by Nancy Skopin
I dug my sunglasses out of my purse, put them on, and walked casually toward the guest dock. I needed time to think. I tried not to look over my shoulder, but found I didn’t have that much self-control. I glanced back a couple of times and no one was following me.
When I got back to the boat I asked Cliff to stay below-deck for the moment. He looked confused, but did as I asked without question. I lit a cigarette and planted myself at the rail facing the yacht club. The logical thing to do would be to put as much distance as possible between us and the assassin, as quickly as possible. However, my instincts told me to stand and fight. The only obvious enemy was the guy who looked like Nicolas Cage, but what if he wasn’t alone? I thought back to when he’d been following us in South San Francisco yesterday. He had been alone then. I wished I had more than the Glock in my arsenal. I would have to utilize the element of surprise.
Leaning down into the open hatch, I said, “Cliff, I’m going to be gone for a little while. If I’m not back in an hour, I want you to take your disk and go directly to the nearest television station. I think there’s one at Jack London Square in Oakland. Tell them everything. Get your story on the air as fast as you can.”
“Where are you going?”
I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’ll tell you when I get back. Stay below-deck, please, and keep the hat on. I’m taking the gun.”
I picked up the Glock and secured it in my pistol purse, which I draped crossbody over my head, resting the strap on my right shoulder. I scanned the shoreline for signs of trouble, then stepped off the boat and headed toward the marina parking lot, scanning the rows of cars for the black Volvo. I was guessing our opponent would hang around the yacht club long enough to be certain the EMTs weren’t able to resuscitate Neal.
I found the Volvo parked under a tree not far from the launch ramp. The driver’s side door was unlocked. Unbelievable. I opened it, watching over my shoulder the whole time, and climbed in. I rifled the glove box and found no registration. Not surprising. What I did find, however, was a list containing the names of the seven students who had been in Matzek’s study group with Cliff. All the names were crossed off except Neal Cooperman. He was the last one. Cliff’s name was not on the list. I folded the paper and stuffed it in my pocket.
I turned around and checked the parking lot through the rear windshield, then reached into the backseat where I rummaged through fast food wrappers and soft drink cans. Under a blanket on the floor I found a .22 caliber Ruger pistol. It was a Mark II Government model with a bull barrel, and it was equipped with a suppressor. This was turning out to be my lucky day. I wished I could say the same for Neal Cooperman. I checked the back window again, then tucked the gun into the waistband of my shorts and slipped out of the car and into the bushes. When I was fully hidden I popped out the magazine to make sure the gun was loaded. It was, with lead azide tipped rounds. They explode on impact. Very nasty.
My quarry didn’t return to his ride immediately and I wondered if he was waiting around for me and Cliff. My legs started aching from the crouched position I had to maintain in order to conceal myself. Just when I was ready to give up and sneak back to the boat, I spotted him on the sidewalk, heading my way. I ducked back down and waited. As he approached his car I finally got a good look at him and decided that he wasn’t really a match for Nicolas Cage after all. He wasn’t more than 5’10”, and Cage was six feet tall. He had a thin, white scar running from the tip of his right eyebrow to his jaw-line, and his hair was black rather than the warm chestnut brown I associate with Cage. And, of course, this guy was Asian. Cage is Italian, Polish, German, English, and Scottish. Not that I’m a fan or anything.
As he turned his back to me and reached to open the driver’s side door I made my move. I lunged out of the shrubbery and pressed the Ruger against his temple while grabbing hold of his belt for leverage.
“Move and you’re dead,” I hissed. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins and I wondered if this cold-blooded killer was half as frightened of me as I was of myself. “Hands on the hood of the car. Face forward. Do it! Now!!” My voice sounded gravelly.
I moved the Ruger to the middle of his back while I patted him down. I didn’t find anything until I reached his ankles. Strapped to his right ankle was a Velcro holster containing a Smith and Wesson 9mm Sigma. Strapped to his left was a sheath containing a hunting knife. I tucked the Sigma in the pocket of my cargo shorts, then carefully removed the knife from its sheath, holding it by the ridged bone hilt with two fingers. I glanced at the knife before tossing it into the bushes. There was blood on it.
