Just Different Devils

by Jinx Schwartz

  I turned back and sidled up next to Mac as he treaded water. "How did you know I found pearls?"

  The minute I said it, I had a flashback to San Francisco Island, where I discovered Bubbles being dragged down by what I thought at the time was a fishing net. It turned out to be netting woven into box-like oyster cages.

  "You wanted the net, and helped me cut the dolphin loose to get it?"

  "I saw you diving and figured you'd spotted the net and were going to take it. But then I realized it was an animal you were trying to save."

  "And then I kept the net you wanted on my boat, right? Are you trying to tell me you entered into some kind of stupid plot that has gotten us to this stage in order to recover a handful of pearls? That makes no sense." I turned toward the bridge and that set him to hollering.

  "No! Hetta, don't drive away again. It is pearls, but not yours. There are many, many, more. I can make you rich."

  Now he was speaking my language. I leaned over the rail. "Okay, you can climb onto the swim platform, but one false move and you'll be singing soprano." I'm not sure where I got that line, but I always wanted to use it.

  I released the swim ladder and kicked it down so Mac could pull himself out of the water. He was shivering and seemed winded, but I didn't drop my guard. "Turn around and sit down."

  He leaned up against the transom and pulled his feet out of the water, hugged his knees to his chest and closed his eyes. That Mac is a fast learner.

  "Good boy. Stay right there. If I see a hand, or even a finger, on this rail," I patted it, "I will use my machete. Do you understand?"

  "No worries, there. I canna barely move."

  Backing away so as to keep an eye on Mac, I reached into a locker and pulled out the bikini design fleece snuggle blankie Jan gave me. Throwing it down on his head, I told him, "Put this on. Slip your arms into the sleeves and wrap yourself up."

  It wasn't easy, considering his size and the narrow area he had to work with, but he eventually got himself tucked in. His shivers subsided, and he was quickly regaining color in his face, not a good thing in my book. I looked around for a piece of line, but could I trust him to tie himself up? Nah.

  I pulled the nine pound Danforth dinghy anchor with twenty feet of line and six feet of chain I'd used on Se Vende from another locker. "Tie this around your ankles."

  "Are ye mad, woman? If I fall off this platform I'll sink like a rock."

  "Aye, that you will, so I suggest you do not do that. Now, wrap 'em up tight like a good boy."

  Cursing under his breath, he wound the anchor chain around both ankles, tied the line around his waist, then pulled the anchor into his lap, as instructed.

  "Well done. Now, very carefully, hand me the end of that line." I lashed it to the rail, and pulled over a deck chair. "Now that we're comfy, let's have that little chat. How is it you're gonna make me rich?" I know, I should have been asking more about the fate of poor Nacho, but I do have my priorities.

  He tilted his head back so he was gazing up at me with those intensely green eyes, which would have been incredibly sexy had he not been wrapped in that bikini blankie. "I'll tell you, but first can I ask a question?"

  "Okay. One."

  "If we both live through the next few days, will ye marry me?"

  "I thought ye'd never ask." I love a man with a sense of humor.

  His story sounded somewhat believable, but then again, I'd fallen for his kind of crap before. And, I am admittedly a really lousy judge of character when the man is tall, dark, green-eyed and looks good in a kilt.

  My dilemma for the moment, however, was not whether to believe him, but what to do with him. I couldn't keep my eye, and gun, on him all the time, and didn't want to get close enough to tie him up properly, especially since my knot-tying skills run to the crappy side. Jenks teases me all the time about using granny knots on a boat.

  So, short of shooting him in a foot or something, I needed a way to keep him at bay without tossing him back in the water. I didn't trust him one iota, so letting him back on deck was out of the question. Where the hell was Jan and her handy handcuffs when I needed her?

  And speaking of Jan, I had to contact her as soon as possible and let her know where I was, and how things had gone all to hell. But in order to call her I had to go inside, and until I secured the Scot, that made me uneasy. He might look like a half-drowned rat right now, but he was still a rat.

