The deep end, p.29
The Deep End, page 29
“Y-you gotta save me.” He grabbed Parker’s shirt with his good hand. “This was your fault.”
The weight was too much. Parker struggled to keep his mouth clear of the water. “Your legs, can you kick?”
“You gotta get me to shore.”
They were way too far from land for that to happen. “Your legs—broke or not?”
“Not.”
He checked over his shoulder. No sign of Deep Trouble. The teal hull of the Bomb was just within sight. Barely. Harley’s hand slapped into view and slid off the boat bottom, leaving a trail of blood. It swung into view again, and slipped off—like he was trying to get a grip but couldn’t manage it. How much blood had he lost? “I have to help Harley now.”
“Leave him. His uncle’s going to finish him off anyway.” Scorza gripped Parker’s shirt tighter. “You’re with me now.”
No. Parker was never with Scorza. “Listen to me. They’re going to keep coming back until they’re sure we’re all dead. You got that?”
“I’m doing what they said,” Scorza said. “They’re going to let me live. You help me and I’ll put in a good word to them for you.”
Parker struggled to keep his head above water, but Scorza’s death grip on his shirt wasn’t making that easy. “You do what I tell you—and maybe you will live, got it?” A wave pushed him right into Scorza’s busted arm.
“Owwww . . . ” Scorza’s eyes looked wild.
Parker had to get free of Scorza’s grip. He boosted himself up with the help of a wave, then used his arms and the following downward momentum to force himself deep. Scorza released the shirt. Parker pulled it over his head and let the thing drift toward the bottom. He surfaced, feeling much lighter—but even more exposed to the cold.
Coming up behind Scorza—and staying clear of his good arm—Parker grabbed the football and stuffed it under the front of Scorza’s jersey. The thing bubbled to the surface and clocked Scorza in the chin.
Scorza gave a little cry of pain.
“Float on your belly,” Parker told him. “The ball will help keep afloat. When you need air, give a kick, fill your lungs, and drop back down. Kick your other shoe off.”
“Wha?”
“Arms out to your side. Eyes closed. If Deep Trouble spots you, you’ve got to make them think you’re dead and floating. Got it?”
Scorza grabbed for him, but Parker swished back out of reach. “I’m going to help Harley. You’ll be okay—just do this, got it?”
“Harley’s d-dead. I saw him go under. Didn’t come up.”
He was lying. Had to be. Parker scanned for the hull. Couldn’t see if Harley’s hand was still holding there or not. “I have to check.”
“I-I’m bleeding. Sharks.”
Not something Parker wanted to think about right now. “Yeah. Great whites, b—”
“You g-g-gotta help me!” Scorza then said something Parker couldn’t make out. It dissolved into a pitiful sound. Whimpering.
“Great whites love seals. But seals don’t wear jerseys, Scorza. Let’s hope the sharks see your number and look for a seal instead. Do what I said. Play dead.”
Parker pushed away.
Scorza lay there, arms outstretched—but his good eye wasn’t closed. “I h-hope you drown out here, G-Gatorade! I hope a shark tears you apart so I can watch.”
Parker couldn’t get away from this guy fast enough. “See ya.”
“At your f-funeral!”
The cold was numbing his legs. Arms. The throbbing diesel of Deep Trouble sounded louder now. The thing was close—but where? He worked the breast stroke for all he was worth, constantly scanning the edges of the fog for a sign of the boat approaching. “Harley!”
The foghorn groaned. He’s—lost.
Parker pushed harder. Fighting the wind. Waves. And the cold that was pressing in on all sides. “Harley!”
Only the foghorn answered . . . relentless with its pessimistic predictions. You’re—next.
“Harley!” His friend’s hand was visible for an instant. Then gone again. Spray blinded him for a moment, and the waves seemed obsessed with keeping Parker away. He ducked underwater and thrust himself toward the floating piece of the Bomb’s wreckage, praying he’d get there in time.
CHAPTER 75
Friday, August 12, 7:06 p.m.
ELLA WAS SOAKED. She angled herself to see the water as best she could, without actually leaving her seat. Everybody aboard scanned for the Boy’s Bomb. If Ella could make something happen by the force of her will, she’d see the boat bobbing at its anchor, both boys inside waving.
