“Clayton Johnson-White, I presume?” a deep bass voice said.
Clayton snapped out of his trance. A small old guy was standing in front of him, holding a badge.
“I’m James Winston, Fugitive Recovery Agent.”
Clayton looked around for a way out.
“I’ve been hired to take you back to Camano Island.”
How did they find him?
“You and what army?” Clayton asked.
“The Royal Bahamas Police, suh,” An ebony black man in a white uniform said.
Clayton grabbed the girl and shoved her at the old man then turned and dashed through the swinging door.
He was in a kitchen. He looked around. There was a back door. He ran for the door. It led to an alley.
A dumpster sat against the wall opposite the door. Clayton leapt to the top of the dumpster and jumped to grab the edge of the roof then pulled himself up.
The agent and the cop came running out into the alley. Clayton lay still on the roof. They looked around then dashed down the end of the alleyway to the street.
Clayton pulled himself unto his hands and knees and worked his way over the peak of the roof then lowered himself into the alley on the other side.
Where should he go? I gotta get off of this island. But how? It had to be by air or boat. The airport was too far away. Besides, it would be pretty hard to steal a plane undetected during the middle of the day. He headed for the marina.
What kind of boat? Something big enough to cross the Florida Straits, to head south, maybe make for Cuba.
It didn’t take long for him to find a boat that fit his needs. A forty-foot sport fisher was tied near the end of the dock. Perfect.
He looked around. No one was watching. He stepped onto the boat. There was a padlock on the sliding door from the cockpit. He needed a tool. There, next to the door, was an aluminum boat hook in a hanger.
He wedged the tip of the hook under the latch and pried. It pulled loose. He stepped into the cabin.
Nice. Everything was teak and leather. Really cool. Clayton made his way forward to the helm station. The ignition switch was in a polished teak dashboard, but how to get the cover off of the dashboard?
He found a chef’s knife in the galley and tried to pry to cover loose. It wouldn’t budge, instead the tip off of the knife broke off.
Tools! There must be tools on a boat this size. Where would they keep them? The engine room?
Clayton searched for the engine room. It had to be in the back of the boat. He lifted a floor panel and there they were, two shining red beauties hiding under the floor. He dropped down into the engine compartment and looked around. There was a plastic toolbox attached to a bulkhead. Bingo! Just what he needed, a number two Phillips screwdriver.
He returned to the helm station and unscrewed the cover on the dashboard. Sure enough, there were the wires hanging down below the ignition switch. He cut them with the broken chef’s knife and stripped the insulation from the ends then held the two pieces of wire together.
The starters kicked in. In a moment, the two big diesels rumbled to life. Everything was set.
Back on deck, Clayton untied the mooring lines and climbed the stainless steel ladder to the fly bridge.
He was twelve feet above the water and had a spectacular view. Clayton eased the big sport fisher away from the dock and headed for the harbor entrance. Off to his right, a police launch was closing in on him.
He pushed the throttles to the stops. The sport fisher lurched forward like it had been jabbed in the rear with a cattle prod. In an instant it was up on the step and charging through the harbor.
But it was to no avail. As Clayton raced towards the harbor mouth, an armed patrol boat slid into the entrance closing him in.
What now? He turned back towards the marina. The police launch was getting closer. He needed more speed. And there it was.
Tied to the fuel dock was a big cigarette boat. These flyers, built for speed, could easily outrun anything the harbor police threw at him.
He headed the sport fisher towards the fuel dock and threw it into reverse at the last minute to slow down, but was too late. The big boat slid up over the dock, hung for a second then slid back into the water.
A man in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt was untying the cigarette boat from the fuel dock. When the sport fisher climbed up on the dock he went tumbling.
Clayton dropped down from the fly bridge and leapt onto the dock, without bothering to tie the sport fisher. The man in the Hawaiian shirt regained his feet just as Clayton rushed at him. Throwing a cross-body block, Clayton knocked him into the water then jumped on board the speed boat. The key was right there in the ignition. He turned the key and fired up the engines. The massive growl told him there was something big under the hood.
