NEITHER OF THE Homer’s engines would start. And when Lloyd stepped back out through the side door, he hit his head—yowza, the exact same spot he’d nailed on that damned tractor roof! It would soon start bleeding again, but he couldn’t worry about that now— and this shirt was already ruined.
Glancing aft, he spotted his escape.
“We’ll take the harbormaster boat,” he told Owen, leading the way back up the gangway onto the dock, wondering if he could leave the landscaper behind. The kid was completely useless; he hadn’t even managed to touch that damned tree with the tractor before he backed up, beeping and bawling, scared off by a bunch of crazy tree-huggers. By the time they ditched the tractor in its barn and ran for the ferry landing, Owen had the hiccups.
This boat would be easy to start; get in and turn the key, just like a car. But it was too far down to jump without breaking an ankle, so Lloyd sat on the edge of the dock and reached pointed toes down to the side deck.
“No, stay on the dock!” he yelled.
Instead, Owen jumped down onto the forward deck. Now Lloyd would have to lose him somewhere between here and Newport.
Knowing this island, the keys were probably—yup, right in the console. The engine started up, though it was much louder than expected.
“Um, I think you need to. . .” Owen waved aft, still hiccuping. Lloyd turned to find the engine angled up, prop visible above the surface. That’s right, he had to put it down into the water; a button on the side of the throttle did just that, which made the thing a whole lot quieter and gave his throbbing head a little relief. He could feel blood pooling in his hair, again.
“You’re bleeding,” Owen said. No shit.
“Cast off.” Owen gave him a blank stare. “Undo the lines. From the dock, not the boat!” Oh well, there’d be lines on the dock in Newport. Or maybe they’d just let it—
“Boss Lloyd, wait!”
Billy the deckhand was running onto the dock, waving.
“Get this thing untied!” Lloyd yelled.
Owen had already cast off the bow line, so he looked confused again until Lloyd pointed to the stern. Just as Billy reached the edge of the dock, Lloyd hit the throttles, knocking Owen to his knees. What a liability—should’ve left him to take the heat from his real boss, Pa-pa-pa-parker.
Speeding away, Lloyd turned to give Billy a middle-fingered wave—and saw him holding phone to ear. That’s right, call in the island cavalry—he’d taken their fastest boat! Already halfway to the breakwater, and only a narrow V of wake. Fifteen minutes to Newport—or less. Maybe instead of the helicopter pad, he’d start a small, exclusive, high-speed ferry service. . .
At the end of the breakwater, Lloyd pushed the throttles forward as far as they would go and aimed the bow just south of the rocks marching out from Bird Island. Too bad it was dead low tide, he could’ve taken the shortcut.
Just as the half-sunk nun passed by to port, an alarm sounded. A brain-piercing shriek, right under the wheel. What the hell—
The motor lost power, squealed, shut off.
Shit.
“What happened?” Owen asked, his voice too loud in the sudden silence.
Lloyd turned the key—nothing. Slid the throttle back to neutral, tried again; still nothing. The gulls were laughing at him.
Shit, shit, shit. Nothing ever went according to plan on this stupid island.
Owen—who’d been glancing over his shoulder—pointed aft. “Here they come.”
“On what, the Queen Mary?” But it was another boat even nicer than this one, speeding their way.
“Get out the fire extinguisher,” he told Owen.
“What?”
“Want to go to jail? If not, do as I say.”
The kid unstrapped the red canister and held it up. “Now w-what?” he hiccuped, lurching to port as their wake caught up with them.
“Keep it down out of sight, until they get close. Then spray the driver, in the face if possible.”
“That’s not—”
“Or go to jail,” Lloyd repeated, spreading his hands. “Your choice.”
Bird Island’s rocks marched out, single file, like a boarding party. The tide was setting them out toward open water, but the wind was blowing them onto that damned shoreline. And right now, the wind was winning. Lloyd pressed a button to lift the outboard. If he could make it inside the first ledge without running aground, maybe the other boat would be too big to follow. The bow obligingly pointed toward the beach, and a shiny black bird flapped off a rock into the water, surprised by their unexpected change of direction.
Owen squatted down, extinguisher trapped between his knees, hose at the ready. His hand was shaking, and every minute or so his whole body would convulse with another hiccup. The boat behind was coming toward them faster than Lloyd expected—twin out-boards, that’s why. He’d stolen the wrong boat.
