Sweet Dreams, Irene (21 page)

Thinking of Lydia, I began to wonder if I had let my love of the ocean overcome my common sense. Maybe this was just as stupid as going into the field that night. Maybe the message Harry the Grump gave us was as phony as the one at the hotel. Maybe Jack didn’t really have leukemia, and this was all a plan to—

“Irene? Is something troubling you?”

I looked up at him, startled right out of my maybes.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Do you want me to head back in?”

Concerned. Not threatening, concerned. Everything in his manner and his voice said so. I exhaled. “I’m fine, Jack. Just letting my imagination run wild.”

“You want to talk about it?”

I laughed. “Not this time, but thanks.”

He didn’t press me for more. He was looking out over the water, toward the horizon. With his scars, tattoos, and earring, he could have been a pirate. The pirate was suddenly grinning to himself.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Oh, I was just thinking about Cody’s little stunt as we were leaving.”

I shook my head, picturing the imp crouched under the van. Suddenly, something tugged at my memory. “Jack? Remember when we left the house on Sunday, the first time we went sailing?”

“Yes, why?”

“That van was there. On a Sunday. As far as I know, General Systems Cable won’t come out on weekends, and they won’t come by after five. Frank had them install cable at his house at the beginning of October, so that I could watch the Kings’ games when we were there. It was a real hassle, because at the time, we were both working late. But this van was there after six o’clock yesterday, when Lydia arrived, and it was there again today.”

“I don’t remember seeing it there on Sunday. Are you sure you didn’t see it when you went out with Rachel?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe I saw it both times.”

“Maybe one of our neighbors works for the cable company now. Or maybe the van arrived before five, but they were still working when she got there.”

“Maybe. But that must be one hellacious installation if they’re back today.”

“Mention it to Frank. He may remember about Sunday. In the meantime, he’s got a tail on Gannet. You’re out on the ocean, trying to enjoy a sunset. Relax.”

I took a deep breath and tried to do just that. We had been sailing for a little less than an hour, and I was just starting to enjoy myself. The wind picked up as the sky darkened. Jack prepared to come about and head back into the marina, beginning a port tack. I decided that I was being paranoid about the van.

Two seconds later, there was a sickening screech of metal. We both watched the aluminum mast fold at the lower shrouds, and topple to the starboard side.

T
HE TOP OF THE MAST,
sails, and lines were swinging wildly around the deck. I barely managed to duck in time to keep my head from being hit by the boom. “Damn,” I heard Jack mutter, but otherwise he remained remarkably calm. He hurriedly secured the boom.

“Can we still use the engine to go back in?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “I’ve got to secure all the lines first. Otherwise, we might wrap one in the propeller.”

I was reassured by the way he moved about the deck: calm, certain of his actions. When the lines were secured, he came back and tried the engine, but he couldn’t get it to start.

That earned another “damn,” but he quickly moved toward the mast. “Can you get below on your own?” he asked, as he made his way forward.

I nodded, trying not to panic.

“Do you know how to use a radio? How to call the Coast Guard? Call PAN-PAN. There are instructions near the radio if you don’t know how.”

“I know how,” I said, thinking through the sequence for a distress call. Calling PAN-PAN would signal an urgent but not life-threatening problem. One step below a Mayday.

“Good. I’ve got to try to get the mast secured before it tears the boat apart.” He attached a harness to himself, of the type that prevents a sailor from being lost overboard in a storm. Seeing my worried look, he added, “We’ll be okay.”

I clumsily made my way down the companionway steps, hearing Jack struggle with the mast. In the shadowy interior of the cabin, I found the radio and hit the power switch. It glowed to life. I switched to channel 16, the international distress and calling channel. I lifted the mike. Jack had printed the
Pandora
’s call sign on the instructions he kept near the radio. I pressed the mike button, saying “PAN-PAN,” and turned to read off our identification. It was then that I realized that no other vessel would hear me. The mike cord had pulled away from the radio.

Above me, Jack cried, “Got it!”

“Jack,” I yelled up, “the radio’s broken.”

