Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

Conner had then taken an expensive cab ride from the marina back to the sailboat. He kept checking his pocket for the DiMaggio card. He didn’t plan to let it out of his sight anytime soon. Somewhere there had to be a buyer for the damn thing.

At the wheel, he eased the throttle forward, eyed the sky. He might just be able to reach the marina before nightfall. If he were lucky.

The weather restrained itself as Conner made it past the swing-out bridge. The guy in the bridge keeper’s house leaned out the little window and gave him a wave. At the mouth of the river, the rain started coming heavier, the water a rough, foamy chop, the prow of the Jenny slamming into big waves as it motored forward. Conner was in the Gulf now, and the spray stinging his face was salty and cold. Between the rain and the waves the cockpit filled shin deep with water. He hit the switch for the pumps. They chugged to life below the deck, just keeping ahead of the water coming in.

The sky was completely black with storm clouds now, the Gulf a steel blue. Lightning crisscrossed the sky. Conner kept the coastline within a half mile. He flipped on the running lights. He was getting worried. The storm had slowed his progress, the sailboat’s engine struggling against the severe chop. Conner was a decent sailor, but all of his experience had been pleasure boating on calm seas.

And then the engines sputtered and died.

Oh… shit.

Conner thumbed the ignition. It wouldn’t turn over. He checked the fuel gauge. The tanks were bone dry.

Oh, no. No, no, no… He hadn’t calculated the rough seas, the extra fuel consumption.

Without forward momentum, the boat would flounder. He left the cockpit, pulled himself forward so he could get the sails up. A wave almost washed him over. He threw himself at the mast, hung on as the Jenny listed badly, pitched the deck almost ninety degrees. The rain pounded him now in driving sheets. He could no longer see the prow. Water coming over the transom.

Conner fought his way back to the cockpit, threw open one of the bench seats, and grabbed a life jacket. The wind howled, and the Jenny threatened to roll. Conner turned his head side to side. He’d lost track of the land. It was totally black now. He was going to drown. He was going to die in the ocean.

In a flash of lightning, Conner glimpsed a twelve-foot wave coming hard. It collided in the darkness. Conner was thrown, blind. Then he was underwater. He struggled, kicked, hit the surface, and gulped air.

The sea churned around him. Fifty yards distant, he thought he saw the Jenny’s white fiberglass bottom. The boat had rolled.

Another wave drove him under, and when he came back up again he no longer saw the boat. He didn’t know where the coast lay. The heaving black ocean gaped in all directions, immense swells briefly visible in the lightning.

To come all this way. To die like this. Nobody even knew where he was. Nobody would ever know. Typical, thought Conner. Just fucking typical.

The side of Conner’s face burned. Bright and hot, the morning sun beat down on Conner as he lay in the sand. He rolled over, groaned.

He’d fought the sea for an eternity, stroking in what he’d prayed was the direction toward shore. And just when he’d been about to give up, exhausted, ready to surrender to watery doom, his feet had hit the sandy bottom. Ahead of him, through rain, lights. He’d found the beach and collapsed.

Now he sat up, found himself in front of a row of condominiums. An old couple sat on their veranda, the old woman bringing her old man a glass of orange juice. The old man waved at Conner. Conner waved back.

He stood, brushed the sand off his pants and shirt, and scanned the Gulf for any sign of the Jenny . Nothing. Not even debris. The Electric Jenny wasn’t Folger’s anymore, nor Conner’s either. It belonged to Davy Jones. And somewhere on the sandy bottom was Rocky Big’s doctor bag full of money. God’s final joke on Conner Samson, cut off his escape route. It’s biblical, the old Job gag. Torment the little guy. What’s next? Boils?

In a sudden panic, Conner checked his pockets. The DiMaggio card was still there, safe and secure in its plastic case. He also still had the cell phone Rocky had given him. Who was there to call?

He grasped the phone tightly, reared back, arm way behind him, gathering the strength to hurl it into the Gulf of Mexico. He’d throw it over the horizon if he could.

It rang.

Conner froze, unsure if he’d heard what he thought he’d heard. It rang again. He unfolded it slowly, pressed the TALK button. “Hello?”

“Conner, thank God you’re there.” Tyranny. He’d forgotten he’d given her the cell number, had desperately hoped she’d call.

“If you called to apologize, it’s too late. I’ve moved on. I’m actually having a lovely time at the beach right now. Getting a suntan.”

“Conner, this is very important.” Something in her voice. Strangely calm, unnerving.

“What’s wrong?” Conner asked.

“There are some men here,” Tyranny said. “They say you have something that belongs to them. They told me to call you.”

Conner’s chest tightened. “Asians?”

“Yes, that’s right. They’re very serious. They said it could be bad for me if you don’t cooperate.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“They want you to come here immediately. I’m at home. Bring what they want and nobody gets hurt. Dan’s not here right now. I’d like, if possible, to resolve this situation before he gets home.” She said it like she was ordering a pizza, no tears, no panic, but Conner detected a hint of strain in her voice. She was trying to maintain, not show how terrified she was for herself and for Dan should he come home and walk into the middle of things.

Conner looked up and down the beach, tried to estimate where he was. The marina might be within walking distance. The Lincoln was there. “I need some time. I’m sort of stuck. But I’ll be there.”

“Don’t dawdle.”

“Tell them to wait,” Conner said. “I’m coming. I have to get to the car, but tell them I’m coming.”

“I’ll tell them.”

Conner hung up, jogged up the beach, through the condo complex, and found the main road. He recognized where he was now. The marina was only three or four miles away.

God wasn’t punishing him, Conner thought. He’s just letting me know I have unfinished business. Responsibilities.

Conner ran, every sore muscle screaming for him to stop. He ran and ran and told his muscles to shut the hell up.

Conner parked the Lincoln in Tyranny’s driveway right next to a long, black limousine. The driver sat low in the front seat, hat pulled over his eyes, apparently napping. Escambia County plates. Both limo and driver were probably rentals.

Conner got out of the Lincoln, walked toward the front door, and tried to get his nerves under control. His plan was simple. Give them what they want, hand over the DiMaggio card. Nothing funny. No shenanigans. It wasn’t worth Tyranny’s life.

But these guys were dangerous. They’d already killed a bunch of people. So Conner did have one trick up his sleeve. Not a very good trick. Nothing fancy. Just a little insurance in case things got out of hand.

He rang the doorbell.

It opened immediately, Tyranny standing there with a blank look on her face. Half of her was still behind the door, and Conner figured she had a gun in her ribs.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded.

Somebody mumbled out of sight. Tyranny stepped back from the door. “He said to come in.”

Conner went in, and the door slammed shut behind him. A Japanese man stood with a pistol. He was small, but his eyes were hard. He had a lean, tough face. He frisked Conner, didn’t find any weapons. He motioned Tyranny and Conner down the hall.