by Stuart Woods
To take his mind off the struggle, he thought about how long he had been underwater. He figured he was at about one minute now, and the surface still seemed miles away. Air began to leak from his nostrils, and he fought to hang on to it, since there was nothing to replace it but seawater. He struggled on, wishing his mouth wasn’t taped so that he could scream, and still the surface eluded him.
He thought of himself as a porpoise and tried to propel himself faster with the kick he had been taught at camp as part of the butterfly stroke. The seconds flew like hours. And then, suddenly, he could see the moon clearly, and he was expelling air and ripping at the tape over his mouth. It came free and as he broke the surface he gulped in air, shouting as he expelled it, then gulped in more.
A minute passed before his intake of air began to catch up with his need for oxygen. He looked around and saw, in the distance, the running lights of the sports fisherman as it turned toward Catalina, then he looked for other boats. There was a fleet of them, but they were a long, long way from where he struggled to keep his head above water.
He tried floating on his back, but the chain around his waist and the weight of his sodden clothing made that impossible. The best he could do was to continue his porpoise kick and draw his taped hands through the water. He felt for the end of the tape with his tongue, thinking to pull it off his hands with his teeth, but apparently the end was inaccessible. There was nothing to do but swim for it as best he could.
He developed a kind of rhythm, a two-hands-together dog paddle which, combined with his porpoise kick, moved him through the water, though not very fast. His goal was the forest of lighted masts ahead of him—how far? Two hundred, three hundred, a thousand yards away? He thought about the strength he had left and wondered if it would be enough or if, finally, the chain would drag him down, short of the goal ahead. He remembered reading somewhere that drowning was an easy way to die, but he didn’t believe it. He thought of himself drifting along the bottom, being fed upon by the crabs and—oh, God—sharks. Sharks were nocturnal creatures, weren’t they? They were attracted by splashing at the surface, and he was doing a lot of splashing in his effort to reach something he could hang on to. He could not get used to the cold of the water; it seemed to be right at the freezing point. Why were there no chunks of ice floating in it? He could hang on to an ice floe and rest his weary muscles.
Cold water. The great white shark was a cold-water creature, wasn’t it? Didn’t fishermen catch great whites in these waters? Clips from the film Jaws flashed through his mind. A naked girl hanging desperately on to a buoy as the giant fish tore its way through her lower extremities. At least he wasn’t naked, though he knew he could swim faster if he were. He thought about kicking off his shoes, but they didn’t seem to be slowing him down, and anyway, he had paid six hundred and fifty dollars to have them made. He’d hang on to the shoes.
He thought about making love to Betty the night before, but then he recalled that Betty was responsible for his being where he was, and he thought about Barbara Tierney instead. Where was she now Drinking champagne aboard Ippolito’s yacht, anchored at Catalina? Or was the yacht really there? Or was there really a yacht? Yes, there was; he recalled the bank manager telling him that Ippolito had a veritable flotilla—was that the word he had used? Stone had already been aboard two of Ippolito’s boats, albeit briefly.
He tried a sidestroke but began sinking, so he went back to his crippled dog paddle. There was no way to rest—the chain prevented that—so he slogged on, stroke after stroke, kick after kick, gulp after gulp of air, on and on into the night. At this rate he might miss Catalina entirely and continue on toward Hawaii.
The lights were closer now, but not that much closer, and he was fading. His strokes were getting shorter and slower, and nothing his brain could say to his muscles would make them work better or longer. Thank God there isn’t a sea running, he thought; I’d be dead by now. He thought about dying and discovered that he wasn’t ready to do it. The thought gave him new strength, but not much; you couldn’t call it a second wind, hardly that. He thought about Arrington and the child she carried inside her. Was it his? If he died tonight, would there be a son to carry on the Barrington name, such as it was? No, he would carry on the Calder name, no matter to whom he owed his DNA.
He lurched onward, but something was wrong. The mast lights were no longer visible. He turned his head and looked around; had he gotten off course? He was sure he hadn’t, so he paddled on. Then something very strange happened; he reached out in front of him with his bound hands, pulled the Pacific Ocean toward him and struck his head very hard on a very hard object.
Dazed, he put out his hands and they met the object, too; it was smooth and dark, and he couldn’t hold on to it. With new, brief strength he turned and swam parallel to it, and he came to its end. It was a small boat with a black hull, and at its stem there was the most wonderful thing: a boarding ladder. He grasped it in both hands and laid his cheek against the hull, panting and whimpering.
After a moment, he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. He shook his head. “No!” he screamed as loudly as he could, and it wasn’t very loud. The ladder unfolded in his hands and the bottom rung fell into the water as it had been designed to do, for swimmers. He got his feet on the rung, which was about a foot underwater, and tried to stand on it, but his hands slipped and he fell sideways into the water.
