Just Different Devils (16 page)

It was with a heavy heart that I ferried Jan and Po Thang to the beach while Mac stashed his belongings in the guest cabin, and then, after tearful goodbyes, I went back to prepare to leave.

By the time I returned to the boat, Mac was out on deck and had the heavy duty motorized davit system ready to lift
DawgHouse
out of the water, and into the chocks on the sundeck overhead behind the flying bridge.

I'd planned to have new chocks made to fit my new pangita, but we'd have to make do with what was already there. The existing cradle was well-built, but designed to hold a rigid-bottomed inflatable, not a fiberglass boat with a deeper chine. However, Mac turned out to be a master rigger, and lashed
DawgHouse
down snuggly.

While we worked on securing the dinghy, we discussed our watch schedule. We agreed I'd take the first shift, since it was already two in the afternoon and I really, really, hate night watch, especially on the first night out. He'd get some sleep and relieve me around nine, man the helm until just before first light, then I'd take over again. Once we rounded Cabo Falso and headed north, we'd be far enough offshore that I'd feel more secure with taking a night watch.  

As I sat on the flying bridge, we entered the San Lorenzo Channel, cleared the land mass, and I entered a proper waypoint on the boat's GPS navigation system, setting a course directly for Punta Arena. Jenks had, bless his heart, marked all the way points from La Paz to Mag Bay when we made this trip from the other direction the year before. Yes, there are all kinds of charts and cruising guides out there with the latitude and longitude of anchorages, hazards, and that sort of thing, but I prefer the ones marked either by Jenks or me on site. With my own GPS coordinates, I can confidently return to any place we've been in heavy fog or dark of night.

These waypoints, entered only a year ago, brought on a wave of despondency. Was it only a year? Seemed both like yesterday, and eons ago.

I don't normally get depressed, hold onto feelings of sadness very long, or feel sorry for myself more than a few hours, with the exception of when my dog, Raymond Johnson—RJ to his friends—died. That set me on my rear for several weeks. I finally got over it by buying a forty-five foot yacht, a therapy I highly recommend. Watching the Baja peninsula—a place I'd learned to love—slide by, I had a presentiment that things were not going to go well for me in the near future.

Making matters worse, I'd so looked forward to making this return trip with Jenks when he finished up in Dubai, and here I was, on the run, alone. Well, not totally alone, for Artherrrr MacKenzie Gra-ham, Mac to
his
friends, was with me, but after talking with Jenks earlier I realized any attraction I had for the handsome Scot had evaporated.

Yes, he was attractive, and yes, I was grateful he was willing to help me, but he wasn't Jenks.

I wanted Jenks.

I wanted my mommy.

I wanted my dog.

I wanted to be anywhere but running for the border!

Much to my relief, Mac joined me on the bridge early, just as the last light faded and I was already getting a little anxious. We'd just passed Ensenada de los Muertos—Cove of the Dead—which the new developers didn't think sounded good for business and had renamed Bahia de los Suenos or Bay of Dreams. It will, however, remain Muertos to boaters for years to come. Jenks and I had anchored there for a few days and gone ashore to a boater potluck which is something cruisers throw together at the drop of a sombrero. As I looked longingly at the boats in the anchorage, I recalled how clever cruisers can be at putting together casseroles from just about anything on board.

Unfortunately, the Bay of the Dead wasn't on the itinerary for my voyage of the damned.

We were making ten knots at Jenks's insistence. He said my bright idea of running one engine at a time wasn't all that good for the transmissions, especially on such a long voyage like I was undertaking. He was right. The last thing I needed right now was a transmission failure. We'd slip into Cabo for fuel around three in the afternoon, a busy time when fishing boats are returning and the harbor bustles with activity. If anyone bothered to ask, we'd tell them we were fishing our way to La Paz, then hopefully get underway again by five and do an overnighter to Mag Bay. Putting on a few turns, doing twelve to fourteen knots, would put us into Mag Bay by the next afternoon.

Jan and Chino were going to have to hustle to have fuel, extra fuel barrels, crew, and hopefully some of Granny Yee's victuals ready by the time we arrived.

I nuked frozen beef stew and toasted left over pieces of garlic bread for our dinner, and unearthed a box of Oreos for dessert. Mac made us both a cup of tea before I went to my cabin, which I politely drank even though he put milk and sugar in it. Yuck.

