then I realized I’d forgotten to insert the dead man’s switch into the little slot next to the ignition. Stupid.
The big engine fired, burbling its Harley rumble as if this night were nothing out of the ordinary.
The skiff seemed okay. A swivel seat was gone, steering wheel bent. That’s all the damage I noticed—until I flicked the bilge switch. A fire hose stream of water began to jettison from the boat’s starboard side. It pumped water for five or six long minutes as I idled toward Night’s Landing.
The hull was damaged. I was taking on water, maybe sinking. Finally, when the pump’s rhythmic whine told me the hull was empty, I jumped onto plane, steering fast toward the island. I’d stop and make certain Jobe Applebee was being cared for, then bust ass back to Dinkin’s Bay.
As I steered, I did some rough calculations. Felony investigations tend to be lengthy. But with a little push, if I kept it simple, didn’t tell the local cops that I’d been shot at—a biggie—I might make it home before midnight.
Wrong.
I tied up at the same slip. Just to be safe, I flipped the bilge switch again. More water inside.
The hull had taken a beating, was maybe too badly damaged to be repaired. The prospect irritated me. Some people—sailors most often—say they feel affection for their vessels. They can become very sentimental, particularly after a few rums.
I don’t share the feelings. I’ve never felt anything close to emotion for the many boats I’ve owned. Yet, the thought of having to switch from this skiff to another was upsetting. I valued it as a tool. I trusted it. I knew how to make the thing perform. It’d kept me afloat through lots of bad weather, and at least a couple of tough encounters. If I believed in luck, I would have considered this skiff particularly lucky.
Watching water jetting from the hull, I realized there was something else I’d have to deal with: The automatic bilge switch was broken. I’d have to get that fixed, too.
Leaky boats sink. I couldn’t risk leaving the thing unattended for long. Which is one reason that I headed off for Applebee’s home at a jog. A more pressing reason was that there were no law enforcement boats here. No sirens or blue lights flashing in the distance.
So maybe EMTs had come by chopper. Possible. But it was also possible that the local water response teams hadn’t had time to scramble. I’d called 911 around 9 P.M. According to my watch, it was now a little after ten. The idea of that terrified little man alone for more than an hour set off the guilt response. Dread, too.
When Applebee’s house came into view, I stopped running, reassured by what I saw. Standing near the front door was a woman in official-looking blue coveralls, a walkietalkie on her belt, plus a noisy, static-loud police scanner.
I took the porch steps two at a time. “How’s Dr. Applebee doing? Have you already transported him to a hospital?”
I could see that the questions confused her. I thought, Uh-oh, moved past her, and tried the door. Still locked.
Shit.
“He’s not in there alone, is he? He has been transported to the hospital? Lady, please tell me someone’s checked on him.”
“Who’s been transported where?”
“Applebee.”
I looked at her for the first time. She wasn’t a woman; she was a kid. Sixteen, maybe eighteen. Pudgy, buttery face, multiple earrings, Cinderella bangs, hair cut boyishly short. But she sounded infuriatingly officious as she replied, “Mister, I have no idea if he’s alone or not, but I can’t let you go inside to check. The sheriff’s department dispatcher told me I’m in charge of this location until they’re ten-twenty. Which means until they arrive. She told me to wait on the porch and not let anyone inside. Especially civilians. That means you.”
I was not in the mood and was already crossing the porch, headed for the rear entrance. “Are you a cop? You’re not old enough to be a cop.”
“I’m old
The big engine fired, burbling its Harley rumble as if this night were nothing out of the ordinary.
The skiff seemed okay. A swivel seat was gone, steering wheel bent. That’s all the damage I noticed—until I flicked the bilge switch. A fire hose stream of water began to jettison from the boat’s starboard side. It pumped water for five or six long minutes as I idled toward Night’s Landing.
The hull was damaged. I was taking on water, maybe sinking. Finally, when the pump’s rhythmic whine told me the hull was empty, I jumped onto plane, steering fast toward the island. I’d stop and make certain Jobe Applebee was being cared for, then bust ass back to Dinkin’s Bay.
As I steered, I did some rough calculations. Felony investigations tend to be lengthy. But with a little push, if I kept it simple, didn’t tell the local cops that I’d been shot at—a biggie—I might make it home before midnight.
Wrong.
I tied up at the same slip. Just to be safe, I flipped the bilge switch again. More water inside.
The hull had taken a beating, was maybe too badly damaged to be repaired. The prospect irritated me. Some people—sailors most often—say they feel affection for their vessels. They can become very sentimental, particularly after a few rums.
I don’t share the feelings. I’ve never felt anything close to emotion for the many boats I’ve owned. Yet, the thought of having to switch from this skiff to another was upsetting. I valued it as a tool. I trusted it. I knew how to make the thing perform. It’d kept me afloat through lots of bad weather, and at least a couple of tough encounters. If I believed in luck, I would have considered this skiff particularly lucky.
Watching water jetting from the hull, I realized there was something else I’d have to deal with: The automatic bilge switch was broken. I’d have to get that fixed, too.
Leaky boats sink. I couldn’t risk leaving the thing unattended for long. Which is one reason that I headed off for Applebee’s home at a jog. A more pressing reason was that there were no law enforcement boats here. No sirens or blue lights flashing in the distance.
So maybe EMTs had come by chopper. Possible. But it was also possible that the local water response teams hadn’t had time to scramble. I’d called 911 around 9 P.M. According to my watch, it was now a little after ten. The idea of that terrified little man alone for more than an hour set off the guilt response. Dread, too.
When Applebee’s house came into view, I stopped running, reassured by what I saw. Standing near the front door was a woman in official-looking blue coveralls, a walkietalkie on her belt, plus a noisy, static-loud police scanner.
I took the porch steps two at a time. “How’s Dr. Applebee doing? Have you already transported him to a hospital?”
I could see that the questions confused her. I thought, Uh-oh, moved past her, and tried the door. Still locked.
Shit.
“He’s not in there alone, is he? He has been transported to the hospital? Lady, please tell me someone’s checked on him.”
“Who’s been transported where?”
“Applebee.”
I looked at her for the first time. She wasn’t a woman; she was a kid. Sixteen, maybe eighteen. Pudgy, buttery face, multiple earrings, Cinderella bangs, hair cut boyishly short. But she sounded infuriatingly officious as she replied, “Mister, I have no idea if he’s alone or not, but I can’t let you go inside to check. The sheriff’s department dispatcher told me I’m in charge of this location until they’re ten-twenty. Which means until they arrive. She told me to wait on the porch and not let anyone inside. Especially civilians. That means you.”
I was not in the mood and was already crossing the porch, headed for the rear entrance. “Are you a cop? You’re not old enough to be a cop.”
“I’m old
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