Seize the Storm (12 page)

The airplane was still very far away.

Martin shaded his eyes, watching the red and white aircraft catch the afternoon illumination.

“The same plane Susannah and Claudette saw,” Axel said thoughtfully. “You know what that means?”

Martin asked what it meant.

“It isn't flying from point A to point B,” said Axel. “It's looking for something—searching.”

“Looking for a shipwreck?” asked Martin.

“No, not just a wreck,” said Axel. “The emergency radio channels have been quiet.”

Axel let this thought sink in. Then he said, “Let's hurry up and get the money off this boat.”

Martin sensed the beginnings of alarm in Axel's voice, but they both relaxed when the aircraft headed along a path that took it well away from the two vessels. Its flight continued westward, and it diminished to a distant, gnatlike speck, so far away that the sound became inaudible.

The airplane was gone, or so nearly vanished that it did not matter. Martin would have liked to see the aircraft dip its wings in response to a cheerful wave from the crew members. That would have been reassuring.

And at the same time, the plane's departure visibly allayed Axel's anxiety, allowing him to shrug and shake his head cheerfully. The pilot of the red and white aircraft either had not seen them or he was deeply indifferent to the lives of sailing folk and their vessels.

Over on the yacht, Claudette had the binoculars to her eyes, watching the vanishing point where the aircraft turned to empty sky.

She lowered the binoculars and said something to Susannah, handing her the field glasses and running her hands up and down her arms, adjusting the roll of her sleeves, something she did when she was nervous or preoccupied. Martin could not read her exact words, but when she pointed to the sky and waved her arm back and forth, it was obvious she was worried about the aircraft.

Athena's Secret
approached, Claudette at the helm, and the engines churned the water as the two hulls grew close, and even closer, until there was the slightest nudge.

Axel leaped onto the yacht first, turning to take the money securely from Martin's hands.

Martin had the most arresting impulse—he should let the heavy weight fall into the shifting water between the two vessels. The act of fumbling the carrier away would be easy, and it would resolve all the potential turmoil.

Axel's hands made the encouraging, silently excited urging Martin associated with basketball games,
come on
.

Martin could easily imagine what his portion of the money would buy. He could give his dad a new tennis racket, one of the new models made of carbon and space plastic. He could buy his mother a new Epson printer, and he could buy a new microscope for himself, a Bausch and Lomb binocular model he could use to study diatoms and plankton. His entire family would be happier because of this money.

So before he could fling the money away, his hands were operating on autopilot, handing the heavy bag over to Axel, who gathered it in and held it like a man holding a living creature, fragile and easily hurt.

Axel kept the bag in an embrace, stepping carefully over to Claudette and making the exchange with her, as though not wanting to give the money to anyone else just yet.

Claudette herself made a exclamation of surprise. The bag was too heavy to be held easily.

She set the bag down and looked into it, like a woman reluctantly and cautiously peering down into a container that might explode.

Martin waited while Axel got a line and cast it across.

Martin used a bowline knot around a cleat to join
Witch Grass
to
Athena's Secret
.

But as he did this, he was aware that to an observer, this act of tying the two seacraft together meant that the two would travel as one. It also meant that Martin and his crewmates were taking possession of this abandoned craft. The act was clear, and it was significant.

Martin felt a stirring of unease as the yacht backed away to avoid a lunge on the part of the lurching, unstable power cruiser.

He wanted to get off
Witch Grass
as soon as he could. He felt the sinister, unclean presence of the dead men. He wanted to have a mug of hot cocoa and let Claudette and Leonard, when he felt better, make the decisions. But he was aware that they were about to undertake an act of possession that was not entirely right. Towing the vessel was not the problem, although the yacht would have a slow trip, pulling
Witch Grass
until Axel could get the engine started.

The problem was that they were taking a large amount of money that did not belong to them.

No matter how he turned their actions around in his mind, and no matter how he tried to pretend to himself, he could not hide one basic fatal defect in what they were doing.

They were stealing.

J
EREMY FELL ASLEEP.

