I started the engine as Carlos set to work. His confidence seemed to grow with each bucketful of water he tossed overboard. The lighter we got, the faster we went, until water streamed out through the open hole.
“Can you navigate again, while I see if I can get the plug in?” I asked. “We’re headed back to the camp, so just keep the compass pointing east.”
Grabbing the wheel with new assurance, he turned his face toward the sun. It seemed like he’d faced some awful fear, and was grateful to have survived to see daylight again.
I leaned over the transom, felt for the drain hole, and worked the plug in with the heel of my hand. “I got it!” I finally yelled. “Hallelujah.”
I saw Carlos’ shoulders relax. I was still soaked, and the rush of the wind felt cold. I stripped off my wet bra and was about to shrug back into my dry T-shirt, when he turned his head to say something. I couldn’t help but notice how his eyes flickered across my breasts. I quickly pulled my shirt over my body.
He’d seen me naked before, of course. But for some reason I felt embarrassed. I found a nylon jacket under the bench seat, and tossed it to him.
“You might want to take off that wet shirt. The sun feels warm now, but you’ll get cold at this speed in the wind.”
He caught the jacket. I stood next to the captain’s chair, steering as he changed into the dry jacket. When he was done, he took back the wheel, and I moved to the side to lean against the gunnel.
“Thanks, Mace. And thanks for saving us.”
I waved a hand, like it was nothing. “Guess we won’t end up in watery graves at the bottom of the lake after all.”
A look of pain raced across his face. I immediately regretted my lame attempt at levity.
“Sorry.”
He shrugged. “I should be used to it. It’s been many years.”
“But you’re not.”
“No.”
Neither of us spoke for a time. The engine whined. The throttle was fully open. We still headed east, back to the camp. A shift in the wind had smoothed the lake’s surface.
“Do you want to reverse course, go find Darryl, now that we’re not taking on water?”
“No. I need to regroup.”
“Regroup how?”
He lifted his wet pant leg and showed me his ankle, trailing lake vegetation. “Well, dry clothes, and minus this green stuff in my holster, for example.”
“It’s called water lettuce.”
Ignoring my botany lesson, he said, “I want the upper hand when I meet up with our friend Darryl. Do you think he sabotaged the boat?”
As soon as Carlos mentioned sabotage, a news story from a few years back popped into my head. The focus was on dirty tricks in a bass fishing tournament. And then I got a quick image of a spool of fishing line I’d seen on a table under the thatched-roof of the chickee hut.
“Oh, man.” I slapped my forehead.
“What?”
“Fifty-pound test line. When I saw it today at the camp, I wondered why anybody would have such strong line for lake fishing. It wasn’t for fishing. You tie a length of it to a boat plug, add a big hook at the end, and where the water’s shallow, the hook snags something on the bottom. Pop. There goes your plug.”
Carlos cocked his head toward the transom. “Would Darryl know that trick?”
“I’m sure he has knowledge of anything that’s illegal, unethical, or just plain mean. But would he take a chance like that with a cop, given what surely must be a prior record?”
Carlos nodded. “Good point, which raises the next question: Who all had access to this boat before we set out on the lake?”
I thought about Rabe, lurking by the dock the day I talked to Darryl. I hoped Carlos’ answer implicated Darryl instead of his stepson.
“My money’s on Darryl,” I said, remembering how his black eyes had glittered with cruelty. “And speaking of predators …”
I pointed to the lake. A big gator glided by, head atop the water, powerful tail moving to and fro under the surface. The distance from eyes to snout tip was at least a foot.
“¡Dios mío! That’s a monster.”
“Twelve feet, at least,” I agreed.
Carlos swallowed hard. “What if he’d been swimming by a few minutes earlier?”
“Well, he wasn’t,” I said. “We were lucky.”
His eyes got a faraway look. “Just like I was lucky before.”
I didn’t want to push him. But my curiosity was growing. And he had brought it up.
“What do you mean, ‘before’ ?” I asked.
He took so long to answer, I thought maybe the wind had swallowed my question.
“Mi hermano.” His voice was so soft, I had to lean in to hear him. “My brother.”
Goosebumps rose on my arms, and not just because I was still half-soaked.
“He drowned,” Carlos said.
“When?”
“A long time ago. He was seven. I was four. We’d gone to the coast.”
His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He stared at the horizon.
“My brother didn’t want to take our uncle’s little boat into the ocean. But I begged to get closer to the dolphins we’d seen swimming offshore.”
Carlos’ gaze moved across the lake. Was he seeing those long-ago dolphins frolicking? What else did he see in that endless water?
“My brother wasn’t like other older brothers. He never picked on me, or bossed. He was happiest when he could make me happy. I remember him frowning up at these big, dark clouds forming in the sky. But I wanted to catch up to those dolphins so badly, I cried …”
His voice faded. He shook his head.
“The weather changed?”
He nodded. “The rain fell so hard, it felt like needles piercing the skin on my bare arms. And it was cold. Which is strange, because Cuba was always warm. My teeth chattered. Waves kept sloshing into the boat; my feet were soaked. I complained I was freezing. My brother stood up to look for a towel, or anything dry.”
Lifting a hand over his face, he pinched the bridge of his nose. It was as if he wanted to force the memories far back into his mind again.
“I’m so sorry, Carlos.”
When he spoke again, he sounded emotionless, like an expert testifying in court. “A big wave hit, and knocked Raul off balance. Before I could make a move, he’d fallen over the side. He must have banged his head as he went over. It seemed like it happened so fast. Raul could swim, but I couldn’t. I was afraid to jump in. But I kept watching, calling his name. He never surfaced. And the waves kept sloshing over the sides of the boat.”
I pictured Carlos as a four-year-old: Drenched. Frightened. Watching the water rise in the boat. My heart nearly burst.
“I kept praying for the dolphins to rescue him, to swim him to safety.”
His voice was barely a whisper. I took a step closer. “How’d you get to shore?”
“Some fishermen were coming in, running from the storm. They saw me alone in this nearly sunken boat, out there in the ocean. I told them Raul had fallen in. They looked for him, but I’d already drifted from where he went under. His body was never found.”
He stared into the sky, watching a big cloud. Then he spoke again. “I’m not even sure why I jumped over today. I was afraid of the water, but I was even more scared the boat would sink. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Pure panic never does. I wasn’t sure how to comfort him. What would Marty say? I moved closer and put a hand to his cheek. He leaned his face into my hand, resting it there for a moment. When he pulled away to look at me, his eyes shone darkly with guilt and pain and unshed tears.
I brought my mouth to his ear and whispered, “It wasn’t your fault. You were just kids.”
“That’s what everyone told me. But I heard the talk. I noticed how people stared. I watched my mother turn away. Her grief over Raul was so strong, she could barely stand to look at me.”