“I’ll get dressed and go after him,” I said.
As Pauline turned away, I closed the door and headed back to where I’d left my clothes hung over the back of an old chair. I threw them on as fast as I could, grabbed the flashlight, and was halfway across the garage when I remembered the gun. I hesitated, then spun around and ran back for it. Sticking the pistol into my belt, I switched on the flashlight, and opened the door.
Through flashes of lightning I saw downed branches lying everywhere. I didn’t belong here. Still, I’d promised Pauline. I couldn’t tell her I’d changed my mind.
I wished I’d thought to grab my trench coat. Foolishly, I’d left it in my hotel room. Full of misgivings, I headed out to find Hemingway. Sheets of rain washed over me. It felt like thousands of needles pressing against my skin. I looked up the street hoping to see Hemingway making his way back to the house, but it was as dark as a vault. The rain forced me to keep my head down and the flashlight allowed me to see no more than a few feet beyond where I was walking.
My hat was torn from my head before I’d walked a block. Tiles blown off of nearby roofs caused me to stumble several times, and twice I had to step around long coils of downed wires. When I entered the Navy Yard my flashlight shorted out and I was forced to slow my pace as I made my way to Hemingway’s boat in the dark. Staccato bursts of lightning revealed dozens of boats in the bay dancing to the rhythm of the storm. When I drew near to the dock I noticed the soft glow of a light seeping from Pilar’s ports. She was bobbing up and down, left and right, held precariously in place by the lines I’d helped tie that very afternoon.
The wind blew from the northwest and the building waves that pounded Pilar whipped salty spray into my face. I couldn’t understand why Hemingway had chosen to stay on board instead of returning home to the comfort of Pauline’s arms. I took one more look at Pilar and had just about decided that I was going to leave Hemingway to his folly and head back to the house when something crashed against the side of my head and threw me to my knees.
My first thought was that a branch or some other windblown item had struck me. I tried to push myself to my feet, but someone grabbed my shoulder and gave me a shove. My hands slid out from beneath me and my face slammed into the ground.
I rolled away from my attacker. Lightning lit up the sky and I found myself looking up into Michael Boyle’s scarred face.
I grabbed for the gun in my coat pocket, but the hammer caught on the fabric. I couldn’t get it out. There was another burst of lightning and I saw Boyle’s gun pointed at me. Grabbing my collar, he laid the tip of the pistol against my forehead.
Curling into a ball I waited for the shot to come. Instead, Boyle bent over me, wrapped his fingers in my hair, and began dragging me toward the water’s edge. I grabbed his wrist and twisted. Boyle faltered, his grip loosened, and then something crashed against my skull.
***
My head hurt. Someone was talking. I couldn’t make out what was being said or who was speaking. When I opened my eyes, they refused to focus. The cabin smelled strongly of stove alcohol and my stomach threatened to spew its contents. I couldn’t move my hands or my feet, and I was being jerked around like a rodeo rider on a bucking horse.
I shut my eyes, swallowed the bile, and took a deep breath. This time when I opened my eyes I could make out my surroundings. Hemingway was lying on his back, gagged and tied to the cabin table. As he struggled with his bonds, Hank Greeley watched. He stood behind the table clutching a black doctor’s bag to his chest. He was having trouble keeping his balance, and he jumped when I spoke.
“Let him loose,” I said. “He hasn’t done anything to you.”
Greeley set the bag on the settee and moved out from behind the table. He reached down and when he brought his hand up he was holding his cane. The sheath had been removed and he prodded Hemingway’s leg with the tip of the blade. Hemingway lifted his head and looked at me. His face was red and I saw fury in his eyes.
“This man ruined my life,” Greeley said.
“He doesn’t even know you,” I said.
“He knows all about me. He told the whole world that I’m only half a man.”
“The book’s not about you,” I said.
“Liar.” Greeley’s eyes were wild. I could have sworn he snarled as he thrust his sword toward me. He took a step in my direction and I thought it was all over, but Pilar lurched and hurled Greeley against the table. The cane flew from his hand and rolled out of his reach as he clutched at Hemingway to steady himself.
