The Right to Know

by Michael Byars Lewis

  A smile crept across his face as Conrad marched into the lake and climbed on one of the watercraft. Maxim scurried from the SUV and shut the back. He rushed into the water and waded out to the boat.

  “Galina, it’s time,” he said, climbing into the boat. “He’s on the water.”

  22

  April 28, 1996

  JASON OPENED the throttle to full speed, and the Sea-Doo skirted across the vast lake. The experience—invigorating. The wind in his hair, the power of the motor beneath him, the sense of freedom. He made several circuits back and forth, racing against unseen foes in the middle of the lake. Each time, his trip became more challenging as his wake stirred the water’s surface.

  The life jacket he wore fit a little too tight, the buckles straining against the seams. His hair wet now from the spray that leaped up from the lake as he zipped back and forth. When he first started to ride motorcycles as a teenager, he had been told not to smile—that way, you kept the bugs out of your teeth. Today, he couldn’t help but smile. Aside from flying his jet, he couldn’t remember when he’d had so much fun. There weren’t any bugs out here, at least as far as he could tell, and the Oakley sunglasses wrapped around his head protected his eyes from the wind and spray.

  A boat approached his location from the west, and Jason eased off the throttle.

  There’s something you don’t see every day, he thought as the boat sped by: a topless girl waving from the back. She’s got to be cold. This requires further investigation.

  Releasing the pressure on the throttle, the Sea-Doo slowed, and Jason turned to follow the boat. He then cranked the throttle wide open in pursuit.

  The topless woman stood on the back of the boat, watching him as he closed. Her driver steered the boat to the left and Jason took advantage of lead pursuit, a technique learned in T-37 formation flying.

  If you were following someone and had difficulty gaining on them, as soon as they entered a turn, you pointed your nose in front of the nose of who you pursued. The further out you pointed, the quicker the closure rate. Of course, if you bid out too far, they reversed direction, and you were immediately displaced further than before.

  This boat didn’t reverse, almost as if they wanted him to gain on them.

  About thirty yards away, he got a much better look at the girl. Attractive, at least from this distance, the one-piece bathing suit pulled down to her waist. From the back of her boat, she kneeled on the seat and followed his every move.

  Distracted by the view, Jason failed to recognize the closure rate and jinked to the right and crossed behind the boat. His Sea-Doo went airborne as he cut across their wake. On the right side now, he turned back toward the boat, which headed toward him. The guy engaged him in a game of chicken.

  Okay, I bet it’s his first time playing chicken with a jet pilot. Well, student pilot.

  Jason adjusted the throttle and maneuvered for lead pursuit. The driver chopped his throttle and steered the boat back in his direction, creating a huge wake. The ski boat raced toward him, and they both broke to the right about twenty yards apart. The guy driving grinned as he turned; the topless gal stoically tracking him.

  The two watercraft drivers jockeyed for position and charged each other again. Both turned to their right, closer this time. Jason howled as he made the turn, gunning the throttle as his Sea-Doo hit the wake even faster, once again going airborne. Now, he was showing off.

  The two vessels separated amore considerable distance this time, each accelerating their watercraft. Jason realized his turning radius would be greater because of his speed, so he’d have to start his turn sooner. He wasn’t sure how that fit into the rules, but he’d rather be alive than be a winner at their silly game. Besides, it was about time for someone else to ride on the Sea-Doo.

  Jason bore down on the inbound boat and calculated when to start his turn from the incoming target. Like before, at the right moment, he veered right to avoid the speedy boat. Unlike the previous runs, the boat turned in to him. Jason glanced to his left as the bow of the boat reared out of the water, about to crash on top of him.

  PETE STOOD behind the wheel of his 1989 Maxum Marine 1700. With the motor in idle, he focused on his buddy driving the yellow Sea- Doo going one on one with the strangers in the boat. It was a game Pete and his classmates often played on the water, but only did with each other. It was a dangerous game. Pete had no idea who drove the other boat, and he knew damn well Jason didn’t know them. It was Jason’s first time at the lake with any of them. Pete admired how he handled the Sea-Doo but didn’t like how the “aqua-dogfight” accelerated in its intensity.