“God, please.” She whispered the words. Not that it mattered. Nobody could have heard a word she said. Plus, she probably wasn’t the only one praying right now. Parker’s dad, for sure. Maybe they all were. She never really had time for God unless she was in trouble. Did that make her some kind of hypocrite for praying now? Prayer just wasn’t her thing. That was Parker’s go-to. Was he praying now? Would it do him any good? The cross under her vest dug in. Like it was reminding her it was there. “God . . . please.”
Maggie was on the radio to someone. “Fog is getting thicker.”
Great. It wasn’t Ella’s imagination. So that’s what she got for praying?
“We’ll have to slow up a bit.” Eric eased back on the throttle. “Sorry about that.”
Ella got it. She really did. Her brain had been screaming for them to slow down since they’d left the channel. But her heart had been crying something very different. Go faster. Go faster. Please . . . just a little bit faster.
CHAPTER 76
Friday, August 12, 7:07 p.m.
“HARLEY!” PARKER PUSHED THE LAST FEW strokes to the wrecked bow of the Boy’s Bomb. “Harley!”
He scooted around from the other side. “G-g-good to see you, Parks!” His lips were a purply blue. Likely the same shade Parker’s were right now. “He’s c-coming around a-g-gain.”
“How b-bad are you hurt?”
Harley held up his hand. “Nice little g-gash. Everything else okay.”
At least no broken bones. “H-have you tried going under this th-thing?”
Harley gave him a doubting look. “Hide under a s-sinking boat. G-good thinking.”
“The bow has built-in flotation. And there’s p-probably air underneath. We could go under and—”
“Parks!” Harley pointed to Deep Trouble, materializing like a ghost ship out of the fog.
They saw Kelsey, standing to one side of the pilot house while he scanned the surface of the water.
They stayed low behind the bow. “God, don’t let them see us. Make them go away. Please.” Parker reached under the flipped hull. “There’s air under there. We slip under, got it?” It was worth a shot.
They ducked below the surface together. Parker traced his hand along the familiar lines of the Bomb, and surfaced underneath.
Black, except for the light filtering in from under the sides—and not much room—but he could breathe. Harley surfaced an instant later. He sucked in a couple of shaky breaths of air. “Think they saw us?”
There was no way to be sure. “If it s-sounds like they’re going to r-ram us again—”
“We g-go deep,” Harley said.
“Right.” How long could they keep doing this? “But we’ll need to be quicker.” Which was getting harder to imagine with the way the cold was making his limbs work in slow motion. Clothes might help him survive longer. Air trapped in pants could help him float. Maybe keep him from hypothermia a bit longer. But it would slow him down—and right now if he didn’t dodge Deep Trouble quick enough, he wouldn’t live long enough to die of hypothermia. “I’m going to lose some clothes. F-faster in my skivvies.”
“I already did,” Harley said.
Parker ducked underwater so he could tug off his cargo shorts and socks. It took two breaths to do it. Each time he went under it sounded like Deep Trouble had halved the distance between them.
The lobster boat rumbled closer. But not at ramming speed this time. More like they were doing a careful search.
“I was s-so stupid,” Harley said. “Uncle Ray stole K-Kemosabe. I tried so hard to get it back that I threw away m-my life. Yours, too.”
“God is with us,” Parker said. “And if we’re to m-make it—nothing can thwart His plans.”
Deep Trouble sounded close enough to board. If only they could do that. Just climb over the side, send Uncle Ray and Kelsey for a swim, and find some blankets.
“Think th-they’ll g-guess we’re under here?”
Parker put a finger to his lips. “I’m praying they don’t.”
“Parker,” Harley whispered. “Pray harder.”
CHAPTER 77
Friday, August 12, 7:08 p.m.
RAY HAD RUN A SLOW CIRCLE AROUND THE WRECKAGE, with a wide perimeter. No sign of the boys. Now he wanted one more cruise through the heart of the debris field, just to be sure.
“I think we got ’em,” Kelsey said. “Like picking off fish in a bucket, right?”
