Blood of the Albatross Page 31

  A bright, burning ball of orange flame rocketed through the hatch, barely grazing Chu’s left cheek and igniting his black hair. Chu dropped the knife onto the deck, slapped his head frantically, and hollered. The orange flare arced lazily into the sky, falling back toward the water.

  Jay fumbled for the remaining three cartridges—blue, red, yellow—and stuffed them into his pocket. With his free hand he picked up the butcher knife, remembering he still had the smaller knife taped to his calf.

  The Chinaman. Jay could still see the crude stick drawing Jocko had smeared on the dash in his own blood. The Chinaman.

  Jay jabbed the blue cartridge into the flaregun as he hurried aft and up through the companionway. He reached the big wheel and spun it violently to starboard. The change in direction dropped Chu, who was headed back toward Jay. He leaned out over the rail, his hand only finding the tiny stay at the last second to prevent his going overboard. Jay rushed ahead, planted his elbows on top of the companionway hatch, and squeezed the trigger. The ball of fire roared into Chu’s left shoulder, bounced off, fell to the deck, and hissed as it tumbled into the water.

  Chu tore at his smoldering T-shirt as he rushed Jay. Jay tried to reload the flaregun but dropped the red cartridge. He bent to retrieve it, setting down the butcher knife, but the shell rolled away from his groping hands, spinning and winding its way around the floor of the cockpit.

  Chu jumped into the cockpit.

  Jay dove out, face first, onto the starboard decking and clambered to his feet. He felt Chu’s grip on his ankle. Kicking hard, he tore loose, simultaneously knocking the knife from Chu’s hand. The knife bounced once on the deck and fell into the water. Chu followed it with his eyes. Instinctively, Jay reached down, withdrew the blade from his calf and rammed it with all his strength into Chu’s chest, letting go and stepping back. Chu stared down at the knife. Then Jay heard Jocko’s voice: “Never leave the knife in the opponent, or you give him a chance to use it against you.”

  Chu yanked out the weapon without a whimper. Blood ran from the wound. His black eyes glistened, and a peculiar smile spread across his face. He lunged at Jay, nicking his arm and drawing blood. Jay scooted backward in terror, unable to take his eyes off Chu. Thoughts flooded his brain, along with a building guilt. He had tried to kill another man. He backpedaled, worming his way around the edge of the rear cabin as Chu moved slowly toward him, bleeding badly but readying himself for the kill. Chu knew knives. That much was obvious.

  He did not know boats, however. Jay crouched, hurried to a point beyond the rear mizzen boom, and stood up quickly—a move Chu mimicked. Then Jay leaned with all his strength into the boom and smashed it into Chu like a giant, slow-moving baseball bat. Chu raised a hand to fend off the boom. Jay dropped back to his knees, hooked a forearm around Chu’s right ankle, and pulled violently. Chu was lifted off his feet and smashed onto the deck, his shoulder striking a large cleat. He let out a guttural cry.

  Jay ran around the port side of the rear cabin and leaped into the cockpit, grasping the butcher knife and picking up the flaregun. Withdrawing the one remaining flare from his pocket, he rammed it into the gun just as Chu landed on both feet in front of him. He spun and side-kicked Jay in the chest, hurling him back with such force that Jay hit the lip of the hatch and tumbled awkwardly into the galley, crashing to the floorboards on his broken fingers.

  The searing pain blotted out everything, so that conscience no longer existed in Jay Becker, only instinct. He ran forward below-decks and waited for Chu’s move, waited to see if Chu would come down or stay on deck.

  Chu leaped into the galley, avoiding the teak steps altogether. The radio barked static. Chu tore the radio off the wall.

  Jay did not look behind. When he heard Chu, he reached up through the forward hatch and pulled himself up painfully, rolling onto the deck. He slammed the hatch closed and moved quickly back to the cockpit.

  Cat and mouse, he thought. Cat and mouse.

  He expected Chu to come back toward the cockpit. Jay picked up the flaregun from the floor of the cockpit and aimed, waiting for Chu. Then he saw that Chu had opened the hatch and climbed through. He was standing at the bow. Jay fell toward the throttle and pulled it forward, doubling the engine speed. Still on his belly, his arm bleeding, Jay scooted forward and spun the wheel with all his strength.

