Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (24 page)

“Why should I believe you?” the voice growled.

“As you said, I love my mother.”

“Then open the overhead door at the back,” the kidnapper
demanded.

“Happy to,” Ross replied. “But it’s clearly visible from the
boardwalk and people can hear the gears gnashing half a mile away.”

Silence. We’d evidently thrown the villain an unexpected
curve. Good.

Our pre-scripted answers were designed to buy either extra
time or advantage. We didn’t want our captor to know we could escape through
the Chamber offices.

Our other comments were partially true. Guards had been
added and the giant garage-style doors groaned louder than a rusty drawbridge.

“If you want us to keep cooperating, let me speak to my
mother,” Ross demanded.

“Hold on while my associates put Mrs. Carr on our party
line. We’ve warned Mrs. Carr what will happen if she tries to get clever.”

“Ross, Marley?” May whispered. Her voice thready, weak.
“Whatever happens, I’ve had a wonderful life. I’m not afraid. I love you.”

No clues. May’s words conveyed a mix of defiance, melancholy
and resignation.

“That’s it folks.” Our tormentor was back on line. Was he
the mastermind or a hired gun? “After we give Agent Weaver a fitting reception
at the museum, we’ll let Mrs. Carr go. For now, your only job is to follow my
rules. No phone calls, no emails, no warnings.”

The moment the line went dead a surge of anger had the three
of us tripping over our tongues as we rushed to vent our fury with a torrent of
swear words.

“Do you think they’ve harmed May?” I asked. “That goon’s
comment about hurting her if she tried anything clever worries me.”

Ross sighed. “I’ve never heard Mom sound so dejected. Not
even when she was headed for her triple bypass.”

“I know you’re beside yourselves with worry about May,” Duncan interrupted. “But getting sidetracked won’t help. She’s alive. He’ll keep her that
way until he has his grubby mitts on Weaver. So let’s get busy.”

Confident we couldn’t be watched inside the museum’s empty
and windowless interior, we raced to arm ourselves. During our interminable
wait, Ross listed every conceivable weapon in the antique treasure trove. Our
weapons came courtesy of generations of boaters, fishermen and hunters who’d
left a legacy of prickly tools and clever devices. After debating their lethal
merits and portability, we called dibs on items matching our individual
strengths.

Duncan, a hunter, picked a modern flare gun and a silver-plated
shotgun—the 1908 sportsman’s choice for dove hunting. A stickler for accuracy,
Ross kept all the antiques oiled and in working order with ammo displayed in
the same locked case. Duncan quickly loaded the over and under gun with two
20-ought shells and pocketed a dozen more.

Staying with his underwater diving theme, Ross ransacked the
museum’s spear gun collection. His chosen weapon—including loaded spear—weighed
less than three pounds.

I studied the weapon’s pistol-like grip. “Do you fire that
thing like a gun? What’s your range?”

“Yeah, it operates like a handgun,” he answered. “Shooting
in air, I should be able to hit a target ten to fifteen feet away with so-so
accuracy. Underwater, I’d attach a shockline to retrieve spears that go astray.

“These spears are particularly nasty.” My cousin’s smile
didn’t reach his eyes. “After they pierce a target, these little barbed
flippers open like a molly bolt. If I nail any of these bastards, they’re not
going to get the spear back out.”

Ross bent to retrieve an all-purpose serrated knife—superb
for filleting fish and sharp enough to whack off a finger.

My first armament choice was a grappling hook—the kind used
to drag lake bottoms for drowning victims. The nightmarish device looked like
an anchor but bristled with sharp hooks. Tied to a six-foot length of rope, it
was probably too heavy for me to use like a bola. But I could imagine other
uses. Pirates used grappling hooks to haul over and board ships. An interesting
possibility.

Next I picked up a nasty-looking gaff attached to a thick
wooden pole. Some old-timer had probably used the gaff’s razor-edged barb to
hoist fifty-pound walleyes into his dinghy. I wondered if the handle’s rusty
discoloration was blood.

For good measure, I bundled up a large fishnet and wound
several strands of clear fishing line around my waist. Might come in handy if I
got the chance to use a snare or hog-tie someone’s hands and feet.

