Early that morning, Obsession had traveled through the main shipping lanes, passing hundreds of oil rigs that dotted the Louisiana coastal waters before breaking out into the wilderness of the gulf around noon. The run south at her cruising speed of seventeen knots had been a comfortable ride all through the afternoon. Now, two hundred nautical miles from the Keys and a hundred off Florida’s west coast, it looked as if it’d be a fine night. They’d reach Key West by morning. Right on schedule.
Chris zipped up her light jacket a little in the crisp wind; her shorts-clad legs chilled pleasantly. The helm console gauges, gleaming green against the growing dark, showed Obsession in working order, shipshape in Bristol fashion. Hortense evidenced no sign of vibration. The new carbon monoxide idiot lights Chris had installed the last day in New Orleans were dull; thanks to Smitty’s welding job, which Chris had double-checked, no more exhaust was being vented into the engine room.
And McLellan was still in Galveston, forced to stay there by Antonio Garza and Gus Perkins.
Her search of Smitty’s cabin, in the middle of his first duty at the wheel, had turned up nothing. Much as her mental gymnastics had developed no theory, at least none that made any sense, about the exhaust pipe sabotage. It was as though the Sabotage Fairy had struck, then disappeared without a trace. Smitty’s concerned report that night about the drilled hole had sounded genuine. If he had drilled it, wouldn’t he have simply welded it over and said nothing?
Or was she just hopelessly naive?
Chris was getting used to the lump her Ruger made under her pillow. And waking instantly at the slightest creak of the passageway floor outside her cabin. Over the course of the day, she had already become as attuned to the movements of her passengers as she was to Claire’s hiccup upon starting and the rhythms of bilge pump and air-conditioning.
And here was Russ, emerging from the pilothouse, right on time. “Good evening,” she said.
He handed her a frosty bottled water. “Weather fax came in. It’s clear sailing for the night.”
“Good news.”
“Heard anything from your sister?”
Chris shook her head. “Only a quick call in New Orleans to say she was okay. But I gave her the satellite phone number so she can reach us out here.”
“Still on schedule?”
“She’ll be on Isladonata in two days.”
“I looked at one of your charts. It’d be hell trying to pick that island out of the five hundred sitting out there.”
Chris nodded. “Thank God for lat-longs.”
Russ lowered his stocky body onto the bench seat near the helm console and set his own coffee on the side table. “We probably all need to sit down and have a talk about strategy for getting in.”
“Agreed,” Chris said, wondering why when Russ suggested a war session it didn’t feel as if he was trying to take over. Not like McLellan had. As the sun collapsed onto land, she wondered if she’d ever see McLellan again and felt again the hollowness. He would have loved this leg of the trip, all the fathomless water. Damn him.
“Your sister understands our situation, doesn’t she?”
“She knows we’re dead if she slips up,” she said as she twisted the cap off her bottle.
“Good.”
His stout nod and matter-of-fact manner reassured Chris almost against her will. He was all cop, carried himself with that confidence and bearing she associated with a state trooper’s trustworthiness. But she hadn’t decided yet whether she could trust him or Perfect Jacquie, no matter how friendly they appeared.
Hang on for the ride, she reminded herself. When the plan breaks down, play it by ear.
No matter how crazy that made her nerves. Chris glanced at the compass and nudged Obsession farther east. All the best intentions in the world to “play it by ear” couldn’t easily override a lifetime of habit. She’d planned and executed plans since she was ten years old and watched her mother lose the cancer battle. Understanding things—that was the only way Chris knew how to deal with problems. If she could just get her brain around the facts, if she could mark out a plan for working through the problem, then she could manage—
“Jacquie said you and McLellan got into it over this whole protective custody thing,” Russ said.
“You could say that.”
“I know it’s none of my business—”
“And it’ll probably stay that way.” Chris kept her voice even. Still being pissed about being held hostage wasn’t really productive. Time to move on. “I’d prefer not to talk about it.”
