Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (42 page)

“Light up the police boats!” Kit said into her radio. “He may be preparing to cast off.”

The chief got his men on the radio and three boats turned on all their flashing lights and moved to the middle of the channel, blocking Carlos's exit route.

“Keep him there. But we don't want to escalate. Hold steady.”

“Will do,” Gunner replied.

Kit squeezed the trigger on the bullhorn again. “You're going nowhere, Carlos! Talk to me . . .”

David fought the pain, trying to gather himself again for another try. He heard a noise in the salon, and it jolted him and he sat listening, his heart pounding, while someone walked past the berth where he was.
Don't stop, don't stop
, he said silently.

The footsteps receded and soon David could open the door a crack again. When he did, he heard Kit's voice on the bullhorn, calling out to Cienfuegos.

He had to get off of the boat. He had to keep the men away from Kit. There was no way he could fight them. But he could draw them off.

David reached up, this time gripping the door frame, and pulled himself to his feet. His head spun with the effort and he rested his head against the doorframe until the spinning stopped. Then he opened the door and listened. Cienfuegos was on the bridge, yelling. Lopez was speaking, too, but in a lower voice, as if his words were directed at Cienfuegos. David could tell Lopez was on the foredeck.

He opened the door and stepped out of the cabin. The pressure on his leg was painful but he had no crutches and a
crawl was too slow. As quietly as he could, he moved through the salon, bracing his hands on the walls, half-lifting himself along. He saw a gun and picked it up. It was a flare gun. He took it anyway, shoving it inside his shirt. Then, impulsively, as he passed the galley, David switched on the propane stove. He knew the heavier-than-air gas would seep into the salon and drop into the bilge. Maybe a spark from the bilge pump would set it off. Lots of boats had gone up in smoke that way. Ten more feet. Kit and Cienfuegos were still shouting at each other. The sliding door stood open. David checked. Lopez was nowhere in sight, and Cienfuegos would be looking forward, at Kit. He hobbled through the door, crossed the aft deck, picked up a flotation cushion, and let himself down onto the swim platform, just a few inches from the water. Pulling the flare gun out of his shirt to keep it dry, he held the gun above his head, and rolled slowly into the water, minimizing the splash.

The cold, dark water felt so good on his leg, so good he almost gasped.
Thank you, thank you!
he prayed silently. He released his grip on the swim platform, slipped further into the water, pushed off against the hull of the boat, and he was clear.

“Chris, what are you saying?” Kit asked, her eyes wide.

“I'm saying I'll trade places with David. Let them take me.”

“No! They'd kill you.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Chris's eyes were shining in the light of the marina. “Honestly, Kit. David's not going to survive a long trip with them. I'd at least have a chance. You can get the Coast Guard to deploy, or maybe I can talk them into just letting me off somewhere.”

“That's crazy.”

“I can do this, Kit. I want to do it.”

“Chris . . .”

“It's his only chance, Kit. David's only chance.”

Would Cienfuegos trade David for Chris? That would be totally against bureau policy. Still, the fact that Chris suggested it struck her as kind, noble even.

“Give me the bullhorn.” Chris took it out of her hand. “We've got to do this before Steve gets here.” He lifted the bullhorn and spoke into it. “Carlos, we have a deal for you. This is Special Agent Cruz. I will go with you in place of Castillo.”

“Why? Why would you?” came the shout back in the dark.

“Castillo is hurt. He needs medical attention. Come on, Carlos. You don't want a murder rap, too.”

Silence. Cienfuegos must have been thinking. “How we do this?” he asked, finally.

“You put David out on the dock. Then I will come aboard.”

“No guns.”

“No weapons of any kind, Carlos. I'll be clean. You can put me off in Miami.”

Kit could hear sharp words, as if Cienfuegos and Lopez were arguing.

Then Cienfuegos called out. “You come down the dock. Then we talk more. No tricks, or there is a bullet in your head, comprende?”

“Got it.”

Kit looked at Chris, who stripped off his weapons as they spoke. “I don't want you to go up there a second too soon. Wait until they have David on the dock, OK? I don't want both of you taken. And keep your vest on.”

“Right.” Chris put his gun and holster on the dock. He pulled the knife out of his boot, and the back-up weapon out of the small of his back.

“We'll be tracking you. I'll have a Coast Guard chopper waiting offshore. Don't worry, Chris, we're not going to . . .”

“What's going on?” Steve Gould appeared out of the darkness.

Chris and Kit looked at each other.

“Sir, we . . .” Kit began.

Chris interrupted her. “We're trading hostages. Me for David.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Kit's heart sank.

“He'll die, sir, without medical care, and I'll . . .”

“You're a trained FBI agent and I am not going to lose one of my people . . .”

Suddenly someone whistled. And whistled again. Kit looked at Chris. “What's that?”

