CJ pointed and yelled, "Collision!"
The man slammed in the clip, looked over his shoulder to what CJ was pointing, turned around, swung the wheel and pulled back on the throttle. The resulting forward momentum forced on CJ set him up to issue another kick. As the man turned back, CJ hit him in the side of the head.
The man fell against the throttle, the gun exploded, the engines roared, and CJ flew back, his head slamming into something hard. The man tumbled after him, tangled briefly with CJ and then disappeared. CJ saw sky and boat and snatches of water just before everything went black.
Chapter 14
CJ awoke only seconds later, his chin striking the fiberglass seat with each bounce of the boat, his arm about to be jerked from its socket. The pounding seemed to be in sync with the blood pulsing through his head and the mind-numbing throb in his ribcage. It took a full minute to pull himself up.
He was alone on the boat and it appeared to be running at full throttle.
He looked back and saw nothing but a few boats off in the distance and land way beyond that. He wondered how long the boat would run before it ran out of fuel. Then he remembered that he was in Tampa Bay and likely he'd hit land first.
He turned around, noted the low hanging sun and then..."Holy shit!"
Land was close and rapidly getting closer. A small red and white plane passed from his right to left and landed just beyond the rocks at which CJ was racing.
Albert something Airport was all he could recall as he threw a kick at the throttle in hopes of hooking it with his toe and pulling it back. All he managed to do was shove it harder against the stops. The effort flopped him onto the deck again. He gritted his teeth against the pain as he pulled and bounced back to the seat. He looked at the approaching wall of rocks, and then at the throttle and...
The wheel!
That, he could reach, though he could do little more than kick it then drop to the deck.
Without pause he struck at it. It turned a little and the boat started into a left turn, though not nearly enough. He scrambled to his feet and then hit the wheel again. When he got back to his knees, leaning heavily on the bench, only his adrenaline was cutting through the pain. The boat was running almost parallel to the rocks, but they were close enough, CJ could swear, that he could spit on them. He pushed up to his feet, took as much of a breath as he could, gritted his teeth and struck the wheel one more time. With that, he fell hard, a lightning bolt of pain radiating out from his center.
And then he blacked out.
When he awoke thirty seconds had gone by, and he was still bouncing, which meant that he hadn't hit the rocks. After a time he pulled himself up onto the bench and looked ahead. There were no rocks, nor any land or boat threat, at least not for a few minutes. He turned his attention to the rail. It was then that he spotted a crack in the fiberglass.
He kicked it and then staggered until he had to sit down. He wondered how much fuel there was, how long it would run like this, how many times he would have to try to steer it away from land before he couldn't do it anymore, how he was going to be able to see land once it turned dark. He closed his eyes and willed for the pounding in his head to stop, certain that it only made it worse. He looked where it felt like Hawaiian's Shirt's bullet slammed through his ribcage. There was no blood. He didn't understand. He'd have sworn he'd been shot.
"Cut... engines!"
CJ looked up to find the Sheriff's boat running maybe fifty feet away, lights flashing, a mike to one officer's face.
"Cut your engines!" the deputy yelled into the mike.
CJ stood. He held up his arm with the handcuffs attached and made like trying to stretch to the throttle, shaking his head. The officer turned to the deputy driving and appeared to say something. The Sheriff's boat eased closer.
"Can you reach the kill switch?" the officer said.
Kill switch? CJ looked but could not see what he was referring to. He held his hands out and gave the I don't know sign.
The officer appeared to speak to Hawaiian Shirt who was sitting off to the side, still dripping from his rescue. Hawaiian Shirt said something. The officer put the mike back to his face.
"Red lanyard left of the wheel. If you can reach it, pull it."
CJ looked and saw a red lanyard hanging down to the left of the driver's seat. He could reach it with a foot, but there was no way he was going to be able to grab it and pull... unless he could hook it with a toe.
He took off a shoe and sock, then stretched. His big toe could just touch it between bounces, but the resulting pain in his side was excruciating. And his head just kept pounding. It was the pain that kept him from reaching. If he could block the pain he could stretch farther. He needed to stop the bouncing, stop the pounding. Whatever additional pain it caused, he had to push through it so that it would all stop.
"Push!" he yelled and then reached. "More! More!" The toe hooked around the lanyard. "More! Damn it!" CJ swiveled his foot to ensure the lanyard was well-wrapped, pulled and dropped.
The boat's two 300 horsepower motors went silent. CJ lay where he landed, appearing to be dangling between the handcuffs and the lanyard, feeling the somewhat more tolerable pain and listening to the Sheriff's boat coming around and then alongside. As he enjoyed the lack of pounding and bouncing, while waiting for the deputy to board, his cell phone started playing the Gummy Bear song. Gummy Bear was Stella's ringtone. He didn't have the energy to answer it, maybe due to the crash after the adrenaline rush or the injuries he'd sustained, but that was alright. Just her song was enough connection to make him smile.
Chapter 15
CJ sat on the edge of a table in the emergency room with his arms up while a nurse wrapped a wide elastic bandage around his mid-section. Special Agent Taffer had just come in and sat down, sending the deputy away. When the nurse finished and then left, saying a doctor would be in shortly, Taffer said, "I wish the hell you'd gone home."