Finally back in my cabin, the long day of emotional turmoil caught up with me. Exhaustion, mainly due to the stress involved in my latest fiasco, sent me into a deep sleep. I woke once, barely able to fight myself out of a comatose-like slumber, made it to the bathroom and then back into my bed before going out again.

Brilliant sunlight woke me.

I looked at the clock and saw it was after nine. I'd slept twelve hours straight! So much for my eight-hour watch.
Some sea captain I am
.
Poor Mac
has had the helm all this time and must be beat to hell. 

My head hurt from so much sleep, and I felt woozy. The boat was bucking some, so I surmised we were running into a Pacific swell. Throwing water in my face, I glanced out the window, into that bright morning sun.

Whoa. The sun should be behind us, not to our starboard side. Oh, hell, had my crew fallen asleep on the job? Cursing a blue streak I rushed my cabin door, only to find it locked. From the outside.

As Dorothy Parker wrote, "What fresh Hell is this?"

I almost overrode the lock and opened my door from the inside, but changed my mind. The year before, after a bad guy locked Jan, our friend Topaz Sawyer, and Chino's then medical assistant, the Devine Doctor Di, in my cabin, I fixed it so that it could not happen again at the insistence of Topaz, who is a cop back in Arizona. I'm pretty sure that she and Nacho had a little fling at one time, but he won't admit it, and neither will she. I guess the cop/criminal thing didn't work out.

Anyhow, I rigged a system kind of like those escape pulls in case you get locked into a car trunk.

The reason I changed my mind about opening the door this time was that I needed to reach deep into my foggy brain and think things through. Through that same fog, it finally dawned on me that Mac had drugged my tea, and then locked me in my cabin. Okay, got that much.

Peering out the portholes on both sides of my cabin, I couldn't see anything but water on the starboard side, and just the tops of mountains to port. With the excellent visibility in the Sea, I figured we were at least fifteen miles out, cruising due north, and therefore back up into the Sea. If there's one thing I hate, it's waking up on the wrong side of my boat.

I sat down with a large glass of water, hoping to dilute whatever Mac fed me.

So, Mac is indeed dirty and probably had something to do with Nacho's disappearance. But why? What I didn't know would fill an encyclopedia.

But then again—and this made me smile—Mac was not really aware of who he was dealing with. Nor was he cognizant that: 

1. I can open that door.

2. I have security cameras throughout the boat, and can activate them from my cabin.

3.
Raymond Johnson's
physical location can be tracked via that same security system, and both Jan and Jenks know how to do so.

What else? I jumped up, suffered a head spin, and leaned on the bed to steady myself. When the boat stopped doing loops, I lifted my mattress and opened the hidey hole containing my safe, Nacho's 9mm handgun, and sixty rounds of ammo.

My smile broadened and my head cleared.

Oh, and Mac was also ignorant of the fact that:

4. Drugs don't last on me. Ask any poor dentist who has had the unfortunate experience of trying to deaden a tooth.

5. My big butt can actually shimmy through my aft cabin portholes.

6. I am armed and dangerous.

7. I have been known to serve up some serious badassery when provoked.

8. I was provoked.

I waited another hour locked in my cabin, listening carefully for anything other than engine noise, but aside from moving water, heard nothing. I tested whether the generator was running by turning on an AC lamp in my cabin that was not connected to my inverter system. Yep.

With AC, or 110V current in the boat, my security and satellite communication systems had good power, and was waiting for someone, namely
moi
, to hit the ON button. It was time to take a peek at what that bottom feeder was doing with my boat.

Switching on the flying bridge camera, I saw he was not up there. Watching the wheel closely, I saw no movement, which indicated we were on autopilot. I wished I could read the GPS coordinates, but couldn't quite make them out.

Okay, so where was the
pendejo
? What with it being broad daylight, and cruising in an area where there are few boats, he was most likely in the main cabin.

Turning on the living room—in boat-speak, the saloon, but pronounced salon for some reason only known to ancient mariners—camera was a little trickier. Unlike the one on the bridge, it swivels, and when first activated, usually does a scan. There is only a slight movement, but no light comes on to give it away. He would probably never notice, but there was always the off chance he'd catch the motion.

Holding my breath, I hit the switch.