“I just wanted to say he’s a good man. The best in his field, in my book. Knows what he’s doing in a tight spot.”
“Chalk it up to a little disagreement over what’s best for whom.”
The wind snatched Russ’s laughter from his lips. “I got the impression the other night he had a decided interest in your personal welfare, Captain.”
“Nice show,” she agreed. “Backstage is a different story.”
“I reckon it is.”
Chris flushed with annoyance at his lightly sarcastic tone. “This started as my voyage, Mr. LeBlanc. My sister’s life is at stake. I’m not interested in fighting Connor McLellan every damned step of the way because he’s obsessed with whether I go to the store by myself or not. I can’t waste time arguing over nonessentials.”
“Nonessentials isn’t what we’re talking about.” Russ stood up and leaned against the helm console, just where McLellan used to when he kept her company. “I think you’ve got some kind of idea about how this thing’s gonna go and what everybody’s gonna do and how it’s all gonna turn out. It won’t be anything like you expect. I promise you that. You’re not bulletproof.”
Chris tried to catch hold of the fear suddenly spiraling in her chest and missed. Was he threatening her? “What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re not a cop and you’re not a criminal. You don’t know what these Isladonata guys might do. No amount of you walking around believing it’ll be the way you want it to be is gonna change that.”
“I’ve already had this conversation with Jacquie. I know I’m out of my league—”
“Connor McLellan is the guy who’s going to even the score for you.”
Chris ignored her trembling fingers as she said, “And Smitty.”
Russ stared at her. “Yeah,” he said slowly, “True. There’s Smitty.” He blew out a breath. The green instrument lighting cast his strong features as impervious as rock.
“I just want my sister safe and away from Jerome Scintella,” Chris repeated. The words, echoing back at her from the limitless dark of dangerous engine rooms and handgun barrels, suddenly felt like a mantra that had lost its power. “Putting me under house arrest wasn’t going to help that situation.”
“You’re wrong there. You’re the one keeping your sister sane with your phone calls. You’re the one keeping this tub afloat and running. You’re the one who’s going to make us look like we belong on Isladonata.”
“Why don’t you just take the lat-longs and call in the big guns?” Chris asked.
“Because your sister would be dead before the first chopper landed. McLellan insisted we do it this way, to give us a chance to get Natalie out before the shooting starts.” Russ pushed off the console. “His heart’s in the right place, whether you can see that or not. Your safety’s part of the equation.”
“I can take care of myself,” she snapped. “I always have.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“Not in so many words—”
“Because the last person who told him that was his brother. About four days before he died.”
She caught her breath. “You knew his brother?”
“Jacquie and I were there when they pulled Sean out of the water.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was a drug dealer, pretty high up in the organization,” Russ said. “But Connor had convinced him to roll his boss. Sean died in a bad sting operation.”
“Three shots to the back of the head? No, it wasn’t an accident.”
She saw again McLellan’s anguish, his dark anger over his brother’s death, his clenched fist of rage.
Smitty had lied.
Before she could say anything to Russ, Smitty popped onto the flybridge, steaming coffee mug in hand.
“Are you harassing my girlfriend?” he asked Russ.
Chris felt the agent’s scrutiny as he answered, “I don’t think so.”
Smitty bumped his shoulder companionably against Chris’s, sending her nerves screaming. “First mate reporting for duty, darlin’. You ready to take a break?”
Chris managed a nod. She relinquished the wheel to Smitty, then automatically recorded the latest heading and position statements in the log book. Routine. Yes. That would calm her down until she could talk to Russ and Jacquie alone, when she was absolutely sure Smitty couldn’t overhear them. Maybe Key West, when she could send him ashore for something.
“What’s for dinner?” she asked as she stowed the book in the helm’s cabinet.
Smitty rubbed his stomach. “Jambalaya and dirty rice, cooked up by our very own Miss Jacqueline Adair.”
“I’m headed that way, too,” Russ said.
