The night view across the water to the Rainer estate was obscured by a low haze along the shore. The infrared binoculars enabled Carver to see little other than the vague and surreal shapes of shrubbery or palm trees.
He settled deeper into a sitting position, his stiff leg extended before him, his cane lying across his lap. Crickets screamed in the surrounding darkness, and he was sweating heavily. The temperature was sure to drop a few degrees now that the sun was down. He was all for that.
But the night stayed warm, and Carver continued to perspire. He wished he’d brought something cold in the thermos bottle instead of coffee, though he needed the caffeine to stay alert. Otherwise he might fall into a pattern of drowsiness alternating with bouts of unease at the unidentifiable sounds around him. The secluded blind could be eerie.
At a few minutes past three a wavering yellow beam on the Rainer grounds attracted his attention, a man walking with a flashlight.
Carver put down his thermos cap full of black coffee and strained forward to peer through the fog. The ghostly flashlight beam moved down to the dock area, but he couldn’t make out the form behind it. The light disappeared for a while, then reappeared like a disembodied point of energy and moved back toward the house. Someone making the rounds, checking on the dock and boat; Rainer probably seldom slept easily, even with his minions on guard.
Carver thought maybe he should have armed himself. He’d originally figured it would be better not to be carrying a gun if someone saw him and called the law. Hiding and spying on a neighbor was bad enough, even without firepower. However, it might be a good idea to see that Beth was armed during her shift on the stakeout. Things had changed with Henry’s coma and after the run-in with Davy in Miami, gotten decidedly more dangerous. Better to have conflict with Chief Wicke than to leave Beth alone and unarmed in the dark to face Davy or Hector. She wouldn’t see it that way; she’d say she was as capable of handling trouble as he was, and if she needed to be armed, so did he. Possibly she was right.
The coffee ran out around four o’clock, but Carver could still taste its bitterness along with the bologna sandwich he’d eaten a few hours before. Mosquitoes had discovered him and spread the word. He slapped at one that was enthusiastically sampling blood from his forearm and couldn’t be sure if he’d struck it or not. He wished he’d brought Beth’s insect repellent. Spray the bastards! Fog of death! He lowered the binoculars and dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. Definitely he’d been too long on surveillance.
He found himself staring at the dark water and measuring the distance from where he was to the Rainer estate. For Carver, who’d become part fish during his therapeutic swims, the swim across the cove posed no challenge.
Deciding that anything might be better than sitting here being devoured by night insects, he stripped down to only his pants and rolled the legs up tight just below his knees. Then he left the cover of the blind and used his cane to make his way down to the narrow rocky beach.
It wasn’t easy to maneuver himself over the slippery sharp stones and into the water, but finally he managed and left his cane jutting from the sand so he could find it when he returned.
The water was a cool comfort as he extended his powerful arms and struck out across the dark cove.
By the time he reached the hull of the Miss Behavin’ he was breathing hard, but he knew he had plenty of stamina left to draw on. The boat seemed much larger up close, an oversized rich man’s oversized toy.
Carver dragged himself onto land where the dock met the shore. He could see most of the house from where he lay; it was dark except for a dim glow in two of the upper windows. A breeze danced in from the sea, playing over his soaked pants.
His body tensed and he was quiet and still. Listening.
He heard clearly now a soft scuffing noise, like that of a small animal scampering over the dock.
He remained still, then saw whatever it was skipping and rolling across the rough wood.
Not an animal. Nothing alive.
With relief he reached out a hand and snatched it from the breeze.
A New York Yankees baseball cap being propelled by the wind. It was a very small size; possibly it belonged to Lilly Rainer. He tossed it aside, nothing to worry about, but his heart was still pumping fast. He felt vulnerable. Here he was, barefoot and without his cane, in enemy territory.
Forcing himself to move forward, he stayed low and inched alongside the splintery dock and onto the lawn. Time for tactics. He wanted to work in closer to the house, maybe even peer into a window. He was no longer breathing hard from his swim. Behind him the Miss Behavin’ bumped softly against the dock buffers, and he could hear water lapping at its hull.
About ten feet from the dock was what looked like a small shed that probably contained tools and the nautical supplies necessary to service the yacht. And possibly something he could use as a makeshift cane. Carver reached it and found the door secured with a padlock the size of his fist. But there was something leaning against the side of the shed, in shadow. Tools, maybe.
No, not tools. What he’d seen was only a collapsed folding stool, canvas and metal. Something portable to sit on for lengthy jobs during boat maintenance.
He ripped the canvas away and bent one of the metal legs back and forth until it broke, leaving him with a two-foot length of hollow steel tubing with a sharp point on one end. Not much of a cane, but at least it would serve as a weapon if he couldn’t hobble fast enough to escape danger. He hefted it in his hand, feeling better, looking around.
About fifty feet away lay some dense shrubbery. He decided to use it for cover, then figure where he might go from there. Setting the pointed tip of the metal tube in the ground, he moved in an awkward crablike gait toward the bushes.
He had no sensation of tripping the alarm.
A horn blared from the direction of the house. Carver swallowed his heart. Half a dozen windows suddenly glowed, even as he was hurriedly backing away toward the sanctuary of the water.
Floodlights bathed the grounds in white brilliance as he crossed the dock and scooted backward out of sight, found the coolness of the water. He’d been exposed for only a few seconds. Maybe he hadn’t been seen. Maybe he had a chance here. The horn screamed no, he didn’t.
