I shook my head. “Beth, we have to stay in the marked channel. If we lose sight of these channel markers, we’re finished. We’re on a narrow highway and there’s a guy with a rifle behind us and the only way to go is straight.”
She looked at me and I could tell she didn’t completely believe me, which was understandable because I wasn’t completely telling the truth. The truth was, I wanted to kill Fredric Tobin. When I thought he’d killed Tom and Judy, I would have been satisfied seeing the great State of New York kill him. Now, after he murdered Emma, I had to kill him myself. Calling the Coast Guard or Plum Island security was not going to even the score. In fact, regarding score, I wondered where Paul Stevens was this night.
Beth broke into my thoughts and said, “Five innocent people are dead, John, and that’s five too many. I won’t let you throw away my life or yours. We’re heading back. Now.”
I looked at her and said, “Are you going to pull your gun on me?”
“If you make me.”
I kept staring at her and said, “Beth, I can handle this weather. I know I can handle it. We’re going to be okay. Trust me.”
She stared back at me a long time, then said, “Tobin murdered Emma Whitestone right under your nose and that was an attack on your manhood, an insult to your macho image and your ego. That’s what’s driving you on. Right?”
No use lying, so I said, “That’s part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
“Well … I was falling in love with her.”
Beth nodded. She seemed contemplative, then said, “Okay … if you’re going to get us killed anyway, then you may as well know the whole truth.”
“What whole truth?”
She replied, “Whoever killed Emma Whitestone … and I guess it was Tobin … also first raped her.”
I didn’t reply. I should say I wasn’t completely shocked either. There is a primitive side to all men, including fops like Fredric Tobin, and this dark side, when it takes over, plays itself out in a predictable and very scary way. I could say I’ve seen it all—rape, torture, kidnapping, maiming, murder, and everything else in the penal code. But this was the first time that a bad guy was sending a personal message to me. And I wasn’t handling it with my usual cool. He raped her. And while he was doing it to her, he was—or thought he was—doing it to me.
Neither of us spoke for a while, and in fact, the noise of the engines and the wind and sea made any talk difficult, which was okay with me.
Beth sat in the left seat and held the arms tightly as the boat pitched, rolled, yawed, and did everything else but spin and dive.
I remained standing at the wheel, braced against the seat. The wind blew through the shattered glass in front of me, and the rain sliced in from all angles. The fuel was low, I was cold, wet, exhausted, and very troubled by that image of Tobin doing that to Emma. Beth seemed strangely silent, almost catatonic, staring straight ahead at each onrushing wave.
Finally, she seemed to come alive, and looked back over her shoulder. Without a word, she got out of the chair and went to the rear of the boat. I glanced at her and saw her take up a kneeling position in the stern as she drew her 9mm. I looked out at the sea behind us, but saw only the walls of waves trailing the boat. Then, as the Formula rode up on a big wave, I could see the fly bridge of the Chris-Craft behind us again, not more than sixty feet away and closing fast. I made a decision and cut the throttles back, leaving only enough power to control the boat. Beth heard the engines rev down and glanced back at me, then nodded in understanding. She turned back toward the Chris-Craft and steadied her aim. We had to meet the beast.
Tobin had not noticed the sudden difference in relative speed and before he knew it, the Chris-Craft was less than twenty feet from the Formula, and he hadn’t gotten his rifle into position. Before he did, Beth began a steady volley of fire at the dark figure at the window of the cabin. I watched all of this, dividing my time between keeping the bow of the Formula into the waves, and looking back to be sure Beth was okay.
Tobin seemed to disappear from the cabin, and I wondered if he’d been hit. But then, all of a sudden, the Chris-Craft spotlight, mounted on the bow, went on, illuminating the Formula and also revealing Beth kneeling in the stern. “Damn it.” Beth was slipping her last magazine into the Glock, and Tobin was now back at the windshield, aiming the rifle with both hands and letting the wheel go.
