Presidential Deal (27 page)

He pulled himself up by the wheel, found that he could make out the island once again. He massaged his aching shoulders, checked the angle of the sun, guessed he still had a few hours of light. He wished desperately that there was a way to signal Linda.

Maybe there was a flare pistol down below, he thought. He moved quickly to the cabin door, found the heavy, nickel-plated hasp and sprung it, then pulled the door open. He started down the steps quickly, but stopped when he felt his foot plunge into water.

Watertight deck or not, the cabin below had been swamped. Either there was a breech in the hull that he’d missed in his cursory examination, or the deck seals had proven less than hurricane-proof. He paused, twisted around in the narrow passage to glance toward the aft engine compartments. Another sealed setup, but if the bilge area had been swamped as well, he could forget all his hopes.

Deal sent a silent prayer skyward, then moved toward the engine compartments. He undid the hasps, folded back the starboard engine cover, glanced down into darkness. He fought the urge to simply thrust his hand down there, see what he might find, instead turned and threw back the opposite cover. A shimmering oily mirror that threw a dim shadow up from the bilge—his own silhouette reflected in water down there, he realized.

He bent over, shielding his eyes against the glare from the sky, and peered into the recesses of the compartment. Not as bad as he’d thought at first, though. He could see the engines—twin 454s, probably, most of their bulk jutting up above the water that had leaked into the compartment: From this angle he could see that it was no more than a foot, maybe not that much. Had those cylinders gotten submerged, he’d be out of luck.

All that water in the forward compartment had been a blessing after all, he thought. The weight of it had levered the stern higher, reversed the normal slant of the craft, helped keep the engines out of the water.

Most important, though, would be the batteries. He lowered his shoulders all the way into the engine well, twisted his head.

There, in the forward part of the compartment, he found them. Four big marine batteries, two for each engine. The forward member of each pair was half-submerged and a third looked to have had one of its terminal cables ripped free. But the fourth battery was wedged atop its twin, well out of the water, its cables intact.

Deal pulled his head up, reeling from the pressure of his inverted position. He waited for his dizziness to pass, then went to the control panel and undid the catch. He raised the cover, found the ignition key still in its protected niche. Most boaters would have done the same, especially if they were tied up on a private dock where a bunch of guys with Uzis were keeping an eye on things. He glanced up to check the angle of the sun, thought once again of Linda Sheldon, then bent to study the controls.

He checked and double-checked, making sure that nothing was switched on but the engine compartment bilge pump—he couldn’t take the chance of wasting one speck of power, after all. He closed his eyes again, and turned the master key. When he heard the whine of the pump from behind him, he felt his breath go out in a rush. First problem taken care of…if the battery held out, that is.

He listened to the steady whine of the pump for a few moments, then turned back to the cabin hatchway. Back down the narrow passageway: feet, legs, groin, one quick gasp of air and then under the tepid water. He groped about, found a door on his right, realized it led to the tiny head.

He pulled himself up for another breath, then went under again, this time finding another doorway. He yanked it open, felt objects float out about him like some colony of strange sea creatures. Something descended softly onto the top of his head, sending its long tendrils over his face, and he clawed at it, his heart racing again, until he realized it was only a mop. He shrugged the thing away, dug his hands inside the closet, felt the lip of a plastic bucket, jerked it past the frame, and surfaced with it.

He rested until his breathing had evened out, then pulled himself up into the cockpit, bringing his precious bucket along with him. He stood, listened to make sure the bilge pump was still going. Then he glanced about until he’d found the hump of the island again.

Nothing to do but go to work. He emptied the bucket overboard, then leaned down the stairwell, dipped it full again. Water seemed to ooze from everywhere, a new bucketful for every one he dumped, and for a while he wondered if there weren’t some hole up on deck that was sending what he bailed right back down again. But finally he was sloshing about the cabin in ankle-deep water.

He tossed another bucket of water up out of the cabin and lay his head against one of the steps in exhaustion. When he felt that he could move again, he tossed his plastic bucket aside and moved toward the tiny refrigerator he’d had his eye on. He pulled open the door, which did not quite clear the water, sending a small wave up his shins.

