65

If a highly infectious disease strikes a ship’s captain and officers on the open sea, what percentage of the crew must approve before the diseased officers can be thrown overboard? Discuss the ethical implications of this decision.

At twenty yards, I take one final breath, go deep, and propel myself forward. My fingers touch the boat. Relief, dread, a rush of adrenaline. I stay close to the hull. Rusty can see me only if he comes out on deck. The wind whips the waves, blowing spray into my face. The salt burns my eyes, my lungs ache. Despite the frigid water, I’m warm from the swim, my heart beating fast.

I push myself along the side of the boat toward the ladder. When I come up, I see the name of the boat written in gold cursive from one end to the other, Rodeo King, and then underneath, Bodega Harbor. I reach down to pull off the fins. I pull off the hood. I fold the ladder down into the water and hook my foot onto the bottom rung. I stay hunched down, out of view.

With my free hand, I find the dangling cord that attaches to the wet suit zipper. I pull it down just enough so that I can reach the plastic bag. Hooking one arm around the ladder, I open the bag and remove the gun. I carefully slide the gun up higher on my back, still concealed, but more easily reachable. I have only one magazine, twelve rounds, and another in the chamber. Service ammo, sealed tight, hollow point.

I pull myself up and peer across the deck. It doesn’t look like a working boat. It’s more of a yacht than a fishing outfit. The deck is spotless, scrubbed clean and waxed, slick with rain. Black vinyl seating lines both sides. Deep-sea fishing poles are attached to the deck, but they’re so pristine they’ve probably never been used. Netting and perfectly coiled ropes are arranged beside two swivel chairs. A bright yellow kettlebell attached to a metal chain rests incongruously between the chairs. The only thing on deck that looks used is the bar area. A communications antenna and a weather station line the roof. The helm is up two steps, behind a wooden door. Most likely, inside the bridge there are stairs down to one or two cabins below deck.

I climb the ladder and hoist myself up. I stay low, hoping to avoid any mirrors or cameras. I move forward, cringing every time the wet suit squeaks. I approach the door of the bridge in a crouch, grateful for the noise of the wind and the sea, the thump of the ropes, the creaking of the hull. I position myself with my feet spread shoulder width, trying to counteract the sickening, roiling motion. Other than this boat and Ivan’s far in the distance, I haven’t seen a single vessel on the water.

From the motion, it occurs to me that Rusty has dropped anchor. Across the rising waves, through the rain, I can see the empty beach in the distance. The starboard side is parallel to the beach, making the rise and fall more extreme.

Third act, just like he said. What’s the plan? I consider taking my gun out, but the timing isn’t right. Not yet. I’m 98 percent sure Rusty is in there, facing the door, waiting for me, gun drawn. Rory took the phone, but Rusty let him take it. He wanted me to follow. He is expecting me.

If this turns into a duel, Rusty owns the advantage. I can’t let bullets fly until I know where Rory is. Safety rule number three: know your target and what’s behind it. No, Rusty needs to believe I’m unarmed.

I reach out and slowly turn the door handle. I open the door a sliver and peer inside. Rusty is sitting in the captain’s chair, facing the door, just as I expected. “Don’t be shy, Lina. Come on in. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Behind him, the wheel, controls, and miles of choppy sea. But no Rory.