“Hey, who are you?”
Clayton turned to see an angry blonde in the skimpiest bikini he had ever seen standing in the cockpit, both fists clinched.
He smiled. “You better get off now.”
“You get off my boat.”
He didn’t stop for more conversation but threw the throttles to the stop and took off like a shot.
The speed boat headed for the harbor entrance. The police launch couldn’t keep up. The patrol boat wouldn’t fire at him with Miss Bikini on board.
****
James Winston clung to the handrail as the rigid inflatable boat charged across the bay, blue lights flashing overhead. The police sergeant at the wheel had the throttles all the way to the stops. The fiberglass hulled boat with an aluminum cabin had two huge outboards roaring as they flew over the waves.
Winston saw the Johnson-White kid at the controls of the sport fisher, heading for open water. The little patrol boat would never cut him off in time.
The officer in the cockpit reached for the radio. Winston couldn’t hear him over the roar of the outboards. The sergeant looked back at the officer in the rear of the launch and the officer gave a thumbs up.
As the chase continued, Winston noticed an armed patrol boat racing for the harbor entrance. The kid must have seen it too. He turned the sport fisher and headed back into the harbor. The sergeant changed course to cut him off.
The kid changed course again, heading towards the fuel dock. The police launch pursued.
Winston watched in horror as the sport fisher climbed up on the dock. A man went tumbling. Somehow, the kid dropped from the fly bridge of the big boat and leapt to the dock. The sport fisher slid back into the water.
“Call harbor patrol,” the sergeant yelled to his compatriot. “Tell them we have a boat loose in the marina.”
The kid shoved a guy into the water and jumped onto his boat. It looked fast. It was as long as the sport fisher, with a long sloped foredeck and a small cockpit behind a windshield. It looked like some kind of racing boat; it even had the number twenty-seven painted inside a white circle on the sides and the foredeck.
The speedboat roared away from the fuel dock. There was no way the police launch could keep up. The officer in the cockpit was on the radio again.
The patrol boat in the harbor entrance moved to intercept the speed boat. The officer in back reached for a rifle.
“NO!” Winston shouted. “Don’t shoot. There’s no need to hurt the kid. There’s a girl on board. I saw a girl in the cockpit.”
The officer sighted down the barrel of his rifle. “We must stop him. He’s a menace to society. We can’t let him get loose.”
Winston need not have worried. The officer’s shots went wild. No way he could hit a speeding target from the bouncing police launch.
Then Winston heard the burst of machine gun fire. The patrol boat was firing on the speedboat.
“NO!” Winston yelled.
But the patrol boat continued firing. The speedboat flew past the patrol boat’s bow. There was no contest, at full speed the patrol boat couldn’t keep up. The speed boat slipped out of the harbor mouth and headed for the high seas.
The patrol
boat continued to fire. Winston held his breath. As much as he wanted to capture the kid and take him home, he hoped that the shots would go wide. There was no reason the boy should die for his childish pranks.
Winston saw smoke start to funnel out of the back end of the speed boat. The trickle of smoke became a huge pillar. The speed boat came off the plane and settled into the water. They’d been hit.
Oh God! Please let them be okay, Winston thought as the police launch charged to the scene.
The patrol boat got there first and hove to off the speed boat’s bow, the machine gun menacingly covering the fugitive. Moments later, the launch pulled alongside the disabled speed boat.
“Clayton Johnson-White,” the sergeant yelled. “You are under arrest.”
The launch tied up to the much larger speed boat and the officer leapt over the gap in the water, pistol in hand.
“Are you all right, miss?” the officer asked the girl in the bikini.
“Yes,” she cried and dropped onto the cushioned seat. “I’m fine.”
The officer grabbed Clayton and spun him around. Then slapped handcuffs on the boy.