  Behind the seventeen-foot, maroon and black striped outboard motorboat, one of their classmates sat in the water. Pete kept the throttle in idle as his classmate struggled into his skis. The boat drifted away, taking all the slack out of the rope. The classmate yelled when the rope went taut, and Pete put the boat in reverse, keeping the propeller away from the rope.

  With the slack back in the rope, Pete returned the throttle to idle and looked back at Jason. His battle with the boat was on a collision course. Pete’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as the two sped toward each other. Jason broke off first and peeled to the right. Then, the inexplicable happened. The boat turned right into him.

  JASON’S EYES bulged as the bottom of the boat barreled toward him. Instinct overcame judgement, and he gunned the throttle. His Sea- Doo passed under the boat as it came crashing back to the surface. The bow of boat clipped the tail of the Sea-Doo, missing Jason’s back by inches and sending him flying into the lake. The key attached to his wrist sent the Sea-Doo into idle mode, rotating in a circle for its rider to climb back aboard.

  He sailed headfirst into the lake, the impact of the frigid water forcing the oxygen out of his lungs. After a moment tumbling underneath the cold water, his life preserver pivoted him upright and brought his head above water. Disoriented, he blew the water from his nose and shook his head. What the hell is that guy thinking? Is he crazy? Scanning the lake in all directions, he spotted the boat about fifty yards away, turning back toward him. They’d better be bringing him a damn beer.

  Bobbing in the cold lake, he located the Sea-Doo and swam in that direction. Halfway to the watercraft, he glanced back to see the boat finish its turn. Teeth chattering, he expected the boat to coast toward him to check and make sure he was okay. And to make an apology. When the engine power increased, and the bow rose from the water, their motives became clear.

  This asshole is gonna try and run me over. For what? Looking at his girl’s tits?

  Jason popped the clasps on the life preserver. He slipped out of the floatation device as the boat accelerated. Pushing himself under- water, he cursed himself for being correct. Bubbles rolled from his mouth; the sound drowned out by the motor passing overhead. The boat cut through the water, the wake of the propeller tussling his hair. Jason shot back to the surface, gasping for air. Despite wearing a wetsuit, the frigid water sucked the energy from his body. He couldn’t stay out here all day. Hypothermia would eventually set in, his feet, hands, and head entirely unprotected.

  He picked up the boat, which turned back toward him. As the boat moved closer, it eased off the speed and started a turn. In the back of the boat, the topless woman pulled her bathing suit back up, but still managed to hold his attention.

  She held a pistol with a silencer aimed right at him.

  23

  April 28, 1996

  Pete was positive Jason must have been hit by the jackass in the boat. The Sea-Doo trolled rider-less. He slammed the throttles of his boat forward. The classmate behind him was nowhere ready for that, and the rope handle shot out of his grasp, bouncing on the surface behind the boat.

  The renegade boat turned toward Jason, but Pete knew something was wrong. The boat wasn’t there to help. Not at that speed. It was trying to run him over.

  What the hell did Jason do to piss this guy off?

  The boat zipped by him a second ti
me, turning to set up another run. Pete guessed he was about a hundred yards away from his friend. He had to put himself between Jason and that boat.

  THE WOMAN in the back shot twice at Jason. Puffs of smoke spewed from the muzzle of the silencer. Grateful she was no marksman, he tucked his knees to his chest, rolled forward, then straightened his body pointing straight down. He sliced into the depths of the chilly lake as more bullets pierced the surface.

  Once his feet submerged, he kicked frantically to dive deeper, then shifted his body and swam horizontally. The pressure change at this depth squeezed his lungs, and he pinched his nose to Valsalva, clearing the pressure in his ears. He would have to come up for air eventually, and he didn’t want to be in the same place they found him in. After swimming from his original location for about a minute, his lungs stretched and burned like they were going to burst. Overhead, through the murky lake, the boat circled, and he swam behind it. He didn’t have the breath left to reach outside their search pattern.