He was not aware of drowsing.

But he was aware of a physiological slide that led him little by little to the point of muddled oblivion. He simply stopped being able to hold his eyes open as the translucent, vibrant disk of the propeller blades continued rotating on and on, and the sea crawled—inched, stood still—beneath them.

They had maybe ten minutes to go before fuel shortage forced them to turn back and begin the long retreat to Kauai. Jeremy believed that if he ever did have the opportunity to set his two feet on the planet again, he would walk into the ocean with his clothes on. He would not strip down to his bathing trunks, or get naked, he would just walk right out into the water out of sheer extravagance.

Look, he would say to the ocean, I am so glad to be back on earth that I don't care. He would walk out under the breaking surf, holding his breath. He would stand in the breakers at Poipu Beach, and he would be happy.

And so his eyelids grew very heavy. They were eyelids of lead, coverings of the most oppressively weighty material ever crafted. No one could keep such eyelids open.

And he lost all contact with where he was, and he slept.

Then something or someone was jostling Jeremy's arm, and he stirred. Elwood was pointing to the side, his forefinger up and down like a bird's beak, insistently.

“There they are,” said Elwood.

Jeremy fumbled for the binoculars.

“There's that pretty ketch alongside her,” said Elwood.

Jeremy must have looked puzzled.

“That cute two-masted yacht,” continued Elwood. “She's pulled alongside
Witch Grass
, and I bet they are helping themselves to the money.”

The two vessels were tiny from this altitude, the powerboat looking chunky and capable, the yacht looking sleek and delicate. The two were more than right beside each other—they seemed joined, two dissimilar halves of a single floating craft. Through the binoculars Jeremy could see people, a tall woman, and a shorter one.

And there was someone on
Witch Grass
, some guy with reddish brown hair and a dark T-shirt, not Kyle and not Paul. A trespasser. Jeremy stirred in his seat, unable to restrain his impatience.

“We have to stop them,” he said.

“Yes, we do,” Elwood agreed.

But Elwood was in no hurry. He gave the aircraft some throttle and flew directly west, away from their discoveries.

“What we need to do,” Elwood said, “is consider how lucky we are.”

“How lucky are we?” asked Jeremy, mystified.

“That's one of those yachts collectors are crazy about, designed by Bill what's-his-name, Ingbord. A ship like that is worth millions of dollars even on the black market. The kind of people your dad does business with would kill to own one of those.”

“OK,” said Jeremy, not sure what a collector would do with a stolen yacht. Maybe keep it in dry dock and hold parties on it.

“Pleasure boats often don't carry guns, in my experience,” said Elwood. “Even when they have a shotgun or a .45 secured with a gun lock, they are slow to use them. Rich folks hire people like me to protect them.”

“That's good,” said Jeremy, baffled. Personally, he would never hire Elwood to do anything. He was too intimidating and given to conversations like this, telling someone younger and more ignorant what to do.

Elwood said, “You'll come out of this a new man, Jeremy.”

“OK,” said Jeremy unsteadily, thinking that
a new man
was not exactly what he wanted to be.

“But,” said Elwood, “I am going to need your help. You and Shako, both.”

Jeremy felt a small flicker of disquiet. “We're just going to get the money, right?”

“And the yacht,” said Elwood.

“How?” asked Jeremy, feeling that he was really not smart enough to be a hands-on criminal. That was the trouble with his dad's business. Electronic transfers were always being made to banks in Panama, and Dad was always meeting with his tax lawyer. You had to be smart.

“Look in that carryall down at your feet,” said Elwood. “Take out that zip-bag.”

Jeremy reached in among the flares and duct tape and pulled out the heavy black zipped bag. He'd been uneasily curious about this all day.

“Unzip it,” said Elwood.

The scent of the interior of the ballistic nylon case was gun oil, an earthy, reassuring smell, unless you knew anything about guns. The weapon was a pug-nosed piece of equipment, all trigger and stock. Jeremy had seen pictures online: the Ingram MAC-10.

