understand the last thing you hear before you die, ’cause otherwise it starts the whole karma thing off on the wrong foot. Know what I mean? Do you?”
He’d lowered his gun. Kate straining to hear any nearby boat passing, or voices out there in the ocean, men fishing who might hear a scream.
“I had a mother, an old fart a lot like you, and she strutted around just like you. She wanted to have what a man has. You know what that is? What a man has. I’ll show you. You forgotten ’cause you’re so old.”
Only because it was in her hand already. She had no idea that five pounds of decomposing glassy minnows would hurt anybody; it was more a matter of making a statement, not being shot down with a bucket of ground-up fish in hand. Most of the goop went on the big one, but a lucky handful rode in on the little one’s inhalation. He was looking down, trying to get his tight black pants unzipped. A mouthful of decomposing fish parts instead.
While he coughed, waving his pistol, she grabbed one of the yellowtail rods, gripped it like a baseball bat, and lunged it at the big one’s face. The tip found his eye. Bent him over. She whipped the rod around and slashed at the little one, the boss, caught him on his upraised forearm, threw the whole thing at him, and scrambled to the cabin. Her .38 was in the first-aid drawer.
She got it open, heard the yelling behind her.
She ducked behind the swivel seat and fired at the door. The goddamn gun bucked so, she wasn’t sure where the shot went, didn’t know how to correct for the next one. She heard the big guy moaning about his eye.
She reached up for the microphone to the shortwave, nothing shielding her from the cockpit door but that swivel bucket seat. There wasn’t much of a chance she’d come out of this. She’d made her peace, all that, years before, when the doctor died. But this wasn’t just dying. This was something else.
She squeezed off another round, this one at his hand waving around the edge of the door. She heard him go, “Whoowee.” A kid taunting. Then ducking his smiley face around the corner of the door, and she jerked another round at that. Again too late.
Kate squeezed to her left, just to change the angle, make it harder on him. Maybe she could stay out here all night, three shots left, a standoff. Hope the echo of her shots had made it ashore.
But he was there again, standing fully exposed in the door. She fired twice, but he’d already jumped aside. Still mocking her, her sluggish reflexes. She had that one shell. But with two of them, she knew it was finished.
He was mumbling now. Something he meant to sound like Japanese. Something to raise her hackles, to haunt her, spook one more shot from her. Out there in the dark, his sidekick whimpered, as he did this phony Oriental gibberish.
Kate duck walked back to the swivel chair. She wanted a straight-on shot this time. Her knees ached, the squeak of her boat soles on that scrubbed deck.
His mirror glasses came around the corner, hovered, staring at her. She aimed carefully this time, cradling the .38 with her left hand, and exploded one of the shiny disks. The guy whooped, dropped the glasses. Another trick.
The click on six. Then the skinny one looked around the edge of the cabin door, smiling at her. In the movies they always threw the gun when it emptied. But they always missed. She did it anyway, aimed it at that smile in the moonlight, slung it like a throwing knife. It clattered across the deck.
The only thing left was the flare gun. She’d chance the fire, chance anything at this point. It was in with all the Coast Guard things and charts, the plastic whistle, a compass that had been the doctor’s as a boy. She scrabbled among the junk, knowing it was taking too long, but not stopping at this point, going on through with it, the action completed, the statement made. It was there at last, the fat cartridge inside it, the gun broken open. She snapped it closed. An old lady,
He’d lowered his gun. Kate straining to hear any nearby boat passing, or voices out there in the ocean, men fishing who might hear a scream.
“I had a mother, an old fart a lot like you, and she strutted around just like you. She wanted to have what a man has. You know what that is? What a man has. I’ll show you. You forgotten ’cause you’re so old.”
Only because it was in her hand already. She had no idea that five pounds of decomposing glassy minnows would hurt anybody; it was more a matter of making a statement, not being shot down with a bucket of ground-up fish in hand. Most of the goop went on the big one, but a lucky handful rode in on the little one’s inhalation. He was looking down, trying to get his tight black pants unzipped. A mouthful of decomposing fish parts instead.
While he coughed, waving his pistol, she grabbed one of the yellowtail rods, gripped it like a baseball bat, and lunged it at the big one’s face. The tip found his eye. Bent him over. She whipped the rod around and slashed at the little one, the boss, caught him on his upraised forearm, threw the whole thing at him, and scrambled to the cabin. Her .38 was in the first-aid drawer.
She got it open, heard the yelling behind her.
She ducked behind the swivel seat and fired at the door. The goddamn gun bucked so, she wasn’t sure where the shot went, didn’t know how to correct for the next one. She heard the big guy moaning about his eye.
She reached up for the microphone to the shortwave, nothing shielding her from the cockpit door but that swivel bucket seat. There wasn’t much of a chance she’d come out of this. She’d made her peace, all that, years before, when the doctor died. But this wasn’t just dying. This was something else.
She squeezed off another round, this one at his hand waving around the edge of the door. She heard him go, “Whoowee.” A kid taunting. Then ducking his smiley face around the corner of the door, and she jerked another round at that. Again too late.
Kate squeezed to her left, just to change the angle, make it harder on him. Maybe she could stay out here all night, three shots left, a standoff. Hope the echo of her shots had made it ashore.
But he was there again, standing fully exposed in the door. She fired twice, but he’d already jumped aside. Still mocking her, her sluggish reflexes. She had that one shell. But with two of them, she knew it was finished.
He was mumbling now. Something he meant to sound like Japanese. Something to raise her hackles, to haunt her, spook one more shot from her. Out there in the dark, his sidekick whimpered, as he did this phony Oriental gibberish.
Kate duck walked back to the swivel chair. She wanted a straight-on shot this time. Her knees ached, the squeak of her boat soles on that scrubbed deck.
His mirror glasses came around the corner, hovered, staring at her. She aimed carefully this time, cradling the .38 with her left hand, and exploded one of the shiny disks. The guy whooped, dropped the glasses. Another trick.
The click on six. Then the skinny one looked around the edge of the cabin door, smiling at her. In the movies they always threw the gun when it emptied. But they always missed. She did it anyway, aimed it at that smile in the moonlight, slung it like a throwing knife. It clattered across the deck.
The only thing left was the flare gun. She’d chance the fire, chance anything at this point. It was in with all the Coast Guard things and charts, the plastic whistle, a compass that had been the doctor’s as a boy. She scrabbled among the junk, knowing it was taking too long, but not stopping at this point, going on through with it, the action completed, the statement made. It was there at last, the fat cartridge inside it, the gun broken open. She snapped it closed. An old lady,
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