Deceived (17 page)

Chapter forty-one

By the time the ferry pulled into the Southport ferry landing, Sam was listing charges against Tripp Johnson on his fingers—murder, attempted murder, assault and battery, trafficking, prostitution. He looked at Chief as they were getting back in the car, lined in a cue to drive off the ferry.

“Think we can expect any help from the boys in Southport?”

Chief shook his head. “I don’t know. These townies are pretty tight. And the Johnson family roots go way back. I can call, but we might be setting ourselves up. Let’s take a look around. See what we think.” A smile fluttered across his lips. “Besides, we have all the backup we need in the trunk.”

Sam nodded. He focused on the narrow curving road leading out of the landing’s parking lot and onto Moore Street, the riverside road heading into Southport.

The Mustang is holding up well, given what I’m putting it through
, Sam thought. He hoped Lee wouldn’t mind him driving it so much, but he had no other choice at this point. His truck was probably a carcass, still stuck in Navassa from the night Molly showed up in that tight sparkly dress. Sam tried hard not to think of Molly
that
way right now. He just wanted her and Jenny safe again.

Once inside the village of Southport, Sam paid attention to zigzagging tourists who crossed Moore Street, checking out menus of restaurants without so much as a glance at oncoming cars.
Tourists can be so aggravating,
Sam thought, as he stopped more than once to let another couple dressed in high-style cruise wear and frills pass.
Overdressed for the occasion and the place,
he noted. Sam also thought about his own empty stomach. But they had to keep going.

Down at the waterfront, traffic moved slowly as sightseers and restaurant goers drifted from eatery to eatery, deciding on which one to bestow their patronage. When Sam and Chief reached the corner of Restaurant Row, where Provision’s meets the hungry world, Sam saw it.

The tan Ford Taurus station wagon was parked in front of Johnson’s, the windows down. It was empty.

Sam parked nearby. He and Chief scanned the parking lot. Then they headed to Provision’s dockside dining. Since it was early, there were still a few empty tables. From this vantage point, Sam could see part of the docks off Johnson’s Fishery. No boats were there tonight.

Chief walked to the other end of the dining area. Then he was off like a shot.

Sam saw him running toward a white multi-towered Cabo Sportsfisher. When Sam jumped down on the dock and read the name emblazoned on the stern, he caught his breath.

Firefly.

Andy’s boat glistened in the afternoon sun. The cabin door was open slightly, giving Sam a view of what made Chief jump so fast. A bloody hand was gripping the bottom of the door.

Chief was aboard in a second, pushing open the cabin door to a groaning voice. It was Chuck Owens. Just Chuck. No Lisa. No Molly. No Jenny.

Chuck’s jaw was out of alignment, and his face a bloody mess where the nose should be. Below the neckline wasn’t much better.

Chief and Sam tightly wrapped as many bleeding points as they could, and they tried to make Chuck as comfortable as possible without moving him. He was losing blood fast.

“Call an ambulance!” Chief screeched at a short preppy man standing on the dock nearby. Reaching for his flip phone, the prepster caught a glimpse of Chuck through the open door on the boat and shrieked. He fumbled his fingers until he found the nine and the one on the keypad.

“There’s a man on the boat.
Firefly
. Uh-huh. No, I’m on the dock looking onto the boat. The dock. Next to Provision’s. Yes. Yes.” Then to the Chief: “They want to know his condition.”

“Desperate! Tell them to get over here now!” Chief was redder than a Coast Guard cutter.

Prepster, now surprisingly calm, continued his call, giving as close a description of the situation as he could figure out.

Within seconds, the ambulance’s wailing siren could be heard approaching through the narrow streets.

Chief and Sam stood back to let the emergency medical team do its thing, overseeing everything like a couple of supervisors in a factory. As Chuck was lifted off the boat, the questions began.

Chief took out his identification. “We’ll talk at the hospital.”

The EMT he talked with nodded and ran to the driver’s side of the ambulance.

Chief nodded to Sam. “You stay here in case they come back. I’m going to the hospital with Chuck.”

Before they could wheel Chuck to the ambulance, Chief gently fished in Chuck’s pant pockets until he found the keys to Chuck’s Taurus.

Sam shrugged, watching Chief spin out of the parking lot in Chuck’s car, chasing the ambulance toward the hospital.

Then Sam headed for the fishery. Walking all around the facility, Sam saw that all the doors, streetside and dockside, were locked. If they had been here, they didn’t stay long.

Returning to the Mustang, Sam was relieved to see that Chief’s cell phone lay on the seat. He dialed Hoops’ number.

“Hoops, I got another name for you to run down.”

“Sam-Man, you getting yourself in all kinds of trouble, aren’t you?” Hoops sounded relieved that Sam hadn’t found too much of the wrong kind of trouble just yet.

