The Butterfly Forest

NINETY-FIVE

“Get inside!” I said.

“What?” Dave asked.

“A shooter!” We scrambled as Nick leaned out of the salon door on St. Michael.

I saw the red dot flash for a second across Elizabeth’s breasts. “Get down!” I yelled, flattening Elizabeth to the transom. A silencer suppressed the crack of the rifle, the noise resembling a wooden mallet striking the dock somewhere. A second round sliced through the water between Jupiter and St. Michael just as Nick was closing his salon door, a steaming mug of coffee sloshing over his hand.

“Oh God!” Elizabeth screamed. I grabbed her arm, pulling her to the bulkhead of Jupiter, Max right behind us. Dave crouched low and ran across the cockpit to the salon doors. Elizabeth, Max and I followed. I glanced back at Nick. He was perplexed, hair sticking out, face bloated from a hangover and heavy sleep. He held his now half mug of coffee and looked like he’d just stepped into a bad dream.

“Get down, Nick!” I screamed, reaching for the Glock under my shirt. The next round blew a quarter-sized hole through the glass door next to Nick’s head. He dropped his coffee mug and dove headfirst into the bay.

I pushed Elizabeth into Jupiter’s salon. “Stay down! Go below!” I turned to Dave who was crouching behind the salon wall. “You hit?”

“No.”

“Can you see Nick?”

“No, but I hear him. I think he swam under the dock.”

“The shooter’s using a rifle with a silencer and a laser scope.”

“Where do you think he’s positioned?”

“He has to be elevated enough to shoot over Gibraltar.”

Dave nodded. “The only building that high is Jackson Marine. Their boat storage facility is three floors.”

“The Glock won’t do much good. Your 30.06 is still aboard Jupiter after I cleaned it for you last time I was here.”

“Where?”

“Port closet in the master. Get it for me. I want to keep an eye out there.”

“Your arm’s in a sling!”

“Please, Dave, get it.”

He returned in less than thirty seconds, the rifle in his hands. “Is the scope accurate?” I asked.

“In no wind, you’ll get a one inch drop at the first two hundred yards.”

“Jackson Marine is about two-fifty.” I looked at the surface of the bay, and then at the wind gauge spinning on a sailboat moored about fifty yards in the center of the water. There was a slight ripple on the surface, the breeze about seven miles per hour out of the northwest.

Dave said, “Don’t stand. He might take your head off.”

“What the fuck is goin’ on?” shouted Nick from under the dock.

“Stay down, Nick!” I said. “Stay out of sight. The shooter might still be out there.”

“I’m wrapped around the dock post like a crab. Barnacles and shells are cuttin’ the crap outta my hands. Why’s some asshole blowing a hole through my door?”

I said, “He’s trying to kill my friends.”

“Good fuckin’ morning, Sean O’Brien.”

Dave asked, “Nick, can you see around the piling? Toward Jackson Marine, maybe the rooftop.”

“Hell yeah I can see. Looks like some dude’s lying down on his belly, on the roof, right above the A in the word marine.”

I saw the red laser dot move slowly across Jupiter’s cockpit. I gestured to Dave, and he nodded, his eyes following the tiny red circle. “Dave, watch the dot. I’ll have to get off a shot from Jupiter, and it’s bobbing in the tide, with the current and wind.” I chambered a round, took off the safety.

Dave said, “The dot is starboard, moving very slowly.”

I dropped the sling and felt the stitches tug in my shoulder. I stepped to port side, braced the rifle against Jupiter’s bulkhead and brought the scope up to my eye. I found him in seconds. Recognized the baseball cap. It was turned backward so the shooter could see through his scope.

Dave shouted, “Can’t see the laser dot! He could be sighted down on you.”

I said nothing. Through the scope, I watched the shooter’s body language change. He spotted me, his movements quick. I figured I had maybe three seconds to get a shot off before he did.

One-thousand-one. I felt Jupiter rise a half inch in a small swell.

One-thousand-two. I lowered the crosshairs to correct for the boat’s movement.

One thousand-three. The laser burst through my scope as I squeezed the trigger.

The New York Yankees hat popped in the air propelled by a cloud of pink mist. The shooter fell dead.

“You got him!” shouted Nick. He pulled himself out of the tannin water.

“It’s clear,” I said.

Elizabeth came up from below deck, holding Max in her arms. “Are you all right?” she asked, her voice a mix between anger and compassion.

“We’re okay,” I said, setting the rifle down.

“I heard Nick, did you… did you kill him?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Will they keep coming, Sean? Tell me. How can we live like this? How can we look over our shoulders for the rest of our lives?”