  Kicking toward the surface, he timed it to where he would be about thirty feet behind the boat as it idled in its death circle. His body screamed for oxygen, the burning in his chest unbearable.

  As he broke the surface, his lungs cried out for fresh air. Gasping, he found his attackers, the woman with the pistol searching off the side of the boat. He gulped several deep breaths in before she looked in his direction and saw him. She fired indiscriminately, hollering at her partner as she slid to the back of the boat.

  She fired several more rounds before her partner gunned the throttle and turned to face him.

  Jason inhaled one last breath and dove back under the murky surface of the lake.

  AS PETE RACED toward the boat attacking his friend, he noticed the boat had slowed and drove in a circle. He eased off the throttle as he got closer. That’s when the woman in the back of the boat started shooting into the water behind them. He couldn’t hear the shots, but he saw the puffs of smoke.

  To their right, the Sea-Doo idled in a circle, a life vest floating on the surface. Jason was nowhere in sight. He increased his speed and steered straight at the boat, starting his own game of chicken.

  The driver of the boat picked up the new threat bearing down on him and shouted to the woman. He accelerated in the turn, jammed the throttle forward, and the hull reared out of the water. Pete turned after him, maneuvering his boat between them and the circling Sea-Doo. Jason had to be somewhere in the vicinity. He glanced at the woman on the back of the other boat. She looked familiar—like the conquest he had last night. But why would she be here?

  After the attack boat dashed toward the other side of the lake, Pete turned his attention toward the Sea-Doo, searching for Jason. When he didn’t see him, his search expanded in from the inside out. The idling Sea-Doo was a distraction of his search pattern. In seconds, Pete detected a different motion. Jason popped above the surface, fifty yards to his right. Pete steered in his direction and raced toward him, cutting the throttle as he approached, steering wide to bring the rope toward him.

  Only then, when he saw the handle of the ski rope dancing on the surface, did he realize, for the first time, he lost his passenger somewhere. No time to worry about that now.

  “Jason, are you okay?”

  Jason nodded and gave him a thumbs up.

  “The rope is coming toward you . . . grab it and hold on.”

  Pete tightened his circle, the rope behind the boat moving in his direction. Halfway through his turn, he saw the attackers turn their boat back in his direction. He shouted a warning to Jason, who grabbed the rope and worked his way down to the handle. Once he grasped the handle, Jason raised a hand and made a twirling motion.

  Straightening out, Pete slowly pushed the throttle up, then turned to check on his new passenger. He heard him yell from behind the boat, “Go! Go! Go!”

  The attack boat returned; perhaps aware Jason clung to the rope. Pete slammed the throttle full forward, hoping his friend would be able to hang on. When he glanced back, he was surprised to see his buddy barefoot skiing. Jason swung out to the far left, looking over his shoulder for the other boat.

  Who the hell are those guys? As they approached the shore where their classmates were, the attack boat had already veered back toward the center of the lake. Pete kept the speed up and made a broad turn to the left to let Jason ski back to the right toward shore. In the turn, he saw the classmate who attempted to ski behind his boat, wading toward the shore, both skis in his arms. Pete waved, and the guy gave him the middle finger. Moving the throttle to idle, Pete slowed the boat. Jason released the rope and sank into the water up to his knees.

  Once the motor was shut off, Pete tossed out the tiny anchor and climbed off the back of the boat, rushing toward shore. A couple of classmates waded out to meet him, asking about what was going on. Pete waved them off and hurried toward Jason, who’d made his way to land.

  Captain Jennifer Watson rushed up to Jason, babbling about his display of barefoot skiing, oblivious to what had taken place. Pete shook his head as the amorous instructor pilot’s hands roamed over his buddy, in front of the guy’s mother, no less. Jason pried himself free of her grasp and met him halfway. Grabbing Pete by the arm, Jason guided them away from the eyes and ears of everyone nearby.