There was no immediate answer, but then I saw him making his way below. Even in the dimming light, I could see his face was set in a frown. “We dismasted because someone pulled the clevis pin on the upper shrouds on the port side and replaced it with a wooden dowel. It was only a matter of getting enough wind in the sails when we made the port tack.”

I didn’t really know enough about sailing to understand exactly what he was saying, but I managed to grasp the implication. “So it didn’t happen accidentally?”

“No. It’s part of the standing rigging. Someone intentionally changed it.”

“What the hell does he want with me?” I said frantically. There was no need to explain who I meant.

“I don’t know, Irene. To scare you, I suppose. So the only way we can beat this is to stay calm. We’re not in as much danger as it looks. If I can’t get the engine running, I’ll try to jury-rig the mast. Even if that doesn’t work, we’re not all that far off shore, and we’ll be seen. I’ve got flares and other ways to signal another boat.”

I nodded. “Let me know what I can do to help.” I put my good hand in my pocket and found my little stones. Anything to calm myself.

“You’re safest down here for now. I only have the one harness on board, and it’s getting dark. If we lurched and you went into the water with those casts, I’m not sure I could get you back on board without hurting you.” As he spoke, he reached for a flashlight and turned it on. I felt an inordinate sense of relief when it worked. “They forgot to steal my flashlight battery,” he said with a grin.

He tried to start the engine again. This time, it worked, but we didn’t seem to be moving much.

He came back down and turned the cabin lights on.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’ll have to take a look. I can’t get it to do much more than idle,” he said, then made his way behind the ladder, near the engine. He moved the cover off the engine, flashing the beam of light over it. “They jammed the throttle linkage,” he said after a moment. He moved out from behind the ladder and over to a low compartment, kneeling to open it, and then pulled out a padlocked foot locker. He took a set of keys out of his pocket and used one to open the lock. “I learned a few things before I got kicked out of the Boy Scouts. I’ve got spares for almost everything—no spare mast, I’m afraid—I do have the tools and spares we’ll need to fix the engine.”

As he opened the locker, his light-hearted manner was suddenly lost. His eyes widened, as if in shock. “Stole your tools?” I asked, looking over his shoulder.

But he just shook his head and rocked back on his heels, gingerly lifting a large, lumpy manila envelope that sat on top of the other contents. In black felt pen, across the front of it, was scrawled, “Dad—Open only in the event of my death or disappearance.”

“Oh God,” he said hoarsely. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, as if trying to will himself not to lose his self-control. He shook his head again, then looked up at me and handed me the envelope. “Hold that for me, please.” I took it from him, and hearing an object slide within it, was almost positive that we had just found the missing knife.

Jack, although obviously still shaken, went to work on the engine. After a few moments, he corrected the problem with the throttle linkage.

“That should do it,” he said, “provided they haven’t done some other damage.”

“You think we’ll be able to make it back in, then?”

Before he could answer, we heard the sound of an approaching powerboat. He gave me a tentative smile and hurried to the companionway. “They may have seen the mast and come over to help.”

The powerboat drew closer. I felt the hair along my neck rise.

“Jack!” I called, but it was too late, he was already on deck.

I heard Malcolm Gannet’s voice call, “Having a little trouble, Mr. Fremont?”

S
TAY WHERE YOU ARE,
Mr. Fremont,” I heard Gannet say. “It would be inconvenient to shoot you now, but I’m not entirely opposed to the idea.”

Looking desperately around me for a hiding place for the envelope, I moved beneath the ladder and wedged it between the engine cover and the hull.

Above me, I heard the sounds of two men boarding. Gannet had apparently brought help. Thinking over what Murray had told me of him, it made sense—he had said that Gannet couldn’t swim and didn’t know how to sail. I moved away from the engine and sat at the small table near the galley.

“Come on up from there, Miss Kelly,” Gannet called.

“I can’t,” I called back. “I can’t make it up the ladder steps on my own.” It was a lie, but I figured that if I could separate him from his assistant, we’d stand a better chance of evening the odds.

