by Linda Lovely
If Weaver didn’t get the overall picture, we figured more words wouldn’t help—they’d just make callers think the banner was a hoax or too weird to comply. Message posted, we crossed our fingers. Time to brainstorm ways to seize the offensive.
At eight o’clock, a museum guide walked by the office. Noticing Ross’s closed door, an anomaly, she frowned. Ross pasted on a smile and saluted her, but didn’t open the door. The museum volunteer took the hint and pantomimed inserting a key in a lock and turning it. Ross nodded assent.
We heard the motorized doors at the rear grind closed. At five after eight, Ross, Duncan and I were alone.
“Let’s open the door. It won’t feel quite as much like prison.” Duncan moved from his perch on the edge of Ross’s cluttered desk. He swung the door open. Simultaneously the phone rang. Could they still see us?
“What?” Ross answered and punched the telephone’s speaker option.
“Ah, the sound quality tells me I’m on speaker. Excellent. It’s best if you all hear this. We think Weaver will comply with Marley’s request. So far, the three of you have behaved prudently. No phone calls or emails. We have one final request. Unlock the side door, the one that brings visitors into the Chamber offices.”
“I can’t,” Ross replied.
“I was led to believe you’re rather fond of your mother, Captain,” the voice hummed with menace.
“The Chamber has its own alarm system.” A vein danced a peripatetic jig in my cousin’s temple but his voice remained calm. “I don’t know the code to deactivate it. The door between Chamber offices and our museum is locked when the last employee leaves. Any attempt to get in will trigger an alarm at the sheriff’s office. Our insurance company insisted on separate alarms. That way, if there’s a theft, the insider suspect list is halved.”
“Why should I believe you?” the voice growled.
“As you said, I love my mother.”
“Then open the overhead door at the back,” the kidnapper demanded.
“Happy to,” Ross replied. “But it’s clearly visible from the boardwalk and people can hear the gears gnashing half a mile away.”
Silence. We’d evidently thrown the villain an unexpected curve. Good.
Our prescripted answers were designed to buy either extra time or advantage. We didn’t want our captor to know we could escape through the Chamber offices.
Our other comments were partially true. Guards had been added and the giant garage-style doors groaned louder than a rusty drawbridge.
“If you want us to keep cooperating, let me speak to my mother,” Ross demanded.
“Hold on while my associates put Mrs. Carr on our party line. We’ve warned Mrs. Carr what will happen if she tries to get clever.”
“Ross, Marley?” May whispered. Her voice thready, weak. “Whatever happens, I’ve had a wonderful life. I’m not afraid. I love you.”
No clues. May’s words conveyed a mix of defiance, melancholy and resignation.
“That’s it folks.” Our tormentor was back on line. Was he the mastermind or a hired gun? “After we give Agent Weaver a fitting reception at the museum, we’ll let Mrs. Carr go. For now, your only job is to follow my rules. No phone calls, no emails, no warnings.”
The moment the line went dead a surge of anger had the three of us tripping over our tongues as we rushed to vent our fury with a torrent of swear words.
“Do you think they’ve harmed May?” I asked. “That goon’s comment about hurting her if she tried anything clever worries me.”
Ross sighed. “I’ve never heard Mom sound so dejected. Not even when she was headed for her triple bypass.”
“I know you’re beside yourselves with worry about May,” Duncan interrupted. “But getting sidetracked won’t help. She’s alive. He’ll keep her that way until he has his grubby mitts on Weaver. So let’s get busy.”
Confident we couldn’t be watched inside the museum’s empty and windowless interior, we raced to arm ourselves. During our interminable wait, Ross listed every conceivable weapon in the antique treasure trove. Our weapons came courtesy of generations of boaters, fishermen and hunters who’d left a legacy of prickly tools and clever devices. After debating their lethal merits and portability, we called dibs on items matching our individual strengths.
Duncan, a hunter, picked a modern flare gun and a silver-plated shotgun—the 1908 sportsman’s choice for dove hunting. A stickler for accuracy, Ross kept all the antiques oiled and in working order with ammo displayed in the same locked case. Duncan quickly loaded the over and under gun with two 20-ought shells and pocketed a dozen more.