“I’m trying hard to steer clear, but we need to find these folks. I’m running out of time and daylight, so I need you to find out the owner of one more boat. I only know the boat’s name.”

“Speak.”

“Seawitch
. I don’t know the hailing port, but I’ll bet you a beer it’s Southport.”

Silence on the other end filled Sam’s ear.

Hoops spoke. “We got three down there. Any idea what kind you’re looking for?”

“What have you got?”

“A twelve-foot Boston Whaler.”

“No, it would have to be something bigger.”

“A Hallberg-Rassy 342.”

“Hum. That’s big enough to carry five people, but I’m thinking a sailboat wouldn’t be the choice vessel for a getaway. How about a long-distance motor cruiser? Something fast?”

“Sweet.” Hoops let out a catcall whistle. “How about a forty-one-foot Beneteau Flyer with two Volvo engines? That fast enough for you?”

“That’ll do. Owner?”

“Tripp Johnson. Southport. Need an address?”

“No. I seriously doubt anybody’s home. Thanks, Hoops. I owe you one.”

“You owe me three. One for liberating Mike’s dinghy, one for delivering it for you, and one for lying to me to get me to do it. This one, you can have for free.” Hoops paused. “This the boat you think your friends are on?”

“Yeah. I just don’t know how I’m going to track them from here.”

“You’ve called the right person, Sam-Man. I’ll get you a fix on that vessel. You going to hold on to this number for the night?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’ll send out the troops from Oak Island. You hang tight and stay out of their way.”

Sam feigned hurt. “You honestly think I would get in the way of the United States Coast Guard doing its duty?”

“Yes. Stay clear, Sam-Man. I’ll call you when we have them in custody.”

“I promise I’ll stay out of trouble. I’ll enjoy the evening from Provision’s deck.”

“Sure you will,” Hoops answered incredulously. “Catch you later, Sam-Man.”

Though Sam had promised, patience was not a strong suit for him. He pondered for a moment. Then he popped open the Mustang’s trunk to fetch its contents and jogged back to
Firefly
.

Chapter forty-two

Hot-wiring a boat is a lot quicker than hot-wiring a car. On a car, a thief has to remove the left side of the steering column. His screwdriver finds a round cup-like mechanism, and the car starts right up. A common auto-body shop tool called a
dent puller
is attached to the steering wheel, and the thief wiggles it back and forth until the ignition lock pops. Procedures may vary from car to car, but getting one started without a key is generally not a problem.

On a boat, the engine can be started by hand in the engine compartment. Wires are exposed, sure. But on a boat, it’s more a matter of using a starter button or hand-cranking one or more belt wheels, depending on the model, than crossing wires. A starter button, like the one Sam found on
Firefly
, is particularly easy and helpful when changing the oil—or chasing bad guys.

Sam untied the dock lines. Within seconds, he was clear of the no-wake zone in front of Provision’s and working his way toward Bald Head Island.

On any other evening, a night on the water—even in a fast boat—was a glorious mingling of fresh air and scents and sights. White Ibis settle down in their tree-top nests like ornaments on a Christmas tree planted on spoil islands created from dredged sands. An occasional dolphin leaps high enough to be seen, even in the brackish Cape Fear River. And the neon yellow-green marsh grass reaches up toward the Crayola orange, purple, and yellow sky, colors brilliant in the setting sun’s wake.

This particular evening, Sam noticed none of it. He veered to the right of Bald Head Island toward the Atlantic’s open waters. The island’s octagonal brick lighthouse, a relic of days when whale oil was carried up spiraling stairs to keep the lamp lit, and the tall black and white column of a lighthouse on Oak Island, could be seen from the channel. An imaginary line strung between the two lighthouses signaled the river’s end and the ocean’s beginning.

Boating around Bald Head is treacherous, even for boatmen familiar with the shifting shoals visible in shallow waters that flail a long serpent’s tail of sand from side to side, depending on which storm hit it last. During the daylight, fishermen pick their way through the channel, mindful that what appears on a chart may not be what’s under their keels. At night, all bets are off.

Sam held his left hand up to the sky, his thumb parallel with the horizon. He noted where the sun was on his ringless ring finger. At this time of the year, each finger between the sun and the horizon represents fifteen minutes. Another hour of daylight, tops.

He flipped the navigational lights on. He scanned the radio for conversations. First to the Coast Guard station, next to the weather station, where a computerized voice referred to as
Mechanical Mike
sounded off tides, times, and weather forecasts of waters stretching from Norfolk to Georgia. Finally, the scan button reached a frequency most commonly used by recreational boaters. Nothing much to listen to, unless you want to hear news of the catch of the day.

Sam set the radio on scan and listened to snatches of various conversations as he sped along the Oak Island side of the channel. When he saw the initial red open ocean buoy, fear crept up his spine for the first time that day—not for his own safety, but for Molly and Jenny’s. He wondered how far behind he was.

