I’m scanning the room for clues, for additional weapons, for some sign of Rory, some sign he left for me. But the boat is immaculate, nothing out of place.
“Which one of them cried the most?” Rusty demands again. “Murphy, the tweaker, or Kenny?”
“You tell me.”
“Come on, Lina!” Rusty is getting impatient now. “It’s act three, snap the fuck out of it. Read your lines, play your fucking part.”
In my head, I’m calculating the odds of a hundred different scenarios.
He’s getting more impatient. He speaks loudly, one word at a time. “Who. Do. You. Think. Cried. The. Most. Yesterday. When I killed them. Kenny, Travis, or Murphy?” He slams his free hand down on the table, and his coffee cup crashes to the floor. “I’m going to hold you responsible for that, Lina. You went and made me angry, and now I’ve soiled my newly mopped floor. I hate messes.”
I’m calculating how to answer. Rusty is complicated. He took four kids before today, but he kept them all alive. But now he claims to have killed three people in a single day. Is it possible? Yes. But is it true? Is he bluffing, or has he become increasingly unhinged, increasingly unpredictable?
I look in his eyes, and I know. Yes, he is capable. What does that say about the range of possible endings for our interaction?
I have to get to Rory.
“Lina, it’s not a difficult question. I even made it multiple choice.”
“Kenny,” I respond. “Obviously.”
Rusty pauses for a second, a little caught off guard. “Correct. How did you guess?”
“Clearly it wasn’t Murphy. He’d been expecting this day for a year. Kenny is a bit of a whiner. With Travis, I suppose it depends on where you found him.”
“Santa Cruz,” he blurts out. “No lie, Travis was on the shitter in a beautiful little cottage by the sea, didn’t hear me coming.” Rusty is smiling, totally dialed in, relishing our conversation. It occurs to me that he sees me as an equal. He’s a classic narcissist, someone who thinks he’s smarter than most everyone he meets, and he’s excited to be able to finally have a discussion with an opponent he deems worthy. “Unfortunately, I ruined some lovely tile work.”
“Santa Cruz? Really? I thought Travis was smarter than that.”
Rusty smiles. “He may have been a little hazy. Does that make my feat less impressive?”
“Little bit.”
“Don’t be petty. It was a good kill. Efficient too. More importantly, it was the most lucrative.”
“Lucrative how?”
“Product, my dear. I couldn’t just leave all those nice little white packets there. I had to make five trips to and from the car. Crazy. That kind of good fortune will pay the property taxes on the ranch for years. Now, I can finish the barn conversion, more rooms, more money. Vrbo is a godsend, darling. Do you know how hard it is to make a living?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“I suppose you would. Nobody goes into the civil service for the money, am I right? Anyway, I did them all a favor. Pathetic, the three of them. The charm of that Westlake Doelger was completely lost on Kenny. Did you see what he’d done with the kitchen? Ripped out the original counters, covered those gorgeous hardwood floors. And Murphy? He was eating a Hot Pocket when I showed up. I’m not a psychic, Lina, but if a grown man eating a Hot Pocket doesn’t scream ‘please kill me,’ then I don’t know what does.”
“Where is my son?”
Rusty ignores my question. “I’ve lived on my compound for many years now,” he says, leaning back in his chair, casually retraining the gun on me. “Every time I peek my head out into the world, every time I’m forced to do an unofficial job to keep my little utopia alive, I see a slightly different world. So much ugliness, so much despair. And it’s getting worse. Mother, mother, mother, mother, it is definitely getting worse.”
“Where is my son?”
“I admit I may not be helping the situation. Some of the things I’ve done haven’t exactly made the world a better place, but I think you will agree with me, Lina. The world will not miss Kenny or Travis or even Murphy. Cleansing the human race one piece of shit at a time.”
Rusty shifts in his chair, uncrossing his legs and lifting his arm. Something stops me cold: there are several small dots of blood on the cuff of his otherwise meticulous pants. Another small line of blood spatter runs diagonally along the back of his left sleeve.
Is it Rory’s blood? Please, don’t let it be Rory’s blood.
“Rusty, there’s blood on your shirt.”
“What?” He seems genuinely surprised, as if emerging from a trance. “Blood?”
I point to his shirtsleeve, his pant cuff.
He looks down. “God dammit.”
“Occupational hazard,” I say. “Been there. I once ruined a nice Lanvin sweater with the blood of a Latin King.”
His hand is still on the Ruger, but his eyes keep looking down to the bloody spots. “You’re a smart man, Rusty. And we’re not so different, are we? Neither of us is getting past the pearly gates.”
Rusty smiles. Maybe I’ve broken through the top layer.
“You need to give me Rory. Professional courtesy. SWAT is on their way. If you let me get off this boat with Rory right now, you may yet be able to get out of this alive.”
Rusty stares straight at me, assessing. He looks, for a moment, as though he likes me. “I don’t believe you about the feds,” he sighs. “That is not who you are, Lina. I knew the moment you showed up with Near Bear, you like to do things your own way. Nice try, though.”