Staying with his underwater diving theme, Ross ransacked the museum’s spear gun collection. His chosen weapon—including loaded spear—weighed less than three pounds.
I studied the weapon’s pistol-like grip. “Do you fire that thing like a gun? What’s your range?”
“Yeah, it operates like a handgun,” he answered. “Shooting in air, I should be able to hit a target ten to fifteen feet away with so-so accuracy. Underwater, I’d attach a shockline to retrieve spears that go astray.
“These spears are particularly nasty.” My cousin’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “After they pierce a target, these little barbed flippers open like a molly bolt. If I nail any of these bastards, they’re not going to get the spear back out.”
Ross bent to retrieve an all-purpose serrated knife—superb for filleting fish and sharp enough to whack off a finger.
My first armament choice was a grappling hook—the kind used to drag lake bottoms for drowning victims. The nightmarish device looked like an anchor but bristled with sharp hooks. Tied to a six-foot length of rope, it was probably too heavy for me to use like a bola. But I could imagine other uses. Pirates used grappling hooks to haul over and board ships. An interesting possibility.
Next I picked up a nasty-looking gaff attached to a thick wooden pole. Some old-timer had probably used the gaff’s razor-edged barb to hoist fifty-pound walleyes into his dinghy. I wondered if the handle’s rusty discoloration was blood.
For good measure, I bundled up a large fishnet and wound several strands of clear fishing line around my waist. Might come in handy if I got the chance to use a snare or hog-tie someone’s hands and feet.
Our plunder included the museum’s retail section. We needed wind suits, tee shirts and caps. We selected blend-into-gloom shades of black and navy. Cheap plastic pool shoes completed our stealth ensembles. We bypassed the display of life jackets. Neon orange and day-glow yellow would advertise our presence. I hoped Duncan was as strong a swimmer as Ross and me.
We didn’t speak as we dressed and crammed most of our weapons in over-the-shoulder book bags. Last of all, Ross cracked open a laser printer toner cartridge lifted from his desktop printer. We’d finally found a use for that nasty black matte powder that clings so readily to moist fingertips. We smeared the powder on our shiny—and sweating—white faces. The camouflage would help us blend in with the deepening twilight.
I laughed when I glanced over at Ross. He’d tried to comb toner through his white moustache. It looked as if a tiny skunk hovered above his lip. The grim look in Ross’s eyes suffocated my transitory amusement.
“Ready?” Ross asked.
“Yes.” Duncan and I answered in unison.
Though we doubted the museum’s industrial strength walls would give our movements away, we crept in stealth mode toward the side door we’d claimed was inaccessible. Fearing a telltale light leak through Chamber windows, we didn’t switch on a single overhead as we tiptoed through the adjacent offices. We prayed the murderer’s attention was riveted on the museum’s front door, waiting for Weaver. That gave our lakeside sortie a fair chance of going undetected.
After mulling over alternatives, we agreed we’d done all we could for Weaver with our website warning. Saving May and safeguarding Eunice would be our focus. We counted on our enemy dismissing us as demoralized and cowed patsies. Not the type to try a nightt
ime break out.
Yes, the risks were high. Watchdogs might spot us. Or the kidnapper—Kyle or Hamilton?—could dial with a new demand and wonder why we didn’t answer.
We took the chance.
We slipped out the door and ducked behind shrubs planted between the museum-Chamber complex and the employee parking lot. In full summer bloom, the fragrant roses scratched my hands and snagged my clothes. Still the limited cover delighted me.
Total darkness inside the Chamber offices had adjusted our eyes to gloom. Outside the golden twilight seemed bright as the noonday sun. I blinked, feeling as though I’d stepped into a spotlight. My heart hammered. I imagined hoodlums pointing guns and laughing at my minstrel-blackened face.
As seconds ticked by without shouts or shots, my confidence increased and my heartbeat slowed. For the moment, no one looked our way. I scanned the surrounding area. No sign of predators lurking behind the lonely oak sentinels that dotted the grassy park to our right. Scattered trees provided the only cover in that sector.
The pier housed two idle Lakes Patrol wave runners. Our goal. Ross had spare keys so Queen helmsmen could commandeer the craft if lake emergencies arose when deputies weren’t on duty.
