Dangerous Waters by Bill Eidson

Author:Bill Eidson
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 1991-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

In Newport three hours later, I used the pay phone at Fort Adams to call Desmin Lowe. That was his full name, the name that fit the address in the phone book. Someone picked up the phone without answering, and I said loudly, “Lizzie? That you?”

He hung up. I caught the launch just before seven, and carried on my scuba gear. The driver was a blond girl in her late teens who smiled and said have a nice evening.

The Colt and the shotgun were in the equipment bag. After I left Derby, I had cut the stock and barrel off the shotgun. Given the sour taste left in me from bullying him and Keiller, I was looking forward to putting a gun up against someone who deserved it. And I figured from the way Cory’s chest looked, a sawed-off shotgun was the type of weapon Desmin Lowe respected.

I went below and lay down in the bunk and waited.

I tried to sleep, but couldn’t. My eyes were itchy, and I was keyed up. Instead, I thought about how I had helped build my separation from my wife with this damn sailboat. I thought of how I should have spent more time with her instead of running down to Newport and cajoling her to join me. We should’ve traveled more. We should’ve spent more time together. We should’ve had children. We should’ve talked more honestly. We should’ve, should’ve, should’ve … I should’ve left Rachel alone.

The hours passed slowly. After cleaning both guns, I fixed myself a sandwich and drank some juice. I plotted a simple course and punched the numbers into the loran, then inflated the dinghy and put on the outboard. And waited.

Just before eleven, I dropped the mooring and motored up the bay toward Warwick Neck. The water was calm, and the Spindrift made good speed, just under six knots. After about two hours, the loran beeped for the third time, and I killed the engine and dropped anchor.

I quickly pulled on my wet suit and set out in the dinghy for the mouth of the shallow inlet leading to Desmin Lowe’s house. A sense of unreality swept over me as the moon slipped from behind clouds to reveal me alone in the little boat, the minor chop slapping at the sides. The shotgun and the automatic were in the backpack up in the bow. The inlet narrowed, and I checked off the buoys as I passed by, until I reached the one that was two lots from his house. I cut the outboard and began to row. A quahog boat was tied to a small floating dock. The house was nondescript, closed off from the neighbors by a high wooden fence. A pickup truck dominated the driveway, alongside the dark shape of a car, a Trans Am perhaps. A big motorcycle gleamed in the moonlight near the back porch. Desmin had some new toys, all right. The dog was nowhere in sight; I assumed he was inside.

I continued past the house and let the dinghy drift up to the neighbor’s beach.

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