“I don’t understand. I didn’t have anything to do with this scam and neither did Carolyn.”
“Yes, but you are witnesses. This is a Russian thing, I believe. Stalin taught this to us and we remember. In doubt, get rid of everyone except those who are…what is this word? Com…?”
“Complicit.”
“Exactly. Complicit. So now, you will all go into the boat.” He reached under his coat, brought out a pistol, and shouted something in Russian to his troops. Soon they were in a sad procession down to the lake’s edge. In the front, Mishkin carrying the moaning Haas in his arms, then the Mishkin children, then Crosetti and Carolyn. The Russians now had their weapons out, the Deckhand with his submachine gun, and the others with semiautomatic pistols. It was the Deckhand who escorted the prisoners into the boathouse and made them enter the speedboat. The Doughboy was filling a five-gallon jerrican with gas from the pump. Shvanov and the third murderer had gone to start up the cruiser.
Mishkin placed Haas in a corner of the rear seat and then helped the others into the craft. As Crosetti climbed in Mishkin said in a whisper, “Can you drive this thing?”
“Sure.”
“Then get behind the wheel.” Crosetti did and Mishkin sat beside him in the front.
The Doughboy finished filling the can and climbed into the boat with it, resting it on the rear seat. He said something to his companion, and they both laughed, and then said something to Imogen, grabbing her arm and his own crotch, and laughed again. The Deckhand said something back, threw off the stern line, and went forward to untie the line that held the prow of the speedboat to a cleat. From outside, they heard the roar of the Bayliner’s engine starting.
The Doughboy was still talking to Imogen, with his face close to hers. She screamed and tried to push him away. He grabbed her hair, forced her head down, and yanked open his fly, at which point Mishkin, to Crosetti’s immense surprise, reached under the seat cushion, pulled out a Luger, and shot the man in the face. Then, as the Doughboy collapsed and fell overboard, Mishkin turned and put five rounds into the kneeling, and even more surprised, Deckhand. “Crank it up!” he ordered Crosetti. “Go!”
Crosetti turned the ignition, the engine coughed, roared; he threw the gearshift forward and the speedboat shot out of the boathouse.
He felt an absurd giggle rise in his chest as they flew through the water. Of course there would be a chase at the end and here it was. It took a moment or two for Shvanov and his guy to understand what was happening, but when they saw that no black-coated figures were on guard in the speedboat, they took off in pursuit. Crosetti knew that there was no way that a Chris-Craft woodie with an ancient V-6 was going to outrun a modern Bayliner, with maybe three times the horsepower, but he jammed the throttle to the stop and awaited the denouement.
The white boat steadily gained on them, and when they were less than twenty yards astern one of the men started to shoot at them. A bullet snapped overhead and left a long pink scar on the mahogany deck of the runabout. From behind, over the roar of the engine, Crosetti could hear the boy howling in fear.
Ahead and closing fast a line of small wooded islands extended from the eastern shore, to the left of which line stood a pole with a green light fixed to its top. Mishkin was pulling at his sleeve and pointing.
“Go between the marker and the last island!” he shouted. Crosetti twitched the wheel. The runabout whipped past the marker, struck a hidden rock with a jarring crash, ran another fifty feet, and then settled deep into the chilly waters. Crosetti struggled out from behind the wheel, grabbed a floating cushion, and went into the lake. Looking around, he saw the inverted stern of the runabout bobbing just above the surface, and beyond it an object that at first he did not recognize, but in a moment it came into focus as the front three-quarters of the Bayliner, floating on its side. With its deeper draft the pursuing craft must have hit the rocks even harder.
He saw a smaller white object, which he identified as Carolyn Rolly’s parka. She was floating face downward. He went underwater, undid the laces of his boots, pushed them off his feet, and, using the cushion as a float, kicked his way toward her. As he reached her, he saw the head of Jake Mishkin moving toward them with powerful strokes. Together, they got her turned around with her head and shoulders out of the water on the cushion.
“I got her,” cried Crosetti. “Where are your kids?”
At this a shocked look appeared on the other man’s face. He swiveled his head wildly and shouted. Some twenty-five yards away they saw a dark little shape appear amid splashing, the boy. Then it vanished. Jake pushed away toward the spot, but it was clear to Crosetti that the big man would never reach the child before he sank beyond reach. And then, from around the stern of the speedboat came a flash of water and a fast-moving shape-Imogen Mishkin doing a perfect crawl. She dived and reemerged with her brother, locked him against her chest in the approved Red Cross manner, and backstroked with him quickly to the nearest island.
Soon the five of them were all on the island, a hump of land not much bigger than a good-sized kitchen. Crosetti got Rolly on her back and blew into her mouth until she coughed and vomited up a quantity of water.
“Are you okay, Carolyn?” he asked.
“Cold.”
He put his arm around her. “We could pool our warmth, like this.”
She held herself stiffly. “I don’t see how you can bear to touch me.”
“Why? Because you screwed other men? I kind of knew that already. Only I would so appreciate it if you didn’t run away again. That’s the only thing about you that really annoys me. And the lying. I could do with less of that.”
“Besides that I’m perfect.”
“Pretty much. Oh, here’s the second climax.”
She looked and saw Shvanov and his henchman wading out of the water. Neither seemed any longer to be armed. The henchman was staggering and bleeding badly from a head wound, and Shvanov was holding his left arm at the elbow and grimacing in pain. Mishkin waited until they were knee-deep and then he waded up to Shvanov, batted away a feeble blow, grabbed him by belt and collar, lifted the man over his head and flung him at his henchman. Both men went down. He did it twice more until they got the idea and waded and swam to the next tiny island in the chain.
“You wouldn’t have done it that way, unless this was a comedy,” observed Crosetti. “The villain and the supporting lead would have a fight to the death and both of them would perish, or the villain would kill the supporting lead and then the hero would knock him off. But maybe this is a comedy. I was thinking it was a thriller. Here comes the cavalry, too late as usual.”
A helicopter thumped into view and hovered over the wreck. In the distance they could make out a pair of gray hulls approaching over the water, each with a bone in its mouth.
“State police,” Crosetti explained to Carolyn’s wondering look. “I called my sister the cop this morning, and she obviously arranged this rescue.”
“You could have called her last night, and the cops could have been waiting when we arrived.”
“No, I had to see that they were really coming. If I’d’ve brought the cops in earlier, Shvanov might’ve killed the kids. Or you. But, as you see, it all worked out.”
“Where’s Haas?” asked Carolyn.
“Shit!” said Crosetti, standing up and looking out over the water. “He’s gone. He couldn’t have survived, hurt the way he was. And the manuscript is gone too.”