Leber’s head rotated side to side, like a lighthouse beacon, scanning the deck, running calculations. Then, I saw it.
“Hey, he’s not here. Can we fire this thing up and get back to shore? I think he went over. The guy’s fish food.”
Leber looked at me. “You sure? You think he just went in the drink?”
“Nut job like that? For sure.” As I said this, I pointed at the non-descript white bench that comes standard in every fishing boat to hold various nautical supplies like a fish bat, rope, flares, and life preservers.
Leber leveled the gun at the bench and crouched, maintaining balance as the waves continued to rock us. “Yeah, yeah, ok, Boise. You get ‘er started, I go make sure my rowboat’s secure.”
Without looking away from the bench, he nodded me toward the steering wheel. I went and started the engine. It fired up on the first turn, idling and sputtering as it kicked water and dirty fumes.
Leber continued the act, boldly climbing on top of the bench, then getting up on the gunwale again where our boat continued to bang against the side of the fishing vessel.
“Not quite secure, Boise,” Leber said, making sure it was clear to anyone hiding that he was now behind the bench with no clear shot. “I’m gonna tie it tighter.”
I smiled and turned around, knowing that Leber was signaling we were both preoccupied and using our hands, therefore not holding guns. The lid inched open and the tip of the arrow peeked out, pointing right at me. I saw a reflection in the whites of Jermaine’s eyes,
“Freeze, motherfucker!” Leber demanded.
“I got your boy in my sights,” Jermaine said. His white teeth glistened as he grinned. “You ain’t faster...”
Leber shot him twice from above through the lid of the bench.
I hustled over and yanked open the lid. Leber maintained his position, gun still held by both hands in a classic shooter’s stance. Along with a shattered elbow, Jermaine now sported two red wounds center mass. His eyes and his mouth were all open, but neither recognition nor breath lived there any longer. The glock he’d been holding earlier was beside him, a back-up weapon in case he missed with the crossbow.
Chapter 32
After retrieving my phone from Gilroy, I found it was drenched. I started to mash the power button.
“Don’t try to use it. Put it in dry rice for at least a few hours,” Leber said. I stuffed it back in my pocket and extended my hand. He pulled out his phone. It slipped out of his fingers, plunking into the ocean.
“Shit!” Leber yelled, his hands trembling.
“Probably no reception anyway,” I said.
“Goddamn case,” he growled.
“By the way, how did you find me?”
I DRY HEAVED OVER THE side three more times on the way back to shore. My stomach was as dry as an Englishman’s sense of humor. We got back to the guesthouse and demanded a whiskey after pounding on the bar to get Lucy’s attention.
Lucy shuffled out of the kitchen. “Is seven in da morning, Boise. You need coffee, not whiskey. Maybe eggs.”
The thought of runny eggs almost sent me into dry heaves again.
“Lucy, after the night we had, I need a whiskey. Single-malt.”
“I save your life once already today. I ain’t doin’ it again.”
She was right. The only reason Leber had even known I was kidnapped was because of Lucy, sitting up late on the porch again, playing solitaire. She’d spotted Gilroy and Jermaine shove me into their car and take off. She found Leber’s business card on my bedside table.
“The only place I could think to go was right back to where we’d found Francine. Crooks are so unimaginative,” Leber said.
“In a rowboat? In the dark?”
“I row before sunrise in that harbor every morning.”
“Lucky me,” I said.
I pulled out Leber’s ankle gun, a Kel-Tec PF-9, and handed it to him. He studied the gun, then handed it back.
“You know how to shoot this?”
“Sure, I can handle a basic weapon like this.”
“You keep it. I just acquired another.”
“Aren’t you worried about the registration?”
“Nope, but you’ll have to get your own ankle holster,” he said.
I pocketed the gun right before Marge popped up from behind the bar and poured me a Balvenie, two-fingers neat. I clutched her wrist and tilted another finger’s worth. The golden medicine warmed my gullet as I slumped over the gouge in the smooth surface made by a bullet years ago.
“One day you’re gonna have to tell me the story of this bullet hole,” I said. “They all have a story, right?”
Silent Marge proceeded to run water into a sink under the counter.
Hours later, I dozed on the couch under the check-in desk where Lucy slept when expecting a late night or early morning arrival. I hadn’t had the energy to trudge up the stairs to my room, and Leber was too drunk to carry me when he’d left. I rolled over to find Lucy’s knees at eye-level. She was greeting a guest; I waited patiently for her to conclude the transaction.
When I tapped her knee, she leapt back, cawing like a crow. “Boise! Watch those hands.”
She shooed me into the kitchen where Marge pulled an icepack from the freezer and placed it in my hand before gently pressing my hand up to my black eye. Marge held up ten fingers, closed one hand and opened another five fingers, then pointed at the egg timer. It ticked.
Fifteen minutes later, I forced myself to plod upstairs. I brushed and flossed for nearly ten minutes, chasing it with a warm shower. When I tried to shave, the hot water burned my raw face.
Moments after I was back in my room, my landline rang. Dana.
“Do I get an exclusive?”
This woman had a one-track mind.
“You back?”
“No,” she said in a pouty voice. “Fucking Pickering wants
