Just Different Devils

by Jinx Schwartz

  Jan and Chino were going to have to hustle to have fuel, extra fuel barrels, crew, and hopefully some of Granny Yee's victuals ready by the time we arrived.

  I nuked frozen beef stew and toasted left over pieces of garlic bread for our dinner, and unearthed a box of Oreos for dessert. Mac made us both a cup of tea before I went to my cabin, which I politely drank even though he put milk and sugar in it. Yuck.

  Finally back in my cabin, the long day of emotional turmoil caught up with me. Exhaustion, mainly due to the stress involved in my latest fiasco, sent me into a deep sleep. I woke once, barely able to fight myself out of a comatose-like slumber, made it to the bathroom and then back into my bed before going out again.

  Brilliant sunlight woke me.

  I looked at the clock and saw it was after nine. I'd slept twelve hours straight! So much for my eight-hour watch. Some sea captain I am. Poor Mac has had the helm all this time and must be beat to hell.

  My head hurt from so much sleep, and I felt woozy. The boat was bucking some, so I surmised we were running into a Pacific swell. Throwing water in my face, I glanced out the window, into that bright morning sun.

  Whoa. The sun should be behind us, not to our starboard side. Oh, hell, had my crew fallen asleep on the job? Cursing a blue streak I rushed my cabin door, only to find it locked. From the outside.

  As Dorothy Parker wrote, "What fresh Hell is this?"

  I almost overrode the lock and opened my door from the inside, but changed my mind. The year before, after a bad guy locked Jan, our friend Topaz Sawyer, and Chino's then medical assistant, the Devine Doctor Di, in my cabin, I fixed it so that it could not happen again at the insistence of Topaz, who is a cop back in Arizona. I'm pretty sure that she and Nacho had a little fling at one time, but he won't admit it, and neither will she. I guess the cop/criminal thing didn't work out.

  Anyhow, I rigged a system kind of like those escape pulls in case you get locked into a car trunk.

  The reason I changed my mind about opening the door this time was that I needed to reach deep into my foggy brain and think things through. Through that same fog, it finally dawned on me that Mac had drugged my tea, and then locked me in my cabin. Okay, got that much.

  Peering out the portholes on both sides of my cabin, I couldn't see anything but water on the starboard side, and just the tops of mountains to port. With the excellent visibility in the Sea, I figured we were at least fifteen miles out, cruising due north, and therefore back up into the Sea. If there's one thing I hate, it's waking up on the wrong side of my boat.

  I sat down with a large glass of water, hoping to dilute whatever Mac fed me.

  So, Mac is indeed dirty and probably had something to do with Nacho's disappearance. But why? What I didn't know would fill an encyclopedia.

  But then again—and this made me smile—Mac was not really aware of who he was dealing with. Nor was he cognizant that:

  1. I can open that door.

  2. I have security cameras throughout the boat, and can activate them from my cabin.

  3. Raymond Johnson's physical location can be tracked via that same security system, and both Jan and Jenks know how to do so.

  What else? I jumped up, suffered a head spin, and leaned on the bed to steady myself. When the boat stopped doing loops, I lifted my mattress and opened the hidey hole containing my safe, Nacho's 9mm handgun, and sixty rounds of ammo.

  My smile broadened and my head cleared.

  Oh, and Mac was also ignorant of the fact that:

  4. Drugs don't last on me. Ask any poor dentist who has had the unfortunate experience of trying to deaden a tooth.

  5. My big butt can actually shimmy through my aft cabin portholes.

  6. I am armed and dangerous.

  7. I have been known to serve up some serious badassery when provoked.

  8. I was provoked.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I waited another hour locked in my cabin, listening carefully for anything other than engine noise, but aside from moving water, heard nothing. I tested whether the generator was running by turning on an AC lamp in my cabin that was not connected to my inverter system. Yep.

  With AC, or 110V current in the boat, my security and satellite communication systems had good power, and was waiting for someone, namely moi, to hit the ON button. It was time to take a peek at what that bottom feeder was doing with my boat.