I twisted and turned my hands trying to free them. The rope held. I watched in dismay as the cane rolled back toward Greeley and when he grabbed it I made one more effort to defuse his anger.
“You don’t have to kill Hemingway,” I said. “It won’t settle anything.”
Greeley let out a high-pitched laugh and laid the blade against Hemingway’s upper thigh. “I’m not going to kill the man.” He rolled the blade across Hemingway’s genitals. “I’m going to fix him just like the doctors fixed me at the end of the War. I’m going to cut off his balls. He’s going to suffer the same way I’ve suffered all these years.”
Hemingway began thrashing about on the table, twisting and pulling at the ropes that held him. At the same time a large wave crashed into Pilar’s side and heaved the boat from side to side. The table, unable to withstand the combination of Hemingway’s struggles and nature’s fury, collapsed with a loud clatter.
Once again the cane flew from his hands as Greeley tried to keep his balance. The boat shuddered and the doctor lost his footing and fell to his knees. Hemingway twisted his hands free from the rubble of the table. He tore the gag from his mouth and grabbing Greeley around the neck he shook him like a rag doll.
“I’m gonna kill you—you crazy son-of-a-bitch,” Hemingway shouted.
Greeley slapped at Hemingway’s hands and tried to loosen the writer’s grip, all to no avail. After a minute or two the doctor stopped struggling and seemed to have passed out. Either Hemingway was unaware he had won his bid for freedom, or he was determined to follow up on his promise to kill the man.
“Let him go,” I called out. “We’ve got to get out of here before Boyle returns. He’s armed.”
Hemingway stopped shaking Greeley and pushed him aside. Looking over at Greeley’s still form, I felt my stomach heave. I was glad Hemingway was free and unscathed, but I wondered if I’d ever be able to prove my innocence.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
Hemingway tore off the rest of his bindings and bent over Greeley’s body. He laid a finger on the doctor’s neck. “He’s alive,” Hemingway said. To my relief Greeley groaned and rolled onto his back.
“I should have killed him,” Hemingway added.
I held my bound hands in front of me. “Never mind him. Find something to cut these ropes.”
Hemingway looked around and spotted Greeley’s cane. Before he could move the cabin door flew open and Michael Boyle stepped in bringing the storm with him. Boyle drew his gun from his pocket and pointed it at Hemingway. “Don’t even think about it,” he ordered. “Get down on your knees—now.”
Wind and rain funneled into the cabin. It sounded like a locomotive was bearing down on us. The rain made the deck as slick as a sheet of ice. At that moment a gust of wind tore the door from Boyle’s grip, sweeping him off his feet. When he hit the floor the gun flew from his hand, landing across the room. Hemingway dove for it but Pilar heaved again and the writer was thrown head first into the bulkhead where he collapsed.
I called out to him but my voice barely carried above the roar of the wind whistling through the cabin. I knew I was a dead man, and Hemingway was only a few slices away from becoming a eunuch.
Boyle slid across the floor and grabbed his gun before crawling over to Greeley. Slipping his arm under the doctor, he embraced him and ran the fingers of his left hand across Greeley’s forehead brushing his wet hair to the side.
Greeley’s eyes fluttered open a
nd I could see his lips moving, but I couldn’t hear him over the raging storm. Whatever he said, it seemed to have an effect on Boyle. The copper raised Greeley to a sitting position and got to his feet, then started toward me. As he walked past Hemingway, Boyle slammed the gun against the side of the writer’s head.
Boyle pointed his revolver at me. “Get up.”
I held my tied hands out in front of me. “My hands and feet are tied.”
Boyle looked around, saw the sword cane and picked it up. I was afraid he was going to skewer me, but instead he used it to cut the ropes binding my feet. Needles ran up and down my legs as the blood began to circulate. I shook my feet and tried to stand. My legs were like worn sponges and refused to cooperate. It took three tries for me to climb to my feet.
Boyle tossed the cane to Greeley and nodded toward the open door. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Across the yard,” Boyle said. “I broke into the office. The boat’s rocking around too much for Hank to operate.”