I drew my .38, spun around, and jammed my back against the wheel to hold it as I tried to steady my aim. Tobin’s rifle was pointing right at Beth from less than fifteen feet away.
For a half second, it seemed as if everything was frozen— both boats, Beth, Tobin, me, and the sea itself. I fired. The barrel of Tobin’s rifle, which was clearly lined up on Beth, all of a sudden swung toward me and I saw the muzzle flash at about the same time that the Chris-Craft, with no hand on the helm, lurched to port, and Tobin’s shot went wide. The Chris-Craft was now at right angles to the stern of the Formula, and I could see Tobin in the side window of the cabin. In fact, he saw me and we made eye contact. I fired three more rounds into the cabin and his side window shattered. When I looked again, he was gone.
I noticed now that trailing behind the Chris-Craft was the small Whaler that had been in the boathouse. I had no doubt now that Tobin intended to use the Whaler to land on Plum Island.
The Chris-Craft bobbed around aimlessly, and I could tell there was no one at the helm. Just as I was wondering if I’d hit him, his bow came around very deliberately, and the spotlight again illuminated us. Beth fired at the light, and on the third shot, it exploded in a shower of sparks and glass.
Tobin was not to be foiled, and he gunned the Chris-Craft’s engines. His bow was closing on the stern of the Formula. He would have rammed us except that Beth had pulled the flare pistol from her pocket and fired it right into the windshield of the cabin cruiser’s bridge. There was a blinding white explosion of phosphorus and the Chris-Craft veered off as Tobin, I imagined, let go of the helm real fast and dived for cover. In fact, maybe he was burned, blinded, or dead.
Beth was yelling, “Go! Go!”
I had already opened the throttles and the Formula was picking up speed.
I could see flames licking around the bridge of the Chris-Craft. Beth and I looked at one another, both wondering if maybe we’d gotten lucky. But as we watched Tobin’s boat behind us, the flames seemed to subside. At a distance of about forty feet, we again heard the hailing horn crackle and again the little bastard had something to say.
“Corey! I’m coming for you! And for you, too, Ms. Bitch! I’ll kill you both! I’ll kill you!”
I said to Beth, “I think he means it.”
“How dare he call me bitch.”
“Well … of course he’s just taunting you. He doesn’t know you, so how can he know that you’re a bitch? I mean, if you’re a bitch.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Right.”
“Haul ass, John. He’s getting close again.”
“Right.” I gave it more throttle, but the extra speed made the Formula unstable. In fact, I hit an oncoming wave so hard the bow pitched up at too steep an angle, and I thought we were going to back-flip. I could hear Beth scream, and I thought she’d been pitched overboard, but when the boat came down, she rolled across the deck and dropped halfway down the companionway stairs before she came to a stop. She lay on the stairs, and I called out, “Are you okay?”
She got up on all fours and crawled up the companion-way. “I’m all right….”
I cut back on the throttles and said, “Go below and take a break.”
She shook her head and positioned herself between her seat and the dashboard. She said, “You watch for waves and channel markers. I’ll watch for Tobin.”
“Okay.” I had the thought that maybe Beth was right, and I should try to circle around and come up behind him, rather than him coming up behind us again. Maybe if he was sitting in his nice dry cabin, he wouldn’t see us and w
e could board him. But if he saw us, we’d be looking down the muzzle of that rifle again.
The only advantage we had was our speed, but as we saw, we couldn’t take full advantage of it in this weather.
I said to Beth, “Nice going. Good thinking.”
She didn’t reply. “Do you have any more signal flares?”
“Five more.”
“Good.”
“Not really. I lost the flare gun.”
“Do you want to go back and try to find it?”
“I’m tired of your jokes.”
“Me, too. But it’s all we’ve got.”
So, we continued on in silence, through the storm, which was getting worse if that were possible.
Finally, she said, “I thought I was dead.”
I replied, “We can’t let him get that close again.”
