Джек Кейди - The Jonah Watch

“Tell him not to get too weird.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“C’mon,” Case said, “let’s talk that poor fella out of wrecking those engines.”

I followed Case, and he climbed up beside Tommy who leaned way out around the spray shield. The engines screamed, and the bow rode so high at this speed that he could not see a thing. Case put one hand on Tommy’s shoulder, grinned at Tom like Tom had just told a pretty good joke, and then Case eased the controls. Speed came off, the bow dropped, and the boat skidded a little sideways. We’d come far enough that we could see the lighthouse at Portland Head.

“Take a strain,” Case said. “Guy with a wild hair crossways can’t figure anything out.”

“The police boat is out checking the islands,” Tommy said. “If that guy gets in behind the islands we’ve lost him.” He did not even hear Case.

“Get it figured,” Case said. “What you’re doing ain’t working.” He paused as he figured the next move. He looked toward the misty lights that told of fog. “At best we’ve got an hour. Go up to the Head along the edge of the channel, then double back along the other side. He won’t be riding the middle of the channel.”

“I want a piece of that clown.” Tommy’s voice sounded in control, but it still sounded a little crazy.

It came to me, watching him, that Tommy had been quiet for too long. Been holding everything in. I figure he didn’t care about the murderer. He just wanted to hit something that needed hitting.

“Cruise it slow,” Case said. “Use the searchlight, because he’ll be running without lights.”

It’s a big harbor, nearly as big as Boston. You could hide two hundred lobster boats in this harbor, and the odds on finding even a dozen of them would be pretty long.

“Because the guy’s crazy,” Case said. “He’s runnin’, but I doubt he’s going to hide. If he hides we won’t find him.”

The radio crackled. Then the crackle blanked as one of the cutters gave its departure message. I could not figure out why headquarters decided to send a cutter. That cutter would do no good out here. It drew maybe twelve feet of water, and where we were going there was only wading room. Maybe the radar on the cutter would help.

We cruised the starboard side of the channel as far as Portland Head, then turned around and cruised the other side coming back. Fog gathered. An occasional horn or whistle sounded. Fog settled from above until it finally pressed against the water. It was thick above, thinner at the waterline.

A thousand-to-one shot, but there seemed nothing else to do except search the islands. Dull, freezing work. As the ice fog gathered the searchlight became useless. The fog did not lift after nearly five hours. It looked like it was going to be another one of those cold and futile nights.

Wert’s teeth chattered. “It’s cold.”

“It’s November.”

“Take us home, Tommy.”

“Go sit on an engine.”

We traded off watch—standing in the bow. Tommy kept the engines barely turning. He searched along the beaches of the dark islands. Didn’t use the searchlight. We just stood in the bow and listened, hoping to hear the sound of a lobster boat’s engine. It was about 0330 when the cutter called, reporting a target on its radar. A small boat moved along the South Portland side of the channel.

“Got him,” Tommy said. “Let’s get him good.” Tommy had sort of settled down, but now he started to get all ruffled up again.

We were all tired, cold, and we had taken some spray five hours back. Nobody was wet, but nobody was exactly dry. Tommy shoved the rpms ahead, then lowered them a little as he realized he was being stupid. That boat was forty feet of steel hull. Not something to shove through fog at high speed.

The cutter talked us across the harbor and through the fog. We moved too quick, taking radar readings from the cutter. I don’t trust radar, and I sure don’t trust a set I’m not looking at. I always trusted Tommy.

As we overhauled the cutter we could see its searchlights swallowed by fog. Just beyond the lights, right on the edge of the lights, the lobster boat looked like a little ghost. It was weaving in and out past the rocks.

It’s a cliff along there. High-walled and granite and straight up. The lobster boat made its way toward a notch not big enough to be a tiny cove. It was just a place where the rock face was broken away and guys moored sometimes. We ran past the cutter, taking off speed, and coasted alongside the lobster boat. We were maybe twenty feet away.

The guy was hard to see in the dark and fog lying beneath that rock face. This close in our searchlight helped. I ran it over the boat and the numbers checked. This was the man.

The guy stood behind the wheel. He turned when our light hit him. He shook his fist and yelled, maybe daring us to come in. The lobster boat edged nearer the rock. I did not believe the guy was insane. He ran the boat too well, discounting the fact that he was where you shouldn’t run a boat.

Then he turned his face full to mine, and I believed it. He was like an abandoned beast, like a dog that’s been run over and is not yet numb in its dying. The guy’s eyes didn’t seem like eyes; just sockets; deep, empty, vacant.

Tommy moved in closer, maybe six or eight feet away. The old lobster boat kept chugging. We were so close I could see blistered paint in the glow of our running lights. The madman started howling.

“Can’t head him off,” Tommy said. “He’ll beach that thing. There’s nothing but rock in there.”

“Beach him,” Wert said. “That kid ain’t on that boat.”

“Get back to those engines.”

“If he’d swiped the kid in that kind of hurry, you think he’d have time to pack her clothes?”

“Move it aft,” Case told Wert. “Get back to those engines.” He paused, like he was thinking about what Wert had said. I couldn’t figure if Wert was right or not. He sort of seemed right. “When we figure what we’re going to do,” Case told Wert, “I’ll come and let you know.”

Wert laid aft.

“We’ll use three of us,” Case said. He laid it out. Tommy was to bring the boat close alongside. Three of us would jump. I was to go forward and get the kid, who had to be in the wheelhouse. Wert would kill the engine on the lobster boat. Then Wert was supposed to help Case with the madman.

“And Tommy,” Case said, “you hold steady. Because man, if he puts that thing on the rocks we’re going to need you.”

“He’s got a knife.”

“Yep,” Case said, “and I got myself one hell of a big crescent wrench.” He turned aft, yelling at Wert who stood beside the engines looking determined. Wert rubbed a fist into the open palm of his other hand.

When Tommy closed I jumped. The lobster boat ran in the shadow of the rock face. It loomed over me, darker than the rest of the dark. As I hit I felt the lobster boat shudder and rub the rock someplace deep. I lost my balance. We were so close-in that I actually shoved back to my feet by pushing on the rock face; while somewhere behind me Tommy yelled, “Left rudder. Left rudder.”

I came from the bow, around the starboard side of the dinky wheelhouse. The madman stepped from the wheel to meet me. I was scared. Couldn’t think of what to do, but my legs just ran me into him. Hit him like I was a fullback. He stumbled aft against Case who was on his knees. I think maybe Case sprained or broke an ankle. That lobster boat was just trash, the decks full of junk and gear. Tommy was still yelling, “left rudder, left rudder.” I heard the forty’s engines dig in as Tommy cut to port to give us running room. As the forty’s stern slid past I looked up and across, into the pale moon face of Wert. He stood motionless. The guy looked frozen with fear, wide eyes staring. He hadn’t jumped.