Loud cursing in Spanish erupted from the boat. Cienfuegos shouted and pointed off the stern on the starboard side. She saw him pick up a rifle. Chris began grabbing his weapons again. Simultaneously, she shouldered her own rifle.

“Make sure you have justification for deadly force,” Steve warned.

Shots rang out.

“What's he doing? What's he shooting at?” Kit said. She moved to the other side of the dockmaster's office, where she could see better. Lopez was firing toward the stern of the boat, away from the agents.

“He's firing off the stern. What's there?” Kit exclaimed. Then she saw a light, like a flare, arcing through the sky in a reddish blaze. “What . . . ?”

Instantly, an enormous explosion rocked the night, and
Pleasant Dreams
blew apart into a million pieces.

G
OOD GRIEF
!” C
HRIS STOOD UP AS BURNING FRAGMENTS OF BOAT FLEW
into the sky, bright orange embers and flaming pieces, like fireworks against the black night.

“David!” Kit cried out. “Where is he? Chris . . .”

But Chris was on the radio to Chief Gunner. “Get the fireboat up here, now!” There was a garbled response. Then Gunner's voice came back: “We saw a flare gun fire from the water near the B Dock just before the boat blew.”

“From the water?” Kit looked at Chris. “Who could have . . . David? Was it David?”

They both took off running back to the main pier, past the restaurant and the marina office, and then down toward the B Dock. Steve Gould ran right behind them. Kit's heart pounded. The marina glowed orange with the light of the burning boat and an acrid smell filled the air. David . . . David . . . David . . . ?

And then she saw him. Or what she thought could be him. She saw a white cushion in the water just off the end of the dock, and a figure clutching onto it. She stripped off her ballistic vest and took her gun off her belt as she ran. Reaching the end of the dock, she put both down, quickly pulled off her shoes, and jumped into the water.

The cold took her breath away. All around her, reflections from the fire danced on the water. Here and there a piece of burning boat floated. But as she surfaced from her jump, and shook the water from her eyes, she saw the miracle: it was David, David! He was grinning at her and gripping the cushion. Within seconds, she arrived at his side.

His eyes were wide. “Kit!”

“Oh, David!”

“I got 'em.”

“That was you?” Kit nodded toward the burning boat.

He grinned. “Yeah. I got 'em.”

“You need help?” Chris called from the dock.

“Get the medics!” Kit looked back at David. “I'm going to pull you over to the ladder on the dock. Can you hold onto the cushion?”

He nodded and she grabbed the strap on the cushion and swam to the ladder attached to the side of the dock. Then she had David hook his right arm over a rung.

“Any chance you can climb out?” she asked.

“No way.” He shook his head.

“Where are you hurt?”

“I took a shot in the leg.”

“Where else?” She had her arm around him, gripping the back of his jeans with one hand and the ladder with the other. They were face to face in the water, so close she wanted to kiss him. Burning debris floated around them and smoke hung in the air. Her heart was trembling. She'd almost lost him, and now here he was, again, alive, and so close.

“Is he conscious?” her boss called out from the dock above.

“Yes!” Kit could see the firelight dancing in David's eyes. “What's hurt besides your leg?” she asked him again.

“My leg is killing me. Lost a lot of blood.”

“Anything broken?”

He shook his head. “No, no.”

“Can we pull him up?” Chris called down.

“No. He's got an unstable shoulder. We'll need a rescue basket.”

David leaned his head against hers and sighed. “Never mind. Tell them they can leave me right here. Forever. I don't think my leg hurts anymore.”

He was joking, she realized. Joking! “That's because it's frozen,” she retorted.

“I don't care.”

She felt his breath on her face, and the stubble of his beard, and caught the faint smell of his now-familiar shampoo, and she relaxed as his arm drew her closer still. “I love you,” she heard him say, and he kissed her neck.

Steve had just leaned over the dock. He looked sharply at Chris. “She's in a relationship with a source?”

Chris shrugged.

Minutes later, David was up on the dock. The medics began cutting his wet clothes off, wrapping him in blankets, and one of them was preparing to start an IV. “We're going to Medevac him to Salisbury,” the chief medic said to Kit, who was standing about ten feet away. “Chopper's on the way.”

Chris looked at her. “You go with him. I'll finish up.”

Kit thought about that. She wanted to go. She desperately wanted to go. She pulled the blanket an EMT had given her closer. Then she shook her head. “It's my case, Chris.” Her heart wanted to go. Her head knew she couldn't. “We'll send someone else with him.”

He nodded.

“Who is Kit?” one of the medics near David shouted.

“Me.”

“He wants to say something to you.”

Quickly Kit went over to the stretcher. David's eyes were wide open. She touched his face. “You'll make it, David. You're going to be OK.” Was that hope or faith? She didn't know.

He blinked. “Lopez and Cienfuegos, they kept talking about Sandy Point . . . something about Sandy Point. A school or something. I couldn't quite catch it.” David's voice was shaky. “Check it out, Kit.”