My cousin groused often about the detrimental influence of “personal watercraft” on lake aesthetics and ecology. In his opinion, the moment teenaged boys saddled up and felt throbbing engines rumble between their thighs, testosterone surges drowned all traces of reason in their brains.
Tonight we were all glad that Lakes Patrol officers—like highway patrolmen—pony up money for machines designed to outrun offenders. The authorities had purchased models capable of rocketing from a stand still to sixty miles per hour in under six seconds. We prayed that power would help us catch the cruiser serving as May’s prison.
When Lakes Patrol first acquired the craft, Ross teased the drivers mercilessly when they bragged their bright yellow and black machines had won some sort of shootout. Now we were happy to be mounting such champion steeds.
To reach the wave runners, we had to cross one hundred feet of open space. Ross knew the territory best and led the way. Forgoing a madcap dash across the main thoroughfare, he led us in a slow stealthy crouch. As we inched along, the urge to run proved almost irresistible. I knew fast movement was more likely to catch a watcher’s eye.
Safely across the road separating the museum complex from the main boardwalk, we picked our way among the shadows cast by the shops and cafés that cater to boardwalk strollers. With every step, my ragged breathing echoed in my ears. Adrenaline, not exertion, made each gasp feel like an indigestible solid. A cool breeze caressed my face. My wind suit stymied its relief from reaching any other part of my anatomy. Rivers of sweat trickled down my sides, back and legs with no escape hatch in the sticky confines.
One more hurdle. We needed to traverse the boardwalk to reach the pier.
“Ready?” Ross whispered. “I’ll take the first Sea-Doo and Marley will ride with me. Duncan, you take the second. Here’s the key. Untie her and paddle into open water. Make sure she’s ready to roar before you fire up the engine. The minute we start these suckers, someone’s bound to hear. They make more noise than a Cuisinart in a phone booth.”
There was nothing sexist in the decision to have Ross and Duncan pilot. Both knew lake landmarks and were used to navigating West Okoboji at night. I wasn’t. Worse, I’d never been on a wave runner in my life. That put me only slightly behind Ross and Duncan, who’d together logged less than an hour on the floating equivalent of a Harley-Davidson. I hoped I’d be able to stay on—if we weren’t shot before we launched.
Duncan and I gave Ross a thumbs up. The three of us hightailed it across the boardwalk. We crouched on the pier by our commandeered Sea-Doos and breathed a communal sigh of relief. The bulk of the two-story Queen—in a parallel berth—would help screen us from anyone who looked our way.
Ross slid onto a wave runner and I slipped behind him. As the machine sank beneath our weight, cold lake water sloshed against my calves. Icy prickles penetrated the mesh of my pool shoes. Now the sweat that coated my body felt like dry ice, so cold it burned. My teeth chattered violently.
The wave runner rocked beneath us. It seemed to lurch with electric-shock suddenness at the least provocation—like batting an eyelash. I wrapped my arms tightly around my cousin’s chest, determined to hold on for all I was worth.
Ross shoved us away from the dock and maneuvered into open water. “I know you’re nervous,” he wheezed, “but you have to let up. I can’t breathe.”
“Sorry.” I loosened my death grip.
Ross started the engine, and the peaceful twilight exploded. For a mind-numbing second, I thought our miniature gas tank blew. Why was I still in one piece?
I caught fireworks in my peripheral vision as all hell broke loose near the front of the museum. Bursts of machinegun fire began a rat-tat-tat rhythm.
Good. The warlike cacophony at our back would mask our exit. Why didn’t Ross go?
He fumbled in his wind suit pocket and pulled out the radiophone he used on the Queen.
“Now that the fight’s begun, I’m calling Eunice. Warn her to get out of the house.”
Duncan slipped beside us on his idling wave runner. “Why are we waiting?”
I explained while Ross yelled into his phone. The fireworks at our back escalated.
Relief lit Ross’s cherubic face as he pocketed the phone. “Eunice’s fine. A website visitor called Weaver and she deciphered our warning. Our FBI friend’s getting her licks in now, and agents are protecting Eunice.”
“What about May?” I asked.
“The agents set up in my study to monitor that cabin cruiser in our bay. Based on body-heat signatures, they presume May’s locked in the cuddy cabin below deck.”
