And he held out his hand for the cash.
Reeve helped him move the boat back over the water and lower it in, so that its side scraped that of the larger vessel, leaving smears of paint on the wood. Creech went to check that the boathouse doors were locked. When Creech returned, Reeve was standing at the workbench, his back to him. Creech licked his lips again and moved forward quietly. When Reeve turned, Creech let out an involuntary gasp. Reeve was holding the biggest knife Creech had ever seen. He had it in his right hand, a coil of Creech’s best rope in the other.
“What… what are you going to do?” Creech said.
Reeve showed him. He sliced through the thick braids like they were string, then let the long part of the rope fall to the floor. “I’m going to tie you up,” he told Creech.
“No need for that, Gordon. I’ll come with you.”
“And you’d wait in the boat for me? You wouldn’t for example sprint off the minute I was on dry land and head for the nearest mainland telephone?”
“No,” Creech said. “You know I wouldn’t.”
But Reeve was shaking his head. “This way we both know where we stand. Or in your case, sit.”
And he made Creech sit on the floor with his back to the workbench, tying his hands behind him around one thick wooden leg of the structure. For good measure, he cut another length of rope-“That stuff costs a fortune,” Creech protested-and tied Creech’s ankles. He thought of sticking the paint rag in Creech’s mouth, but he wanted to restrain the man, nothing more. He doubted anyone would come to see Creech during his absence. Creech had no friends, no one who’d miss him; he spent most of his time in the boathouse, and had even put up a partition so he could sleep there, too. Reeve glanced into the “bedroom” to make sure there was no telephone. He’d seen no cables outside, but it was best to check. All he saw was a mattress and duvet on the floor, a candlestick, an empty whiskey bottle, and a pornographic magazine.
Satisfied, he brought his bag in from the car and got to work, changing into dark clothes and balaclava, donning face-blacking. Creech’s face told him he had achieved the right effect. There was a good-sized moon in a clear sky. He wouldn’t have any trouble navigating; he knew the islands and the potential obstacles pretty well. He had a choice of two routes: one would take him into the Sound of Eriskay so he could approach the western side of South Uist. The advantage of this route was that he’d have a shorter hike at the end of it, two or so miles, but it meant a lot more time spent in the boat than the second route, which would land him in Loch Eynort, a seawater loch. This way he would land farther away from Stoneybridge, maybe as much as a six-mile hike away. It made for a longer time on land, more time for him to be spotted. Plus, of course, if forced to retreat, he’d have a lot farther to run to reach the safety of the boat.
He decided in the end to head for Loch Eynort. If all went well it would cut hours off the mission time, being a much shorter boat crossing. He still doubted he’d complete his mission under the cover of darkness, but the sooner he started the better chance he’d have. He loaded spare fuel into the boat, and took one of Creech’s better sets of rain gear, plus a flashlight and mooring rope. Then he cut himself a length of twine, and tied about a dozen knots in it, each one a couple of inches from its neighbor.
Finally he went back over to Creech, who’d been complaining throughout about aching arms. “I could always amputate,” he said, showing Creech the knife. That shut him up. “What’s the water in the Minch likely to be like tonight?”
“Cold and wet.” Reeve inched the knife closer to Creech, who gave in quickly and told Reeve the prevailing winds and the forecast: it would be blustery, but far from unmanageable. Of course, he could have been lying, but Reeve didn’t think so-it was in his interests for Reeve to return. For one thing, he might starve to death otherwise, since chances were nobody came near the boathouse from one week to the next. For another, he loved his boats too much. He wouldn’t want one tipped and sunk in a gale, especially not the one with the expensive European Community outboard motor.
“Take care of her,” Creech begged.
“Thanks for your concern,” Reeve said, climbing down the ladder into the boat.
The crossing was worse than he’d anticipated, but that was typical of Little Minch: you thought it had done its worst, then it did a little more. He was glad he didn’t have to tackle the sounds; Eriskay could be particularly hair-raising. He wondered no amusement park had sought to emulate it-talk about a white-knuckle ride. His own knuckles were quite white enough as he wrestled with the outboard. The only good news was that it wasn’t raining. Still, he was glad he was wearing the rain gear, considering the amount of spray that was being washed over him. He kept close to the Skye coast for as long as he could before heading out into Little Minch proper. He was taking as direct a line as he could, hoping he would hit the coast in the right place. The way the wind was blowing, and without much in the way of navigation save his small compass, he knew he might be blown off course by as much as three or four miles, which would only add to the trek if he decided to land the boat.
He saw a couple of boats, warning lights flashing to let others know they were there, but they didn’t see him, and they certainly couldn’t hear him. He changed hands often on the outboard’s throttle, but even so wished he’d thought to bring gloves. He used his breath to warm his fingers, then worked them in the raincoat’s pocket, rubbing life back into them.
His mind was on nothing but the crossing itself. He couldn’t afford not to concentrate his full attention on it.
Finally he saw land and, checking to the south, could make out the small island of Stuley, which meant he was just south of Loch Eynort. He’d been adjusting direction to account for the winds, and was pleased to find he had corrected his course wisely. The water was already much less choppy, and as he entered the inlet he felt the wind drop. He took the boat as far into the loch as he could. Stepping onto land was a relief and a strange sensation. He felt his feet weren’t wholly connected to the ground, as though gravity had lost its grip. He knew the feeling would not last long. It was a trick his brain was playing on him.
Reeve grabbed his bag and headed along the road.
There were a couple of crofts nearby, but no signs of life in them. At this hour, the only things awake might be a few sheep and the night birds and animals. The road he was on would soon cross the A865. If he stayed on the road, he’d round the southern side of Loch Ollay and come to a junction. Left would take him to Ormiclate; right would take him towards Stoneybridge and home. He’d checked the time upon landing: he wanted to know how long the hike took. He was also pacing it out. He had the twine in his hand, and was counting his steps. Every hundred steps he slid another knot through thumb and forefinger. At the end of the piece of twine, he could then multiply by length of stride to find roughly how far he’d gone, which would help him estimate how fast he was traveling.
He didn’t really need this information. What he did need was to feel like a soldier again. Because soon he’d be coming up against Jay, one way or another, and he had to be mentally sharp. At short notice, there wasn’t much he could do to bolster his fitness or physique-the years had taken their toll. From what he’d seen of Jay, the man would be stronger than him: fighting him physically would be a lost cause. What Reeve needed to do was become strong mentally; he needed to hone his attitude and his instincts. He needed proper planning and procedure, starting right now.
Knowing the roads as he did, he made good time to the house. He could have shaved minutes off by crossing country, but he’d have been more likely to get lost, and running on a road was easier on the muscles than running over rough terrain.