  The boat lurched forward as Jay yanked the throttle and Chu lost his balance. The boat jerked to starboard, and Chu, trying too quickly to regain his balance, was totally unprepared for the sudden change in direction. Jay rammed his fingers into the spokes of the moving steering wheel to stop it, screaming at the top of his lungs; he spun the wheel in the opposite direction and, hooking his foot over the gear lever, pulled violently, grinding the gears into reverse.

  Chu stumbled backward, toward the bowsprit, confusion written on his face. His foot caught on the anchor mount and he went over the bow of The Lady Fine. Jay rose to his knees and straightened the wheel, immediately kicking the gear lever forward. Instinct. He turned the wheel slightly to port. He felt the man’s body bump underneath the port hull. He pulled hard to starboard and heard the diesel groan as the boat lurched heavily, throwing Jay into the steering wheel and banging his head against it. He had run the Chinaman over with the throttle wide open. He scurried to the stern, hanging onto the rail, gasping for breath. The mangled corpse surfaced twenty feet back. Jay turned his head to look away. He had never seen anything that grotesque… the Chinaman was dead.

  42

  He dropped anchor, though not where Holst’s note had told him to. Were Holst and the Samoan goon waiting for him on shore? Was this the end of the line? When Chu did not return, what would Holst do? Too many questions.

  His wound was not deep, not even too painful. He wrapped it and the bleeding stopped.

  He took The Lady’s flaregun and its one remaining shell with him. He wore a pair of Marlene’s blue jeans—unbuttoned at the waist—and a black turtleneck as he climbed into the Zodiac raft and motored silently through the darkness toward shore, keeping an eye on the area where moments earlier he had seen the flare in the woods.

  The water was still. The raft glided along effortlessly. A quarter-moon crept above the horizon, its dim blue-gray light kissing the tops of the tall Saltspring Island cedars. Jay kept his head low in case Holst had spotted the Zodiac. The short trip seemed to take forever. Somewhere on this island Marlene was being held hostage. He looked down at his butchered fingers, and, at the same time, thought of Jocko.

  The shore was littered with fist-sized stones. Jay rocked the motor forward and dragged the heavy raft ashore. In a half-crouch, he scurried into the woods and waited for sights or sounds. Nothing. Perhaps they had not seen him. He looked out at the anchored Lady Fine, admiring her lines in the moonlight. What was Holst thinking now? Could he see the boat from where he was, or was he waiting at a point up the shore, around one of the jagged points of land? Jay walked northeast, following the edge of the trees for perhaps ten minutes, when he spotted a dark cabin off to his left, nestled in a small clearing. He approached the cabin cautiously, detouring well around to the left, in order to arrive from the island side, expecting that if anyone was guarding the place, it would be from the water side. The cabin had a single chimney and two small windows in front. Jay stepped from tree to tree, easily hiding himself, until he was within a few yards of the cabin. He crouched again and ran to the south side, heart pounding, and pressed his body flat against the windowless log wall. He was light-headed from fear and anticipation. He edged around the west side of the small building, keeping low until he was below a window. He mustered his courage, rose quickly, and peered inside. The cabin, dark and still, showed no signs of life. He moved to the next window. Nothing.

  Wrong cabin.

  He stayed higher in the woods for the next few minutes, moving steadily, parallel with the shoreline, from tree to tree, pausing, listening, pausing. He guessed he was about half a mile from the first cabin when he det
ected the muffled sounds of shouting. The sound of voices made him feel safer, anxiety had built up while he crept through the dark, overgrown forest, and voices—any voices—were a comfort.

  He moved toward the sounds until he spotted a second cabin. It looked much like the first, old and decrepit, except it was larger and of frame construction, with shingled siding instead of logs. Two chimneys jutted upward, one on either end. There were two windows to the left of the front door and a single window to the right. Yellow lantern light shone from every window. He hid behind a tree and watched two silhouettes move with seeming randomness inside the room to the left of the front door. He proceeded tree by tree around to the right of the building, away from the windows, and again, ran to the side wall, flattening himself. He moved toward the water and rounded a corner. The clearing stretched down to a short dock with a rowboat upside down upon it. Jay realized a point of land did indeed block sight of The Lady Fine from here, and wondered if Holst knew it was anchored just beyond. He peeked through a crack in a curtain. There was Marlene, asleep in a chair, her face battered, all alone in a room. He pushed silently against the window, but it didn’t budge. He wondered where Galpin’s backup was. Hurry up, he thought.

