The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(23)

The long dock stretches in front of me. While it appears like the safe path, it’s not. They’d have a clear shot and could drop me before I make it to land.

I dive over the edge. Don’t even look. Just throw myself into the water, hands first, and swim.

A barnacle-covered dock pole scrapes my back as I slide past it.

When I feel the upswell of the water on the bottom, I open my eyes and see the silhouettes of the other boats in the moonlight.

I swim for the farthest one, Permanent Vacation, a fifty-foot Gulfstar sailboat that belongs to a man named Ed Acosta, a retired Pennsylvania schoolteacher and full-time pothead.

He keeps his boat anchored in the bay, away from the docks. I swim hard for it in hopes of keeping my pursuers as far back as possible.

I spend a half minute swimming and go all the way under the big boat’s keel to the small platform on the back.

I try to make as little noise as possible when I emerge.

“Ed?” I whisper as I slide onto the deck.

I can smell the scent of his weed. The interior is glowing from a television set.

“Ed . . . ?”

“Hello?”

His shaved head pokes out from his cabin. “Sloan? Rent due?”

“No. Call 911.”

“You hurt?” He starts to walk toward me.

“No. Stay down!” I scan the dock for my boat and see it rocking as someone steps onto the deck. “Call 911!”

“I don’t have a phone.”

I spot the outline of a man scanning the other boats from the deck of mine.

I duck and gesture for Ed to do the same.

“Seriously. Get down, now! Then radio it in.”





CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SHORELINE

From Ed’s boat I make a frantic call to Run, telling him to stay clear of the harbor. He knows from the tone of my voice not to ask any questions. There’s been a lot of that lately.

After that I call Captain Mercer at Fort Lauderdale while still keeping my head down low so I can’t be seen.

“Two men were on my boat. Armed. May still be there,” I say curtly.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes. I’m on another boat.”

“We’ve got units on the way. I’ll be over in a couple. Can you give me a description?”

I spurt out a few details mechanically, hardly even processing what I’m saying. Poor Ed, who only wanted to spend the evening getting high, is crouched at the base of the stairs with his radio microphone in his hand, watching me, waiting to see what happens next.

When I peek back over the edge, my boat is rocking again. My assailants probably just stepped off.

I have a momentary panic attack, afraid that they might decide to take another marina resident hostage, then remember that I’m the only one currently moored to my pier.

A bright light splashes over me and blinds me as it bounces off the white deck. I squint up at the police helicopter and point at my boat.

The spotlight turns to my craft, and the chopper begins a search pattern.

Red and blue lights appear in the parking lot, followed by the deafening roar of one of Fort Lauderdale’s marine-unit boats as it pulls up behind us.

I wave my arms in the air, letting them know I’m here. The boat pulls up alongside, and the spotlight tilts away.

I recognize the driver as Becky Vendable. I don’t know her well, but we’ve spoken a few times.

“You okay?” she shouts.

I give her a thumbs-up.

She speaks into the radio attached to her vest, then nods to me. “Patrol units are looking for a car that just left the area.”

She nods to two police officers running down the dock toward my boat. One of them stops and aims his light at the deck. I can’t hear what he says or see what he’s looking at, but he only spends a moment before moving ahead.

The officers reach the edge of my boat’s pier and kneel behind a dock locker.

Over the din of the helicopter and boats, I can’t make out their words, but they seem to be hailing my boat and telling whoever’s in there to surrender.

This goes on for what feels like a million years until four more police officers join them on the dock and provide cover.

I glance over and see that Becky Vendable has a shotgun resting on the console, trained on the bow of my boat. Hmm. That won’t be too useful at that range, especially with her own officers in between, but I keep my mouth shut.

A few minutes later, a police officer emerges from belowdecks and gives the all-clear sign.

“McPherson, hop aboard,” shouts Vendable.

I step into her boat.

Vendable takes us to an empty slip two piers over. I help her tie off, then climb up to the deck. At least six more patrol cars are in the parking lot. The helicopter veers off, probably in pursuit of the vehicle they spotted leaving.

When I get to the end of the pier, Captain Mercer is waiting for me.

I get ready for the billionth “Are you okay?” of the night.

Instead, he shakes his head and says, “What the hell?”

“You know what I know,” I reply.

“Are you sure?” He motions me over to the end of my dock. It’s being taped off as the other boats are searched.

Mercer aims his light at the wooden planks that run one hundred yards to the end of the pier. A long red smear stretches the entire distance, starting at my boat. Every few feet you can see partial footprints, as if someone were being half carried.