and let them go one at a time.”
Dutch buried his face in his hands. “What is it, is the heat getting everybody?” he moaned. “I
shoulda known when I was lucky, I should of stayed in the army.”
74
CHRISTMAS CREEK
The thirty-horsepower motor growled vibrantly behind him as Stick guided the sailboat out of the
mouth of South River and into the bay. Buccaneer Point was two miles away. Five miles beyond it was
Jericho Island, where a sliver of creek, two or three hundred yards wide and a quarter of a mile long,
sliced the small offshore island into Big Jericho and Little Jericho. Stick set his course for Jericho.
Clouds played with the face of a full moon and night birds chattered at them as the sleek sailboat
cruised away from land, its sails furled, powered by the engine. Stick flicked on the night light over
his compass. It was 8:45. He would be there in another fifteen minutes. He checked his tide chart.
High tide was at 9:57. The bar would be perfect.
Weasel Murphy was crunched down against the cabin wall, his thumbs still shackled behind him.
“1 already told you,” the rodent-faced gunman said arrogantly, “1 don‟t know nothin‟ about
nothin‟.”
“Right,” said Stick.
“I get seasick; that‟s why I didn‟t go along on the boat. You can‟t understand plain English?”
“You start getting sick,” said the Stick, “you better stick your head over the side. Puke in my boat and
I‟ll use you for a mop and throw you overboard.”
“Fuck you,” Murphy growled, but his arrogance was less than convincing.
“Cute,” Stick said. “I admire your stuff”
“How many times I gotta tell you,” Murphy said, “I don‟t know nothin‟ about snatching no Fed, or
the Raines dame. That‟s all news t‟me.”
“Where‟s Costello heading on that schooner of his?”
“I told you, I don‟t fuckin‟ know! They was just goin‟ out to have dinner and get away for a few
hours. We was all tired of looking up some cop‟s nose every time w turned around.”
He shifted slightly.
“Where the hell are we going?” he demanded.
Up the lazy river,” Stick said.
“You‟re a full-out loony, you know that. You need about fifty more cards to fill out your deck.”
“Big talk from a man who can‟t ever scratch his nose,” Stick said.
“Look, these things are killing my thumbs,” Murphy said. “Can you at least loosen them a little? My
whole damn arm‟s goin‟ to sleep.”
“I want to know where Kilmer is and where Costello‟s going. You just tell me that, we turn around
and head for home.”
“Shit, man, how many ways can
“You already have,” the Stick said. “You‟re beginning to annoy me. If you won‟t tell me what I want
to know, keep your mouth shut or I‟ll put my foot in it.”
They went on. The only sound now was the bow of the boat slicing through the water, and the
occasional slap of a wave as it rolled up into a whitehead and peaked. Stick was using running lights,
although occasionally he snapped on a powerful searchlight for a look around. Otherwise he watched
his compass and smoked and said nothing.
At 9:05 he passed the north point of Big Jericho, swung the trim boat in toward land, and followed the
beach around to the south. A minute or two later the moon peered out from behind the clouds and in
its gray half-light he could see the mouth of Christmas Creek. He turned into it, cut back the motor,
and switched the spotlight on again. He swept it back and forth. Murphy straightened up and peered
over the gunwale. A large heron thrashed its wings nearby and flapped noisily away. Startled by the
sudden and unexpected sound, Murphy slumped down again.
Then he heard the sounds for the first time.
A sudden whirlpool of movement in the water near the boat.
“What‟s „sat?” he asked, sitting up again. “Hey, there it goes again. You hear that?”
The Stick said nothing.
The sounds continued. There seemed to be a lot of turbulence in the water around the boat. Then
there was a splash and something thunked the side of the sailboat.
“Don‟t you hear it?” Murphy croaked, staring wide-eyed at the circle of light from the spotlight. The
Stick still didn‟t answer.
Stick had stopped in an all-night supermarket on the way to the boathouse and bought a large beef
shoulder. It had been soaking in a bucket of warm water near his feet. Now he took it out, laid it on
the rear bulkhead, and slashed several deep gashes in it with a rusty machete. Blood crept out of the
crevices, seeping slowly into the seams between the boards.
There was a loud splash near the stem, then another, even louder, just beyond the bow. Fear began as
a worm in Murphy‟s stomach, a twisty little jolt. He began to look feverishly at each new tremor in the
water, but he could see nothing but swirls on the surface of the creek.
Then he thought he saw a gray triangle cut the surface ten feet away.
“What was that?” he asked.
The worm became a snake. It crawled up through his chest and stuck in his throat. His mouth dried
up.
“This is a little nature trip, Weasel,” Stick said, taking a grappling hook from the bulkhead storage
box and burying its hooks in the beef shoulder. He wrapped a thick nylon fishing line around it
several times and tied it in a half hitch. “Ever hear of Christmas Creek?”
“I told you, I get seasick. I don‟t have nothin‟ to do with the fuckin‟ ocean.” His voice was losing its
bravado.
Stick saw the bar dead ahead, a slender strip of sand, barely a foot above water.
“Well, you‟re right in the middle of it. This is it, this is Christmas Creek,” Stick said. “One of the
local ecological wonders.”
There was another, more vigorous splash of J the starboard bow and this time Murphy saw it clearly,
a shiny gray dorsal fin, It sliced the surface for an instant and then disappeared in a swirl.