As if to accentuate his words Pilar jumped and I fell against Boyle. I tried to kick him but he closed in on me and jabbed the gun into my stomach. “Let’s go,” he said. “Or I’ll shoot you right here.”
“How do I know you’re not going to shoot me in the back?” I asked.
“You don’t,” he said. “But you can be sure that if you don’t get your ass moving I’ll gut shoot ya and leave you here to die all alone.”
I drew a breath, considered my options, and began shuffling across the slippery floor toward the door. Twice I almost fell and both times the pressure of Boyle’s gun against my spine spurred me onward.
The yard was dark, the kind of dark where monsters hide. The wind tugged and pushed at me, threatening to knock me from my feet. I planted myself on the dock, looked around, and wondered how I could slip away from Boyle.
As if he’d read my mind he grabbed my left shoulder and jabbed the gun into my kidney. I doubled over and cried out in pain.
“So long, sucker,” Boyle shouted. He shoved my shoulder and I went flying into the turbulent waters of the bay.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I am not a strong swimmer. With my hands tied, I was afraid I’d be unable to keep my head above the water. The waves tugged me away from Pilar and then carried me back and rammed me up against one of the pilings. I wrapped my legs around the post and immediately regretted it as years of barnacle growth cut through my slacks and tore the skin from my legs.
The raging water slammed my face against the post. A rusted metal brace sliced my cheek and I gritted my teeth as the salt water sluiced along my open cuts.
I tried to shimmy up the post to where the barnacles were not as thick. When that failed I held my hands against the brace and ran the ropes back and forth along its sharp edge, all the time hanging on with my legs. My hands felt like raw meat. My legs were on fire. When the ropes parted I yelled out in triumph.
The rain was cold, the rough waters colder. The prolonged pain of a thousand cuts became nothing more than a background irritant. I began to shiver. My teeth were rattling like ice cubes in an empty scotch glass. If I didn’t get out of the water soon, I was never going to get out.
Bracing my hands and feet against the post I waited for the next wave to hit. I shoved off and started swimming as hard as I could toward the bootlegger’s boat tied alongside of Pilar.
The surging water sped me along faster than I could have imagined, and then another wave slammed me into the booze boat’s transom. A rope trailed from the back of the boat and I managed to grab it. When it began to slip through my hands, it ripped off another layer of skin. I knew I couldn’t hang on for much longer.
Lightning lit the sky and I saw the rungs of a ladder running down the side of the boat not ten feet away from me. The next wave threw me against the transom. My hands continued to slide along the rope until I was left with only a short tail of line. The odds were not good for my reaching the ladder. Even if I managed to hang onto the rope, the waves would pulverize me.
Taking a deep breath I dropped the rope and started swimming. The water roiled around me, pulling me away from the boat. I was sure I’d missed my chance when the surge changed direction and flung me against the side of the booze boat. I fought to reach the ladder but I was still a good foot away from the rungs.
A hard kick with my feet propelled me forward. I felt the tips of my fingers brush against the rungs. Thrusting my arm through the steps I hung on as thrashing waves fought to deny me my victory.
My hands felt as if I were holding on to burning pieces of coal, my chest ached with every breath, and I felt as if I’d been horsewhipped. I wanted to let go, to just give up, but I couldn’t. I owed it to Helen, and Ed, and even Hemingway, to make sure Greeley was stopped. I took a gasping breath, shook off my doubts, and found a rung for my foot.
The ocean fought me each step up the ladder. When I finally climbed into the boat I dropped to the deck and lay there, shivering and wanting nothing more than to roll over and go to sleep. Instead, I forced myself to my knees. When I got my feet underneath me, I stood.
The wind and the rain buffeted me, but with each staggering step I felt my strength and confidence returning. Pilar was now dark and I suspected Boyle and Greeley had already dragged Hemingway to the yard office.
I was more determined than ever to stop Greeley. Somewhere along the way I’d lost the pistol, and I needed a weapon. I knew where to find one.
