Part 7 (1/2)

Hornsby walked back to the crane's control center, fired it up, and slowly maneuvered the big arm out over the water. He spread the clamping mechanism open, brought it down on top of the log, closed it, and hoisted the three ton, four hundred year old log onto the surface of the barge.

It lay there, still, like a harpooned whale. It was dark brown with a tinge of green on it. Hard to believe beautiful wood could come from that.

This procedure repeated itself over and over again, so that by the time an hour had pa.s.sed, I felt like I'd learned all I could about the fascinating world of lumber recovery. In other words, I was ready for a nap.

I walked back across the barge, jumped onto the deck of the s.h.i.+p, and went into Hornsby's cabin.

Protected from the wind, it immediately felt warmer and I helped myself to a cup of coffee from the pot next to the captain's chair. I was so tired the caffeine stood no chance of keeping me awake.

I took the opportunity to look around. There wasn't much for me to snoop through. Some topographic maps of the lake's bottom. Pictures of Hornsby and his crew. A newspaper article on Superior Salvage Company. A few photographs taped to the wall. In one of them, I saw a grinning Hornsby with his arm around Jesse Barre. They both looked comfortable with each other. Relaxed. Maybe even in love.

I found the head, which was surprisingly clean, and took a leak. I went back to the cabin and drained the rest of my coffee. I looked out over the water and a fine mist was thick in the air. It had gotten colder as well. No time to be out on the deck of a barge, that's for sure. You know those guys who love to be out and fighting the elements? Looking Mother Nature in the eye? I'm not one of them. I figure my ancestors worked hard to figure out it was safer to hide in caves. It would be an insult to their hard work and dedication to be outside right now.

A small cot lay along the opposite wall of the cabin. I stretched out on it, zipped my coat up all the way to my chin. The coffee had momentarily warmed my insides, and I figured that I wouldn't miss much if I took a quick nap.

Besides, I reasoned, I'm a light sleeper.

I dreamed of a nice gnocchi dinner, served by my wife whose attire consisted of fishnet stockings and a jaunty beret. She was just about to suggest dessert when something odd happened. Instead of a pleasant garlic aroma, the gnocchi smelled like gasoline.

My eyes opened and I was suddenly wide awake, scared and disoriented all at the same time.

I was on Hornsby's boat, in the cabin, and my mind tried to take in the fact that it was nearly dusk and that I must have been sleeping for nearly five hours. Holy Christ, what a f.u.c.kup I was.

The early morning had really done me in. I vaulted over the deck of the s.h.i.+p onto the barge. I jogged to the crane control and the area where the chain and harness were, but I saw no one.

I walked to the edge of the s.h.i.+p and looked into the water.

Rollie was on his back, a thick length of the chain tied around his neck. His face was bobbing in and out of the water. His lifeless eyes were bulging, his mouth an open container. Water poured in, water poured back out. A huge log was in the water next to him, and the chain seemed to be holding Rollie alongside.

I looked around the barge, out toward the water. ”Hornsby!” I called.

Just as the last echoes of my voice were carried away by the wind, I heard what sounded like a small explosion. More of a woos.h.i.+ng sound. And then the deck of the barge was a column of flame headed right for me. A motor gunned and I saw a shadow crouched at the throttle of a small outboard and then I was leaping from the barge, out into Lake St. Clair.

I hit and the shocking cold of the water made me nearly want to scream.

I went straight down into the water, the sudden silence shocking me as much as the knifing cold.

My jacket weighed a ton, but I kept it on, instead I kicked off my shoes and pants, holding my breath for as long as I could before I had to surface.

When my lungs were burning and I was on the verge of inhaling a mouthful of water, I broke through to the water's surface. Smoke was everywhere. It was like night had come and thrown a stinky blanket over everything. As I struggled to get my bearings, a huge explosion rocked the air. I looked, and could just make out through the smoke that Hornsby's boat was now on fire.

I swam toward Rollie. When I was close enough, I put a hand on the log and tried to get a grip on its slick surface. It was difficult, but at last I found a small notch that served as a handhold.

I tried to think things through.

They had killed Rollie and were trying to destroy the s.h.i.+ps. So the question was, where was Hornsby?

Despite the situation, I felt a tug of relief. They, whoever that might be, probably weren't after me. If they didn't know I existed, they probably wouldn't come back to try to kill me.

