The House at Hull

by Karl Tutt

  Chapter 17

  They marched us out the sliding glass doors toward the boat house. Oscar kept the Glock trained on us while Melanie shed her heels and stepped into a brightly waxed blue hull Back Cove 34. I’d guess probably 250 K . . . and that was “used”. At least we were going out in class. She fired up the Cunnins diesel. It spit a bit of gray smoke, then purred like a large well-fed feline.

  “Mr. Dombroski, I am aware that you have some experience operating power craft. I’d like you to drive, but remember that I have my pistol pointed at the chest of your associate. I seriously doubt he would survive a .40 round at the range. Melanie, please keep your pop gun trained on our chauffer. Don’t hesitate to use it, if necessary.”

  I followed Oscar’s instructions and headed out past the narrows toward the open sea. He gave me a compass course. We stayed at about 20 knots. I didn’t know where he was headed or how much time we had, but the seconds were ticking away. If we got out far enough, the only creatures that would recover our bodies were the fish and the crabs. Eleisha knew where we’d gone, but that wasn’t much comfort as the hull skirted over the small chop and the miles ticked away. I had a fond hope that somebody would write a kind obituary.

  I looked back to see the Boston skyline growing smaller. Then I spotted a big Sport Fisher heading into the harbor. He had to be making 30 knots and his wake was white and foamy. I eased the helm over towards the blue rocket. It was a long shot, but it could easily be our last one. I needed to get closer to have even a slight chance. Oscar still had the business end of the Glock much too close to Billy’s chest. Melanie was squeezing the small .22. She was obviously frightened. I just wished she wasn’t squeezing too tightly. Even in the flat water, she seemed a little queasy. A touch of sea sickness wouldn’t hurt our cause.

  We closed on the Sport Fish and the wake bubbled and rolled. I turned the helm again slightly, then spun the Back Cove head up into the mountain of churning water. The hull slapped and bounded into the short trough. The boat jerked and so did Melanie.

  I have a strict policy against kicking women, but in this case I decided to make an exception. My foot hit her squarely in the belly. She grunted, gasped and disappeared over the side into the froth. I cut back the throttle. Then I heard an explosion behind me, but the Glock had gone high. I quickly eyed a gaping hole in the Bimini. The lead hadn’t missed my head by nearly enough. Billy buried a left fist in Oscar’s gut, then hit him with an artful right cross. As the gunman collapsed on the deck, the detective came down with a left to the temple of the shooter’s head. Oscar lay on the fiberglass, bleeding like a tuna that had just been landed. Billy picked up the .40 and pointed at the prostrate form until he was sure the man was unconscious. Then he grabbed his cuffs and pulled Oscar’s hands behind his back. The loud click was definitely reassuring.

  “Okay,” Billy huffed, “I know you don’t want to, but we gotta go back for the lady.”

  I mumbled “shit” and hesitated for a moment. I hate it when Billy is right. I flipped the Back Cove around and Billy threw a life-ring. She grasped it like a hungry dog. We dropped the boarding ladder and she scrambled aboard, whimpering like an abandoned puppy.

  We were back to the dock in forty minutes. Billy’s car was parked behind the house, but Shasta was nowhere to be found. Billy did the Miranda thing again to the unhappy couple and we loaded our catch into the back of the police car. Oscar was still groggy and Melanie shivered, her teeth chattering every once in a while. I really didn’t mind.

  Billy and his troops picked up Shasta at Todd’s. She had told him the parts of the story that she could get away with. They didn’t arrest her, but she was willing to go to the station for questioning. She didn’t even request an attorney. That told us something.

  I wasn’t present when Billy interviewed the girl, but apparently she cried a lot. No . . . she did not know about any plot to do away with the Bridgetons. Yes, she left her cell phone on the kitchen table in Cohasset on occasions. Yes, she knew her parents were in financial trouble. Yes, she loved Todd’s parents, and particularly Cherie. No, there were no ulterior motives in her proposed marriage to Todd. Yes, she loved him and was prepared to make a life, have his children, and be a loving wife and mother. When Billy told me the tale, I thought again about the drama program at Wellesley. But there was nothing that didn’t make at least a little sense.

  According to Billy, it was all exactly as the script should have read. Two young lovers deep into the throes of passion and promising eternal devotion. It would probably play well with the right jury, if it came to that. But did he believe her? Mostly. They let her go on her own recognizance with a warning not to leave town, and to remain available if they needed to talk to her again.