The Branson Beauty (2 page)

He crunched through the snow over to Larry.

“I need at least two of your paramedics. That's all we'll have room for in the boat we're taking out there,” he said. “Stock them with everything they could possibly need. I think I'll have to leave them on the
Beauty
until everybody's off. There will only be more medical issues as this thing drags on.”

“Yeah,” Larry said. “I saw the asterisks.”

One of the water patrol guys gave a shout. A tiny motorboat was gliding into the nearest dock, which thankfully wasn't too far from the original spot Hank and the Company Man had hiked to earlier. Two paramedics jogged up, juggling what had to be hundreds of pounds of gear. They wrestled the huge bags on board, then hopped on. The boat already held the water patrol officer most familiar with the lake and a ramrod-straight Coast Guard commander. There was room for one more. Hank sighed and swung his leg over the side.

They pulled away from shore and headed toward the
Branson Beauty
. With its two tiers of white gingerbread railings crowned with an ornate wheelhouse and giant red paddlewheel wedged on a rock, it looked for all the world like a beached whale in a prom dress.

Hank shaded his eyes. He'd forgotten his sunglasses, and the glare off the water was brutal. It was like there was no atmosphere when it was this cold. The sun shone through as if you were standing five feet away from it. Except for the warmth, of course. There was none of that. His breath rose in clouds.

He turned and scanned the shore. He spotted Lovinia, still sitting on her rock. He wondered if her clothing had frozen to it yet. She gave him an energetic wave. He turned back around as the water patrol's Bill Freedman cut the engine and their boat glided up next to the
Beauty
. He hit his mark exactly, coming to a stop directly in front of the gate in the gingerbread railing where a slight young man in a
Beauty
uniform waited. The kid swung open the gate, caught sight of Commander Ramrod's officious-looking blue Coast Guard uniform, and gulped. His hand went to his forehead in a hesitant salute. Bill, in his much more modest water patrol jacket, smirked at Hank.

“Son,” Bill drawled, “permission to come aboard?”

“Sir! Yes, sir!” Another salute.

The three men climbed through the gate. They turned back to hoist the gear the paramedics handed up. Man, that stuff was heavy. Bill lashed his little boat to the
Beauty
, and the group set off toward the front of the boat. The kid led them to large double doors that opened into the main salon. Dozens of round tables sat between them and the huge stage at the other end of the room. About half the tables had people at them. Some were playing cards, some talking. There were a few older women in a prayer circle off to the side. One man was stretched out on the floor asleep, using what appeared to be a wadded tablecloth as a pillow.

A young teenager saw them first. He shouted and pointed, and the room burst into applause.

“We're rescued!” the teen shouted. Bill looked at Hank. “I'm just here for the boat, man,” he muttered. “You're here for the people.”

“Yep,” Hank said. He arranged his face into what he hoped was a reassuring smile and stepped forward.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “My name is Hank Worth, and I am the Branson County Sheriff. We are here to help, but—”

He was interrupted by more applause. Maybe he should take the stage at the other end of the room. He smiled some more.

“But…” he continued, “we need to do this in order of priority.” The longer he could go without mentioning that no one was getting off the boat anytime soon, the better.

“First, is there anyone who needs medical attention? We have two paramedics here who will be able to help anyone in need.”

He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and looked at the kid who'd brought them on board. Then he noticed one of the paramedics was missing.

“Sir,” the kid said, then coughed nervously. “I already sent one of your medics to the second deck. That's where the diabetic is resting, and a lady who's been having breathing problems. I hope that's okay.”

Huh. He'd underestimated the boy.

“What's your name?”

“Tony, sir. Tony Sampson. I'm, uh, the first mate.”

“Okay, Tony. How many more people are on the boat other than the ones in this room?”

Tony's mouth twisted in thought as he did a few mental calculations.

“There are about a hundred here. And maybe twenty up with the other medic. Then there are the cast members and the serving staff and the kitchen folks. So all together probably a hundred and sixty, a hundred and seventy people.”