Chapter 25
The waiting room at Harborview Hospital, Seattle’s premier trauma center, had an institutional feel. Despite the large fish tank and big screen TV, it was still filled with rows of padded chairs and tables covered with old magazines.
Ted paced back and forth unable to sit still. Chris sat stoically in a chair, with Hope cuddled next to him. Maria was on her way.
A large gray-haired, gray-bearded man charged into the room, with a small, heavy woman at his side.
“I’m Lars Larsen. I just got a call. You have my daughter,” he said to the receptionist. His booming voice could be heard in the next county.
“What’s her name?” the receptionist asked.
“Catrina Flaherty. I got a call from SPD.”
“She’s in surgery Mr. Larsen. Please have a seat. The doctor will be out as soon as there’s any news.”
“Mr. Larsen.” Ted extended his hand. “I’m Ted Higuera.”
Larsen had a puzzled look on his face.
“Cat’s partner.”
“Oh.” The big man took Ted’s hand. Ted thought Larsen was trying to crack every bone in his hand with his massive paws.
“What happened? Did they get the perp?”
That’s right. Cat’s dad was a cop.
“I don’t know, sir. I got a call that she’d been shot and came right here. I haven’t talked to the police yet.”
“Well, I’ll take care of that.” Larsen reached into his breast pocket and produced a cell phone. “Let me call the precinct.”
Mrs. Larsen sat down; Hope got up and moved next to her.
“Hi, Mrs. Larsen. I’m Hope Higuera. Cat’s friend. We met in Mexico.”
“Hope. Kitty talked about you.”
Hope took Catrina’s mother’s hand. “She’ll be okay. You know that don’t you? The doctors are doing everything they can.”
Larsen sat down next to his wife.
“I talked to Lieutenant Sizemore. There aren’t any leads yet.”
The waiting room door burst open. An athletic looking middle-aged man with a bad complexion burst into the room. Ted recognized Catrina’s off again, on again boy friend.
“Tom,” Ted extended his hand. “She’s in surgery.”
Tom Bremen was a twenty-year cop and a member of Seattle PD’s elite homicide squad. “Any word yet?”
“No. We’re all just waiting to hear from the doctor. Have you learned anything about what happened yet?”
“Not much. McGinnis is at the scene.”
Marty McGinnis was Bremen’s partner.
“He says it was an ambush. It looks like the shooter laid in wait behind some bushes across the street. Probably used a deer rifle. Jefferson and Wilson caught the case. Captain said I was too close. I was personally involved.”
“What are you going to do?” Ted asked.
“I’m gonna find the bastard and cut his balls off.”
“I’ll hold him for you.”
Bremen’s cell phone rang and he turned away from Ted to take the call.
Abiba slipped through the waiting room door. It always amazed Ted at how such a large woman could be so innocuous. Even in her loud colored clothes, she somehow managed to blend into the environment.
“Mr. Higuera?” she asked. “Is she... is she…?”
“She’s still in surgery, Abiba.” Ted put his arm around the black woman’s shoulder and pulled her tight. “We don’t know anything yet.”
“I’ll pray for the best.” Abiba moved to a double-wide chair and seated herself.
“Hey, amigo, how’re you doing?” Chris rose from his seat and fell in step with Ted who paced back and forth under the TV.
A baseball game was on the big screen. Chris, who was normally absorbed by baseball, paid little attention. The Mariners weren’t in the playoffs again this year, so the game really didn’t matter much to him.
“I’m pissed.” Ted stopped and faced his friend. “I’m really pissed. Who would do this? What could they possibly gain by shooting Cat?” Tears formed in the corner of his eyes. “I know that it has to do with the Randall case. There’s nothing else that we’re working on that’s hot. But why? How could a missing person case lead to murder? Come to think of it, it’s probably two murders now. Karen Randall is still unaccounted for.”
“Do you know what Cat was working on? Maybe she found out something that put the shooter in jeopardy.”