Our plunder included the museum’s retail section. We needed
wind suits, tee shirts and caps. We selected blend-into-gloom shades of black
and navy. Cheap plastic pool shoes completed our stealth ensembles. We bypassed
the display of life jackets. Neon orange and day-glow yellow would advertise
our presence. I hoped Duncan was as strong a swimmer as Ross and me.

We didn’t speak as we dressed and crammed most of our
weapons in over-the-shoulder book bags. Last of all, Ross cracked open a laser
printer toner cartridge lifted from his desktop printer. We’d finally found a
use for that nasty black matte powder that clings so readily to moist
fingertips. We smeared the powder on our shiny—and sweating—white faces. The
camouflage would help us blend in with the deepening twilight.

I laughed when I glanced over at Ross. He’d tried to comb
toner through his white moustache. It looked as if a tiny skunk hovered above
his lip. The grim look in Ross’s eyes suffocated my transitory amusement.

“Ready?” Ross asked.

“Yes.” Duncan and I answered in unison.

Though we doubted the museum’s industrial strength walls
would give our movements away, we crept in stealth mode toward the side door
we’d claimed was inaccessible. Fearing a telltale light leak through Chamber
windows, we didn’t switch on a single overhead as we tiptoed through the
adjacent offices. We prayed the murderer’s attention was riveted on the
museum’s front door, waiting for Weaver. That gave our lakeside sortie a fair
chance of going undetected.

After mulling over alternatives, we agreed we’d done all we
could for Weaver with our website warning. Saving May and safeguarding Eunice
would be our focus. We counted on our enemy dismissing us as demoralized and
cowed patsies. Not the type to try a nighttime break out.

Yes, the risks were high. Watchdogs might spot us. Or the
kidnapper—Kyle or Hamilton?—could dial with a new demand and wonder why we
didn’t answer.

We took the chance.

We slipped out the door and ducked behind shrubs planted
between the museum-Chamber complex and the employee parking lot. In full summer
bloom, the fragrant roses scratched my hands and snagged my clothes. Still the
limited cover delighted me.

Total darkness inside the Chamber offices had adjusted our
eyes to gloom. Outside the golden twilight seemed bright as the noonday sun. I
blinked, feeling as though I’d stepped into a spotlight. My heart hammered. I
imagined hoodlums pointing guns and laughing at my minstrel-blackened face.

As seconds ticked by without shouts or shots, my confidence
increased and my heartbeat slowed. For the moment, no one looked our way. I
scanned the surrounding area. No sign of predators lurking behind the lonely
oak sentinels that dotted the grassy park to our right. Scattered trees
provided the only cover in that sector.

The pier housed two idle Lakes Patrol wave runners. Our
goal. Ross had spare keys so Queen helmsmen could commandeer the craft if lake
emergencies arose when deputies weren’t on duty.

My cousin groused often about the detrimental influence of
“personal watercraft” on lake aesthetics and ecology. In his opinion, the
moment teenaged boys saddled up and felt throbbing engines rumble between their
thighs, testosterone surges drowned all traces of reason in their brains.

Tonight we were all glad that Lakes Patrol officers—like
highway patrolmen—pony up money for machines designed to outrun offenders. The
authorities had purchased models capable of rocketing from a stand still to
sixty miles per hour in under six seconds. We prayed that power would help us
catch the cruiser serving as May’s prison.

When Lakes Patrol first acquired the craft, Ross teased the
drivers mercilessly when they bragged their bright yellow and black machines
had won some sort of shootout. Now we were happy to be mounting such champion
steeds.

To reach the wave runners, we had to cross one hundred feet
of open space. Ross knew the territory best and led the way. Forgoing a madcap
dash across the main thoroughfare, he led us in a slow stealthy crouch. As we
inched along, the urge to run proved almost irresistible. I knew fast movement
was more likely to catch a watcher’s eye.

Safely across the road separating the museum complex from
the main boardwalk, we picked our way among the shadows cast by the shops and
cafés that cater to boardwalk strollers. With every step, my ragged breathing
echoed in my ears. Adrenaline, not exertion, made each gasp feel like an
indigestible solid. A cool breeze caressed my face. My wind suit stymied its
relief from reaching any other part of my anatomy. Rivers of sweat trickled
down my sides, back and legs with no escape hatch in the sticky confines.

