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."
She asked me, "Do you think he's still going to Plum Island?"
"That's where the gold is."
"But he knows we're on to him."
"Which is why he's going to keep on trying to kill us." I added, "Or at least witness that we capsized and drowned."
She didn't reply for a while, then asked me, "How did we get ahead of him?"
"I guess we were going faster than him. Law of physics."
"Do you have a plan?"
"Nope. Do you?"
"Is it time to head for a safe harbor?"
"Maybe. But we can't go back. I don't want to run into Freddie's rifle again."
Beth found the plastic-coated chart on the deck and unfolded it on the dashboard. She pointed and said, "That must be Long Beach Bar Lighthouse over there."
I looked off to our right front and saw a faint blinking light.
She continued, "If we head to the left of the lighthouse, we may be able to see some channel markers that will lead us to East Marion or Orient. We can dock someplace, and call the Coast Guard or the security people on Plum Island and alert them to the situation."
I glanced at the chart, which was lit by the faint glow of a reading light on the dashboard. I said, "There's no way I can navigate this boat in this storm through these narrow channels. The only place I can get into is Greenport or maybe Dering, and Freddie's between us and those harbors."
She thought a moment, then said, "In other words, we're not chasing him anymore. He's chasing us-out into the open water."
"Well… you could say we're leading him into a trap."