Slipping and sliding along the water-slickened deck, I worked my way across the booze boat, onto the dock, and back onto Pilar. I hesitated in front of the cabin door, listening for any sign that Greeley and Boyle were still onboard. All I heard was the howling wind, rain pelting the deck, and the groaning of wood as Pilar fought to break loose of her lines. I was pretty sure I was alone on Pilar, but I didn’t dare enter the cabin without a weapon. I’d never survive another altercation with Boyle.
I crept to the locker where I’d seen Hemingway stow his shotgun, then cursed when I realized that he’d padlocked it. Looking around I spotted a fishing gaff hung on the wall. I grabbed it, slipped the curved hook between the wood and the padlock latch, and put my weight against the handle. My hands were still on fire and the gaff handle glistened bright red with my blood.
Something gave and the latch popped as the wood holding it splintered. I tossed the gaff to the side, threw open the door and felt around the darkened compartment until I found the gun. Opening the breach I made sure it was still loaded, and then I began fumbling around for the box of shells I’d seen earlier in the day.
A trail of lightning ran along the water next to Pilar. I was still shivering from the cold and when I reached for the box I knocked it over. The shells spilled onto the floor and I was blind without a light. Two shells would have to do—one for Boyle and one for Greeley.
Another flash of lightning revealed an old rain slicker and a hat hanging in the corner of the locker. I grabbed them and pulled on the coat, and then the hat. They warmed me a little, but it was the psychological effect that helped me push on. I snapped off the safety and slipped over to the cabin door. Nudging the door open with the barrel of the shotgun, I was disappointed to find the cabin empty. They had to be at the yard office, and I needed to get there soon if I wanted to save Hemingway. One way or another, this nightmare was about to come to an end.
Grasping the gun in my left hand, I used my right to hold the hat onto my head. I was afraid that if I tripped now, I’d stay where I fell until someone found my body. Through bursts of lightning I made my way across the yard and when I neared the office I could see lights within.
I’d stopped shivering, but the cold bore deep into my bones. It was all I could do to place one foot after another. I couldn’t ever remember being this exhausted in my life. I’d never experienced this much pain. By the time I reached the office I needed to stop and lean against the wall to steady myself. I’d never killed a man before, but after what I’d been t
hrough I knew I wouldn’t hesitate to shoot either Boyle or Greeley. I shook the water out of my eyes, kicked open the door, and stepped inside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Boyle was on his knees stoking a wood-burning stove in the corner. He was using the steel tip from Greeley’s cane to move the wood around. Hemingway, buck naked except for a gag in his mouth, lay spread eagle, tied to the top of a huge oak desk sitting in the middle of the room. Greeley stood next to Hemingway. He wore a large white apron and was in the process of pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. He stopped and when he recognized me his eyes widened in surprise.
The stove was beginning to do its job. The room felt warm to me, although Hemingway was shivering. It could have been from the wind and the rain I’d brought in with me, or plain unbridled fear of what Greeley planned for him. It looked like I’d gotten there in time to prevent the unthinkable from happening.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Boyle drop the cane and paw at his coat pocket. I turned the shotgun in his direction. “Don’t give me an excuse to pull the trigger,” I said.
Boyle hesitated, and then raised his hands above his head. I motioned toward the center of the room with the barrel of the gun.
“Don’t touch the gun. Just take off your jacket. Drop it behind you, and make your way over to the desk. And stay on your knees. If you even think about getting up, I’ll kill you.” I hoped I sounded more convincing than I felt.
Boyle shrugged off his coat and let it fall behind him. Hemingway tried to shout something out through his gag. I glanced over and saw Greeley take a scalpel out of his bag. He raised it over Hemingway’s stomach and made a crisscross motion.
“Drop the gun,” he said, “Or I’ll slice him open right here and now.”
I swung the barrel of the shotgun from left to right and fired as it came to rest on Greeley. The shot hit him on the right side and spun him away from Hemingway. I cringed as the blade flew from his hand and imbedded itself between Hemingway’s spread legs less than an inch from his groin. I turned my attention to Boyle and saw him scrambling across the floor. Leveling the gun at him I prepared to defend myself, but he wasn’t interested in me.
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