Fenton hesitated for an instant, then tapped the handle of his gun, letting it rest on Hansen's right knee, and tightening his grip on Hansen's shoulder. "I don't suppose you've ever shot a man, in self-defense or otherwise. But do you think you could handle a gun if you had to ... handle it well? There's a coil of rope on deck, and I've got to tie these two up. The quicker it's done the better."
Hansen nodded, an angry glint coming into his eyes. "You can trust me," he said. "Just let one of them make a move—"
"All right," Fenton said. "But be careful—the safety catch is off. If one of them comes to, and tries to take the gun away from you—shoot to kill."
Fifteen minutes later Fenton stood by the rail of the cruiser, staring down into the clear, blue-green water, a deeply worried, almost tormented look in his eyes. He had no right, he told himself, to feel the way he did, for Hansen was alive and safe and the two kidnappers securely bound.
If he'd stayed on shore until help arrived and Hansen had finished dead, a dark cloud would have hung over him for the rest of his life, even if he turned in his badge. He had a lot to be thankful for, for self-reproach to a man like himself could be harder to live with than the sternest kind of official censure.
But it took more than what had happened to drive away all of the clouds—far more. He still didn't know what had become of Gerstle, and although it wasn't too hard to picture what might have happened to the elderly exposé editor it was bad ... very bad ... for a cop to allow his imagination to paint a picture so ugly that he'd stop thinking seriously about how to rescue a living man and concentrate solely on capturing a remorseless killer who had included that man in his list of victims.
He was still confronted with the same problem which had prevented him from shooting it out with the kidnappers in front of the Eaton-Lathrup building. The pair might be persuaded to talk, since they'd have more time to reflect now, and would realize they could only hope to escape the chair by turning State's evidence. It would be a slim reed for them even then, but they might seize upon it. They might ... but it couldn't be counted on.
He was rather glad that the motor cruiser had a tiny kitchen, and that he'd persuaded young Hansen to spend a few minutes there percolating some coffee before they both went ashore in the rowboat with the securely bound pair. It gave him a chance to straighten his shoulders, collect his thoughts and breathe in the brine-scented air. It wasn't the open sea, only the fingertip of a bay, with the shoreline close on both sides. But there was something about any part of the ocean that could give a harassed man perspective, make him realize how small and quick-passing all human tragedies were, when you contrasted them with eternally breaking waves, and the vast shining permanence of the sea.
He had paused for only a moment by the rail, to stare down into the clear water, seeking perhaps to make that realization even stronger, to keep it more forcefully in mind. Or perhaps only because he was so inwardly preoccupied. He could not have said exactly why.
He could see every rock and crevice, every waving seaweed, every darting silvery fish between the cruiser's keel and the sandy bottom, for the inlet was now as still as a sheet of glass.