One more hurdle. We needed to traverse the boardwalk to
reach the pier.

“Ready?” Ross whispered. “I’ll take the first Sea-Doo and
Marley will ride with me. Duncan, you take the second. Here’s the key. Untie
her and paddle into open water. Make sure she’s ready to roar before you fire
up the engine. The minute we start these suckers, someone’s bound to hear. They
make more noise than a Cuisinart in a phone booth.”

There was nothing sexist in the decision to have Ross and Duncan pilot. Both knew lake landmarks and were used to navigating West Okoboji at night.
I wasn’t. Worse, I’d never been on a wave runner in my life. That put me only
slightly behind Ross and Duncan, who’d together logged less than an hour on the
floating equivalent of a Harley-Davidson. I hoped I’d be able to stay on—if we
weren’t shot before we launched.

Duncan and I gave Ross a thumbs up. The three of us
hightailed it across the boardwalk. We crouched on the pier by our commandeered
Sea-Doos and breathed a communal sigh of relief. The bulk of the two-story
Queen—in a parallel berth—would help screen us from anyone who looked our way.

Ross slid onto a wave runner and I slipped behind him. As
the machine sank beneath our weight, cold lake water sloshed against my calves.
Icy prickles penetrated the mesh of my pool shoes. Now the sweat that coated my
body felt like dry ice, so cold it burned. My teeth chattered violently.

The wave runner rocked beneath us. It seemed to lurch with
electric-shock suddenness at the least provocation—like batting an eyelash. I
wrapped my arms tightly around my cousin’s chest, determined to hold on for all
I was worth.

Ross shoved us away from the dock and maneuvered into open
water. “I know you’re nervous,” he wheezed, “but you have to let up. I can’t
breathe.”

“Sorry.” I loosened my death grip.

Ross started the engine, and the peaceful twilight exploded.
For a mind-numbing second, I thought our miniature gas tank blew. Why was I
still in one piece?

I caught fireworks in my peripheral vision as all hell broke
loose near the front of the museum. Bursts of machinegun fire began a
rat-tat-tat rhythm.

Good. The warlike cacophony at our back would mask our exit.
Why didn’t Ross go?

He fumbled in his wind suit pocket and pulled out the
radiophone he used on the Queen.

“Now that the fight’s begun, I’m calling Eunice. Warn her to
get out of the house.”

Duncan slipped beside us on his idling wave runner. “Why are
we waiting?”

I explained while Ross yelled into his phone. The fireworks
at our back escalated.

Relief lit Ross’s cherubic face as he pocketed the phone.
“Eunice’s fine. A website visitor called Weaver and she deciphered our warning.
Our FBI friend’s getting her licks in now, and agents are protecting Eunice.”

“What about May?” I asked.

“The agents set up in my study to monitor that cabin cruiser
in our bay. Based on body-heat signatures, they presume May’s locked in the
cuddy cabin below deck.”

“What’s the rescue plan?” Duncan asked.

“Not yet underway,” Ross answered. “The FBI feared someone
was inside the museum with us. Now that they know we’re out, they’ll try to
capture the boat. We’ve been ordered to stay put. I say no way. I’m heading to
Brown’s Bay. If either of you want to stay, fine.”

“I’m with you,” I said.

“Me, too,” Duncan yelled. His last words were almost
swallowed in a roar as Ross revved our wave runner like a lunatic teenager.

We torpedoed onto the gunmetal lake. Maybe we didn’t reach
sixty miles per hour in six seconds, but it felt like I was pulling G’s.

Had I been curled in a rocker instead of rocketing over West Okoboji’s surface, the evening might have seemed inspired. The sinking sun lit a layer
of high white clouds from beneath, painting them lavender, pink, red and
purple. The clouds shimmered with an inner glow as the twilight deepened. To our
left, the harbor’s antique boats twinkled, the colored lights winking as the
boats bounced in our wake.

The beauty served as contrast. Nature’s antonym to our
terrifying reality.

We seemed to pick up speed with each skip over the choppy
water. A persistent nor’easter churned the water. Whitecaps threatened.

