She went below.

I scanned the horizon. Even in the darkness, I could see the two points of land on either side that marked the end of the relatively calm strait.

Within a minute, we were out into Gardiners Bay. Within two minutes, the sea looked like someone switched the dial to spin and rinse. The wind howled, the waves crashed, the boat was nearly out of control, and I was weighing my options.

Beth scrambled up from the cabin and held on to the handgrip on the dashboard.

I called out over the sound of the wind and the waves, "Are you okay?"

She nodded, then yelled, "John! We have to turn back!"

I knew she was right. The Formula was not made for this and neither was I. Then I recalled Tom Gordon's words to me on my porch that night which seemed so long ago. A boat in the harbor is a safe boat. But that's not what boats are for.

In truth, I was no longer frightened by the sea or by the possibility of my death, for that matter. I was running on pure adrenaline and hate. I glanced at Beth and our eyes met. She seemed to understand, but she didn't want to share my psychotic episode. She said, "John… if we die, he gets away with it. We have to get into some harbor or inlet somewhere."

"I can't… I mean, we'd run aground and sink. We have to ride it out."

She didn't reply.

I said, "We can put in at Plum Island. I can get into that cove. It's well marked and lit. They have their own generator."

She opened the chart again and stared at it as if trying to find an answer to our dilemma. In fact, as I'd already concluded, the only possible harbors, Greenport and Dering, lay behind us, and between us and those harbors was Tobin.

She said, "Now that we're out in the open sea, we should be able to circle around and get past him and back to Greenport."

I shook my head. "Beth, we have to stay in the marked channel. If we lost sight of these channel markers, we're finished. We're on a narrow highway and there's a guy with a rifle behind us and the only way to go is straight."

She looked at me and I could tell she didn't completely believe me, which was understandable because I wasn't completely telling the truth. The truth was, I wanted to kill Fredric Tobin. When I thought he'd killed Tom and Judy, I would have been satisfied seeing the great State of New York kill him. Now, after he murdered Emma, I had to kill him myself. Calling the Coast Guard or Plum Island security was not going to even the score. In fact, regarding score, I wondered where Paul Stevens was this night.

Beth broke into my thoughts and said, "Five innocent people are dead, John, and that's five too many. I won't let you throw away my life or yours. We're heading back. Now."

I looked at her and said, "Are you going to pull your gun on me?"

"If you make me."

I kept staring at her and said, "Beth, I can handle this weather. I know I can handle it. We're going to be okay. Trust me."

She stared back at me a long time, then said, "Tobin murdered Emma Whitestone right under your nose and that was an attack on your manhood, an insult to your macho image and your ego. That's what's driving you on. Right?"

No use lying, so I said, "That's part of it."

"What's the other part?"

"Well… I was falling in love with her."

Beth nodded. She seemed contemplative, then said, "Okay… if you're going to get us killed anyway, then you may as well know the whole truth."

"What whole truth?"

She replied, "Whoever killed Emma Whitestone… and I guess it was Tobin… also first raped her."

I didn't reply. I should say I wasn't completely shocked either.

There is a primitive side to all men, including fops like Fredric Tobin, and this dark side, when it takes over, plays itself out in a predictable and very scary way. I could say I've seen it all-rape, torture, kidnapping, maiming, murder, and everything else in the penal code. But this was the first time that a bad guy was sending a personal message to me. And I wasn't handling it with my usual cool. He raped her. And while he was doing it to her, he was-or thought he was-doing it to me.

Neither of us spoke for a while, and in fact, the noise of the engines and the wind and sea made any talk difficult, which was okay with me.

Beth sat in the left seat and held the arms tightly as the boat pitched, rolled, yawed, and did everything else but spin and dive.

I remained standing at the wheel, braced against the seat. The wind blew through the shattered glass in front of me, and the rain sliced in from all angles. The fuel was low, I was cold, wet, exhausted, and very troubled by that image of Tobin doing that to Emma. Beth seemed strangely silent, almost catatonic, staring straight ahead at each onrushing wave.

Finally, she seemed to come alive, and looked back over her shoulder. Without a word, she got out of the chair and went to the rear of the boat. I glanced at her and saw her take up a kneeling position in the stern as she drew her 9mm. I looked out at the sea behind us, but saw only the walls of waves trailing the boat. Then, as the Formula rode up on a big wave, I could see the fly bridge of the Chris-Craft behind us again, not more than sixty feet away and closing fast. I made a decision and cut the throttles back, leaving only enough power to control the boat. Beth heard the engines rev down and glanced back at me, then nodded in understanding. She turned back toward the Chris-Craft and steadied her aim. We had to meet the beast.

Tobin had not noticed the sudden difference in relative speed and before he knew it, the Chris-Craft was less than twenty feet from the Formula, and he hadn't gotten his rifle into position. Before he did, Beth began a steady volley of fire at the dark figure at the window of the cabin. I watched all of this, dividing my time between keeping the bow of the Formula into the waves, and looking back to be sure Beth was okay.

Tobin seemed to disappear from the cabin, and I wondered if he'd been hit. But then, all of a sudden, the Chris-Craft spotlight, mounted on the bow, went on, illuminating the Formula and also revealing Beth kneeling in the stern. "Damn it." Beth was slipping her last magazine into the Glock, and Tobin was now back at the windshield, aiming the rifle with both hands and letting the wheel go.

I drew my.38, spun around, and jammed my back against the wheel to hold it as I tried to steady my aim. Tobin's rifle was pointing right at Beth from less than fifteen feet away.

For a half second, it seemed as if everything was frozen-both boats, Beth, Tobin, me, and the sea itself. I fired. The barrel of Tobin's rifle, which was clearly lined up on Beth, all of a sudden swung toward me and I saw the muzzle flash at about the same time that the Chris-Craft, with no hand on the helm, lurched to port, and Tobin's shot went wide. The Chris-Craft was now at right angles to the stern of the Formula, and I could see Tobin in the side window of the cabin. In fact, he saw me and we made eye contact. I fired three more rounds into the cabin and his side window shattered. When I looked again, he was gone.

I noticed now that trailing behind the Chris-Craft was the small Whaler that had been in the boathouse. I had no doubt now that Tobin intended to use the Whaler to land on Plum Island.

The Chris-Craft bobbed around aimlessly, and I could tell there was no one at the helm. Just as I was wondering if I'd hit him, his bow came around very deliberately, and the spotlight again illuminated us. Beth fired at the light, and on the third shot, it exploded in a shower of sparks and glass.

Tobin was not to be foiled, and he gunned the Chris-Craft's engines. His bow was closing on the stern of the Formula. He would have rammed us except that Beth had pulled the flare pistol from her pocket and fired it right into the windshield of the cabin cruiser's bridge. There was a blinding white explosion of phosphorus and the Chris-Craft veered off as Tobin, I imagined, let go of the helm real fast and dived for cover. In fact, maybe he was burned, blinded, or dead.