  His heart raced. He held the flaregun in his right hand and eased his way carefully onto the back landing, twisting the doorknob slowly. The door opened silently and he stepped into the dark kitchen, hearing Holst’s voice more clearly now. A door from the kitchen led to a small entranceway that had two other doors leading to small rooms off of it: one to the right, with Holst and whomever arguing, the other, to the left, with Marlene inside. Becker stood in the kitchen. The two men continued to argue. He stepped through the hallway and into the room where Marlene was sleeping.

  She awakened; her head swung toward him. He raised the flaregun to his lips, indicating silence. Her face and legs were badly bruised. A deep sadness swept through him. It wasn’t pity, or fear, but simply a deep, lingering sadness. He loved her—not infatuation, not friendship—but love. Their eyes met. She tried to hide her face from him.

  The arguing stopped. The Samoan stomped into the kitchen and the back door slammed. Jay turned.

  A board creaked in the hallway. Jay stepped back and knelt behind a chest of drawers. Then he realized he had laid the flaregun down on the small table. Holst entered the room. He stood alongside the table, sensing something, his hand nearly brushing the flaregun. Then he spotted it.

  “Now!” Marlene shouted, and Jay jumped up quickly, dumping over the chest of drawers. He charged Holst, who yelled, “Donnie!” and Jay thought, I’m screwed; I’ll be outnumbered.

  Holst grabbed the flaregun and fired. But Jay was already diving to body-block Holst at the shins. Holst collapsed to the floor. The flare started a small fire on the bed beyond Marlene. Jay lunged at Holst. Then he heard the Samoan throw open the kitchen door. Jay scrambled to his feet and fled through the living room, out the front door, running hard. He heard Holst yelling for the Samoan to get moving. The Samoan had not followed.

  He sprinted, dodging trees, ripping through sections of dense underbrush, and in what seemed like two minutes, reached the other cabin. Still running, he angled toward the water, slowing as the footing became more rocky. He tripped over a fallen log, banging his aching hands into a bed of small rocks. He rolled, bruising his left shoulder, and lay panting on the shoreline. He couldn’t hear anyone behind him, but he was tenor-stricken just the same, his heart pumping hard from the sprint, his teeth chattering with fear. Get hold of yourself! he demanded, unable to move, lying frozen on a bed of rocks. Slowly, he managed to get to his feet and then, summoning what little courage he had, he searched the shoreline for the Zodiac and found it. Don’t think about the Samoan; don’t think about the German; don’t think about that flare missing you by inches; don’t think about leaving Marlene with them again. But it wasn’t that simple.

  43

  He needed a weapon. He motored the Zodiac back to The Lady Fine. He came up with a plan and went about implementing it. He spent five minutes sabotaging the Zodiac, unhooking the battery from its electric motor and tossing it overboard. If, through the moonlight, Holst had seen him return to The Lady, then the presence of the Zodiac would convince him that Jay was still aboard. But with the Zodiac out of commission, whoever rowed out to the sailboat would also have to row back in, thus giving Jay more time. He turned on a light, making it look as though he was aboard. He changed back into shorts, keeping his Topsiders on. Then it struck him that this was it. He was going to go wait it out on shore. If someone came out toward The Lady then maybe he would try something; if they didn’t, then he would wait for Galpin. Either way, he decided it wasn’t worth the risk of leaving the computers on board. If something went wrong now, if he failed, then at least Holst would fail, too. He punched two holes in all four cardboard boxes and watched the machines gurgle into the depths. The television followed in case it had something important, too. He hoped it was the right thing to do. But it was done. The spearguns were stored forward with the skin-diving gear. He took the biggest speargun from the hold and slipped overboard, praying it wouldn’t be the last time he saw The Lady Fine.

  Where the hell was Galpin?

