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Two days later, I’m still alone on this desolate strip of beach waiting for something
I’m not even sure is going to happen. But I have no other place to go and ninety-three bucks won’t get me very far in any direction. Looks like I’m stuck with sticking it out.
The adrenaline high that kept me going has washed out and left in its place rising anxiety and a longing for something I can’t identify. Also a nagging suspicion that I’ve really fucked things up this time. I know I can’t wait on this beach forever; food and patience are nearly depleted. In the back of my head, a hyena mocks my every thought.
After much soul searching I decide to leave by noon tomorrow, boat or no boat. After this much time has gone by, I can’t be sure of what or who might show up—if anybody.
Will a flotilla of coastguardsmen fresh from drug interception training be hitting the beach like the second assault on Normandy? Or will Bagley and Schmidt float in all big-timey, acting like it’s no big deal to get stood up on a lonely beach for two days by a couple of assholes.
Just because they’re the big-time smugglers and I’m the lousy pick-up guy doesn’t mean I haven’t run a few risks. If only they knew.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve gotten up and said to myself I’m leaving, only to sit back down, light a cigarette and wait some more. Stare out at something in the vast distance and wait. The waves just keep breaking slowly and rhythmically against the shore and the sound has become an annoyance. No longer relaxing, it grates on me like a constantly nagging voice: Sucker, sucker, sucker....
You get to a point in a situation like this where you run out of things to think about and your mind starts covering the same old territory, over and over like a broken record. Round and round she goes, where she stops nobody knows.
And if you stare long enough at nothing, something might finally appear. If it’s far enough away, an object can take the shape of many things. Sheer wishful thinking, if you’re tired enough, hungry enough or scared enough, might make you see something that isn’t there. Whether you’re sitting in a deer stand or a duck blind or against a bank of sand, it’s conceivable that a stump could seem to be a deer, a pigeon might look like a duck and a large piece of debris on the horizon could become a boat.
There’s a dark speck on the horizon now that brings this theory to mind. How long has it been there? Could it actually be them, after all this time?
Adrenaline again begins its bubbling drive through my bloodstream and I stand up to stare out at the dark speck. Then the waves and the wind start to change. Begin to sound like an orchestra. An orchestra playing something exhilarating and uplifting like a Sousa march or a hymn, maybe. Not a solemn, weepy song, but a strong and warlike hymn like “Onward Christian Soldiers” or “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
The object is closer now—and most definitely a sailboat. Possibly approaching my little home away from home. Clouds are rolling in and a damp breeze is kicking up from the North. As I stand here squinting out at the sailboat, the sun disappears and the blue and yellow sky slowly fills in with gray and black.
Now the boat seems to have stopped its shoreward progress.
I build up the sand around the signal flag, throw some wood on the fire and fetch the binoculars.
Not enough light to be sure, but indeed, the object looks to me like the Larson E. But something is off; she doesn’t look quite right going through the water. But then what do I know about sailing? What does a northern boy like me know about sailboats? Still, I swear it looks as though the sail is down and the bow is listing. I start to think about it and my paranoia alarm goes off like the dive signal on a submarine. I’m sure it’s the narco squad driving the boat, trying to clean up the loose ends of another failed smuggling attempt.
Or could it be that Schmidt and Bagley are drunk and trying to fuck with my head?
I squeeze the field glasses tighter and search for any signs of life. One of them should be on deck, scanning the shoreline. But the deck is empty. There’s nobody out there.
Some long lost instinct tells me something’s wrong and I drop the glasses in the sand and look nervously around for some kind of weapon. My eyes lock onto an axe handle’s length of wood lying in my pile of scraps. I pick it up and run the smooth, worn surface through my hands. It’s a little thicker than an axe handle and a little hard to grip, but it will have to do, should a situation arise. Primitive man using primitive tools.
The boat keeps moving slowly in my direction and the sky keeps fading to black. It’s raining now, big drops coming straight down. I let it pour down on me, pointing my face to the heavens. Then a tiny bow light on the boat breaks through the curtain of darkness, glowing both red and yellow, like the glass cover is broken. Then a beam, like a flashlight, sweeps the boat’s interior and goes dark.
I pick up the driftwood and walk back into the dunes, watching silently as the bow light moves ever so slowly toward shore. I hear the murmur of the diesel engine for a moment and then it’s gone, swallowed up by the rain. Then I hear something moving behind me in the brush. I hold up my club and yell, “Who’s there?”
Nobody, answers the rain.
Then I think I hear a splash over the water and a weakly shouted, “Keith!” I stand there frozen in the warm rain. The bow light is out now and the sea is dark. If Schmidt were on board there would be something more than a muffled shout; that much I know.
Was it drowned out by the waves and wind and rain? I’m hoping they’re just being cautious. My gut churns at the possibility Bagley and Schmidt doubted my reliability. Then another sound, like a brief cry of pain, reaches my ears. A shaky flashlight beam points down at the water then goes dark.
Five eternal minutes go by, the only sounds the hammering of the rain and the pounding of my heart. I don’t move. Squinting through the dim light, I can see the dinghy coming ashore, landing rope dangling in the water. The bow lifts as it hits the beach and a stooped figure struggles out. Slowly, it makes its way towards the lantern light.
Looks like Bagley. And just like the Larson E, he’s listing to one side. I see dark splotches on his torn safari shirt. Schmidt is nowhere to be seen.
I drop the club and start running down the soggy sand.
“Keith,” Bagley says with a weak voice, “Where are you, Keith? Can’t you see I need help?”
“I’m coming, Dan. What the hell’s going on? Where the fuck is Steve?”