“Okay, shithead,” I whispered. “Who do you work for?”
“Fuck you,” he responded.
“I think I’ll pass. Tell me who you work for and I won’t shoot your nuts off.” I placed my left hand on the back of his neck, then lowered the gun and thrust it between his legs. His head popped up and I slammed it down against the hood of the car. My shoulder protested, loudly. “I wouldn’t move if I were you. The safety’s off and I’m feeling a little twitchy.”
“I can‘t tell you,” he said into the hood of the car.
“I think I should warn you that after I shoot off your balls I plan to shoot out both kneecaps. You’ll bleed to death slowly and painfully. Won’t even be able to crawl for help. I think you should reconsider.” I hoped my bluff worked. I felt like I was about to hurl.
“I got a list of names and a cash advance in the mail,” he said. “Every time I eliminate one of the targets, the fee is wired to my offshore account.”
“Has anyone been added to the list?” I asked, my pulse racing.
He hesitated a beat too long. “No.”
“How did you know Neal would be at the yacht club today?”
“I followed him.”
“Okay,” I said.
I hoped he was telling the truth about the list, but in my gut I knew he wasn’t. Why was he following me and Cliff yesterday if we weren’t on his hit list? No reason I could think of.
I raised the Ruger and brought it down with all the strength I possessed onto the crown of his head. He exhaled explosively and collapsed on the ground in a heap. I quickly checked his pulse. He was alive. I grabbed one of his feet and dragged his body into the bushes using only my right arm. This took a couple of minutes, since dragging dead weight is a chore under the best of circumstances and by now my whole body was vibrating. I felt like I might be going into shock, but I was determined.
When I had successfully hidden his body, I looked around the parking lot for any signs of activity. Apparently our entire conversation, at gunpoint, had gone unnoticed. What are the odds? I probably had Neal to thank for the distraction.
I figured I didn’t have much time left, so I held the Ruger with the silencer against his right palm, and then his left, firing a single round through each. Then, without thinking too much about it, I shot his left shinbone. I wanted him out of commission and unable to use a weapon, but I don’t have the disposition to kill anyone unless they’re immediately threatening my life or the lives of my loved ones. Since he was presently unconscious, he didn’t qualify. I’d probably kick myself later for letting him live.
I tucked the Ruger into my purse and walked back toward the yacht club. My knees felt like they might buckle at any moment, but I forged ahead, promising myself that I would collapse as soon as we were safely out to sea.
The EMTs had given up on Neal by the time I got back, and were waiting for the police and the coroner. I stopped one of them on his way to the ambulance and told him I’d seen two guys fighting in the parking lot near the launch ramp.
“They were next to a black Volvo,” I said. “I think I heard a gunshot.”
That got his attention. He holstered his radio and rushed off to get his partner.
On my way back to the guest dock I stopped in the deserted yacht club kitchen and filled a couple of empty trash bags with all the canned food and bottled water I could carry. The canned food incl
uded something called “Meat It.” Probably best not to think about the ingredients. I had the foresight to swipe a can opener before I headed back to the dock. My shoulder and neck were throbbing like crazy now that the adrenaline was wearing off.
When I got to the guest dock I dumped the food, water, and my purse on the deck of the boat, untied the Nonsuch, and climbed aboard. Cliff was still below deck holding the mini cassette recorder. He looked up through the open hatch. I saw the pain and confusion in his eyes, but both would have to wait.
“I’m sorry, Cliff,” I said, as I maneuvered the Nonsuch out of the marina. “Neal’s dead.”
Cliff didn’t ask any questions, nor did he seem all that surprised. Only sad. As soon as we were underway I asked him to take the helm, instructing him to keep the boat between the red and green markers of the narrow channel leading away from the marina. The waters on either side of this channel are shallow and have unmarked shoals— underwater sandbars that can shift and change position. The last thing we needed was to run aground here.