Shoot. The staff had not been on the manifest. Hank had not factored them into his rubber dinghy rescue plan. Well, that meant an even happier Bass Pro man, at least. It always surprised him how many people it took to run a tourist attraction. So many waiters, cooks, maids. And then on something like the
Beauty
, there was the show—a big, skirt-twirling, fiddle-playing, tap-dancing extravaganza that took at least another couple dozen people to put on. He should have thought of that. He and Maggie had taken a dinner cruise last year for their anniversary. She had loved it. He had thought the salmon was rubbery.

He shook his head and refocused on the one hundred people in front of him. Several were beginning to gravitate toward Commander Ramrod, asking breathless questions about rescue. He didn't think so. The Guard, like Bill, was here to examine the technicalities of the boat's problem. Just because the guy could keep his uniform spotless didn't mean he was in charge of the people aspect of the deal. Hank cleared his throat loudly and held up his hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he repeated, “I need to ask for your patience. We do not yet know the best way to get you off this boat and safely to shore. That's why the Missouri Water Patrol”—he purposefully pointed to Bill first—“and the Coast Guard are here. They are going to assess the situation. In the meantime, I need you to do exactly what you have been doing. Remain calm, relax, and know that we are doing everything we can.”

There was no applause this time. A few women stifled sobs, several others went back to praying, and the dude on the floor rolled over and started snoring.

*   *   *

Tony unlocked a door and led Hank upstairs to the second deck, where Medic One was busy treating the people clustered together in the observation lounge. Several lay on the long bench seats. One older woman was getting oxygen through a non-rebreather mask as her weary-looking companion patted her hand. A petite middle-aged brunette paced along the back wall of windows. A well-dressed man about the same age stood in the corner jabbing viciously at his cell phone. And there were a few teenagers sprawled out on the floor, looking bored. None of them appeared to be attacking their phones, though.

The youth contingent would not counteract the senior citizens when it came to rescue, Hank thought. Not only were there a lot of folks in wheelchairs here and downstairs, but several others looked like they needed them. He began to think that his rubber dinghy plan was not going to float.

“I don't think ferrying these people to shore is going to work,” said a voice behind him. Hank turned and saw that the commander had followed them upstairs. “Now, I don't know the currents on this lake like the water patrol does,” he said, “but I do have a tugboat.”

“Can it get in this far?” Hank asked. “Could it dislodge this thing?”

“That's what we need to figure out,” the commander said. “I've ordered it out here just in case. I'll go find Freedman and see if we can take a look at that paddlewheel.”

He spun on his heel and marched out of the room. Several little old ladies sighed after him. Tony looked at Hank and grinned.

“Uniforms sure do the trick, don't they, sir?”

Hank looked at Tony's navy blue shirt with the absurd gold piping and smiled.

“How long you been doing this, kid?”

“This is my second season, sir.”

“And pardon me for asking, but are you really the first mate? Or are you, uh, the ‘first mate' cast member?”

Tony grinned again. “Good question, sir. I'm not technically a cast member—not part of the entertainment at all. I'm the assistant to the captain.”

That was good. Seemed like the kid's abilities would have been wasted if he … wait a minute. The captain. Where was Albert the Moron? He needed to get on that pronto.

“Where is your captain?” he asked quickly.

Tony gave a start. Then he looked down at his feet. “Um. Yeah. Well, he was up in the pilothouse. I don't know how he's doing…”

Hank raised an eyebrow.“You mean now that he's run the boat aground?”

Tony continued to stare at his feet. “Yeah. He's pretty bad … I dunno.”

“Take me to the wheelhouse,” Hank said.

Tony, still looking at his feet, cleared his throat and mumbled, “Pilothouse, sir,” as he left the lounge and headed down a plush corridor. Hank's feet sank into blue carpet held down with brass fittings. The lake and the snow-covered shoreline glittered through windows on the left. They passed a couple of doors and windows with the shades pulled on the right, and then Tony swung one open at the end of the hall.

