Plum Island (65 page)

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.

B
eth 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
Sondra
; 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 Glock 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 deck-house 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 wind-shield 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.”

“What trap?”

“I knew you’d ask that. Trust me.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” I cut back on the throttles and the Formula settled down a little. I said to Beth, “Actually, I like it this way.
Now I know for sure where he is and where he’s going.” I added, “I’d rather deal with him on land. We’ll meet him on Plum
Island.”

Beth folded her chart. “Right.” She glanced back over her shoulder and said, “He’s got us outgunned and outboated.”

“Correct.” I set a course that would take us to the right of the lighthouse out into Gardiners Bay, which in turn would put
us on a course to Plum Island. I asked her, “How many rounds do you have left?”

She replied, “I have nine left in this magazine and a full magazine of fifteen in my pocket.”

“Good enough.” I glanced at her and said, “Nice shooting back there.”

“Not really.”

“You upset his aim. You may also have hit him.”

She didn’t reply.

I said to her, “I heard that last round go past my ear before it went through the windshield. Jeez! Just like old times back
in the city.” I asked her, as an afterthought, “You okay?”

“Well …”

I looked quickly toward her. “What’s the matter?”

“Not sure …”

“
Beth?
What’s the matter?” I could see her left hand moving over her rain slicker and she winced. She brought her hand out and it
was covered in blood. She said, “Damn….”

I was literally speechless.

She said, “Funny…. I didn’t realize I was hit … then I felt this warm … It’s okay though … just a graze.”

“Are you … are you sure … ?”

“Yeah…. I can feel where it passed through….”

“Let’s see. Come here.”

She moved closer to where I stood at the wheel, turned toward the stern and loosened her life vest, then raised her slicker
and shirt. Her rib cage, between her breast and her hip, was covered with blood. I reached out and said, “Steady.” I felt
for the wound and was relieved to discover that it was indeed a graze running along the lower rib. The gash was deep, but
had not exposed the bone.

Beth let out a gasp as my fingers probed into the wound. I took my hand away and said, “It’s okay.”

“That’s what I told you.”

“I just get a kick out of sticking my fingers into gunshot wounds. Hurt yet?”

“It didn’t. Now it does.”

“Go below and find the first-aid kit.”

She went below.

I scanned the horizon. Even in the darkness, I could see the two points of land on either side that marked the end of the
relatively calm strait.

Within a minute, we were out into Gardiners Bay. Within two minutes, the sea looked like someone switched the dial to spin
and rinse. The wind howled, the waves crashed, the boat was nearly out of control, and I was weighing my options.

Beth scrambled up from the cabin and held on to the handgrip on the dashboard.

I called out over the sound of the wind and the waves, “Are you okay?”

She nodded, then yelled, “John! We have to turn back!”

I knew she was right. The Formula was not made for this and neither was I. Then I recalled Tom Gordon’s words to me on my
porch that night which seemed so long ago.
A boat in the harbor is a safe boat. But that’s not what boats are for.

In truth, I was no longer frightened by the sea or by the possibility of my death, for that matter. I was running on pure
adrenaline and hate. I glanced at Beth and our eyes met. She seemed to understand, but she didn’t want to share my psychotic
episode. She said, “John … if we die, he gets away with it. We have to get into some harbor or inlet somewhere.”

“I can’t…. I mean, we’d run aground and sink. We have to ride it out.”

She didn’t reply.

I said, “We can put in at Plum Island. I can get into that cove. It’s well marked and lit. They have their own generator.”

She opened the chart again and stared at it as if trying to find an answer to our dilemma. In fact, as I’d already concluded,
the only possible harbors, Greenport and Dering, lay behind us, and between us and those harbors was Tobin.

She said, “Now that we’re out in the open sea, we should be able to circle around and get past him and back to Green-port.”

I shook my head. “Beth, we have to stay in the marked channel. If we lose sight of these channel markers, we’re finished.
We’re on a narrow highway and there’s a guy with a rifle behind us and the only way to go is straight.”

She looked at me and I could tell she didn’t completely believe me, which was understandable because I wasn’t completely telling
the truth. The truth was, I wanted to kill Fredric Tobin. When I thought he’d killed Tom and Judy, I would have been satisfied
seeing the great State of New York kill him. Now, after he murdered Emma, I had to kill him myself. Calling the Coast Guard
or Plum Island security was not going to even the score. In fact, regarding score, I wondered where Paul Stevens was this
night.

Beth broke into my thoughts and said, “Five innocent people are dead, John, and that’s five too many. I won’t let you throw
away my life or yours. We’re heading back. Now.”

I looked at her and said, “Are you going to pull your gun on me?”

“If you make me.”

I kept staring at her and said, “Beth, I can handle this weather. I
know
I can handle it. We’re going to be okay. Trust me.”

She stared back at me a long time, then said, “Tobin murdered Emma Whitestone right under your nose and that was an attack
on your manhood, an insult to your macho image and your ego. That’s what’s driving you on. Right?”

No use lying, so I said, “That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“Well … I was falling in love with her.”

Beth nodded. She seemed contemplative, then said, “Okay … if you’re going to get us killed anyway, then you may as well know
the whole truth.”

“
What
whole truth?”

She replied, “Whoever killed Emma Whitestone … and I guess it was Tobin … also first raped her.”

I didn’t reply. I should say I wasn’t completely shocked either. There is a primitive side to all men, including fops like
Fredric Tobin, and this dark side, when it takes over, plays itself out in a predictable and very scary way. I could say I’ve
seen it all—rape, torture, kidnapping, maiming, murder, and everything else in the penal code. But this was the first time
that a bad guy was sending a personal message to me. And I wasn’t handling it with my usual cool.
He raped her.
And while he was doing it to her, he was—or thought he was—doing it to me.

Neither of us spoke for a while, and in fact, the noise of the engines and the wind and sea made any talk difficult, which
was okay with me.

Beth sat in the left seat and held the arms tightly as the boat pitched, rolled, yawed, and did everything else but spin and
dive.

I remained standing at the wheel, braced against the seat. The wind blew through the shattered glass in front of me, and the
rain sliced in from all angles. The fuel was low, I was cold, wet, exhausted, and very troubled by that image of Tobin doing
that to Emma. Beth seemed strangely silent, almost catatonic, staring straight ahead at each onrushing wave.