No light popped on, of course, but a rancid smell lifted toward him and he caught sight of something—a chunk of fish or a days-old sandwich, wadded at the back of an otherwise empty shelf. He was about to slam the door shut in disgust when he heard a tinkling sound and glanced at the door rack, which hung partly submerged in the water. Something tumbled over there, two somethings, he realized. His hand was trembling when he thrust it into the murky water.

He came up with a small bottle of juice on his first pass, found a similar container with the second.
JUGO DE PAPAYA
, the gelatinous label read. He lay one of the bottles carefully in the now-dry sink above the refrigerator, took the other and wedged the cap against the counter. He hit the top so hard it sheared a chunk of wood and formica off the counter’s edge, but the cap popped off as well.

He forced himself to wait a moment, then raised the bottle to his lips. One swallow, two, three…he willed himself to stop, lower the bottle while the warm, sticky juice went down his throat. Right now,
jugo de papaya
tasted just wonderful. He raised the bottle, finished the rest. He thought about drinking the second, but he forced the impulse away. Even if the boat didn’t start, even if all he brought back to Linda Sheldon from this expedition was one bottle of papaya juice, she would have that much, at least.

He wiped the back of his hand against his lips, then willed himself up out of the compartment and across the cockpit to check the progress of the bilge pump.

He moved across the tiny deck space in a crabwalk that was the result of his endless bailing crouch, ducked his head inside to find that the engine compartment was dry now, or virtually so. He stood, then moved stiffly to switch off the pump. With the cabin and bilge bailed out, the bow of the boat had risen considerably. The stern had swung around to the south, and the Cigarette had its prow raised toward the distant island like some water hound eager for the word to go.

He glanced back at the engine compartment and hesitated. “What the hell,” he said, and turned to throw the starter switch. The first engine coughed, then caught hold. When he tried the switch for the second, there was a weak grinding sound, a second echo, then nothing.

He released the switch, hanging his head with frustration, with exhaustion. Only the battery that had powered the bilge pump was providing any current in this circuit, he suspected, and in its worn-down state, there simply wasn’t enough juice left to kick the motor over. With only one engine, they’d have to move at near-idle speed. And if they encountered any heavy weather, well…

He sighed, went back to the engine compartment, eased himself down, groped about until he found the ripped cable, used it to pull himself toward the disabled battery again. He got his hand around the battery casing, managed to tilt the heavy thing until he could jam the two broken ends together. He pushed and twisted, doing his best to tangle the wires into some kind of bond, but it was hopeless. The minute he released his grip on the battery casing, the whole thing fell back into its place again, breaking the tenuous connection.

He hung upside down like some distraught circus performer for a moment, his hands dangling free, the blood thundering in his temples. Finally he swung himself up again, made his way dizzily to the control panel. Again, he twisted the starter switch. Again the weak, reluctant grinding. He released the spring-loaded starter, stood thinking for a moment.

He shook his head as if to negate the thought that had occurred to him, but it was really more a gesture of resignation. Get down to the short strokes in such a situation, there wasn’t really such a notion as choice. You’d have to try anything.

He climbed back down into the soggy cabin, kicked about the murky water until his toes cracked against the handle of the mop that had fallen on him earlier. He pulled the thing up, wrung some of the filthy water out of its head, pulled himself back on deck.

Back at the panel now. Pulling out gelatinous mop strings until he found one that wouldn’t part. Tying that string around the starter switch. He twisted the starter until it engaged, then eased the mop head out of his hands.

The idea was to let the weight of the sodden mop hold the springloaded starter in the engaged position. And it seemed to work just fine.

He waited for a few extra seconds, listening to the groaning starter, then hurried back to the engine compartment. He would have liked a pair of linesman’s pliers, or a rubber glove, or anything dry. But that was a laugh, wasn’t it? He hesitated, then peeled out of his soggy briefs, wadded them in his hand.