“Don’t let him out of your sight, Stevens,” Gannet said, apparently to the other man. “Mr. Fremont here is resourceful, as you can see by the fact that he has already managed to repair the engine. If he makes so much as a single move, kill him.”

“Look, Mr. Gannet,” the other man said, “we were in a powerboat. We would have caught up to them no matter how fast he fixed his sailboat engine. His engine’s not designed to—”

“—I don’t need mariner’s lessons at this point,” Gannet said sharply. “That’s why I pay you, Stevens—to mind the details for me. And right now, Mr. Fremont is the detail I’m paying you to mind.”

I heard Gannet move toward the companionway. From the cabin lights, I could see his face as he loomed over the hatch. He wore an orange life jacket over his dark blue sportshirt. His pants were white and neatly creased, and a jaunty white cap hid most of his gray hair. A picture of the gentleman yachtsman, offset only by the fact that he was pointing the barrel of a large gun at me. “Move to the bottom of the ladder, where I can see you better,” he commanded.

I made a show of clumsily getting up and moving toward the ladder.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“Where is what?”

“Don’t play games with me, Miss Kelly. I know exactly what you are up to. You plan to make that boyfriend of yours look like a hero in the police department. Oh, I understand that he needs all the help he can get—he’s something of a burnout case, isn’t he? An officer-involved shooting, assaulting another detective. Lord knows why they let him come back to work.”

“Maybe because he knows how to track down people like you.”

He laughed. “As I said, that’s exactly the plan, isn’t it? You hold on to the damning evidence—supposedly damning evidence—-while Detective Harriman raises suspicions against me. Then, at the properly dramatic moment, you hand him Paul’s confession and the knife. Detective Harriman is back to being the star of the Las Piernas Police Department.”

I couldn’t hide my reaction to the news that Paul had left more than the knife, but fortunately, Gannet mistook it.

“So I’m right. Save us all a great deal of trouble and tell me where it is.”

“What makes you think I have it? Paul hated me.”

“Don’t waste my time! Paul made it quite clear to me that he desired you, to such an extreme that he saved you for himself. Wouldn’t let Devon or Raney have a go at you. The mere mention of your name brought a knowing smile to his lips. And he wore that same smile when I asked him who had the knife and the confession. ‘The woman who caused all the trouble in the first place,’ he said. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he was talking about you. Now, where is it?”

The woman who caused all the trouble. Pandora. The only thing we had in common was that our curiosity had been ill-rewarded. Gannet apparently hadn’t made the connection to the boat’s namesake. He was watching me with growing impatience.

“Don’t you think Frank is going to wonder what has happened to us?” I said, trying to stall. “He has a tail on you, Gannet. You’re the first person he’ll suspect if anything happens to me.”

Gannet laughed. “Thanks to a little electronic eavesdropping, I’ve known exactly what the two of you are up to. That’s how we knew to prepare the
Pandora
for your little excursion this evening. Let Detective Harriman suspect whatever he wants to suspect. As you know, Miss Kelly, a suspicion is only as good as far as it goes. And the people who are following me believe I am still aboard the
Long Shot.
They’ll actually provide an alibi for me. Meanwhile, the Pacific makes a magnificent rug, and you and Mr. Fremont are about to be swept under it.”

“Did you get rid of that bloodstained blanket the same way?”

“Ah, Miss Kelly, you’ll never know, will you?”

“We’re not that far offshore. Don’t you worry that some passing traffic from Catalina will see us? Or the Coast Guard?”

Gannet sighed. “You continue to waste my time. I can see you won’t allow us to do this the easy way, Miss Kelly.” He stepped partway down the ladder, so that his head was just below the hatch.

“Don’t touch her!” Jack said angrily.

Gannet laughed. “You’re hardly in any position to be giving orders, skipper. Besides, I don’t plan to rush things. I’ll give you a little something to think about, Miss Kelly, before I spell out any of my plans for you and Mr. Fremont.” He reached into his pocket, never taking his eyes—or the gun—off me. His fist was closed over something. He stood watching me for a moment, and I didn’t like the look of anticipation in his eyes. He moved farther down the ladder, held his fist forward, then shook it. I heard a familiar rattling sound.