I felt like I rode a bucking bronco. In Alaska. Cold,
stinging pellets of lake seeded the whistling wind scouring my face. With eyes
scrunched into protective slits, searching West Okoboji’s dark eddies for tree
stumps or rocks proved impossible. At our speed, any half-submerged object
could fling us into oblivion. Would our riderless Sea-Doo lurch on? No, a “dead
man” feature would cut the motor instantly if we both flew overboard.

We rose and slapped down on an endless series of cresting
waves. Frenzied musicians beating a tambourine. My bottom wasn’t as well padded
as I’d thought.

Off to port, I recognized a white-pillared mansion bathed in
spotlights. We’d passed Pillsbury Point. Thank God. We’d safely skirted its
treacherous rock piles.

A snaggletoothed branch surfaced directly ahead. Ross veered
sharply to avoid contact. Oh, God, we were headed straight for Duncan.

My heart slammed in my chest. My gaze focused on Duncan’s leg, which I was certain we’d crush in an instant. Somehow he dodged in tandem.
We sliced by one another with a teaspoon of water to spare.

We’d pledged at the outset to stick together—the nautical
three musketeers. If we reached the boat before the FBI, we figured a
two-pronged attack would stand a better chance of success than a solo kamikaze
run.

Through the cold spray, a smoke-like mist rose from the
lake. Glowing lights in a smattering of cottages provided the only sign of
habitation. The shore appeared as a blur of trees and rocks. For safety, Ross
gave the land a fifty-yard berth.

The darkening landscape’s contours suggested we’d passed the
modest rises of Sunset, Gilley’s and Wheeler’s Beach. Steeper embankments
signaled the hilltop neighborhoods of Bayview Beach and Maywood. Ross’s house
and the moored kidnap cruiser were less than a minute ahead.

Abruptly Ross rolled us ninety degrees right. I held on for
dear life.

“What are you doing?” I screamed.

Duncan had been cruising slightly behind us, allowing Ross
to set the pace. Dammit. We’d need more than the luck of the Irish to avoid a
collision this time. I gritted my teeth, braced for impact.

A high-pitched whine signaled Duncan’s shift into reverse.
Hallelujah, maybe we’d make it. We zoomed diagonally across his path. We’d lucked
out again. I let out my breath.

I swiveled, searching the water behind us. Our churning wake
fused with a large wave. Duncan’s wave runner rode its crest, then slammed on
its side with casual fury. The gymnastics hurled Duncan into the air. With a loud
splash, he vanished in the gray-green depths. Flailing arms. A head bobbed.

“Go back,” I yelled. “Duncan’s down!”

“I know,” Ross screamed in reply. “These bastards are going
to run him over.”

Now I saw why Ross had changed direction. A white Stingray.
The sleek twenty-four-foot cruiser would have mowed us down or swamped us if
Ross hadn’t altered course. Its driver either hadn’t seen us or didn’t care.
The boat, moving at what seemed mach speed, took aim at Duncan’s head.

“It’s them!” Ross yelled over the deafening roar of wind and
screeching engines. “Eunice told me they had a Stingray 240.”

The cruiser zoomed toward Duncan. Not a damned thing we
could do.

Ross boomeranged us into a U-turn. He’d decided to play
chicken, force the boat to flinch and alter course before it creamed Duncan.

We’d lost momentum wallowing in our turn, and our target had
gained speed. The cruiser planed—her bow jacked high above the dark, churning
water. The upright posture wouldn’t prevent her knife-like propellers from
slicing into Duncan’s unprotected body.

A second boat sprang into view. The FBI. The villains had
turned tail. Unfortunately the FBI’s nondescript deck boat had been chosen for
its fade-into-the-scenery façade. It was outclassed in this race.

With no time to influence the unfolding drama, Ross idled
our wave runner. Our only play was rescue. He edged closer to Duncan’s runaway
wave runner. Ross captured it and fastened a towrope to its nose.

I scanned the water where we’d last spotted Duncan. The cruiser and chase boat would intersect the area in seconds. I frantically
searched for some sign of Duncan. Nothing. No hint of a head or arm breaking
the churning surface. The boats roared by.

