Strangled - Brian McGrory [18]
At about fifteen yards away, I called out, “Can I help you?” Granted, it was a dumb question; I was in a scull, they were in a powerboat. But I thought it might be advantageous, at least to me, to get a dialogue started.
In response, I got no response, except that the driver of the boat gunned the engine and veered sharply to his left — toward the rear of my shell. He zipped off toward the shore, the boat melting into the darkness.
My shell, meanwhile, rocked violently from his wake, almost to the point of capsizing. I struggled to maintain equilibrium, like a cowboy on a bucking bronco, until the waves settled down and I finally achieved it.
And then came the grinding sound all over again, this time in my face, meaning from the rear of the scull. It got louder more quickly than before, though with no light. Soon I saw the powerboat, first as a hazy form, then in greater definition. It came roaring at me, its speed increasing, and cut just to my right, coming within five yards of the side of my boat. It appeared to be the Union Club’s small powerboat that was kept in the storage garage.
Again I surged sideways. I could feel my entire right side up in the air, as if I was on one of those amusement park rides that used to invariably make me puke as a kid. I tucked my head down, preparing to flip over, but miraculously came just short of the tipping point, a phrase I understood more intimately at that moment than I ever intended. I splashed back down on the river, the water hitting my face, my arms, and my hair. I rocked back and forth for another couple of minutes before the waves died down again.
Okay, so these weren’t cops. But who?
I could still hear the whir of their outboard motor, but could no longer see the craft. As I held my balance, I started thinking where else a heartbroken reporter amid a potentially huge story would have gone to wash away his sorrow and anxieties. The Bristol Lounge at the Four Seasons wouldn’t have been a bad choice; the worst thing that could have happened is that someone might have tipped my wineglass over rather than my scull. But no, here I was in the middle of the Charles River legitimately wondering if I’d ever get back to terra firma alive.
I pointed the boat toward the shoreline and started rowing madly. Louder came the engine. The spotlight suddenly illuminated again, shining directly in my eyes. I heard someone on the boat say, “The bastard’s still up.” Probably not for long, I wanted to tell them, but didn’t have the time. They accelerated toward me from the front of the boat, meaning from my back, veered off again at the last minute, and sped away. And in one giant swell, I flipped helplessly into the water, as if it was my destiny.
I probably don’t have to report how cold the Charles River felt in the middle of an unseasonably cool Boston March, but I will. I will. It was fucking freezing. It was the type of cold that made you believe your fun parts would never again be any fun — in fact, they’d probably have to be amputated in the off chance you got out of this alive. It was mind-numbing, head-pounding, body-enveloping cold.
Immediately, I bobbed back to the surface and resisted the urge to scream for help. The only people who would have heard me were the same people trying to drown me. I treaded water and let my eyes adjust. The scull was but a few feet from me; the shoreline to my right about fifty yards away.
That’s when I heard the motor again and saw the light sweeping across the black skin about ten yards to my left. If they saw me, they would try again to kill me. As much as I couldn’t believe I was doing this, I dove under the freezing