Stage
Fright
by Glenn Ickler
Chapter 25
Crossing the Bar
As our pursuers chased us across the choppy waters of Merganser Bay, the black-clad man kneeling on the seat in the bow kept crossing and uncrossing his arms above his head, signaling us to stop. After several minutes of this, he picked up and waved something else. I didn't need binoculars to determine that the object being waved was a rifle. The man moved the object to his shoulder and I saw something splash into the water about twenty-yards behind us and slightly off to the right. The roar of our boat's motor drowned out the sound of the shot.
"Keep your heads down," I shouted. "The son of a bitch is shooting at us."
That warning sent Heather off the seat and into the bottom of the boat at Al's feet. Alice followed suit, huddling in her blanket on the cold aluminum in front of me.
I saw another splash behind us, this one a little closer. I wasn't sure if the shots were missing because they were meant to be a warning or if the range was too great and the ride too rough for accuracy. This was not the time to stop and ask.
"Should I zigzag a little? Al yelled.
"No," I shouted. "It would just help them catch up quicker. But stay down as low as you can get."
We had passed the first point, taking us out of Merganser Bay. We were in the expanse of water between Merganser Bay and the Glock Family Resort inlet, but at the rate our pursuers' fifty horses were overhauling our twenty, the gunner would be within range before we could reach the safety of Herman Glock's dock. Until we got within range of the sheriff, we had, as Al said, no place to hide. Or did we?
"Al, take us around the point as close to shore as possible," I yelled.
"We'll hit the damn sandbar on the other side," he said.
"You're right. That's just what we want to do."
"Are you nuts? We'll be stuck there."
"Not if you pull up the motor and Heather gets back up on that seat and works like hell with the oars."
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"What if they see us?"
"We've got to get our ass off the sandbar before they get around the point to where they can."
Another bullet landed in the wake just off our stern and the bow of the other boat was beginning to look amazingly large to me.
We rounded the tree-studded point of land only a few yards from shore, taking us out of sight of our pursuers. With me leaning over the bow to watch the water, Al steered straight for the sandbar. The other boat still was not in sight when I saw the shadow ahead and yelled, "Cut it!"
Al killed the motor and hoisted the propeller out of the water just as the bow struck the sandbar and the boat shuddered to a halt, nearly pitching me overboard. Heather was already in the middle seat and holding tight in anticipation of a quick stop. She was on the oars in an instant, pulling with all her strength to get us across the sandbar. The added weight of the two women caused the boat to ride lower in the water than it had on our previous encounter with the obstacle and Heather was having a tough time moving us. Without a word, Al jumped over the side and started pushing from the stern. His efforts, plus Heather's determined work on the oars, finally propelled us back into deep water and Al hauled himself over the gunwale and into the boat just as the stern was clearing the edge of the bar.
At this tense moment, a stinging rain began to fall. Water was running down Al's face when he pulled the starter rope and the motor sputtered and quit. He gave a second pull with the same result just as our pursuers rounded the point and came roaring toward us with their fifty horses running at top speed. The distance separating us from disaster was diminishing rapidly as our powerless little boat continued to drift only a few yards beyond the sandbar. As it had twice earlier, the third pull on the starter rope brought the balky motor to life and Al quickly two-blocked the throttle and steered toward the Glock resort dock.
The man with the rifle, still kneeling in the bow of the faster boat, rose to his feet and brought the weapon to his shoulder. Seeing this, Heather again slid off the middle seat and curled in a ball in front of Al.
Looking backward, I found myself staring into the gun barrel. They were so close that I could see the face of the rifleman, whom I recognized as Poker Winner, when I yelled at Al to duck. I dropped off the seat and laid on top of Alice Prewitt's blanket-covered body. I twisted my neck and looked up at the rifle, waiting to hear a shot - or feel the smashing impact of a bullet.
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