Randy White - Ten thousand isles

Shifted the rod to my right hand, which rested atop the throtde. I was closing distance at twice their speed, planing in fast. I expected Parrish to lift his head at any moment and see me, but he didn't. I was forty yards behind them, then twenty, then ten. When the bow of my skiff seemed almost on top the teak dive platform off Namesake's stern, I pulled the throttle back, and matched her speed, wallowing in her exhaust stream. I pressed my hips to the wheel, holding course, as I cast the plug toward Parrish. The first cast was long and banged on the deck behind him. I yanked the plug back, reeling furiously.

Parrish looked up, alerted by the sound, or maybe the breeze that the lure created as it flew past his head.

Then he saw me. In the stormy dusk, with the aid of the anchor light, I could see the man's expression change. It went through abrupt transitions: puzzlement… awareness… shock… horror. He looked at me, then recognized me. Gary Parrish did not want to believe what he was seeing.

I had the lure back and I cast again, thumbing the line so that it wouldn't backlash.

I saw his grimace of surprise when the lure hit him just below and to the side of his neck. I saw his face contort with pain as I struck hard, arching my back, burying the gang hooks into his cheek and throat. Parrish's right hand flew up to pull the plug away, but he only managed to bury the hooks in his palm, disabling himself.

With my left hand, I turned the wheel sharply as the rod bowed, the spool and level-wind feeding line now, monofilament burning the skin of my thumb as I jumped the big boat's wake once again, surfing away at an angle, still feeling torque and the big man's weight in the butt of the rod. I glanced astern and I saw, for a grotesque microsecond, Parrish's face being dragged through rollers behind me, his eyes wide, his mouth thrown open in a soundless scream as he fought to free himself.

I turned my eyes away, still holding the rod. I held fast, not looking back until the line broke; nearly lost my balance when it did. Then I reeled in the excess line and stowed the rod in its holder.

My attention turned once again to Namesake as my skiff lunged ahead into the waves.

Ivan Bauerstock hadn't noticed that Parrish was missing. More likely, he'd noticed but just didn't care. He'd probably figured the man had fallen overboard. They would have to kill him one day anyway, and what could be easier to explain than an actual accident at sea?

I could see Bauerstock still sitting at the helm seat as I swept in for a second pass. He wasn't looking in my direction. Didn't yet know I was in pursuit, judging by the way he behaved.

I'd stopped just long enough to take all three Mason jars from the cooler and wedge them between my ankles. I'd dealt with enough explosives to be reasonably confident at least one of the jars would detonate if it impacted hard enough against the hull of Namesake. I'd also dealt with explosives enough to know not to ever, ever trust them. Particularly concoctions made with anything less than laboratory-grade chemicals.

This time, I approached from the mainland, coming fast out of the darkness as if to ram them on the starboard side. At the last instant, I throttled back, turning hard toward Namesake's stern. I waited a moment to get my balance, then I threw the Mason jars one after another, holding them like footballs, giving them all the velocity I could.

There was so much adrenaline in me that the first jar spi-raled over the bow; missed everything. The second hit the cabin trunk just aft the side windshield, but didn't detonate. The third jar hit the cabin right outside where Bauerstock was sitting and it did detonate, but with such an impotent little whoof that I was surprised Bauerstock heard it.

He did, though. I saw him jump. He also saw the blue alcohol and ammonia flames riding soap bubbles harmlessly along the side deck; harmless because the fire burned at a temperature much too low to ignite wet fiberglass.

Bauerstock didn't know that, though, and I watched as he slowed the big Hinckley to a crawl and came out onto the deck carrying two fire extinguishers.

I didn't hesitate. I already had my anchor ready, cleated to a few yards of line-the most primitive of boarding hooks. Now I swung in behind the yacht; put my bow against his stern as if attempting to push him out of the way. Touched a toggle switch, turning on my navigational lights, then tossed my anchor over his transom. Removed the ignition cord from my belt and left my engine idling as I crabbed forward onto my skiff's casting deck, fighting for balance. I timed a lifting wave and swung over onto Namesake, then stood to see a very surprised Ivan Bauerstock staring at me. I heard his frightened voice say, "My God, it's… it's you. I thought Parrish killed you!"

I stood there using the gunwale for balance before I answered. I said, "That'll be the day." Then I began to move toward him. There was so much wind and wash of heavy seas that I had to yell to be heard. "Where are they? Where's Nora?"

Bauerstock was backing away. "Listen to me, Ford. You can't blame me for my son's behavior. I have nothing to do with his private life."

"Where are they? Where's Nora!"

"Teddy's going to be a very important man. If you can overlook the last few weeks, we can help you tremendously down the road. Whatever you want!"

Bauerstock had backed into the white helm seat. He was still holding one of the spent fire extinguishers. When I reached for him, he swung the metal canister hard at my head. I caught his arm, locked my fingers under his chin until the fire extinguisher clanked upon the deck. Then I pulled his face close to mine. In a voice hoarse with anger, I whispered, "I don't blame you, Ivan. I just don't like you."

He tried to fight as I swung around behind him, and began to push him toward the water. He was yelling, "I can pay you, I can pay you! Don't do this to me, phase."

I got my right hand on his belt, my left hand in his hair, then I ran him toward the transom. He gave a terrible soprano yelp as I lifted him airborne and vaulted him overboard.

Ivan Bauerstock was still screaming at me as we idled away, his words indistinguishable in the wind.

The door through the aft bulkhead was locked from the inside.

Someone was down there, hiding in the cabin.

I lifted myself between the companionway entrance and used both feet to kick the door open. It took awhile. The boat was solidly built. Finally, the door shattered, brass hardware flying.

There would be no surprising Ted now. He'd be waiting.

I squatted and looked down the steps into a beautifully appointed cabin. I got a whiff of something as I did: a metallic, human odor that I couldn't identify. The room was dimly lighted; had a candle softness. Music was playing through the built-in sound system. Willie Nelson. The place might have been set for a romantic dinner but for the storm outside.

I looked beyond the dinette table and stainless steel galley to the cushioned V-berth, and felt a sickening panic at what I saw there. A human figure lay motionless beneath a sheet. A pillowcase covered the head, as if draped for execution.

There was a black swash of blood on the sheet. More blood on the pillowcase; heavy in the area where the face would have been.

Where the hell was Ted?

Because there was no other option, I swung down into the cabin. The moment my feet hit the deck, the door to the toilet came flying open. I didn't react in time and felt a tremendous impact as someone clubbed me behind the neck. He clubbed me again, grunting with effort, and I went down on one knee. I got my elbow up and blocked the next blow, saw a pair of bare feet braced on the deck. I reached, yanked and rolled hard. Felt his body weight collapse on top of me. I wres-tied myself into control, pulling my fist back to flatten the nose of Ted Bauerstock… but instead I was looking into the tear-streaked face of Nora Chung.