When they reached the dinette, Russ slid his stocky frame onto the bench seat and grabbed his utensils with both hands, then looked expectantly at the galley like an anxious hound.
“What can I help you with?” Chris asked Jacquie, glad for the temporary relief of relative domesticity.
Jacquie’s trademark scarf, a red one this time, wrapped tightly now around the neat bun she wore, bobbed as she opened the oven door to remove a deep pan. “Nothing right now.” She parked the pan, overflowing with fluffy white bread, on a potholder. “All I ask is cooperation with the dishwashing later.”
“Smells great,” Chris remarked. “Beats the TV dinner Smitty microwaved for me last night.”
Jacquie’s brows quirked as she ladled steaming jambalaya from a metal pot into bowls. “I’m not even going to tell you what I think about Smitty’s food of choice, even though he seems to like the good stuff.”
“As long as somebody else cooks it,” Russ volunteered, accepting a bowl from Chris.
“I heard that!” Smitty yelled from the pilothouse. He stuck his head through the galley door. “I’m moving to the lower helm. It’s gettin’ kinda windy up top.”
“You just want to eavesdrop on us,” Jacquie accused. “What are you afraid you’re going to miss?”
Smitty winked at Chris. “The good stuff.”
“How windy is it?” Chris asked him, ignoring the fear threading her spine.
“Very. Damn near blew my do off.” He passed his hand over his barely thinning hair. He disappeared from the galley, presumably gone forward to the pilothouse helm.
Not far enough away to have a private conversation. Yet.
“Why are you getting up?” Jacquie asked her as Chris scooted out of the dinette.
“I need to check the sailing tender. I didn’t lash her back down after we took her out in New Orleans.”
“I got it.” Jacquie waved her hand at Chris to sit back down, then swept off her apron. “You’ve been working. Eat.”
“Nice little sailboat,” Russ said conversationally as Jacquie slipped out the sliding salon door and up the rear flybridge steps. “She speedy?”
“Flies when she’s got her shoulder in, yeah. A little tricky when the wind pipes up.”
“The best kind of sailin’.”
A sudden snap, like a breaking board, sounded directly overhead.
“What the hell?” Russ said, sliding from the dinette seat.
Sudden movement—the briefest glimpse of falling, a woman’s body—outside the galley windows caught Chris’s attention.
“Jacquie!” Chris shot out of the dinette and ran into the pilothouse. “Circle slow to starboard!” she ordered Smitty as she punched the Man Overboard button on the GPS mounted over his head. “Jacquie’s gone in.” Chris slapped the searchlight on and aimed it down into the water. “Russ, see if you can spot her.” As Russ grabbed the searchlight lever, she darted out the pilothouse’s door onto the starboard deck.
Outside, she scanned the surface for a flailing hand, a flash of scarf. Nothing. Obsession’s engines growled steadily as Smitty backed them down to a low RPM. Jacquie didn’t call out or scream. The searchlight’s broad beam illuminated only the long, rolling waves. The moon lingered overhead, casting feeble diamonds on the water. Chris suddenly couldn’t remember what color Jacquie had been wearing. Obsession circled. The searchlight’s beam traveled slowly over the waves, penetrating the water at the crests to reveal small fish swirling.
Then she saw it: a red shirt wafting just beneath the surface.
“Kill the engines!” she shouted. “Russ! Can you see her?”
“Got her!”
Chris ran to the bow and jerked open the emergency gear cabinet. She cinched the rescue harness on and hauled out the two hundred foot coil of high-strength lifeline. The life ring went over her shoulder and another coil of lifeline snap-shackled onto it.
Back at the open deck door, she dropped the life ring on the deck and knelt to tie the two lifelines onto a mooring cleat.
“Russ!” she said. When he came out on deck, she said, “Show Smitty where to keep the light. I may need you to throw this to me when I get there.”
“Let me go in—”
“Have you rescued anyone before?”
“No, but—”
“Smitty!”
Just inside the open door, Smitty’s face shone pale beneath his tan. “Ma’am.”
