Robert Walker - Darkest Instinct

“ Maybe we shouldn’t stray too far,” Stallings suggested to Manley, “seeing that we’ve got plenty o’ trouble brewing right here in the lanes.”

“ Hell, any overflow problems, the other guys can just send ‘em to the county sheriff’s patrol boat at the city marina. They can just line up there and wait their turn,” Man- ley replied, anxious to follow through with their earlier plans.

A huge yacht with horsepower to spare opened up in the slow wake area, whose limits were posted in plain view. “We gotta take that one,” Ken told Rob.

“ Damn fool bastard,” replied Manley, exasperated at the obvious speed violation. Stallings revved up their speedboat and hailed the yacht with siren blaring and lights flashing, followed by the bullhorn.

Cursing the yacht pilot under his breath the whole time, Manley targeted the bridge with his light, and lifting his bullhorn he ordered the yacht, a boat with the dubious name of Hellfire, to dock for a safety inspection now.

Once the yacht was secured to a nearby wharf, the inspection went in routine fashion, by the book, no problems on board except for the single lush sitting in a deck chair who kept saying, “You can’t be serious.”

“ Yes, sir… we’re quite serious,” Manley repeated each time the little guy opened his mouth. Stallings stifled a laugh.

“ You weren’t OUI here, were you, sir?” Manley finally asked the small man in the chair.

“ No, no, no! You saw me operating the boat, officer,” bellowed the pilot.

“ OUI?” asked the drunk. “Don’t you mean IOU?”

“ Operating under the influence, Tom,” explained the pilot, “and no, no no,” he pleadingly added for Manley’s sake, “no one here’s operating while intoxicated.”

Ken suggested into Rob Manley’s ear, “Send ‘em on their way.”

“ Watch your speeds through here, sir.” Manley tutored as he and Stallings returned to their patrol boat.

“ Damn nigger watercop…” muttered someone from behind them as they shoved off.

“ Any other night, I’d’ve found sixteen violations for those turkeys,” Manley assured his partner.

“ But this ain’t just any night,” Stallings agreed. “There’ll be eight, nine, maybe ten other units on the water tonight-our guys, the Coast Guard, Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office, Pinellas and Manatee County Sheriff’s Offices, and the Tampa Police-they all wanna see action. Let them keep an eye on ol’ Hellfire.”

Tampa Bay, with adjoining Hillsborough Bay and the wide channel, skirted three counties, their boundaries clear only on the maps, smack in the water. There were also islands to the south and the Gulf side of St. Petersburg to consider, where the “Pete” Police would have a couple of units in the water. If what the FBI was saying had any validity to it at all, the damned ugly Crawler would be a fool to come into these waters. And from what Stallings had gathered, this creep would be most attracted by the St. Petersburg strip along Reddington Beach. So he now quietly suggested they cruise out into the Gulf and northward to have a look.

The watercops of the well-trained Florida Marine Patrol had been efficiently scouring Florida’s coasts from Jacksonville on the Eastern seaboard to Tampa Bay and Pen- sacola on the Gulf, checking every boat that resembled anything like that belonging to the alleged killer-but then, given the general nature of the description of the boat, they knew it might match literally thousands in these waters.

Stallings revved up his engine to the max and gave her full throttle, then laughed when Manley grabbed on to the railing of the now speeding Boston Whaler. The siren blared out across the enormous waters of Tampa Bay. It was exhilarating to open her up.

Both men knew all there was to know about the Night Crawler, and from the descriptions put out on the killer’s boat, they had created a guessing game, naming boats that might suit the killer’s liking and perverse needs. Manley had decided it was a fully equipped Davis 71 Sailsprinter, but Ken Stallings disagreed, saying it was more likely to be a faster, sleeker fifty-five- or sixty-foot Alden Motor- sailor like the one he’d seen win a race from Florida to Tennessee with a crew of one! Everything aboard the boat was fully motorized and easily worked by this one man, who knew what he was doing at all times. Stallings believed there was no more seaworthy a vessel than the Alden Motorsailor, and if inner police circles could be believed, this creep had come sailing into Florida waters from as far away as New Zealand or Australia. Such a boat for loners would be to the killer’s perverted liking.

The water was choppy tonight, the waves growing in intensity due to a storm sitting out in the immense Gulf beyond, one which forecasters warned could become a serious threat to coastal towns and cities, depending upon shifting winds and that lottery called fate. Thus far, it was a tropical depression, but everyone hereabouts knew how soon a TD could be upgraded to a full-blown hurricane, so while at the moment no one outside of law enforcement and other service groups had given much of a damn, the unofficial watch was on. If Stallings had learned one thing during his tenure as an FMP officer, it was that the sea was a very unforgiving “mother of nature,” that she simply did not condone, excuse or absolve stupidity or arrogance or any of their relative combinations; nor did the sea care if the people floating across her surface knew her intentions or not. It looked now as if the Bay Area would, in a few hours, be shrouded in fog. A light mist had come up, thickening as they got farther and farther from Tampa Bay proper and moved northwest along the coast, the Boston Whaler skimming now over the Gulf of Mexico under controlled speed.

They moved along more slowly as they passed areas where yachts and sailing vessels were moored. In the distance, Stallings spotted a boat with teakwood markings all along her sides, and from the look of her, if she wasn’t an Alden, she was damned close enough to stand in for one.

They had the right to routinely pull alongside any boat to make a spot check for licenses and booze containers; if they found captain and crew smashed, they had the right to arrest people and tow their boats into shore. If this proved another false alarm-as had so many since they’d been put on the alert for the Crawler-they’d simply feign a routine call on the boat.

The fast little Whaler was high up on plane now, her blue-to-red strobe light flashing, siren wailing as they approached the sleek, beautiful ship whose markings were obscured-perhaps deliberately, Stallings thought aloud, calling out his misgivings to Manley and asking, “Whataya think, Rob?”

Manley replied by jotting down what he could of her numbers, and he attempted to locate a name, but because of the angle of their approach and the seemingly mystical, evolving fog that’d rolled in to engulf them, this was impossible. “You may wanna send in the numbers we have as a precaution,” suggested Manley, handing the figures to Stallings, who had the radio at his fingertips.

County cops in Florida who filled in during peak seasons and watercops in other states might have little or no training, or even boat experience, before they were given the keys and told to cast off, but that wasn’t the case with the Florida Marine Patrol. Admittedly, they were spread thin- their duties covering eight thousand miles of coastline. Still, Stallings and Manley had put in their training time in the most rigorous marine law enforcement program in the country. They’d done an additional stint together at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center outside Brunswick, Georgia, in a three-week advanced marine law program, and a weeklong course in protocol on seizures and boarding on the high seas.