Dice.

I felt the sound in my thumb, in my shoulder, in five places on my back. It sounded exactly like fear.

He stepped off the ladder and moved toward me menacingly. My knees weakened and I stepped away from him. He took another step toward me, and sheer panic seized me. Trying to step away, I stumbled and fell backward with a bone-jarring thud. It hurt, but for an awful moment, I was too afraid he would shoot me to worry about anything else.

“You son of a bitch!” Jack was shouting.

Gannet turned away from me, glancing up through the hatch, and yelled, “No, Stevens! Not yet. We need him for the moment.”

From where I lay, I could see my cane, wedged on the side of one of the bunks. I looked back at Gannet, wondering if I could manage, left-handed, to free it and crack him over the head with it. A ridiculous notion, given the fact that I was flat on my back and he was armed and well out of striking range.

“Hold perfectly still,” he said coldly, apparently reading my intent if not my exact plans. He took some rope, and standing over me, laughed again. “I see your previous injuries are going to make this easier.” Gun still in hand, he clumsily tied my good foot to my cast, then set the gun well out of my reach, laying it aside to put his hands beneath my arms. He pulled me to a sitting position. I couldn’t help but yelp at the bolt of pain that sent through my right shoulder.

“Irene!” I heard Jack call, frantic.

“I’m okay, Jack,” I called back shakily.

With an iron grip, Gannet stretched my left hand in back of me. He tied my left wrist to the support for the table, so that I was sitting halfway beneath the table itself.

“There, a nice, firm square knot,” Gannet said in a low voice. His face was close to mine and he stank of cigarettes and whiskey. Apparently he had needed something to bolster his courage before playing at buccaneer.

He stood up. “Just in case you manage to free yourself from your bonds, I’m locking you in here. And should you try to crawl up those steps, you should understand that I’ll kill Mr. Fremont the moment I hear you rattle the hatch.”

True to his word, he closed and locked the hatch. The air around me quickly grew stuffy, and once again I had to force myself not to panic. Even though the lights were still on in the
Pandora
’s cabin, I pictured myself in a small, dark room in the mountains. I could not abide being shut up in a small space. I closed my eyes and forced myself to calm down.

I heard the sounds of the anchor being raised, of someone leaving the
Pandora,
and then the roar of the powerboat, heading away from us. Before long, the cabin lights dimmed briefly as the diesel engine of the
Pandora
started as well. We were under way.

I discovered the knot tied on my ankle was a granny knot, not a square knot, and gradually, by straining my cast and foot against it, it slipped and gave way. I twisted myself around, scooting myself farther under the table, so that I faced my left wrist. Using my teeth, I found this granny knot easier to loosen. Murray was right. Gannet was no sailor.

I worked my way to my feet. I opened a porthole, putting my face to it, taking in deep breaths to further calm myself. Only then was I able to notice the disturbing view before me: we were slowly moving farther out to sea. Sailor or no, Gannet was right about one thing. If he took us far enough away from shore, the
Pandora
could be destroyed with few traces left behind. Our bodies might never be found. I shook off visions of helping little lobsters grow into big ones.

Somehow, I had to stop the engine, to at least keep us within range of the traffic between Catalina and the harbors along the coast. Taking my cane as a weapon if needed, I turned to make my way aft. I hooked the cane on the ladder and moved nearer the engine, which still lay uncovered.

The working quarters were tight, and maneuvering within them was made all the more awkward by my casts. But I had learned to be more adept with my left hand by then, so I wasn’t impossibly clumsy. I managed to remove the bilge plate. I found a pair of vise grips in the toolbox, located the fuel line, and pinched it closed. I quickly rummaged through the toolbox again, found the biggest wrench I could handle with one hand, and awkwardly stood up. I stayed behind the ladder, keeping the wrench in hand, the cane nearby.