Which was good.

The bad part was, I had no way of getting back to sh.o.r.e, and my body was already going numb from the cold. I had to get out of the water, and get out fast. Then I had to figure out a way to signal someone back on sh.o.r.e.

And there was still no sign of Hornsby.

Part two of the good news was that I knew the barge was virtually indestructible, unlike Hornsby's s.h.i.+p. So when I spied the chain leading from Rollie's neck to the side of the barge, I knew I had a chance. My hands already felt like frozen claws, so I would have to go as quickly as possible. I kicked off from the log, my clothes pulling me under, my body underestimating the strength it would take to keep me afloat and propel me the twenty feet I needed to cross to get to the chain.

I pushed and kicked, the water tugging at me, the cold was.h.i.+ng over me. I felt the chain brush my fist. I grabbed for it and missed, immediately going under and getting a mouthful of Lake St. Clair. The parallel with water going in Rollie's mouth inspired me to panic. I flailed back to the surface and got both hands on the chain. I pulled myself to the barge and tried to lift myself from the water, but my jacket and sweater weighed me down. It was going to be impossible. I was going to die, clinging to the chain for awhile, like Leonardo de Caprio in t.i.tanic, and then I was going to lose my grip and slip to the bottom, landing in a pile of wooden logs.

A giant motherf.u.c.ker of a wave knocked me against the side of the barge and I lost any oxygen that was left in my lungs. I gasped for breath, clawed at the chain, and maybe gained a foot or two.

But it was enough.

A red lever hung just below where I needed to get in order to haul myself out of the water.

It was the power switch for the winch.

My body shook with cold, and the exertion of swimming had left my muscles numb with fatigue. I thought of Anna and the kids back home, probably sitting down to dinner, oblivious to the fact that Daddy was hanging on for dear life in the middle of freezing cold lake, clinging to a boat that was on fire.

The lake seemed to surge beneath me, pus.h.i.+ng me toward the winch's control panel. My hands slid up the chain. I grabbed the lever and brought it down, instantly sending the chain into action. The winch pulled it to the surface of the barge, me along with it. I rolled onto the deck and gasped for air. I couldn't believe I'd made it. That I was alive. No life insurance check for Anna. She'd be p.i.s.sed.

A sudden loud thud made me get to my hands and knees and peer over the side of the barge.

It was the log that Rollie had been attached to. The winch, still winding, had brought it all the way to the side of the s.h.i.+p.

But Rollie was nowhere to be seen.

Something was pinned to the bottom of the log, had been trapped out of sight beneath the water.

Nevada Hornsby.

Sixteen.

I'd always wanted to meet someone from the Coast Guard. Somehow, I figured it would be a Sat.u.r.day field trip with my daughters. I'd call ahead, arrange a tour of the Coast Guard place with some guy called Captain Happy, the girls could pretend to steer the s.h.i.+p, we'd get some fake medals and then we'd all take pictures and drink cocoa.

Alas, Captain Happy turned out to be a grumpy middle-aged man who, after a b.u.mpy ride across Lake St. Clair with two men wearing sidearms giving me the cold stare, unceremoniously deposited me with the St. Clair Sh.o.r.es police. Apparently emergency calls regarding an abundance of dark smoke on Captain Happy's lake didn't inspire a warm, fuzzy feeling in the Coast Guard official. No cocoa, and he never even let me steer the s.h.i.+p. Good thing I hadn't brought the girls along.

The cops escorted me to an ambulance that took me to a hospital where after a blatantly cursory inspection, doctors determined I was fine. They didn't even give me the '24-hour observation' demand.

The cops then escorted me back to the station where all kinds of phone calls were made, some in my presence, most occurring, I'm guessing, while I waited in a conference room. A couple of St. Clair Sh.o.r.es cops took my statement. Then they re-took it. And then, to qualify for the hat trick, they took it again. I kept it not pretty much the same, but exactly the same.

After they left, I took stock of my situation. The hospital had given me some doctor's scrubs and my wet clothes were in a paper bag that was now soggy. I had a blanket around my shoulders and was trying to stay warm. I was also trying not to think about Nevada Hornsby, the sight of him lashed to the bottom of the log, his dead eyes staring up at me- The door banged open and my sister walked in.