A moment later, I’d revised that assessment. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

I stooped at the transom, where earlier I’d seen the boat plug securely stuck into the drain hole when we set off from Darryl’s camp. Now, the plug was missing. When I stopped the boat to change the tanks, water had flooded in. It swirled now around my boots, soaking the toes.

“We’ve taken on some water.” I tried to squeeze out all inflection, making it a simple declaration of fact. Neither good nor bad.

“What?!” His voice rose. The boat lurched right as he jumped up from the seat, his shoes hitting a flooded deck. He stared for a long moment at the water eddying around his feet.

“We’ll probably be all right as long as we keep moving,” I said. “The water should drain out.”

I don’t think he even heard me. His breath was coming in ragged gasps.

“This cannot be happening again.” Staring at the flooded deck, his eyes were huge; the color gone from his face.

He stepped away from the wheel. I grabbed it. He moved to the bow, struggling to don the stinking life vest. The frayed strap with a clasp at the end fell apart in his hand. The fear in his eyes scared me. I’d never seen this man when he wasn’t in control of his emotions.

“Hang on, Carlos. We need to keep moving.”

I put a hand on his arm. He shook it off. And then he gave a short nod, almost to himself. He leaned down, removed a revolver from an ankle holster, and laid it carefully on the console.

“You don’t understand. I cannot stay on this boat.”

I had one hand on the wheel, my other arm reaching out to him as he stepped toward the bow. “Wait, Carlos … I …”

I’d barely gotten out those words before he climbed up, shut his eyes, and crossed himself. Then he stepped over the side, dropping feet first into the dark waters of Lake Okeechobee.

Carlos’ arms flailed. The unclasped life vest floated up, tight against his neck. Water splashed wildly. I cut the engine and stretched out on the bow, reaching a hand toward him.

“Look at me!” I yelled. “Right here! Look at me.”

Panicked, he paid no attention, just kept fighting the lake. The thrashing motion of his arms whipped up the water around him, like a hurricane’s surge. His head went under.

I stood on the bow, wiggled out of my T-shirt and boots, and went in after him. It took just a moment or two to reach the spot where he’d gone down. I grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him back up, still fighting.

“Carlos!”

As he turned his head to the sound of my shout, his chin barely grazed the surface of the lake.

“Stop struggling! You’re okay. Just stand up.”

His brows drew together in a question. The windmill of his arms slowed. Realization slowly dawned.

“The lake is shallow,” I said. “You’re less likely to drown out here than to get attacked by a gator. And with the way you’re splashing around, one of these big boys is going to mistake you for a distressed animal. He’ll make you his dinner.”

Standing now, he untangled the vest from around his neck. A sheepish look crept across his face.

“Walk around to the back of the boat with me. I’ll show you where to climb in.”

“But the boat’s sinking.”

“Not yet. But the longer we stay stopped in the water, the more likely that is. Even if it does sink, we’ll scuttle the piece of crap. We can probably wade all the way to shore.”

I scanned the lake, saw no other boat traffic on this weekday. Where were the weekend anglers, the “bassholes,” when we needed them?

“Good thing you didn’t jump in with your gun,” I said. “We can use it to scare away the gators.”

Casting an uneasy glance over each shoulder, he hurried after me to the stern.

“I guess I looked pretty stupid, jumping over.”

I’d seen real terror in his eyes. Nothing stupid about that. “Not at all,” I said.

Where had that fear of boats and his blinding panic come from? I wasn’t going to ask him. He’d tell me when he was ready.

Once we were onboard, I quickly searched through a bin below the console. A bottle opener. Bug spray. An extra set of keys. A screwdriver. And then, success.

“This is what we need.” I held up a spare plug. “As we get underway, bail as quickly as you can with that bait bucket. If we can get moving, the boat will angle up on plane, and the water should drain.”

I started the engine as Carlos set to work. His confidence seemed to grow with each bucketful of water he tossed overboard. The lighter we got, the faster we went, until water streamed out through the open hole.

“Can you navigate again, while I see if I can get the plug in?” I asked. “We’re headed back to the camp, so just keep the compass pointing east.”

Grabbing the wheel with new assurance, he turned his face toward the sun. It seemed like he’d faced some awful fear, and was grateful to have survived to see daylight again.

I leaned over the transom, felt for the drain hole, and worked the plug in with the heel of my hand. “I got it!” I finally yelled. “Hallelujah.”

I saw Carlos’ shoulders relax. I was still soaked, and the rush of the wind felt cold. I stripped off my wet bra and was about to shrug back into my dry T-shirt, when he turned his head to say something. I couldn’t help but notice how his eyes flickered across my breasts. I quickly pulled my shirt over my body.

He’d seen me naked before, of course. But for some reason I felt embarrassed. I found a nylon jacket under the bench seat, and tossed it to him.

“You might want to take off that wet shirt. The sun feels warm now, but you’ll get cold at this speed in the wind.”

He caught the jacket. I stood next to the captain’s chair, steering as he changed into the dry jacket. When he was done, he took back the wheel, and I moved to the side to lean against the gunnel.

“Thanks, Mace. And thanks for saving us.”

I waved a hand, like it was nothing. “Guess we won’t end up in watery graves at the bottom of the lake after all.”

A look of pain raced across his face. I immediately regretted my lame attempt at levity.

“Sorry.”

He shrugged. “I should be used to it. It’s been many years.”

“But you’re not.”

“No.”

Neither of us spoke for a time. The engine whined. The throttle was fully open. We still headed east, back to the camp. A shift in the wind had smoothed the lake’s surface.

“Do you want to reverse course, go find Darryl, now that we’re not taking on water?”

“No. I need to regroup.”

“Regroup how?”

He lifted his wet pant leg and showed me his ankle, trailing lake vegetation. “Well, dry clothes, and minus this green stuff in my holster, for example.”

“It’s called water lettuce.”

Ignoring my botany lesson, he said, “I want the upper hand when I meet up with our friend Darryl. Do you think he sabotaged the boat?”

As soon as Carlos mentioned sabotage, a news story from a few years back popped into my head. The focus was on dirty tricks in a bass fishing tournament. And then I got a quick image of a spool of fishing line I’d seen on a table under the thatched-roof of the chickee hut.

“Oh, man.” I slapped my forehead.

“What?”

“Fifty-pound test line. When I saw it today at the camp, I wondered why anybody would have such strong line for lake fishing. It wasn’t for fishing. You tie a length of it to a boat plug, add a big hook at the end, and where the water’s shallow, the hook snags something on the bottom. Pop. There goes your plug.”