Some minutes passed, during which I began to doubt my handiwork. Just at the moment I was sure I needed to start loosening every single bolt I could lay the wrench on, the engine choked to a standstill. The sudden silence didn’t last long.

“What the hell did you do?” Gannet shouted. I felt a wave of relief. I hadn’t been sure which one of them had stayed aboard, and I suspected Stevens would have been much more likely to be capable of getting the boat back under way.

“I didn’t do a damned thing, and you know it,” Jack answered angrily. “You’ve been watching me the whole time.”

“Try starting it again,” Gannet said.

Jack dutifully pressed the starter button, to no avail.

“What’s wrong with it?” Gannet’s voice.

“I’ll have to go below to find out. Maybe your man did more damage than you suspected.”

“It’s a trick!” Gannet hissed. “She’s done something to the motor.”

“I thought you said she was tied to the table. She couldn’t reach the engine from there.”

“Never mind. Go on down the ladder and fix it. Hurry up. I’ve got the gun on you, remember.”

The hatch opened and Jack slowly stepped down the ladder, Gannet hesitating to follow him too closely. Without so much as a glance in my direction, Jack walked toward the table and bent low, blocking it from view from the ladder. “Irene!” he said, as if talking to me under the table. “Irene! Wake up!”

“What’s going on?” Gannet yelled.

“I don’t know—something’s wrong! I can’t wake her up!” Jack shouted, his voice frantic. The man deserved an Academy Award.

Gannet’s curiosity brought him to the ladder. He came down one, two steps.

“Irene!” Jack said again.

Gannet took another step down. His head just cleared the hatch. I held my breath. I couldn’t knock him out unless he came down another step. But he stayed where he was.

“Step away from her!” he said nervously.

Jack shook his head. “She’s hurt.” If Jack moved, Gannet would know he had been tricked. I made a decision, tucking the wrench into my sling.

“Step back!” Gannet shouted, motioning with the gun. As the gun swung away from Jack, I reached through the ladder and pulled with all my might on Gannet’s shin. Surprised, he twisted toward Jack and fired the gun as he fell off the ladder. Jack and I both fell on him, pinning him to the floor. Jack wrestled the gun away from him before he could fire again.

“Jack!” I cried. Blood was staining his left sleeve.

“Flesh wound,” he said calmly, as if it were nothing more than a mosquito bite. “He’s as lousy at shooting as he is at everything else. Are you all right?”

I nodded.

“Let me up!” Gannet said, apparently not enjoying having my cast in his kidneys.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jack said, reaching for the ropes. “Irene, hold the gun on him.”

I laid the end of the barrel against Gannet’s temple. His face was beet red with anger. Jack started by pulling Gannet’s lifejacket off, causing the beet red color to go to a clammy white. “He can’t swim,” I said.

“Even if he could, he’d never make it to shore. Especially not just kicking.” He tied Gannet’s hands behind him. Judging from Gannet’s grimace, Jack made better knots.

“Stevens will kill the both of you!” he growled.

“I doubt it,” Jack said evenly, dragging Gannet to his feet. “It will take him a while to understand that we haven’t met him as planned, and then to turn around and find us. I’ll be ready for him when he arrives.” He went to a duffel bag and pulled out a pair of binoculars, a first-aid kit, and a flare gun. He went above with these, then came back down.

He opened another compartment and pulled out a knife. There was a visible tension in him now, and a look in his eyes that made me suddenly aware of a side of Jack that I had not really seen, or which I had ignored, until now. A very dangerous side.

He came up behind Gannet and grabbed his chin, pulling Gannet’s head back hard, holding it against his shoulder. He laid the edge of the knife up against Gannet’s exposed neck. When he spoke, his voice was deadly cold. “The last time I used one of these,” he said into Gannet’s ear, “it was to kill my own son.
My own son,
Gannet. Don’t imagine for a minute that I would hesitate to kill the man who put a lot of crazy ideas into that boy’s head. As you no doubt pointed out to Paul, I’m dying. What have I got to lose? In fact, it’s a miracle that I haven’t slit you from your fucking neck down to your balls already.”