Even with my hands shielding my eyes, and my head turned away, I couldn’t make out anything but some blurry silhouettes—maybe four, on the deck of the boat. I could hear another vessel speeding over from the docks behind us. And I could hear Mr. Entwistle laughing in the cockpit of the car. “Don’t move. Keep your hands where we can see them,” someone shouted. I don’t think they could have moved me with a keg of dynamite. I was petrified. I didn’t want to get shot, and I didn’t want to slip into the water, so I just stood there, not moving, and waited for further instructions. They never arrived. Instead, I heard a gunshot. It came from inside the car. Mr. Entwistle was firing the pistol he’d taken from the police officer in the jail. The searchlight went out. A pause followed that was just long enough for me to realize I was a dead man, then the police returned fire. I suppose I should have ducked behind the open hatch cover. It was bulletproof. But I couldn’t do anything but flail my arms, largely because Mr.