Lloyd locked his gaze on the rocks ahead, listening to the whine of engines getting closer and louder, hoping Owen would do as he was told without any further instructions. If Lloyd didn’t watch, he couldn’t be a witness.
He heard the other boat slow down, and once the extinguisher hissed Lloyd looked aft. Most of the fire retardant had blown right back onto Owen, and when the kid tried to step back, his shoes slid right out from under him and he landed butt down on the foamy floor.
“Forget the fire thing!” Lloyd roared. Owen reached for the rail, steadying himself, and got back to his feet, still hiccuping. “Find a line, and toss it under the boat when he comes alongside.”
“We left the lines on the dock, remember?”
“There’ll be more—check that forward locker. Quick!”
Owen’s skin was blotchy, and his teeth were chattering, but he was soon lifting out a coil of white anchor line.
“Make sure it pays out clean.”
The other boat had circled around the end of the first ledge and was aiming for their starboard side—and a big rock just below the surface. Maybe they’d hit that—but no, they avoided it just in time. Whoever was driving—in shadow under a T-top, and hidden behind a large wrap-around windshield—was a local.
“Get ready,” Lloyd said to Owen, who was just standing there, hiccuping. Twenty feet, then ten—
“Now!”
Owen tossed the entire coil overboard.
“Jesus, kid! Not like that. . .”
The white line sank to the bottom, now less of a threat than the rocks all around them. The other boat was able to nose in bow-to-bow, and a woman in a Brenton Ferry Company hat came out from behind the console, carrying her own line. Courtney—for Chrissake, his own captain—somehow lassoed their bow cleat with a lucky toss and gave the driver—that damned harbormaster—a thumbs-up.
“Start the motor with the engine still tilted up, Lloyd?” the harbormaster called, backing out the same way he’d come in.
How the hell did he know that?
The harbormaster—Mike, was it?—used the twin outboards to spin the other boat in its own length. Courtney paid out just enough slack in the line to maneuver, but not enough to catch in the props. A pox on them both.
Before Lloyd even understood the plan they were under tow, skirting the last bit of ledge and out into open water. When a wave caught the bow, Owen fell down again—this time, landing on a seat on the forward side of the console.
“Jesus, Lloyd, what the hell were you thinking?” the harbormaster asked, glancing back over his shoulder. He didn’t even have to shout to be heard over those two purring outboards. “Even by your standards, that was pretty stupid.”
“I had a marine emergency,” Lloyd replied, crossing both arms over his blood-encrusted shirt. “Couldn’t get my ferry started, and I had to get—”
“Your ferry!” Courtney snorted. “Like it’s your damn island.”
Well, yes.
“So you steal my boat and burn out the impeller?” The harbormaster shook his head. Then he pointed behind them at the inner ledge, which was sucking and gnashing water like a hungry sea monster. “Good thing we rescued you; isn’t that where your grandfather’s body was found?”
Shuddering, Lloyd looked away. Think!
“What’s your preference, Courtney?” the harbormaster asked next. “Slow tow or fast tow? Slow gives ‘em plenty of time to think about how many laws they’ve broken. Fast would be nice and wet.”
“Slow sounds good to me, Mack. I don’t think anyone’ll be docking my pay for a late ferry run today, and it’ll give the lawyers a little more time to toast Sachem Joe.”
Mack, not Mike. Stupid name.
“Slow it is then.”
The boat, built to be stable running at high speeds, rocked and rolled when towed at a snail’s pace. By the time they reached the entrance to Narragansett Bay, Owen was throwing up. Lloyd was too damned mad to get seasick. Think!
Castle Hill lighthouse was perched high, on rocks just as black and mean as Bird Island. When Alison was small, they used to bring her down here to watch the boats going by. She could spend hours tossing stones into the ocean, and it was only a short walk back to their house afterward. The same house his wife had kicked him out of, months ago. . .
It was when Mack turned to starboard and closed with the shoreline, running in a back eddy to avoid the ebbing tide, that Lloyd had his next brainstorm: he’d swim for it. Yes it would be cold and wet, and his cell phone wasn’t waterproof. But once he climbed out of the water onto the rocks, he could walk home. Alison might be there; if not, his wife was terrified of boats. Surely she’d be able to dredge up some pity for a near-drowning, caused by an irresponsible employee?
Without another thought, Lloyd stepped up onto the side deck and dove overboard.