A Killing Tide, page 23
Bjorn complied without comment, and Michael held up the binoculars. He could make out Kaz in the wheelhouse of the Kasmira B, along with the shadow of someone else.
His heart simply stopped.
Fiddling with the focus, he brought the man into sharp relief. As he watched, Sykes pistol-whipped Kaz, putting the weight of his body behind the vicious blow. She hit the far wall and slid out of sight.
An icy calm settled over Michael. His heartbeat slowed to a strong, steady rhythm. He carefully set down the binoculars, turning to Bjorn. "Do you have an inflatable raft?"
"Yeah, but in these conditions—"
"Get it."
~~~~
Chapter 27
Kaz pulled herself up from the wheelhouse floor and walked past Sykes out onto the deck on shaky legs, her right hand pressing against her throbbing cheek. As the storm moved closer, the Kasmira B started to pitch in earnest. She stumbled once, then regained her balance.
Sykes motioned for her to stop just outside the door. Keeping the gun trained on her, he braced his feet and switched on the radio, then picked up the handset. "Karl."
"Yeah."
"Give me five minutes, and then come alongside."
"Make it ten—we've got storm surge."
Sykes switched off the radio and then yanked out the cord of the handset, tossing it on the floor. Then he came out and motioned Kaz toward the stern. She staggered, almost tripping over the can of gasoline that was sitting against the winch.
Keep him talking. "What did you do—stow away?"
Sykes' expression was smug. "I figured you wouldn't check the head. I was in there the whole time."
He motioned to her to sit on the stern bench, then took out a roll of duct tape, taping her hands and feet so tight that her circulation was cut off. He gave her a hard shove, and she fell onto the deck.
Pain shot through her shoulder. She swallowed a yelp. "So you were the one who broke into my house and attacked me. I knew there was something familiar about you."
He laughed. It was an ugly sound. "Yeah, I enjoyed that. It's a shame I was in such a hurry, or I could've had some real fun with you." He picked up the can of gasoline, opened it, and started pouring it on the deck. The acrid smell burned Kaz's nose as the liquid flowed across the planking toward her. She rolled as far away from it as she could.
He walked toward the bow, pouring the gasoline as he went, then put the can down and stepped inside the wheelhouse, pulling a small timer and some rags out of his pocket.
He was going to burn the boat, with her on it. If she didn't do something, and quickly, she would die. She thought of Michael. By now, he had to be frantic.
Trying not to alert Sykes, she felt along the edge of the stern compartment, but she found nothing she could use as a weapon. She kept her bait cleaver in a slot behind the winch. Could she get to it? She would have to scrabble across the deck, through the gasoline, which would soak into her clothes. And if the fire started before she freed herself, she'd burn to death in seconds.
She pushed herself along the deck toward the winch, using the rubber edges of her running shoes to fight the rolling of the trawler. Spray slapped her down, soaking through her clothing. She closed her eyes, now stinging from the salt, and kept going.
When she heard a slight thump on the decking, she jolted. Was someone else on board? Or had it just been the wind moving the gear around? Craning her neck, she glanced at Sykes. He was busy pouring gasoline and hadn't seemed to notice the sound.
Quickly, she used her feet against the stern bench to shove herself the last several feet. The pooled gasoline was slippery, making her progress easier. She maneuvered around so that her hands and back were to the winch, feeling frantically for the cleaver.
There. Her hands closed around the handle. She slid it under the edge of her sou'wester just as Sykes came back out of the wheelhouse.
He stared down at her in her new position, and his expression clouded with fury. He raised his gun.
"Drop it!" Michael appeared around the corner of the wheelhouse, his feet braced, his gun trained on Sykes.
Sykes kept his gun trained on Kaz and glanced over his shoulder. "I don't think so. You shoot me, and I shoot her."
Michael shook his head. "You don't want to die, Jim."
Sykes tightened his finger on the trigger. "Drop your gun, Chapman, or she dies. Now."
Michael's lips tightened, and he shot a tormented look at Kaz. Then he complied, leaning down and placing his gun on the deck.