“You were search and rescue. You gonna go in after Jacquie?”
The fear—no, the terror—she saw in his frozen expression, the redness around his eyes, told her everything she needed to know about his Coast Guard days. Post-traumatic stress.
“Forget it,” she snapped. “And kill those engines like I told you.”
“Ma’am,” he said in almost a whisper.
She handed Russ the life ring and its coil of line. “If I yell at you, throw it high and past us. Got it?”
He nodded.
She turned and dove.
The water iced her veins the moment she hit it. She swam toward the halo of light where Jacquie’s shirt billowed, like a falling skydiver’s, beneath the waves just out of reach. Tugging a little more lifeline out, she dove under.
The light disappeared. Her eyes stung in the salt water. If this was just the shirt and Jacquie had gone down… The shirt fabric brushed her hand. She grabbed and pulled. It was heavy, thank God.
Chris drew Jacquie to the surface and turned the woman’s face up, into air. Unconscious. Have to do this the hard way.
She caught Jacquie around the chest and swam toward Obsession. The water wavered beneath the searchlight. This woman weighs more than she looks, Chris thought abstractedly. Have I swum that far? Where’s the damned boat? She turned her head. Another fifty feet. Easy enough. She snuffled water, coughed.
Her arms were burning by the time she reached the yacht.
“The life ring won’t work!” Chris shouted up. “She’s out cold. Grab a harness from the kit up front.”
“I’m on it.” Russ’s authoritative voice reassured her.
Chris held hard to the end of the lifeline tied to the mooring cleat while the waves lifted and dropped them. She tipped Jacquie’s head back against her own shoulder, trying to keep the woman’s face out of the water. Obsession’s house lights illuminated a slight halo around her hull, easing the dark. Behind her, the lifeline floated like a streamer, carried away by the current. Jacquie bled from a nasty cut behind her ear, probably from hitting the deck rail on the way down when she fell. Chris tried to remember whether sharks cruised this far north.
A rescue harness splatted the water next to her, lifeline attached. Chris wrestled t
he harness around Jacquie’s inert form, fighting not to lose her. Once Jacquie was secured, Chris cinched the harness snugly and fastened the buckle. “Okay! Pull her up!”
Chris held Jacquie’s head out of the water as the harness, its lifeline attached at the waist, began to draw her out of the water. She looked up. Russ hauled Jacquie out hand over hand. She’d forgotten to tell him to use the crane on the coach house roof. Still, he was a strong man. He could handle the weight. He grabbed Jacquie’s harness and pulled her into the pilothouse.
Chris waited to be hauled out next, bobbing and resting, letting the adrenaline drain away. Clouds streamed away from the moon. Behind them, stars dimpled the sky. What could Jacquie have done to make her fall? she wondered. In a moment, she heard Russ and Smitty talking.
Then Smitty’s words chilled her to the bone. “I’ll start the engines.”
“No!” she screamed as one engine fired up, “the lifeline could get caught in the props!” The deep, explosive rumble drowned out her voice.
In an instant, the harness yanked the breath from her. The lifeline razed her fingers as she lost her grip. Black water covered her head.
She dragged, scraping against the hull. She caught hold of a through-hull fitting, but her fingers couldn’t grip, couldn’t hold. The roar of the whirring blades filled her skull. Dive. Dive. Swim deep, swim behind the props, foul their blades with the line and stop them spinning.
She swam what seemed like down, trying to keep distance between her limbs and the rushing water. How much line had wrapped around the propeller? The harness caught her. She tried to unfasten the snap shackle but the line was too tight. She’d have to get close to the blades to get loose.
Was she getting pulled backward? Forward? Up? Without the boat close by, she couldn’t tell. How much line did she have left? Ten feet? Less? The mental image of her foot getting chopped—slice and dice—by the bronze blades made her draw them in close to her body. She opened her eyes. Blackness everywhere. Her lungs burned. She stroked forward.
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