One Bad Thing

Harris almost hit the drifting boat.

It would have been a hell of a thing, he thought. Make it across the Atlantic in one piece only to smack into a sinking hulk less than ten miles from Newport.

He cut back on the throttle, and the ancient diesel settled down into an irregular popping, still quite loud. It was the fog that did it. Put an insulating cloak of damp cotton over everything, a surrealistic softness. He quickly checked the depth gauge and took a quick look at the chart. There was a reassuring sixty feet under his keel, just as there should be.

"Kiefer," Harris called "Come take a look at this."

Harris circled his wooden ketch, Felicity, around the powerboat. It had been a fast boat, some knock-off of a Cigarette. It was riding low; clearly it had taken on a lot of water.

However, what had made it sink was not obvious and that made Harris nervous. Felicity was forty-feet long, mahogany over oak. Custom built over forty years ago in Essex. Harris had rescued her from dry rot and neglect in an East Greenwich marina. She was the embodiment of Harris's dreams and he didn't want to lose her saving some rich fool's toy.

The powerboat rose briefly on a lifting wave, and Harris saw the name emblazoned on the sides: Speed Demon.

He cupped his mouth and called, "Ahoy, Speed Demon. Is anyone aboard? Can you hear me?" He repeated this several times, with no answer.

Kiefer stuck his head through the hatchway. "What's up?"

Harris flared with irritation. "Come up and see for yourself."

Just the way Kiefer asked, that "What's up?" with his eyelids drooping pissed Harris off. That bored, totally unearned sense of superiority that the kid conveyed.

Harris had picked Kiefer up in a pub in Plymouth after Caroline had bailed out.

The kid wasn't really a kid. About twenty-five or so, scruffy beard, a good line of chatter at the bar. "I'm a writer, a boat bum, and a philosopher," Kiefer had said, revealing a notebook. "I can make a feast with any two cans in the galley, turn to on the deck work, and I'm the guy you want on the foredeck when a squall whips up."

As it turned out, Kiefer was true to his word for all of about four days out. By then, Harris had told him too much. Into the scotch one night, he had told Kiefer the truth. That his wife hadn't flown home to help out some ailing, unnamed aunt. That Caroline had left him; that the circumnavigation had put far too heavy a burden on what was already a shaky marriage. That she had trumped out her oldest argument: she had given up everything for his around the world escape--even children.

"Sad tale, man. " Kiefer had said, his eyes gleaming slightly as the sun fell behind the horizon.

Pathetic tale, was what Harris read in those eyes. Even in his drunken state he realized he had talked too much.

Kiefer had spent hours writing in his notebook after that, and Harris had the distinct impression in the weeks after that Kiefer was watching him, analyzing him with bemused disdain. That damn notebook. Just the sight of it ate at Harris, the blue covered spiral notebook. Kiefer began sloughing off his duties, and would merely shrug and do the minimum when Harris confronted him.

"Whatever, man," he'd say. "Don't be so damn anal about it all."

Now as Kiefer came out of the cabin altogether, digging his fingers into his beard, Harris watched him. Kiefer's eyes lighted up when he saw the swamped boat.

Some philosopher, Harris thought.

"Jesus, look at that!" the kid said. "Bastard got what he deserved, probably screaming along in this fog with the hammer down."

"If you're done gloating, we've got to check it out."

Kiefer saluted mockingly. "Aye-aye, skipper." He went forward and began to unlash the dinghy.

"Take the wheel while I go down and call the Coast Guard."

"Keep your shirt on." Kiefer snapped the spinnaker halyard onto the bridle inside the dinghy and hoisted the boat over. He did it quickly and carelessly, and the dinghy banged hard against Felicity's hull on the way down.

"For Christ sakes!"

"Calm down, skipper," Kiefer said, scathingly. "There'll be time to touch up the paint after I see if somebody's hurt over there."

Kiefer rowed quickly to the powerboat and Harris watched him climb on board.

The arrogant little punk moves well when he wants to, Harris thought.

Kiefer stepped quickly to the center of the boat. He looked down into the small cabin under the flush decks and then back at Harris. "Looks kind of gruesome over here."

"What is it?"

But Kiefer didn't answer. He peered into the cabin, and then ducked down inside.

"What the hell?" Harris muttered. The kid was taking a risk. As low to the water as the boat was, he must have been at least waist deep below decks. The sea was calm, but it sure wouldn't take much to make the powerboat roll.

Far off, Harris heard a ship's horn. It sounded miles away, but sound was tricky in the fog. He knew the Block Island ferry could pass by any time, and with the dense fog they wouldn't see the wake until it arrived.

"Get out of there, Kiefer," he yelled.

There was no answer.

Several minutes passed.

"Damn it," Harris muttered, and eased Felicity closer.

What he saw puzzled him. Kiefer was opening the portholes. And then the main two hatches on the flush deck.

