“My Ship Comes In” Excerpt 7: a story that doesn’t add up

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“My Ship Comes In” Excerpt 7: a story that doesn’t add up

March 22, 2022 by T.K. O'Neill

“My Ship Comes In” is the fourth story, a novella, in T.K. O’Neill’s Northwoods Pulp Reloaded collection of three short crime stories and this longer story. Ebook available here.

Chapter 5

Obvious signs of a struggle on the Larson E: bloodstains on the deck, along with broken bottles and empty shotgun shells. But somehow, the destruction doesn’t live up to Bagley’s story. The boat isn’t riddled with bullet holes like I expected. I only see two holes, and they’re directly to the right of the steering wheel, about head high. Two large clean holes and that’s it.

Down below, several live shotgun slugs and two shotguns lay on the bed of the larger stateroom. The bed my wife and I slept in not too long ago. The green Hawaiian shirt Steve Schmidt was wearing when we first arrived in the Keys hangs from a hook on the wall.

Tears well up behind my eyes and I fight them back down. I jam three slugs in the Browning semi-auto and set it back down on the bed. I suck in deep breath after deep breath and go back topside. Shakily, I push the button; tear off the seat cushions and stare, fascinated, as the panel slides back. A thin metal door above the “Emergency” tank is easily unlatched and lifted up to reveal a green North Face backpack lying high and dry on a mesh tray fastened to the sides of the tank. I crouch down and grab the two aluminum rods on the pack and lift. A hundred pounds comes up as easy as squeezing a pimple. Adrenaline works wonders. I throw the pack on the deck and stare at it, my heart ripping like a marching band at the homecoming parade. At my feet is a quarter million worth of coke, wholesale. By the time the last line has been snorted, smoked, or injected, well over a million dollars will have been generated.

Lordy mama, my ship has come in.

Then my body starts doing the convulsion boogie and a wave of outright terror washes through me. I jump back to my feet and go down below deck, grab the shotgun, push off the safety and touch off a load by the side of the bed. Water rushes in and my ears ring. I go back topside, a three-alarm fire in my head. I heft the pack and start down the ladder towards the dark sea. My foot slips on a wet rung and I go crashing down, landing on my shoulder in the raft. The thing damn near tips over but somehow doesn’t. I pull off the pack and laugh hysterically before climbing back up the ladder. I lock the rudder with the improvised loop of rope and start the engine. Before pulling the anchor, I retrieve the Browning and throw it in the dinghy. There’s already two inches of water in the cabin.

The engine murmurs softly. I pull up the anchor, put the boat in gear and quickly go down the ladder and flop into the raft on my stomach. I untie, and the Larson E glides slowly into the darkness.

The grin is still on my face as I come ashore but I quickly turn grim at the prospect of facing Bagley. He catches sight of the pack on my back and can’t suppress a smile of his own and I hate him for it. Me, who was balls out crazy a minute ago, laughing like a fool—and I hate him for just smiling. These are strange times indeed.

There is a little bee buzzing around inside my head now telling me something is not quite right. I can’t shake the feeling. There’s more to this situation than meets the eye or the ear, but I don’t know exactly what. Considering that I’m dealing with Dan Bagley, why should that come as a surprise?

I throw the pack down at Bagley’s feet. “There’s your guilt powder, Dan. You happy now?” I look up and down the beach and see nothing but darkness. Driving rain the only sound. “I suppose we should get going,” I say, staring hard at Bagley as he struggles to his feet. Now I’m almost positive those marks on his face are scratches. Metallic sounding words begin to tumble out of my mouth: “Those look like scratches on your face, Dan? Were those woman pirates?”

(To be continued)