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Still, I was here, and I had to go through with it. So I steered south until the yacht was only a very dim anchor light again, and then I turned around, cut the throttle to idle, and headed straight back at the little light. And back, I was sure, to a very nasty death.
Just at the point where I could barely make out the yacht’s bow and I had started to screw myself up to the point of being ready to commit suicide by leaping on board, I felt a small, chill drop of water on my cheek. I ignored it at first, thinking that it was just more proof that this whole trip was stupid and doomed. I’m as good as dead; why not make me wet, too? I pushed it away; killing yourself is serious business and one really should concentrate fully. But I felt another drop, and then two more, then five, and it was really much too cool to be salt spray, and finally, in my first bright moment all evening, I realized what it might be, and I looked up.
Racing straight at us a few hundred feet overhead was a low dark line of clouds—the squall I had seen out over the ocean toward Bimini. As these little stormlets often do, this one had sprinted across the water and come down on us, and I don’t think I have ever been quite so happy about anything to do with weather as I was when I saw the thick sheet of rain hurrying across the water at my boat.
In another few seconds it was on us, a furious icy deluge of water. And even as I was applauding the fact that we were now invisible from the yacht, it occurred to me that the yacht was just as invisible to us, and if I didn’t want to ram our target I had to be careful.
I turned to Brian, who was still standing next to me, anxiously clutching the boarding ladder. “Get up in the bow,” I told him. “Don’t let us bump the yacht.” He nodded, put the ladder down carefully, and went forward.
Just as I was beginning to think we’d missed our mark, Brian waved at me urgently. I cut the engine, letting us drift forward, and a moment later, looming up out of the heavy shower of rain, I saw the bow of the yacht towering over us.
“Take the wheel,” I said to Debs. She just nodded and grabbed the steering wheel, and I picked up the ladder and went forward to join Brian. He said something I couldn’t hear over the thumping of the rain. He leaned close to my ear and repeated it: “Hold my belt.” I nodded and, as he stepped up onto the gunwale of my boat, I grabbed his belt and held him steady.
When he got his balance Brian stuck his hand out to me and wiggled his fingers. It took me a moment to understand: the ladder, of course. I passed it to him and he stretched up on tiptoes with the ladder held above him. He wobbled, teetered, and shot down to a crouch to recover his balance, but then slowly and carefully he stretched back up again. I couldn’t see much, standing more or less under him, but I could feel him moving around up there. After a few moments, he squatted down again. “Got it,” he said.
I nodded and started to climb up onto the gunwale. Brian put a hand out to stop me. “If you don’t mind, brother,” he said. “I’ll go first.” He cocked his head at me, as if waiting for an objection. I didn’t give him one. He smiled, the same awful fake display of teeth without emotion, and straightened up. He gave a little hop, and then disappeared up the boarding ladder onto the deck of the yacht. I followed as quickly as I could, waving a hand at Debs and pushing the boat away with my feet as I climbed.
I didn’t hear anything at all as I clambered up onto the deck, and that seemed like a very good thing. I crouched down; there was a kind of gently curved upward slope in the deck here at the bow, a sort of half cone painted a dark blue so it stood out from the white deck around it. It was probably intended to make headroom for Raul’s cabin. I climbed up onto the blue strip and crouched low, hoping my dark clothing would blend in. Raul would be directly below me now, in his cabin. I wondered if he had his mujeres with him. I hoped they were keeping him busy.
The rain was starting to slacken. I looked up toward where Brian had disappeared. At first I didn’t see him. I looked farther up to where the easy slope stopped and jagged upward at a sharper angle to the bridge. There was a darker blotch right in the middle of it, more than halfway up to the windscreen that marked the bridge. It was Brian, crawling upward carefully but rapidly. As I watched, he glanced back to me. He had his fillet knife clenched in his teeth like a pirate. It was a very sharp knife, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d get a new smile, probably better than the one he had now. Brian motioned me to wait, and then slowly lifted his head up to peer over the windscreen.
For a moment he froze like that, no more than half his head showing above the windscreen. Then he gathered himself and half pulled, half jumped upward and out of sight.
And I was all alone, crouched in the rain, on a boat filled with well-armed men who wanted to kill me.