  “Thanks for saving my ass,” Jason said.

  “No problem. What was that all about?”

  Jason went on to explain what he knew, which wasn’t much— other than the fact they tried to kill him. Several classmates surrounded them, missing the details of the story, but focused on the conclusion. There was going to be a fight. Across the lake, the attacker’s boat appeared to be close to shore.

  “Let’s go!” Jason said, picking up his Teva’s. “Let’s get some of the guys and go kick his ass.”

  Three of their classmates climbed in a car. Clint Weller grabbed another and took Pete’s boat to retrieve his Sea-Doo. Pete and Jason hurried to Pete’s truck.

  “They’re on the shore by now,” Pete said. “And they’ve got a gun.”

  “You’ve got a shotgun in your truck, right?” Jason was referring to Old Blue, Pete’s sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts. Let’s go.” Jason hopped in the passenger seat and reached behind him, retrieving the shotgun.

  “Easy there, Trigger,” Pete said, nestling in the driver’s seat and cranking the engine. “Let’s not let everyone at the lake know I’ve got a shotgun in here.”

  Pete peeled off, the three classmates in the car following close behind.

  “Any idea who they were?” Pete said, speeding around the outskirts of the lake toward the attack boat sat.

  “None. I guess next time I’ll leave the topless blonde alone.”

  Pete’s forehead scrunched. “The girl on the boat?”

  Jason nodded.

  Pete squeezed the steering wheel and glimpsed at his buddy. “Jason, I gotta tell you this may be my fault. She looks a lot like the girl I brought home last night.”

  Jason’s head tilted. “You think it was her?”

  Pete squinted. “Maybe. I might have mentioned we’d be at the lake today. I was kind of drunk last night, and I didn’t get a good look at her on the water. I was watching the pistol in her hand.”

  Jason nodded. “Never seen her before last night?”

  Pete shook his head. “Nope.”

  Jason patted his friend on the shoulder. “You know what this means, right?”

  “What?”

  “It means you must have been one helluva lousy lay.”

  The two laughed—that nervous laugh that comes after someone experiences a stressful event—as they pulled up near the shore where the boat was moored.

  “Let’s keep this quiet for now,” Jason said. “We’ll talk to Rusty when he gets here.”

  “Sure. You bet.” Pete searched the shore and the lake. The boat used to attack Jason sat stationary near the shore. He didn’t see anyone onboard. It d
idn’t matter at this point. By the time anyone could investigate, they would be long gone.

  They sat in the truck for a few minutes, searching the area. The guys in the other car walked over to the truck and asked what or who were they searching for.

  Jason sighed. “Nobody. They’re gone.”

  The three classmates climbed back in their car, and Pete led them back to the flight party. Jason stuck the shotgun behind the seat and didn’t speak the rest of the ride. Pete knew his buddy was worried. Somebody just tried to kill him. It’s got to be a scary thing to happen, particularly when it happened a lot. Pete parked, and the two walked back to the picnic table.

  Jason’s mother approached them and handed each of them a beer. “Everything okay? Things got a little intense on the lake, and then you two took off.”

  “Yeah,” Jason replied. “We were just talking about power settings for barefoot skiing.”

  Alicia pursed her lips as she looked across the lake. “Right. And you two had to rush off to the other side of the lake, with back-up, to discuss it?”

  Pete could tell she saw through the BS. She tilted her head in the direction of Jennifer, who patiently waited her turn to fawn over Jason.

  “Who’s the stripper?”

  Pete chuckled. “She’s not a stripper. If you can believe it, she’s one of our instructors.”

  Her eyebrows raised as she turned to her son. “Well, I can see why you boys like pilot training so much. I’m surprised you’d want to graduate,” she said.

  Pete blushed. He glanced at his buddy, who started to remove his wetsuit.

  “She’s . . .” Jason hesitated. “She’s less Miss Right and more Miss Right Now. Thankfully, I don’t have time right now.”