Just Different Devils (17 page)

Screwing up my courage, I pounded on my locked cabin door and yelled until Mac finally opened it.

"Oh, thanks," I gushed. Jan majored in Southern Gush at the University of Texas and passed the skill to me. "I sa-wear, I cannot for the life of me figure out how I managed to lock myself in. And please, Mac Honey," I lightly touched his arm with my hand because I was fresh out of silk embroidered hand fans, "can you possibly forgive me for oversleeping?"

Clearly taken aback, he stammered, "Uh, not to worry." Then, because he probably couldn't think of what to say next, he added, "I just had a nosh, but you must be starving."

"Oh, yes, I surely am. Where are we, by the way?"

"Still on schedule. Making good time."

"That's wonderful. I am sooo lucky to have you helping me." I made a point not to look outside as I sashayed down to the galley. I had one goal in mind before I had to give up the game, and that was to turn on the master security system, and push that panic button again, hopefully activating the reverse GPS locator back at Jenks's security company's office in San Francisco, where one of his staff would maybe pick it up. Maybe.

I made iced tea for both of us, adding fresh mint, while daintily nibbling on a piece of cheese that I wanted to bolt down a la Po Thang. Mac watched me, somewhat warily, but I stayed in character, making us both a cheese and cucumber sandwich—of course trimming away the crust—then added exactly three chips to my plate and carried everything to my desk. Brushing papers to the side, I sat to eat.

Jenks had designed this system for just this kind of situation. Both a hidden switch and the panic button were under the desk, and I hit both of them with my knee. I had no idea whether it did any good, but it was all I could do for now.

Mac ate his sandwich while standing behind the lower steering station. I still studiously refrained from looking out any of the windows as I took my empty plate and glass to the galley, then joined Mac, standing just out of his reach. It was time to call in his cards. "Say, are you sure we're on track? Shouldn't land be to starboard, not port?"

"Yes, Lass, it should. However, there is a change in plans, and here is what they will be. For the next twenty-four hours, you do as I say. I dinna wish to harm you or anyone else, but if I must, I will."

I tried to look helpless, and whined, "I don't understand."

"You will. Now, sit down," he pointed to a folding metal chair I use for my Chair Yoga practice. I noticed a piece of line conveniently placed next to it on the settee and pictured myself, tied hand and foot into that chair, sinking into the depths of the sea, holding my last breath until my lungs exploded.

Nope, not for me. It was time to make a move.

No more Miss Nice Girl.

"Oh...oh...why? What are you doing, Mac?" I wailed.

He gave me a little push toward the chair and as I pretended to stumble, I grabbed the chair's back and swung it, catching him right in the gut with one of the legs. I'd aimed lower, but, oh well.

Doubling over and groaning, he rushed me like an angry bull, but I wasn't where he thought. I'd stepped to one side and behind him, put my considerable weight into a roundhouse swing, and whacked him again, this time connecting with his neck and the back of his head with the chair back. He went down hard, but he was tough and was trying to get back on his feet when he looked up and found himself staring down the barrel of a 9mm. He sank back to his knees. "Crikey, they warned me about you American women."

"Whoever
they
are, they've obviously never been to Texas. Anyway, you should have listened. Get up, vurrry slowly, Laddie, if you prefer to put a tilt in your kilt ever again."

He did as he was told, never taking his eyes off the gun. I didn't like that. He reminded me of a cobra, tracking my hands, waiting for a chance to strike.

"Shut your eyes."

"What? Why?"

"Because I said so, and I'm the one holding the large semi-automatic."

He shut his eyes.

"Turn slightly to your right. Yes, that's fine. Now, take five baby steps."

He took four steps and banged face-first into the port door frame.

"Oooow."

"I said
baby
steps. Okay, put your hands on your head, keep your back to me, open your eyes, step out on deck and walk aft."

He did, stopping at the back rail.

"Now, GET OFF MY BOAT!"  Harrison Ford would be so proud.

"What? Are ye daft?"

"Yes, I am. Jump!"

"We're miles from land!"

I fired a round over his head.

He jumped.

"I'll be back," I growled.

