James Swain - Midnight Rambler

As I stared at the lines my heart began to race. The line going south ended at a spot in the ocean that I knew better than any fisherman in the state. North Dania Beach, within spitting distance of the Sunset. Had I not been so damn tired, I would have guessed it before now.

Perez and Skell were going to dump Melinda in the waters where I swam every day.

Linderman burned down Dania Beach Boulevard and practically flew over the bridge. He pulled into the Sunset with a squeal of brakes, and I jumped out with my dog.

“I'll be right back,” I said.

I ran to my room and changed into bathing trunks. Then I tossed my Colt and a pair of binoculars into my snorkeling bag and headed for the door. Buster had climbed onto my bed and passed out.

I hurried downstairs. Entering the bar, I caught Sonny and the Seven Dwarfs in a rare moment of sobriety. They were slurping coffee and eating doughnuts, and they stared at me as if I was a ghost.

“Where the hell you been?” Sonny asked.

“Road trip. Why?”

“We were worried about you, man.”

This crew didn't worry about anything. Then it dawned on me what Sonny was saying. He and the Dwarfs were worried that I'd done something to myself.

“I'm fine,” I said. “Look, I need your help.”

Whitey jumped off his stool and saluted me.

“Help's my middle name, captain.”

I pulled the binoculars from the bag and tossed them to him.

“Go to the window, and look due north for a Boston Whaler hugging the shoreline. There will be two guys in the boat. One is Hispanic and is in a lot of pain. The other is about my size and has surfer-white blond hair. There's also a beautiful blonde with them who's either doped up or unconscious.”

Whitey went to the window and lifted the binoculars to his face.

“What are they up to?” he asked.

“They're going to throw the woman over,” I added.

“Oh, my Lord,” Whitey said.

I found Linderman standing by the shoreline, talking to the captain of the FBI cutter on his cell. I heard him tell the captain to bring his cutter to the northern tip of Dania Beach. Fitting on my mask and flippers, I threw my bag over my shoulder and waded in.

“Where do you think you're going?” Linderman asked, finishing his call.

“Out there,” I said.

“Don't do it, Jack. If Perez shows, you'll be a sitting duck.”

A wave broke over my legs, and I felt the ocean's unmistakable pull.

“I've got a gun in my bag,” I said.

“Ever try shooting while treading water? It doesn't work.”

I stared out helplessly at the ocean.

“I can't just stand here.”

“Jack, I've had enough of your bullshit,” Linderman said. “I'm ordering you to stay here with me. If you disobey me, I'm going to jump in and drag your ass out of the water. Am I making myself clear?”

I have a way of getting on people's nerves that pushes them to the breaking point. I'd reached that juncture with Linderman, and I reluctantly tossed my bag on the shoreline. Then I plopped down in the sand. Thirty seconds later, Whitey appeared in the bar's open doorway, flailing his arms.

“I saw the boat,” Whitey yelled. “I saw the boat!”

I stood up in my spot.

“Are you sure?” I called back.

“Positive, captain. It's coming from due north and has two men in it. There's another boat chasing it.”

I said to hell with Linderman and dove into the water.

I swam with a strength that I didn't know I possessed. Passing the Sunset, I shifted my gaze northward. Several hundred yards away a boat was motoring toward me with Jonny Perez hunched over in the stern. The sun was in his face, and his eyes were slits. Angry black flies swarmed around him, attacking his wounds. He was in pain, yet his posture was defiant.

Skell stood in the bow, bare chested. His skin was as white as milk, his torso lean and sinewy. He'd gotten several tattoos while in prison, all of them in vibrant colors. From a distance they looked like scars.

Skell was yelling at Perez, telling him to make the boat go faster. His voice was high pitched, almost a scream. His sociopathic rage had taken over.

I swam toward the boat, my flippers propelling me effortlessly through the water. I was directly in their line of vision, but they weren't looking my way. In the distance I could see the FBI cutter, coming fast.

“This is the spot,” Perez called out.

“You sure?” Skell shouted back.

“Yeah, man.”

“Then let's do it.”

Perez stopped the engine, and the boat came to a halt. Bending down, Skell lifted Melinda out of the boat and stood upright with her in his arms. She looked dead, and for a moment I thought I was too late. Then her fingers fluttered like a butterfly's wings. It did something to my heart, and I hurtled myself toward her.

A loud blast ripped through the air. The cutter was a hundred yards away, and a man wearing an FBI slicker stood on the bow, wielding a bullhorn.

“This is the FBI,” the man announced. “Stop what you're doing and put your hands into the air.”

“Cover me,” Skell said.

Perez pulled a gun from his waistband. He turned and faced the cutter.

“I repeat, stop what you're doing!”

“Fuck you!” Perez screamed.

On the cutter another man wearing an FBI slicker appeared. He had a rifle, which he aimed at Perez. The shot ripped across the ocean.

Perez grabbed his arm. Then he fell, rocking the boat.

“Put the girl down,” ordered the man with the bullhorn.

I was fifteen feet from the boat. Looking at Skell, I knew he wasn't going to comply. Killing was what defined his existence and would keep him alive in my memory long after he was gone. With a defiant yell, he tossed Melinda into the water.

Diving beneath the boat, I watched Melinda sink. Her body looked weightless, almost poetic. Reaching the ocean floor, she slipped behind a coral ledge, and disappeared from my sight.

I propelled myself toward her. I had never been this deep before and had no idea what I was getting into. The thought was unsettling. Then I remembered Melinda's testimony at Skell's trial, and the courage it had taken to go down that road.

I owed her.

A dark shadow loomed overhead. Thinking it was the FBI cutter, I looked up and saw that I was wrong. It was Skell, chasing me.

Skell had ripped off the rest of his clothes and was naked. The crazed look in his eyes was still there. Clutched in his hand was a knife normally used to fillet fish. He used the knife to slice the water like he was in a street fight.

In seconds he was on top of me. I swam backwards with my flippers until I was safely away from him. He stopped over the spot where Melinda had disappeared and started treading water. Then he motioned to me.

I instantly understood. Skell was going to stay right where he was. Either I engaged him and we fought it out, or I stayed back and let Melinda drown.

Those were my options.

I charged him.

The element of surprise was mine. I grabbed his wrist with one hand and punched him in the face with the other. It had to hurt, because he made a noise that was loud enough for me to hear underwater.

Then Skell cut me.

It wasn't a deep gash, just a run of the blade across my left forearm. But the ribbon of blood was enough to get my attention. It clouded the water and told me I was in trouble. Again I propelled myself backwards.

Skell remained where he was. I got set to charge him again, then felt an enormous thrush of water. It was a feeling that every swimmer dreaded. A big fish was lurking behind me.

I froze as a male lemon shark swam past. It was easily three hundred pounds. The shark was checking us out, just as the school of sharks had checked me out the other day. I placed my hand on its side and guided it toward Skell.