He ducked carefully into the engine compartment, peered about until he caught sight of the parted cable. He reached out, cupped the battery, pulled it hard toward him. He gritted his teeth, arranged the briefs one last time, then reached out for the waving cable and jammed it against the matching end that sent its little copper tentacles out from the terminal.

The jolt flung his head back as if he were the heavy bag and some fighter had planted the last, best shot of a hateful workout squarely on his forehead. Before he’d even had time to register the pain, the recoil sent him forward, bouncing his face off a housing flange.

But it didn’t matter that his head was icy with pain or that he was spitting blood between his broken lips, because he’d held his grip until the arcing current had melted the copper strands, fusing the cable together—and the roaring that had sprung up in his ears was coming from the second of those mighty engines only inches from his nose.

He pulled himself out of the engine compartment, gasping, fell back against the wheel housing, feeling the numbness gradually leaving his hands, feeling the irregular beat of the engines shuddering through the hull. Finally, something going his way, he thought as he managed to pull his grimy briefs back on. Just maybe there was a way out yet.

Hardly had he thought this than there came a loud bang, followed by a series of farting sounds. He froze, listening.

One of the engines clearing moisture grudgingly, the pistons cranky, but, thank God, continuing to fire. Blue smoke puffed up from the water-line at the transom, and he glanced toward the island-smudge on the horizon, wondering if it were something that Linda might possibly see.

He hurried back to the control panel, worked the mop head off the starter switch. He worked the throttles delicately, fighting the urge to call out to the engines, beg them to behave.

There was another bout of coughing and farting, then he was able to work the pair into a rough but steady idle. “That’s it, boys,” he found himself murmuring. “Good work. Just hold tight now.”

He glanced nervously at the engine compartment, then hoisted himself up on the foredeck of the boat and made a quick crabwalk out to the prow cleat where the line still held them tied.

He pulled against the line to create some slack, then slung it free with the quick motions of his wrist that he had learned as a child. His old man would have been pleased, he thought. Lots of good boat work, Johnny boy. Maybe he was watching right now, sipping from a bourbon and branch and nodding approval.

Deal found himself glancing skyward as he made his way quickly back toward the cockpit. They were drifting free now, but that meant new danger, didn’t it? Shallow reefs here, after all. That was what had hung the boat up in the first place.

If he ran aground, all the effort would be for nothing. He cast a nervous glance out over the water, which was beginning to lose its differentiating hues as the sky darkened, then jumped down into the cockpit and took the wheel. He gave the engines some throttle, holding his breath against another failure, then steadied the nose of the boat toward that distant hump on the horizon.

“Stay the course,” he called into the wind that was gathering against his face now, edging the throttle more.
No new disasters now, Johnny Deal
. “Just stay the course.”

Chapter 46

“This look like someplace you know?” It was Cork, helping Driscoll out of the cramped cuddy cabin where he’d spent the past five hours with Brisa. The latter had gone blissfully off to sleep the moment he’d finished with his story of the flesh-eating Doberman, leaving Driscoll to a contemplation of his dour thoughts, a stomach that seemed constantly on the verge of emptying itself, and Brisa’s racheting snores, which carried clearly even above the roar of the engines.

Driscoll got his stiff legs under him, turned to glance ahead at the huge mass of land that rose above the western horizon like some unlikely volcano. With its bulk silhouetted by the setting sun, it seemed as if it could be a volcano, but in fact it was nothing of the sort. “Mount Trashmore,” Driscoll muttered, and Cork nodded. It was an enormous aboveground dump that had been given its name by local residents amused by the status of the pile as by far the highest landmass south of Orlando. Though he couldn’t see them at this distance, it was a place well favored by enormous flocks of gulls and the eternally circling buzzards who’d turned up in Florida from all corners of the country to find the graveyard of their dreams.

“We’ll go in here, then?” Cork said.

“That’d be best,” Driscoll said. He could see the first of the channel markers a few hundred yards ahead. A mile or so from land, he thought. One hundred and seventy-nine down, one to go. So why was he so worried?

“We could go on up to Matheson,” Cork said. “Or Coconut Grove. The River if you want.”

