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.