When I was sure Cliff understood the risks, I turned to the rail and dug the Ruger with the silencer and my cell phone out of my purse. I dropped them both, and the Sigma, into the water, and then I threw up over the side. When I was past the dry heave point I started crying. Cliff said nothing. I cried until I felt exhausted and fed-up with myself, and then I wiped my eyes, rinsed my mouth with water, and started thinking again.
I narrowed our options down to two. Brayden Russell, a high profile investigative journalist who worked for ABC, or Ross Norris, an internationally renowned environmental activist. Either way we needed to get to Washington, D.C. We had to go public as quickly as possible, but we needed a credible advocate. People were being killed to keep them quiet. We needed to make a lot of noise if we wanted to stay alive.
As we cleared the final set of markers for the San Leandro Channel, I took the helm and asked Cliff to raise the sail. I cut the engine and changed course, steering west by northwest to take the shortest route back toward the main shipping channel while avoiding the hazardous shoals off of Coyote Point.
We entered the shipping channel and I put the helm to starboard, heading north past Oyster Point, Hunter’s Point, and China Basin, sailing along the San Francisco City Front. We cruised without incident under the Bay Bridge, which was completely jammed with commuters. Once clear of the bridge I steered a westerly course and started the engine again. I had Cliff make a minor adjustment to the sail trim, then pointed the boat toward the Golden Gate. I prefer to motor-sail while passing through the Gate, due to the unpredictable nature of other sea-going traffic combined with the dangerous currents through that passage.
We motor-sailed far out into deep water in order to stay well clear of the steep, choppy swells closer to shore. Open ocean swells are far easier to deal with, unless you suffer from seasickness. Once we were well clear of the shore and within sight of the Farallon Islands, I turned south and shut down the engine.
CHAPTER 25
SPRING IS NOT THE TIME of year I would have chosen for this particular cruise. There were low-pressure systems spinning down out of the Gulf of Alaska, so the wind was hitting us out of the west northwest when we first set out, creating some intense swells that would likely persist until we rounded Point Conception. The stretch between the San Francisco Bay and Point Conception can also be hazardous because of the rogue waves caused by current impulses. Riding them is a lot of fun for experienced sailors, but can quickly turn dangerous if the boat broaches. When that happens the stern gets swung around and the swell hits you broadside, which can result in the boat doing a three hundred and sixty degree rollover. This can throw crew overboard, damage or destroy the mast, or sink the boat altogether. If that happened we’d be stuck in the dinghy, providing it didn’t get pulled under with the Nonsuch.
I tried not to dwell too much on the negative possibilities, remembering something Patton used to say to his troops before they went into battle. “Pay attention! But don’t worry.” It’s good advice if you have enough self-discipline to take it.
The provisions I’d appropriated from the yacht club lasted us all the way to San Diego, where we stopped to refuel, refill the water tank, and empty the holding tank. We stocked up on fresh fruit and vegetables, lots of canned food, drinking water, sunscreen, warm water-resistant clothing, foul weather gear, and ammunition. We’d been able to get down the west coast using the GPS, but purchased charts to see us through the remainder of our voyage to D.C.
Cliff and I kept the Nonsuch moving twenty-four hours a day. We slept in shifts and used the small shower as seldom as possible in an effort to conserve water. With the engine shut down, the only sound apart from our sparse conversation was the sleek hull slicing through the water, the wind filling the ample sail, and the screech of an occasional seabird. The fresh, briny, ozone-filled air was a comfort to me during my night sailing shifts, when I had only our running lights for company. During those hours I felt totally connected to the vast, unknowable ocean, and it filled me with a sense of peace.
On our third day out the VHF weather bulletins warned of a storm forming in the Gulf of Alaska and riding the jet stream into the Eastern Pacific, but we managed to outrun it with nothing more serious than a slight increase in wind velocity blowing us toward shore.