TWENTY-FIVE
I waited. It’s a lot harder than it sounds. I could imagine a thousand things happening up on the bridge, and only one of them was good. What was taking so much time? Was there a guard up there? There must have been or Brian wouldn’t have jumped over like that. Did Brian surprise him? If so, why was it taking so long? Maybe he was enjoying himself, making it last a little longer than necessary. Maybe the guard had surprised Brian. It could be that the boat was about to explode with shouts and shots, and here I was crouching at the bow like an idiot.
And if that did happen, I wasn’t ready to offer even token resistance. I’d left my fillet knife in its sheath, so I wouldn’t cut myself climbing up. It was still there. I pulled it out and held it ready. It didn’t seem very dangerous, not compared to six or seven men with assault rifles. And why did the grip feel so slippery? Almost as if my hands were sweating, which was silly. I was Dark Dexter, Cold Killer. My hands didn’t sweat, even now, when Brian was really taking far too long and it was almost certain that something had gone drastically wrong.
Just when I had persuaded myself to follow Brian and take a look, he appeared again, waving happily, the fillet knife in his hand still dripping red. He motioned me up; clutching my knife anxiously, I crawled up the slope and onto the bridge as quickly as I could, grumbling the whole way. He didn’t have to look so pleased with himself. One guard, big deal—and he had clearly taken his time and had a little fun, while I huddled abjectly below.
I pulled myself up and over the bridge windscreen. It really wouldn’t screen out much wind; it was only around a foot high. But at least that made it easier to climb over, and I did. Brian stood a few feet away, looking fondly down at a crumpled body. It had fallen onto a cushioned area about knee-high off the deck that was, astonishingly, right next to an actual honest-to-god hot tub, big enough for four people at a time. I was still gaping at it when Brian leaned over and took my elbow.
“There’s only one guard outside below us,” he whispered, nodding toward the stern of the yacht. “He’s standing right at the foot of the stairs.” He dropped to his knees and motioned me down with him, and together we crawled to the edge of the bridge, where a flight of molded steps led to the main deck ten feet below.
I dropped to my belly and peeked over. At first I didn’t see anything. Maybe he’d gone inside to pee or something. Then he coughed, shuffled his feet, and I saw him—right below me, hugging the shadows and looking around vigilantly.
I pulled back and put my head next to Brian’s. “I thought there’d be two,” I whispered.
Brian shrugged, very difficult when you’re lying flat on your stomach. “Raul must be very overconfident,” he whispered back.
I looked over again. There was still only one guard. I slid back and Brian raised an eyebrow at me. My eyes fell on the padded bench beside the hot tub. I crawled over and stood up, grabbing one of the cushions, a heavy, canvas-covered thing about three feet square. I beckoned to Brian and handed it to him. “Drop this over here, onto the main deck,” I whispered, pointing to my left.
He understood right away, taking the cushion and moving silently over to the rail. He looked at me expectantly and I once more dropped to my belly and slid forward to the steps. I held my knife ready, took a deep breath, and waved to Bri
an.
Right away I heard the cushion thump onto the deck below. It was followed immediately by a muffled, “Conyo,” from the guard, directly below me—all according to plan. And now the plan said the guard would step around the corner of the cabin to the deck along the rail, and look to see what had made the sound, and I would be down and on him.
But the idiot on the main deck clearly didn’t know the script; he leaned forward instead and stared upward, right at me, and I barely pulled back in time to escape being seen. “?’Tonio, pendejo,” he whispered loudly. “¿Qué es eso?”
’Tonio, of course, did not answer, since he was fully occupied with being dead at the moment. I waited, feeling my palms sweat again. Until tonight I’d never had sweaty palms, and now twice. I didn’t like it, and I didn’t like being the kind of nervous Nellie who had sweaty palms. But I also didn’t seem to have a choice. I waited, feeling my hands go slick and disliking myself. At last I heard “Conyo” again, and then a light shuffling of feet—moving away from me.
I inched forward. The shadowed spot below was empty. I rose to a crouch and slid down the stairs as quickly as possible, stepping into the darkness at the corner of the cabin. A moment later I heard a few more whispered syllables of what was probably profanity, and then the cushion Brian had dropped came marching around the corner.
In a fit of tidy pique, the sentry had picked up the cushion, probably to carry it back up to the hot tub and, in the process, berate ’Tonio for his sloppiness. But alas for Neatness and Tongue-lashing everywhere, he did not make it up the stairs. Because by holding the cushion in front of him like that he had provided the ideal blind spot for Dexter, and before the guard could do more than blink twice I slipped behind him and then I was on him, one arm tight around his throat and my knife diving into him.
