The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay (35 page)

“I think you got her,” Byron finally said.

Clay whispered a prayer as they continued through and then cleared the shallows. All the time he kept an eye on Pickett, who stayed near the channel, looping outside and around the shoal and light, falling farther behind.

Once in deeper water, Clay pointed north and they ran up Tangier Sound. After a while he asked Byron to retrieve the rain slicker from the front locker, and Byron went forward.

“What's up your sleeve, now, Clay Wakeman?” Kate whispered. She kissed his cheek.

“Get us all safe, is all.”

He heard Byron coming back and turned and took the olive rain pants from him and held them out to Kate.

“Put these on.”

She hesitated. “Why? What for?”

“They'll protect your legs.”

Kate didn't move.

“Up ahead there's another shoal, comes out from the edge of Deal Island. You and Byron are going to slip over the side into about three feet of water and get to shore. The boat behind will keep following me.”

She stepped away. “No. That's crazy. We're not leaving you.”

“You have to go to call the police. I'll either outrun them till the police show up, or I'll slip over the side, same as you, just up the Bay some.”

Raising her arm, Kate pointed to the distant lights of Crisfield. “Why not just take the boat over there, into that town? We've got a good head start now. We could run to the police. Or hide.”

“Pickett's got a radio on board, Kate. It's a public airway, and he's got to be careful, but he might have men onshore in that truck, with guns. Maybe more than one truck. He's known for quite a while we were heading for the eastern side. If we pull into Crisfield harbor and his men are waiting for us, we're all done. There's no way out by water but how you go in. And even if his men aren't there, I'm not sure anyone'd be around to help us. Not at this time of night. We'd only have a few minutes, and Pickett'd be on us. This way, I know we'll all make it.”

“Byron,” she pleaded. “Talk to him.”

Clay's eyes turned and held those of his friend.

“He'll be all right, Kate.” Byron's voice was firm. “He's got the Bay slidin' in him. He's way ahead of those fellas out here on that. I don't want to leave him either. But he's right.”

Motioning for Byron to take the tiller, Clay took the rain jacket
from him and led Kate forward. He held her close against his chest and whispered to her that he loved her and that she needed to trust him now, that there was no time to lose. He told her that he'd catch up with her soon and they would figure all of this out somehow. Then he was quiet and they just held each other. When she nodded, she had tears in her eyes. He helped her put on the rain gear and tied the pants tight, and then he kissed her, her face wet and salty.

“You don't really need the pants,” Clay told her. “But they'll protect you if there are nettles. The bottom might be soft but together you'll make it. Just keep your body low in the water and crab-crawl together the first hundred yards or so. Stay together. Stay within touching distance. Don't look back, as your face might reflect the light. Don't talk. Let Byron lead you.”

He opened the engine box and scooped some dirt and grease off the compartment side with his fingers. He held Kate's face with one hand and smeared the dark mixture on her cheeks and forehead. He nodded to Byron, who put some on his face as well.

“Looks good on you, Byron,” Clay said. “Definitely an improvement.”

Along Smith Island, Clay steered as close as he dared to the eastern flats, and Pickett again was forced to give a wider berth to the shallows, losing some of the distance he had made up since entering Tangier Sound. Clay held Kate's hand as they cut through the current, back into deeper water, climbing north. They could hear the Janes Island horn. The lights of Crisfield, to the east, cast a halo in the night sky over the marshy land, and the green and red beacons, pulsing in the dark, out ahead across the water, tracing the channels to safe harbor, seemed to be part of a mysterious pattern, so pure and colored with promise, if only one could find the code. They watched transfixed as the lights passed by them, and soon they were crossing between the mouth of the Big Annemessex River and Kedges Straits. Behind them the
Vena Lee
was running
once again without lights. The
Miss Sarah
ran hard, with her wake falling off, the sea air freshening, until Clay saw in the darkness the looming stand of pines that defined the tip of Deal Island.

He continued on until he was adjacent to the ground off Wenona.

“Throw over a plumb line,” Clay told Byron.

As Byron dropped the plumb line over the side, they watched several geese rise from the dark background of the island into the sky.

“Four feet,” Byron reported.