"What the hell are you doing?" Harris called.

The kid threw something into the cockpit. Two things, actually, that flashed silver. And then he scrambled up behind them and hurried to the dinghy and pulled it alongside.

Cases. Aluminum cases. That's what the silver looking things were. Kiefer threw them into the dinghy and got off the powerboat. Harris took a closer look at the Speed Demon. Maybe it was a trick of the fog, but it seemed markedly lower in the water.

"Oh for God's sake," he said as Kiefer approached. "You're sinking it."

Kiefer handed up one of the cases. "Take it man."

"What's in there?"

"What do you think?"

Harris stood with his hands on his hips. "Forget it," he said. "I'm not taking that on board."

"We'll talk about it," Kiefer said, shoving the first case onto the deck, leaving a long gouge in the varnished cockpit coaming. He tossed the second case on top of it, the dinghy almost skittering out from underneath him. But Kiefer regained his balance and horsed himself around to the stern ladder and tied the dinghy off to the cleat.

Harris said, "There's nothing to talk about."

"Bull," Kiefer said. He clambered into the cockpit, and shaded his eyes against the haze and looked back at the Speed Demon as the bow lifted and the boat slowly slipped under the water. "There's about two million dollars in that bottom case, the way it looked to me. And whatever the market will bear in heroin in the other. I'd say we got plenty to talk about. Now let's get out of here before the fog lifts."

****

Harris went for the radio.

Kiefer couldn't beat him to it, there wasn't room to get by. So he just shoved Harris. Shoved him into the port bunk, and before Harris could get to his feet, Kiefer had ripped away the microphone and threw it out the hatch. Harris heard the splash.

"You son-of-a-bitch," Harris said.

The kid put his hands up, palms outward. "I didn't want to do that, but I had to stop you. I've been waiting for a score like this all my life."

"Did you kill somebody over there?"

Kiefer made a face. "There were two guys on that boat, just as dead as they could be. Looked like they shot each other over the stuff. The hull had gunshot holes right around the waterline. All I did was speed things up by pulling off the hoses on the through hull fittings."

"Oh, that's all."

"Listen to me. We've got a once in a lifetime deal. But what we do right here, right now makes the difference. We got this fog, man. We've got this great, beautiful fog that's going to let us just slip out of here. I'll find a buyer for the dope, and we split it and the cash fifty-fifty. All you got to do is keep your mouth shut. Your marriage is already down the tubes, you told me that. I know how much you love this boat. Well, you're going to lose it. So you put this cash away, get your divorce, and move to another state. You can sail away again. What's so bad about that?"

"You're going to sell that stuff and more people will get sick and die, that's what's wrong with that."

Kiefer looked at Harris like he was a fool. "You don't have to worry about that. I'll take care of finding a buyer."

"I don't have to worry about a damn thing. I'll let you explain to the cops why you sank the boat."

Kiefer bristled and Harris instinctively stepped forward. Stepped right into the younger man's space. Harris was about twenty pounds heavier than the younger man. Some of it was fat, but plenty of it was muscle and Kiefer was either intimidated or simply thought better of fighting.

Either way, he backed down. "Be cool."

Kiefer turned and hurried up to the wheel and put the throttle down. The diesel began to clatter and Kiefer switched the boat onto autopilot. "Before you make a mistake we're both going to think about forever, take a look at this."

He pulled the aluminum cases over, and opened the one with the cash.

It was a daunting sight, Harris had to admit. A huge pile of twenties in thick bricks. Kiefer handed one to him. "Old bills," Kiefer said. "Held together with all these different color rubber bands. This isn't some bank robbery stash, this is drug money, taken off the street. We're not looking at traceable cash."

"You're some kind of expert, huh?"

"Not exactly." Kiefer closed the case. "Come here." He grasped Harris by the arm and pulled him forward so they stood on the cabin roof, away from the sound of the diesel. Automatically, Harris looked forward, nervous with the boat rushing so fast through the dense white without someone at the wheel. Kiefer stepped in front of him. "Listen, I know I've been looking at you crosswise because I figured I was wasting my time."

"Wasting your time how?"

"Mainly all I wanted out of this trip was a passage back to the States. And that's what I was getting and that's fine. But I'm always looking. I got this philosophy, see..."

"I've heard this line," Harris snapped. "All I've seen of it is a self-important punk scribbling in his notebook."

Kiefer nodded. "Yeah. But I'm also a punk who always keeps his eyes open. Just to myself, I call it, 'One bad thing.'"

"What?"

"My mother worked at a prep school outside of Boston, so I went to school there, grew up with rich kids all around me. I'm smart, made scholarship, got into Princeton. Could've made it fine, but I got lazy, cheated on a gut literature course, and got caught. Got caught by a tightass professor and got booted out."

