With the perversity of distances at sea, the buoy light suddenly showed up portside. Meg crawled forward and waved her hand to the right. Quill moved the tiller slowly, right, then left. The Verity pitched like a horse with a burr under the saddle. The red-and-white buoy appeared, then disappeared in the sweep of waves. Meg picked up a line, wound it around her waist and fixed it to the offside cleat. Quill edged the Verity closer to the buoy.
Meg leaned forward. "... it!" Meg yelled. "I got... damn!"
Lightning flashed in the western sky. The boat jumped as if she had been stung.
Quill swore, turned, and looked into Evan Taylor's desperate face. He sat in the bow of the powerboat. He'd sideswiped the Verity. Thunder rumbled. The lightning flickered again. Corrigan was at the tiller.
"Get down!" she screamed. "Meg, get down!" She resisted the frantic impulse to jam Verity's throttle wide open. The Class Act swung wide, motor roaring, white spume in its wake, and circled to ram them again. Quill eased the throttle forward, turned hard right, and slipped behind the buoy. Class Act took the buoy amidships with a thud. Corrigan reversed. The motor whined in protest, stuttered, and died.
Quill blinked, refocused, and scanned the shore. Less than a quarter mile, closer to an eighth. They could swim to safety if they had to.
There was one advantage to the wind, she thought grimly. The howl was so loud it must conceal the sound of their motor, and in the darkness they would be hard to see. She cast a swift look backwards. Class Act roared straight for them. Her lights disappeared, obscured by a huge wave. Quill turned the Verity's bow carefully toward the inlet. White spume sparkled in the top of the waves. She tried to recall everything she had ever known about surfing. "Catch it at the break," she muttered, "catch it..." She slammed full throttle. The Verity bucked, and her stem rose into the air. Quill pitched forward, caught herself, and the little boat slid forward, down the face of the wave.
They'd caught it. The wave would bring them in. She heard Class Act's motor behind them. The Verity shuddered. They'd been hit. The portside bulwark rose higher, higher, and Quill tumbled into the sea.
The water reached up and took her. She plunged down, down, the warmth of the ocean a momentary astonishment. She surfaced, gasping, and peered through the darkness for the boat. "Meg!" she shouted into the wind. "Meggieee!"
The clouds swept from the moon, and she caught a glimpse of Meg's face, tight, frightened, determined. Quill raised her arm and pushed forward. "Go on!" she shouted. A wave broke over her head and she went under. Her head hit something hard, unyielding. Light shattered.
And then it was dark.
"I'm fine," Quill said irritably. "Excuse me." She pushed the medic's hand from her wrist. The condominium living room was filled with policemen, medics, at least one FBI agent, and, Quill suspected, a few reporters, since the woman and two men in the kitchen were trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. She was lying on the leather couch in her clothes, which were soaked. What she could see of the wood floor was a small disaster - puddles and mud splashed everywhere.
Jerry Fairchild stood behind the couch and looked down at her. His expression was hard to read. Meg perched on the armrest, smoking one of her rare cigarettes. She'd washed her face and changed into dry clothes. "You were lucky," she said. She stubbed the cigarette out. Her hand was trembling.
"If you're well enough," Jerry said, "I ought to throw you in jail."
"Fine. Go ahead. Bring on the gendarmes."
"She'll be fine," the medic said. She recognized him; it was the same slight fellow who'd ministered to Corrigan when he'd appeared to faint the evening before. "Little waterlogged, and that's a nasty bump on the head, but..." He flashed his penlight in her eyes one more time. "No dilation of the pupils, she claims she's not dizzy, and that bump on her head isn't a fracture."
His mild brown gaze rested on her, curious. "What's that scar on your shoulder from?"
Quill realized someone had removed her sweatshirt and that the T-shirt beneath was wet. "Bullet," she said proudly. "From another case." She grinned. She sat up. She was shaky. Oddly, she was exhilarated. The past twenty-five minutes had been a confusion of water, wind, and shouting. Predominate was the grizzled face of the fisherman in the Chris-Craft, who'd knocked Evan Taylor out with an oar and dragged her from the water.
Meg came and sat next to her on the couch. "What about some hot tea?"
Quill swallowed. Her nose and throat were dry and stinging. Her eyes were gritty. Somebody had turned the air conditioning either down or off, for which she was grateful. One of the French doors was partly open, and she heard the lash of wind and rain against the windows. The air was warm and damp.
"I'm going to take a hot shower, first, and get out of these clothes."
Meg reached out to help her up and she got to her feet. The room seemed remarkably steady, amazingly bright, after the pitching waves and the darkness.
"We'll wait," Jerry said.
"Wait?"
"If you're all that fine, we're taking you downtown, for a statement."
"Now?"
"Now. Cressida Houghton's going to have sixteen lawyers on my back when she learns her precious pair have been booked for attempted murder."
"Verger's Taylor's alive?" Quill said.
"He means you, stupid," Meg said affectionately. "Go on, get dressed."
"In a minute. Where's the old geez - I mean the old gentleman that pulled me out of the water? He saved my life, Meg."
Jerry rolled his lips back in what she took to be an attempt at a smile. They were stained brown. He hawked, pretended to spit, and gave a genuine smile at her astonished expression. "That was you?"
"But Jerry, I've seen that old guy out in the boat every afternoon since we've been here."
"That's Charlie Sinclair. Used to be one of the best defense attorneys on the eastern seaboard before he retired down here to fish. Didn't mind my borrowing his boat, but I had a hell of a time taking his tobacco."
"Borrowed his boat," Quill said. "Oh, my goodness. Luis!"
"It's not too bad," Meg said with a slightly guilty air. "I got it to the dock, anyway. But there's a couple of dings in the side from getting rammed, and the police have confiscated it as evidence, and I'm afraid we'll have to get him a new one."
"Oh, dear. And we swore to John that this would be a profitable trip. Well." She stood uncertainly and said to Jerry, "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now get changed. I'll wait." He raised his voice slightly. "I'd like this room cleared, please, and that includes you, Monica from channel seven."
"Jer-ry," the woman in the kitchen protested.
"Beat it. I'll give you a statement down at the station. And be glad I'm not pulling you in like Miss Quilliam."
"Since you've blown my cover, could I just ask her a few questions?"
"No."
"Miss Quilliam, how does it feel to have solved what promises to be the crime of the century?"
"Wet," Quill said cheerfully. "I'll be back in a second."
"Out," said Jerry. "All of you."