  Switching on the flying bridge camera, I saw he was not up there. Watching the wheel closely, I saw no movement, which indicated we were on autopilot. I wished I could read the GPS coordinates, but couldn't quite make them out.

  Okay, so where was the pendejo? What with it being broad daylight, and cruising in an area where there are few boats, he was most likely in the main cabin.

  Turning on the living room—in boat-speak, the saloon, but pronounced salon for some reason only known to ancient mariners—camera was a little trickier. Unlike the one on the bridge, it swivels, and when first activated, usually does a scan. There is only a slight movement, but no light comes on to give it away. He would probably never notice, but there was always the off chance he'd catch the motion.

  Holding my breath, I hit the switch.

  And there he was in all his glory, sound asleep on the settee.

  There goes his bonus.

  Okay, so maybe there were no boats about, and the radar alarm, if he set it, would sound when anything got within two miles, but sleeping while on watch on my boat? This is a keelhauling offense. Drawing and quartering would be way too good for him, and feeding those quarters to the sharks, justified. Or squid. Whichever got them first.

  I was so angry I considered breaking out of my room and shooting him in his sleep—or somewhere much more personal and painful—but calmed myself down. Dead, he couldn't tell me what he was up to, or what he'd done with Nacho. On the other hand, if I didn't kill him outright, there was always a chance he'd overpower me and throw me overboard.

  What I really needed to do was get a message to Jan, but I'd already searched the cabin for my laptop and it was gone. He'd obviously taken it after I passed out. My cell phone was also missing.

  I stared at the panic button on my security system, but it probably wouldn't do me any good unless the master satellite system was turned on. I'd used that button once back in the States, and it saved my life, but I wasn't sure it would even get anyone's attention way down in Mexico. I pushed the button anyway. About ten times.

  I always keep extra lifejackets in my cabin, just in case I ever had to leave via those undersized—in my opinion—portholes. After Po Thang moved in, I'd stashed one for him, as well. Three of them are equipped with Personal Locator Beacons, great devices if you are just off the beach and your boat sinks. In that case the boat's EPIRB will also go off, and the Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon can be picked up by the United States Coast Guard, even from down here.

  Every once in awhile the ham net and cruiser chat included reports of an EPIRB going off somewhere in the Sea of Cortez, leading to a search by boaters, the Mexican Navy and even the US Coast Guard, for the vessel it belongs to. I'd seen a low-flying American search plane in one case that ended tragically despite an intensive hunt. Normally, however, the whole incident is due to a malfunctioning unit, or someone turning one on by accident. It is just nice to know that should yours go off, someone might be searching for you.

  The PRBs like the ones I had attached to those life jackets, on the other hand, are really meant to send a signal back to your own boat so overboard crew can be located. However, figuring I needed all the help I could possibly use, I quietly opened the porthole, activated one PRB, and threw it into the water. I saved the others, because they only have a twenty-four hour battery life and who knew what was going to happen. I had no idea if any of them would have anyone looking for me, but figured doing something is better than doing nothing.

  As I shut the porthole as quietly as possible, I heard a sound at my cabin door. I flipped off the security
system, dove under my duvet, cradled the handgun, and let go with the best snores I could muster. I sensed Mac entering the room and standing near the bed, watching. Evidently satisfied I was still out cold, he left.

  The second I heard the lock click behind him, I reactivated the system and watched as he went to the galley and rummaged in the fridge. Which reminded me I was hungry. I eyed a bag of Po Thang's treats I kept in my cabin, but I wasn't quite that desperate yet. Besides, they were chicken flavored; he'd eaten all the Beggin' Strips.

  It occurred to me I couldn't play possum forever, so maybe I could play stupid? Yes, I know what Jan would say about that.

  After a shower, brushing my teeth, and even putting on a little blush and tinted lip gloss, I was ready for my close up.

  It was ten thirty in the morning, and we were scheduled to arrive in Cabo at three.

