The Art of My Life

Fish fired up his engine, jogged forward to cast off the bow lines, then aft to loose the stern lines.

“What’s going on?” Missy shouted from the dock over the rumble of the engine.

“Coast Guard broadcast the location of a vessel in distress,” he yelled back. He tossed the last coil of line at her feet and headed for the pilot’s station. Who knew how long it would take the Coast Guard to get around to Cal. When he’d called to say something was up with Cal because Van Gogh had been left behind, the dispatcher treated him like a nut job.

He didn’t have a plan, but he had thirty minutes to come up with one. Cal’s boat would probably top out at seven knots in this wind, but Zeke’s Ambition had the horsepower to easily double Cal’s speed.

The only scenario he could imagine Cal leaving Van Gogh on the dock was someone—likely the guy with the body bag—taking Cal and his boat by force. Maybe Cal had gone into business with his grandparents selling weed. He made somebody mad, shorted them…. Who knew?

As he raced under the North Bridge, he caught movement in his peripheral vision.

At this speed, he couldn’t give her more than a glance. His eyes swerved back to the water. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Van Gogh butted his head against Fish’s leg. “Make yourself useful. Put the dog inside.”

When Missy returned, he flipped on the GPS. “When we get closer to the coordinates, you can keep an eye out for the Escape. And for the record, I’m still pissed.”

“I couldn’t tell.” Missy did sarcasm well. The girl had no clue how much danger she could be in. She stood next to his captain’s chair, eyes fixed on the GPS.

He grabbed her chin in his fist and turned her face toward him. His eyes flitted between the sea, controls, and Missy. “If anything goes wrong, you get the hell out of here.” He pointed. “Pump the primer three times. Key. Throttle.” He pierced her eyes with his, then looked at the whitecaps ahead. “Use your cell if you’ve got coverage or the marine radio to call the Coast Guard. Don’t even think about me. I can take care of myself. I can’t afford to be distracted worrying about you. Understand?”

Missy nodded, dislodging his hand. “Got it.” She turned back to stare through the windshield, lips pinched together like she did when she was stressed.

He killed the running lights and they sped along in silence. Minutes marched by as the tension coiled tighter in his stomach. There was no question that he would risk his life for Cal. At times like this, you just did what your gut told you to do.

He glanced at Missy. Her face had relaxed. She was praying, he’d put money on it. Not a bad idea for him to do the same. But it seemed pretty self-serving to call in the big guns just because you needed something. Better to chat up God when you weren’t asking for a handout.

He squinted at the horizon. “Too big. That’s got to be a cruise ship.” He adjusted their course to cross the ship’s wake.

As they passed behind the ship, he eyed the light raining from the giant boat onto the ocean and a bud of an idea formed. “Grab the bull horn off the hook beside the door.”

“How close are we to the Devil’s Triangle?” Missy shouted over the sound of the wind whipping past their ears.

The exact boundaries of the location of numerous fabled boat and plane disappearances were hardly scientifically precise. He was about to discount Missy’s concern when the engine sputtered and died.

His shoulder blades thumped back against the captain’s chair, and he sat stunned, his mind spinning.

The fuel gauge read three-quarters full. He cranked the key, and the engine coughed and died.

He jumped to his feet and glanced at Missy whose fingers clenched the edges of her chair. He gripped her shoulder on his way past, a wordless don’t worry. If he couldn’t get the boat started, they’d call the Coast Guard, but he didn’t have a good feeling in his gut about Cal’s safety.

He shined the flashlight into the fuel tank while Missy hovered behind him. Empty. Relief flushed into him as he flipped the lever to the auxiliary tank.

A broken gauge was a minor inconvenience, barely disrupting the tension from chasing the Escape that raced through his body as though they still flew at full throttle. He turned and bumped into Missy, annoyed all over again that she’d risked her safety.

His fingers clamped around her arms and he shoved her up against the bulkhead. “The boat’s fine. Don’t. Ever. Endanger. Yourself. Like this. Again.” He could barely see her in the dark as they bounced on the waves, If he could just squeeze sense into her.

He cut off her words with his mouth and kissed her rougher than he should have. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He moved in closer, pinning her against the wood with his body. “Don’t do this to me again.” He kissed her deeper this time and felt her response match his.

She shoved her palms against his chest breaking them apart. “I am so done with your kisses.”

He turned away from the stab of her rejection, and primed the engine. “Yeah, you felt done in my arms.”

“I was over you. Now, you’ve set me back six months. I will get over you, Sean. I swear I will.”

“Why get over me?” He didn’t want to have this conversation when he was wired with tension, but it needed to happen. “We’re good together. We’ve always been good together. Go with it.”

“You know I want marriage and you don’t. Kissing was all you had on your mind.”

“Not all.” He wrenched the key in the ignition and the motor chugged and rumbled to life.

He did want to win her. He would feel like the luckiest man in the world. But things weren’t that simple.

Way to slap a guy down. This was what he was talking about. Loving someone always involved rejection or betrayal. He didn’t have to get knocked around too many times—his folks and Cal were plenty—before he got it.

Fish tracked the Escape’s trajectory from New Smyrna Beach and decided Cal headed too far south for Bermuda. He set course for Grand Bahama, the closest land mass.

Twenty minutes later Missy spotted something on the murky horizon that could be Cal.

He grabbed the three shrimp lights out of the port locker, clamped them to the edge of the pilot house, and hooked them up to juice. “When we get close, angle the lights to hit the Escape’s cockpit, but don’t turn them on until I start talking through the bullhorn. And for God’s sake, stay down.”