"Sad tale," Harris said, mimicking the tone he had heard those weeks back.

Kiefer ignored that. "I decided right then I could hold my own with rich people and if I stuck around them long enough and was willing to do what I had to do, that sooner or later something would pop. Something where you might have to do something bad, but if you play it out, you'll score big enough to last a lifetime. You do it right, you've got only your conscience to deal with. Well, this is it, man, and it's not so bad. Hell, they already killed each other. We've just got to pick up the pieces and sail away."

"This is it?" Harris found himself laughing. "This is your idea, your philosophy? Do one bad thing and then move on?"

Kiefer didn't look offended. He looked at Harris carefully and said, "You're not getting it. Most people work their way up. Steal cars, do drugs, start stealing little crap, work up to assault...by the time they get to the big leagues they've got a sheet and the cops know right where to come. Man, I haven't done any of that. I've been on the move for almost six years, hanging out with you rich dudes one way or another. Bumming around on boats all over the world--the Caribbean, Aegean, Australia, Thailand.... Coming back, being a houseguest for months at a time. Everybody's buddy. I've been surrounded by enough money to drown in it. And I've always kept clean. Never stole a thing. Always backed down if ever there was any kind of hassle. Knowing that if I kept my eyes open there would be the one right score."

Harris said, slowly. "So you've been looking for what? Something to steal? Hijack someone's boat? Kill someone?"

Kiefer didn't say anything at first. Then he nodded slowly. "I saw some chances along the way, but they all seemed too heavy. Too complicated. Or something I couldn't handle after, you know? Something that would eat at me too much. Now we've got one and it's easier than I could've figured."

"You were looking to kill me?"

Kiefer shook his head. "No offense, but you're not in my league. An ex-strip mall developer from Rhode Island with an old wooden boat? No, I just wanted the passage back to the States."

"More like I talked like I was bigger than I was at the bar and it wasn't until you were at sea that you realized I was a dead end."

"Think whatever you want," Kiefer said, abruptly. "I've already done all the heavy work. You'd sit on your hands in a diamond mine, you're so damn stuck up. All you've got to do here is share the wealth and keep your mouth shut."

The kid was trembling. Excited about the cash, maybe. But there was something else.

Heavy work.

Harris stared at him. Kiefer wouldn't meet his eyes. Harris said, slowly, "They weren't dead, were they? The two in the boat?"

Kiefer moved his shoulders impatiently. "Of course they were..."

"Was one of them still alive?"

Kiefer wouldn't look at him. "No way."

"Both of them?"

Kiefer shook his head. "You don't have to worry about this..."

"Like hell," Harris said. "What'd you do--hold them underwater?"

And the kid reached under his shirt.

Harris saw the gun.

Before the kid had fully drawn it from his belt, Harris charged him and knocked him to the deck. Clamping his left hand over the gun, Harris kept it pressed against the younger man's stomach while beating him with his right. It was awkward, and Kiefer struggled. But Harris kept it up, pounding hard until excruciating pain flared up through his arm, and he knew he had broken his knuckles.

As the kid struggled to get up, Harris used what he had left, and butted him in the face with his head.

It dazed Harris, but he felt the kid sag underneath him. Harris wrenched the gun away. It was awkward to hold in his left hand. He stood up, breathing hard.

"Get up," he said, wrapping his right arm around the boom. He looked ahead briefly. Nothing on Felicity's bow. Just whiteness. His right hand throbbed like a bastard.

Kiefer struggled to his feet. His nose appeared to be broken, and blood flowed copiously down his chest. Some of it splattered onto the deck. "Oh, man," he said. "You're making a big mistake. We do this one thing, man, and you're free. I've done the hard part. Those two people are on me, not you. You've been a boy scout all your life and what's it got you? You're gonna have sell your boat and go back to work to keep your wife in alimony. For what?

"Stand over here." Harris pushed Kiefer so he was leaning over the rail. "Tilt your head back."

Kiefer obeyed. "C'mon, your conscience can handle this! You've just got to do this one bad thing, and you're done."

"You've convinced me," Harris said, and shot him behind the ear.

***

Two bad things, Harris thought as he lashed the spare anchor to Kiefer's body and heaved him over the side. I can handle two bad things.

It wasn't until he passed under the fog-enshrouded Newport Bridge that he let himself to look hard at number three.

Caroline.

Caroline was going to be a problem.

She would be expecting alimony for years to come and there was every chance a judge would award it. Harris knew Caroline--and her lawyer--would demand explanations if Harris somehow had the funds to keep Felicity. Even if he moved away and bought another boat, the chances of him keeping it a secret for the rest of his life were infinitesimal. Besides, Harris didn't want another boat. Felicity would do him just fine.

His third bad thing would have to look like an accident, Harris decided, abruptly. After Caroline, he would be done.

He was sure of it.

*****