  Maybe I'd had a sixth sense about Mac, or perhaps it's just my nature not to trust my fellow man, or—and this is more likely the case—my control freak habits kicked in. Whatever the case, I'd made a call even Jan didn't know about.

  After I'd waved goodbye to Jan and Po Thang, I used my cell phone to beg a favor from the boat, Me Too. They'd helped me with the abandoned boat, Carpe Diem, and then we reconnected back on the dock at Marina de la Paz. I knew, just from our short acquaintance, that I could rely on her and her hubby, Clay. Telling Jill where to find the hidden magnetic box containing an extra key to my truck that any car thief could locate in moments, I asked her to meet me at the fuel dock in Cabo. If I didn't show up, she was to call Chino. And if Chino said Jan and Po Thang hadn't arrived at Lopez Mateos, he was to alert the port captain, the police, and maybe the United States Marines.

  Yes, I might face some angry officials if Chino had to make that call, but at least both Jan and I wouldn't just disappear into thin air. I also told Jill who was going to be my crew, just in case I was right about Mac being shady. Which I now knew he was, for sure.

  Dang, I hate it when I'm so right.

  Chapter Thirty

  Screwing up my courage, I pounded on my locked cabin door and yelled until Mac finally opened it.

  "Oh, thanks," I gushed. Jan majored in Southern Gush at the University of Texas and passed the skill to me. "I sa-wear, I cannot for the life of me figure out how I managed to lock myself in. And please, Mac Honey," I lightly touched his arm with my hand because I was fresh out of silk embroidered hand fans, "can you possibly forgive me for oversleeping?"

  Clearly taken aback, he stammered, "Uh, not to worry." Then, because he probably couldn't think of what to say next, he added, "I just had a nosh, but you must be starving."

  "Oh, yes, I surely am. Where are we, by the way?"

  "Still on schedule. Making good time."

  "That's wonderful. I am sooo lucky to have you helping me." I made a point not to look outside as I sashayed down to the galley. I had one goal in mind before I had to give up the game, and that was to turn on the master security system, and push that panic button again, hopefully activating the reverse GPS locator back at Jenks's security company's office in San Francisco, where one of his staff would maybe pick it up. Maybe.

  I made iced tea for both of us, adding fresh mint, while daintily nibbling on a piece of cheese that I wanted to bolt down a la Po Thang. Mac watched me, somewhat warily, but I stayed in character, making us both a cheese and cucumber sandwich—of course trimming away the crust—then added exactly three chips to my plate and carried everything to my desk. Brushing papers to the side, I sat to eat.

  Jenks had designed this system for just this kind of situation. Both a hidden switch and the panic button were under the desk, and I hit both of them with my knee. I had no idea whether it did any good, but it was all I could do for now.

  Mac ate his sandwich while standing behind the lower steering station. I still studiously refrained from looking out any of the windows as I took my empty plate and glass to the galley, then joined Mac, standing just out of his reach. It was time to call in his cards. "Say, are you sure we're on track? Shouldn't land be to starboard, not port?"

  "Yes, Lass, it should. However, there is a change in plans, and here is what they will be. For the next twenty-four hours, you do as I say. I dinna wish to harm you or anyone else, but if I must, I will."

  I tried to look helpless, and whined, "I don't understand."

  "You will. Now, sit down," he pointed to a folding metal chair I use for my Chair Yoga practice. I noticed a piece of line conveniently placed next to it on the settee and pictured myself, tied hand and foot into that chair, sinking into the depths of the sea, holding my last breath until my lungs exploded.

  Nope, not for me. It was time to make a move.

  No more Miss Nice Girl.

  "Oh...oh...why? What are you doing, Mac?" I wailed.

  He gave me a little push toward the chair and as I pretended to stumble, I grabbed the chair's back and swung it, catching him right in the gut with one of the legs. I'd aimed lower, but, oh well.