CJ carefully shrugged. "I was planning to tomorrow, then shit happened. I didn't go looking for it. It all came looking for me."
"You're like a bad magnet. So, what the hell happened?"
CJ told him again about the two guys who had been following him and the one in the Hawaiian shirt forcing him into the boat.
"Rory Pickens," Taffer said. "Northern Ireland citizen. Has been in our country only three days. Has never been on our radar."
CJ slid from the table and picked up his shirt before going on to tell the FBI agent about the boat ride and his hunch that it was to be his last ride anywhere, that he was to be killed and dumped.
"When I kicked Pickens overboard," he said, "I thought I'd been shot. Obviously it was only a bad landing; broke a couple of ribs."
"The nurse said it was just one rib and it was only cracked," Taffer said.
"Yeah, well, it feels like a couple of compound fractures to me." With great care CJ pulled on the T-shirt while trying to avoid the bandage on his head. "Although I blacked out, they don't think there's more than a mild concussion. I'm starting to wonder about your medical system here."
"You think you should be admitted?"
"Hell no! I'm fine."
Taffer shook his head, smiling. "You are going to leave us tomorrow, aren't you?"
"My Arizona client will be contacting me tonight to let me know whether or not I should continue my investigation. In any case, my partner is arriving tomorrow afternoon, so I have to say, no, I'm not planning on leaving. We'll be hanging around for a bit, either working or playing."
"How about you and your," Taffer made quote marks with his fingers, "partner, walk the beaches, soak up some Florida sun, and then go home. I hear she's a looker and that you two are engaged. I was lead to understand that she was your secretary, not your partner."
"She's kind of both. She's a full partner but still handles most of the administrative duties. She's started working on her PI certification. We hope to hire a part-time secretary when she has her license and we have a reasonable caseload."
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"Humph!" Taffer said. "Personally, I don't know if I'd like to be working in the same profession as my wife, certainly not as a partner. Hope it works out for you."
"It will."
"Famous last words."
Taffer gave CJ a ride back to the hotel after the doctor dropped in long enough to write a prescription for a pain killer and give orders to take it easy. "No strenuous exercise for at least a month," he said. "Preferably six weeks. Remove the bandage a couple of times a day and leave it off for a quarter to a half hour. Take some deep breaths during that time. Ice it periodically, at least once a day.
"Check in with your doctor when you get back to Arizona," he'd added.
"I definitely will." CJ had no intention of seeing another doctor.
At the hotel front desk he inquired as to the nearest pharmacy. They asked what had happened when they saw the bandage on his head. "Boating accident," was all he said. He knew they wanted to hear more. He wasn't talking. They directed him to a pharmacy that stayed open late–midnight they said–just a couple of blocks away. Getting in and out of a car wasn't easy–it was a struggle getting in and out of Taffer's car–so driving would certainly not be any easier. He decided that he'd walk.
He dialed Stella and set out at a pace only slightly faster than a crippled old man.
"I called earlier," she said when she answered, the obvious question in her voice.
"Yeah, I heard it, but I was tied up."
"Oh."
"Literally," he added.
"What do you mean, literally?"
She didn't buy the humor when he tried to make light of being strung between handcuffs and a kill switch, so he told her the whole story, downplaying his injuries, not mentioning the emergency room visit.
"I don't like this case, Clint," she said. "You've found Douglas. Now I think you should tell Gianna you're done and come home tomorrow."
"If she wants me to continue, it'll be on the clock, which means a paycheck."
"Not much point in it if you're dead, is there?" She didn't wait for his answer to her obviously rhetorical question. "This is international crap. The FBI doesn't want you there, Mrs., or whatever she is, O'Reilly doesn't want you there anymore, and UIRA, or whoever these guys are working for, not only doesn't want you there, but also, for some reason, want you dead."
"That's just it," CJ said. "What possible reason do they have for wanting me dead? What kind of threat am I to them?"
"I don't know and I don't care," Stella said firmly. "Take the hint and come home."
He thought about the sailboats for a few seconds, realized that in his condition, any kind of sailing would probably not be a good idea. "Maybe you're right. I really wanted to do some vacationing with you, kind of like a pre-wedding honeymoon."
Stella laughed. "I like your idea, but how about somewhere a little less stressful, like Cancun. We could spend a week down there."
"What better way to heal than to sit around on the beach? How about next week?"
"Heal! Heal from what?"
"Ah..." Damn! "I got a little banged up in the scuffle on the boat."
"How much is a little?"
"A slightly cracked rib."
"You broke a rib!"
"It's not as bad as it sounds."
"A broken rib is a broken rib."
"A week in Cancun sounds really good."
"How about we talk about it when you get home."
CJ started to say, okay, when a St. Petersburg Police cruiser stopped just past him and two uniformed officers got out.
"Clinton Washburn?" one said, his hand on the butt of his weapon. The other officer came around from the driver's side.
"Yes," CJ said.
"We need you to come with us."
"What's going on?" Stella said.
"Am I being arrested?" CJ asked, the phone still to his ear.