“Probably. I mean, why else shoot her? I don’t think I can get her notebook. The cops probably have it, along with her purse. It’s evidence. I tried to talk her into going to a tablet, so we could save her data to the cloud. Then I’d have access to it, but she’s so old school. She wants to do everything on paper.”
Chris stopped and grabbed Ted’s shoulders. “Ted, talk to Tom. He’s a cop. Hell, he’s homicide and should have access to the evidence. He can find out what was in Cat’s notebook. Maybe she left some record of what she was up to.”
“I’ve had it.” Ted opened and clinched his fists. “I’m not playing around anymore. Someone’s gonna pay for this.”
Bremen pushed the button on his phone and slid it into his pocket then walked over to Ted and Chris.
“I just heard from the CSI lab boys. The doctor recovered the bullet. It was intact. 30.06 caliber. High powered slug. Definitely from a hunting rifle.”
“The bastard didn’t dare get near Cat,” Ted said.
“We’ve got a crime lab team at the scene. They’re combing the bushes for clues. So far, we don’t have much to go on.”
“Her notebook,” Chris said. “We were just talking about it. Ted says she always documented her cases. Can you see if they have her notebook? Maybe see what she had written for today? That might tell us what she was working on.”
Two more women, Catrina’s employees, one with a ten-year-old boy in tow, entered the waiting room and went over to Abiba.
The door to the surgery suite opened. A tired looking woman in scrubs held a surgical mask in her hands. “Mr. and Mrs. Larsen?” she asked in a tired voice as she swept the cap from her head.
The couple shot from their chairs. “Yes. How’s she doing?”
The doctor took a long breath.
“She’s going to make it.”
Mrs. Larsen burst into tears. Mr. Larsen visibly trembled.
“The bullet didn’t hit any vital organs,” the doctor said. “She lost a lot of blood. We’ve given her transfusions. She’s in recovery now. She’ll be there for a couple of hours. You’ll be able to see her when they move her to ICU.” The doctor looked at the growing crowd in the waiting room. “I’m afraid only family will be able to see her.”
“Thank you, doctor.” Larsen held out his hand.
****
The Nassau police department was rather distinct from the other police stations Winston had seen elsewhere in the wo
rld. It was a small yellow two-story cement-block building with white trim. A grand staircase with a white stone balustrade let up to the open porch under a peaked roof held up by white stone pillars. Definitely colonial. Somehow the quaintness of the building, crowded in on both sides by larger buildings, gave off the aurora of crumbling empire.
The constable showed Winston to the interrogation room door.
“You can have fifteen minutes. Then he is due before the magistrate,” the constable said.
Winston entered the room. The Johnson-White kid sat at a bare table, wearing shorts and a white T-shirt.
“Mr. Johnson-White. You’ve certainly led me a merry chase.” Winston took a chair. “Your mother sends her best regards. She hopes that you’re safe and well.”
The kid just smirked at him.
“Let me start out by asking you a few questions. You know that you’re going to be extradited back to the States, don’t you?”
“So?”
“It shouldn’t be any problem. The U.S. and Bahamas have a good working relationship. That brings up my first question, why the Bahamas? Why did you choose to come here?”
The kid smiled. “Why not? It was outside the U.S. I figured I could get lost here.”
Winston produced his roll of Lifesavers. “Lifesaver?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Clayton took the roll, pulled off an apple candy and handed the roll back to Winston.
Winston popped a cherry Lifesaver in his mouth. “Surely you knew that we’d find the plane
“Yeah.” Clayton leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “But someone paid me a lot of money to fly him here. I needed the money to get a new start.”
Winston took a notebook out of his pocket. “Who? Who paid you to smuggle them out of the country?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Winston sat back and looked at the young man. He certainly was sure of himself and showed no signs of fear. “Clayton, you know that this is going to be rough on you? A little cooperation will go a long-way in smoothing out your journey.”
The kid leaned forward. “No way I’m ratting anyone out. Find out for yourself.”
Bikini Baristas: Ted Higuera Series Book 4 Page 25