Afraid to look, I forced myself to dissect every dark, oily
smudge that might be blood. The chop churned the water into a witch’s cauldron.
Seconds ticked by. The dual wakes flattened like the dying line on a heart
monitor. Nothing. Then Duncan surfaced less than six feet away. He gasped like
a landed trout.

“Are you hurt?” I yelled.

Duncan hadn’t enough breath to answer, but shook his head.
“I dived,” he choked out. “Damned glad I wasn’t wearing a lifejacket. Any extra
buoyancy and I’d never have kicked deep enough. My weapons pack is gone.”

Ross coaxed the riderless wave runner into Duncan’s reach.
With trembling arms, he draped his wheezing body over the seat.

“Will you be okay?” Ross asked. “We have to go. The FBI will
never catch that cruiser. It’s got a 280-horsepower motor and a top speed of
around fifty miles per hour. If we go flat out, we might run them down.”

“Go,” Duncan said. “I’ll follow in a minute.”

“No, no. Go to Ross’s house,” I yelled. “You don’t have any
weapons. Tell the FBI what we know.”

Ross blasted off. Had Duncan heard my entreaty? I wasn’t
sure. We retraced our course from Arnolds Park. Why would the kidnappers head
there? The flight seemed nonsensical. By now, they surely knew any Arnolds Park cohorts were dead or engaged in a losing battle.

Night fell. The boats we shadowed were harder and harder to
see. No running lights. Even the arctic white of the villain’s cruiser
disappeared with regularity, a ghostly moon that played hide and seek in
twilight’s murky mist. When I again caught sight of our quarry, the cruiser
looked bigger. We were gaining.

The icy lake spray had ceased to rule my body. I no longer
shivered. The goose bumps that had marched up and down my spine were at parade
rest. Numbness has its rewards. The constant spank of our ride had deadened my
behind.

We closed on the FBI boat. Silhouettes of gun-toting men
crowded the deck. Losers in the drag race. A widening gap between the
speedboats neutralized the FBI guns. The kidnap boat pulled out of range. Of
course, even eyeball to eyeball, the FBI agents would be reluctant to fire from
their jouncing platform. An errant shot could hit Aunt May.

Hang in there, May.

We rocketed past the FBI. The on-deck agents gestured
wildly, mouthing commands we couldn’t hear. Soundless and meaningless appeals.
We sped forward. “Catch the bastards.” My scream merged with the whine of our
maritime motorcycle.

The skeletal frame of the amusement park’s roller coaster
and the Queen’s shadowy majesty grew distinct. Our adversaries would ram the
pier if they didn’t change course or slow.

Tethered at irregular intervals, the antique flotilla
created a formidable obstacle course. The haphazard deployment of vessels would
normally be no more than an inconvenience in a No Wake Zone. For a boat
approaching at fifty miles per hour, the twinkling boats could prove the
ultimate no wake zone.

Was this the plan? Did the kidnappers want to crash and die
in a cataclysmic explosion? Were they choosing a fiery death over jail?

Please God, no. In what seemed an answer to my silent
prayers, the cruiser slowed.

The first muzzle flash dashed any hope they’d surrender.
They weren’t going to say adios without a final firefight. A bevy of bullets
whizzed past me. Tiny geysers erupted nearby as bullets peppered the lake’s
surface. I tightened my grip as Ross zigged our wave runner one way, then zagged
another.

We were at a definite disadvantage. Even if we’d had
firearms, we wouldn’t have used them—not with May aboard. Our paltry weaponry
required proximity. We’d also need luck or surprise for our odd armament
assortment to yield any success.

I picked out the shadowy silhouettes of at least three bad
guys. We were outnumbered. Well, well. On shore, I picked up bustling activity.
What looked like a full platoon of agents scurried about the boardwalk.
Unfortunately none of them had water wings. The FBI wouldn’t be joining our
boating party for awhile.

A bright flash lit the sky. An explosion bloomed. An antique
boat blew sky high. Chunks of fiery debris rained down like hail from a
virulent thunderstorm. Though outside the inferno’s radius, shockwaves lifted
us heavenward, then plummeted us toward hell. Ross slipped sideways. I grabbed
his jacket, yanked with fury. He scrambled back into position.

