The man cocked his bald head. "Little Bertram up front. I was just coming out to check on her. What the hell were you thinking, man?"
"Guess I wasn't." Randall smelled alcohol on the man's breath. He must have just come from the .marina restaurant. His only thought was that this drunken man would be easy to overpower. "Do you leave your boat out here all winter?" he asked.
"Till Christmas. Then the wife and I take her down to Hilton Head. Damn Lauderdale's full of hop heads. Miami's full of Cubans. Just can't win, you know?"
"What's the world coming to?" Randall fell in beside him, eyeing the boats they passed, watching the man's hands. "So she's fueled and ready to go?”
"We're leaving this weekend so long as the weather holds. She needs some minor engine work. Damn mechanic here at the marina's a real asshole. Rebuilt one of the engines—took him two months and then he tries to charge me three grand. I told him to stick it tip his ass."
Anxious to get a look at the boat, Randall walked faster. "Thanks for the warning."
. The bald man stopped in front of an old, sleek-looking Bertram. "There she is. All forty-four feet of her."
"Nice-looking boat. Got your keys with you?"
Alarm entered the man's eyes. "Look, buddy, I don't want no trouble."
Randall eyed the Bertram, spotting the flotation key chain dangling from the ignition. Heart hammering, he swung around and punched the man in the jaw.
The man's head snapped back. He raised his hands to protect himself. "What the hell! Hey!"
Gritting his teeth in pain, Randall shoved him into the water. He'd already reached the deck of The Pulpit when the sound of the splash reached him. He darted to the control console and turned the first of two ignition keys, silently thanking God when the starboard engine roared to life. The port engine grumbled, coughed like a sick cow and then turned over. With the engines purring, he untied the moorings.
Randall didn't know much about the big vessels, but he'd been onboard plenty of smaller boats and was mechanically inclined enough to find the port and starboard throttles and clutches. Flipping on the lights, he checked the bilge and fuel alarms. Gripping the throttle with his right hand, he jammed it forward.
The boat quivered as the transmission jerked into gear. For an instant, the Bertram drifted. The engines whined. He checked the double tachometers. The stern bumped a nearby sailboat's taffrail. He spun the wheel. The big boat quivered, as if she'd been struck by a wave. With a recklessness he hadn't known existed inside him, he maneuvered the boat from its slip. Ignoring the No Wake sign, he pressed the throttle forward as far as it would go. The old Bertram jumped forward, its hull slicing through the black water with the grace of a racing boat.
The logical side of him knew better than to attempt to navigate the inland waters at such a high rate of speed. He didn't know depths or direction. He didn't have a nautical map. But the darker side of him scoffed at the notion of logic.
Finding the Anastasia would be nothing short of a miracle. The intracoastal waterway and the massive expanse of Chesapeake Bay were nearly as boundless as the ocean itself. The shores were chock full of undeveloped inlets, shipyards, marinas, and livers. It was too much territory for one man to cover. He needed help, but there was no one left to help him.
He'd broken too many laws to count in the last several hours to expect any help from the local police. The detective investigating the shooting back at the restaurant had expected him at the hospital hours ago. He'd threatened a paramedic. He'd broken into Clint's apartment and tampered with evidence. Christ, he'd stolen a boat at gunpoint.
They're taking Addison out to sea, Talbot.
Terror twisted inside him. He should have known better than to take her out of the hotel. He should have been able to protect her. Guilt pounded at him.
Determined to stay in control, Randall closed his eyes and let the cold, heavy air wash over his face. It wouldn't do her any good for him to lose it now. All he could do was keep up the search and hope for a lucky break.
He squinted into the darkness. Ahead, the lights of the Francis Scott Key Bridge spanned the Patapsco River. The boat shifted slightly as it entered the river's current. Turning the wheel sharply, he headed out into the bay.
On the horizon, two tiny specks of light shone like stars against the night sky. Too near to be land. Half expecting them to disappear like a mirage, Randall kept his eyes trained on the lights. As he drew closer, he realized they were the lights of a large vessel heading due south.
He adjusted the wheel and set a direct course for what he prayed was the Anastasia.
*
Inside the pilot house, Garrison Tate marveled at the sheer beauty of the machinery his power afforded him, the breadth and width of the power he possessed touched him with an intensity that was almost sexual.
"How far are we from open ocean?" he asked, running his hand over the ergonomic instrument panel.