It had taken us almost three days to get to San Diego, and it took another two weeks to reach the Panama Canal, including stops for fuel and provisions. During that time I watched an almost miraculous transformation take place in Cliff. His light brown hair had turned golden blond. He looked muscular, tan, and very handsome with a full beard. He was almost unrecognizable. I felt good about that. If we failed to gain the necessary attention in D.C., Cliff could probably successfully disappear. Even more remarkable than the physical transformation was the change in his level of self-esteem. Maybe it was being at sea and experiencing his own competence, or maybe it was just being away from his parents. Hard to say. But Cliff was now self-assured, relaxed, and a lot of fun to be around.
When we arrived in Panama we had to request clearance from the Canal Authority and arrange for line handlers. The delay was maddening. I thought we were safe as long as we kept moving, but being anchored made me feel like we were sitting ducks. We spent most of our time onboard the boat, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves in any way, only going ashore briefly for fresh food and water, and a magnetic chess set, so Cliff and I would have something to do. We kept the VHF radio on at a low volume, scanning the local cruisers’ network and hailing frequencies, listening in on the conversations of other boaters in the area.
Inactivity has always been like torture for me. When my mind isn’t occupied with forward motion it turns on itself. I desperately wanted to contact Bill, Jim, Elizabeth, and my mom, to let them know we were alive and well, but I was afraid to use the radio and equally afraid to call from a pay phone at any of the stops we made along the way.
I felt guilty about causing so much worry, but I didn’t see any safe way of contacting my friends without also alerting those who wished us dead. I was convinced that the phones of everyone close to me had, by now, been tapped, and I couldn’t risk endangering any of them. I had an empty, desperate feeling in my gut whenever I thought about Buddy, who was undoubtedly bewildered by my absence.
Our passage through the Canal was more or less uneventful. We did have some close calls with larger boats and with the lock walls, although our line handlers managed to appear bored the whole time. We were warned not to swim in Gatun Lake as we were passing through, because it’s a favorite habitat of crocodiles. We spotted a few that were at least fifteen feet long. From a distance they’re beautiful and so graceful in the water, but neither of us had any desire to meet one up close.
Once we made it through the canal and were free of that restraint I began to feel more secure. When the weather was calm and we were both awake at the same time, Cliff talked about his childhood. He said his mom had been very nurturing and at
tentive, probably to compensate for his father’s lack of affection, but she had also been overly protective. His father had been critical and occasionally violent, and Cliff had learned to fear him at an early age. The combination had created a young man who didn’t believe he could make it in the real world because he wasn’t tough enough. He’d only had one relationship with a woman, while he was in college, and it hadn’t ended well. She’d informed Cliff that he was too needy. Ouch.
We dropped anchor in the Gulf of Mexico off Yucatan, and again in the Florida Keys. I allowed myself to relax long enough to give Cliff swimming lessons. It took a lot of coaxing to get him in the water at first, even with the life vest on, but once he’d learned the fundamentals he couldn’t wait for the next opportunity to go for a swim. This could not be the same guy who’d skulked into my office, apologizing for bothering me with his problems. I liked this guy. He was playful, capable, and resourceful. He had a sense of humor! I wondered what would happen to the new Cliff when he saw his parents again.
My nerves began to vibrate as we rounded Florida and I sensed our destination drawing closer. Once we entered the Gulf Stream, the prevailing south-to-north current made for a fairly quick trip. We sailed through the Bermuda Triangle and, apart from a tingling sensation around the base of my spine and the incredible azure blue of the waters, there was nothing particularly mystical about that part of the trip.
We continued up the Eastern Seaboard to Norfolk and the Chesapeake Bay. As we neared D.C., I became increasingly uneasy until it became almost a physical knot in my solar plexus. I don’t know much about satellite technology, but I suspected we could be tracked using nothing more than the sound of our voices, should some agency within the government truly wish to locate us. I could only hope that Cliff’s father had successfully petitioned to cancel our executions, but maybe they were just waiting to see what we would do next.