"That's better," Sykes said, turning and aiming his gun at Michael. "Kick it away."
Michael did as he was told, and the gun slid across the deck and over the edge, disappearing into the waters below.
Kaz closed her eyes, her shoulders slumping. They were going to die if she didn't do something. Sykes' finger tightened on the trigger, and he took careful aim at Michael.
"No!" Kaz raised her bound feet and kicked the back of Sykes' knee. The shot went wild as Sykes lost his balance. Michael launched himself through the air, taking Sykes down with him.
They rolled, grappling for the gun. The gas can toppled, spraying gas in all directions, some of it hitting Kaz. She shook her head to clear the burning liquid out of her eyes, trying to focus on the two men. They rolled toward the stern, fighting silently, viciously.
Sykes landed a punch, then managed roll on top of Michael and slam his head into the deck.
Kaz whimpered. Positioning the cleaver, she sawed it back and forth against the edge of the tape, her hands now so numb that she couldn't control the angle of the cleaver or what she was cutting. She felt something warm flow ever her fingers, but she kept sawing.
Michael scissored his legs, throwing Sykes to the side. Sykes raised his gun. Michael gripped his gun hand, deflecting his aim. A second, deafening shot went wild.
Kaz felt the tape on her hands give and she wrenched them apart, then sat up to work on her feet. She was almost finished when the gun went off again. Her head flew up, terror locking her throat.
Michael fell back, and Sykes shoved him out of the way so that he could get to his feet, gun in hand. "Nice try, Chapman." He was panting heavily.
Kaz got to her feet stealthily, the cleaver still in her hand. She advanced on Sykes quickly, the cleaver raised. But he turned, and seeing her, kicked her feet out from under her. On a deck covered with a mixture of seawater and gasoline, she never stood a chance.
She went down hard, the cleaver flying out of her hands. Rolling onto her back, she looked up. He pointed the gun at her head, his finger on the trigger.
She glared at him defiantly, daring him.
He laughed.
Then he jerked, his face registering surprise. Lurching awkwardly, his fingers sagged, nerveless, as he dropped the gun. Twisting around, he tried to grab the fishhook that was embedded in his back. Staring at Michael, he started to fall, his arms flailing wildly. Landing on the deck railing, his momentum carried him over the side.
Kaz got to her knees and crawled to the rail and peered over, but there was no sign of him in the churning waters.
She slid and scrambled toward Michael. He lay where he'd fallen, his eyes closed. A dark, rapidly spreading pool of blood stained the decking beneath him.
~~~~
Chapter 28
"Michael!" Sobbing, she grabbed the front of his shirt. "Don't you dare die on me, dammit!"
"Okay," he said calmly, not opening his eyes.
"What do you mean, okay? You're bleeding!"
"Yeah, but I got the bastard." He opened an eye and tried to smile at her, then frowned at the blood on her hands. "Are you okay?"
"You're the one who's been shot!" She started pulling at his clothes, ripping open his shirt, feeling along his rib cage.
"My leg," he managed. "I think he got lucky and hit the bone." He tried to rise up on one elbow, but the effort was too much and he sank back, closing his eyes. "Go into the wheelhouse and disconnect the timer before this damn boat goes up."
She glanced back at the wheelhouse, then at Michael. She didn't want to leave him. Taking off her coat, she quickly pulled off her sweater, then her cotton turtleneck. Folding it into a pad, she pressed it to the bloodiest area on his leg. Then she laid her coat over him to conserve his body heat. "Hold the pad in place until I get back."
Getting to her feet, she slipped and slid into the wheelhouse, clad from the waist up only in her bra. She might be freezing, but at least she had less gasoline on her. Grabbing the timer and the pile of rags, she leaned out the door and threw them overboard. Then she started searching for something, anything she could use as a tourniquet.
The Kasmira B rocked to port, hard. She glanced out the window. They'd drifted north, putting them closer to the river bar. The swells were getting huge. Restarting the engines, she turned the trawler into the oncoming waves. Leaving the engines on idle, she ran back out onto the deck.