“I land on my feet,” Ray said. “And I’m going to come down hard on Lochran’s toes next.”
Word would get out quickly enough. Somebody would see the wreckage. They’d call the Coast Guard. It wouldn’t be hard for Lochran to verify a skiff had been found—and there were no survivors. He’d know Ray was good for the money. The loan shark would wait for the trust to pay out. Ray would give him his half, the man would be out of his life, and Ray would have his life back. For just a second the thought of some kind of payback flashed in his mind. Maybe if they had the right opportunity—or rather created it—he and Kelsey and Vinny would deal with Ironwing and Lochran. Give them a taste of their own medicine.
One thing Ray had learned? Never deal with a loan shark again. And he wouldn’t have to. He’d have enough money to live on Easy Street for the rest of his life. He’d move down to the Bahamas—or someplace he could live cheaply and run dive charters all year round. He’d be sitting pretty.
“Thanks, big brother.” All this time he’d resented his brother—and his brat of a nephew. But Ray had worked it all around to his own advantage. His brother had left everything to Harley—but Ray would get it all anyway. Once again Ray proved what a survivor he was. How he came out on top.
“Mission accomplished.” Kelsey clapped him on the back. “I only wish Lochran was in the little boat with the boys—and his triggerman Ironwing.”
Ray couldn’t agree more. “We’ll fix them yet.” He’d find a way. He promised himself that.
“Now what?”
Ray grazed the half-submerged section of hull that still remained afloat. “We give it five more minutes. Just to be sure.” He hadn’t gotten where he was by being careless.
He steered Deep Trouble in a tight circle and dropped it in neutral. He walked the inside perimeter of the boat. Slow. Scanning. Watching the waves rise and drop in all directions. There were no signs of life.
He kept a weather eye on Little Salvages. At least where he knew they sat below the high tide line. A telltale cresting of waves showed some of the rocks were still dangerously close to the surface. The waves seemed determined to send Deep Trouble right into the middle of it.
Ray shifted back in gear. He swung the boat around and headed for Dry Salvages, then made a nice, lazy loop and headed back into the floating wreckage. That one section of the Bomb’s hull caught his eye. Not that it was a problem. Not at all. In fact, it would be a help. If a skipper saw that, they’d get the whole Coast Guard thing going.
It’s just that his adrenaline was still pumping—and the whole thing had ended too soon. It had been too easy. He goosed the gas and headed right for the chunk of wreckage. It was tempting that way. Like seeing fresh roadkill when he was driving the Silverado. Nothing huge. But a squirrel. Rabbit. Turtle. Hey, even a dog or cat. If he saw one plastered on the road, he liked to put his tread marks on the carcass as well. Liked the little hiccup he felt going over it.
The chunk of wreckage beckoned him in the same way. Ray slid the throttle forward. “I’m going to give that thing a little love smack from Deep Trouble, and then let’s bring this back to the slip. We got some celebrating to do.”
“Aye, aye, cap.” Kelsey gave him a grin and a mock salute.
With the kid gone, he’d just locked in total ownership of the boat. With the other two boys gone, he’d eliminated the witnesses. He’d pay off Lochran—and still be sitting on a small fortune from the kid’s trust fund. He’d called the shots and made it happen.
The teal bow section from the skiff moved slower than the waves. Like an iceberg. It was an easy target. Ray hit it square—and with momentum. He felt the thing underneath his hull, tumbling and rolling the entire length of Deep Trouble. The skiff remnant slammed the underside of the stern with more force than Ray would have expected, making Deep Trouble shudder for an instant. It was like the Boy’s Bomb still had some life in it and was hitting back.
The busted skiff spun and twisted in the backwash of Deep Trouble like it couldn’t figure up from down. He checked ahead of them again. The nasty trap of Little Salvages lay dead ahead. “Let’s go home, Kelsey!”
Ray turned the wheel—and instantly knew there was a problem. The boat didn’t respond. “What the—?”
He spun the wheel. Nothing. Swells broke over Little Salvages no more than twenty yards from them. The diesel was still running—but without steering what good would that do?
