by GC Smith
CHAPTER FIFTY
Moultrie Bay, SC
October 23
Donal and A.J. Hook had the antique oak bar of Papa's Tavern on Front Street to themselves. Ernie, the white bearded proprietor and bartender, polished stemware with a cotton bar cloth. Framed photographs from tournaments featuring blood and guts splattered fishermen displaying record marlin, sailfish, tarpon, and cobia were mounted on the back bar wall. Other photos were of million dollar sportfish boats and rugged men in fighting chairs, rod tips bent double. Spotlighted beyond tall windows to their right was Ernie's pride, a gleaming white fifty-five foot Rybovich sport fisher. She was moored against the dock that was built out from the sea wall. Behind them, at tables in the dimly lit barroom, modishly dressed thirty-somethings spoke in quiet, earnest tones to stylish women. A guitarist, slump shouldered, bald pate reflecting the beam from a ceiling spot, picked soft, near inaudible melody. Ernie served Donal and Hook and moved away.
Donal manipulated coins on the bar top, methodically stacking and unstacking them.
Hook asked, “What's the matter, hot shot? Victoria's O.K., isn't she?”
“She's fine.”
“Then what's eating you? You couldn't get what you needed from SLED?”
“I'm making headway there.” Donal picked up the bottle of Dos Equis and topped off his glass. “I got what I need to push Faulkner. He knows he's cornered and he's cooperating. He should deliver hard information on Caper's whereabouts by morning.” Donal signaled Ernie to do it again. “Provided the prick doesn't double cross me.”
“Then what is it? Something’s botherin’ you.”
“I've asked Victoria to marry me.”
Hook's face split into a wide grin. “Wonderful. That's absolutely great news.”
Donal shook his head. “She hasn't said yes.”
Hook was silent for a moment, then brightened and said, “ ah, bit she will.”
“Maybe.”
***
Moultrie Bay
October 24
At eight a.m. Donal retrieved the newspaper from the porch and came back into the house. The cat trotted alongside, meowing for her breakfast, hoping Donal figured, for sausages with syrup. Donal picked up the receiver of the ringing phone. “I've got the package,” Faulkner said. “I'll be by in a few minutes.”
Tybee Island GA
October 24
Scully brought the 'Royalty' around to the Island and tied her at the hotel dock. He called Mike at the cottage and told him where she was berthed. “Aux generator's A-O.K. now,” he drawled. “Weren't much, jest worn brushes.”
Mike thanked Scully and offered to run him back to the boat yard.
“Ain't no need for ya to trouble. Kid what works for me lives out here on Tybee. He's gonna come on by and take me back. Ya'll jest enjoy the boat.”
Moultrie Bay, SC
October 24
Faulkner entered Donal's house, a manila envelope in hand. The cat's back arched, it spit. “What's in this envelope had better never leave this room,” the man said.
Donal, undid the flap and extracted a file folder as Faulkner helped himself to coffee. The folder contained a dossier on Capers that went back to his hitch in the drug wars. Donal skimmed the package; psychiatric report, a memo detailing the reasons for Capers's dismissal from the Agency, and an INTERPOL report on the Gutierrez killings. “You claimed that Capers was never in Mexico.”
“So I made a mistake,” Faulkner, not in the least discomfited, watched Donal. He reached down alongside the couch and snapped his fingers to attract the cat. Bad move. The cat hissed, her fur bristled; her tail swelled to three times normal circumference.
Donal continued to read. On the page were a list of aliases under which Capers had operated and he stopped when he saw a handwritten marginal note that one of them was currently active. “Thomas B. Carey,” he read aloud.
There was a clear record of Carey's activities over the past several weeks. The date and time stamp on the papers showed that the latest information had come into SLED in the last twenty-four hours. The rest of the data was weeks old and had been obtained largely from confidential credit reports and SLED inquiries.