And there he was in all his glory, sound asleep on the settee.

There goes
his
bonus.

Okay, so maybe there were no boats about, and the radar alarm, if he set it, would sound when anything got within two miles, but sleeping while on watch on
my
boat? This is a keelhauling offense. Drawing and quartering would be way too good for him, and feeding those quarters to the sharks, justified. Or squid. Whichever got them first.

I was so angry I considered breaking out of my room and shooting him in his sleep—or somewhere much more personal and painful—but calmed myself down. Dead, he couldn't tell me what he was up to, or what he'd done with Nacho. On the other hand, if I didn't kill him outright, there was always a chance he'd overpower me and throw me overboard. 

What I really needed to do was get a message to Jan, but I'd already searched the cabin for my laptop and it was gone. He'd obviously taken it after I passed out. My cell phone was also missing.

I stared at the panic button on my security system, but it probably wouldn't do me any good unless the master satellite system was turned on. I'd used that button once back in the States, and it saved my life, but I wasn't sure it would even get anyone's attention way down in Mexico. I pushed the button anyway. About ten times.

I always keep extra lifejackets in my cabin, just in case I ever had to leave via those undersized—in my opinion—portholes. After Po Thang moved in, I'd stashed one for him, as well. Three of them are equipped with Personal Locator Beacons, great devices if you are just off the beach and your boat sinks. In that case the boat's EPIRB will also go off, and the Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon can be picked up by the United States Coast Guard, even from down here.

Every once in awhile the ham net and cruiser chat included reports of an EPIRB going off somewhere in the Sea of Cortez, leading to a search by boaters, the Mexican Navy and even the US Coast Guard, for the vessel it belongs to. I'd seen a low-flying American search plane in one case that ended tragically despite an intensive hunt. Normally, however, the whole incident is due to a malfunctioning unit, or someone turning one on by accident. It is just nice to know that should yours go off, someone might be searching for you.

The PRBs like the ones I had attached to those life jackets, on the other hand, are really meant to send a signal back to your own boat so overboard crew can be located. However, figuring I needed all the help I could possibly use, I quietly opened the porthole, activated one PRB, and threw it into the water. I saved the others, because they only have a twenty-four hour battery life and who knew what was going to happen. I had no idea if any of them would have anyone looking for me, but figured doing something is better than doing nothing.

As I shut the porthole as quietly as possible, I heard a sound at my cabin door. I flipped off the security system, dove under my duvet, cradled the handgun, and let go with the best snores I could muster. I sensed Mac entering the room and standing near the bed, watching. Evidently satisfied I was still out cold, he left.

The second I heard the lock click behind him, I reactivated the system and watched as he went to the galley and rummaged in the fridge. Which reminded me I was hungry. I eyed a bag of Po Thang's treats I kept in my cabin, but I wasn't quite that desperate yet. Besides, they were chicken flavored; he'd eaten all the Beggin' Strips.

It occurred to me I couldn't play possum forever, so maybe I could play stupid? Yes, I know what Jan would say about that.

After a shower, brushing my teeth, and even putting on a little blush and tinted lip gloss, I was ready for my close up.

It was ten thirty in the morning, and we were scheduled to arrive in Cabo at three.

Maybe I'd had a sixth sense about Mac, or perhaps it's just my nature not to trust my fellow man, or—and this is more likely the case—my control freak habits kicked in. Whatever the case, I'd made a call even Jan didn't know about.

After I'd waved goodbye to Jan and Po Thang, I used my cell phone to beg a favor from the boat,
Me Too
. They'd helped me with the abandoned boat,
Carpe Diem
, and then we reconnected back on the dock at Marina de la Paz. I knew, just from our short acquaintance, that I could rely on her and her hubby, Clay. Telling Jill where to find the hidden magnetic box containing an extra key to my truck that any car thief could locate in moments, I asked her to meet me at the fuel dock in Cabo. If I didn't show up, she was to call Chino. And if Chino said Jan and Po Thang hadn't arrived at Lopez Mateos, he was to alert the port captain, the police, and maybe the United States Marines.

Yes, I might face some angry officials if Chino had to make that call,  but at least both Jan and I wouldn't just disappear into thin air. I also told Jill who was going to be my crew, just in case I was right about Mac being shady. Which I now knew he was, for sure.

Dang, I hate it when I'm so right.