He’s staring at me, trying to read my face. I keep my expression blank. He tilts his head, steely eyes focused on me. And then he lets out a whoop. “I am right! Cowgirl Lina came out here all by herself! No backup. She was not interested in going by the books. This one was too personal. Like I said, if you want something done right, do it yourself. My motto too. Boy, I do respect you!”
I remain silent. My skin itches where the gun nestles up to my spine.
“Anyhoo, the boy’s downstairs. He’s actually fine, scout’s honor. He must be terrified, but he didn’t even show it. You trained him well.” He glances at the spatter of blood on his cuff. “Not his blood, honest to Betsy. Children ain’t my thing. Not at all. He’s down in the bunk room. He did what he needed to do. He played his part. This isn’t really about him, but you know that.” Rusty’s voice has turned soft, almost childlike.
“You can still save yourself,” I say. “Kenny? Travis? Murphy? All lowlifes. I’m not concerned about them, and police around here don’t get too worked up about dead drug dealers. What I do know is that all four of those kids you took came home. No reason to get in over your head now. Just let Rory go.” I lock eyes with him.
Rusty looks away for a split second, but then his eyes come back to me. I hold his gaze, trying to try to pull him in to my way of thinking. He seems to be momentarily lost, confused. But then he snaps back to himself, shaking his head like a dog coming out of the water. “Darling, were you trying to hypnotize me? Were you,” he repeats, his voice getting louder, angrier, “trying to hypnotize me? Hard stop.”
I blade my body away from him, making myself a smaller target. “I was just—”
“I know exactly what you were doing. I’ve read your background. I read the book, Blue Squared, not too hard to tie it back to you. I know all about your profiling, all about your bag of tricks, about how persuasive they say you are. Personally, I’m not seeing it, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Anyway, what about Chekhov? You did promise me a complete production, the full three acts. And, honey, the pistol is still on the wall.”
I remain silent, muscles tensed.
“Come on, you know the line. A rifle hung on the wall in the first act must go off by the third. And honey child, here we are.”
Rusty is more agitated now. Hi
s face is red, his chest pushed out.
“You know the next line?” I ask.
Rusty cocks his head. “Pray tell?”
“Don’t make any promises you don’t intend to keep.”
“Oh, I keep my promises, darling. We must give the audience a show.” He sweeps his left hand to indicate some imaginary theater. His right hand fidgets with the Ruger. “We have to tell a story, even if we’re only telling it to ourselves. It’s what separates us from the lower primates.”
Rusty’s shifting back and forth in his chair, growing more twitchy and agitated, his skin splotchy, his hand shaky. Sweat dapples his forehead and soaks the underarms of his Fred Perry shirt. Every time I move, the neoprene of my wet suit squeaks. Rays of sun poke through the ominous clouds. The boat has drifted into a better position, taking the swells head-on, rather than rolling side to side.
After we crest a swell, for a split second, it is calm. In the quiet, from down below, I hear Rory’s voice, calling out. “Mom?”
And that’s it. My son. It clarifies everything. He is down there, waiting for me.
“Rory has nothing to do with this,” I say. “You don’t have to hurt him.”
Rusty waves his left hand in the air. “You are correct, Lina. I’m not going to kill him at all.” He pauses long enough for hope to unfurl in my brain, a whiff of possibility. But then, in a delighted tone: “No, darling. You are! Don’t you want to hear my ingenious plan?”
A swell lifts the boat, and the phones slide off of the countertop, clattering onto the floor. As he glances at them, I reach for the zipper cord dangling at my waist, grab the clasp, and pull, bringing the gun within reach.
“So, get this,” he says. “I’ve got this body bag. Bought it online from China, Alibaba, cheap but still decent quality. I’m gonna shoot you, just not badly enough to kill you. Apologies for that, Miss Lina. And then I’m gonna slide your little body into the bag, zip it up, fix the whole thing up with that chain and fifty-pound kettlebell I have out there, attach it to that manly little son of yours, and then push the two of you overboard. Body bag, six-foot chain, and a kettlebell. You would not believe how cheap it all was. Seriously, guess how much?”
Rusty giggles for a second, like a guilty child, and I know he means to carry out his plan. That’s when I know for sure that at least one person will die on this boat. It won’t be Rory.
“Alibaba is changing the world, Lina. Death has never been so cheap! They even do two-for-ones. Love me a good deal!” Rusty waves his hand around and takes a deep breath. “Where was I? Oh yeah. I don’t kill kids, Lina. You know that. You never should’ve suggested otherwise. You, on the other hand, today, can’t say the same. Your body will drag that boy down so fast he won’t even be able to enjoy his last breath. And, the beauty of it all is this: It won’t even be my fault. It will be your fault.”
“You don’t want to do it, Rusty.” I arch my back and feel the gun slide down my wet suit, closer to my waist.
“I don’t want to, but you made me.”
The boat tilts violently. I think I hear Rory calling for me, but the ocean is too loud to know for sure.
67
One day, water will cover the entire planet. How long after the inundation will civilization entirely disappear?