Turning a page, the words, Hilton Head, jumped out at Donal. He threw the papers onto the table beside his chair and headed for the phone. “The son of a bitch is on Hilton Head.”
Donal dialed the house where Mike and Claudia were staying. He let the phone ring fifteen times and then slammed the receiver. He tried Mike’s cell. Nothing. He said to Faulkner, “How long have you known where Capers is?”
Faulkner shook his head, “Not until late last night.
Look at the time and date stamps.”
“I saw the stamps. You've been looking for him for a while, haven't you? You stone walled me and it may have cost Claudia Chatrian her life.”
“I didn't have absolute confirmation that it was Capers using the Carey identity until last night. How in hell was I supposed to know you had your client stashed on Hilton Head?”
Donal turned away in disgust. He rifled through the pile of papers, pulled a page, and said, “Capers is a partner in Ralph Hutchkins's marina on the island. He lives in an apartment over the marina office. God Christ, Mike is berthing the yacht at that marina.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What yacht?” Donal ignored him and reached again for the phone.
“What the hell is going on? Your client is on Hilton Head; that I understand. But ….
Donal gave Faulkner a sketchy explanation, interrupting himself as the ship to shore operator came on the line. Donal listened for a few minutes and then slammed the phone down a second time. “They can't make contact with the yacht. I'm going down there.”
Faulkner, looking thoughtful, watched as Donal pulled a short barrel .38 from his desk, checked the load, and grabbed a speed loader with six extra bullets. “I'm going with you,” he said, adding, “Ellerby was right. Capers was a fuckin' mistake.”
Donal growled, “You've made more than one.”
Faulkner shrugged. The cat reached out from under the couch and tapped Faulkner's ankle with an unsheathed claw. “Ow, you little bastard, you,” he said loudly.
“Bitch,” Donal corrected.
Before he and Faulkner took off Donal again tried to place a call to the ‘Royalty’. Again no contact either through ship to shore or Mike’s cell. He called Hook and gave him the gist of what he had learned from the dossier. “I'll be on Hilton Head in a little over an hour,” he said. “Hutchkins's Marina, on Calibogue Sound. Can you arrange for a unit of the Sheriff's Patrol to meet me.”
“Can do, Johnny, and I'll be right behind you.
Donal hung up and said, “Come on, Faulkner. Let's haul ass.”
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE
Near Tybee,
on the water
October 24
Mike kicked up the diesel's as the cruiser cleared the channel. The stern of the Hatteras settled low in the sea, the fore deck pitching upward at a steep angle. He pushed the throttles as the boat leveled off and took the 'Royalty” over open water at plane speed for the better part of an hour, taking the yacht south, turning a one-eighty, and running north again. He decided to ride at anchor just north of Tybee for a couple of hours before returning to Hilton Head. He cut the engines back to idle and tapped the control to retract the winch prawl, allowing the starboard anchor to drop from the prow. He backed the cruiser slowly to set the anchor. That done he cut the engines and said, “we'll laze out here for a while before running her back.”
“Great.” Back to normal after her self admonishment of the previous evening, Claudia added, “I'm going forward to get some sun. Coming?”
“Not now I'm going to stretch out under the cockpit canvas and catch some Z's. Call me for lunch.”
“So much for him,” Claudia said to herself, going forward and settling down on the lounge. He is cute, she thought. I'll let him sleep a while. Then, maybe later I can lure him into
another card game. Take the rest of his money. She chuckled to herself, thinking that with only swimsuits a game of strip poker could be really fast. She wondered if her two piece bikini meant she wore twice as many items of clothing as Mike or did he wear a jock beneath his trunks. She giggled, thinking jockstraps are ridiculous looking things, and that she was being naughty.
Hilton Head Island
Donal pulled into the parking lot of the marina.
A Beaufort County Sheriff's cruiser waited there, engine idling. Donal walked over to the cruiser and leaned down to window level. “Johnny Donal,” he said, digging for his P.I. license.
