Seize the Storm (14 page)

Claudette went over to Axel's side and stood beside him, as though supporting what Axel was about to argue. She had the gun in the crook of her arm, and her expression was somber.

“No law-abiding boat owners carry a pile of currency like this,” said Leonard. He looked around, like a lecturer enjoying his audience. But he was a weary lecturer, and his voice was thin. “Isn't that right, Martin?” he asked.

“Probably not,” allowed Martin.

Susannah held the container of orange juice up into the daylight, examining the contents. The orange juice bottle, Martin realized, was empty. But not exactly empty—the jar held a clear, slightly oleaginous fluid.

“Of course we all know what has to be the case,” said Leonard with a washed-out smile. “This is swag, dirty money, ill-gotten gains.”

“We already know these people were criminals,” said Axel. “They shot each other, and then they died.”

“This is the kind of money that will get someone else killed, too,” said Leonard. “Killed as in cut to pieces and fed to our friendly shark.”

Martin knew what Leonard was doing. Leonard was a lot like his brother that way, clear-minded, independent, and contrary. Despite what Leonard was saying, he was going to end up keeping the money.

“This stuff is dangerous,” Leonard said, reaching out and trying to snag the bag. He got his hand on it, and began pulling on the bag with a silent gasp. The bag stayed where it was, not easy to budge.

“We won't give it back, Skipper,” said Axel.

Susannah set the bottle on the deck and selected a match from a booklet in her hands. Martin watched her very carefully.

She lit the match, but in the softest of winds, the flame went out at once, with a softly drifting, feathery puff.

Martin saw what she was about to do, as clearly as if it was spelled out on the Fox news crawl,
Susannah Burgess burns near-million in act of family terrorism
.

Martin went over to her, leaned into her, and said, right into her ear, “Don't do it.”

A near whisper.

“I should,” she whispered in return, no one else able to hear what they were saying.

“Please,” he said. “Susannah, please don't.”

“Susannah,” Leonard was asking, his voice lifted in concern, “please tell me I'm wrong about what is in that bottle.”

“You're not,” said Susannah brightly.

“Susannah,” said Claudette, “this is intolerable.”

Axel was the only one who did not understand what was happening. “What's wrong? What is she doing?”

“I thought it might be the most excellent solution,” said Susannah. She was in a mood of cheerful command—of herself, and her parents.

At last Axel got the point. He pressed a hand against his head, speechless.

She realized that perhaps the most punishing act she could commit was to let her parents keep the money and suffer the consequences. Besides, actually setting the money on fire would prove a challenge. The slight wind was enough to extinguish an entire booklet of matches—there were good reasons her mother used a cigarette lighter.

But she liked the attention, Martin getting so close and everyone looking right at her.

“Yes, it would solve some problems,” said Leonard. His voice was just slightly ironic. “But then we couldn't donate the money to AIDS research. Or to help stamp out malaria.”

But Martin's dismay convinced her—her plan was not such a great idea. She opened the lazarette and put the jar inside.

The drone of the aircraft was audible again.

The sound of the airplane did not please Martin, and there was new anxiety in Leonard's eyes as he motioned for everyone to be quiet. He listened to the approaching sound of the skyborne engine, and then he shot Claudette a silent questioning glance, not frightened, but measuring.

From the cabin, Laser gave a doleful howl.

“The noise of the plane,” suggested Martin, “bothers his ears—the way sirens bother dogs.”

“He's like a weird oracle,” said Leonard with a breathy, unsteady laugh.

Martin was not comfortable with this talk of foretold harm, but he thought his uncle might be right.

“What do you think, Martin?” asked Leonard. “What should we do?”

“That's right, Martin,” said Susannah. “We could put the money back where we found it.”

B
UT THE MONEY
had mesmerized Martin.

He knew this, and yet he was powerless. He felt its hold on him as he reckoned what his share of so much money would be, and how amazed his parents would be to see him set the cash down on the family table.

So instead of disagreeing with Leonard, he asked, “You want to run with the money, don't you?”

Leonard looked at Martin with his head cocked sideways, like a creature looking with rapt interest. Maybe Leonard was surprised that his nephew understood him so well.

“All this argument,” Martin continued, “is just so you can say we looked at every side of the problem. You crave this money.”

“Yes, of course I do,” Leonard said. “When I first realized what was happening I was worried, but now I think—eight hundred thousand dollars. Even if we share and share alike, that is a whole lot of cash.”

If,
thought Martin.

Leonard was even, in one part of his mind, thinking of keeping all of the money. He was probably not even conscious of the greed. It was a force in him, like the gravity that made planets go in orbit around the sun.

“He's right,” said Claudette.

It was not too late, Martin knew. He could still insist that they should throw the money into the sea, or carry it back on board
Witch Grass
.

“Leonard's exactly right,” Claudette added. “Fortune brought us this money, and we should fight to keep it.”

“We might get away with it,” Martin said. His voice came out of his mouth like crude overdubbing, his own words like some other actor's.

“Throw off the towline, Martin,” said Leonard with a confident laugh. “We won't be towing
Witch Grass.
If they want their money, they'll have to catch us.”

*   *   *

Martin had kept his mouth shut when he had the opportunity to tell Leonard that this was a bad idea. He had even offered that they might be able to succeed, support that he instantly despised himself for offering. Martin was struck by his duplicity and at how easy it had been to betray his own nature.

Now that the yacht was starting up, the propellers sputtering and churning, he perceived the determined slant of Axel's shoulders as he turned the wheel. It was too late to change Leonard's mind, Martin feared, and Axel would be adamant.

And they might, after all, get away with it.

Martin watched his hands perform their duty. He untied the white line from around a cleat in the deck of
Athena's Secret
, and the length of high-quality, three-strand polypropylene stretched out into the air and drifted as the yacht found its power.