  I glanced at the ship's clock mounted near the bar. It was nearing one o'clock, and my accomplice from Marina de la Paz should be arriving in Cabo to see if we showed there. If we didn't, Jill would most likely call Chino by five, who would then call the authorities. What had I been thinking? Mexican authorities?

  Looking to Heaven for some kind of divine revelation, I got one. Sort of. Actually, I spotted my dingy riding in its chocks on the sundeck's hard-topped cover.

  "You sit and stay," I told Mac, and then I walked a few steps over to the davit controls.

  Normally, all I'd have to do is release some tie down straps and let the motorized davit swing the dinghy over the side and lower it into the water. Then, I'd release the painter, or the towing line, and walk the dinghy to the aft for boarding. However, DawgHouse was sitting on chocks not designed for that particular boat, and my captive had lashed it all ways from Sunday. I'd have to spend way too much time up on that sundeck, untying the skiff while trying to keep an eye on Mac. Luckily, the seas were quite calm, but even so, I'd be up there trying to work while the boat lolled in the sight swell. A little too much multitasking.

  "Okay, Mac, you better hang on!" Putting the boat in gear, I headed into what little swell there was and turned on the autopilot, ignoring Mac's bellows of protest.

  As soon as we had a better ride, I went back to check on Mac, who had gone silent. Everyone who owns a dog knows this can bode badly. Or, maybe the CO2 fumes got to him. After all there is that warning sign on the transom.

  But, sure enough, he was working on the lines tying him to the anchor.

  "Bad! Stop that!"

  He looked up, startled. I guess he figured I was busy doing something on the bridge and this was his chance. I'd seen that same look from Po Thang.

  "I was just trying to get comfortable," he whined. "Besides, we're underway and my butt is getting soaked again."

  "Better than getting plugged, Podner. Now hear this. Do not move, you hear me? I am a devout coward, I am afraid of you, and if I have to shoot you to protect myself, I damned well will. You got that?"

  He glowered but nodded.

  I took a dive knife from my locker, rushed back to the bridge, climbed carefully out on the sundeck roof, and slashed all the lines but the painter. This bit would cost me when I got back to port. Checking on Mac, I saw some wiggling going on, so I fired one right behind the boat, raising a spout about three feet from that wiggling leg. Two spent, plenty left.

  Mac let loose with a string of foul language and protested his innocence, but he stopped moving.

  Putting the boat into neutral, I rushed back to the davit control panel and swung DawgHouse over the starboard side, but now we were swaying again and the dinghy started banging into Raymond Johnson's hull. Fearing something would let go and I'd lose the dinghy, I quickly secured and lowered two large round buoys I keep on board to mark my anchor's location, as fenders.

  After a few more minutes of fiddling with all the lines, I tied off the dingy to a rail, and unhooked it from the davit. The large hook swung back, threatening to conk me in the head, but I grabbed it in time and winched it back into place.

  The dinghy's painter was too short for my purposes, so I added a long piece of line and played it out until DawgHouse rode about thirty feet behind Raymond Johnson.

  "Okay, Mac, show time. I'm going to let you pull the dinghy up to you and you are going to place your anchor in it, gently, of course, and then roll yourself in. No funny stuff."

  I didn't like the way he looked somewhat pleased with this idea. What had I overlooked
?

  "Let's see, have I overlooked something that would allow you to make a move I wouldn't like? No? Okay, into DawgHouse with you. And by the way," I reached in my pocket and waggled a squiggly red plastic cord holding the outboard's "key." It is designed to loop over a driver's wrist, so if they are thrown out the "dead man's switch" is pulled out, stopping the motor. It is also used as a safety to prevent the motor from starting unless it is inserted.

  "Yes, Mac, you will have a dinghy and outboard, but no gas, and the motor won't start without this little doohickey, anyhow. Oh, and I removed the paddles." That wiped any smugness from his face.

  "Now, pull the dingy to the swim platform and get in." After he was settled onto the floorboards, the dingy began drifting back. I sissy-pitched a couple of bottles of water in with him. "Drink up, you'll figure out how to manage those bottles. And fasten your seatbelt, Darlin', it's gonna be a bumpy ride."

