Samantha responded to the slight pressure of his hand as though he were whispering instructions through his fingers.
They came up off the beach and onto the dock, using the steps at the western end, and then moving onto the planking, Samantha’s sneakers making a slight squeaking sound as they ran toward the Chris-Craft — it was funny how he heard the sound of her sneakers, expecting a bullet in the back at any moment — and then miraculously climbing aboard the boat unharmed and ducking into the cabin. “Get below,” he said to her, and automatically reached for the key in the boat’s ignition. His hand almost closed on air; his hand almost did a classic take, grasping for the key, finding nothing in the ignition slot. And then he tried to remember whether the key was hanging on the keyboard in the repair shop or whether — wait, hadn’t Jason been using this boat? Of course he had; it had been out on the water alongside the cutter not more than.
Then the key was up on the command bridge.
Samantha had gone down the two steps leading to the galley, and she turned now and looked up at him and whispered, “What is it?”
“The key,” he said. “I’ve got to go topside.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No. Stay below. If the key’s up there, I’m going to start the boat and head out.”
“You’ll need me to cast off.”
“There’s only a single line on her.”
“Stiff.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“All right,” Luke said. “Come.”
They were moving out of the cabin when they heard the footsteps at the far end of the dock.
“What—”
“Shhh.”
They stood breathlessly in the boat’s cockpit, waiting, listening to the sound of heavy boots on the wooden planking. The man would be armed; there was no question about that. If they tried for the bridge now — no, their only hope was that he would pass the boat by.
Luke said nothing. Again his fingers touched hers lightly, and he guided her below, past the galley and the dinette and into the forward stateroom where the sleeping berths angled into a V shape, one wing of the V on either side of the bow. Luke closed the door and then opened it again a crack, listening. The footsteps on the pier were closer. He listened.
The footsteps stopped.
Beside him, Samantha caught her breath. He pressed her hand reassuringly. He waited.
The boat moved only slightly, there was only the faintest creaking of timber, but Luke knew the man had stepped aboard. He quickly closed the door, and turned and looked directly into Samantha’s face. Her expression was one of trapped horror, the eyes wide, the nostrils flaring, the lips slightly parted over clenched teeth. He suddenly wondered if the same expression was on his face. He heard heavy footsteps on the vinyl cockpit deck aft and above. The stateroom was perhaps eight feet across at the widest point of the V, with a narrow two feet of deck space between the berths. There was little more than six feet of headroom, and the apex of the V was no more than two feet wide with a curtained narrow locker pointing into the bow and with two larger lockers running beneath the berths, one on either side of the boat, the length of the berths.
There was nowhere else to hide.
He pushed open the sliding door on the locker below the berth on the starboard side. Samantha did not say a word. She dropped to her knees and crawled into the narrow space, utilizing a curiously awkward half-sliding motion, getting in headfirst and then pulling her knees up, and unfolding her legs only when she was completely inside the locker.
“Okay?” Luke whispered.
“Yes,” she whispered back.
“I’m going to slide the door shut,” Luke whispered. “Don’t move from where you are, and don’t say another word until I open it again. Have you got that?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good. I’ll be here. Don’t be frightened.”
He slid the door shut and then turned rapidly to the port side of the stateroom. He heard footsteps on the ladder leading below. He slid open the locker door quickly, and then tried the same crawling, sliding technique Samantha had used, but discovered his legs were too long; he could not pull his knees up. The footsteps were in the galley now. He came out of the locker and tried the opposite approach, putting his legs in first, bending them at the knee as he lay on one side and then hoisting his behind up over the sill and rolling over onto his shoulder as the footsteps hesitated just outside the closed stateroom door. Ducking his head, he was entirely inside the narrow locker now. He put his palm flat against the inside of the sliding door and prayed it would not squeak when he closed it.
He pushed it closed in one swift movement not an instant before the door to the stateroom opened.
In the darkness, lying with his arms folded across his chest and his legs cramped against either side of the locker, he closed his eyes and waited.
In a little while he heard the stateroom door open and close again. Someone greeted the man just outside the stateroom. They laughed and began talking. He could not hear their words clearly. He kept listening.
The men were not leaving the boat.
The volunteer firemen from Big Pine Key, twenty-five men in two modern fire engines, arrived on Ocho Puertos within five minutes after Sondra Lasky had telephoned. They made a screeching right turn onto S-811, almost knocking over the barricade at the mouth of the road. Danny Latham, the fire chief, swung down from the cab of the first engine, swore under his breath and yelled for a man to help him clear the road. They hopped back into the trucks as soon as they had moved the obstruction, and then rolled into the town, directly to Costigan’s Marina, where smoke was still billowing up from the paint shop.
“How’d this get started?” Latham asked a colored fellow who was trying to fight the blaze, along with six or seven other men in dungaree trousers and chambray shirts.
“We’re Coast Guard,” the colored fellow answered. “Checking the boats here at the marina because of that hurricane.”
“Oh yeah, I see,” Latham said. “How’d the fire start?”
“Somebody smoking there in the paint shop,” the colored fellow said.
“Well, we’ll have it out for you in no time,” Latham said. He glanced around and then asked, “Where’s Luke?”
“He was with the skipper last I seen him. Taking care of the boats.”
“You really think this hurricane’s gonna hit?” Latham said.
“We’ll know better when we get the next advisory,” the colored fellow said.
“When’ll that be?”
“Five o’clock.”
“Yeah,” Latham said. “Get that hose in there!” he shouted to one of his men. “My name’s Latham,” he told the colored fellow, “Danny Latham.” He extended his hand.
“Harry Barnes,” the colored fellow answered, and shook his hand.
In five minutes’ time, the fire was out.
Latham’s men hosed down the shop once again, and then packed their gear. A Coast Guard officer named Jason Trench came over to thank Latham for his assistance, and promised to personally deliver Latham’s good wishes to Luke Costigan as soon as he returned from the cove where he was mooring some boats.
The fire engines left at four thirty-four.