Bernie came galloping up to the wheel. Kells glanced back at Borg, saw him sawing at the stern line; he took a bead on the bow line, pulled the trigger. The line frayed; Kells aimed again, gave it the other barrel.
Bernie said: “That’s enough — I can part it now...” He slid the clutch in, threw the wheel over.
Kells was hastily reloading. He glanced back at Borg, saw the stern line fall, saw Borg sink down exhausted, so flat that he was safe.
The bow line snapped. They skipped in a fast shallow arc toward the head of the wharf. There was a rattle of gunfire. Kells pushed the shotgun across the cowling, sighted. Two puffs of smoke grew over an overturned dinghy on the beach; he swung the barrel toward the smoke, pulled the trigger.
Then they straightened out, headed through the mouth of the cove toward the open sea. Bernie kicked the throttle. A few desultory shots popped behind them.
Kells put down the gun, sat down on the deck and rolled up his wet trouser leg. The leg wasn’t very nice to look at — Doc Janis’s dressing was hanging by a thin strip of adhesive tape. Kells called Borg.
Borg got up slowly. He came forward, squatted beside Kells.
Bernie yelled: “There’s some peroxide and stuff in the for’d locker on the port side — I busted it open.”
Borg went into the cabin.
Kells fished in his trouser pockets, brought out a wad of wet bills and some silver, spread it out on the deck beside him. There was a thousand-dollar note and the eight hundreds which Brand’s friend had paid off with after the fights. There was another wad of fifty- and hundred-dollar and smaller bills. Fenner’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar check, Brand’s for a thousand, and around eight thousand in cash had been in the coat. And Fenner’s confession.