Read Online Bone Deep by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online
Authors: Randy Wayne White
Tags: Mystery
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looking?”
“Of course. It’s a capital offense.” Then asked, “Did you shoot someone? Or just rob a house?”
For a moment, he came close to answering. The moment passed, and he vented his frustration by yelling at the sky, “Son of a bitch! Out of all the boats in Florida, I’ve got to pick one owned by a goddamn wanted killer.” Flipped his middle finger at clouds, then looked north. “Then you better not let them catch us. What about Tampa? It’s only an hour by car. How long in a boat?”
I found the starboard trim tab with a finger, getting ready for what came next. “Too far,” I said, then lied, “but Saint Pete’s just up the beach. You can see it from where you’re standing.”
My abductor was on his knees, not standing. I wanted him to get to his feet and reach for a starboard handhold—a finesse that might be less time-consuming than snagging a crab trap. He shielded his eyes to see. “Where? That’s bullshit. Saint Pete’s way the hell north of here.”
“Right
there
. Are you blind?”
Then he did it—he stood, balance unsteady—which is when I made my move. Before his hand found a support, I trimmed the boat’s starboard chine deep and buried the throttles while spinningthe wheel hard in the opposite direction. Engines cavitated . . . deck bucked like a trampoline . . . the man bellowed, “Hey!” Then he belly-skidded along the starboard tube for an instant and tumbled overboard.
If the pistol went flying, I didn’t see it, yet I spared him from the propellers by turning immediately to starboard. If I’d known for certain he’d shot my friends, it might have been different, I might have increased speed as I circled back and hit him again while he floundered on the surface. Coast Guard investigators are good at their jobs, but I had just staged an “accident” scenario that kills boaters year after year. Usually, the passenger falls off while pissing, then becomes an unintended victim when his catcalling buddies return to fetch him.
A dozen variations of that scenario were still possible as I slowed and turned. Who would investigators believe? A dead criminal or his frightened captive? Never mind the thousands of hours I have logged at a helm.
I wasn’t sure Tomlinson and Dunk had been shot, however. So I idled toward him, yelling, “Show your hands!”
He did—not because I demanded it but because jogging suits absorb water, and my abductor was fighting to stay on the surface. Like a dog learning to swim, his arms flailed, pistol on the bottom by now.
“Asshole. You did that on purpose.”
I checked the GPS while he hollered threats and paddled toward my boat. We were 2.1 miles off the beach, close enough to see Finn Tovar’s roof of orange tile; to the south, a ridge of silver roofs, houses built shoulder to shoulder. We weren’t close enough to hear sirens . . . or had the sirens stopped?
Stopped, I decided. Two miles and a mild shore breeze separatedus, but sound carries over water. What had silenced the sirens? A corpse or two might be enough to turn an emergency into an academic recovery. The temptation was to return at top speed and find Tomlinson. I couldn’t call him. My phone and wallet were soaking in my abductor’s blue jogging suit . . . or drifting toward the bottom.
I thought about using the VFH radio, then decided,
Not yet.
Call the Coast Guard and I would have to either rescue the man or kill him before a chopper was scrambled from Tampa. Go off and leave him, he would drown, and that risked dealing with paperwork and questions later.
An alternative popped into my mind.
In the stern locker, I keep a spare anchor that’s attached to a buoy the size of a volleyball. I use it when tarpon fishing—a rig I can jettison before a tarpon strips my reel, then retrieve later. No big deal if I lost it.
I decided to risk losing it now.
Engines in neutral, I gathered buoy, line, and anchor and dumped it all over the side . . . watched
“Of course. It’s a capital offense.” Then asked, “Did you shoot someone? Or just rob a house?”
For a moment, he came close to answering. The moment passed, and he vented his frustration by yelling at the sky, “Son of a bitch! Out of all the boats in Florida, I’ve got to pick one owned by a goddamn wanted killer.” Flipped his middle finger at clouds, then looked north. “Then you better not let them catch us. What about Tampa? It’s only an hour by car. How long in a boat?”
I found the starboard trim tab with a finger, getting ready for what came next. “Too far,” I said, then lied, “but Saint Pete’s just up the beach. You can see it from where you’re standing.”
My abductor was on his knees, not standing. I wanted him to get to his feet and reach for a starboard handhold—a finesse that might be less time-consuming than snagging a crab trap. He shielded his eyes to see. “Where? That’s bullshit. Saint Pete’s way the hell north of here.”
“Right
there
. Are you blind?”
Then he did it—he stood, balance unsteady—which is when I made my move. Before his hand found a support, I trimmed the boat’s starboard chine deep and buried the throttles while spinningthe wheel hard in the opposite direction. Engines cavitated . . . deck bucked like a trampoline . . . the man bellowed, “Hey!” Then he belly-skidded along the starboard tube for an instant and tumbled overboard.
If the pistol went flying, I didn’t see it, yet I spared him from the propellers by turning immediately to starboard. If I’d known for certain he’d shot my friends, it might have been different, I might have increased speed as I circled back and hit him again while he floundered on the surface. Coast Guard investigators are good at their jobs, but I had just staged an “accident” scenario that kills boaters year after year. Usually, the passenger falls off while pissing, then becomes an unintended victim when his catcalling buddies return to fetch him.
A dozen variations of that scenario were still possible as I slowed and turned. Who would investigators believe? A dead criminal or his frightened captive? Never mind the thousands of hours I have logged at a helm.
I wasn’t sure Tomlinson and Dunk had been shot, however. So I idled toward him, yelling, “Show your hands!”
He did—not because I demanded it but because jogging suits absorb water, and my abductor was fighting to stay on the surface. Like a dog learning to swim, his arms flailed, pistol on the bottom by now.
“Asshole. You did that on purpose.”
I checked the GPS while he hollered threats and paddled toward my boat. We were 2.1 miles off the beach, close enough to see Finn Tovar’s roof of orange tile; to the south, a ridge of silver roofs, houses built shoulder to shoulder. We weren’t close enough to hear sirens . . . or had the sirens stopped?
Stopped, I decided. Two miles and a mild shore breeze separatedus, but sound carries over water. What had silenced the sirens? A corpse or two might be enough to turn an emergency into an academic recovery. The temptation was to return at top speed and find Tomlinson. I couldn’t call him. My phone and wallet were soaking in my abductor’s blue jogging suit . . . or drifting toward the bottom.
I thought about using the VFH radio, then decided,
Not yet.
Call the Coast Guard and I would have to either rescue the man or kill him before a chopper was scrambled from Tampa. Go off and leave him, he would drown, and that risked dealing with paperwork and questions later.
An alternative popped into my mind.
In the stern locker, I keep a spare anchor that’s attached to a buoy the size of a volleyball. I use it when tarpon fishing—a rig I can jettison before a tarpon strips my reel, then retrieve later. No big deal if I lost it.
I decided to risk losing it now.
Engines in neutral, I gathered buoy, line, and anchor and dumped it all over the side . . . watched
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