“Yeah. A.J. Hook called to let us know you were on the way,” the chunky, florid faced Deputy said. “We got things under control here. Sent a man to watch the house where your client's stayin', but it ain't really necessary. I talked with Hutchkins here; he tells me Carey, or whatever ta fuck his name is, went on up to Columbia last night. Pick up call's out for him. Boys up there'll grab him.
“Hutchkins says your folks took the boat on down to Thunderbolt and then spent the night on Tybee. No worry there; I called the fellow that runs the boat yard and he tells me that they're okay. Says he fixed up the problem with the boat and ran it on over to the hotel this morning. They told him they was gonna cruise today and figured on gettin' back here sometime this evening.”
“Have you been able to contact them,” Donal asked?
“I tried puttin' a call through, 'pears they got the marine radio-telephone shut down and there’s no cell contact out on the water. Don't you worry none people go silent all the time.”
“I appreciate all you've done, officer but I'd like to get through to them.”
“Well now, Mr. Donal, we can ask the marine operator to try again. This was an emergency like, we could request the Coast Guard to go on out, but I believe we got things in hand here.”
Near Tybee,
at anchor
Mike heard the sound an instant too late. He bounded up from the air mattress where he had been napping and lunged for Capers as the psychopath emerged from a stowage locker.
Capers squeezed off a burst from the Uzi, shattering cabin windows. Another spray of bullets raked Mike's thighs and he pitched forward onto the cockpit deck. Capers shot again as Mike fell.
Claudia, hearing the bursts from the automatic, was on her feet. Looking back from the side rail toward the direction of the shots she saw Capers and screamed, “He's here, he's on the boat.”
Capers ran forward. He smashed Claudia with his free hand. She staggered, then tried to run past him. He reached out ripping away her skimpy bikini top. She slipped on deck planks, falling. Capers kicked her high on her rib cage. With his toe he turned her onto her back and stepped on her sternum. He shoved the Uzi into her face and looked down. “Hello, 'sister'.” His voice was velvet.
Claudia shut her eyes, the bitter bile taste of vomit rising in her throat.
“On your feet, you're going to run the boat. We’re going to cruise.”
“My top.”
“You won't need it. Up. Do what I tell you. I'm right behind you.”
With the Uzi prodding the small of her back Capers shoved Claudia into the cockpit. Clutching bruised ribs she stepped carefully, trying to avoid the broken glass that littered the deck.
“Start the engines.”
Claudia flipped the port engine ignition switch to the 'on' position and hit the starter button. Nothing. Responding to a snarl from Capers, she tried the starboard starter without results. The Hatteras was dead in the water.
Capers shoved Claudia aside and tried the starter switches. Nothing. He saw a bullet hole in the control panel. A slug, apparently one fired from his Uzi, had disabled the Royalty's ignition system.
“Get below,” Capers ordered, the gun again prodding the small of Claudia’s back.
She obeyed, smelling his sweat and feeling the hard, still-warm muzzle of the Uzi.
Hilton Head
Donal paced the marina office, impatient. Hoping for word from Columbia that Capers had been captured. Not believing that the word would come. Several times the marine operator tried to raise the 'Royalty' without success, adding to Donal's frustration. The Beaufort County Deputy kept trying to reassure Donal that things were under control, that it was just a matter of time until Capers was picked up in Columbia.
Donal wasn't buying the Deputy's assurances. Experience told him differently.
Hutchkins, somewhat recovered from the shock of learning that his partner was a murderer and beginning to enjoy the excitement told Donal that he knew the channel Mike would use to bring the yacht back from Tybee. “Ya'll being concerned, I can take ya out on my boat, should be able to pick up the Hat easy,” he said.
Donal, aware of passing time, accepted. Faulkner accompanied them.
Hutchkins gunned the engines of his boat, a Cigarette hulled sport cruiser, and hauled the wheel over to the right, clearing the mouth of the Sound, heading south. The boat planed at a twenty degree angle, a white rooster tail rising from its stern. As they moved out into open water, Donal's eyes swept the sea looking for the Hatteras.
