Sweet Dreams, Irene

I laid the end of the barrel against Gannet’s temple. His face was beet red with anger. Jack started by pulling Gannet’s lifejacket off, causing the beet red color to go to a clammy white. “He can’t swim,” I said.

“Even if he could, he’d never make it to shore. Especially not just kicking.” He tied Gannet’s hands behind him. Judging from Gannet’s grimace, Jack made better knots.

“Stevens will kill the both of you!” he growled.

“I doubt it,” Jack said evenly, dragging Gannet to his feet. “It will take him a while to understand that we haven’t met him as planned, and then to turn around and find us. I’ll be ready for him when he arrives.” He went to a duffel bag and pulled out a pair of binoculars, a first-aid kit, and a flare gun. He went above with these, then came back down.

He opened another compartment and pulled out a knife. There was a visible tension in him now, and a look in his eyes that made me suddenly aware of a side of Jack that I had not really seen, or which I had ignored, until now. A very dangerous side.

He came up behind Gannet and grabbed his chin, pulling Gannet’s head back hard, holding it against his shoulder. He laid the edge of the knife up against Gannet’s exposed neck. When he spoke, his voice was deadly cold. “The last time I used one of these,” he said into Gannet’s ear, “it was to kill my own son. My own son, Gannet. Don’t imagine for a minute that I would hesitate to kill the man who put a lot of crazy ideas into that boy’s head. As you no doubt pointed out to Paul, I’m dying. What have I got to lose? In fact, it’s a miracle that I haven’t slit you from your fucking neck down to your balls already.”

Gannet whimpered.

“We understand one another?”

“Yes,” Gannet croaked.

“Then go on up that ladder.” Jack moved back a step and grabbed Gannet by the collar, then forced him ahead, up the ladder.

“Can you make it up here?” Jack called to me, his voice gentle and coaxing.

“Yes,” I answered, finding my own voice shaky all the same. I took the wrench out of my sling, and putting the safety on the gun, tucked it where the wrench had been. I worked my way up the ladder.

“You said you couldn’t make it up the steps!” Gannet whined when he saw me.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jack said. The cold voice. He turned to me. “You’ve still got the gun?” The gentle voice.

I nodded, pulling it out. Jack reached for it, took the safety off, and handed it back to me.

“If he moves one inch,” Jack said calmly, “shoot him.”

I nodded again.

He took out the flare gun and fired it. The flare boomed, then glowed to life, lighting up sea and sky, a solitary firework arcing above us. Even as the light of it faded, Jack prepared a second flare.

We heard a motor approaching, all of us knowing it was probably Stevens. Jack set the flare gun aside, stood up, stretched, and picked up the knife again, smiling reassuringly at me. I wasn’t especially comforted. He walked over to Gannet, yanked him hard to his feet, and held the knife to Gannet’s throat, just as he had below. Gannet started whimpering again.

“When Stevens gets closer, point the gun at him, Irene,” Jack said easily.

Unaware that his boss was now a hostage, Stevens pulled alongside and shouted, “What the hell is wrong? Everyone on the damned coast probably saw that flare.” I tried to keep my aim steady and level.

“Cut your engines,” Jack shouted.

Stevens finally took in the situation. Still, he hesitated.

“For godsakes, do it!” Gannet screeched.

The engines were cut.

“Good,” Jack said, as if praising a small child. “Now slowly take your gun from its holster and throw it overboard. Do it very carefully.”

He reluctantly did as Jack told him.

“Fine. I’ll give you three choices, Mr. Stevens. Choice number one: watch me slice Gannet’s gullet from stem to stern, immediately after which, Miss Kelly will shoot you. Choice number two: I push Gannet into the water, we allow you to watch him drown, and then Miss Kelly shoots you. Choice number three: you use your radio to make a distress call for the Pandora, and Miss Kelly doesn’t shoot you.”

Not surprisingly, Stevens chose number three. But even before he had finished raising the mike, we heard a Coast Guard cutter rapidly approaching. They turned on a high-powered beam, bathing the deck of the Pandora in bright light. I’m sure we made quite a sight. As they drew nearer, I saw a worried guy in a suit looking down over the rail at us.

Even worried, Frank Harriman was a welcomed sight.

Epilogue

THE END TABLE wouldn’t do. Like almost every other surface in Beatrice Harriman’s household, it was cluttered with knickknacks and mementos. Photographs. Doilies. Sea shells. Ceramic frogs. Nature abhors a vacuum; so does Frank’s mother. I couldn’t find a place with enough free space to hold the fine bone china cup and saucer in my left hand.

Frank was sitting next to me on his mother’s white, very soft sofa, listening to her animated telling of news of his old Bakersfield friends. He was drinking his coffee. Bea Harriman was drinking hers. I was watching mine grow cold.

Unable to use my right hand, I couldn’t lift the cup off the saucer. I thought about trying to set the saucer on my lap, but thanks to the softness of the sofa, my lap was at about a forty-five-degree angle. I couldn’t even stand up.