He surface dived and swam underwater until his lungs ached. When finally he came up for air, he began a crawl stroke away from the light and noise behind him.
Then the horn abruptly ceased its frantic wailing and the only sounds were Carver’s ragged breathing and the splashing of his strokes. Glancing behind him, he saw that the floodlights had been extinguished.
He swam another hundred yards before easing back on his effort. His adventure had almost proved a fatal mistake. He should have realized Rainer might have an alarm system that extended beyond the house.
No real harm done, he assured himself. He’d tried to snoop in close, activated an alarm, and made his escape. Disaster averted.
Thought he’d made his escape.
He heard the boat roaring toward him before he saw it.
It was a small, open speedboat with what looked like only one man in it. He was standing up so he could see over the low windscreen, a dark form in the bucking little boat. Hector, Carver thought, but he couldn’t be sure.
He treaded water slowly, with only his head above the surface, praying he wouldn’t be seen on the glimmering dark plain of the sea.
The speedboat, he saw now, was a fourteen-foot runabout, the kind that could go like crazy if powered by a large enough motor. It slowed and settled lower in the water, cruising in a wide circle as the figure behind the windscreen leaned forward, scanning open water.
The man suddenly straightened, and the bow of the boat swung around to aim at Carver. The motor snarled and the bow rose to cut through the low waves, picking up speed as it closed on him.
It was difficult to judge speed and distance in the dark, to reject panic and think calmly through his fear. Carver waited until the boat was close, then dove underwater and stroked straight down.
He was buffeted about by the boat passing just a few feet above him. He surfaced in its churning wake, spitting seawater, peering in all directions. No danger of panic now; he was angry enough to hold fear at a distance.
The boat was turning around for another pass.
As Carver treaded water something jabbed him in the thigh. He realized he was still gripping the metal stool leg. Then he heard the snarling engine, and the runabout was after him again.
This time he didn’t wait so long. He ducked underwater and swam at a right angle to the boat’s line of attack. Hung suspended below the surface and watched the tumultuous passing of the boat’s hull twenty feet to his right.
When he poked his head above water, the boat was drifting with its motor idling, not fifty feet from him. He heard the roar and saw the cleaverlike bow come around as he ducked down again. The boat’s pattern was narrowing. His death was going to be the result of close up work, each pass leaving him less and less time to take evasive action.
He knew, and the man in the boat knew, that soon he’d tire himself out and fall victim to the speeding, slashing hull or the whirling prop.
Carver jabbed himself in the leg again. Damn! He dropped the metal tube so he could swim better, then on second thought groped for it and caught it before it sank out of reach. An objective kind of desperation had come over him, his mind darting like a bottled insect seeking escape and survival.
He surfaced gradually, studying the boat that was waiting for him. It looked, and had sounded slapping the waves, as if it had a fiberglass hull. The man in the boat had something in his hand now. As he spotted Carver and raised his arm, Carver realized the something was a handgun with a long silencer fitted to the barrel. His assailant had decided it would be easier and faster to use firepower. He gulped air and went underwater, sensing or feeling the passage of a bullet spiraling past him.
Christ! This was getting out of hand!
When in doubt, do the unexpected.
Remaining submerged, he swam toward the boat.
It was now almost motionless in the water, its motor idling, so it provided a stable platform and enabled the man with the gun to take accurate aim when Carver surfaced.
But Carver wasn’t ready to surface. He stroked lower, then arced straight up at the bottom of the fiberglass hull, jabbing the sharp-tipped metal stool leg at it with all his strength. He jabbed again! Again! Focusing the might of his powerful upper body. Kicking from the hip with both legs’ for maximum force. Wishing he had swim fins to gather even more power for his frantic upward lunges.
There! He thought the metal tip penetrated, but he couldn’t be sure. His lungs were burning and crying for oxygen.
Fifty-fifty, he thought, and surfaced on the boat’s starboard side. Gasped for air. There was noisy scrambling in the boat and a man very calmly said, “Here’s something for you.” Carver heard the nasty spitting sound of the silencer as he ducked down again beneath the water.
He thought he saw damage on the bottom of the hull, and he attacked the same spot with his spear of steel. But it was impossible to break through the thick fiberglass.
As he was preparing to strike again, the prop churned and the boat shot forward. Instinctively he jabbed upward as the hull passed over him. The length of sharpened steel was wrenched violently from his hand and sank.
He came to the surface for air and saw that the boat was slowly turning.
But its motor didn’t sound right. It was laboring, its pitch rising and falling. It began a sickly, muted clanking. Carver realized he must have snagged the prop as he’d jabbed upward with the sharp metal.
He swam away from the boat slowly, watching the man standing up in it and peering around, looking for him. As the man’s head turned toward him, Carver let himself sink gently beneath the surface and swam a few strokes. Surfaced again and saw that the man was now facing away from him. He edged farther away from the boat, making hardly a ripple in the dark water.
Using a lazy sidestroke, he continued to put distance between himself and the crippled boat. Soon he’d be out of accurate range of the silenced handgun.
He kept watching as the man gave up the hunt and the boat putted slowly and laboriously toward sfiore with its damaged prop.
Carver floated on his back for a few minutes, staring up at the night sky and regaining strength and wind. He offered a brief prayer of thanks, to whom or what he wasn’t sure.
Then he got his bearings and stroked for land.