Free Third Strike by Philip R. Craig Page A

without lights, which if the Coast Guard ever caught them would be a giant fine. That was strange. But there was something else I couldn’t put my finger on. Those guys on the deck, maybe. All watchful and tense. I don’t know. So anyway, the boat turns on its searchlight, pans around the shoreline, then curves around and pulls up to Dr. Mumford’s dock. Then some other people come down from the cottage onto the dock with flashlights, and I caught a few quick glimpses of those men. I could see that they were wearing dark turtleneck jerseys and blue jeans and black watch caps, and a couple of them had machine guns slung over their shoulders. They were talking into walkietalkies or cell phones or something. I could hear the mumble of their voices across the water from their dock to the one I was on, but couldn’t make out any words. Couldn’t even tell if they were speaking English, but—”
    â€œWhoa,” I said. “Back up. Machine guns?”
    He nodded. “Those small ones. Uzis, maybe? Let me finish. So they tied off at Dr. Mumford’s dock and offloaded some wooden crates from the boat and lugged them to a van that was parked there at the end of the dock with its lights on and motor running.”
    â€œAny idea what was in those crates?”
    He shook his head. “They were, I don’t know, three or four feet long, and they looked to be pretty heavy. It took two men to carry one of them.”
    â€œHow many crates?”
    He shrugged. “Six or eight. Maybe more. I didn’t count.”
    â€œWhat about the van? Any writing on it?”
    â€œLike I said, it was just moonlight and some flashlights. There might’ve been some kind of logo on the side, but I’m not sure. I couldn’t tell you the make or model, either.”
    â€œSo what happened?”
    â€œThe longer I kneeled there behind the piling, the scareder I got. I just wanted to get the hell out of there, but I wanted to see what they were doing, too. After they finished unloading those crates, some of the men stood around talking. I could hear their voices across the water, but I couldn’t tell what they were saying. And then the van drove away and the men got back on the boat, and it backed away from the dock, still not showing any lights.” Larry looked at me. “Then I did something stupid.”
    â€œThey saw you?” I said.
    â€œThe boat started to turn,” he said, “and they were going to pass right in front of me, and I guess I panicked. I—I ran, and almost instantly there’s a shout and then this big searchlight from the boat goes on, sweeping across the water toward me, and, Jesus, I realize they’ve spotted me. Their light’s panning around, and I’m running down that dock, seems like it’s about a mile long, and then they’ve got me in their beam and I’m waiting for them to start shooting their Uzis at me, but they don’t, and then I’m off the dock and zigzagging across the yard, trying to get behind the house and into the woods, and a couple times the searchlight catches me and they yell some more, but I can’t tell what they’re saying, not that I care. Couldn’t even tell if it was English. I just keep going, running as fast as I can, waiting for them to shoot me. But they don’t shoot, and I realize, they don’t want anyone to hear gunshots, and they’re out there on their boat and I’m on land, and if I just keep running they’ll never catch me. So that’s what I did. I ran all the way home. And they didn’t catch me.”
    â€œAnd you’re all right,” I said.
    â€œThey saw me,” he said. “They know what I look like.”
    â€œHow well could they have seen you?”
    â€œThat spotlight, it was like I was on a stage. They probably had binoculars. I think they saw me pretty good.”
    â€œYou’re saying you think they might recognize