Superior Storm (Lake Superior Mysteries) (27 page)

“You OK?” I asked Leyla. She nodded tiredly.

A minute later Angela put a plat
e of sandwiches in front of us. It slid across the table, and stopped as it came to rest against a little lip built in the table for exactly that reason. The plate slid back and I caught it with my bound hands.

“Eat,” said Angela. “It’s going to be a long
,
rough night.”

I took a bite
of a
sandwich and chewed for a minute. “Could I get some avocado on mine?” I asked. Angela gave me a long look. “Actually, it’s good just as it is,” I said.

I began to wonder if I was wrong about their plans to kill us. You don’t bother feeding people you want to kill. Unless, I thought unhappily, you don’t want them to know they will be killed, and you want them to be strong and cooperative enough to sail a boat for you.

“Rest for a while,” said Angela. “You’ll be back out there soon enough.” This seemed to confirm
my fears.
I was finally warming up, starting to feel my fingers and toes. I laid my head on my arms and tried to sleep.

I kept my eyes closed and my breathing regular, but mostly
I thought about our predicament
and what we might do. As I began to drift off to the rhythm of the waves, I had a thought that startled me awake. It took all my willpower not to sit up. After that, my mind worked furiously, and sleep was simply impossible.

It seemed like forever before Angela prodded me. “Move,” she said. “Leyla’s turn.”

I opened my eyes, and carefully sat up. “It’s OK,”
I said quietly. “Let her sleep.
I’ll go.”

Angela curled her lip at me. “You think she can’t handle it? Because she’s a woman?”

“I think she can handle it better than anyone,” I said. “But I care about her, and I want the best for her.”

Angela regarded me for a few moments. “Look,” I said.
“
The truth is, I’m not sleeping well. I don’t mind being out there all night. She’ll be safe, which will make me happy, and you’ll have her hostage, which will make you happy. I’d rather be doing something than sitting here thinking about it.”

“Okay,” said Angela. “Go.”
She cut my plastic cuffs.

I
pulled on a life-vest
and
went. Jasmine was huddled over the wheel, shuddering uncontrollably with cold. Under the circumstances, I decided I did not feel all that sorry for her.

“I’m on,” I said. “You can get below.”

Without a word, moving like a zombie, she relinquished the wheel and went down the companionway, closing the door behind her.

The first blast of spray was awful.
It was like putting on a cold, wet swimsuit.
Somehow I had forgotten how cold and miserable it was.
It took exactly five seconds to remember.
In fact, I felt even colder than I had before, after being in the warm cabin for so long.

The night was black and ugly and violent. The waves still reared up to port, half the height of the mast. They blasted through the defective
dodger;
they crashed across the deck and into the cockpit, swirling over the tops of my shoes until the scuppers sent the water back where it belonged. The wheel was as recalcitrant as ever, and the cold rain sliced in from the
dark,
angry sky.

I risked a qui
ck
look over my shoulder. I caught glimpses of wild white-tipped waves, but little else.
Holding onto the wheel with one hand, I
turned half-way around.
A
sudden heave sent me sprawling against the stern rail. I scrambled clumsily to my feet and grabbed the wheel again. Checking the GPS, I made a small course adjustment. Then, still holding the wheel, I slipped to the other side of the steering pedestal, holding the wheel backwards, facing the stern. A few seconds later
,
I saw what I wanted.
I breathed in deeply, unsure if I was relieved or terrified.

Stumbling and slipping, I made my way back
to
the
right side of the wheel. I leaned forward and peered at the GPS again. Then, reaching to my left, I set the autopilot and turned the switch to on. Letting go of the wheel, I watched carefully. We
slid down the side of
a wave and swung to starboard. The wheel
moved, as if guided by invisible hands, and we shifted back to port, holding a steady course. I watched it happen once more, and then
swiveled
around to face the stern.

The rope I sought was secured to
a cleat on the stern
. I knelt down and reached over the wide gunwale and grabbed onto
it
.
Water sloshed over my calves as the remnants of a big wave slid slowly down the scuppers.
I pulled and felt the weight of the dinghy
we were towing
on the other end.
It seemed
heavy, far too heav
y
. Even so, I could move it closer, and I did, slowly jerking the rope toward me, hand over hand.
I spent a pleasant moment imagining that I was finally hauling in the giant fish of my dreams.

A few m
oments
later, I could just make it out in the dim light. It was a zodiac-style runabout, with wide pontoons forming its outer shell, the kind made popular by Navy Seal commercials and movies.
It rushed down a wave toward the stern of
Tiny Dancer
. I stopped pulling, and cast about in vain for something to stave it off. Just before the dingy struck,
Tiny Dancer
lurched up the next wave, and the little runabout fell behind again. I heaved a breath of relief. If the dinghy had struck us, Angela and company would have been on deck in seconds, demanding to know what I was doing, and the slim chance I was clinging to would be irrevocably lost.

I let the dinghy
painter
slip back through my hands, and the distance between us increased once more, but there was an emptiness in the pit of my stomach as I realized that my plan could not work as I
had
conceived it. The dinghy was back at the end of the
painter
now. I guessed it was maybe forty or fifty feet astern.

