As the boat bucked and struggled across the shallow bank toward Mick Stranahan’s house, Christina Marks accepted the probability that she would not live through the next few moments. “For the record,” she said, “he’s not my boyfriend.”
Maggie nudged her with an elbow and whispered, “You could’ve done worse.”
Chemo stopped the boat ten yards from the dock.
The stereo had died. The only sound was the thrum of the windmill and the chalkboard squeak of the Colemans, swinging in the gusts. The house scorched the sky with its watery brightness; a white torch in the blackest middle of nowhere. Christina wondered: Where did he get so many bloody lanterns?
Chemo looked down at Rudy Graveline. “Well? You’re the one who got the invitation.”
Rudy nodded grimly. On rubbery legs he made his way to the bow of the boat; the rough, wet ride had drubbed all the nattiness out of his L. L. Bean wardrobe. The doctor cupped both hands to his mouth and called out Stranahan’s name.
Nothing.
He glanced back at Chemo, who shrugged. The.38 was still aimed at Christina Marks.
Next Rudy called Heather’s name and was surprised to get a reply.
“Up here!” Her voice came from the roof, where it was darker.
“Come on down,” Rudy said excitedly.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“A reyouall right?”
“I’m fine,” said Heather. “No thanks to you.”
Chemo made a sour face a Rudy. “Now what?”
“Don’t look at me,” the doctor said.
Chemo called out to Heather: “We’re here to save you. What’s your fucking problem?”
Suddenly Heather appeared on the roof. For balance she held onto the base of the windmill. She was wearing a gray sweatsuit with a hood. “My problem? Ask him.” She pulled the hood off her head, and Rudy Graveline saw the bandages were gone.
“Damn,” he said.
“Let’s hear it,” Chemo muttered.
“I was supposed to do some surgery, but I didn’t. She thought-see, I told her I did it.”
Maggie Gonzalez said, “You’re right. Everybody out here is crazy.”
“I paid you, you bastard!” Heather shouted.
“Please, I can explain,” Rudy pleaded.
Chemo was disgusted. “This is some beautiful moment. She doesn’t want to be rescued, she hates your damn guts.”
Heather disappeared from the roof. A few moments later she emerged, still alone, on the deck of the stilt house. Rudy Graveline tossed her the bow rope and she wrapped it around one of the dock cleats. The surgeon stepped out of the boat and tried to give her a hug, but Heather backed up and said, “Don’t you touch me.”
“ Where’s Stranahan?” Chemo demanded.
“He’s around here somewhere,” Heather said. “Can he hearus?”
“I’m sure.”
Chemo’s eyes swept back and forth across the house, the deck, the roof. Every time he glanced at the water he thought of the terrible fish and how swiftly it had happened before. His knuckles were blue on the grip of the pistol.
A voice said: “Look here.”
Chemo spun around. The voice had come from beneath the stilt house, somewhere in the pilings, where the tide hissed. Mick Stranahan said: “Drop the gun.”
“Or what?” Chemo snarled.
“Or I’ll blow your new face off.”
Chemo saw an orange flash, and instantly the lantern nearest his head exploded. Maggie shrieked and Christina squirmed from Chemo’s one-armed clasp. On the deck of the house, Rudy Graveline dropped to his belly and covered his head.
Chemo stood alone with his lousy pistol. His ears were roaring. Shards of hot glass stuck to his scalp. He thought: That damn shotgun again.
When the echo from the gunfire faded, Stranahan’s voice said: “That’s buckshot, Mr. Tatum. In case you were wondering.”
Chemo’s face was killing him. He contemplated the damage that a point blank shotgun blast would do to his complexion, then tossed the Colt.38 into the bay. Perhaps a deal could be struck; even after splurging on the car phone, there was still plenty of money to go around.
Stranahan ordered Chemo to get out of the boat. “Carefully.”
“No shit.”
“Remember what happened last time with the “cuda.”
“So that’s what it was.” Chemo remembered seeing pictures of barracudas in sports magazines. What he remembered most were the incredible teeth. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said.
Stranahan didn’t mention that the big barracuda was long gone-off to deeper water to wait out the cold. Probably laid up in Fowey Rocks.
Chemo moved with crab-like deliberation, one gangly limb at a time. Between the rocking of the boat and the lopsided weight of his prosthesis, he found it difficult to balance on the slippery gunwale. Maggie Gonzalez came up from behind and helped boost him to the dock. Chemo looked surprised.
“Thanks,” he said.
From under the house, Stranahan’s voice: “All right, Heather, get in the boat.”
“Wait a second,” said Rudy.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be all right.”
“Heather, don’t!” Rudy was thinking about that night in the fireplace, and that morning in the shower. And about Costa Rica.
“Hands off,” said Heather, stepping into the boat.
By now Christina Marks had figured out the plan. She said, “Mick, I want to stay.”
“Ah, you changed your mind.”
“What-”
“You want to get married after all?”
The words hung in the night like the mischievous cry of a gull. Then, from under the stilt house, laughter. “Everything’s just a story to you,” Stranahan said. “Even me.”
Christina said, “That’s not true.” No one seemed particularly moved by her sincerity.
“Don’t worry about it,” Stranahan said. “I’ll still love you, no matter what.”
Rudy cautiously got to his feet and stood next to Chemo. In the flickering lantern glow, Chemo looked more waxen than ever. He seemed hypnotized, his puffy blowfish eyes fixed on the surging murky waves.
Heather said, “Should I untie the boat now?”
“Not just yet,” Stranahan called back. “Check Maggie’s jacket, would you?”
Maggie Gonzalez was wearing a man’s navy pea jacket. When Heather reached for the pockets, Maggie pushed her away.
There was a metallic clunking noise under the house: Stranahan, emerging from his sniper hole. Quickly he clambered out of the aluminum skiff, over the top of the water tank, pulling himself one-handed to the deck of the house. His visitors got a good long look at the Remington.
“Maggie, be a good girl,” Stranahan said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Christina took one side of the coat and Heather took the other. “Keys,” Christina announced, holding them up for Stranahan to see. One was a tiny silver luggage key, the other was from a room at the Holiday Inn.
Chemo blinked sullenly and patted at his pants. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said. “The bitch picked my pockets.”
He couldn’t believe it: Maggie had lifted the keys while helping him out of the boat! She planned to sneak back to the motel and steal all the money.
“I know how you feel,” Stranahan said to Chemo. He reached into the boat and plucked the keys from Christina’s hand. He put them in the front pocket of his jeans.
“What now?” Rudy whined, to anyone who might have a clue.
Chemo’s right hand crept to his left armpit and found the toggle switch for the battery pack. The Weed Whacker buzzed, stalled once, then came to life.
Stranahan said, “I’m impressed, I admit it.” He aimed the Remington at Chemo’s head and told him not to move.
Chemo paid no attention. He took two giraffe-like steps across the dock and, with a vengeful groan, dove into the stern of the boat after Maggie. They all went down in a noisy tangle-Chemo, Maggie, Heather and Christina-the boat listing precariously against the pilings.
Mick Stranahan and Rudy Graveline watched the melee from the lower deck of the stilt house. One woman’s scream, piercing and feline, rose above the uproar.
“Do something!” the doctor cried.
“All right,” said Stranahan.
Later, Stranahan gathered all the lanterns and brought them inside. Rudy Graveline lay in his undershorts on the bed; he was handcuffed spread-eagle to the bedposts. Chemo was unconscious on the bare floor, folded into a corner. With the shutters latched, the lanterns made the bedroom as bright as a television studio.