She looked at me and said, “He passed me up to get you.”
“That’s the story of my life. Whenever somebody has only one shot, I’m the one they pick.”
She almost smiled, then disappeared below. Less than a minute later, she came back and handed me another beer. She said, “Every time you do good, you get a beer.”
“I don’t have many tricks left. How many more beers do you have?”
“Two.”
“That should work out.”
I contemplated my options and realized I’d run out of most of them. There were only two possible harbors left now—the ferry slip at Orient Point and the cove at Plum Island. Orient Point was probably coming up to the left by now and Plum Island was two miles farther. I looked at the gas gauge. The needle was in the red but not yet touching E.
The sea was so bad now I couldn’t even see the channel markers for long periods at a time. I knew that Tobin, sitting high in his cabin bridge, had a better view of the markers and of us. As I thought about that, it suddenly struck me that he must have radar—ship-hazard radar, which was how he’d found us. And he must also have a depth-finder, which made navigation much easier for him even if he lost sight of the channel markers. In short, the Sondra was no match for the Autumn Gold. “Damn it.”
Every once in a while with increasing frequency, a wave broke over the bow or sides, and I could feel the Formula getting heavier. In fact, I was sure we were riding lower in the water. The extra weight was slowing us up and burning more gas. I realized that Tobin could overtake us at the speed we were going. I realized, too, that we were losing the battle against the sea as well as the naval engagement.
I glanced at Beth, and she sensed me looking at her and our eyes met. She said, “In case we capsize or sink, I want to tell you now that I actually like you.”
I smiled and replied, “I know that.” I looked at her and said, “I’m sorry. I never should have—”
“Drive and shut up.”
I turned my attention back to the wheel. The Formula was moving so slowly now that the following sea was coming over the stern. In a short time, we would be swamped, or the engine compartment would be flooded, and/or Tobin would be on top of us and we weren’t going to outrun him this time.
Beth kept looking for Tobin and, of course, she saw the sea washing over the stern and couldn’t help but realize the boat was lower and slower. She said, “John, we’re going to swamp.”
I looked again at the gas gauge. The only chance we had at this point was to gun the engines and see what happened. I put my hand on the throttles and pushed them all the way forward.
The Formula moved out, slowly at first, then gathered some speed. We were taking on less water from the stern, but the boat was slamming hard and heavy into the oncoming waves. So hard, in fact, it was like hitting a brick wall every five seconds. I thought the craft was going to break up, but the fiberglass hull held.
Beth was holding on in her seat, rising and falling with each encounter with a wave.
Leaving it at full throttle was working, as far as keeping control and keeping from getting swamped, but it wasn’t doing much for fuel economy. Yet, I had no choice. In the great realm of trade-offs, I had traded off the certainty of sinking now against the certainty of running out of gas shortly. Big deal.
But my experience with fuel gauges—ever since I had my first car—was that they show either more fuel than you have left, or less fuel than you have left. I didn’t know how this gauge lied, but I would soon find out.
Beth said, “How’s the gas?”
“Fine.”
She tried to put a light tone in her voice and said, “Do you want to stop for gas and ask directions?”
“Nope. Real men don’t ask directions, and we have enough gas to get to Plum Island.”
She smiled.
I said to her, “Go below awhile.”
“What if we capsize?”
“We’re too heavy now to capsize. We’ll sink. But you’ll have plenty of warning. Take a break.”
“Okay.” She went below. I took the chart out of the open glove compartment and divided my attention between it and the sea. Off to the left in the far distance, I caught a glimpse of a flashing strobe light, and I knew that had to be Orient Point Lighthouse. I glanced at the chart. If I turned due north now, I would probably be able to find the Orient Point ferry slips. But there were so many rocks and shoals between the ferry and the lighthouse that it would take a miracle to get past them. The other possibility was to go on another two miles or so and try for the cove at Plum Island. But that meant going into Plum Gut, which was treacherous enough in normal tides and winds. In a storm—or hurricane—it would be … well, challenging, to say the least.