The line fell into the water as
Witch Grass
fell back, retreating from the yacht. Martin had to set his feet against the lurch of the yacht as the engines coughed again and gradually found their true timbre.

The wake widened and the powerboat declined into the various stages she had taken on, in Martin's eyes, earlier that afternoon. She declined from a crime scene to a menacing nautical shape, and then to the angled outline of a dwelling on the blue-gray prairie.

Axel set both engines at full throttle, and soon
Athena's Secret
was heading northwest at twenty knots, far faster than Martin had ever known her to travel before. The yacht caught the swells and rocked like a speedboat, the spray in the air sharp and fast.

Martin watched the aircraft as it grew closer.

T
HE WHITE AND RED WINGS
banked over the distant outline of the power cruiser, and if there was any doubt that the airplane had been seeking the vessel and her crew that doubt faded as the airplane swept low to circle the unmoving vessel, cutting in wide circuits, the wings sweeping upward, only to slice downward again.

Then, with a swiftness and deliberateness that took Martin's breath, the airplane set a path directly along the wake of
Athena's Secret
.

“They're coming after us,” said Claudette.

Axel was skillful, setting the yacht along a zigzag route so that the aircraft would not be able to glide to a landing anywhere close. The aircraft banked and climbed and circled far ahead of the yacht, as though the pilot was showing off his ability to predict where the yacht would be before she actually cut across the invisible point in the water.

Axel eluded this expectation, shifting the yacht's course.

The pilot was not to be deterred. This time the airplane was even closer, so near that as the aircraft circled Martin could make out at least two silhouettes in the cockpit. The aircraft's name was lettered jauntily along the cockpit door,
Red Bird.

Martin waved, supposing that if the aircraft had friendly intentions, greeting it with a friendly gesture was polite and appropriate. And there was no need to completely abandon the charade that the yacht had only innocent aims, so Martin forced himself to smile. Claudette took Martin's example and gave a wave, too, voyagers out enjoying the Pacific sunshine.

A hand waved back from within the cockpit, and it was hard to read from this simple, back-and-forth waggle of a hand any of the pilot's objectives. But Martin could not help finding this gesture subtly mocking, like a fake laugh.

“You see, he's friendly,” said Leonard, lifting his arm in the universal symbol of greeting, palm out, his hand empty of any instrument of harm.

*   *   *

The aircraft continued to bank and circle. The pilot looked down at them from beneath the bill of a baseball cap, studying the yacht during each passage, and the noise of the aircraft's engine was loud as it grew near, sounding very much like a chain saw.

As the airplane passed overhead, the pitch of the engine altered, a high-note, low-note effect that was almost pleasing to the ear, except that the aircraft now made Martin extremely uneasy. The shadow of
Red Bird
passed over the yacht.

After several circuits, the pilot released the yacht from his attention and glided away, flying close to the silken surface of the water, all the way back to the distant power cruiser.

There the airplane maneuvered, gliding and gunning its engine, describing a wide oval, a graceful geometry that made the aircraft look peaceful. It remained there, not ascending, and not beginning its descent, a shape like a fragment of porcelain against the blue.

As it landed, the airplane came down unsteadily, its wings inclining one way and then the other, as though a new pair of hands piloted the craft.

The pontoons touched down with a shower of white, feathery spray. The aircraft touched the water again, rebounding gently, and then glided to a gentle stop, right beside
Witch Grass
.

“We did it!” said Leonard.

Axel gave a laugh, his hands on the wheel.

“We got away!” said Leonard.

Claudette smoked without saying a word, and Martin could sense her doubt. He shared it, all of this too real, now that they had counted the money and seen the pilot, actually observed him, a red-complexioned, craggy countenance, white teeth flashing in a smile.

Martin did not like that smile.

T
HE PLANE WAS DESCENDING.

Jeremy took the controls at Elwood's urging encouragement. “You can do this with your eyes closed.”

Shako felt proud of Jeremy.

The two of them would go flying together when this was all over and Elwood gave Shako flying lessons, too. But they would have more fun than just flying. They would go spear-fishing, off the craggy Na Pali coast of Kauai, down where the stingrays and the parrot fish held court among the reefs, like in the PBS shows Shako had watched. He had never been so much as snorkeling himself, and he couldn't actually swim. But he understood that there was more to life than he knew.

Shako loosened the laces on his Nikes and retied them. He cracked his knuckles and did an exercise he had learned from watching wrestlers, big men with way more muscle than Shako possessed, stretching and relaxing, moving from side to side, getting ready.

This was going to be Shako's day. Everything would be different after this. It was not simply a matter of becoming Jeremy Tygart's brother, with all that brotherhood implied.

Shako knew that he had committed crimes, and he had watched enough TV to be able to imagine phrases like
tried as an adult
. But he could picture an official at the Pentagon thinking that what they really needed was a quick young man, someone with specific weapons training. The Joint Chiefs of Staff or the Secretary of Defense would read about Shako somehow, and the generals would tell the cops to keep Shako safe, give him what he wanted.

“Jeremy,” said Elwood, “you are doing great.”

Jeremy was not so sure.

He was going to pilot the aircraft down to the sea surface himself, and he was apprehensive. Landing the plane was not like flying around. Not at all. Flying in the open sky you could survive even a collision with a bird. But approaching the planet's surface—that was different.

He was wary. He was giving the boat ahead on the water a wide space, not wanting to approach too closely, but even so he was certain that he would make a serious mistake.

A successful landing, Elwood had once told him, is basically a controlled stall. You fly so slowly, so very slowly, that the engine loses all thrust and the plane comes down. Right where you want it.

The sea was coming on too quickly.

“
Witch Grass
is riding high in the water,” Elwood was saying. “So we know she delivered her cargo.”