The matches, unfortunately, were on the boat along with the portable cookstove and coffee pot and fishing rods and radio. And none of the three men was a smoker.
“If I can fall over two more crates, we can all sit down,” said Qwilleran.
Wooden boxes scraped on the uneven floor, and the three men sat down in the dark. They were silent for a few minutes, each with his thoughts.
“Who brought the dominoes?” Qwilleran asked.
Bushy laughed. “I loved that boat, but luckily it’s insured, so let’s get our chins up off the floor and figure out something to do for the next few hours.
When I don’t show up by nightfall, my wife will call the sheriff, and they’ll come looking for us with the helicopter, but it could be a long wait.”
“It’s four-thirty,” said Roger, whose watch glowed in the dark shack.
“Time for the Happy Hour!” said Bushy. “I could use a double martini right about now.”
“How long do these big blows usually last?” Qwilleran wanted to know.
“Fifteen minutes or fifteen hours.”
“If I have a choice, I’ll take the abbreviated version.”
“I’m never going to eat fish again,” Roger said. “This place is putrid!”
“Any guess about the wind velocity?”
“I’d say fifty miles an hour.”
“More like sixty, if you ask me.”
“Listen! Did you hear something?” Bushy said with an anxious-hitch in his voice.
“It sounds like a splash right outside the shack!” He opened the door a crack and peered outside. “Hell! The lake’s rising!”
Qwilleran wondered if the island had ever been entirely submerged. He wondered if the others were thinking the same thing. In the total darkness faces and emotions were invisible.
In another half hour the spray was hitting the shack and water was running under the door. Waves began slamming against the building.
No one was talking. They were all waiting-waiting for the next giant wave. The apprehension was palpable. Qwilleran had faced life-and-death situations before-with a dogged resolve to survive or a numb resignation. Only where Koko and Yum Yum were concerned did he ever succumb to gut-wrenching worry. Now, with mounting anxiety, he wondered what would happen to them. Would Mildred adopt them? Would they miss him? Koko would adjust, but Yum Yum would stop eating; she was emotionally dependent on Qwilleran, and she would pine away.
Another wave pounded the building, and it tilted.
“We’re moving!” Bushy yelled as the shack shuddered and creaked.
“We’re going to be swept into the lake!” Roger screamed. It was the first vocal evidence of fear. “I’m getting out!”
“Wait! Don’t panic!” Qwilleran shouted. “Let’s see what’s the best thing to do.
Bushy, got any ideas?”
“Which way are we moving?”
“My guess is … toward the center of the island.”
With another watery crash the cabin moved again.
“Oh, God!” Roger said with a whimper.
Qwilleran said, “If you’re praying, ask for suggestions.”
There was another crash, followed by another shudder, and then the shack stopped with a bump.
“What’s that?”
“We hit something!”
“I think we hit a tree!”
The waves pounded and roared, and the building quaked, but its journey stopped.
It was wedged between the three trees of Three Tree Island.
“We’re stuck!” cried Bushy. “Now what?”
A wave pushed the door open, and water gushed into the shack.
“Get on the roof,” Qwilleran said. “We can’t sit here like trapped animals. The water can’t rise that high … Can it?” he asked when the other two were silent.
“How do we get up there? “
“Pile up the crates.”
“Wait until after a big wave, and then act quick before the next one.”
“Okay, here goes! Somebody give me a boost.”
Qwilleran was the tallest and heftiest. Standing in ice water up to his knees, he boosted Bushy and then Roger. They reached down and gave him a hand just as the next surge of cold water soaked him to the armpits. The three sprawled on the roof like drowning sailors cast upon a reef. The shack was fast between the three trees and had tilted, so the flat roof had a precarious slant.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Bushy said.
“It’s cold up here,” Roger whined.
“It’s colder down there. Flap your arms. Flex your knees, kid, but don’t rock the boat.”
The wind howled and whistled; the surf crashed. As time wore on, ominous clouds could be seen scudding toward the mainland.
“It smells better up here, if anyone cares,” Roger said.
“At least we can see what’s happening,” said Qwilleran. “The sensory deprivation in that dark shack was giving me the willies.” He had turned down the flaps of his hunting cap and was trying not to think about the cold. Compared to the frigid dunking he had suffered, the wind was not that chill, but he was soaked to the skin.
“Six o’clock. We’ve been marooned over an hour.” “Feels like a week,” said Bushy. “I could use a shot of brandy.”
“I’d settle for a cup of coffee,” Qwilleran said. “Even one from the Dimsdale Diner.”
“If I hadn’t given up smoking, now is when I’d want a cigarette.”
They clung to the roof, passing the time with meaningless chatter and attempts at brave humor.
“Seven fifteen,” Roger announced.
“Am I numb from exposure, or is the wind subsiding?”
“It’s dropping a little, but it’s still cold.”
“It’s going to get colder before it gets warmer, so keep moving, fellas.”
Qwilleran pictured the Siamese clamoring for their supper. Or did they raise the roof only when they had an audience? What did they do when no one was around?.
. . What else was happening on shore? Soon it would be dark. Bushy’s wife would notify the sheriff. Sharon would call her mother, and Mildred would call the sheriff, Mooseville police, and state troopers; she was a woman of driving action. Would it occur to her to drive to the cabin and feed the cats? She was thoughtful that way; she had even worried about Captain Phlogg’s unpopular dog.
But how would she get into the cabin? There was an extra key, but it was hidden under the log rack on the porch. She might look under the doormat or over the door frame, but who would think of looking in a hollow log at the bottom of the log rack? … Qwilleran was getting hungry. He wished he’d had the deluxe half-pound cheeseburger with fries, instead of the quarter-pounder with salad.
At eight-thirty the surf was less menacing, but the island was still flooded. An unhealthy yellow light illumined the sky, and gray funnel clouds could be seen over the mainland.
Bushy said, “I should have paid some attention to my horoscope this morning. It told me to stay home and do chores that I’d been putting off.”
Roger said, “My horoscope said I’d take a trip, and this is one trip I’ll never forget-that is, if I live. Something tells me I’m a candidate for pneumonia.”
“Maybe I’d better start reading those things,” Qwilleran said grimly.
“When I was born,” Bushy said, “my parents had a neighbor who could write horoscopes, and she was supposed to be quite good. My parents had her do one for me, and she said I’d live a long life, so there’s nothing for you guys to worry about tonight.”
“That’s your horoscope, not mine,” said Roger. “I’m ready for an oxygen tent.”
“This astrologer also said I’d be a portrait-painter (that’s not too far off-base) and I’d marry a Capricorn (that’s Vicki’s sign) and my weak point would be my head. It sounded like I wouldn’t have all my marbles, but I turned out to have a pretty good IQ and no hair!”