From
Firefly
’s starboard side came a deep rumbling and a flash of orangey red. The Coast Guard cutter flew past him and waved him off.

Had Hoops said something? Sam ignored their signals to back off and followed in the cutter’s wake for a moment before speeding up. Sam heard their admonition over the radio, but he ignored that, too. They knew who he was; Hoops would have told them. Running alongside the cutter, Sam didn’t bother with pretenses when he scooped up the radio’s hand-held mic and waved it in the air.

“Switch to forty-two,” he tried not to yell.

“Switching forty-two.”

If anyone heard the demand, he wouldn’t know it was a Coast Guard cutter. That’s just what Sam wanted.

A voice shattered the static on channel forty-two. “We’ll take it from here, copy?”

“I hear you. But I will not turn back. They are armed and dangerous, and they got hostages.”

“Concur,” answered the efficient voice. “This is not your ballgame anymore, cowboy. Turn back.”

“I’ll be your backup, but I am not laying off.”

Sam veered back behind the cutter.
Firefly
was fast, but it didn’t have the tracking devices the cutter had. Sam would let them take the lead to find
Seawitch
. Sam vowed to be there, too. Sam switched back to scan mode and dropped his pace a little, giving the cutter two hundred yards as it headed due southeast twenty degrees to open water.

Forty-five minutes left until dark engulfed the ocean. If they stayed close to shore, they could follow various towns’ markers and lights. Sam turned on the helm-mounted GPS and watched the numbers increase as he ran in deeper water. There was no radar on board, so he’d have to rely on the cutter’s direction. Sam figured that with these electronics on board,
Firefly
must have been Andy’s toy for fishing near Frying Pan Shoals. Sam marked his fuel and hoped the gauge was accurate.

Chapter forty-three

An old song by Little River Band drifted into Sam’s head. He marveled at how the lyricist romanticized the ocean at night. Sam was sure the moon didn’t look like any lover he’d had, but the sentiment was nice. A cool ocean breeze, the open ocean, and not but a few stars overhead could make nearly anyone wax poetic, but Sam was focused on the stern lights in front of him. The rescue boat was moving fast. Sam wanted to ride shotgun, but he kept a respectable distance as they chewed up space between them and their target.

About an hour running full out, Sam noticed the rescue boat swerving to the east. He did the same. There, about five hundred yards ahead, are the low profile lights of a fast cruiser.

This time of year, most cruisers are heading north or they are heading to the deep South, toward Venezuela, to avoid hurricanes. For a boat that size to be offshore at this time of year could mean a lot of things, but not many of them good.

Dousing all of
Firefly
’s lights, Sam brought the boat to idle as he watched the Coast Guard approach the boat in question, its high wattage searchlight trained on the vessel in question. Cutting through
Firefly
’s radio’s static, Sam heard the efficient voice he’d talked to before. He listened intently.

“Southeast-bound vessel, this is the United States Coast Guard. State your name.”

No response on the radio, but it was clear the message was received. The boat sped up. The rescue boat followed and closed the distance between the two boats.

Running without lights, Sam veered slightly east of the chase vessel. A radar would pick him out of the dark sea like lint on a black shirt, but Sam guessed he’d be a gnat compared to the wasp about to sting whoever was running away from the Coast Guard. It’s
never
a good idea to run from the Coast Guard. It makes the boys in blue nervous, and they bring out the big guns for reassurance. Sam only hoped their guns were bigger and their fingers faster on the triggers than the delinquent fingers they were chasing.

Efficient Voice again tried to raise a response. This time, a pale rattled voice answered.

“Help us, please!”

Then static.

Sam recognized the voice in an instant. Molly. She was still alive. “Us” rang in his ears. He couldn’t sit by and wait it out.

Without turning his running lights back on, Sam turned
Firefly
back toward the vessels to the south and west of him. Slamming the throttle down, Sam thought through his “what if” scenarios once again. If he rammed the boat he guessed to be
Seawitch
, he could injure Molly and Jenny and probably injure or kill himself, trashing both boats in the process. The Coast Guard would be standing by, and it might be able to fish them all out of the water, but at night, even in a calm sea like this, that could put the Coast Guard at risk, given the possibility of flotsam or fire from two crashing vessels.

Sam passed the Coast Guard rescue boat and ran alongside the runaway boat. Its deep red hull looked like tar, the same as everything else at night, but Sam caught a glimpse of a reflective name on the side as the rescue boat’s beam made a sweep:
Seawitch
. An unseen bullet flew past Sam’s ear. He ducked, taking the steering wheel with him as he veered to the east away from
Seawitch
.

“Great. I’ve been spotted,” thought Sam. The Coast Guard’s light illuminated his boat instantaneously, just long enough for it to be seen. Sam felt around the cockpit with his foot for the two guns he’d brought along for such an occasion, but he only found the pump action patrol rifle. He scraped it up to his side as he crouched at the exposed helm.

