One-Way Ticket (26 page)

I took a deep breath and ducked back into the cabin. I went over to where Robert was lying. I shone my flashlight on his face. His skin looked unnaturally white and papery. His few days’ growth of black whiskers made it look even paler by contrast.

I used the scissors on my Leatherman to cut the tape. Then I peeled it off his mouth. His lips were cracked and scabby. Festering sores on both corners of his mouth oozed pus.

“Robert,” I said. “Hey, buddy.”

His eyes rolled under his lids, but he did not open them.

I grabbed his arm and shook him. “Hey,” I said. “Wake up, man. Come on.”

His eyelids fluttered, and then he opened his eyes. They looked cloudy and unfocused.

“Robert,” I said. “It’s Brady.”

He seemed to look at me, but I couldn’t tell if he recognized me. Then his eyes closed.

His throat clenched in a dry swallow.

The galley occupied one corner of the cabin. I opened the half-sized refrigerator and found a bottle of Poland Spring water. I took it over to Robert, cradled his head in one arm, and poured some on his lips. His tongue came out and licked. I tilted the bottle against his mouth, and he swallowed a little of it.

I was afraid that if I gave him too much water he’d choke, or if he did get it down, he’d vomit.

I poured water over his face. His eyes opened. They looked blankly at me, then closed again.

I patted my pants pocket, found my cell phone, fished it out, and dialed 911.

It rang several times before the operator said, “Where are you calling from?”

“Kettle Cove Marina in Gloucester. I’m on a boat in slip G-9. I’ve got a man who is severely dehydrated. He might have heatstroke. He’s barely alive. It’s possible he’s been drugged. He’s been locked up in the cabin of this boat. Come quickly.”

“Say again where you are, sir.”

I took a breath and repeated what I’d said.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Brady Coyne. I’m a lawyer. I’m here, on my cell phone. Tell Horowitz. Lieutenant Roger Horowitz, state police. What should I do for this man? I’m worried he’s going to die.”

“Wet his skin. Try to cool him down. Give him air and water. Don’t try to move him. We’re on our way.”

I snapped my phone shut, then went to where Robert was lying and peeled the blanket off his body. He was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a dirty white T-shirt—the same clothes, if I remembered correctly, that he’d had on when he made the CD five or six days ago. His clothes were drenched with sweat and smelled of urine. Duct tape encircled his chest and held his arms at his sides. More tape bound his legs together from his knees to his ankles.

I cut through the tape and ripped it off. Then I cut off his T-shirt. I emptied the bottle of water over his torso.

His chest moved. It looked bony and shrunken. But he was breathing.

I gripped his hand. “Robert,” I said, “listen to me. Help is coming. Hang in there, all right?”

He gave my hand a little squeeze.

I went over to the refrigerator, found another bottle of water, and tipped it against his mouth. Most of it ran off his chin.

But his tongue moved over his lips, and he swallowed.

Then I heard some voices. They came filtering through the misty evening air. Hooray. The EMTs were here. That was quick.

I wondered why I hadn’t heard their sirens.

I went up to the deck and looked back toward the parking area. Darkness was settling over the harbor. All I saw was the interior lights of a van that was parked at the far end of the lot.

No red lights twirled on its roof. It was not an emergency vehicle.

I lifted my binoculars and focused on it.

The rear hatch was open, and two people were unloading things from it. A man and a woman.

The woman was blond. She was wearing a dark windbreaker and a pink cap.

Kimmie Warner.

The man was Mike Warner.

It looked like they were unloading provisions for a long sea voyage.

As I watched, a third person came trotting across the parking area toward them from the direction of the office. It was a woman. She was wearing a yellow slicker with the hood over her head. Under the slicker, her bare legs winked in the gray half-light.

Sandy, I guessed, coming out to tell the Warners that the mechanic from Danvers Marine, Frank was his name, seemed like a nice guy, he’d called about the engine problem you’ve been having with
Dot Com
and said he was coming out to take a look at it, though it didn’t look like he’d made it today.

I
DUCKED BACK INTO THE
cabin and went over to where Robert was lying on his berth. “Hey,” I said. “Robert. Listen to me.”

He didn’t even twitch.

I grabbed his arm and shook him. “Come on, man. We don’t have much time. Help me out here. Wake up.”

