"What kind of guns?" Sue asked.
Kari shook her head. "The woman, Denise. She has one hidden in her purse. The man, the one who says he's my grandfather, has a big one."
"What kind of big one?" Sue persisted. "A rifle? An automatic? A shotgun?"
"I can't help you. I don't know anything at all about guns," Kari Gebhardt answered. "I'm sorry."
There was another report of gunfire out on the water, followed immediately by a woman's piercing shriek. Fortunately, Paul had already helped Else into the backseat of the helicopter. The leather interior may have muffled the sound enough so she didn't hear it. Kari, however, was still outside the helicopter. When she heard the scream, she stiffened but said nothing.
Paul came around behind us just as Sue and I finished boosting Kari into the seat. He closed the door. "Once I drop them off, do you want me to come back?" he asked.
I nodded. "Keep out of range, but stay close enough to guide the cavalry in to the rescue if we need it."
"Sure thing. What about you?" he asked.
I turned to Sue. "Feel like going for a little wade?"
"Not exactly," she replied, "but with two against one, he'll never hold out for another fifteen minutes. Vests on or off?"
Unlike airline seat cushions, Kevlar vests aren't recommended as flotation devices. The water didn't seem that deep, but who could tell whether or not it was shallow all the way out to the boat? If it turned out to be deep, that left us with a hell of a choice. Wear the vest and risk drowning, or don't wear the vest and risk being shot. Heads, you win; tails, I lose.
"That all depends on how good a swimmer you are," I said. "The water doesn't look all that deep. Suit yourself, but I'm leaving mine on."
We stripped off our shoes at the water's edge. As Sue and I stepped into the frigid water, the helicopter's turbine engine roared to life behind us. When it rose overhead, I had the small satisfaction of knowing that Kari and Else were safe, but from the scream we had heard, I was afraid we were already far too late to save Inge.
Wintertime water temperatures in Puget Sound are about forty-five degrees. Stepping into the water was like plunging our feet into a bucket of ice. The water was so cold, it took our breath away. As we splashed along, we had to keep our eyes lowered enough to watch our footing. We also needed to keep an eye on the boat for fear of being shot to death.
The distance between the sand and the stranded boat couldn't have been more than fifty yards. Out in the open like that, fully exposed to anyone who wanted to take a potshot, it felt like fifty miles.
Suddenly, Sue stopped in her tracks. "Look at that!" she exclaimed. "Something's on fire."
I squinted and looked where she was pointing. A thin wisp of smoke rose up over the afterdeck of One Day at a Time. It seemed to be coming from a stovepipe on top of the galley. "That's from the stove," I said.
"How do you know that?" Sue wanted to know.
"I've been on fishing boats before. I'm from Ballard, remember?"
"Why would somebody start a fire in the stove at a time like this?"
I wanted to say maybe they're as dumb as we are, standing here arguing about it. I said, "Most likely it's been lit the whole time, and this just happens to be the first time we've noticed the smoke. Come on."
As we started forward again, I noticed that my teeth were chattering. I wondered how long it would take for hypothermia to set in. My feet were already so numb, I could barely walk. Not very long, I thought grimly. Not long at all.
Sue and I covered the remaining distance out to One Day at a Time without incident-without seeing anyone move on deck, and without anyone taking a shot at us, either. Once we were standing beside the barnacle-encrusted hull, I realized, with dismay, that the deck of the beached boat was a whole lot higher out of the water than it had appeared to be from shore.
Fortunately, it was low tide. The water we were standing in was little more than waist-deep. I was about to suggest boosting Sue onto my shoulders in hopes of lifting her high enough to clamber aboard when, suddenly, a rope with a life ring attached sailed over the rail. It came whistling through the air so close to my ears that the life ring almost beaned me.
"Get up here, BoBo," an invisible Alan Torvoldsen ordered from above. "What the hell took you so long? I've been bluffing for hours. I didn't think anybody was ever going to come looking for us."
It probably was only a matter of seconds, but it seemed to take forever for Sue and me to scramble aboard. Using the rope, we struggled hand-over-hand, up and over the side. Shivering with cold and gasping for breath, we landed on the slippery, tilting deck.
Alan Torvoldsen knelt in a wary crouch in the narrow walkway between the pilothouse and the rail, using the wall of the pilothouse as cover. A huge. 44 revolver-a cocked, single-action antique-lay on the deck beside him. As soon as Sue and I were safely aboard, Alan picked up the Colt and held it aimed aft, in the general direction of the galley.
"Help me," a woman's voice mumbled plaintively from somewhere nearby. "Please help me. I can't move."
"Who's that?" I demanded.
"The old man's girlfriend," Alan responded. "I think her name's Denise Something. She wanted to get away. She tried to make a run for the rail, but he shot her in the back. Nice guy."
"And Inge Didricksen?" I asked. "What about her?"
"Last time I saw Inge, he was using her as a human shield," Alan answered. "He's holed up with her inside the galley. If I could have gotten off a clear shot a little earlier, I'd have plugged the sorry son of a bitch."
"Did he say what he wants?" Sue asked. "We've got hostage negotiators coming. An Emergency Response Team is en route."
I looked down at my waterproof watch. I thought at first maybe it had stopped, but when I held it up to my ear, it was still ticking. I couldn't believe that barely ten minutes had passed.
"Reinforcements should be here within minutes," I said.
"Oh, my God," Denise moaned. "I'm so cold. I can't move at all, and I'm bleeding. There's blood everywhere. Someone please help me."
Alan Torvoldsen looked at me and shook his head. "The girl may not have minutes," he said. "We should do something now."
I racked my brain. "Are there portholes on the sides of the galley?" I asked finally.
Alan nodded. "Two on either side."
Without waiting for me to suggest it, Sue sidled backward along the side of the pilothouse. "I'm on the way," she said. "Cover me when I need it."
"I know something about first aid," Alan offered. "If you can keep him occupied, maybe I can drag the girl around here and out of the line of fire."
It was both a brave and foolhardy suggestion. As plans went, it wasn't much, but it was marginally better than no plan at all. Peeking around the corner of the pilothouse, I could see that the door to the galley stood slightly ajar.
"Hans!" I shouted. "Hans Gebhardt. Can you hear me? This is Detective Beaumont with the Seattle Police Department. Give it up. Let the woman go, then come out with your hands up."
"She will die, and I will die," Hans Gebhardt asserted calmly. "I have chosen not to die alone."
That's when I realized that no matter what he had done, Hans Gebhardt-noted Nazi war criminal-was nothing but a coward. He might have idly stood by and watched, unmoved, while thousands of innocent victims were marched to their deaths. He might have coldly plundered their naked corpses afterward. But Hans Gebhardt himself wasn't nearly as brave as his victims. He was afraid to face death without the comfort of taking someone else along with him. Because he wanted company.
"There's no reason for either one of you to die," I called back. "Let Inge go. We'll give you whatever you want."
"What I want is my innocence back," Hans returned. "And that's not in your power to give. It's fifty years too late."