him.
‘Not until you convince Cousin Gus,’ said John, without opening his eyes.
‘He’s convinced. Right, Gus?’ I grabbed John’s collar and dragged him to his feet. He stood swaying, head on one side, like Petrouchka, in the ballet of the same name.
‘If you say so,’ Gus agreed doubtfully. ‘Where are the other evil men?’
‘Locked up.’
‘Temporarily.’ John straightened, with some effort. ‘I fear this isn’t the time to break out the champagne, Mr Jonsson. You wouldn’t happen to have an extra boat hidden away?’
‘Only in the boathouse,’ Gus said. ‘We must telephone to the police . . . No. They have cut the wires?’
‘And smashed your shortwave.’
‘Then one of us must go for help.’ Gus flexed his arms and shoulders. I had to admire the quickness with which his mind worked; he had considered and comprehended the possibilities before I could explain them. He went on, ‘They would also immobilize the boats, yes. Very well. I shall swim to the other side. Vicky will lock herself in the cellar with the gun, and you to protect her . . .’
‘Or vice versa,’ said John, as Gus studied him dubiously. ‘Tell him, Vicky. He seems to lack confidence in me.’
Looking at Gus, I almost believed he could do it. John was the subject of my concern now. The last blow on the head hadn’t done him any good. He caught my eye and grinned, in the old mocking fashion.
‘I’d prefer to take my chances with Mother Nature,’ he said. ‘Maybe we won’t have to swim. Come along.’
Another spatter of rain struck stingingly into my face as we crossed the barnyard. Thunder rumbled distantly. A shaft of light streaked the sky to the north.
‘Did you see that?’ I grabbed John’s arm.
He let out a hiss of pain and shook me off. ‘What?’
‘Lightning. Only it wasn’t. Thunder comes after the flash, not before.’
‘Flashlight?’
‘Looked like it.’
‘Damn. I thought we’d have more time.’
‘Tell me what to do,’ Gus said calmly.
‘Run,’ John said, and set the example.
After hanging coyly around all day, the storm had made up its mind to move in. Lightning wove patterns jagged as the designs on Celtic goldwork across the tarnished silver of the sky. The rain began in earnest as we approached the garden; within seconds I was soaked to the skin, and water was running down the path like a little river. Gus hobbled like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, but he hobbled fast, and he was more surefooted than I on the steep wooden stairs.
John slammed the boathouse doors and barred them. It was almost as dark as midnight inside; but John has eyes like a cat’s; as Gus moved toward the switch, he snapped, ‘No lights. Let them look for us.’
‘I have a flashlight,’ I said.
‘I knew you would. Keep it down, away from the window.’
Gus swore extensively in Swedish when he saw the havoc wrought among his boats. When John grunted, ‘Give me a hand, you two,’ we helped tug at the rowboat’s painter. I had forgotten how heavy a waterlogged boat can be; it seemed to take forever to haul it up onto the deck. John groped under one of the seats and fished out a roll of some material that shone greasily in the narrow beam of the flashlight.
‘Mr Jonsson, get ready to open the outer doors,’ he said.
I watched in mounting disbelief as he spread the piece of leather over the hole in the bottom of the boat. It looked like – it surely was – the side of a calfskin suitcase.
‘Oars,’ John said to me.
‘I’d rather swim.’
‘You may have to.’
‘John, that won’t – ’
‘It’s waterlogged and somewhat adhesive. One of us will have to sit on it, that’s all. And bail like hell.’
He grabbed a can from the shelves and gave it to me. I gave it back. ‘You sit, you bail like hell. Where are the damned oars? Oh – I’ve got them.’
‘Ready,’ Gus called.
‘Okay, open up lights out, Vicky.’ Before I pressed the switch, I saw John lower himself into the boat. His face was screwed up like that of a man expecting to get hit with a pie.
‘Well,’ he said, out of the darkness, ‘it hasn’t sunk yet. Hop in.’
I had a brief argument with Gus, who wanted to do the rowing. I took one oar, he took the other. After a nerve-wracking false start we got into the rhythm, and the boat shot out into open water. Gus laughed with pure pleasure. ‘What is the phrase – a chip off the old block?’
I would have acknowledged the compliment, but the full force of the waves hit just then, and we had to do some fancy rowing to keep from being swamped. I let Gus do most of the work, for he was the expert, following his orders mechanically. After a few frenzied moments he had us heading into the wind. John bailed like a madman, but there was a lot of water sloshing around in the bottom, and the boat’s response to the oars was unpleasantly sluggish.
Still, it was better than swimming, if hardly less wet, and a great deal better than playing games with Leif and Max. The storm was directly overhead now; thunder boomed like a bass drum arpeggio, the rain was an icy shower, lightning ripped the dark apart. In between thunderclaps I heard John swearing as he bailed. The water seemed to be coming in faster than he threw it out. I didn’t care. I was filled with a crazy exhilaration that brushed aside the weather, the leaky boat, and the ache across my shoulder blades as I bent and straightened in time with Gus. He was as fey as I; he started to sing in a reverberant baritone. I assumed from the rhythm that it was a classic Swedish boating song, so I joined in with ‘Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing. . .’
The rain began to slacken. A finger of paler grey parted the clouds. The boat moved like a dying animal, but my wild spirits refused to be squelched. We were all right now. Even if the boat sank, we could make it. In a few minutes we’d be in Gus’s warm, dry car, speeding along the road to town.
‘Loud the winds blow,’ I sang, ‘loud the waves – ’
He came up out of the water in a great soaring leap, like a demonic creature half-fish and half-man. Water streaming from his hair and body surrounded him with a ghastly green glow of phosphorescence.
My voice rose to a high note that is not part of ‘The Skye Boat Song.’ The others hadn’t seen him; Gus was staring soulfully at the storm, and John was bent over bailing. My shriek alerted them in time to observe Leif’s next appearance. He was on the same side of the boat – my side. He moved in the choppy water as if it were his natural element, perfectly at ease, smiling . . . One bronzed arm lifted and came down, delicately, gently. A beaded line of blood sprang up across the back of my hand, blurring as it spread.
Leif went under. The boat dipped; water began trickling in over the gunwales. Not much water – he didn’t want us to sink, not before we had plenty of time to think about what was going to happen to us.
John brought the bailing can down on the whitened fingers that curled over the side. They disappeared, and the boat lifted sluggishly. We turned in a slow, reluctant circle as I freed my oar. It was the only thing I could think of to do; but I was well aware it was a futile gesture. The oar was too unwieldy to use as a club, especially since my quarry would probably not be considerate enough to stay in one spot so I could brain him. The gun was no use, it was in my purse, which was six inches under water, in the bottom of the boat.
John kept spinning around on his backside. If he got up, the ineffectual patch would give away altogether and we would sink like a stone. I figured we were going to sink anyway. It wouldn’t have been a disaster if Leif had not been lying in wait like the Loch Ness monster. He was unencumbered by bulky clothing – that sleek, shining torso, limned by pale fire, was a sight I would never forget. John was hurt and Gus was crippled, and with his handy knife Leif could pick us off one by one before we reached shore.
The sky lightened rapidly. I saw the hand the next time it appeared, and since it was – of course – on my side, I bent over and bit it. The boat was rocking, water was coming in from every possible direction, and Gus was flailing around with his oar. If Leif didn’t sink us, he would. Under the sound of water and Gus’s infuriated bellows I heard a confused roaring noise, which I took to be the pounding of my overstrained heart.
