Chapter forty-one

By the time the ferry pulled into the Southport ferry landing, Sam was listing charges against Tripp Johnson on his fingers—murder, attempted murder, assault and battery, trafficking, prostitution. He looked at Chief as they were getting back in the car, lined in a cue to drive off the ferry.

“Think we can expect any help from the boys in Southport?”

Chief shook his head. “I don’t know. These townies are pretty tight. And the Johnson family roots go way back. I can call, but we might be setting ourselves up. Let’s take a look around. See what we think.” A smile fluttered across his lips. “Besides, we have all the backup we need in the trunk.”

Sam nodded. He focused on the narrow curving road leading out of the landing’s parking lot and onto Moore Street, the riverside road heading into Southport.

The Mustang is holding up well, given what I’m putting it through, Sam thought. He hoped Lee wouldn’t mind him driving it so much, but he had no other choice at this point. His truck was probably a carcass, still stuck in Navassa from the night Molly showed up in that tight sparkly dress. Sam tried hard not to think of Molly that way right now. He just wanted her and Jenny safe again.

Once inside the village of Southport, Sam paid attention to zigzagging tourists who crossed Moore Street, checking out menus of restaurants without so much as a glance at oncoming cars. Tourists can be so aggravating, Sam thought, as he stopped more than once to let another couple dressed in high-style cruise wear and frills pass. Overdressed for the occasion and the place, he noted. Sam also thought about his own empty stomach. But they had to keep going.

Down at the waterfront, traffic moved slowly as sightseers and restaurant goers drifted from eatery to eatery, deciding on which one to bestow their patronage. When Sam and Chief reached the corner of Restaurant Row, where Provision’s meets the hungry world, Sam saw it.

The tan Ford Taurus station wagon was parked in front of Johnson’s, the windows down. It was empty.

Sam parked nearby. He and Chief scanned the parking lot. Then they headed to Provision’s dockside dining. Since it was early, there were still a few empty tables. From this vantage point, Sam could see part of the docks off Johnson’s Fishery. No boats were there tonight.

Chief walked to the other end of the dining area. Then he was off like a shot.

Sam saw him running toward a white multi-towered Cabo Sportsfisher. When Sam jumped down on the dock and read the name emblazoned on the stern, he caught his breath.

Firefly.

Andy’s boat glistened in the afternoon sun. The cabin door was open slightly, giving Sam a view of what made Chief jump so fast. A bloody hand was gripping the bottom of the door.

Chief was aboard in a second, pushing open the cabin door to a groaning voice. It was Chuck Owens. Just Chuck. No Lisa. No Molly. No Jenny.

Chuck’s jaw was out of alignment, and his face a bloody mess where the nose should be. Below the neckline wasn’t much better.

Chief and Sam tightly wrapped as many bleeding points as they could, and they tried to make Chuck as comfortable as possible without moving him. He was losing blood fast.

“Call an ambulance!” Chief screeched at a short preppy man standing on the dock nearby. Reaching for his flip phone, the prepster caught a glimpse of Chuck through the open door on the boat and shrieked. He fumbled his fingers until he found the nine and the one on the keypad.

“There’s a man on the boat. Firefly. Uh-huh. No, I’m on the dock looking onto the boat. The dock. Next to Provision’s. Yes. Yes.” Then to the Chief: “They want to know his condition.”

“Desperate! Tell them to get over here now!” Chief was redder than a Coast Guard cutter.

Prepster, now surprisingly calm, continued his call, giving as close a description of the situation as he could figure out.

Within seconds, the ambulance’s wailing siren could be heard approaching through the narrow streets.

Chief and Sam stood back to let the emergency medical team do its thing, overseeing everything like a couple of supervisors in a factory. As Chuck was lifted off the boat, the questions began.

Chief took out his identification. “We’ll talk at the hospital.”

The EMT he talked with nodded and ran to the driver’s side of the ambulance.

Chief nodded to Sam. “You stay here in case they come back. I’m going to the hospital with Chuck.”

Before they could wheel Chuck to the ambulance, Chief gently fished in Chuck’s pant pockets until he found the keys to Chuck’s Taurus.

Sam shrugged, watching Chief spin out of the parking lot in Chuck’s car, chasing the ambulance toward the hospital.

Then Sam headed for the fishery. Walking all around the facility, Sam saw that all the doors, streetside and dockside, were locked. If they had been here, they didn’t stay long.

Returning to the Mustang, Sam was relieved to see that Chief’s cell phone lay on the seat. He dialed Hoops’ number.

“Hoops, I got another name for you to run down.”

“Sam-Man, you getting yourself in all kinds of trouble, aren’t you?” Hoops sounded relieved that Sam hadn’t found too much of the wrong kind of trouble just yet.

“I’m trying hard to steer clear, but we need to find these folks. I’m running out of time and daylight, so I need you to find out the owner of one more boat. I only know the boat’s name.”

“Speak.”

“Seawitch. I don’t know the hailing port, but I’ll bet you a beer it’s Southport.”

Silence on the other end filled Sam’s ear.

Hoops spoke. “We got three down there. Any idea what kind you’re looking for?”

“What have you got?”

“A twelve-foot Boston Whaler.”

“No, it would have to be something bigger.”

“A Hallberg-Rassy 342.”

“Hum. That’s big enough to carry five people, but I’m thinking a sailboat wouldn’t be the choice vessel for a getaway. How about a long-distance motor cruiser? Something fast?”

“Sweet.” Hoops let out a catcall whistle. “How about a forty-one-foot Beneteau Flyer with two Volvo engines? That fast enough for you?”

“That’ll do. Owner?”

“Tripp Johnson. Southport. Need an address?”

“No. I seriously doubt anybody’s home. Thanks, Hoops. I owe you one.”

“You owe me three. One for liberating Mike’s dinghy, one for delivering it for you, and one for lying to me to get me to do it. This one, you can have for free.” Hoops paused. “This the boat you think your friends are on?”

“Yeah. I just don’t know how I’m going to track them from here.”

“You’ve called the right person, Sam-Man. I’ll get you a fix on that vessel. You going to hold on to this number for the night?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’ll send out the troops from Oak Island. You hang tight and stay out of their way.”

Sam feigned hurt. “You honestly think I would get in the way of the United States Coast Guard doing its duty?”

“Yes. Stay clear, Sam-Man. I’ll call you when we have them in custody.”

“I promise I’ll stay out of trouble. I’ll enjoy the evening from Provision’s deck.”

“Sure you will,” Hoops answered incredulously. “Catch you later, Sam-Man.”

Though Sam had promised, patience was not a strong suit for him. He pondered for a moment. Then he popped open the Mustang’s trunk to fetch its contents and jogged back to Firefly.