma.”
“What happened?”
“We found him in a crack house in North Minneapolis. He'd been shot five times.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Too early to say.”
Shit. Sam needed some answers, and no one had them. All he knew was that he couldn't find Babe Ruthâbut Babe Ruth might have found him.