  The water was very cold. He swam to shore in ten minutes, and had been sitting against a log for another ten when he spotted the vague shape of a dory round the point, oars moving like slow wings. He decided to make his move. If they had gone for the gear and found it missing, Holst might kill Marlene. Jay had forced his own hand. His ruse had obviously worked: they thought he was aboard. He knew he now had the element of surprise. But not for long. How long to row out and back? Ten minutes? Twenty?

  He crouched and stitched his way through the fallen timber, taking the same route back toward the cabin. Adrenaline filled him and his heart pounded hard. He had a speargun. He had used a speargun before. The only question in his mind now was whether or not he could use it on a human. He wouldn’t dare try a leg shot: too little target, he thought, as he moved quickly toward the cabin, wondering who would be guarding Marlene. He reached the front yard and moved silently toward the cabin. He stretched the speargun’s rubber cord back to the farthest notch and edged over to the window. The Samoan, ten feet from Marlene, was pacing the room nervously. That meant Holst was in the dory—climbing on board The Lady about now. He noticed the room’s single lantern. If he could only get inside and break the lantern, he might buy enough time to get her out…

  Becker turned the handle to the front door. Its rusty hinge squeaked. He flung the door open, stepped inside, and spread his feet apart, aiming the speargun, waiting.

  The Samoan hurried into the front room, stopping abruptly at the sight before him. He fumbled for something in his pocket.

  Jay saw the bulge in the Samoan’s pocket. He aimed and pulled the trigger, releasing the spear. The contraption made a snapping sound, the spear whirred through the air, and the Samoan roared as it embedded deeply into his abdomen, buckling him over. As he spun around, Jay saw the spear protruding out his back. The Samoan staggered, then fell to the floor, breaking an arm off a chair on his way down.

  Jay hurried over to Marlene, stepping over the Samoan, who was unconscious but breathing. As he began to cut through the rope that bound Marlene, he heard a helicopter approaching. Finally, he thought, finally they’ve come to help.

  44

  Hearing the helicopter, seeing the lights overhead, was the first true relief Jay had felt in weeks. He wrapped an arm around Marlene, a smile pasted on his face. “It’s the FBI,” he said. They followed me the whole way.”

  But Marlene knew Holst’s plans. “I don’t think so, Jay,” she said.

  “Yes, it is. A man named Galpin. They caught me at Carkeek Park, where I had taken The Lady. I didn’t want to do it. They gave me no choice…” His voice faded into the roar of the chopper. It was still twilight, and though the chopper had been silhouetted against the sky, as it passed below the tops of the tall evergreens, d
escending to the small opening that fronted the cabin, Jay couldn’t see any government markings. The smile disappeared from his face. He turned as Marlene broke loose from him and ran to the Samoan’s still body.

  “It’s Wilhelm, Jay. He’s the boss. Help me. Please, help me.” She was trying to drag Mota’s body into the only closet in the tiny foyer.

  Jay stood numbly at the window. He saw the helicopter—with pontoons instead of wheels—hovering as a man jumped to the ground. The chopper climbed back into the sky. The man approached the cabin with a briefcase in hand.

  “Jay!” she hissed at him. “Hurry.”

  He ran to her side and helped her drag the Samoan’s body into the closet. Jay bent over, frantically searching the Samoan’s pockets. “The gun!” he whispered.

  “Holst has it.” She pulled on his shirt, tugging the confused Jay out of the closet, then threw the speargun on top of the body and closed the closet door. “Hide over there.” She pointed to the door. “I will stall him. He expects me to meet him here.” Marlene pulled a dusty throw rug over the bloodstains and sat down quickly in the only chair in the room, facing the doorway.

  Jay took his last hurried step as the door opened. He watched the man’s back through the crack. He had broad shoulders and was wearing a Gore-Tex jacket and what looked like an old hunting hat. A walkie-talkie was strapped to his waist. He stopped as he saw her and set down the briefcase. “You must be Marlene.”

  “Yes, and you, the Mariner,” she said, using the code name that she had been directed to use.

  He nodded and looked up, as if he could see through the roof of the house. “The helicopter must refuel in Nanaimo. It will return shortly,” he explained. “It will land out by the boat, and we will board it there. Where is Albatross?”