Hour Game

He waited, waited. There it was, the enormous crack of thunder as the storm began its barrage. He fired the twin Mercs almost simultaneously, and a thousand horsepower instantly lit up under him. He hit the captain's switch, which sent most of the engines' noise under the water. He eased back on the throttle, and the boat edged out of its slip. He turned the bow to the cove's opening, nudged the throttle forward and did about ten knots heading away from the house. He felt the hull trembling a bit under him, as though the Mercs were angry he wasn't pushing them harder, getting up on plane, blasting all comers away. He patted the dash. That will come later, I promise.

Once he hit an open channel, he went to half-speed and the FasTech immediately leaped to thirty-five knots, the Mercs still not entirely happy but getting there. He eyed the colorful GPS screen in the center of his dash and made his heading to the southeast at 150 degrees. There were no other boats on the water, and he knew the lake intimately. The channels were well marked with lighted buoys: red buoys blinking even numbers upriver and green buoys blinking odd numbers downriver. Shoals were marked in startling white light. He knew where they all were anyway. The only trouble one could get into was in the coves where low spots weren't always marked and the land jutted out randomly. However, his father had purchased a radar add-on for the FasTech, so he wasn't worried about running aground, even in the coves. Thanks, Dad, I owe you, you son of a bitch.

He kept his running lights off and upped his speed to fifty knots. He alternated between looking over the bow and glancing at the GPS. The Mercs were now fairly content; at least the hull had stopped trembling. He was up on plane and running smooth, though the storm was really blowing in now. He turned on his VHF radio and listened to the weather report. All small craft were being ordered off the water. People were being told to batten down the hatches. It was going to be a damn fine corker of a storm.

Thank you, Jesus.

He'd have the whole show to himself. He changed course when he hit the main channel and pointed his bow to the southwest now, 220 degrees on the compass. It was not all that far by water really. It was far longer by car, which was why he'd taken the boat. And anyway, the cops were watching all the roads. However, there was only one police boat on the water, and it only worked weekends when the lake was most crowded. There'd be no one out here to give him trouble tonight.

He stood at the wheel and let the wind whip across his face and lift his hair. As the breeze kicked up, so did the chop; edges of frothing white outlined the tops of the dark waves now. However, the FasTech ate through the two-footers and kept right on plowing. Eddie looked at the ominous sky. He'd always loved the outdoors. Riding horses, playing soldier, camping under the wide, wide sky, painting breathtaking sunrises, hunting and fishing, coming to understand how one thing worked with another, fed off each other.

It was all coming to an end, though. He understood quite clearly that this would be his last ride. Surprising how fast it had come. He was very strong and healthy, and yet his life expectancy had topped out at age forty. Yet when it was done, he would have accomplished everything he'd set out to do. How many people could claim that? He'd lived his life exactly on his terms, not his father's or his mother's or anyone else's. His alone.

It was a lie he told himself every day.

He opened the cooler and pulled out the single beer he'd put in there before he'd been arrested. He hadn't known then that he'd need the boat, only that he might.

The beer was warm, of course, all the ice long since melted. But it tasted so good. He held up the metal against his face and rammed the throttle to full forward. The Mercs woke up from their wimpy cruising speed, and the boat screamed to seventy nautical miles per hour and then beyond. The hills that rose up from the man-made lake flew past him; the thousands of trees dotting their skin were silent sentinels to his last hurrah. The Charge of Eddie Lee Battle and His Trusty Light Brigade. God, was he in his element.

"Into the breach once more," he screamed to the dark, flashing skies as the rain started to pour. He licked the drops off his face. "A man's greatest virtue is the courage of one against all. When it seems darkest, then there shall be light, if only from the pulse of one beating heart," he proclaimed, quoting the purple prose of some long-dead Civil War-era writer who'd probably never shouldered a musket in his life. As if on cue the sky was suddenly lit by a billion-candlepower stab of lightning and the thunder roared as the storm began to unleash itself.