He had so little strength left now; he began to think that perhaps it would feel better if he just gave himself to the sea and let everything go. But he couldn’t; he had one more try in him, he was sure. He lurched toward the ladder again and got his feet on the bottom rung. Holding a higher rung with both hands, he pulled himself upward until he was standing with his knees locked. He stayed that way for a good minute, hearing the water running from his clothes, back into the sea. The next rung would be harder, since he no longer had any buoyancy.
He reached up and grabbed the stainless stee railing above him with his two hands, then, holding on for dear life, he pulled his feet up and felt for the next rung. Miraculously, he found it. The deck of the little yacht was now at the level of his knees, and he could get his arms over the top steel railing. That allowed him to pull his feet on the deck, and with his last strength, he pushed himself over the railing and fell headlong into the cockpit. Almost immediately, he was unconscious.
32
He half awoke with a start, thinking that he had heard a woman scream, then he fell back into a stupor. The boat under him moved, annoying him; he wanted to sleep, and the cradle was rocking.
“Holy shit!” a man’s voice said loudly.
Stone tried to tell him to shut up, but his voice wouldn’t work. He went back to sleep.
“Give him CPR,” a woman’s voice said.
“He doesn’t need CPR,” the man replied, “he’s breathing, and he has a pulse.”
“Why are his hands like that?” she asked.
“How the fuck should I know, Jennifer?” the man asked, exasperated.
Stone, who had been lying on his right side, tried to turn onto his back.
“He moved!” she said.
“So he can move; big deal. Go below and get my rigging knife; it’s on the chart table.”
“But he might be dangerous,” she said.
“In his present condition, he’s not dangerous to anybody,” the man replied. “Now go below and get me the knife. Jesus, he’s got a length of anchor chain shackled to him; bring me the pliers, too.”
Stone drifted off again, then he was moving, but he wasn’t doing the moving. He opened his eyes.
“He’s conscious,” the man said. “Can you talk, sir?”
Stone’s mouth wobbled, but nothing came out.
“Get me some water,” the man said.
A moment later Stone tasted something fresh and sweet. He swallowed some, then some more. Then he vomited it back up, along with some salt water.
“Take some more,” the man said. “You’re go
ing to be all right.”
“Ah min fuff,” Stone said.
“Don’t try to talk yet; just drink some more water, and take some deep breaths.”
Stone swirled some of the water around in his mouth and spat it out, then drank some more.
“Gd,” he said.
“Don’t talk; plenty of time for that later. Jennifer, go below and bring me a couple of dry towels.”
“Okay,” she said. She was back in a moment, dabbing at Stone’s face.
Stone began to shiver violently, his teeth chattering loudly.
The man got the shackle loose and removed the chain. “Help me get this suit off him,” the man said. “Let’s get all his clothes off; he’ll never get warm while he’s sopping wet.”
This took some time, and Stone wasn’t much help. Finally he was naked, and both people were drying him with the towels.
“Can you stand up?” the man asked.
Stone tried to speak, failed, then nodded.
“Help me with him, Jennifer; we’ve got to get him below and into a sleeping bag; he’s hypothermic.”
Stone, with their help, got onto a cockpit seat, still shaking, then got his feet onto the companionway ladder. In another moment he was lying on a saloon berth being zipped into a clammy sleeping bag.
“Boil some water and make some of that instant soup,” the man ordered.
Gradually, the shivering went away, and they got Stone into a sitting position and were feeding him hot soup from a cup.
“Thank you,” he managed to say.
“Don’t worry about it,” the man replied. “I think we ought to get you to a hospital, but I don’t think there’s one on Catalina.”
Stone shook his head. “No,” he said.
“You don’t want to go to a hospital?”
“No. I’m dead.”
“You’re not dead, but I think you had a pretty close call.”
“Stay dead,” Stone said.
“You want to stay dead?”
Stone nodded. “Gotta.”
“Just finish the soup and get some rest; you’ll feel better soon.”
Stone fell back onto the berth and let go. Finally, he could let go. There were sounds of an engine starting and the anchor being pulled up, then they seemed to be moving. He went back to sleep.
When he woke, the clock on the bulkhead read just after 1:00 A.M. Stone struggled to sit up.
“Tom, he’s awake,” the woman said. She was sitting on the opposite berth, watching Stone.
“Will you come and take the helm?” he called back.
The boat heeled, and Stone could hear water rushing past the hull.
“The wind is coming up a little,” the man said. “Just aim her at that star there; your course is a little north of east, and the wind’s on the beam.” He came below.
“Hi,” Stone said.
“Feeling better?”
“Better is too strong a word, I think, but I’m feeling vaguely alive, which is an improvement.”
The young man laughed. “I’m Tom Helford,” he said. “I’m a medical student at UCLA, fourth year, which is why I haven’t yet called the Coast Guard to get you to a hospital. My diagnosis was that you’d be all right after some rest and nourishment. You hungry?”
Stone nodded. “I missed dinner. Where are we headed?”
“Long Beach; that’s where I keep the boat. Don’t get to use it much these days, though.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve cut your cruise short,” Stone said. “By the way, my name is Stone Barrington.”