“Dammit. That was Gus Swenson’s 1933 Chris-Craft. He’ll be
sick.”

Only Ross could expend mental energy mourning a boat owner’s
loss with bullets flying.

A new roar drowned out my response. More lethal
pyrotechnics. Somehow the kidnappers were blasting the antiques to smithereens.

“God damn!” Ross yelled. “That was Harry Johnson’s 1920
Weekender!”

“Well, Harry and Gus won’t be the only losers if we don’t do
something fast.”

What were these idiots trying to pull? The anchored oldies
were empty—God, at least I hoped they were. Were the pyrotechnics simply
intended to add confusion? Or had their shots gone awry? Did they think FBI
agents were swimming toward them?

The destruction did something more than distract us. It
narrowed everyone’s field of vision—theirs as well as ours. Oily smoke billowed
from the sinking wrecks and added a layer of inky fog to the night sky. The
sharp contrast between blazing timbers and the surrounding gloom was enough to
make anyone’s retinas act like out-of-control auto-focus lenses. Pinpoints of
light danced in my vision. I couldn’t see anything beyond the fires.

Where had the cruiser gone? There she was. Inching our way
and maneuvering for a clear shot at open water. Her captain must have decided
landing here wasn’t such a hot idea after all. The lake offered many dark,
unpopulated coves that promised far better opportunities for a getaway.

So why didn’t they take off?

Suddenly it dawned on me. The bad guys had ceased firing at
us. Since I could barely see them, maybe we’d become invisible as well. We
presented a much more compact target, and our water-hugging profile had to
help. While a sliver of our wave runner’s bumblebee color scheme rode above the
chop, how visible could it be from above? Especially with two people in Batman
costumes draped over the frame?

“Can you sneak around and sidle up behind them?” I asked. “I
don’t think they have a clue where we went after the fireworks started. If you
can get close, we can board her—use my grappling hook to lever ourselves up to
her deck. They won’t expect that.”

“Forget the grappling hook,” Ross chuckled. “The dummies
picked a Stingray with a swim platform. We can step onto that sucker from our
wave runner. Or swim in and roll onto the ledge if push comes to shove.”

Playing cat and mouse, we made a do-si-do maneuver around a
moored antique, keeping it between us and our prey. The Stingray appeared to be
using the same relic to screen its movements from the land-locked FBI. The
cruiser huddled so close to the old powerboat their beams almost kissed.

“I’ve got an idea to put the brakes on that Stingray, if she
tries to zoom out of here,” I whispered. “I can use the grappling hook to make
these boats Siamese twins. Tie the bad guys’ Stingray to the anchored
Chris-Craft.”

“Might work,” Ross allowed. “The line won’t hold forever,
but it’ll sure give ’em a few seconds’ pause.”

Within six feet, Ross cut our idling motor. Dipping our feet
below the lake surface, we finned our way toward the Stingray’s swim platform.
No one was visible in the boat’s stern. I prayed all three men were in the bow,
eyes trained forward to scan the horizon for the FBI boat pursuing them and,
possibly, us. Elimination of their water-based pursuers would dramatically
improve their odds of escape.

With hand motions, I signaled Ross to wait. I tied the
grappling hook’s line through a cleat on the Stingray—the one usually reserved
for a ski tow line. Then I grabbed hold of trim on the old Chris-Craft and
heaved myself upright. I wobbled like a crazed first-time rollerblader. As I
hefted the grappling hook over the antique’s gunnels, my feet scooted out from
under me.

Crap. The jig was up. The hook dropped onto the
Chris-Craft’s deck with a loud metallic thwack. I entered the water with a
splash grand enough to rival my best-ever cannonball.

As the cold lake baptized me, I said a final prayer. My face
broke the lake’s surface. Aboard the Stingray, a solo giant ran toward me. What
the heck?

Ross steadied the Sea-Doo and aimed his spear gun. I held my
breath as his spear arced over the stern and pierced the man’s torso. The
target dropped his gun and clutched at the spear. Trying to extract its
imbedded barbs would only increase his agony.

Fine by me. One down. The man grunted and collapsed.

“Gary?” a gruff voice bellowed from the Stingray’s bow. In
seconds, Gary’s failure to answer would send another villain charging our way.