She yelled, “Maynard! Why?”
It took a stride or two to get her feet beneath her, but panic and pain helped her keep pace. Chalk kept running. Led her down toward the beach toward the west side of the island where Slagget should be.
She gasped, “What’s happening?”
“Slight change of plans. Your bomb is armed and counting down! Seconds! That mutant set it off!”
“Oh shit!” Tahereh got with the program. Three more strides and she was nearly pulling Chalk off his feet. Chalk’s affection for her deepened. She was one vigorous filly, gimped or not.
Chalk scanned past the burning wreck of Hiram Harris’s boat for something, anything that would float. They ran on, the soft dunes miring their steps like quicksand in a nightmare.
They found O’Malley sprawled out behind the dunes, stone dead. His skull completely caved in. Chalk barked, “What in the hell?”
Next to O’Malley in the sand lay what proved on quick examination to be an old Wright & Ditson five wood with its original splice whippings. The antique golf club’s value to a collector was diminished because the shaft was now broken, and its well-lofted persimmon head was freshly gunked with blood.
Chalk dropped the club and yanked Tahereh onward, by her good hand this time. He quietly hoped the murderous duffer was not waiting somewhere over the next dune to clobber him with a Big Bertha. He locked onto what looked like a small skiff hauled out on the beach about a hundred yards away. He went for it. As they got closer, Chalk saw the craft was built low and flat along the lines of Sunfish sailboats, but much smaller. All open wood. No mast, and no sail, no engine in sight. Barely big enough for two. Chalk looked down into the little cockpit. All he saw was a gargantuan gun, and a pair of ridiculously small paddles.
That’s when Slagget staggered over a nearby rise, his nose streaming blood. His hand was torn and pierced by what looked like fang marks. He pumped his legs hard as he could to intercept Chalk and Tahereh at the little boat.
Slagget called, “Maynard! Hey! What’s the story?”
Chalk yelled back, “We’re bugging out!”
“What about the gold?” Now Slagget was moving a little faster. He’d caught the note of — not terror surely — but intensity in Chalk’s voice.
Chalk said, “Forget it!”
Slagget stopped his tracks. “What?”
Chalk gave the essentials. “The bomb! It’s running. Any second now! Where’s your team?”
“You’re looking at it. Damn! You call for a dust-off?”
Chalk pointed to the little boat. “That’s our dust-off. No time to wait for a helo here.”
“Crap!” Slagget came to terms with the situation quickly. “Okay. Screw it. Let’s go.” He started running toward the boat.
Chalk clarified. “Dear boy, when I said this boat is ours, I meant hers and mine. It’s much too small for three. You best run along. Grab a plank or a life ring off Hiram’s boat. Anything that’ll float. Got to be something that hasn’t burned up yet. I’ll vector the helo onto me, and then we’ll come scoop you up most riki-tik. Oh, and with this particular bomb? The trick is to work your way upwind. Get me? Be the wind, Bill. Be the wind.”
Slagget’s eyes screwed down hard into a squint. He hissed, “The Senator said you might try something like this.”
Chalk erupted, “Knew it! You little shit! I knew you were Lily’s punk! The fly in my pellucid ointment! The spanner in my perfectly tuned works!” Even in the low light, Chalk saw the knuckles of his gun-hand whiten.
Slagget said. “You crazy bastard, you are not dumping me here!”
Tahereh said, “That’s right.” She leveled her gun at Chalk. Chalk’s eyes widened. After a few long seconds, she swept the sights onto Slagget. One-handed, she let off a burst at his legs. The noise echoed long after he lay cut down and helpless on the ground. The sand drank up his life. She tossed his gun out of reach, kneeled next to him. His eyes were open, but not focusing.
She said, “You’re right Billy-Bob. We’re not leaving you here. This is where we’re burying you.” Her next round went into Slagget’s head.
Chalk’s mouth started working again after a moment of surprise. “Hot damn, cupcake!”
Now that the overbooking of the little boat had been addressed, Chalk jettisoned its cannon. Then with their good hands, he and Tahereh dragged the wooden shell into the water past the breakers. The wind was rising again. That would make for hard going.
Chalk grabbed both of the short-handled paddles and got to work. One hand on each side of the narrow boat. The craft was tippy, and his wounded arm burned like it was freshly injured at every stroke. He nearly put them both in the drink before he got the hang of it. Managing the balance was difficult, but the boat was slippery through the water. With some care, effort, and rhythm Chalk got it moving. He steered upwind toward the southwest.
He said, “For a second there, I thought you were going to do me in.”
Tahereh said, “Ridiculous. His hand was much worse than your arm. There was no possibility he could manage this boat.”
He smiled, said, “You’re a tough ho’ to row.”
She nodded. “Don’t forget that.”
Chalk smiled. He liked her. He really liked her.
After many minutes of hard work on the water, Tahereh shouted, “Maynard, look! The island!”
Chalk glanced over his shoulder, once more almost capsizing them.
A spark from the Palestrina had caught on something dry in the old hotel. Perhaps an ember had fluttered into the attic through a shattered window. A nascent holocaust now worked its way along the roofline.
Chalk said, “Something’s wrong with that bomb. It was set to pop in six minutes. I’m not complaining. Could use a bonus round. But damn, can’t those Turks build anything right?”
A few more moments passed. Then the eruption. The center of the hotel’s second story lifted and blew out toward the dunes. Chunks of burning wood and plumes of white sparks soared into the air.
“That’s more like it!” Chalk studied the fiery island for a moment. “And so begins World War Three. Damn, baby. That was gonna be our war.”
Chalk was tired. Picturesque as the fire was, he needed to focus on matters at hand. Before he started paddling again, he took a moment to punch the panic button on his sat-phone. The real panic button this time. Chalk had failed spectacularly. He needed real help now. Soon he’d be feeling every kind of heat from upstairs. For an instant, he wondered if things were cooling off back in Scranton.
CHAPTER 65
Ben boarded Wade Joyce’s boat alone after grabbing Chalk’s abandoned jacket. The next few minutes were a blur. Wade had already recovered Reverend Mosby from the beach, as well as Ben’s rifle from the dunes. They told Ben they’d seen Chalk and the woman put into the Chesapeake on a sneak-boat conveniently abandoned there by Orville Hurley. The fugitives had paddled for dear life, but not before the woman had shot another man down. Not a Smith Islander, Ben learned. Therefore the corpse was none of Ben’s concern beyond the hurried scraping of a shallow grave in the dunes.
They found Lorton Dyze’s sinkbox adrift, and badly holed by grenade shrapnel. No sign of the old man, call out as they might. They abandoned the low vessel. With seconds ebbing fast, they rushed on with heavy hearts.
Orville Hurley called to them from shore. Though pressed for time, he made them stop long enough to retrieve Barking Betty from the beach. Orville’s dog, Adolf, was shot dead in the fight with Slagget and O’Malley. They took his carcass aboard, too.