I get to him and discover that the blotches on his shirt appear to be blood. He’s got a red bandana tied around his right bicep.
“Steve’s dead. We were attacked by fuckin’ pirates. Schmidty got shot. He’s dead, Keith. Those bastards killed him. I got lucky or I’d be dead too. It was terrible. I’m just so goddamn lucky. They were trying to board us when Schmidty shot a flare into their fuel tank. I guess he saved my life—and now he’s gone.”
I stop dead in my tracks. Blackness descends over me like a tight-fitting skullcap. My knees buckle. “He was a good man,” I say, struggling for composure.
I help Dan to my camping spot. We sit down on the sand and the rain lightens. He has blood on his face and hands and what appears to be shallow stab wounds around his neck and right shoulder. And he’s pale, like maybe he’s lost a lot of blood.
“Jesus, Dan, I can’t believe this is happening. Schmidt is fuckin’ dead. This is awful, man. What the hell should we do? You’re not looking so good. I think we need to get out of here.”
“I’ll make it,” Bagley says, His voice is weak but resolved. “I’ve got too much money and too much time involved in this to give up now. Schmidty would want us to keep going, Keith. You’ve got to hold it together. If we can just get this job done, I think everything will turn out all right.”
Now I’m shaking, the last drops of precious adrenaline ripping through me like a hundred and ten volts of pure lightning.
“We’ve got to move fast, Keith. You have to get the van. I don’t think I can walk that far. I’m feeling a little light-headed. You’re going to have to save me, for a change. After all those times I bailed you out, now its time for you to pay me back.”
Bailed me out? What the fuck is he talking about?
“What about the ganja?”
“There isn’t any pot, Keith. Just coke, a hundred pounds of pure Colombian cocaine. It’s inside the fuel tank. There’s a special little door underneath the seats at the stern. You have to push a button on the console and the piece will slide back. First turn the ignition key to the right—clockwise—then push the black button on the outside of the steering console. I think there’s enough juice left in the battery. If not, you’ll have to grab a crowbar from the tool kit and—“
“Just a goddamn minute. You told me this was a pot deal—mari-ju-wana—not fuckin’ coke. Every time I touch cocaine, something bad happens. And believe me I’ve got enough trouble as it is without adding more. Steve is dead, man. Can’t you see? It’s happening already. Hundred pounds of coke can get you executed in this state. This is insane. I should turn around and walk the fuck out of here, leave you for the cops. I do not want to mess with cocaine.”
“T-t-take the damn cross off your shoulders, Keith, and get s-s-smart.” Bagley’s chronic nervous stutter makes an appearance. “Pot is for hippies; it’s old w-w-world, now. The profits are less and the loads are larger—it’s all yesterday’s papers. You can cut this blow and keep cutting it, and you’ll still be able to sell it for top buck. The p-p-profit margins are astronomical. You can put a hundred pounds in a backpack, and y-you can’t say that about w-w-weed.” He sits down on the sand, elbows resting on his knees, chin on his clasped hands. “Now go and get our nest egg so we can get out of here b-b-b-before I goddamn bleed to d-d-death.”
“You seem to be doing all right, man. At least you’ve regained your gift for being an asshole.”
“What do you mean by that? And what are you waiting for? I haven’t got much energy left.”
I stare at him.
“Oh, I see...” he says. “So th-th-that’s the way you’re going to play it. W-w-well then, ah-ah... I’ll tell you what, I’ll ah, ah, in-increase your share of the load—n-now that Schmidt is gone we can—”
“I want half,” I say, looking him straight in the eye.
“W-w-w-well, I w-was thinking a third—of Steve’s share—but I guess half would be f-fair, if you insist.”
“You misunderstand, Mr. Bagley. I want half of the whole thing. The game has suddenly changed, you see. I never signed on for cocaine—and especially not death. And I think those added problems warrant extra compensation.”
“Huh, huh,” he clucks like a hen, “You’re not serious.”
I turn away and walk down to the dinghy. Grab the rope and start to swing the bow around when a realization—no, more a question—comes to mind: If Dan and I leave in the van and Steve is no longer around, who is going to sail the boat around the horn? Yes, sir, that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. I pull the dinghy up farther on the beach then walk back to where Bagley sits glumly, staring at me. In the yellow glow of the smoldering fire, the marks on his face look like scratches. He’s dabbing at them with a wet cloth, the water jug at his feet.
He looks up at me, annoyed.
“What about the boat, Dan? We can’t just leave it here, can we?”
“You’ll have to sink it.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“It’s already taking water from where they rammed us.”
“They were close enough to ram you—and you’re still alive?”
“Schmidt cut loose on them with the twelve-gauge and they backed off and waited until dark.”
“All right, so what should I do?”
“Go out to the boat and put the coke in the dinghy. Then start the engine, lock the rudder into a southwesterly direction, throw her in gear and get off.”
“How do I lock the rudder? Is there a switch or something?”
“There’s a loop of rope that holds it in place. You’ll see how it works.”
“Will she sink fast enough?”
“Blow a hole in it with the shotgun. Just make sure it’s below the water line. There’s a few slugs left. They’re on the bed in the master stateroom. And you better take a lantern.”
“I don’t know about touching off a shotgun. Somebody around here hears it, they might call the cops.”
“Close the cabin door. In this rain, no one will hear anything. Or better yet, just pull the drain plugs. But that will take you some time and the shotgun won’t. Yeah, blow some holes—that way it’ll look like pirates if anyone finds the boat.”
“Yeah,” I say, and turn, like a zombie, toward my task.