“Probably headed for the Charleston Yacht Club!” Grainger yelled.
“The Charleston Yacht Club,” Theodosia told Tidwell. “Can you alert the Coast Guard and pull out all the stops? I think Andros is going to try to make a getaway on one of his yachts.” She listened to Tidwell for another half minute, nodded even though he couldn’t see her, and said, “We’ll be there.” Then she said, “Okay, Drayton, you can hang up now.”
“What?” Drayton asked. “What’s going on?”
“Tidwell’s going to meet us at the Charleston Yacht Club,” Theodosia said. “He’s says he’s going to commandeer a Coast Guard ship if he has to.”
“Dear Lord,” Drayton said, gripping the back of Theodosia’s seat. “It’s going to be an international incident.”
Theodosia fought to coax more speed from her vehicle. She made a wide, careening turn onto Meeting Street, almost clipping the wrought-iron light standard on the corner. She trounced down on the accelerator and ran hard for two blocks, and then twisted left on Atlantic Street, chasing after the dark car.
They whipped past the Featherbed House B and B and the historic Ramsey-Hay House, never losing sight of the car ahead, but never quite catching up to it, either.
“Turning on East Bay Street now,” Grainger called out. “Yup, they’re headed for the yacht club.”
Theodosia turned, too, whipping past White Point Garden. Past the row of cannons, the rose beds, the bandstand, and the spot where an old pirate gallows had once stood. Fog was starting to roll in now, little puffs that reminded her of dank, dirty clouds, and she was forced to curtail her speed as the moisture condensed on her windshield. Even with her wipers beating, it was getting difficult to see.
“Parking lot up ahead,” Grainger said, pointing. “Watch out, don’t clip that signpost.”
Theodosia cranked the steering wheel hard and shot into what was a practically deserted parking lot. A blue Toyota sat in one corner, a long, black car was hunkered in the opposite corner.
“Is that the car? Is that the car we were chasing?” Drayton asked.
“I think so,” Theodosia said.
“Pull in tight behind it so you can block it,” Grainger advised.
Theodosia rammed her Jeep up against the back of the dark car and sat for a split second, trying to collect herself. Then she jerked the key from the ignition and kicked open the door. “Let’s go!”
It was a good two hundred yards down to the far pier, the length of two football fields, and they were all tired and winded when they finally arrived.
“You see anything?” Drayton asked as they tentatively stepped out onto the wooden pier. A chill drizzle had started up, obscuring everyone’s vision.
“It looks like Andros is still here,” Theodosia whispered. Between the bobbling masts and clanking halyards, she could see two large yachts sitting at the end of the pier. Music and lights and laughter had flowed freely from them last night, but tonight they were silent. “I think we’re in time. We just need to, you know . . . be careful and stay quiet.”
They tiptoed down the pier, boards creaking beneath their feet, rain pattering down, the water splishing and splashing as it swirled around the boats that were moored there. They were hoping against hope that they could somehow steal on board Andros’s yacht and rescue Haley.
But when they reached the far end of the dock, they saw . . . nothing. No kidnappers milling about, no crew ready to cast off lines, no sign of struggle, and no Haley. Just two dark yachts bobbing in the water. Apparently deserted.
“They’re not here.” Drayton exhaled hard in disbelief.
“Did we lose them during the chase?” Theodosia asked. She put a hand to her mouth, puzzled. “How could that have happened?”
“I’m positive that was their car back in the parking lot,” Grainger said.
A sudden, low, throaty rumble from a boat two piers over caught their attention. Then lights flashed on and lines were cast off amid a few mumbled shouts.
“Oh no,” Theodosia cried as she gazed across a raft of bobbing boats toward the other dock. She couldn’t believe what was happening. “There’s a different boat. Haley must be on a different boat!”
“It’s pulling away,” Drayton said, as the prow of a large yacht suddenly sliced into view.
“Let’s go,” Grainger said. “Maybe we can catch it.”
They rushed back down the long pier, ran through a small picnic area and past the Charleston Yacht Club’s clubhouse. Then they pounded out onto the dock where the ship had just pulled away.
And it really had pulled away. A yacht at least fifty feet in length churned up a froth of water in its wake, the glow of its running lights slowly disappearing in the dark.
“We’re too late,” Theodosia gasped as rain started to pour down harder. “She’s gone.”