“What’s the rescue plan?” Duncan asked.
“Not yet underway,” Ross answered. “The FBI feared someone was inside the museum with us. Now that they know we’re out, they’ll try to capture the boat. We’ve been ordered to stay put. I say no way. I’m heading to Brown’s Bay. If either of you want to stay, fine.”
“I’m with you,” I said.
“Me, too,” Duncan yelled. His last words were almost swallowed in a roar as Ross revved our wave runner like a lunatic teenager.
TWENTY-THREE
We torpedoed onto the gunmetal lake. Maybe we didn’t reach sixty miles per hour in six seconds, but it felt like I was pulling G’s.
Had I been curled in a rocker instead of rocketing over West Okoboji’s surface, the evening might have seemed inspired. The sinking sun lit a layer of high white clouds from beneath, painting them lavender, pink, red and purple. The clouds shimmered with an inner glow as the twilight deepened. To our left, the harbor’s antique boats twinkled, the colored lights winking as the boats bounced in our wake.
The beauty served as contrast. Nature’s antonym to our terrifying reality.
We seemed to pick up speed with each skip over the choppy water. A persistent nor’easter churned the water. Whitecaps threatened.
I felt like I rode a bucking bronco. In Alaska. Cold, stinging pellets of lake seeded the whistling wind scouring my face. With eyes scrunched into protective slits, searching West Okoboji’s dark eddies for tree stumps or rocks proved impossible. At our speed, any half-submerged object could fling us into oblivion. Would our riderless Sea-Doo lurch on? No, a “dead man” feature would cut the motor instantly if we both flew overboard.
We rose and slapped down on an endless series of cresting waves. Frenzied musicians beating a tambourine. My bottom wasn’t as well padded as I’d thought.
Off to port, I recognized a white-pillared mansion bathed in spotlights. We’d passed Pillsbury Point. Thank God. We’d safely skirted its treacherous rock piles.
A snaggletoothed branch surfaced directly ahead. Ross veered sharply to avoid contact. Oh, God, we were headed straight for Duncan.
My heart slammed in my chest. My gaze focused on
Duncan’s leg, which I was certain we’d crush in an instant. Somehow he dodged in tandem. We sliced by one another with a teaspoon of water to spare.
We’d pledged at the outset to stick together—the nautical three musketeers. If we reached the boat before the FBI, we figured a two-pronged attack would stand a better chance of success than a solo kamikaze run.
Through the cold spray, a smoke-like mist rose from the lake. Glowing lights in a smattering of cottages provided the only sign of habitation. The shore appeared as a blur of trees and rocks. For safety, Ross gave the land a fifty-yard berth.
The darkening landscape’s contours suggested we’d passed the modest rises of Sunset, Gilley’s and Wheeler’s Beach. Steeper embankments signaled the hilltop neighborhoods of Bayview Beach and Maywood. Ross’s house and the moored kidnap cruiser were less than a minute ahead.
Abruptly Ross rolled us ninety degrees right. I held on for dear life.
“What are you doing?” I screamed.
Duncan had been cruising slightly behind us, allowing Ross to set the pace. Dammit. We’d need more than the luck of the Irish to avoid a collision this time. I gritted my teeth, braced for impact.
A high-pitched whine signaled Duncan’s shift into reverse. Hallelujah, maybe we’d make it. We zoomed diagonally across his path. We’d lucked out again. I let out my breath.
I swiveled, searching the water behind us. Our churning wake fused with a large wave. Duncan’s wave runner rode its crest, then slammed on its side with casual fury. The gymnastics hurled Duncan into the air. With a loud splash, he vanished in the gray-green depths. Flailing arms. A head bobbed.
“Go back,” I yelled. “Duncan’s down!”
“I know,” Ross screamed in reply. “These bastards are going to run him over.”
Now I saw why Ross had changed direction. A white Stingray. The sleek twenty-four-foot cruiser would have mowed us down or swamped us if Ross hadn’t altered course. Its driver either hadn’t seen us or didn’t care. The boat, moving at what seemed mach speed, took aim at Duncan’s head.
“It’s them!” Ross yelled over the deafening roar of wind and screeching engines. “Eunice told me they had a Stingray 240.”