Beth came up the companionway, lurching from side to side and pitching forward, then back. I caught her outstretched hand and hauled her up. She presented me with an unwrapped chocolate bar. I said, “Thanks.”
She said, “The water’s ankle deep below. Bilge pumps are still working.”
“Good. The boat’s feeling a little lighter.”
“Terrific. Take a break below. I’ll drive.”
“I’m okay. How’s your little scratch?”
“It’s okay. How’s your little brain?”
“I left it onshore.” As I ate my chocolate bar, I explained our options.
She understood our chances clearly and said, “So, we can smash up on the rocks at Orient Point or drown in the Gut?”
“Right.” I tapped the fuel gauge and said, “We’re well past the point where we can turn back to Greenport.”
“I think we missed our opportunity there.”
“I guess so….” I asked her, “So? Orient or Plum?”
She looked at the chart awhile and said, “There are too many navigation hazards between here and Orient.” She looked out to the left and added, “I don’t even see any channel markers leading to Orient. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them haven’t broken loose and floated away.”
I nodded. “Yeah….”
Beth said, “And forget the Gut. Nothing less than an ocean liner could get through there in this storm.” She added, “If we had more fuel, we could ride this out until the eye passes over.” She looked up from the chart and said,
“We have no options.”
Which may have been true. Tom and Judy once told me that the instinct to sail toward land in a storm was often the wrong thing to do. The coast was treacherous, it was where the breaking waves could pulverize or capsize your boat or drive you into the rocks. It was actually safer to ride out the storm in the open sea as long as you had fuel or sail left. But we didn’t even have that option because we had a guy with a rifle and radar on our ass. We had no choice but to press on and see what God and nature had in store for us. I said, “We’ll hold course and speed.”
She nodded. “Okay. That’s about all we can do…. What—?”
I looked at her and saw she was staring toward the stern. I looked back, but saw nothing.
She said, “I saw him … I think I saw him.” Beth jumped up on the chair and managed to keep her balance for a second before she was
pitched off and onto the deck. She scrambled to her feet and shouted, “He’s right behind us!”
“Damn it!” I knew now that the son of a bitch definitely had radar. I was glad I hadn’t tried to get around him. I said to Beth, “It’s not that our luck is so bad, it’s that he has radar. He’s had a fix on us from the start.”
She nodded and said, “No place to run, no place to hide.”
“No place to hide for sure, but let’s try to run.”
I opened the throttles all the way, and we picked up more speed.
Neither of us spoke as the Formula cut heavily through the waves. I estimated we were making about twenty knots, which was about one third of what this boat could do in a calm sea and without a bilge- and cabinful of seawater. I guessed that the Chris-Craft could do at least twenty knots in this weather, which was why he was able to catch up to us. In fact, Beth said, “John, he’s gaining on us.”
I looked back and saw the vague outline of Tobin’s boat as it crested a huge wave about forty feet behind us. In about five minutes or less, he’d be able to place fairly accurate rifle fire on us, while my .38 and Beth’s 9mm pistol were really useless except for the occasional lucky shot. Beth asked me, “How many rounds do you have left?”
“Let’s see … the cylinder holds five … I shot four … so, how many bullets does the copper have left in—”
“This is not a fucking joke!”
“I’m trying to lighten the moment.”
I heard some four-letter words coming from Ms. Penrose’s prim mouth, then she asked me, “Can you get any more speed out of this fucking thing?”
“Maybe. Get something heavy down below and smash that windshield.”
She dove down below and came up with a fire extinguisher, which she used to smash the glass out of her wind-shield. Then she threw the extinguisher overboard.
I said, “At this speed, we’re not taking on as much water, and the pumps will lighten the weight a little more every minute, and we’ll pick up a little more speed.” I added, “Plus we’re burning all that heavy fuel.”