Spying a length of line, she fetched the cleaver. Kneeling beside Michael, she drew the line around his leg, above the bleeding area, and tied it tight.
"Tighter," he said, his voice more faint than it had been a few minutes ago.
A wave crashed over the railing, its icy foam hissing and bubbling as it engulfed them. Michael sucked in a breath. His body started to shake. He was going into shock. She had to get him out of the water, or he'd die before she could get help.
She used the cleaver to rip his jeans to take a better look—there was a small entry wound about midway up his thigh, and an exit crater on the opposite side. She let out a sob. The leg looked funny—it was bent at an awkward angle. "Is it broken?" she made herself ask.
"Yeah, I think so….feels like it." He managed to get up on one elbow and look at it. "You'll have to tie it tighter, love, or I won't make it back to port."
Ripping her turtleneck in half, she fashioned two pads out of it, then rolled him to press the second one to the back of his leg. She positioned the line over each pad pulled it tighter. He let out a groan. The bleeding slowed but didn't stop. Her makeshift bandages were already turning bright red.
"I've got a better idea," she said. The deck was pitching hard, but if she could manage to get him below... "Come on."
She put an arm around his shoulders and helped him sit up. His face was white, his teeth chattering, his skin clammy with sweat. She had to move fast—he wouldn't be conscious much longer. "Okay, on the count of three, we're going to stand up. You're going to use me as a brace to get down the stairs."
"You're insane, you know that? I've got a perfectly good deck I can lie on right here—"
"A deck that you'll slide right off of when we go over the bar. Plus, I can get your leg elevated down below, and tie you in, in case you conk out."
"Make that cruel and insane." But when she counted, he heaved himself up, leaning heavily on her. "Here you are almost naked," he panted, "and I'm in no shape to follow through."
"I am not amused, Chapman."
They almost lost balance twice before she got him to the stairs. Bracing her body below his and using the stair railing to hold herself upright, he leaned across her as they hopped down the stairs. Once in the galley, she laid him down so that half of his body was on the dining table, then hauled his legs up until he was lying flat. Then as gently as possible, she propped his injured leg on the hanging spice island. The platter was designed to move with the boat's motion, and it would keep his leg immobile.
She raced back up on deck, fetching the roll of duct tape Sykes had left behind. She taped Michael to the table, then taped his leg to the hanging platter. Through it all, Michael kept his eyes closed. His face had lost all color.
Finally, he was immobilized. "Are you still with me?" she whispered.
"…Yeah."
The elevation had slowed the bleeding, but not enough. "I have to tighten the rope again. Hang on." She re-tied it as a slip knot, and tightened the rope by degrees. When he groaned, she cringed but kept going. She tied the rope in a double knot, then yanked a blanket off the berth and threw it over him.
"I've got to get us over the river bar." She rummaged in the locker for a sweater and pulled it on.
"Lucy and Ivar called the Coast Guard….They should be looking for us…" his voice faded.
"Yeah, but Sykes ripped out the handset; I can't get off a signal. And with the weather like this, our best bet is to cross the bar and hope to meet them on the other side." She took a precious moment to lean down and kiss him, then lay her cheek against his. "Try to stay conscious, okay?"
"…yeah." He grimaced, then leered half-heartedly at her. "Liked you better…just the bra."
She laughed softly. "Another time, I promise. I'm going to get you back over that bar, you hear? So no wimping out on me."
There was no response.
"Michael?" She felt for his pulse. It was too rapid, and his breathing was too shallow.
#
"Kasmira B, come in. Kasmira B, can you read?" Bjorn's voice crackled through the radio.
Kaz took the stairs two at a time, grabbing the radio mike off the deck. She twisted the ripped wires together, praying that the radio would work, then flipped the switch. "This is the Kasmira B. Bjorn, Michael Chapman is on board, badly injured." She gave him their position. "Do you copy?"
"Kasmira B, do you read? We have you in sight. State your condition."
Kaz stared at the mike, flipped the switch again, retransmitting.
"Kasmira B, do you copy?"