Cal had engaged the EPIRB what felt like an hour ago. If it alerted the Coast Guard, Aly would be rescued, and he’d be arrested—a tradeoff that would be worth Aly’s safety. But he was losing hope that the device had functioned correctly. He had to come up with a back-up plan.

His left arm had fallen asleep. His teeth chattered. He scooted tighter against the cabin, blocked from the cold wind and Franco’s sight. His gaze fell on the dinghy trailing behind the Escape. He could go below for Aly, and they could make their escape in the row boat. The odds of his getting into the cabin undetected—much less, the two of them climbing back out without attracting Franco’s attention—were slim. And even if they could make it into the dinghy, he wouldn’t risk exposing Aly to the elements without food or water for God knew how long while they waited for rescue.

Cal went up on one elbow and edged just high enough above the cabin to see Franco.

Directly in Franco’s line of vision, Cal spotted Aly peering from under the propped-open fore hatch.

Aly stood on the fore bunk, unlatched the overhead hatch, and raised it so slowly Vic wouldn’t notice even if he were looking at the hatch.

Her free hand ran over the carpet indentations on her forehead where she’d begged God to keep Cal safe and rescue them both. She nudged the hatch another eighth of an inch open.

Rifling through Franco’s backpack had produced their phones, but the Escape had traveled out of service range. She’d texted Fish anyway, just in case. No luck. It didn’t send.

Finally, the hatch was open enough for her to see out.

Vic sat facing her behind the wheel, the shotgun resting on the cockpit bench beside him. Cal had to be prone in the shadows on the aft deck.

She felt the smooth skin of the grapefruit in her sweatshirt pouch for reassurance. It was a crazy idea that banked heavily on her belief that Franco was not a killer—at least not the kind who would shoot a person point blank. If this worked, her JV career as catcher would count for more than an ill-conceived attempt to convince her freshman boyfriend she was athletic.

She cracked the hatch open another inch.

Cal had to get to Franco before the guy saw Aly.

“Hold it right there.” Franco’s voice rasped as he grabbed the shotgun off the bench and aimed it at Aly.

Cal scrambled off the aft deck and made for Franco.

Franco pivoted and trained the gun on him before he could make contact.

Cal froze. In the background he could see Aly boosting herself out of the cabin. He couldn’t think what she was doing other than trying to get herself shot.

With Franco distracted from the helm, the Escape veered into the wind, stopping the forward motion of the boat. The mainsail luffed frantically in the breeze.

He had to keep Franco’s attention off Aly. “Look, you can’t get to Grand Bahama without my help. Let’s act like civilized people and—”

Suddenly, shouting and bright light doused the cockpit.

Cal reacted rather than thought and dove for Vic, knocking him into the companionway hatch.

“Coast Guard. Put your hands in the air or we’ll shoot.”

The gruff voice barking through the megaphone sounded oddly familiar.

Fish.

Cal jerked the gun out of Franco’s hand and flung it toward the wheel. He drove a punch into his gut.

Franco slammed him against the steering column.

Pain shot through Cal’s ribs and the back of his skull.

Franco lunged for the gun.

“Move and I’ll shoot.” Fish’s voice boomed from the aft deck.

Fish had never fired anything more powerful than a BB gun and ten to one didn’t have a gun in his hands now.

Cal heard a thump, and Franco’s head jerked to the side, his eyes wide with surprise.

Cal made a split second decision to go for Franco instead of the gun and slammed him against the aft cabin.

Franco’s head knocked against the mainsail winch, and he crumpled over the gun.

A cracked grapefruit rolled off the seat and plopped onto the cockpit floor.

Fish scuttled into the cockpit and rolled Franco off the gun.

Cal cinched the sheet line around the inert Franco’s wrists.

Aly stepped into the cockpit, grinning.

Fish raised his voice. “Missy, radio the Coast Guard. Read them our location off the GPS. Tell them everything you know.”

Cal jumped to his feet. “No! There’s a warrant out for my arrest.” His eyes shot to Aly. “Skipping probation meetings. I would have tested dirty. I’m sorry. I was going to tell you, but it never seemed like the right moment.”

Fish grabbed his arm. “Take Zeke’s Ambition. Aly and I will handle things on the Escape and meet you back at the dock. The Coast Guard announced your coordinates on the emergency channel over an hour ago. Another call must have taken precedence. Get out of here. Fast.”

Cal stood rooted to the spot. Fish jeopardized his career again for him, voluntarily this time. “Why are you doing this?”

Fish shot him a half-smile. “Bubba Franks. Now, go!”

Fish’s words propelled him to the deck, then a leap aboard Fish’s boat that Missy held in close by a painter.

Fifth grade Bubba had stuffed scrawny fourth grade Fish into a Read-Pattillo Elementary dumpster every day for a week until Cal and Fish fought him together.

Missy cast off, and jumped into the captain’s seat.

The engine roared to life, and Cal watched Aly grow smaller and smaller as they hurtled into the night.

Relief had barely eddied in his chest when Missy shouted. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.” She glanced over at him. “I love you. No matter what.”

“I love you, too, Sissy-Missy. Thanks for helping Fish with the rescue.”

“Hey, take over. I’ve never driven one of these things before.”

He couldn’t help laughing in spite of everything. He nudged her out of the seat with his hip. Neither had he, but he was about to figure it out.

Chapter 21