forty-six

The boat continued to pitch and yaw. We stood there for precious minutes, unable to speak or to move. I looked to the east and saw the lights of the Bridge receding from us. I felt the swell of the ocean under my feet, moving us inexorably out to sea.

Some instinct clicked in and I was finally able to move. I untied the restraint holding my arm and untied Cheryl’s hands. We climbed into the cockpit and, sheltered from the wind, turned the engine over. It caught—we felt rather than heard the vibrations as the motor kicked in. Slowly we turned the wheel until the boat was facing Alcatraz and the City. Then we opened the engine to full throttle, praying it wasn’t too late. We had to be able to conquer the tide and not be driven onto the rocky reefs at the mouth of the Bay.

Cheryl ducked below and called 911 on my cell phone to alert the police and Coast Guard. It felt as if hours passed as our engine chugged, moving us incrementally closer to the Marina docks. It was an eternity of fighting the tide before we reached the pylons of the bridge. I felt as if we were moving forward by inches, struggling against a force that wanted to sweep us toward the sea.

A police boat was waiting as we reached the protected reef. Searchlights cut through the dark and the rain. We shut the engine down as we approached the nearest slip, but the impact with the dock sent us reeling. Something metallic caught on the edge of the deck and I realized we were being secured to the pier. A man in a Coast Guard uniform jumped onto the deck. Cheryl and I clung to each other, shivering and soaking wet from sea spray and rain. Two other men climbed aboard and, wrapping blankets around us, helped us disembark.

An ambulance was waiting by the Marina Green, silent, its lights flashing in the darkness. Police officers led us into the yacht club building just yards from the entrance to the boat docks. Inside, we were given hot drinks and fresh dry blankets. We sat on metal folding chairs while the police and Coast Guard officers conferred.

A female officer who looked so young I would have mistaken her for a high school student approached us and pulled up a folding chair. “Is there someone we can call for you?”

Cheryl looked at me and I replied, “Yes. Detective Ianello—SFPD.”

The officer raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Please call him. What happened tonight—it’s related to a murder case he’s already investigating.”

She nodded and started to move away.

“Wait,” I said. She stopped and turned back to me. “Are they going to search for … for the man who was on the boat with us?”

“That’s what they’re discussing now. But I don’t think it’s possible. The Coast Guard will start at first light.”

Cheryl and I exchanged looks. Her eyes betrayed the satisfaction of dark justice. No one held out much hope of finding Rob Ramer.