Clay turned slightly northwest. He pointed. “That's where you're going. There's a boat landing and a dirt road, and some farmhouses along the way. It's a short walk into Wenona. Find a house and call for help.” He eased back on the throttle. “Throw it again,” he asked Byron.

“Three feet.”

“Byron, give 'em everybody—Brigman, Longley, the works.”

“You'll be there with me, Clay. Right?”

“Right behind you.”

“Least this way Brigman won't get Pecks.”

“No, he won't,” Clay whispered.

Clay throttled back and put the engine into neutral. Still holding Kate's hand, he led her over to the starboard stern. He raised his hand with hers and brushed her cheek. Then Byron came up and took her arm. The two men faced each other. They didn't speak. Clay motioned for them to go and helped Kate follow Byron as they slipped over the rail and slid into the waist-deep water. “Take care of each other,” he whispered to them as the
Miss Sarah
coasted away.

He watched them begin to move landward, and then he turned harder toward the west and increased his speed again. Waiting until their heads had faded into the darkness over the water, he picked up the flashlight and flashed it as he pushed farther west to give his pursuers a clear picture of his position. They would adjust
course to keep straight behind him, he knew, taking them farther away from the swimmers. Peering behind him, he saw that Pickett, once again, was closing the distance.

He checked his fuel. The one tank was gone and the other low. The engine was hot. He placed the flare gun next to him and positioned the bottle explosive upright behind a rail shelf next to the tiller. They provided little comfort. Neither would be of much use against guns, he knew. He needed to lose Pickett or get off.

He ran northwest past the marshy shore off Bloodsworth Island, setting a course through Hooper Strait, but he sensed the straining engine was beginning to tire. The moon had set and yet the sky refused to darken. Dawn was not far off. His vague hope that he might make home waters was impossible, he realized, and had been all along. Opening the port hatch, he located a light line. He figured he would head out, up through Hooper Strait, and maybe find some watermen coming out from the Hooper Islands. If not, he would tie the tiller off tight, aiming the bateau for the marsh, slide over the side off the western shoal, and swim for the town of Hoopersville. The bar was wide and shallow. If Pickett didn't see him, he could swim to the bar and crawl to shore and find his way to safety. It was the right plan, he concluded. He pushed forward, thinking that Byron and Kate were probably ashore now and on their way to call for help.

But Pickett was closer, and he was shining his spot. Not just shining it, but blinking it at him. Clay looked around. Why was he blinking the spot on and off at him? He turned and watched it. He looked away, but it kept on, and he looked back. And then it came to him. It was code. They were sending the pattern of short and long flashes of light used by marine vessels to communicate. Morse code. With rising fear he finally began to read and translate and to decipher the message.

W-E-H-A-V-E-M-A-T-T
, he made out.
WE HAVE MATT
. He sensed the rest as he figured it out:
STOP NOW OR WE KILL
.

He felt the sickness as it came up from his belly. He tasted it. He found his flashlight. His mind retraced the events. Matty must have followed Kate to the marina. And they had taken him in their pickup on their way to the boat. He saw his own hand on the flashlight. It was shaking. He took deep breaths to calm himself. He looked around. He could get off and swim. They'd follow the boat. He snapped his head back. He needed to get closer to shore, he knew, closer to the shoal, to the sandbar off Hoopersville. He turned slightly north and began to flash a message back. He did it slowly, inexpertly, intentionally confusing the lights, buying time. Tried it again. Confused it.

Short flash, long flash, short flash. That was the first letter,
R
. He went on.
REPEAT MESSAGE
, he finally sent.
REPEAT. OVER
.

They repeated the message. He tried again to send a confusing signal, the
Miss Sarah
running hard. He garbled it, then started it again. He was closer to the shoal now.

They interrupted him with another series of flashes. He deciphered the message as it came. time up.
STOP OR WE KILL
.