Was I having a Hollywood kind of day, or what?

I let the boat continue forward at ten knots until I'd put a quarter mile between the boat and the Scot treading water, and probably trying to figure out how many hours he'd have to swim before reaching shore.

Cutting back to engine speed, I went to neutral and waited. He swam my way.  I went out on deck and let him get within hearing distance.

"Where is Nacho?" I demanded.

"I dinna know."

I climbed to the bridge, put the boat in gear and pushed the throttles forward, leaving him in my wake. Then I stopped again, and waited as he swam my way.

"Where is Nacho?" I asked again.

"I—"

I didn't give him a chance to lie. I took off, got some distance between us and stopped. But this time when I did, I opened the deck chest freezer and rummaged inside for the good stuff.

When Mac almost reached
Raymond Johnson
again, I didn't even bother asking the question; I dumped three pounds of chum into the water, went back to the bridge and moved out, leaving him surrounded with quickly thawing fish guts.

Even over the engine noise I heard him howl. "Okay. You win."

I circled back, and waited at a safe distance.

"He's fine. Nacho's safe. God's truth. We dinna want to harm anyone. I was taking you to him."

"That so?"

"Aye."

"And where would he be, exactly?"

"Let me on board, and I'll tell you."

"Uh, last I checked, you were in no position to make demands. Tell you what, you swim a little longer and think about telling me what you've been up to, and why, and with who. Whom. Whatever. When you're ready we'll have another chat." I pulled away, slowly. He cursed and fell in behind. I figured another five or six miles might do the job.

Checking the GPS, I located the last waypoint entered, and it wasn't one of mine. Something, or someone, was ten miles to the north. Nacho?

I adjusted the radar, expanded it to cover twenty miles out, and lo and behold, right where Mac was headed, there was a boat. On the
bajo
. I felt like I was living the movie, "Ground Hog Day," returning over and over to the same spot. All boats lead to the
bajo
, but why?

During the next couple of hours we played our cat and mouse game, Mac the Mouse protesting he was badly tired and not that good a swimmer, but I still didn't trust him on board. He was big and strong, and unless I had the gun trained on him every second, he had the advantage.

I slowed again. "Think you can make it to the
bajo
, Mac? It's only another nine or so miles and, what a surprise, it looks like we've got company up there. Who? And why?"

"A gang of rubbish, that's who!"

"There's the pot calling the kettle black. I guess you didn't hear the word,
why
."

As I motored away, he yelled, "Wait! Pearls!"

Pearls?

Someone went to all this trouble to steal my stupid pearls? Good grief.

I turned back and sidled up next to Mac as he treaded water. "How did you know I found pearls?"

The minute I said it, I had a flashback to San Francisco Island, where I discovered Bubbles being dragged down by what I thought at the time was a fishing net. It turned out to be netting woven into box-like oyster cages.

"You wanted the net, and helped me cut the dolphin loose to get it?"

"I saw you diving and figured you'd spotted the net and were going to take it. But then I realized it was an animal you were trying to save."

"And then I kept the net you wanted on my boat, right? Are you trying to tell me you entered into some kind of stupid plot that has gotten us to this stage in order to recover a handful of pearls? That makes no sense." I turned toward the bridge and that set him to hollering.

"No! Hetta, don't drive away again. It is pearls, but not yours. There are many, many, more. I can make you rich."

Now he was speaking my language. I leaned over the rail. "Okay, you can climb onto the swim platform, but one false move and you'll be singing soprano." I'm not sure where I got that line, but I always wanted to use it.

I released the swim ladder and kicked it down so Mac could pull himself out of the water. He was shivering and seemed winded, but I didn't drop my guard. "Turn around and sit down."

He leaned up against the transom and pulled his feet out of the water, hugged his knees to his chest and closed his eyes. That Mac is a fast learner.

"Good boy. Stay right there. If I see a hand, or even a finger, on this rail," I patted it, "I will use my machete. Do you understand?"

"No worries, there. I canna barely move."

Backing away so as to keep an eye on Mac, I reached into a locker and pulled out the bikini design fleece snuggle blankie Jan gave me. Throwing it down on his head, I told him, "Put this on. Slip  your arms into the sleeves and wrap yourself up."