His eyelids fluttered, then opened. He looked at me, blankly at first, and then he seemed to focus on me.

“Can you understand what I’m saying?” I said.

He gave a small nod and made a dry grunting noise in his throat.

“Okay,” I said. “Good. Mike and Kimmie are coming. I’m not going to leave you. I called 911. Help is on the way. You just lie there and pretend you’re asleep, all right?”

He blinked and nodded.

“I’m going to put the tape back on your mouth and pull the blanket over you again. It’s just for a few minutes. You’ve got to hang in there, all right, pal?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. I put my ear close to it.

“Water,” he rasped.

When I looked back toward the gate, I saw that the Warners were now halfway up the main pier, coming my way. I could hear their voices, Mike’s deep and rumbling, Kimmie’s soft and a little whiny. Their tones made me think they were having a quiet disagreement, but I couldn’t make out any of their actual words.

I wondered if they were accusing each other of calling the boat dealer about some engine problem that they hadn’t told the other one about.

I hopped off
Dot Com,
looked around quickly, then ducked onto the small center-console fishing boat that was parked on the other side of the dock opposite slip G-9. I crouched there behind the console in the shadow cast by the light on the pole.

A minute later Mike and Kimmie turned onto Pier G, and I heard Mike say, “… no choice. So tough.”

“This is stupid,” Kimmie said. “There’s got to be a better way.”

“What’s your plan?” Mike’s voice was an angry growl.

“I don’t know,” she said, “but we can’t just—”

“What the hell did you think was gonna happen?”

“Sometimes,” she said, “it’s like I don’t even know you.”

“You’re in this as deep as me,” he said, “so you better not even think about crapping out on me.”

I peeked around the side of the console. Mike had climbed into the boat. Their gear bags and coolers were piled on the deck, and Kimmie was handing things down to him. The deck was only about eight feet wide. I was that close to her.

“So,” Mike said, “if you didn’t make that call—and I sure as hell didn’t—who did?”

“How would I know?” she said. “You’re the one who takes care of that. Sandy probably just misunderstood. Anyway, I—”

“What the fuck is this?”
Mike was looking at the splintered doors on the cabin hatch.

Kimmie hopped into the boat and went over to the hatch doors. She looked at them for a minute, then pulled them open and ducked into the cabin. “He’s still here,” she said from inside.

“Is he breathing?” said Mike.

There was a pause. Then Kimmie’s voice said, “Yes. Barely.” She came back onto the deck and stood in front of Mike with her hands on her hips. “We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “That’s a great idea.”

“He’s gonna die, Mike.”

“You just figuring that out? Come on, honey. We’re a team, remember? Get the gear stowed below while I get us under way. See if there’s anything missing down there. The security at this place sucks.”

“You’re a monster,” she said. But she grabbed a big duffle and wrestled it down into the cabin.

A minute later she reappeared. “Nothing missing that I can see.”

“So what the hell happened?”

“Maybe somebody broke in to see what they could steal,” she said, “and when they saw poor Robert, they just got the hell out of there.”

“Yeah,” said Mike, “or maybe it was your mechanic pal taking a look at our engine.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” she said. “I didn’t call any mechanic.”

“Just get us untied,” said Mike. “We gotta get out of here.”

“What about Robert?”

“We’re not changing our plan now,” he said.

“We can’t just—”

“Are you forgetting who got Jimmy into gambling?” he said. “Let’s see how that son of a bitch likes losing his only son.”

“That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” said Kimmie. “It wasn’t about the money. It was revenge. It was about Jimmy.”

“He was your son, too, honey. We’re in this together.”

“I’m not a murderer, Mike. I didn’t bargain for this.”

“Yeah, well, the money’s not bad,” said “Warner, “you gotta admit that.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Kimmie. “You make me sick.”

“We’ll have plenty of time for this interesting discussion later,” said Mike Warner. “Right now, though, let’s get moving. Bring in the fucking lines, will you please?”

Kimmie mumbled something I didn’t catch, then jumped out of the boat and began untying the lines from the cleats on the dock.

Mike went into the wheelhouse, turned on the boat’s interior and running lights, and started up her engines. They grumbled and burbled. They sounded smooth and strong.

I looked back toward the parking area. I hoped to see a caravan of flashing red and blue lights coming down the driveway.

But I saw nothing, nor did I hear any distant sirens.

