Randy White - Dead of Night

Surfacing seemed to take a long, long time.

Finally, I was breathing air again; warm, rich air that floated in layers atop the cold lake; my vision blurry because of water and my bad eyesight. Still, I could see sufficiently well to be, at once, disappointed and also relieved.

I expected carnage, the aftermath of a boat collision. I didn’t relish such a sight, but the Russians had invited attack.

But there was no carnage. Nor had they returned to kill me. Instead, all that awaited was the reassuring silhouette of my own skiff floating upright, engine off, not far away.

No sign of the bass boat. For a moment, I considered the possibility that I had hit it and their vessel had already sunk, the two passengers with it.

No. It would not have gone down so quickly.

I searched the distance until I recognized a fuzzy, flickering image caught in the light of the nearby highway: the Russians’ boat disappearing fast, already more than a hundred yards away, still heading south. Somehow, the woman had managed to avoid the unavoidable. Impressive. But why hadn’t they come back to finish the job?

I began to swim, thinking about it. Could the shock of what I’d done scared them into running? They’d managed to scare me into flight. Maybe I’d returned the volley.

I decided that I would discuss it with Tomlinson in a day or two, when we were both back on Sanibel.

I couldn’t get the engine started…

I figured it was because of damage caused by the ski ramp. Or maybe a stray bullet had pierced the motor’s cowling. But then I realized I’d forgotten to insert the dead man’s switch into the little slot next to the ignition. Stupid.

The big engine fired, burbling its Harley rumble as if this night were nothing out of the ordinary.

The skiff seemed okay. A swivel seat was gone, steering wheel bent. That’s all the damage I noticed-until I flicked the bilge switch. A fire hose stream of water began to jettison from the boat’s starboard side. It pumped water for five or six long minutes as I idled toward Night’s Landing.

The hull was damaged. I was taking on water, maybe sinking. Finally, when the pump’s rhythmic whine told me the hull was empty, I jumped onto plane, steering fast toward the island. I’d stop and make certain Jobe Applebee was being cared for, then bust ass back to Dinkin’s Bay.

As I steered, I did some rough calculations. Felony investigations tend to be lengthy. But with a little push, if I kept it simple, didn’t tell the local cops that I’d been shot at-a biggie-I might make it home before midnight.

Wrong.

I tied up at the same slip. Just to be safe, I flipped the bilge switch again. More water inside.

The hull had taken a beating, was maybe too badly damaged to be repaired. The prospect irritated me. Some people-sailors most often-say they feel affection for their vessels. They can become very sentimental, particularly after a few rums.

I don’t share the feelings. I’ve never felt anything close to emotion for the many boats I’ve owned. Yet, the thought of having to switch from this skiff to another was upsetting. I valued it as a tool. I trusted it. I knew how to make the thing perform. It’d kept me afloat through lots of bad weather, and at least a couple of tough encounters. If I believed in luck, I would have considered this skiff particularly lucky.

Watching water jetting from the hull, I realized there was something else I’d have to deal with: The automatic bilge switch was broken. I’d have to get that fixed, too.

Leaky boats sink. I couldn’t risk leaving the thing unattended for long. Which is one reason that I headed off for Applebee’s home at a jog. A more pressing reason was that there were no law enforcement boats here. No sirens or blue lights flashing in the distance.

So maybe EMTs had come by chopper. Possible. But it was also possible that the local water response teams hadn’t had time to scramble. I’d called 911 around 9 P.M. According to my watch, it was now a little after ten. The idea of that terrified little man alone for more than an hour set off the guilt response. Dread, too.

When Applebee’s house came into view, I stopped running, reassured by what I saw. Standing near the front door was a woman in official-looking blue coveralls, a walkietalkie on her belt, plus a noisy, static-loud police scanner.

I took the porch steps two at a time. “How’s Dr. Applebee doing? Have you already transported him to a hospital?”

I could see that the questions confused her. I thought, Uh-oh, moved past her, and tried the door. Still locked.

Shit.

“He’s not in there alone, is he? He has been transported to the hospital? Lady, please tell me someone’s checked on him.”

“Who’s been transported where?”

“Applebee.”

I looked at her for the first time. She wasn’t a woman; she was a kid. Sixteen, maybe eighteen. Pudgy, buttery face, multiple earrings, Cinderella bangs, hair cut boyishly short. But she sounded infuriatingly officious as she replied, “Mister, I have no idea if he’s alone or not, but I can’t let you go inside to check. The sheriff’s department dispatcher told me I’m in charge of this location until they’re ten-twenty. Which means until they arrive. She told me to wait on the porch and not let anyone inside. Especially civilians. That means you.”

I was not in the mood and was already crossing the porch, headed for the rear entrance. “Are you a cop? You’re not old enough to be a cop.”

“I’m old enough. But, no, not officially, anyway.” “Part of some kind of Girl Scouts program or something? I don’t understand why you’re here.”

She didn’t catch the mild sarcasm. “I’m the constable of this island. Of this unincorporated village, I mean. The sheriff’s department contacts me when there’s trouble, but this time I was home listening to the scanner. Now, if you’ll-”

I’d vaulted the porch railing, and was walking fast. Now the girl was trotting after me, calling, “Hey, hold it, mister. Mister? You’re not going into that house. I’m warning you right now, I’ll arrest you.”

“Arrest me? On what charges, for Christ’s sake? How long have you been a constable, anyway?”

I was almost to the back of the house; I could see light angling through broken French doors. The light was bluish where it touched shadows, yellow on palms with their pineapple-ribbed trunks.

“Since the election in November.”

I turned and looked at her for a moment before saying patiently, “A month ago? So maybe inexperience explains why you’re acting like a jerk. Look, Dr. Applebee was in bad shape when I left him. He needs medical attention. So go right ahead and arrest me-but later. Not now. For now, just stay out of my way.”

That inane song was still playing, coming from the open room.

“It’s a small world, a small world…”

Following me through the broken doorframe, the girl had to speak louder because of the music. “Okay, sir, you give me no choice. You have the right to-”

We stopped. Applebee was no longer in the corner where I’d left him balled up like a child. There was a visible spattering of blood on the floor, more on the overturned chair. My cellular phone was gone.

I leaned over the record player and used the edge of my boat key to lift the tonearm off a revolving 45 rpm record. The record was made of glossy cardboard, like something from inside a cereal box. It had to be old.

In the new silence, I headed for a hallway as she found her voice again. “Damn it, you’ve got to stop or I’ll… Oh my God!”

I’d already stopped. Stopped twice. First to pick up my phone, which was lying near the door. Then I halted more abruptly in the hall at a small, walk-in utility closet, louvered doors pushed open wide. From the closet emanated a subtle stink that took me several beats to identify, even though I’ve smelled it too many times.