"Not at this time. Detective DuPont would like to have a few words with you, sir."
CJ actually considered asking them to say please, then thought better of it. The cops didn't look like the humorous type. "I'm being summoned in to see Detective DuPont of the St. Petersburg Police," he said into the phone. "I'll call you back later."
CJ sat in an interview room with his head resting on his arms on the table, waiting on Detective DuPont, wishing for sleep or at least his pain meds. The police officers had refused his request to stop by the pharmacy first. He was ready to give the Hillsborough Sheriff a good review–he'd likely be dead now if not for them–but he was having second thoughts about the St. Petersburg Police Department.
When DuPont walked in, CJ was actually asleep. He awoke slowly.
"If you have a concussion," the detective said, "I'd think you shouldn't be sleeping."
"Humph!" was all CJ managed.
"We might have a little bit of a problem," DuPont said. When CJ just blinked at him, he continued. "Rory Pickens claims that he was taking you out to do a little fishing and you went nuts. He had to overpower you and handcuff you to get you under control. Was afraid for his life."
"You're kidding, right?"
"I don't kid. He says that when he spotted the Sheriff's patrol boat and started to flag them down, that you pushed him overboard."
"What did he say about the other guy?"
"He said that it was just the two of you on the boat. No one else has been found."
"The deputies in the Sheriff's boat didn't see anything?"
"They heard a gunshot. When they looked there was a man in the water and one at the helm, and the boat was racing away."
CJ thought about that for a minute. "There's a big hole in his story, you realize."
"There is, but I'll let you tell me what you think it is."
"A couple, actually. First, the deputies likely have a rough description of the man at the helm, and they probably said he was wearing a yellow shirt. If you notice, I'm wearing a white T-shirt, the same one I was wearing then."
DuPont nodded.
"Also, and this the deputies can readily confirm, I was handcuffed in such a way that I would not have been able to stand at the helm."
"How do you explain them only seeing one person on board?"
"After I kicked Pickens overboard, I fell to the deck. The deputies would not have been able to see me. By the time I came to my feet, they'd been focused on recovering the guy in the water."
DuPont sat back with his hands folded on his belly.
"One more thing," CJ said.
"Yes."
"What about the fishing poles? If we were going out fishing there would have been fishing poles. I never saw any."
"He said that you threw them overboard when you went nuts, and all the gear, too."
"And why were we going out fishing just before sunset? Also, do folks who go out fishing routinely carry handcuffs in Florida?"
"You've hit it all, Washburn, and some I didn't think about. The holes have grown so big, you could drive his boat through them."
"By-the-way," CJ said, "why are you questioning me? I thought this was a county sheriff case."
"As it appears to be related to the O'Reilly murder, they passed it over to me. They saw through the guy's story right away and were glad to get rid of him."
"How do you figure it's related to the murder?" CJ asked.
"Contrary to how it may look, St. Petersburg police officers direct traffic around crime scenes for more than just the thrill. They're trained to watch people, make note of who is hanging around, sometimes taking pictures or videos. Rory Pickens was seen a number of times, as were you. My sharp-eyed officer also made note that Pickens followed after you from the crime scene this afternoon, that the two of you appeared to have a conversation just before he lost sight of the both of you when you turned into the park together."
"He didn't happen to make note of a dark green Chevy Impala, did he?"
"Not that I know of. Why?"
"The other guy was driving that car when they were shadowing me, was right next to us
when we walked into the park. It may still be parked at the marina. I can give you the plate number, if you'd like."
"I'd like."
CJ gave it to him and DuPont left, saying he'd be right back. CJ put his head back down on the table and wished for darkness.
Chapter 16
The darkness lasted about a minute before CJ's phone started playing the ringtone that was anyone else besides Stella. He pushed the fuzz from his brain and dragged the phone from his pocket. The screen indicated that it was Josh calling. He had talked to Josh only once since his son returned to his field office in Denver a couple of days after the Tommy Clark incident. He hit the answer button and put it to his ear.
"Hi, Josh."
"Dad. What the hell is going on?"
"Ah... having some fun in Florida. Who you been talking to?"
"Stella for one. Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge John Taffer for another."
"Stella called you?"
"I called her after Agent Taffer called me. I tried you first but you went to voice mail."
"Oh." CJ recalled ignoring his phone while in the police cruiser. He hadn't even looked at it. He didn't think it was a good time to be having a chat. "Then you must have most of the story. And why did Taffer call you? I didn't ask him to."
"Initially I thought it was a courtesy call, just to keep me informed. He said you got rather banged up, that you were lucky you didn't get killed."
"Yeah, well, probably a bit of an overstatement. I'm just fine. A small boat accident."
"Accident? Not the way I'm hearing it. Here's the thing, Dad. Taffer and my boss are on a secure conference call right now and I have a feeling that what I thought was a courtesy call is actually a request to loan me out to the Tampa field office."
CJ looked up at the ceiling. "You've got to be kidding! No! I don't need to be babysat by my son... again."
"I quite agree," Josh said. "However, I don't think it'd do much good for me to try to decline the assignment."
Sailing into Death (CJ Washburn, PI Book 2) Page 9