Tick Tock

no traffic moved on Palm, because the ferry was closed for the night. In the docking slip at the foot of the ramp, one of the barge-type, three-car ferries creaked softly, wallowing on the high tide.
    They could turn left on Palm and leave the Fun Zone for the next street to the south, which was Bay Avenue. In the immediate vicinity, it was not a residential street, but they might still find a parked car or two that Del could hot-wire.
    Tommy was thinking like a thief. Or at least he was thinking like a thief's apprentice. Maybe blondes—at least this blonde—were every bit the corrupting influence that his mother had always believed them to be.
    He didn't care.
    He could still taste the kiss.
    For the first time, he felt as tough and adaptable and suave as his detective, Chip Nguyen.
    Beyond Bay Avenue was Balboa Boulevard, the main drag for the length of the peninsula. With police no doubt still coming and going from the scene of the shooting farther east, Tommy and Del would be too noticeable on the well-lighted boulevard, where at this hour they would probably be the only pedestrians.
    Scootie growled, and Del said, “It's coming back.”
    For an instant Tommy didn't understand what she meant, and then he understood too well. Bringing up the shotgun, he spun around to face east. The promenade was deserted as far as he could see, and even at night in the rain he could see past the carousel and as far as the Balboa Pavilion at the entrance to the Fun Zone.
    “It doesn't know exactly where we are yet,” she said, “but it's coming back this way.”
    “Intuition again?” he asked sarcastically.
    “Or whatever. And I don't think we can outrun it on foot.”
    “So we've got to find a car,” he said, still keeping a watch on the east end of the Fun Zone, expecting the Samaritan-thing to come racing toward them, birdless and furious.
    “Car, no. That's too dangerous. That means going out toward the boulevard where a cop might pass by and see us and think we're suspicious.”
    “Suspicious? What's suspicious about two heavily armed people and a big strange black dog on the street at three in the morning in the middle of a storm?”
    “We'll steal a boat,” Del said.
    Her announcement drew his attention away from the promenade. “A boat?”
    “It'll be fun,” she said.
    Already she and Scootie were on the move, and Tommy glanced east along the deserted amusement area once more before scrambling after the woman and the dog.
    Past the entrance ramp to the ferry was Balboa Boat Rentals, a business that offered a variety of sailing skiffs, small motor boats, and kayaks to the tourist trade.
    Tommy didn't know how to sail, wasn't sure that he would be able to operate a motor boat, and didn't relish paddling out onto the dark rain-lashed harbour in a kayak. “I'd prefer a car.”
    Del and Scootie ran past the shuttered rental facility and departed the open promenade. They passed between a couple of dark buildings and went to the sea wall.
    Tommy followed them through a gate and along a pier. Though he wore rubber-soled shoes, the rain-soaked planks were slippery.
    They were in what appeared to be a small marina area where docking space could be rented, though some of the docks to the west were evidently private. A line of boats—some commercial party boats, some charter-fishing craft, and a few private craft big enough to be classified as full-blown yachts—were fled up side by side in the pounding rain, dimly revealed by the pier security lamps.
    Del and Scootie hurried along a dock head serving several slips and moorings, looking over ten boats before stopping at a sleek white double-deck cruiser. “This is good,” she said as Tommy joined them.
    “Are you kidding? You're going to take this? It's huge!”
    “Not so big. Bluewater 563, fifty-six-foot length, fourteen-foot beam.”
    “We can't handle this—how could we ever handle this?—we need a whole crew to handle this,” Tommy babbled, wishing that he didn't sound so panicky.
    “I can handle it just swell” she assured him with her usual ebullience. “These Bluewater yachts are sweet, really sweet, about as easy as driving a car.”
    “I can drive a car, but I can't drive one of these.”
    “Hold this.” She handed him the .44 Magnum and moved out along the finger of the dock to which the Bluewater was tied.
    Following her, he said, “Del, wait.”
    Pausing briefly to untie the bow line from a dock cleat, she said, “Don't worry. This baby's got less than two feet of draft, a