Clay turned his running lights on as an answer and quickly threw over the plumb line. Four and a half feet. He ran for another minute. Four feet. Then, cutting the engine, he let the
Miss Sarah
glide forward. He grabbed the cleaning knife from the tackle box and ripped open a white flotation cushion, stuffing it into one of Pickett's crab pots. It would absorb the water at the tear and become heavy. Closer now, across the bar, the land point of Hoopersville was visible in the swirling predawn mist. A breach of light flared above the eastern horizon. The sun would soon surface. Positioning himself behind the engine box, with the flare gun and gas-filled bottle within reach, he watched the
Vena Lee
approach. He held up a package of the cocaine with one hand, the rest of his body protected by the rail and engine box. The larger boat cut back her engine. She idled forward and turned parallel to him. The man with the ponytail stood on the bow, aiming a shotgun at Clay.
Another sat on the cabin roof, with a large pistol, held in both hands, pointed in his direction. A man in the stern was holding Matty, a shotgun barrel stuck under his chin. Pickett was at the tiller. The cabin windows were dark, but Clay could see the outline of two figures inside it.

“Game's over,” Pickett snarled. “You're good, I'll hand you, but the game is over.”

“I'll work a trade,” Clay quickly shouted. “Otherwise the dope goes overboard now. We're all drifting. You'll never find it.”

“No trade. Where are the others?” Pickett shouted.

“In the cabin, where I told them to stay,” Clay answered. “We're armed too,” he added.

“Tell them to show themselves.”

“No, sir.” Clay's voice was firm. “Trade or don't trade. Your choice. Dope's going overboard.” Clay waited. “I mean it. Now!” he shouted.

“Hold on,” Pickett answered.

The cabin door opened. Mac Longley walked out, shutting the door behind him. He seemed nervous.

“Take it easy, Clay. Just calm down.” He held his hands out, palms toward Clay, skittish. “Think about where you are, here. People I work for have given you every chance. They'll give you one more. Just turn it over.”

“Longley, goddamn you.”

“Come on, Clay. I'm here to help you. It was me finally figured you'd know Morse code.”

Clay shook his head. “Why are you here, Longley? What are you doing down here? Aren't you out of your league?”

“Superbig shipment, Clay. Biggest ever. Everybody's in on it.”

“Shut up about that,” Pickett told him.

Longley wiped his face. He looked scared.

“Let Matty swim over here, Mac. He's not part of this.”

“Listen, Clay. The man here gave you every warning. Every
chance to move, or leave. You not only didn't leave, you stole his shit. What wasn't yours. Still, you do what they say, things'll work out. Understand? Otherwise this is way over my head, man.”

No one spoke.

“All right,” Pickett wheezed again. “Enough. You've said enough. Where's the rest of the dope, mister?”

“In my hands and laying at my feet,” Clay shouted. “It will all be in the water in seconds if Matty isn't let go.”

Clay saw Pickett hesitate, undecided. He glanced toward the shadowed figure remaining in the cabin.

“Put Matty in the water.” Clay didn't want to give them any more time to consider. “Let him swim over to this boat. Once he gets here, I'll drop your crab pot, full with your packages, over the side and back off. You can retrieve it. We'll forget this ever happened.”

Clay saw the man in the cabin flick his hand. A moment later they had pushed Matty in the water. “Swim, you,” one of them yelled at him.

“Any more tricks, he dies. Then you die,” Pickett wheezed. “We're done playin'.”

Keeping his head down, Clay crawled over to the nearside rail, holding one of the packages above him. Rising up slightly, he started speaking to Matty, encouraging him to swim. As he got closer, swimming the breaststroke and coughing out water, Clay told him to swim around to the back side. Matty seemed to ignore him, and Clay told him again. “Swim around the stern, Matty, to the far side, or I won't let you up, goddamnit.”

Matty heard and worked his way around the stern, Clay following him by scuttling along inside the bateau, staying low, beneath the top of the gunnel. On the far side, Matty grabbed flailingly at the rail. The oversize engine box blocked them from the view of the men on the
Vena Lee
. Clay stopped Matty from trying to climb on board, pushing him back and trying to calm him. Pointing toward
the land and the lights, he handed Matty a life preserver. “Matty, you swim that way, now. You're on a shoal. A wide one. Another fifty yards, you'll be in three feet of water and they can't follow you. Stay low and swim. Once you touch bottom, stay low in the water and crawl. You'll get to land. There's a town there.”