A narrow set of stairs led straight up. Tony lightly trotted ahead. Hank grabbed the cold metal rail and followed. They came up at the back of the wheel-, er, pilothouse. Tony pushed open another door and there they were, with a panoramic view of Table Rock Lake. And the back of a man's head.

Tony nervously cleared his throat. The man did not move. Hank stepped around the first mate and pivoted in the small space to stand directly in front of him. Albert looked like something out of a '70s biker movie. Beat-up leather bomber jacket with the collar turned up, faded jeans, sailor cap pulled low over his face. Aviator sunglasses hid the rest. He hadn't so much as twitched.

Hank leaned down until he was pretty sure he filled Albert's entire field of vision.

“Sir?” Hank drew out the word into one long, exasperated growl. Albert remained a statue. He was breathing, at least. Hank resisted the urge to poke him in the chest.

“Are you all right?” Hank growled.

The boat creaked against the rocks. Tony's shallow panting grew more rapid. There was no other sound. Then Albert peeled his sweaty palm off his leather armrest. The ripping noise made Tony jump back into the doorway. Hank just scowled. Albert slowly raised his hand and took off his sunglasses. His eyes were huge. Bloodshot, watery messes. He blinked once. Then he carefully replaced the sunglasses and did not move again.

Hank did not take his eyes from Albert's face. He pointed in Tony's direction. “Go get a medic. Tell him I'm going to need a blood draw.”

 

CHAPTER

2

Hank stood wedged in a corner of the tiny pilothouse as Medic One took Albert's vital signs. He was not letting this guy out of his sight until they figured out what the hell was wrong with him. Albert still had not moved of his own accord; the medic was manhandling him into the blood-pressure cuff. It did not appear that he would be able—or willing—to consent to having his blood taken for a drug and alcohol screen.

Hank sighed. He'd have to get a warrant. And the longer that took, the less there would be in that idiot's blood to test. He reached for his radio. He considered stepping outside, but at this point, he didn't care if the guy heard him or not. Plus, it was cold out there.

“Sheila, come in, please. This is Hank. Over.” The radio crackled loudly in the small space.

“Yeah, I read you. How's it going out there?”

He filled Sheila in.

“Glad to have something to do,” she said, “seeing as I'm the only one stuck here in the damn boring office.”

“Hey, somebody's got to mind the store.”

She laughed. “Oh, sugar, there's nobody here to care. Everybody's figured out where the action is—seems like the whole town is down on the docks watching this thing.”

Great.

He signed off, dug his binoculars out of his coat, and started to scan the shore. There was Lovinia. And the dock he and Bill had set sail from, now bustling with rescue personnel. Well, they hadn't set sail; it was a motorboat. Whatever. He turned slightly and saw them. A few other private piers, and then the big park shoreline. All of them were packed with people. Several satellite truck poles sprouted behind them. How on earth had those things made it out here in the snow?

He shoved the binoculars back in his coat and turned around. Medic One looked up at him.

“This dude is something else. His heart rate is high, but otherwise, he seems to be fine. He's just not movin'.”

“Any idea how we can get him out of here?” Hank asked.

“Well, I'd suggest a round of talk therapy, but I don't think that fits your style,” he said.

Hank grinned. “I am not in the touchy-feely business,” he agreed. He thought for a moment. The challenges of moving Albert would be different depending on which rescue scenario the water boys chose. Despite his vow not to leave the moron, he knew he'd have to go see what they'd decided.

“You,” he said, jabbing his finger at Medic One, “are not to take your eyes off this guy. Nobody comes in here, and he sure as heck doesn't leave. Got it?”

“No problem,” said Medic One.

Hank headed down the stairs, avoiding the cold handrail this time. He strode back past the observation lounge. Everyone looked calm now. Medic Two was busy flirting with a blond teenager, so there couldn't be anyone in too much medical distress anymore. Good.

He took the next set of stairs two at a time. When he hit the bottom level, he pushed the separating door open wide and headed toward the stern and the paddlewheel, where he could see Commander Ramrod's immaculate uniform. The sounds of yelling and crying hit him as he passed the doors to the main showroom. He did not stop.