“Fires thirty-two rounds a second,” said Elwood. “You tuck it under your shirt, bring it out, and rip.”

Rip
would be about right. The gun scared Jeremy.

“Mr. Quinn,” called Elwood, “I want you to get ready now. We have the Ingram prepared, and you need to wake up.”

Shako reached out between the seats, holding his hand out, flexing his fingers.
Give me the gun.

“When we have completed our descent, Mr. Quinn, you'll get the weapon,” said Elwood.

Jeremy looked back at Shako, and the killer had his sunglasses off, cleaning them with one of those little squares of cloth you get at the optometrist. His green eyes looked at Jeremy, and his lips gave that tight little straight-line smile.

*   *   *

Elwood powered the aircraft to a greater speed and then banked the plane, the blue water slab tilting to one side while the cockpit and its occupants seemed to stay level.

Jeremy felt that his words were powerless, drowned out by the grinding sound of the engine as he insisted, “But we aren't going to hurt any more people than we have to.”

Elwood gave Jeremy a long chance to look at his stony profile, saying nothing.

Then, as the aircraft leveled off again, he said, “Jeremy, just what kind of business do you think your dad is in?”

L
ASER WAS STILL ALIVE.

Susannah knew that the animal was grateful for her attention because he followed her with his eyes whenever she got up to refresh the contents of the hot water bottle, or to get another quilt from her cabin and throw it over the dog's recumbent form.

Susannah put her hand on Laser's flank, adjusted the blanket over his still-damp body, and said, “What were you struggling to get away from?”

There was an answer, but it was an unknowable answer, hidden in the instinctive Tao of the dog's nature. When Susannah got up to find the hair dryer in her cabin, the dog looked up apprehensively, and when she returned she reassured the animal.

“I'll be here,” she said. “All afternoon and all night, as long as you need me, I'll be right here.”

The hair dryer was a Bespoke Labs professional model, one that Leonard had joked would blow the circuits on the yacht. She used it to dry and then fluff the dog's hair, and he lifted his head and licked at the warm blast of air that came out of the strange device.

Then she sat with the dog, listening to the rise and fall of his breathing.

Fatigue,
the dog would have said.
Very great fatigue is all I am feeling right now. And gratitude.

“What did they find on the boat?” Susannah asked.

“Dead bodies,” said Claudette.

Susannah nearly said,
I'm glad to hear it.
She wanted the people who had hurt this animal to suffer.

Laser lifted his head and pricked up his healthy ear, the wounded ear remaining partly folded over. She had bandaged it, and the bandage had weight.

He whined. This was not a whine of curiosity, or lonesomeness, or any other minor emotion Susannah could recognize in a dog's whimper.

The dog heard something that aroused his fear.

Continuingly alert to this sound, the dog was no longer the incapable, badly stricken patient. He growled. Wobbly but fierce, the animal climbed to his feet, and his hackles rose, a ridge of fur down his spine. He bared his teeth, and even in his weakened condition the dog looked ferocious.

Susannah was very puzzled and deeply disturbed. She went to the cabin door and opened it.

Far off, almost too faint for human ears, she could barely make out the drone of an airplane as the dog snarled a warning.

“
L
EONARD, WAKE UP,”
Susannah said as Claudette gave her husband a gentle shake.

“I am awake,” he replied, but he held himself on top of the blankets like a man caught by a photograph in midair, his knees crooked, his arms at an angle, unmoving. He did not look relaxed.

And he did not open his eyes. Everything about the man communicated pain, and also indicated the faith that if he did not move, not so much as a single eyelid, he would be able to control the worst of his suffering.

Susannah realized how much her father meant to her. And she also realized that getting rid of the boat, and maybe doing without a wife and a daughter, might simplify his life and bring his energetic, exacerbated soul a new experience.

Her parents had been sleeping in separate bunks, Leonard the lower shelf, and Susannah could see the differences between the two of them. Leonard was all sprawl, lying next to a classical Greek dictionary flowering with blue Post-its, and
Jane's Fighting Ships
, stuck with bookmarks.