It wasn't easy, considering his size and the narrow area he had to work with, but he eventually got himself tucked in. His shivers subsided, and he was quickly regaining color in his face, not a good thing in my book. I looked around for a piece of line, but could I trust him to tie himself up? Nah.

I pulled the nine pound Danforth dinghy anchor with twenty feet of line and six feet of chain I'd used on
Se Vende
from another locker. "Tie this around your ankles."

"Are ye mad, woman? If I fall off this platform I'll sink like a rock."

"Aye, that you will, so I suggest you do not do that. Now, wrap 'em up tight like a good boy."

Cursing under his breath, he wound the anchor chain around both ankles, tied the line around his waist, then pulled the anchor into his lap, as instructed.

"Well done. Now, very carefully, hand me the end of that line." I lashed it to the rail, and pulled over a deck chair. "Now that we're comfy, let's have that little chat. How is it you're gonna make me rich?" I know, I should have been asking more about the fate of poor Nacho, but I do have my priorities.

He tilted his head back so he was gazing up at me with those intensely green eyes, which would have been incredibly sexy had he not been wrapped in that bikini blankie. "I'll tell you, but first can I ask a question?"

"Okay. One."

"If we both live through the next few days, will ye marry me?"

"I thought ye'd never ask." I love a man with a sense of humor.

His story sounded somewhat believable, but then again, I'd fallen for his kind of crap before. And, I am admittedly a really lousy judge of character when the man is tall, dark, green-eyed and looks good in a kilt.

My dilemma  for the moment, however, was not whether to believe him, but what to
do
with him. I couldn't keep my eye, and gun, on him all the time, and didn't want to get close enough to tie him up properly, especially since my knot-tying skills run to the crappy side. Jenks teases me all the time about using granny knots on a boat.

So, short of shooting him in a foot or something, I needed a way to keep him at bay without tossing him back in the water. I didn't trust him one iota, so letting him back on deck was out of the question. Where the hell was Jan and her handy handcuffs when I needed her?

And speaking of Jan, I had to contact her as soon as possible and let her know where I was, and how things had gone all to hell. But in order to call her I had to go inside, and until I secured the Scot, that made me uneasy. He might look like a half-drowned rat right now, but he was still a rat.

I glanced at the ship's clock mounted near the bar. It was nearing one o'clock, and my accomplice from Marina de la Paz should be arriving in Cabo to see if we showed there. If we didn't, Jill would most likely call Chino by five, who would then call the authorities. What had I been  thinking?
Mexican
authorities?

Looking to Heaven for some kind of divine revelation, I got one. Sort of. Actually, I spotted my dingy riding in its chocks on the sundeck's hard-topped cover.

"You sit and stay," I told Mac, and then I walked a few steps over to the davit controls.

Normally, all I'd have to do is release some tie down straps and let the motorized davit swing the dinghy over the side and lower it into the water. Then, I'd release the painter, or the towing line, and walk the dinghy to the aft for boarding. However,
DawgHouse
was sitting on chocks not designed for that particular boat, and my captive had lashed it all ways from Sunday. I'd have to spend way too much time up on that sundeck, untying the skiff while trying to keep an eye on Mac. Luckily, the seas were quite calm, but even so, I'd be up there trying to work while the boat lolled in the sight swell. A little too much multitasking.

"Okay, Mac, you better hang on!" Putting the boat in gear, I headed into what little swell there was and turned on the autopilot, ignoring Mac's bellows of protest. 

As soon as we had a better ride, I went back to check on Mac, who had gone silent. Everyone who owns a dog knows this can bode badly. Or, maybe the CO2 fumes got to him. After all there is that warning sign on the transom.

But, sure enough, he was working on the lines tying him to the anchor.

"Bad! Stop that!"

He looked up, startled. I guess he figured I was busy doing something on the bridge and this was his chance. I'd seen that same look from Po Thang.

"I was just trying to get comfortable," he whined. "Besides, we're underway and my butt is getting soaked again."