I had only one choice, and if I waited long to consider it, I knew I would lose my courage.
I took firm hold of the painter, slid under the
aft
guard rail
,
and slipped into the next wave.

It was like
being struck with a heavy blow,
all over my body at once. My head was above water, but I couldn’t breathe.
My muscles felt like they were moving in slow motion through a vat of molasses. A wave submerged me for a minute, but my life-vest popped me back up a second later. I began to choke and gasp for air. The feeling was rapidly leaving my fingers, and I was afraid of losing the rope through sheer numbness.

Like a man in a nightmare, I reached out with all the speed I could muster – which equaled
that of
the most advanced geriatric patient in a nursing home – and pulled myself along the rope to the dinghy. Thankfully, the forward motion of the boat helped, so mostly all I had to do was let the rope slide through my hands, but this was made difficult by the numbing cold. I shuddered to think
of
how I would get back.

I came to a fork in the rope. Apparently two ropes were attached to the dinghy to keep it tracking well, and to prevent it from twisting or spinning in rough weather. I chose the rope that went to the left, which was actually the starboard side of the little boat.

Fairly quickly
,
I met the bow of the dinghy. Too quickly, in fact. It loomed above me in the darkness and I tried to duck, but I
reacted
so slowly that it still struck me in the back of the head. I held on, stunned for a moment.

Now I was being towed along with the dinghy, and there was a strong flow of water pushing against me, shoving me against the bow,
splashing my face, trying to force me under the runabout. I struggled to turn so that my back was
to the
Tiny Dancer
, and my face out of the water.
It seemed like
it
took a long time, but finally I managed to get
the rope under my right armpit
and brace my left hand on the
gunwale
of the dinghy. I paused for a moment, panting. I couldn’t catch my breath – the cold robbed the power from each heave of my lungs.

I scooted forward, throwing my left arm further over the wide pontoon gunwale of the dinghy. I scrabbled around with my hand, trying to find something to hold onto, but finally I had to settle for bending my elbow with
the inside curve of the pontoon
and clamping tight with my whole arm.

I tried to heave myself up and over the gunwale, but halfway through the motion
,
I knew I wouldn’t make
it
. I grabbed desperately at the rope with my right hand, and caught it just before the movement of the boat put it beyond my reach. I was holding on, face down in the water.

Again
,
I painstakingly worked myself around until I had the painter under my right armpit. I swung my legs up to gain some traction on the side of the dingy, but the bottom was flat, and the pontoons were too high in the water to be of any use for leverage.

I felt weak. I knew I had to get out of the water soon, or my muscles would seize up and I would freeze to death in less than
an hour
. I heaved again, letting loose of the rope with my right hand, swinging my body up over the dinghy with everything I had.

It wasn’t enough.
My left arm slipped, and my left leg didn’t make it over the edge. I slid helplessly along the smooth side of the little boat, my left arm slipping further and further out
a
long the pontoon. Inexorably, the force of the water on my body pulled my arm up until my hand was on top of the pontoon,
barely
held there with all the pressure I could muster. Then, with a twitch of a wave, it came off.

With a gasp
,
I flailed wildly. My left hand connected with something solid, and graspable, and I realized I was holding on
to
the transom – the board that made up the stern of the pontoon boat. I
wheeled my
right
arm high and
forward like I was throwing a discus, and then I had two hand
s
grasping firmly. With a groan and a heave of desperation, I
snaked
my legs and contorted my body and jerked my arms and finally I was lying in
eight
inches of water in the bottom of the dinghy.

The
eight
inches of water quickly grew to t
welve
. I realized that my weight was pushing the bow upwards, and all the water was collecting around my body in the back of the boat. I pushed myself up to my knees and fumbled around until I found a bailer, tied to one of the benches. I scooped water out for several minutes until I no longer felt like I was sitting in a frozen kiddie-pool.

There was a bench across the boat immediately in front of me. Behind, me, fixed to the transom, was a small outboard motor
, and to my left, next to me
,
a small gas tank
.
T
he weight of the motor and of the water
was
probably the only thing that had kept it from overturning in the tumultuous seas.

The movement of the waves was greater on the smaller vessel.
I stayed on my knees and slid over the bench. Three feet ahead o
f me was a second bench, but unlike
the first
,
it was enclosed all the way to floor. It was, in fact, some kind of
storage bin, or
locker, which is exactly what I had remembered.

The seat-locker opened up from my side. I found the lever and spread my arms to prevent anything from
flying out in the wild weather. I
pushed the lid up. It slammed down again immediately in the wind. Patience is a virtue. Virtuously, I pushed the lid up again, and held it there with my left hand. With my right hand, I rummaged around inside.

There were two life-jacket
s
, which unhelpfully got in the way. Still virtuous, I explored the area carefully with my hand. I pulled up a hard
plastic
object and found I was holding a flare gun. I put it back. I found a flashlight next. Light would help me find what I was looking for, but it could also betray me. If, in the wild movement of the waves, the flashlight were to
shine
ahead to the
Tiny Dancer
and hit
one of the wi
ndows of the companionway doors
or of the cabin, I could find myself in serious trouble with Angela and company.
I left it off. After that
,
I found the flare gun again, and then a package of three flares.