Peter Abrahams - Lights Out

Mandy looked at Jack. “Relax.” She tugged at Eddie’s hand.

Jack opened his mouth to reply, closed it.

“What the hell is going on?” said Trimble.

Eddie and Mandy started for the path.

“Wait,” Jack said.

At that moment, the jeep came bouncing over a dune and into the fish camp. Packer saw Eddie, swerved in his direction. He roared right by Trimble, recognized him too late, glanced back to be sure, hit the brakes, and lost control of the jeep. It plowed into Mandy’s cabin, flattening it like a doll-house, and came to a stop at the edge of the bush.

Packer staggered out, bloody and dazed, but still holding the gun. He swung it in Eddie’s direction.

“There’s not going to be any violence,” Trimble said, pointing at Packer with the butterfly net.

Mandy took off. It was all happening quickly, and Eddie was only eighteen. He ran too. There was a cracking sound behind him. He ran faster.

The sea was calm, the charts clear, Fearless’s tank filled to the top. They sighted Bimini before noon. By that time, Eddie had the answers to his questions.

Her last name was Delfuego. She’d come to Packer as an office temp, been hired full time, gone out one night for drinks with the boss. He wasn’t as bad as Eddie thought. His wife was a cold bitch, he had lots of worries, but he treated Mandy well and had big dreams that she was part of. Et cetera. The answers to his questions: he could have heard them on afternoon TV, but what did that mean? Packer was out of the picture now, wasn’t he?

“Of course,” Mandy said, wrapping her arms around him.

Fearless skimmed over a glossy blue sea. “I’m supposed to go to USC,” Eddie said after a while.

“I know. You’ll meet Raleigh.”

“Raleigh?”

“Raleigh Packer. Brad and Evelyn’s son. That’s how they met, Jack and Brad.”

“I thought they met through some kind of alumni booster club.”

“Brad? He didn’t graduate high school. That’s what he’s making up for now.”

A voice came over the radio. “ Fearless ? That you?” It was JFK. “Come in, Fearless . Listen good. Don’ you-” Then nothing.

“What was that?” Eddie asked.

Mandy stared out to sea. Eddie could feel her thinking, but she didn’t answer. He repeated the question.

“I don’t know,” she said.

They waited for JFK to make contact again. He did not.

The sun was still high in the sky when the mainland came in view, at first not land at all, but the high-rises of Lauderdale floating on the horizon.

“Aim to the right of that pointy one,” Mandy said.

Eddie turned the wheel. “What if he’s waiting on the dock?”

“There’re a zillion marinas here,” Mandy said. “But he wouldn’t come anyway.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll be too busy trying to pacify Evelyn.” She was quiet for a moment. Then she said: “He’s in love, you know.”

“With Evelyn?”

“With her connections.” Now they could see the land itself, a low brown hump; other boats appeared on the water. “Have you got connections, Eddie?”

“No.”

“What about Jack?”

“Jack’s not a connection. He’s my brother.”

She gave him a kiss. “I don’t have connections either. But at least we’ll be all right for money. We’re going places, you and me.” She took binoculars from under the console and studied the shoreline. “Make for that little gap.”

Eddie steered for a gap between two buildings. A red, white, and blue cigarette emerged from behind a trawler and swung around in their direction. Mandy watched it through the binoculars for a few seconds, then focused on a seagull flying by with a fish in its beak.

“Going to the head,” she told Eddie. “Back in a flash.” She went below.

Eddie, one hand on the wheel, pulled out his wallet, counted what he had. Sixty-seven dollars. Why would they be all right for money?

When he looked up he saw that the red, white, and blue cigarette was much closer, moving very fast, coming right at him. Eddie was sure he had the right of way but changed course nevertheless. The cigarette changed course too, still coming at him.

Now it was near enough for Eddie to see that there were four figures on board, all dressed in orange. Eddie had heard stories of pirates in the islands, but he wasn’t in the islands now, he was in sight of the mainland. He changed course again; the red, white, and blue boat mirrored his move.

And then it was on him, sweeping around Fearless in tight circles of spray. Four figures in orange jumpsuits: four men, all with deep tans and short haircuts. One was the driver, one had a bullhorn, two had rifles, pointed at him. Friends of Packer, Eddie thought at once: Packer had radioed ahead. Eddie considered turning, making a run for the open sea, but knew Fearless didn’t have the speed.

“Mandy?” he called. No answer.

The cigarette pulled up alongside. The man with the bullhorn called out, “Cut your engine.”

Eddie slowed down, but held his course. One of the riflemen stood up and fired a shot over Eddie’s head. He throttled back to neutral.

“I said cut.”

Eddie switched off.

“Hands behind your head.”

Eddie put his hands behind his head. The two armed men climbed over Fearless ’s rail. “Don’t do anything stupid,” one said.

“Packer’s the one being stupid,” Eddie said.

“Say what?” Eddie felt a rifle muzzle in his back, kept silent. “Let’s go below,” said the man.

Eddie twisted around. “You’re going to kill me over something like this?”

“Who said anything about killing? It’s not a capital crime, not yet.”

They went below, Eddie and the four men. The men searched the berths, the engine compartment, the galley, the head. Eddie assumed they were looking for Mandy. She wasn’t there. He noticed that his scuba gear, normally hanging on the wall by the galley, was gone. He said nothing, not wanting to give her away.

The men didn’t seem discouraged. One returned to the cigarette, came back with crowbars and axes. They ripped up the deck boards. Underneath lay densely packed vegetation, tied in bales, looking so incongruous that at first Eddie didn’t know what it was. Then he did.

Herb.

“You’re under arrest,” said one of the men. He took a file card from his pocket and read Eddie his rights.

If there was a heaven it was a watery place.

In lane five, his old favorite in the pool of his hometown Y, Eddie kept swimming. At first he’d had no rhythm, no technique at all, and had tired quickly. Weight lifting had made fifteen years go faster; it had also made him clumsy in the water. He thrashed up and down lane five for a dozen lengths, twisting around on the surface after each one like a beginner. His mouth filled with the taste of tobacco, nicotine-stained snot streamed from his nose. He decided to quit after ten laps-if he could swim that far… But on the very last length and without warning, his lungs suddenly cleared, the tobacco taste disappeared, the snot stopped flowing; and his body began to remember. On their own, his hands and forearms found the right angles, sculling, not pushing, and he felt himself rising higher in the water, going faster. He recalled the sensation of just skimming the surface that he’d felt when he’d been racing at his best; he wasn’t skimming now, but he wasn’t thrashing either. As he came to the wall, he piked, even remembering to spread his feet as they came over, touched, pushed off, streamlining himself in the thumb-hook position, then rolled as he slowed to swimming speed.

Flipped the turn, he thought, goddamn; and found himself smiling for a moment underwater. He kept going.