Bill Pronzini - Labyrinth

Don’t think about the cold. Swim!

Stroke.

Stroke.

Head up: The marina was maybe thirty or forty yards distant now. I could see the dull fuzzy glow of the nightlights, the end of the center float, the entrances to the two channels on either side.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke Off to my left a beam of light sprayed out over the water; the throb of the diesel seemed to build to a roaring. I rolled onto my side, dragged my head around again.

The troller was fifteen yards behind me, coming at about quarter-throttle but at an angle to the west. The hand-operated spotlight probed around in an arc, glistening off streamers of fog. Greene had not seen me yet-but it would only be a matter of seconds until he did.

I sucked in as much air as I could hold and took myself under, just as the beam swung closer and the bow veered toward me.

When I had kicked straight down for maybe ten feet I swam in a blind forward breaststroke. In my mind I counted off ten seconds, fifteen. The amount of salt in the water kept trying to buoy me up; my arms felt as if there were lead sinkers tied to them and a cramp was starting to form in the calf of my left leg.

Twenty seconds.

And the troller passed above me-not directly overhead but close enough so that I could hear the water-muffled whine of the diesel, feel the turbulence created by the screws.

I made myself count off another five seconds. Then I clawed upward, broke surface just as the pressure mounted to an intolerable level in my chest; my lungs heaved, the intake of air sent out shoots of pain. The Kingfisher’s wake pitched me around like a piece of flotsam, the salt film and rivulets of water obscured my vision. I shook my head, breathing in pants and gulps. Had to shake it twice more before I could see where the boat was: between me and the marina, twenty yards away and running diagonally to my left.

I kicked out and swam half a dozen uneven strokes. Struggled clear of the wake with my head up and my eyes fixed on the troller. It turned perpendicular to the marina and then began to veer around hard right; the spotlight sliced a down-slanted arc through the blackness, swinging toward me. I dragged in air and tensed for another dive.

But then the bow straightened, and I saw that the boat was going to bypass me this time by a good fifteen yards. The light jerked back the other way. Greene had no idea where I was; he was hunting blind in the fog. I stopped swimming and treaded water, so that only my head bobbed above the surface. I was afraid of giving my position away with splashes and churned-up foam.

The Kingfisher drew abreast-and growled past without changing trajectory.

I lowered my head, flailed out again. The cramp in my calf was worse now: hot wire of pain jabbing all the way up to the hip.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Leg stiffening up.

Stroke.

Agony.

Stroke.

How much farther? Head up. More of the center float visible, boat moored in the right-hand slip rearing up black but distinct, left-hand slip empty. Twenty yards, maybe less.

Stroke.

Leg on fire.

Stroke.

The diesel sound-I could no longer hear it except as a low rumble. Greene, the boat, where were they now?

Drifting in the swells forty or fifty yards distant.

Throttle shut off, just drifting.

Movement on deck near the starboard gunwale; a mass of heavy shadows, distorted by the fog. Then they seemed to separate, amoebalike. I thought I saw a blackish lump drop down over the side, thought I heard a splash.

Kellenbeck? Dead, dumped overboard?

Swim!

Flex the leg, suck in air, crawl forward. Pain. Numbness. Heart hammering in a wild cadence. Not enough air; gasps and whimpers coming out of my throat.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Less than ten yards.

Stroke.

Engine sound climbing again.

Leg locked up, useless, can’t swim anymore — dog-paddle then, dog-paddle — almost there, get there — and the edge of the float came up in front of me and I hauled one leaden arm out of the water and fumbled at the slick wood, felt the sharp rib of a barnacle cut into my palm. Got a grip on the upper rim of the float and hung on, pulling myself in against it.

Behind me the throb of the diesel grew louder.

I managed to get both forearms onto the float, tried to heave myself up out of the water. But I had no strength left; my whole body trembled with exhaustion and the pain in my leg was hellish. Clinging there, I twisted to look back over my shoulder.

The spotlight and the Kingfisher’s bow were pointed straight toward the marina channel a few yards to my left.

Get away from here, I thought, get into the other channel.

Fingers clawing at the boards, I pulled myself toward the right-hand corner of the float. The troller was nearing the channel; Greene throttled down and I saw the black hull buck in the swells, the bow drift left until he corrected. The light flicked toward me I heaved around to the channel side just before it swept over the float. Pulled my hands down and shoved the palms against the barnacled underside to hold my head low in the water, beneath the float’s upper edge. Above and beyond me, the light illuminated the rigging and wheelhouse of the boat moored in the near slip. And then cut away as the Kingfisher passed into the channel.

Some of the desperation faded; my mind was sluggish, but I had control of it. Control of my breathing too. I pushed up, dragged forward to the inner corner. Heard the troller’s engines whine into reverse. Heading into his slip, I thought. But then what? Did Greene think I was still somewhere out in the bay? That I had drowned? That I had made it in here? He might just leave the boat and make for Kellenbeck’s Cadillac-but it was more likely he would take that flashlight of his and prowl the floats, searching for me.

Stay where I was, hide under the float if he came this way, wait him out? No good. The numbness was spreading and I was beginning to feel almost warm; I knew what that meant well enough. The frigid water had robbed me of body heat: Another few minutes and I would no longer be able to feel or do anything, I would lose consciousness, I would freeze and then drown. I had to get out of the water, even if it meant exposing myself. And I had to do it in the next minute or so, before Greene finished docking the Kingfisher.

I anchored both forearms on the float again, squirmed upward. But my shoulder and back muscles, and the lower half of my body, were so weak it was like trying to boost up a two-hundred-pound slab of meat; I managed to get my breastbone over the edge and that was all. I hung there, kicking with my good leg, straining frantically to keep from sliding backward.

The engine sound decreased to an idling rumble: Greene had maneuvered into his slip.

I threw my right arm out, clutched at the float’s inner edge to hold myself in position-and my chilled fingers brushed over a rusted iron ring imbedded there, part of a rope tied through it. Cleat. And the bow line on the boat above me. I caught hold of the rope and tugged on it. The boat made a creaking noise, rocked forward; the line slackened enough for me to get it looped once around my wrist. Then I put my left hand down flat on the boards, heaved up, pulled back on the rope at the same time. Flopped my body from side to side. Heaved, pulled, flopped until my chest, stomach, abdomen cleared the edge — and I was out of the water and dragging myself forward, knees scraping over the rough wood.

Across the opposite channel the Kingfisher’s spotlight and running lights winked out. The diesel shut down. Silence settled around me, broken only by the fog bells and the wheezing plaint of my breathing.

Thin gusts of wind stung my face, cut through the numbness and took away the false feeling of warmth; I began to shake with chills as I lifted back into a kneeling position. When I got my right foot planted and a two-handed grip on the bow line I hoisted and levered myself upright. Almost fell when I tried to put weight on the cramped leg; it buckled and pitched me sideways against the boat. I let go of the rope, grabbed onto the gunwale to steady myself.