Tommy had been bounced against the deck and slammed sideways against the low port sill, but he had held fast to the railing, even though at one point he thought that his left arm was going to be dislocated at the shoulder. He came through the wreck without serious injury, however, and when the yacht was fully at rest, he let go of the railing, rose into a crouch, and crabbed sideways across the bow to Del.
She was on her feet by the time he reached her. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
The stern of the yacht burned brighter than ever. The fire was spreading forward, and there were flames behind the windows of the lower-deck staterooms.
An eerie and chilling ululation arose from deep within the crackling blaze. It might have been steam venting or hydraulic fluid singing through a pierced steel line – or the crooning of the enraptured demon.
The bow deck was canted three or four degrees because the boat was ramped up on the sea wall. They walked uphill to the pulpit, which thrust out of the water and was suspended over the deserted pedestrian promenade.
All along the recently slumbering waterfront, lights began to blink on in the closely spaced houses.
Scootie hesitated at the gap in the pulpit railing, but only briefly, then leaped down onto the concrete sward on the island side of the sea wall.
Del and Tommy followed him. From the pulpit to the sidewalk was about a ten-foot drop.
The dog sprinted west along the promenade, as if he knew where he was going.
Del followed the Labrador, and Tommy followed Del. He glanced back once and, in spite of all the outrageous incidents of the night, which should have inured him to spectacle, he was awestruck at the sight of the enormous boat balanced on the sea wall, overhanging the public walkway, as if it were the Ark washed ashore after the Great Flood.
As worried faces began to appear at upstairs windows but before any front doors flew open, before frightened voices rose in the night, Tommy and Del and the dog found the nearest street leading away from the promenade. They headed toward the centre of the island.
Although Tommy looked over his shoulder from time to time, expecting a serpent-eyed fat man or worse, no creature swaddled in fire pursued them.
SEVEN
Hundreds of houses crowded the small lots on Balboa Island, and because of inadequate garage space, both sides of the narrow streets were lined with the parked cars of residents and visitors. Shopping for a set of wheels to steal, Del had a daunting variety of choices. Rather than settle for a Buick or Toyota, however, she was attracted to a fire-engine-red Ferrari Testerosa.
They stood under the cloaking boughs of an old podocarpus, while she admired the sports car.
‘Why not that Geo?’ Tommy asked, pointing to the vehicle parked in front of the Ferrari.
‘The Geo’s okay, but it’s not cool. The Ferrari is cool.’
‘It costs as much as a house,’ Tommy objected.
‘We’re not buying it.’
‘I’m acutely aware of what we’re doing.’
‘We’re just borrowing it.’
‘We’re stealing it,’ he corrected.
‘No. Bad guys steal stuff. We’re not bad guys. We’re the good guys. Ergo, we can’t be stealing it.’
‘Actually, that’s a defence that might work with a California jury,’ he said sourly.
‘You keep a lookout while I see if it’s unlocked.’
‘Why not destroy a cheaper car?’ he argued.
‘Who said anything about destroying it?’
‘You’re hard on machinery,’ he reminded her.
From the far end of the island came the sirens of fire engines. Above the silhouettes of the tightly packed houses, the night sky to the south was brightened by the glow of the burning yacht.
‘Keep a lookout,’ she repeated. The street was deserted.
With Scootie, she stepped off the sidewalk and went boldly to the driver’s side of the Ferrari. She tried the door, and it was unlocked.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ Tommy muttered. Scootie entered the car ahead of her.
The Ferrari started even as Del settled behind the wheel and pulled the driver’s door shut. The engine sounded powerful enough to ensure that the car would be airborne if Del decided that she wanted it to fly.