If he could make it up to the boat’s tower, he could probably pick off whomever he needed to. But he’d have to be at a near standstill to do that, and all three boats were moving fast.

Sam watched the rescue boat’s lights as the boat moved ahead of him again. Sam steered
Firefly
aft of the rescue boat, dodging behind it, and he started his approach toward
Seawitch
from the other side.

Sam saw it before he heard it over the roar of
Firefly
’s engine. A flash of rapid pinpoint gunfire from
Seawitch
’s stern knocked out the rescue boat’s searchlight.

Firing on a Coast Guard rescue boat? These guys are nuts! If these guys—former comrades and “friends,” plus whatever whacko Tripp might be—are stupid enough to fire at the Coast Guard, they might be stupid enough to try anything.

Sam smiled at his own stupidity as he raced forward to cut in front of
Seawitch
. Getting rammed by a boat going full out is never an ideal situation. But it was the only way Sam was sure he could distract whoever was doing all the shooting.

He pushed the throttle all the way down and leaped overboard into the inky water. Surprised by the cold splash, Sam dreaded his stupidity instantly. If the crash didn’t get Molly and Jenny, hypothermia would.

The terrific sound of crushing, colliding fiberglass and metal took Sam’s breath away as he watched
Seawitch
plow through
Firefly
’s mid-section, both halves up-ended, pointing to the early night sky like glaciers. Shining in the rescue boat’s auxiliary spotlight,
Firefly
’s aluminum tower seemed suspended in mid-air, now floating, now crashing on
Seawitch
’s stern, its tube legs striking someone aboard
Seawitch
on its return to earth.
Seawitch
continued moving forward at a terrific pace with both engines running at full speed, but Sam saw the rescue boat close the distance between it and
Seawitch
rapidly.
Seawitch
must be taking on water to slow it down like that.

Minutes. Sam knew he had minutes before the chill claiming his feet would climb his legs. He swam toward the two boats, watching the rescue boat cautiously approach
Seawitch
the last few yards.

Shots rang out from
Seawitch
, followed by cussing and a failed attempt to revive stalling engines.

The rescue boat’s spotlight illuminated
Seawitch
, showing the fear of the three men clinging to the cockpit’s sloping topsides.

Three men. Tripp, Mike, Andy.

Sam swam faster. He looked again. One woman. Which one? The Coast Guard’s rescue boat slowed to a stop five yards from the wreckage. Cautiously, guns still poised, the guardsmen started rescue operations for the people they saw aboard with the assist of a smaller motorized inflatable, shuttling them back to the larger rescue boat.

Sam wanted to yell out, but he kept swimming. Pieces of fiberglass drifted by his arms and legs, and an occasional metal fitting or bracket floating by on a hunk of wood grazed his face as he trudged through the slight ocean chop.

When he came into the sphere of the rescue boat’s spotlight, Sam stopped to catch his breath and to watch the rescue. Mike came without a fight. Andy, battered and bloodied on his forehead, nearly collapsed into a rescue team member’s arms. Tripp was nowhere to be seen.

One of the Coasties noticed Sam and lowered a rope ladder off the rescue boat’s stern. Sam gratefully acknowledged it with a tired wave and started to doggie-paddle toward it. Exhaustion tugged at his arms and legs, but Sam kept moving, reaching forward for the boat until he felt the back of his left leg burning.

“Too early in the season for man-o-wars,” he whispered, reaching his hand to his leg. He felt warmth ooze from his leg and felt the searing pain. In a quick glance at
Seawitch
, Sam gawked at a smiling Lisa, rifle in hand, standing tall on the sinking boat’s precariously tilted aft railing.

Lisa didn’t falter or flinch when the boat lurched or when the Coast Guard yelled at her to put her gun down. Smile never fading, Lisa raised a Colt 45 to her temple.

For a moment, Sam marveled at how graceful death could be. Lisa’s head pulled the rest of her into a slow-motion arcing dive toward the water.

Andy shrieked when he saw this final act of Lisa’s caught in the bright searchlight. He flung himself toward the water, rocking the small inflatable. Two Coasties yanked him back and held him securely. Another Coastie climbed aboard the sinking vessel.

Exhausted, Sam gave his last ounce of strength to reach the larger rescue boat. A burly Coastie met him on the ladder and lifted Sam up the rest of the way. Safely aboard, Sam was smothered in blankets and bandages.

For an instant, the brilliant blast illuminated the night, wrenching the tiredness from Sam’s bones as he flew to the railing.
Seawitch
was a fiery mess of exploding debris, shards of fiberglass, and splintering wood leaping skyward in a display that would rival most fireworks. It would be the last thing Sam remembered seeing as he collapsed on the rescue boat’s deck.