  Back on the bridge, I tooled up to fifteen knots, which is pretty much redlined in my book. Once we settled on course, I engaged the autopilot and went below to make a bunch of important calls.

  I had to use the Satfone, because I had no signal on my cell, which I'd found in the main cabin. As I made the calls, I watched my dingy bouncing erratically along behind us. I'd misjudged the distance and Mac was jouncing off the floorboards as DawgHouse slammed into Raymond Johnson's wake instead of riding the swell. My bad.

  Neither Jan nor Jill answered, so I left messages. I really wanted to call Jenks, but knew better until I had this particular situation under control .

  As soon as I hung up, I decided to give Mac a break and pull the dinghy closer to the boat. Poor guy was hunkered down under the blanket, getting beat all to hell while being soaked with salt spray. I doubted he was able to even think about working on those lines, but he boded watching.

  At fifteen knots, it is extremely hard and dangerous to pull in a dinghy, and requires the upper body strength I simply do not have. I spotted Nacho's electric reel he'd mounted on a rail, and decided to give it a go. It was designed to haul in a few hundred pounds of fighting fish, so why not a bounding dingy. And then, if Mac acted up, I could just release the brake and out he would go. The catch and release system just took on a whole new meaning.

  With Mac and dinghy riding smoothly behind, I moved to the bridge to check our position, and that boat on the bajo. I figured if I could see him on my radar, he most likely saw me, as well. But then, he was expecting Mac, wasn't he?

  When we were two miles out, I stopped again and reeled the dink in. I had no choice but to put Mac on the bridge where his cohorts in crime—even though I still wasn't sure what crime—could see him as we neared the meet.

  What came next, I had no freakin' idea, but at least I'd know who else was involved.

  And maybe find Nacho?

  Chapter Thirty-two

  A mile from the bajo, I halted the boat once again, pulled the dinghy against the swim platform and cleated it off. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," I trilled.

  Mac extricated himself from under the soggy, salt-encrusted blanket and snarled, "Very bloody clever, Hetta. What now?"

  "I'm glad you asked. Take off the blankie so I can see what you've been up to."

  "Shrew!"

  "Now, now, compliments will get you no where. Disrobe for Hetta."

  He peeled off the blanket and, as an act of defiance, threw it overboard. Dang, I loved that snuggly fleece. As I suspected, he'd managed to unwind the anchor chain from his ankles.

  "Okay, you know the drill. Retie that line, but only to one ankle this time. Tight."

  He grumbled, but secured it around his left ankle. "Good boy. Tie the other end around your waist."

  "You are a daftie. Absolutely baurmie." He pronounced it barmy.

  "Not crazy enough to let you get back on this boat without some major impediments, Mate. Run the line around your neck and waist and tie them together. Cinch the anchor up against your belly button."

  I let him stand and grab a cleat on the transom, but when he took a step up onto the platform, an anchor tine gouged his knee. "Ooowww."

  "That's gonna leave a mark. You'll get the hang of it. Nice and easy does it. Up the ladder, maybe backwards. You'll figure it out. Hetta and her best friend, Mr. Springfield XDM, will be watching very carefully."

  "Hure."

  "I heard that. And for your information, I am not a hoor. I've never been paid for my favors."

  It took some time, and a little pain on his part, but I finally got him all the way to the bridge, and into a dry shirt and hat I'd found in his cabin. From a distance, he'd look downright jaunty.

  Letting him take the helm, which was an honorary position since we were on autopilot, I warned him of dire consequences should he try any tricky maneuvers as we neared the rendezvous site. Hunkering down with my back against the gunwale, I was out of sight from other boats, but somewhat vulnerable should Mac manage to jump me, anchor or no. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more paranoid I became.

  The truth of the matter was I was very tired, and feared that eventually I'd drop my guard long enough for him to strike.

  I threw him an extra long bungee cord I use in all kinds of handy ways when battening down the hatches for a blow. "Sit down in the captain's chair, wrap this around your wrist and the arm rest, and then throw both ends over your shoulder."

