John Lutz - Hot

He heard the boat roaring toward him before he saw it.

It was a small, open speedboat with what looked like only one man in it. He was standing up so he could see over the low windscreen, a dark form in the bucking little boat. Hector, Carver thought, but he couldn’t be sure.

He treaded water slowly, with only his head above the surface, praying he wouldn’t be seen on the glimmering dark plain of the sea.

The speedboat, he saw now, was a fourteen-foot runabout, the kind that could go like crazy if powered by a large enough motor. It slowed and settled lower in the water, cruising in a wide circle as the figure behind the windscreen leaned forward, scanning open water.

The man suddenly straightened, and the bow of the boat swung around to aim at Carver. The motor snarled and the bow rose to cut through the low waves, picking up speed as it closed on him.

It was difficult to judge speed and distance in the dark, to reject panic and think calmly through his fear. Carver waited until the boat was close, then dove underwater and stroked straight down.

He was buffeted about by the boat passing just a few feet above him. He surfaced in its churning wake, spitting seawater, peering in all directions. No danger of panic now; he was angry enough to hold fear at a distance.

The boat was turning around for another pass.

As Carver treaded water something jabbed him in the thigh. He realized he was still gripping the metal stool leg. Then he heard the snarling engine, and the runabout was after him again.

This time he didn’t wait so long. He ducked underwater and swam at a right angle to the boat’s line of attack. Hung suspended below the surface and watched the tumultuous passing of the boat’s hull twenty feet to his right.

When he poked his head above water, the boat was drifting with its motor idling, not fifty feet from him. He heard the roar and saw the cleaverlike bow come around as he ducked down again. The boat’s pattern was narrowing. His death was going to be the result of close up work, each pass leaving him less and less time to take evasive action.

He knew, and the man in the boat knew, that soon he’d tire himself out and fall victim to the speeding, slashing hull or the whirling prop.

Carver jabbed himself in the leg again. Damn! He dropped the metal tube so he could swim better, then on second thought groped for it and caught it before it sank out of reach. An objective kind of desperation had come over him, his mind darting like a bottled insect seeking escape and survival.

He surfaced gradually, studying the boat that was waiting for him. It looked, and had sounded slapping the waves, as if it had a fiberglass hull. The man in the boat had something in his hand now. As he spotted Carver and raised his arm, Carver realized the something was a handgun with a long silencer fitted to the barrel. His assailant had decided it would be easier and faster to use firepower. He gulped air and went underwater, sensing or feeling the passage of a bullet spiraling past him.

Christ! This was getting out of hand!

When in doubt, do the unexpected.

Remaining submerged, he swam toward the boat.

It was now almost motionless in the water, its motor idling, so it provided a stable platform and enabled the man with the gun to take accurate aim when Carver surfaced.

But Carver wasn’t ready to surface. He stroked lower, then arced straight up at the bottom of the fiberglass hull, jabbing the sharp-tipped metal stool leg at it with all his strength. He jabbed again! Again! Focusing the might of his powerful upper body. Kicking from the hip with both legs’ for maximum force. Wishing he had swim fins to gather even more power for his frantic upward lunges.

There! He thought the metal tip penetrated, but he couldn’t be sure. His lungs were burning and crying for oxygen.

Fifty-fifty, he thought, and surfaced on the boat’s starboard side. Gasped for air. There was noisy scrambling in the boat and a man very calmly said, “Here’s something for you.” Carver heard the nasty spitting sound of the silencer as he ducked down again beneath the water.

He thought he saw damage on the bottom of the hull, and he attacked the same spot with his spear of steel. But it was impossible to break through the thick fiberglass.

As he was preparing to strike again, the prop churned and the boat shot forward. Instinctively he jabbed upward as the hull passed over him. The length of sharpened steel was wrenched violently from his hand and sank.

He came to the surface for air and saw that the boat was slowly turning.

But its motor didn’t sound right. It was laboring, its pitch rising and falling. It began a sickly, muted clanking. Carver realized he must have snagged the prop as he’d jabbed upward with the sharp metal.

He swam away from the boat slowly, watching the man standing up in it and peering around, looking for him. As the man’s head turned toward him, Carver let himself sink gently beneath the surface and swam a few strokes. Surfaced again and saw that the man was now facing away from him. He edged farther away from the boat, making hardly a ripple in the dark water.

Using a lazy sidestroke, he continued to put distance between himself and the crippled boat. Soon he’d be out of accurate range of the silenced handgun.

He kept watching as the man gave up the hunt and the boat putted slowly and laboriously toward sfiore with its damaged prop.

Carver floated on his back for a few minutes, staring up at the night sky and regaining strength and wind. He offered a brief prayer of thanks, to whom or what he wasn’t sure.

Then he got his bearings and stroked for land.

It was a little after five when Carver struggled back into his clothes. He turned his back on a majestic sunrise and through fading shadows made his way the three hundred yards to the cottage. Serious tropical heat was building already, and sweat was rolling down his face as he pushed through the screen door and used his key on the main door. He tried not to let his cane thump on the wooden floor, didn’t want to wake Beth.

The cottage’s interior was dim, but he could see well enough to move cautiously to the bathroom. There was a long scrape on the heel of his hand from when the boat’s propellor had yanked the length of steel from his grasp. He peeled off his clothes, soaked from perspiration and the sea, and let them lie in a pile on the floor. Tidiness could wait until he woke.

After a quick shower, he toweled dry, retrieved his cane from where he’d leaned it on the washbasin, then made his way into the bedroom.

It was hot enough outside even for Beth. The air conditioner was toiling away and she was sprawled nude on top of the sheets. She opened one eye halfway, as if merely to register his presence and identity, then closed it and appeared to go back to sleep.

Still damp from the shower, he lay on his back beside her, feeling his sore hand throb and currents of cool air play over his body. She moved one of her feet slightly so her toes barely touched his ankle, continued reassurance that he was there beside her. Beneath the hum of the air conditioner he could hear her deep, even breathing. He stared for a while at the shadows fading on the ceiling, then closed his eyes. Dreamed he was being pursued by a gigantic buzzing mosquito. Or was it an airborne speedboat?

When he opened his eyes Beth was gently shaking his shoulder, telling him it was ten o’clock, when he’d said he wanted to get up. She was wearing a white blouse with a black triangle pattern. The warm denim roughness of her Levi’s lay against his bare arm.

Grabbing her wrist, he pretended he was going to pull her down into bed with him. A bluff, not like when he was a younger man. Didn’t fool her.