The Water Keeper(74)

The girl was weakening. She wouldn’t last another wave. I slammed the throttle forward, broke the bow through the next wave, rode the incoming wave up onto the floating dock, and banked the gunnel off the piling. The girl extended a hand, and I grabbed it as the next wave shot us off the dock and back out into the ocean.

Gunner had squatted below me. Whining. The girl flew across the space between us and I caught her with one arm while turning the wheel with the other. The wave landed over my shoulders and caught Gunner square in the chest, dragging him out from underneath me. I had one hand on the girl and one hand alternating between wheel and throttle as I watched the water drag him out the back of the boat. Water had filled the boat, and I’d lose the engine if I didn’t throttle up right now.

I screamed, “Gunner!” but there was no response.

He was gone.

With the girl latching on to me with a terrified death grip and another wave towering down on us, I swore, gave it all the throttle it could handle, and cursed myself for bringing him.





Chapter 33


We rode southwest. One minute passed. Then another. The water drained out the back as the engine steamed and smoked amid a deluge of salt water. I turned west-southwest and put the wind directly behind us, hoping to use the T-top as a sail. We picked up speed, banging from one wave crest to the next wave trough.

The loss of Gunner cut me deeply. I aimed my anger at the boat.

Ten minutes in, we’d crossed half the bay. In the distance, I could see the lights of the Card Sound Bridge, but there was no sign of the transport vessel. I had to choose. Black Point Marina or bridge. He went one way or the other. Given a boat that powerful and cargo that expensive, I figured he’d race under the bridge, hit the clear waters of Barnes Sound, and turn west for the Gulf, finding a channel through the flats. My guess was that he was either connecting with another larger yacht nearby or making for Key West tonight to make the transfer.

I chose the bridge. Despite the fact that we’d fueled up yesterday, my fuel gauge read less than 10 percent. I’d spent so much time throttling up and down waves, much of the time near full power, I’d burned through much of my fuel. The boat drained but conditions did not improve. Waves tossed us about like a rag doll. Five minutes in and my passenger was vomiting on the deck beneath me. Every time she did so, a wave broke over the gunnel and washed it out. This happened more than I cared to count. Finally, she just knelt on the floor next to me, dry heaving.

What should have taken twenty minutes took closer to forty. When we finally reached the bridge, my hands were cramping on the wheel and the girl lay beneath me, clinging to my legs, screaming. When we passed beneath the bridge, the Key appeared on our left and blocked the wind. The surface of the water changed from violent and full of rage to placid and almost peaceful in less than a quarter of a mile. Soon the water turned to glass.

I pulled the throttle to neutral, turned on my interior LED lights, and helped lift the girl to her feet. She had lost all control of her emotions and was screaming and beating the air wildly. I grabbed her hands, wrapped my arms around her, and held her. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re going to be okay. I won’t hurt you.”

After a few minutes, the reality of her situation sank in, and she must have believed me because screaming turned to whimpering to her collapsing in my arms. I set her on the bench, pressed her hair out of her face, and said, “I know you’re probably scared out of your mind, but do you know where that transport vessel is going?”

She shook her head.

“You sure? Anything you can tell me? Did you overhear anything?”

Another shake.

We were running on fumes, so I steered to a marina and a fuel pump protected in a cove on the north end of Key Largo. A Mexican restaurant next door. While she sat on the deck of the boat and cried, I filled the tank and studied the dark skyline for any sign of a moving boat. I also glanced behind me, looking for any sign of Gunner. But I knew better. We were seven miles or more from where he’d flown overboard. In a torrential sea.

Gunner was gone.

I tried not to think about the conversation with Clay.

I hugged the coastline. In the distance I could see the lights of the top floor of the resort. I wrapped a towel around the girl, throttled up to plane, and covered the few miles in just a few minutes. Rather than docking in my slip appointed by the check-in clerk, I circled southeast and came up inside the beach area. It was nearing four o’clock in the morning. The beach was lit, and all the lounge chairs were empty save one. I eased the bow up into shallow water, trimmed the engine, and came to a stop when the bow gently touched sand.

Summer stood from the chair, wiped her eyes, and saw me step from the boat carrying a female. She sprinted into the water, but seeing that I wasn’t carrying Angel, she grabbed a towel and covered the girl after I set her on a chair.

The girl was blonde. Cheerleader looks. College age. Maybe a sophomore. Doubtful she was a senior. Dressed in Daisy Dukes and a T-shirt, she wore a bathing suit underneath, which suggested she’d been taken from somewhere near the water with the intention of getting into it. A quick examination told me she was unhurt save her emotions and mental capacities, which might take a while to heal.

Once she quit sobbing, I knelt and said, “I need you to tell me what happened, and I need you to do it quickly.”

Summer tapped my shoulder. “Where’s Gunner?”