I peeked back at
Dot Com.
Mike had gone below, and Kimmie was crouched on the dock just a few feet from where I was hiding. She had her back to me as she coiled the lines.

I had to do something. It was pretty obvious that if they got away from the marina and out to the high seas, they’d dump Robert overboard. Then they could turn north or south. It was a big ocean with a coastline of nooks and crannies. They could go anywhere. The Caribbean, Canada, Central America. They had a big oceangoing boat and a quarter of a million dollars in untraceable bills.

I took a deep breath, then slipped around the console of the little boat. I hopped up onto the dock and slapped my hand around Kimmie’s mouth before she could react. I yanked her back against me. I was rough with her. I wanted to hurt her. I wanted her to be afraid.

She reached up with both of her hands, scratching and grabbing at my fingers. She gurgled and grunted in her throat, but I kept my hand tight against her mouth, and the rumble of
Dot Com’s
engines drowned her out.

I jammed the end of my little Maglite hard into her back. “Don’t even breathe,” I growled in her ear, “or I’ll blow you away. Cooperate and I won’t hurt you. Got it?”

She nodded. Her hands fell to her sides.

I dragged her backwards to the edge of the dock where the little center-console boat was moored. I didn’t know what I expected to accomplish except maybe a little chaos. I just wanted to buy some time.

Mike revved
Dot Corn’s
engine a couple of times, then let it idle.

I could feel Kimmie trembling against me. I had taken her by surprise. She had no idea who I was or what I wanted.

“Step back and down into the boat,” I whispered to her. “No noise. If you fuck with me, you’re dead.”

I stepped backwards into the boat, bringing Kimmie along with me. Then I dragged her behind the console where Mike couldn’t see us.

I jabbed her again with the steel flashlight. “Not a peep,” I hissed.

I peeked around the side of the console and saw Mike start to come down from the wheelhouse. “Okay,” he said as he stepped onto the deck. “We’re all set. Let’s go.”

I pulled my head back before he could spot me.

“Hey!” he said. “Where the fuck are you? Come on. We gotta take off now.” A pause. He was looking all around. “Kimmie? God damn it, this is no time for games. Get your ass on the boat.”

Just then I heard the sirens. They were distant and muffled, but they were approaching quickly.

“Jesus Christ,” Mike said. “The fucking cops are coming. I’m warning you, lady. I’m not going to wait for you. Where’d you go? Dammit, Kimmie. What the hell are you trying to do?”

I was standing behind Kimmie, using the front of my body to press her against the side of the console. My left hand was clamped around her mouth. With my right hand I kept the end of my flashlight rammed hard against her back.

I turned my head to glance back at the parking area. A line of vehicles was turning down the sloping driveway.

My hand on Kimmie’s mouth must have slipped when I turned to look, because that’s when she bit me. Her teeth clamped down hard on the base of my thumb and sank into my flesh, and the pain shot up my arm and hit the center of my brain like a hot knife. “Ow!” I yelled. “Jesus!”

Kimmie rammed her elbow into my solar plexus and twisted away from me, and before I could react, Mike was on me. He levered his forearm around my throat and smashed my face against the cockpit. I felt my nose crunch, and then my legs melted, and I fell hard onto the deck.

I lay there for a minute waiting for the world to stop spinning.

When I pushed myself to my knees and looked around the corner of the console, I saw that Mike was at
Dot Com’s
wheel and Kimmie was standing beside him. Then the burble of the engine changed pitch. The boat’s transmission made a soft clunking sound, and
Dot Com
eased backwards.

Another clunk, and she began to pull forward out of her slot.

I braced myself against the console of the little boat and managed to stand up. Behind me in the parking area, there was a chaos of lights and voices and thumping car doors and squawking radios.

Then a voice on a bullhorn called: “Michael Warner. Kimberly Warner. This is the FBI. Remain where you are.”

I heard Mike mumble, “Fuck you:” He eased
Dot Com
forward until she’d cleared her mooring slot along the dock. Then he gunned her engines. She shot forward, headed for the channel that would take them through the harbor out to the ocean. The channel curved like an S and was marked by buoys: Along both sides of the channel were moored boats too large to park at the side of a dock—big sailboats and oceangoing sportfishing boats and luxury yachts mingled democratically with working lobster boats and commercial fishing craft.