“Good to meet you. Surprised to meet you.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“You want to tell me what happened?”
“I was on my way to a dinner party aboard a yacht anchored off Catalina, but I think the invitation wasn’t sincere.”
Helford laughed. “I guess not, what with the chain around your waist. Must have been hard to swim.”
“It was harder when there was an anchor shackled to the chain.”
“Holy shit! They didn’t intend for you to come up again, did they?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“I’ve got a cell phone aboard. Why don’t we call the cops and have them meet us at Long Beach?”
“That reminds me,” Stone said. “There was a cell phone in my suit.”
“Here it is,” Helford said, holding it up. “I emptied your pockets onto the chart table.”
“Will you take out the battery and soak the phone in some fresh water?”
“Sure, if you think it’ll help.”
“It can’t hurt; I know the salt water won’t help.”
Helford pumped some water into the galley sink and dropped Stone’s cell phone into it, then started making some sandwiches. “I see by your ID that you’re a cop.”
“Retired.”
“Pretty young for retirement, aren’t you? The knee have something to do with it? I saw the surgical scar.”
“Yep.”
“You’ve got a New York driver’s license.”
“Yeah, I’m just a visitor to L.A.”
“Speaking as a native Californian, I’d like to apologize for the reception; we usually treat tourists better.”
“Apology accepted.”
“What yacht were you headed for when you…took the detour?”
“I don’t know her name; she’s probably big, though.”
“We were ashore for dinner, and on the way back to the boat we passed something of about a hundred and fifty feet called Contessa. Could that be her?”
“Could be.”
“She was the only really big thing in the anchorage; nothing else over eighty, ninety feet.”
“Contessa,” Stone repeated. He wanted to remember that. “What sort of boat am I on?”
“A Catalina Thirty-five, elderly.”
“She’s nicely kept,”, Stone said, looking around, “but I think your masthead light is out.”
“You’re right; I haven’t taken the time to go up and replace it.”
“I didn’t see her coming,” Stone said, rubbing his forehead.
“You’ve got a bump there.”
“It’ll go away.”
Helford handed Stone a sandwich and another cup of soup. “Something I need to ask you,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“Am I involved in something illegal here?”
“No. You just thwarted something illegal.”
“You’re a lawyer, according to your business card; should I be hiring a lawyer?”
Stone shook his head. “No need. The sandwich is wonderful.”
“Thanks. You’re sure I’m not going to be in any difficulties because of your problem?”
“Positive. You’re a Good Samaritan, and that’s it.”
“You said something about wanting to be dead.”
“No, I am dead, and I want to stay that way for a while.”
“So that whoever did this to you won’t try to do it again?”
“They’re not going to get a chance to do it again. It’s just that what I have to do now will be easier if they think they don’t have to worry about me.”
Helford took a bite of his own sandwich and munched it thoughtfully. “Stone?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not going to kill anybody, are you?”
Stone thought about that for a minute. “No,” he lied.
33
They made their berth at Long Beach at a little after 3:00 A.M. Stone, wearing some borrowed jeans and a UCLA sweatshirt, helped them to tie up and set the boat in order, and they walked up to the car park together.
Jennifer handed Stone a plastic shopping bag with a large, wet lump at the bottom. “Your clothes,” she said.
“Stone, can I give you a lift somewhere?” Helford asked. “Finding a cab will be tough this time of night.”
“My car is at Marina Del Rey; is that too far for you?”
“No problem. Jennifer, honey, you go back to th
e boat and get some sleep; I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“I’ll give you no argument,” she said wearily.
Stone climbed into a Mazda Miata with Tom Helford, and they set out.
“I keep having the feeling that I should be doing something more to help you,” Helford said.
“There really is nothing else you can do,” Stone replied. “Give me your address, and I’ll send you the jeans and sweatshirt.”
“Give them to the nearest homeless person.”
They pulled into the car park at Marina Del Rey.
“I wish I could tell you more about this,” Stone said, “but it’s a long, long story, and it wouldn’t make any sense, anyway.”
Helford scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Stone. “Here’s my address and number; I’d like to hear that story someday.”
“If it turns out to have a happy ending,” Stone replied. He reached into a pocket and came out with money.
Helford held a hand up. “Forget it.”
Stone peeled off three hundreds. “I’d like to buy you and Jennifer the best dinner you ever had.”
Helford grinned and took the money. “Since you put it that way.”
They shook hands, and Stone got out of the car and watched it roar away, then found his own car. He looked around and saw a night watchman a hundred yards away, headed in the opposite direction; then he opened the trunk of the car, tossed his sodden clothes inside, removed the tire iron, and closed the trunk.
Keeping a careful lookout for anyone who might be out at that hour of the night, he padded down the pontoons in his bare feet until he spotted the sports fisherman Maria. He came up on it carefully and found it dark; he doubted very much if Vinnie or Manny was sleeping aboard, but he wanted to be sure.