Part 16 (1/2)

The rest of our trip to the waters off Dog Island proved to be personally difficult, gastronomically repet.i.tive, and a source of genuine amus.e.m.e.nt to the Teeter men. But, at first, it appeared to have been worth it. As we neared the island, Captain Billy called out my name. I loosened my death grip on the railing that had seen so much of my inner workings and looked up. He pointed at a short row of white lights suspended beneath a bright blue dot in the distance.

I yelled, ”What is it?”

”Big pleasure boat.”

”How can you tell?”

Billy looked concerned about my faculties. He yelled, ” 'Cause it looks like one.”

Obviously he saw something I didn't, but that wasn't surprising. Billy Teeter had spent the better part of fifty years on those waters, much of it shrimping at night. I had to a.s.sume that he knew what he was talking about.

It was close to ten. Billy cut the engines to an idle and came out to stand beside me. He was wearing full yellow rain gear like a fisherman in a children's story. ”Whatcha wanna do?”

I asked, ”How suspicious would it look for us to just sit here and watch them for a while?”

”Probably be fine. Depends on how jumpy they are. The captain's gonna know shrimpers set still all the time to rig nets or check the water or just decide where to head next. With this rain comin' down, anybody who knows boats is likely gonna figure we're tryin' to figure whether to head back in.”

”So we're fine here for a while.”

”Yep.”

At exactly 11:00 p.m., a blue spotlight flashed three times on the deck of the yacht. Young Willie had joined us; he was outfitted in a green plastic poncho. I told the Teeter men about the signal Joey and I had seen a week earlier at midnight on a deserted stretch of beach on Dog Island. And we waited. Willie said, ”I reckon they're not too worried about us if they're givin' the same signal.”

Through silver streaks of rain, a pair of headlights flashed three times on sh.o.r.e, and I said, ”It doesn't look like it. It looks like they're going to go ahead with the drop-off.”

Young Willie was jumpy. I could almost hear the adrenaline pumping inside his poncho. A smaller blue light flashed midway between the yacht and the sh.o.r.eline, and Willie pointed and said, ”Look! Look at that. What're they doing?”

I said, ”That's the drop-off boat. They're taking whatever they're smuggling to sh.o.r.e.”

Willie said, ”Cool,” and Captain Billy shook his head.

Another set of blue flashes was answered by headlights. I said, ”The men in the drop-off boat are armed. We better cruise over now and check out the yacht. I'm guessing there'll just be one or two men left onboard. They've got to be figuring that any trouble is going to come onsh.o.r.e.”

Billy climbed into the bridge cabin and eased the engines into gear. We had started our rolling approach when a loud hum approached the stern out of the night. I called Billy and pointed into the dark rain. Billy squinted at me and then at the piece of night I had pointed into and then at me again. I stepped up next to the small door leading into the covered bridge. ”Somebody's out there. I hear a loud motor, like a speedboat or something.”

”Whatcha wanna do? It's your dollar.”

I said, ”Keep moving as fast as you can.”

Just as Billy pushed the throttle wide open, a spotlight swept a silver path through the rain and came to rest on the bridge. A twenty-foot cigar boat pulled up alongside. Billy called out. ”We ain't gonna outrun that.”

I said, ”Turn away from them,” and Billy spun the chromed wheel. The speedboat shot past us and quickly began to circle back.

I pulled the 9mm out of my back waistband, and Billy said, ”Whoa. I didn't sign up to shoot n.o.body. Put that thing back where you got it.”

”What if they shoot at us first?”

”Then you can take it out.” He reached up to pat a twelve-gauge pump hung from two bra.s.s stirrups above the front gla.s.s. The rear stock had been sawed off and shaped into a pistol grip. ”Somebody points a gun at this boat, and I'll blow their a.s.s out of the water. You don't worry about that.”

Billy was a tough old bird, but I held on to my Browning. The cigar boat was alongside again. Its narrow spotlight swept the deck, stopping on young Willie who gave them a one-finger salute through pouring rain that shone like tinsel in the light's beam. A loud, sharp crack cut the night air, and Willie went over the side. I screamed at Billy. ”Stop! Stop this thing. Willie's in the water.” Billy yanked down on the throttle arm. The shrimp boat dropped its nose into the surf, and, once again, the cigar boat shot past. I shouted, ”I'll go after Willie. Use the shotgun.”

As I turned to run, Billy's leathery hand closed painfully on my bicep. ”Stay still. You get out in the water, and they'll run you down or shoot you too. We can't do nothin' for Willie till we take care of that boat.” We could hear the speedboat coming back. Billy said, ”Get down. I'll try to hit the spotlight. You unload that pistol into whoever's drivin'.” I nodded and wondered if I'd have that much sense, that kind of b.a.l.l.s, if someone I loved was flailing around in the night ocean with a gunshot wound.

The speedboat revved and then cut to idle as it came near. A yellow beam hit the bow, and Billy waved me back. I ran doubled over to the stern and hunkered down behind a pile of nets. The light swept back over the deck and then forward again to the bridge cabin. Without warning, automatic gunfire splintered Billy's bridge into bits of gla.s.s and wood that spun and flashed across the light like lethal fireflies. s.h.i.+t. I popped up and put three shots as close to the light as I could, considering that I was firing from the deck of one rolling boat to another. The light spun toward me, and I hit the fibergla.s.s-coated metal deck just before automatic gunfire made the netting pop and dance above my head.