***
On the water
Locking Claudia below the main salon Capers returned topside to attempt repairs. He was taping the wiring harness splice when he heard an approaching boat. He flipped a toggle switch and stabbed a starter button. the port engine coughed, caught, and settled to idle. He started the starboard engine. He eased the throttles forward and felt the stern settle as the twin screws bit into the sea. He twisted the wheel and the compass swung south-south east.
Capers pushed throttles forward and the yacht gathered speed, the tachometer needles hung just short of red-line. He took field glasses from a shelf, and turned to check the approaching boat, recognizing his partner's Cigarette and the three men in it, Hutchkins, Faulkner, and the P.I., Donal. Capers eyes narrowed, glinting with fury. He watched as the Cigarette boat closed the distance, estimating the pursuing craft at about a half mile behind the Hatteras. There was no way that the 'Royalty' could outrun the Cigarette.
Minutes passed and the Cigarette continued to narrow the gap. Hutchkins' boat was now about two hundred yards behind and gaining. Gambling that a burst from the Uzi might slow them, Capers, at fifty yards, fired. A lucky bullet shattered the wind screen of the Cigarette, continued through, and ripped into Hutchkins' shoulder. Capers saw Hutchkins release the wheel and fall into the well of the boat.
The Cigarette boat swung wildly and passed the transom of the Hatteras to starboard, missing the big cruiser by inches. Faulkner grabbed the wheel and hauled it over, bringing the Cigarette boat around one hundred and eighty degrees. He throttled back and came up behind the Hatteras.
Capers fired again but the Uzi, a short range weapon, was ineffective and the Cigarette passed the Hatteras and circled to again tail the yacht. Hutchkins, lying in the cockpit of the Cigarette, hand clamped to his bleeding shoulder, shouted over the screaming engines, “Rifle, below.”
Donal swung down into the small cabin, snatched a bolt action rifle from bulkhead clips, and returned topside. He jacked a cartridge into the rifle's chamber and steadied the gun on the empty windscreen frame. Vertical motion of the boat on the choppy water made it almost impossible to hold Capers in the sight's field of view.
Donal squeezed off a shot and missed. Capers's return fire with the Uzi was ineffective. With his fourth shot Donal saw Capers pitch backward. The Hatteras now ran dead slow, veering east. Capers wasn’t in sight. “Get along side her, I’m going to board.”
Faulkner eased the Cigarette alongside the Royalty and throttled back. When the boats were even, Donal cast a line over one of the Hatteras's transom cleats, rafting the two boats. He swung himself onto the dive platform of the Hatteras, sea chop washing over his shoes.
Donal mounted the ladder, hauling himself over the transom after a cautious eye sweep of the empty aft deck. Carefully he edged to the cabin and peered through the hal
f windowed door.
Mike Sullivan lay on the floor.
Donal entered and knelt over Mike, checking for a pulse. He was still alive but the pulse was extremely weak. Donal looked at the pool of blood in which Mike lay. “Got to get you to a hospital, pal.” He stood and snapped off the 'Royalty's ignition switches. Cautious, .38 in hand, he started down the steps to the open door of the main salon, looking for Capers's body, certain that his last rifle shot had hit him.
“Far enough,” the voice rasped.
Donal froze.
“Toss your gun up into the deck area and get in here. Do it.”
Donal, with an underhand motion, threw the gun up toward where Mike lay and stepped into the salon.
Capers, shirt soaked with blood, stood to the right of the door, holding a blue steel automatic to Claudia's temple. The Uzi lay on the salon's Berber carpeted deck. Capers jerked his head in the direction of a chair, “Sit.”
Donal stepped sideways and lowered himself into the chair, looking toward Claudia who appeared close to collapse.
“You came close but you lost, Donal. 'Baby sister' and I are leaving.”
“It's over, Capers.”