  He slumped into the seat and didn't protest this latest order. I was pretty sure he was much more fatigued than I. Or at least I hoped so. The difference between us is I'd had twelve hours of sleep, thanks to whatever he put in my tea, and he'd been swimming, cold, and wet for over three hours. Still, a little insurance never hurts.

  Pulling both ends of the bungee cord by the end hooks, I ran them over a rail and fastened them together. "Hey, yer cutting off my blood flow."

  "You're lucky that's all I'm cutting off. Turn up the radio with your other hand."

  I listened as boaters hailed each other and I knew some of them. I considered asking them for help, and they would come as fast as they could, because that is what cruisers do, but if I did, whoever waited for us at the bajo might hear me, as well.

  Suddenly realizing my attentiveness had strayed, I snapped to attention and saw that Mac had shifted his weight, turned his head, and was intently eyeballing me. It reminded me of the book, Life of Pi, where an Indian boy was trapped in the Pacific Ocean in a life raft.

  For two hundred and twenty-seven days.

  With a Bengal Tiger.

  "Don't even think about it."

  "I dinna do anything."

  "You looked at me."

  "My sincere apologies."

  "Sarcasm will get you shot."

  He grinned. "Well, then, I wouldn't have to look at you again, would I?"

  Touche!

  Why, oh, why are all the bad ones so damned charming?

  Half a mile out, the radar revealed there was not one, but two boats ahead. And I picked up a third, larger, making a beeline for the bajo. Crap! Sure, I had a gun, but I wasn't Wonder Woman. Of course, Wonder Woman and I have never been seen in the same room, so there could be some doubt there, huh?

  Anyhow, so much for arriving in stealth mode. Scanning with my binoculars, I saw the boats already at the bajo were pangas. One was white and just a regular old everyday panga, but the other was a super panga I knew well. Nacho's boat. What the hell? It had been hauled away by a contingent of Marines, and now it was back?

  Oh, and the other boat coming our way? A shrimper, just like the one we'd seen hunkered in Partida during the blow. In fact, exactly like the shrimper in Partida during the norther. I zeroed in with my binoculars and confirmed that it was the same one Jan had scored shrimp and some lenguado—California Halibut—from: Pelicano. Were they part of this passel of punks? Or could I count on them as allies?

  I told Mac to throttle back and let us drift until I could see whether Pelicano was actually in route for the bajo or was merely crossing the Sea. Many of t
hese boats come from Mazatlan and San Carlos, on the mainland, so it was possible that's where he was headed.

  I checked aft to make sure the dinghy's polypropylene tow line was floating on the surface. The last thing I needed right now was for it to sink and get wrapped in the prop. I'd customarily snug the dinghy to the swim platform to avoid this, but I was loath to leave Mac alone on the bridge.

  We lingered, observing both the radar screen and the pangas. The two small boats at the bajo were stationary, moored, in fact, as I could see anchor lines descending from the bows. The shrimper was steaming at a pretty good clip towards them, and I'd know his intentions within a few minutes. If he passed by, it was one less thing to worry about, and I could surely use a break about now.

  So, of course, the big boat slowed and headed straight for the bajo.

  Oddly, Mac cursed under his breath. I interpreted this as a good thing. Was I gonna get that break, after all? Was the Pelicano's crew not in cahoots with the others and was just checking out the two boats? In which case, I needed to get there, pronto, in the event I had to ask them for a helping hand. Or a hand grenade.

  "Let's go, Laddie. Put us in gear and bring her up to fifteen knots. If I'm going to engage some bad guys then at least I'll have witnesses."

  Mac gave me a look I could only read as entirely sincere, and said quietly, "Ye do na know what you're about, Lass. Better you let me go. I'll swim in, and you can leave."

  "Oh, sure. And with two go-fast boats in pursuit I wouldn't even make it to the anchorage."

  "I can ensure you do. Let me go, and I promise no one will come after you. You have my word on it. Only one thing though, I will need your word you will remain at the anchorage for three more days, and you canna tell anyone anything about your situation. And, if you promise to do as I say, Nacho will be returned to you."

  "Your word? Which we both know isn't worth a bowl of spit? Do I look that stupid?"

  He refrained from answering that last question lest I force him back into the drink with that anchor still attached.