The Miami River, Cork meant. Not really a river at all, but a dead-water estuary that bisected the central city. Driscoll glanced at Cork, admiring his balls, if not his good sense. “Too many of the wrong kind of people around those places, Cork. This’ll do just fine.”

Cork nodded. “Okay, then.”

They’d come across the Straits of Florida on what Cork called the Gulf Stream Freeway, the most heavily traveled pleasure craft lane in the Caribbean. It was a straight heading from Chub Cay, where they’d broken out of the weather, to the mainland, and it had taken them a little over four hours in the twenty-eight-foot craft. He might have saved them another thirty minutes or so, Cork had explained, but running the twin 350s at maximum would have halved the engine life. The things had been bored and tuned, capable of exceeding sixty knots in an emergency, but they’d lucked out and Cork needed to get back home without stopping to rebuild his engines. You had to save top end for outrunning the visible law.

That was fine, Driscoll had assured him. What was a half hour, more or less.

They were well into the channel now, the engines cut way back, a couple of open fishermen passing them on the way out for some evening angling, or maybe just a run to see the skyline or southward to Alabama Jack’s for a beer and burger dinner at bayside. Sure, Driscoll thought, he could remember the part of life where you simply did things for pleasure. He’d done it himself, though it seemed about a hundred years ago now.

The other boaters had passed them with bland glances or the typical boater-to-boater wave, the water being the last place in South Florida where such folksiness still prevailed. No shots across their bow, no helicopters swooping down. So far so good, but still he would have to be careful.

The channel had narrowed considerably by now, swinging northward to parallel a long scrub-covered jetty that ran for a mile or more into where the sprawling Black Point Marina lay. It was a county-owned park with a huge dry storage facility, public docks, restaurant and concessions plunked down in a mangrove and pine wilderness shadowed by the hulking landfill a mile or so further inward. Driscoll knew the area well, for it was an area greatly favored by miscreants coming ashore. Too much wild country for law enforcement to cover, even if you’d been tipped that there was a load of dope or rafters or weapons landing there.

Driscoll checked the channel up ahead, saw nothing coming their way. There was a big right turn up there a few hundred yards, the part of the channel where they’d have to swing northward, idle the last quarter-mile to the docks. He put his hand on Cork’s shoulder, gestured at the jetty boulders a few feet on their right.

“Any way you can put off here?”

Cork gave him a look. “Don’t have to worry about me, man. I’ll take you on in.”

“I’m not worried about you,” Driscoll said. There was a pause and Cork nodded, his eyes dead ahead now. “But if you could get us ashore here without messing up your boat…”

Cork looked at him again. “No problem,” he said. “Go get your man.”

Driscoll, who was about to duck down into the tight cuddy cabin, found Ray Brisa crouching at the entrance. “End of the line?” Brisa said, looking up at him.

“That wouldn’t be my choice of words,” Driscoll said. “But this is where we get off.”

Brisa nodded, came stiffly up on deck. Cork had cut the engines back to idle, now was throttling one into reverse, swinging them expertly toward a spot where the jumble of coral slabs dumped as a breakwater had formed a kind of shelf. Cork’s man was at the prow of the boat, gaff in hand.

The man thrust the gaff forward then, hooking the corner of one of the boulders. Cork turned to Driscoll. “There you go,” he said simply.

Driscoll nudged Brisa toward the rail of the boat. Brisa put one foot up, glanced back at Driscoll. “How deep’s this water here?”

“Jump before I push you,” Driscoll said. Brisa gave him a last glance, then raised his other foot and jumped. He hit the rugged breakwater on all fours, was clambering up toward the screen of mangroves as Driscoll turned to Cork. “I owe you one, pal,” he said.

“Don’t owe me nothing,” Cork said, his face expressionless.

Driscoll handed him a card. “I hope Gavin’s okay,” he said. “You let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Cork nodded. “Boat coming,” he said, nodding toward the bend in the channel.

Driscoll glanced ahead, saw the prow of a cabin cruiser nosing its way into the channel. He gave Cork a wave, then hoisted himself onto the rail and followed Brisa’s lunge onto solid ground.