  Doubling over and groaning, he rushed me like an angry bull, but I wasn't where he thought. I'd stepped to one side and behind him, put my considerable weight into a roundhouse swing, and whacked him again, this time connecting with his neck and the back of his head with the chair back. He went down hard, but he was tough and was trying to get back on his feet when he looked up and found himself staring down the barrel of a 9mm. He sank back to his knees. "Crikey, they warned me about you American women."

  "Whoever they are, they've obviously never been to Texas. Anyway, you should have listened. Get up, vurrry slowly, Laddie, if you prefer to put a tilt in your kilt ever again."

  He did as he was told, never taking his eyes off the gun. I didn't like that. He reminded me of a cobra, tracking my hands, waiting for a chance to strike.

  "Shut your eyes."

  "What? Why?"

  "Because I said so, and I'm the one holding the large semi-automatic."

  He shut his eyes.

  "Turn slightly to your right. Yes, that's fine. Now, take five baby steps."

  He took four steps and banged face-first into the port door frame.

  "Oooow."

  "I said baby steps. Okay, put your hands on your head, keep your back to me, open your eyes, step out on deck and walk aft."

  He did, stopping at the back rail.

  "Now, GET OFF MY BOAT!" Harrison Ford would be so proud.

  "What? Are ye daft?"

  "Yes, I am. Jump!"

  "We're miles from land!"

  I fired a round over his head.

  He jumped.

  "I'll be back," I growled.

  Was I having a Hollywood kind of day, or what?

  I let the boat continue forward at ten knots until I'd put a quarter mile between the boat and the Scot treading water, and probably trying to figure out how many hours he'd have to swim before reaching shore.

  Cutting back to engine speed, I went to neutral and waited. He swam my way. I went out on deck and let him get within hearing distance.

  "Where is Nacho?" I demanded.

  "I dinna know."

  I climbed to the bridge, put the boat in gear and pushed the throttles forward, leaving him in my wake. Then I stopped again, and waited as he swam my way.

  "Where is Nacho?" I asked again.

  "I—"

  I didn't give him a chance to lie. I took off, got some distance between us and stopped. But this time when I did, I opened the deck chest freezer and rummaged inside for the good stuff.

  When Mac almost reached Raymond Johnson again, I didn't even bother asking the question; I dumped three pounds of chum into the water, went back to the bridge and moved out, leaving him surrounded with quickly thawing fish guts.

  Even over the engine noise I heard him howl. "Okay. You win."

  I circled back, and waited at a safe distance.

  "He's fine. Nacho's safe. God's truth. We dinna want to harm anyone. I was taking you to him."

  "That so?"

  "A
ye."

  "And where would he be, exactly?"

  "Let me on board, and I'll tell you."

  "Uh, last I checked, you were in no position to make demands. Tell you what, you swim a little longer and think about telling me what you've been up to, and why, and with who. Whom. Whatever. When you're ready we'll have another chat." I pulled away, slowly. He cursed and fell in behind. I figured another five or six miles might do the job.

  Checking the GPS, I located the last waypoint entered, and it wasn't one of mine. Something, or someone, was ten miles to the north. Nacho?

  I adjusted the radar, expanded it to cover twenty miles out, and lo and behold, right where Mac was headed, there was a boat. On the bajo. I felt like I was living the movie, "Ground Hog Day," returning over and over to the same spot. All boats lead to the bajo, but why?

  During the next couple of hours we played our cat and mouse game, Mac the Mouse protesting he was badly tired and not that good a swimmer, but I still didn't trust him on board. He was big and strong, and unless I had the gun trained on him every second, he had the advantage.

  I slowed again. "Think you can make it to the bajo, Mac? It's only another nine or so miles and, what a surprise, it looks like we've got company up there. Who? And why?"

  "A gang of rubbish, that's who!"

  "There's the pot calling the kettle black. I guess you didn't hear the word, why."

  As I motored away, he yelled, "Wait! Pearls!"

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Pearls?

  Someone went to all this trouble to steal my stupid pearls? Good grief.