She threw down the mike in frustration. Searching the churning waters, she couldn't see anything. Climbing to the flying bridge, she searched again.
Nothing.
Jumping back down to deck level, she threw open the stern seat cover and searched for a flare. Breaking it apart, she held it up as high as she could for a few moments, then tossed it into the waters off the stern. Hopefully, Bjorn would see it.
She returned to the wheelhouse and waited. After an agonizingly long minute, the radio crackled to life.
"Kasmira B, we have the flare in sight and have transmitted your position to the Coast Guard. They are currently just east of Sand Island. Kaz, you have to cross the river bar—they can't get to you where you are. If you have navigational capabilities, set off a second flare to confirm."
After complying, she waited for the next response. "Confirmed, Kasmira B. We will follow you through the bar. Over and out."
Quickly, she assessed the conditions. The storm surge was still building, the winds now howling through the rigging. She pushed the throttle bar forward and heard the trawler's engines roar to life.
For a split second, she thought about that night fifteen years ago. Then she shoved the memories down deep and forgot about them. Failure wasn't an option. Losing Michael wasn't an option.
Taking a deep breath, she climbed up to the flying bridge where her visibility—what was left of it—would be best. Her feet planted wide, her body braced against the wild pitching of the trawler, she turned the trawler into the oncoming breakers.
The boat labored up the steep crest of a wave and then slid sickeningly down, bottoming out with a bone-jarring thud in the next trough. The trawler's timbers creaked, and for just one second, Kaz lost her nerve.
She couldn't do it, she didn't have the skills. Maybe she was better off turning around, heading back out to sea. Bjorn could notify the Coast Guard; maybe they could get a helicopter up in this…
Gary's voice was suddenly there with her. You've got to know what you're doing to get lucky on the river bar, Sis. First thing, get your bearings. Then steer based on your instinct, on the feel of the water beneath you.
She took several deep, calming breaths. Trembling hard, she took a reading off the whistle buoy at the mouth of the river, then adjusted her course.
Cold rain fell in sheets, obscuring the channel markers, the faint outlines of land and blurry halos of lights on shore disappearing altogether.
Hold her steady, Kaz. Don't panic. Wait for the next lull in the storm to get your bearings again, then correct your position.
Number 4 Buoy bobbed past, off to starboard, its beacon so pale that she almost missed it. The Kasmira B shuddered as the next wave hit, her rigging clanking against the boom. As the trawler pitched hard to starboard, she gave a second's thought to Michael down below, praying that her makeshift setup was keeping him strapped in.
"Kasmira B. You're looking good." Bjorn's voice came to her faintly. "Adjust one degree to starboard. Kaz, you're gonna make it. Hang in there." Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the rain.
As she neared Clatsop Spit, huge breakers slammed into the trawler, their giant, white-foamed crests obscuring the buoys. She wrenched the wheel to the right with all her strength, forcing the trawler to sluggishly change course again. A spate of icy sleet hit her numbed face like hot needles.
The roar of the surf was so loud now that she could barely hear her own thoughts. The radio crackled again, and Bjorn said something, but it was lost on the wind.
She eased her way toward the Lower Desdemona Shoal, where shifting sands made safe passage a game of Russian roulette. The trawler's diesel engine coughed, and Kaz froze, terror sliding sickeningly along her nerve endings. If she lost power...
The engine coughed again, then resumed its ponderous chugging. She steered for the next buoy.
Another wave crashed over the trawler, slapping her down, washing her halfway over the railing of the bridge. She clung to the wheel as it spun wildly under her weight, dragging herself back to her feet. Struggling against her waning strength, she willed the trawler back on course.
She caught a glimpse of another buoy, enough to adjust her course again, just before fog enveloped the boat. Concentrating on keeping her course and speed even, she released another trembling breath when the next buoy loomed out of the murky darkness in front of her, right where it was supposed to be.
You're almost there, Sis. Home free.
Instinct caused her to glance to stern. A sneaker wave slid with deadly intent under the trawler, tilting the stern up high, pointing the trawler straight down.
