Somewhere to our right, though I couldn't see it, was Dering Harbor on Shelter Island, and I knew there was a yacht club there where I could put in. Greenport and Dering Harbor were the last of the big easily navigable ports before the open sea. I looked at Beth and reminded her, "As soon as we clear Shelter Island, it's going to get rough."
She replied, "It's rough now." She shrugged, then said, "Let's give it a shot. We can always turn back."
I thought it was time to tell her about the fuel, and I said, "We're low on gas and at some point out in Gardiners Bay, we will reach that legendary point of no return."
She glanced at the gas gauges and said, "Don't worry about that. We'll capsize long before then."
"That sounds like some idiotic thing I'd say."
She smiled at me, which was unexpected. Then she went below and came back with a lifesaver, meaning a bottle of beer. I said, "Bless you." The boat was banging around so badly, I couldn't put the neck of the bottle to my lips without knocking my teeth out, so I poured the beer into my upturned and open mouth, getting about half of it on my face.
Beth had a plastic-coated chart, which she spread out on the dashboard and said, "Coming up on our left over there is Cleeves Point, and to the right over there is Hays Beach Point on Shelter Island. When we pass those points, we're in this sort of funnel between Montauk Point and Orient Point where the Atlantic weather blows right in."
"Is that good or bad?"
"This is not funny."
I took another swig of the beer, an expensive imported brand, which is what I'd expect from Fredric Tobin. I said, "I sort of like the idea of stealing his boat and drinking his beer."
Beth replied, "Which has been the most fun — wrecking his apartment or sinking his boat?"
"The boat is not sinking."
"You ought to go look below."
"I don't have to — I can feel it in the helm." I added, "Good ballast."
"You're a real sailor all of a sudden."
"I'm a quick learner."
"Right. Go take a break, John. I'll take the helm."
"Okay." I took the chart, gave the wheel to Beth, and went below.
The small cabin was awash in about three inches of water, which meant we were taking in more water than the bilge pumps could handle. As I indicated, I didn't mind a little water to add weight and ballast to make up for the lighter fuel tanks. It was too bad the engine wouldn't burn water.
I went into the head and retched about a pint of saltwater into the toilet. I washed the salt off my face and hands, and came back into the cabin. I sat on one of the bench beds, studied the chart, and sipped my beer. My arms and shoulders ached, my legs and hips ached, and my chest was heaving, though my stomach felt better. I stared at the chart for a minute or two, went to the bar refrigerator and found another beer, which I carried topside along with the chart.
Beth was doing fine in the storm, which, as I said, wasn't too bad here on the leeward side of Shelter Island. The seas were high, but they were predictable, and the wind at sea level wasn't so bad as long as the island sheltered us.
I looked out at the horizon and was able to see the black outline of the two points of land that marked the end of the safe passage. I said to Beth, "I'll take the wheel. You take the chart."
"Okay." She tapped the chart and said, "There's some tricky navigating coming up. You have to stay to the right of Long Beach Bar Lighthouse."
"All right," I replied. We exchanged places. As she sidestepped past me, she glanced toward the stern and let out a scream.
I thought it must be a monster wave that caused that reaction and I looked quickly back over my shoulder as I took the wheel.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing — a huge cabin cruiser, a Chris-Craft to be exact, the Autumn Gold to be specific — was no more than twenty feet off our tail on a collision course and gaining fast.
CHAPTER 34
Beth seemed mesmerized by the specter of the huge boat looming over us.
It kind of surprised me, too. I mean, I hadn't heard it over the roar of the storm and the sound of our own engines. Also, visibility was limited and the Chris-Craft wasn't showing any running lights.
In any event, Fredric Tobin had outflanked us and all I could think of was the bow of the Autumn Gold cleaving through the stern of the Sandra; a Freudian image if ever there was one.
Anyway, it looked as if we were going to be sunk.
Realizing we'd seen him, Mr. Tobin turned on his electric hailing horn and shouted, "Fuck you!"
I mean, really.
I pushed forward on the throttles and the distance between us and him widened. He knew he couldn't overtake a Formula 303, even in these seas. He greeted us again with, "Fuck you both! You're dead! You're dead!"
Freddie's voice was kind of screechy, but maybe that was a result of the electric distortion.
Beth had drawn her 9mm Clock at some point, and she was crouched behind her chair, trying to steady her aim on the back of the seat. I thought she should be firing, but she wasn't.
I glanced back at the Chris-Craft and noticed now that Tobin wasn't on the exposed fly bridge, but was in the deckhouse cabin where I knew there was a complete second set of controls. I noticed, too, that the hinged windshield on the helm side of the cabin was raised. More interesting than that, the skipper, Captain Freddie, was leaning out the open window, holding a rifle in his right hand, and I assume steadying the helm with his left. His right shoulder was braced against the window frame and the rifle was now pointed at us.
Well, here we were in two wildly moving boats in the dark with no lights, the wind and waves and all that, and I guessed that's why Tobin hadn't opened fire yet. I yelled to Beth, "Pop off a couple."
She called back, "I'm not supposed to fire until he fires."
"Shoot the fucking gun!"
She did. In fact, she popped off all fifteen rounds, and I saw the windshield beside Tobin shatter. I also noticed that F. Tobin was no longer leaning out the window with his rifle. I called to Beth, "Good job!"
She slammed another fifteen-round magazine into the pistol and covered the cabin cruiser.
I kept glancing over my shoulder as I tried to control the Formula in the steadily worsening sea. All of a sudden, Tobin popped up at the open window, and I saw his rifle flash. "Down!" I yelled. The rifle flashed three more times, and I heard a round thud into the dashboard, then my windshield shattered. Beth was returning the fire, slower, steadier than before.
I knew we couldn't match the accuracy of his rifle so I gave the engines full throttle and we took off, crashing through the tops of the waves and away from the Chris-Craft. At about sixty feet, neither of us was visible to the other. I heard his hailing horn crackle, then his tinny, tiny voice came across the stormy seas. "Fuck you! You'll drown! You'll never survive this storm! Fuck you!"
This didn't sound like the suave and debonair gentleman I'd come to know and dislike. This was a man who had lost it.
"You're dead! You're both fucking dead!"
I was really annoyed at being taunted by a man who had just murdered my lover. I said to Beth, "That bastard dies."
"Don't let him get to you, John. He's finished and he knows it. He's desperate."
He's desperate? We weren't in great shape either.
Anyway, Beth stayed in her firing stance, facing the stern, trying to steady her pistol on the back of the seat. She said to me, "John, come around in a wide circle, and we'll get behind him."
"Beth, I'm not John Paul Jones and this is not a naval engagement."
"I don't want him behind us!"
"Don't worry about it. Just keep an eye out." I glanced at the fuel gauge and saw the needle between one eighth and E. I said, "We don't have the fuel for maneuvers."