Dennis Yates - Minus Tide

At low tide there was a crescent shaped beach where the sea lions sometimes came to sleep off a successful lunch. Black waves now lapped against a rocky slope. The beach was gone. When Ann was younger she would spend hours watching sea lions slog around on their bellies. Belching and barking, trading stories and frequently acting out slapstick scenes. Like the elk, they also had a presence about them that drew her in, although to entirely different places. She’d decided long ago that they must have given us their sense of humor.

As she got to the end of the bank she noticed the boat was being circled by driftwood and plastic bottles. From a distance it had looked much closer to shore.

You can’t get back in the water again. You just got dry.

She combed the shore for anything that might be useful, couldn’t find any rope or wire to make a catch-line. It was looking hopeless. Either she waded out into the cold water or she walked back the way she’d just come.

What are you going to do now?

She sat on a rock and studied the boat for several minutes, noticing how it had come closer to shore and then circled back around along the edge of a ridge-backed current moving swiftly past. While she watched, several driftwood logs spun off from the boat-nucleus and got swept up by a stronger current, the bay’s conduit to the open sea. It would only be a matter of time, she realized, before the boat would also complete a final circuit in the cove before escaping.

If she made it inside the boat, there wouldn’t be a lot of time for her get the motor started. Assuming that the motor would start. She never trusted gas engines much, had never developed a knack for them.

Because her leg burned so much from the saltwater, she almost welcomed the cold. She waded out toward the boat, afraid the next step could be a drop off into far deeper water. Her breath quickened and she began to shiver. She thought she saw some seals raise their heads to watch her.

This is suicide and you know it.

When the water reached chest height, she could no longer feel her feet, didn’t even know if she was drifting over deeper water or not. Then all of a sudden she felt as if something were pulling her straight out to the main current.

This is it. This is how you’re going to die. You’ll become one of those fog ghosts for sure.

The boat was behind her now, closer to shore than she was. She breast stroked as hard as she could to go back, but her arms went numb. And then she remembered she wasn’t alone, that she was accompanied by an entourage of circling drift wood. When she kicked toward one log to grab hold of it, her eddy sent it out into the main current where it abruptly turned and floated out of sight.

The shotgun blast had forced Cuke and the sheriff to take cover behind the Mercury.

“Get it now,” the Russian said.

James leaned against the Skylark, gasping for air. The Russian had kicked him in the stomach and he’d felt the stale candy bars rise up his throat. He imagined the bruise that was already beginning to form on his stomach, a blue waffle grid from the sole of the Russian’s running shoe. He wondered if he’d live to see it.

“Drop your weapon,” the sheriff demanded.

The Russian ignored him. He was not to be slowed. He motioned James with a sweep of the sawed-off and bared his big yellow teeth.

James wiped his mouth and staggered toward the back of the Skylark. He popped the trunk open and stared down at the suitcase, waited for the Russian to tell him what to do next. The Russian was no longer beside him, but had slipped back to the van and was standing next to the open door. His eyes were set back deep in their sockets, it was impossible to tell what they were watching.

“Bring it to me.”

“You’re not going to get away with this,” the sheriff said. “I am the law around here.”

The Russian turned his head and spat. “Do yourself a favor and stay out. This business has nothing to do with you anymore. It’s only between me and the boy.”

James stayed frozen next to the car. There were way too many guns waving around. He could see that things weren’t going to end well. And he happened to be in the middle of it.

The Russian must have read his mind. He smiled and beckoned James with his hand as if summoning a child. James obeyed. What else could he do? His gut told him what the Russian had planned. He couldn’t possibly get the.38 out in time. And that left the only alternative. To walk straight through the flames. As soon as he handed him the suitcase there would be a white-hot flash, and that would be the last thing he’d ever know. A change in ownership.

Sweat poured down his forehead and stung his eyes. The suitcase felt heavier than he’d remembered, maybe because he saw his future in it more than ever. Now his future was going to be taken from him either way, with or without the money. There was a stabbing pain in his shoulder as he lifted it out of the trunk. He took a deep breath and tottered toward the Russian.

You got close James. You got close but you still can’t cut it. He’s got a right to be pissed about his face.

He could hear the Russian breathing, like the minute hand of a melting clock. If he didn’t do anything now it would probably be the last thing he’d hear while blood exited his body. A lot of blood.

And then hell broke loose all around him.

Screams coming from the Mercury. Cuke and the sheriff rising from the other side, going balls out. Muzzleflash and the sound of lead splitting the night.

The Russian began to sway back and forth in a lazy dance. He fired the sawed-off and the Mercury sank to the ground on shredded tires. Plumes of safety glass exploded from the windows and rained down on their heads. Choking cordite smoke filled the air.

James crouched next to the suitcase, unable to move. He watched the Russian calmly pause to reload. He hadn’t gone down. The large man had been shot several times but he was still standing. Was he wearing a vest? Then it became more obvious what was happening. The big man’s motor control was going down the tubes. His fingers couldn’t hold onto the shells long enough to drop them into the sawed-off.

Pounding on adrenaline, James reached under the hoodie and pulled the.38 from his waistband. The Russian looked up at him. He’d dropped the sawed-off and was starting to lose consciousness, reached out to catch the door as he fell. James turned and saw Cuke taking aim and he’d fired at him before even knowing what he was doing. Cuke collapsed onto the Mercury’s hood and slid off, leaving a slick dark trail. James felt his insides tumble out.

Oh god no. Not Cuke.

The sheriff returned fire. Bullets pinged off the Skylark, ruining the dreamy paint job. James felt a hot stitch rip across his left ear as he dropped to his knees and shot three rounds through the Mercury’s shattered windows. He heard the sheriff give out a grunt before collapsing to the ground on the other side.

James grabbed the suitcase and ran for the Skylark.

Ann found the boat cover under the seat and wrapped herself in it. The canvas smelled of mildew but kept the wind off. She couldn’t believe how cold she felt. Somehow she’d been able to start the motor despite the tremors in her hands.

The tide was going out and the swells were heavy. She worried if she had enough gas to make it back. James had emptied the red jug earlier, before they’d seen the men up on the bridge.

For the moment the sky above was finely dusted with stars. But a dense mass of cloud working down from the north announced the arrival of a new storm. She thought she saw flickers of lightning over the horizon, wasn’t certain if she was just imagining it. She hadn’t slept or eaten for over a day. Her mouth felt bone dry and she’d started to have painful coughing fits.