"Better than getting plugged, Podner. Now hear this. Do not move, you hear me? I am a devout coward, I am afraid of you, and if I have to shoot you to protect myself, I damned well will. You got that?"

He glowered but nodded.

I took a dive knife from my locker, rushed back to the bridge, climbed carefully out on the sundeck roof, and slashed all the lines but the painter. This bit would cost me when I got back to port. Checking on Mac, I saw some wiggling going on, so I fired one right behind the boat, raising a spout about three feet from that wiggling leg. Two spent, plenty left.

Mac let loose with a string of foul language and protested his innocence, but he stopped moving.

Putting the boat into neutral, I rushed back to the davit control panel and swung
DawgHouse
over the starboard side, but now we were swaying again and the dinghy started banging into
Raymond Johnson's
hull. Fearing something would let go and I'd lose the dinghy, I quickly secured and lowered two large round buoys I keep on board to mark my anchor's location, as fenders.

After a few more minutes of fiddling with all the lines, I tied off the dingy to a rail, and unhooked it from the davit. The large hook swung back, threatening to conk me in the head, but I grabbed it in time and winched it back into place.

The dinghy's painter was too short for my purposes, so I added a long piece of line and played it out until
DawgHouse
rode about thirty feet behind
Raymond Johnson.

"Okay, Mac, show time. I'm going to let you pull the dinghy up to you and you are going to place your anchor in it, gently, of course, and then roll yourself in. No funny stuff."

I didn't like the way he looked somewhat pleased with this idea. What had I overlooked?

"Let's see, have I overlooked something that would allow you to make a move I wouldn't like? No? Okay, into
DawgHouse
with you. And by the way," I reached in my pocket and waggled a squiggly red plastic cord holding the outboard's "key." It is designed to loop over a driver's wrist, so if they are thrown out the "dead man's switch" is pulled out, stopping the motor. It is also used as a safety to prevent the motor from starting unless it is inserted.

"Yes, Mac, you will have a dinghy and outboard, but no gas, and the motor won't start without this little doohickey, anyhow. Oh, and I removed the paddles." That wiped any smugness from his face.

"Now, pull the dingy to the swim platform and get in." After he was settled onto the floorboards, the dingy began drifting back.  I sissy-pitched a couple of bottles of water in with him. "Drink up, you'll figure out how to manage those bottles. And fasten your seatbelt, Darlin', it's gonna be a bumpy ride."

Back on the bridge, I tooled up to fifteen knots, which is pretty much redlined in my book. Once we settled on course, I engaged the autopilot and went below to make a bunch of important calls.

I had to use the Satfone, because I had no signal on my cell, which I'd found in the main cabin. As I made the calls, I watched my dingy bouncing erratically along behind us. I'd misjudged the distance and Mac was jouncing off the floorboards as
DawgHouse
slammed into
Raymond Johnson's
wake instead of riding the swell. My bad.

Neither Jan nor Jill answered, so I left messages. I really wanted to call Jenks, but knew better until I had this particular situation under control .

As soon as I hung up, I decided to give Mac a break and pull the dinghy closer to the boat. Poor guy was hunkered down under the blanket, getting beat all to hell while being soaked with salt spray. I doubted he was able to even think about working on those lines, but he boded watching.

At fifteen knots, it is extremely hard and dangerous to pull in a dinghy, and requires the upper body strength I simply do not have. I spotted Nacho's electric reel he'd mounted on a rail, and decided to give it a go. It was designed to haul in a few hundred pounds of fighting fish, so why not a bounding dingy. And then, if Mac acted up, I could just release the brake and out he would go. The catch and release system just took on a whole new meaning.

With Mac and dinghy riding smoothly behind, I moved to the bridge to check our position, and that boat on the
bajo
. I figured if I could see him on my radar, he most likely saw me, as well. But then, he was expecting Mac, wasn't he?

When we were two miles out, I stopped again and reeled the dink in. I had no choice but to put Mac on the bridge where his cohorts in crime—even though I still wasn't sure
what
crime—could see him as we neared the meet.

What came next, I had no freakin' idea, but at least I'd know who else was involved.

And maybe find Nacho?