A loud boom interrupted the fast crack of automatic fire, and the spotlight blew, spewing electric sparks into the night. Two more booms came in quick succession. Billy was unloading on the boat. I rolled away from the netting and jumped up. Two dark bodies moved inside the cigar boat. I took aim at the form behind the wheel and had fired six jarring shots before the shadow jumped and fell sideways. Two more booms echoed across the water, and flames shot out of the oversized motor next to the larger man who had fired the automatic weapon. The big man dove forward. I pumped three rounds into the speedboat and the winds.h.i.+eld fell and twisted like a gleaming mirror reflecting fire from the engine. Something heavy splashed, and the big man was in the driver's seat. The torched engine roared. The boat hooked hard to port, and its bow shot out of the water as the stern sc.r.a.ped the hull of the Teeter Two.

I was on my feet screaming into the night, emptying my clip into the flaming cigar boat. I stared hard through the rain to see who had done this, to see who Billy Teeter and I would have to kill when we got home. The bullet-shaped boat skipped down the larger boat's hull and, just before roaring away, the driver looked across the gunwale directly into my face. Then Carli's father, the New England cod fisherman, literally fired off into the night.

Billy stood beside me. I cussed. Billy grabbed my arm. He said, ”He's going the wrong way. Watch him. He's gonna hit.”

Poultrez zoomed toward sh.o.r.e trailing flames and thick smoke like a jet afterburner. I said, ”It's going to blow.”

”Won't need to. Watch.”

A loud, mechanical ripping noise echoed across the water, and Poultrez's flaming bullet boat shot into the air, tucked its fiery tail under, and slapped top down into the surf sending a gush of black seawater into the air.

I said, ”What the h.e.l.l?”

”Oyster beds.” Billy said, ”Let's go find my grandboy.”

While Billy cleared broken gla.s.s off the bridge and got the boat going, I found a flashlight and examined the hull section sc.r.a.ped by Purcell's cigar boat. It was going to need some woodwork and painta”and I was going to pay for ita”but, as far as I could tell, we weren't in any danger of sinking.

Billy was working his spotlight back and forth across the water, steering carefully toward the place where Willie went over. The old man was slowly and rhythmically clenching his jaw with each swivel of the lamp. I moved up to the bow. I heard Billy using his radio, calling for help. Then I heard something elsea”a voice, thin and distant. I held up my hand. Billy pulled back on the throttle and stepped out to look.

I said, ”Cut the engine. I think I hear something.” The old man reached inside the bullet-riddled bridge cabin and twisted a key, and the Gulf fell silent. I said, ”Move the light. See if you can see him.” The spot swept across rolling waves, and the thin voice came again. ”He's seeing the light. Stop!”

Sixty yards off the starboard bow, an eerily white head bobbed in the waves. I pointed, and Billy turned over the engines and moved the right way. I lost Willie twice in thirty yards. Then we were on him, and I dropped over the side.

The Gulf in March was still cold enough to take my breath when I hit the water. Willie's pale head seemed to float toward me as I paddled in place. His eyes were open, his lips blue and trembling. I managed to slide my arm under his and grip him across the chest. I kicked hard and seemed to paddle in place again while, this time, the boat floated toward me. Billy had a ladder over the side. I perched Willie on the bottom rung, held on with my left fist, and pushed his hypothermic ma.s.s up into Billy's strong arms with my right hand. I hung there trying to catch my breath and quickly realized the water was sapping my breath and my strength. I made it up the ladder alone.

On deck, Captain Billy had Willie on his stomach, alternately pressing his upper back and lifting his underarms. It's what the United States Marines taught in 1942, and it works, just not that well. I said, ”Move,” and was surprised when Billy complied. I flipped Willie onto his back and checked his pulse and breathing. The first was strong. The second was weak and shallow. I put a hand under Willie's neck to c.o.c.k his head back and swept the back of his tongue with my fingers to check for blockage. Then I placed my lips over his clammy, whiskered mouth and pushed a lung full of air into his chest. Willie gurgled and choked the air back out. Again, I breathed deeply into the young man's lungs; and he vomited violently into my mouth. Reeling backward, I spit out Willie's mess and then puked the last few morsels of my lunch across Willie's chest and onto the deck.

He was breathing strongly on his own, so I began checking for gunshot wounds. There weren't any. I looked up at Billy. ”He's not shot. He got some water in his lungs when he hit the water. You got any blankets?” Billy immediately pulled off his coat and put it over his grandson. A few seconds later, he was back with a silver emergency blanket and two large sheets of opaque plastic. I got Willie as comfortable as possible on the rolling, rain-soaked deck while the old man throttled up and headed for sh.o.r.e.

G.o.d and nature protect teenage boys. Willie began to come around before we hit the bay. Captain Billy had radioed ahead for help, and an ambulance met us at the dock. Willie, complaining loudly now, got lifted onto a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance. Billy climbed into the front seat next to a paramedic, and the white van screamed off into the night.

I was left standing on the dock, checking the lines, surveying the damage, and generally feeling like a complete a.s.shole for involving the Teeters in a death match with Carli's father and the Bodines. I would pay for the damage. I would give Captain Teeter one h.e.l.l of a bonus. I'd even pay for Willie's medical bills. But none of that was going to make me any less of a p.r.i.c.k for having involved them.

It was past midnight and cold. My salt.w.a.ter-soaked clothes felt hard and rough on my skin. I opened the trunk and pulled out my duffel. No one was around. I found clean underwear, a s.h.i.+rt and chinos. I had stripped and, thankfully, pulled on dry boxers when Billy's partner, Julie, came around the corner of the shack. I started to apologize; then I saw the two men behind her. They wore dark suits and ties, and they had the look of men you run from in the night.

I pulled on my pants. I smiled. I spun on the b.a.l.l.s of my feet and ploughed into the widest human being I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.

chapter twenty-two.

The human wall looted like an Hispanic Odd Job, minus the decapitating bowler. This one just had a gun, which he used to tap me on the head until he had my complete attention. He didn't say much. One of the other men, one of the ones with Julie, spoke.