“I got no steering!” Ray slammed the controls into reverse. Throttled hard. The diesel protested loudly. Forward motion slowed; then a wave broke over the stern. “That stinking little skiff hull must have jammed up our rudder!”
Kelsey rushed forward as if gauging the distance to the rocks from the front windows. “Drop anchor?”
Too late for that. They’d have to get lucky. Time it right. “We’ll catch a big wave and ride over the top.”
CHAPTER 78
Friday, August 12, 7:12 p.m.
PARKER STAYED UNDERWATER AND held himself there. One more second. One more second. Parker fought the urge to burst to the surface. Every second underwater gave him a better chance that he wouldn’t be seen. With frantic reaching, pulling, and kicking—he broke the surface and gasped in a blast of air.
Harley was already there. “I thought you were d-dead, bro. I thought you were out of the game.”
Deep Trouble looked translucent . . . no longer solid. Like the fog and the boat were melding into one. Kelsey and Ray were focused on the waters in front of them, not behind. Kelsey pointed ahead, like he was suggesting a route to circle back. “This isn’t over yet.”
The last remnant of the Boy’s Bomb was smaller now. Deep Trouble had taken another bite out of him like a great white might take a chunk out of a seal. The Bomb spun slowly, the tip of the bow nearly straight up, exposing the empty insides for a moment before yawning back down to the water.
“There’s still a p-pocket of air underneath,” Parker said. “Let’s w-wait him out under there.” And hope he sees no need to ram it again. Parker’s gimpy arm felt almost useless. He slipped underwater and frog-kicked as far as his breath allowed him. If Kelsey or Ray looked back, he didn’t want to be easy to spot.
He surfaced five feet from what was left of his boat. Deep Trouble was no longer in sight, but he could still hear the engine—especially when his ears dipped below the surface. His arms weren’t working well enough in the cold water to do the crawl now. He managed a sloppy breast stroke that brought him to the side of the boat. He ducked underneath.
The pocket of air was smaller, but the two of them managed.
“W-we give it f-five minutes a-after we hear n-no motor,” Parker said. “Then we climb on the hull the best we can and ride this baby to land.”
“F-five m-minutes,” Harley said. “Then home.”
Parker prayed they could actually make it to shore. That the hypothermia wouldn’t get them first.
CHAPTER 79
Friday, August 12, 7:14 p.m.
THE WIND CAUGHT DEEP TROUBLE and swung her sideways now, ten yards from where the highest point of Little Salvages crowned between swells. Too close. Too. Close.
“We need a big wave to carry us over!” They could do it, right? Get on the other side of Little Salvages and drop anchor. Throw on a mask and go over the side to fix the rudder.
“Hold on!” Deep Trouble slammed against the rock—with the sickening sound of splitting wood. The impact ripped the wheel from Ray’s grip and smacked him against the port side gunwale. Kelsey wasn’t as lucky. He was thrown from the boat and disappeared below the waves.
Almost immediately Deep Trouble listed to the port side. Seconds later the diesel coughed to a stop. Ray crawled to the lower cabin on all fours to grab the storm suit. Water was already filling the cabin—and rising fast.
CHAPTER 80
Friday, August 12, 7:15 p.m.
ELLA SAW THE PIECE OF WRECKAGE almost at the same time as Parker’s dad cried out.
“No!” He pointed to a piece of teal fiberglass floating on the surface, driven by the waves.
Within seconds it seemed a debris field materialized out of the fog. Seat cushions. Dock bumpers. Life jackets.
“Taking a position,” Maggie said. Immediately she was on the radio with the Coast Guard, giving their latitude and longitude. Then she radioed for rescue vehicles to get to the T-wharf and stand by.
All four of them searched the water—especially when a swell gave them the extra height to extend their view. Ella held on to the rail behind the pilot house to steady herself.
“Lousy fog,” Eric muttered. “Going to make it hard for swimmers to see us.” He glanced at Ella. Must have seen the despair in her eyes. “But it won’t slow us down. We’ll find them. I’ve got night vision here.” He checked the infrared screen. “And you’ve got those eyes that can see seals in the fog, right?”