Rusty tosses a yellow pad across the cabin. It lands on the counter to my right. “Loose ends, Lina, loose ends. I need the identifiers for that Near Bear you so rudely brought by my ranch.”
“Why would I tell you that, if you just plan to kill us anyway?”
“Drowning, they say, is a euphoric death. Plan A is drowning, you and your boy go out seeing rainbows. Plan Be won’t be so pleasant.”
“Ted Lincoln.” It’s the name of a kid I hated in grade school. Long gone. Living in Malaysia now, if you can trust Facebook.
“Write it down. Telephone and address too, darling.”
I place my right elbow on the table to write on the yellow pad, careful not to turn my back to Rusty. “Email?” I ask, stalling.
“I need it all, Miss Lina. I’ve got to wrap this thing up with a nice tight bow.”
“Rusty, it’s not too late.” But of course it is. I know it is. I’m still hunched over the counter, pen in hand. I write Ted’s name down, followed by the address for the Russian embassy in Washington and a fake phone number.
“Give me the pad, darling. Let me check out your penmanship.”
I’m ten feet away from Rusty, a narrow counter between us, maps and depth charts spread across it. The heaters are still going full blast; both of us are sweating. The wind is blowing swells up over the bow and into the window. The ocean is grayish green. The heat in the cabin is unbearable, a scent of Dove soap and peppermint emanating from Rusty’s body, just like Caroline said. Adrenaline rips through me.
“The pad, darling,” he says, wiping his brow.
With my right hand, I toss the yellow pad in his direction, slow, high, and arcing toward him. As his eyes dart upward, catching the trajectory of the pad in the air, I slide my weapon out of the wet suit, across my body. In a flash the barrel of the gun is pointed at Rusty.
They tell you the training will come back without even a thought. They like to call it muscle memory, though that term makes no sense to me. The memory isn’t in your muscles but in your neural cortex, a rapid-fire series of instructions delivered from brain to nerves. I hated all of those hours spent shooting with my left hand, all through the first year at Quantico and four times a year since. Sixteen years, thousands of bullets. Over and over. Five on the left, five on the right, again. It seemed like wasted time. Why shoot with my left hand when my right hand was so much more accurate? “You never know,” the firearms instructor used to say. “You never know.”
All of the training comes back at once. At close range, eyes on the target, no need to pick up a sight picture. Eyes. On. The. Target. Up close, high stress, your gun will shoot where your eyes look.
And in that split second, Rusty looks like a kid, his freshly pressed clothes nearly perfect, his belt notched too tight on his big stomach, mouth open, his eyes focused on the pad floating toward him, anticipating his great catch, like a boy on a playground. And through it all, he doesn’t notice the movements of my left hand.
My body bladed, stable stance, hands forward, fluid motion, smooth and fast. Smooth is fast. From day one that’s what they always said.
Now.
I fire two shots to the body, center mass, and one to the head. Eliminate the threat. Two and one, my eyes focused on him, no hesitation. The Mozambique drill—up close, two to the body, one to the head. The voice in my head, Mozambique, two to the body, one to the head. Repeat. My torso is low, my feet spread, leaning against the counter for support, each shot straight and level, careful there is no ricochet to the deck below.
The noise is deafening, bam-bam-bam.
And then it is silent. The waves hit the starboard side, the boat rocks.
For a moment a cold terror grips me: Could I have missed?
But Rusty is motionless, a look of surprise on his face. The yellow pad and the Ruger fall to the floor. I cover down on him, both hands on my weapon.
A narrow stream of blood rolls down the side of his face. I caught him high and right, just at the hairline. As his right hand reaches feebly toward the blood, a red circle forms at the center of his shirt, quickly spreading outward.
“Oh, Lina, darling,” he mumbles.
He falls forward, the full, massive weight of his body crashing through the counter between us, arms flopping to his side as he collapses onto the floor. The boat shudders with the tremendous crash, all three hundred–plus pounds coming down at once.
With both hands on the weapon, I shuffle around the counter to kick the Ruger across the room and get a better look. His eyes are wide open, but Rusty is gone.
He looks surprised that it end
ed this way. That was not his plan.
A terrified voice from down below. “Mom?”
68
Nature or nurture? How much of who we are is determined by our upbringing, and how much is simply embedded in our being? Are children destined to repeat the sins of their parents?
I race out of the wheelhouse and climb down to the galley. At the end of the galley is a wooden door. I grab the handle and turn, but it’s locked. I look for a key on the table, the counter. Nothing. “Rory!” I call. “It’s me. Stand back.”
I hunch down and thrust my shoulder against the door with all my strength. The door splinters down the center, the momentum tossing me backward. I kick through the crack, creating a hole. I grab the broken center of the door with both hands, twist the door off the hinge, and step through.
On the bunk, Rory lies on his back, fully clothed, his wrists and feet tied to the bedframe. He is crying, shaking. A handkerchief that had been in his mouth is now free, wound around his neck.
He lifts his head. His eyes find me. “Mom,” he sobs. “It’s you.”
“It’s me. You’re safe.” I sit on the edge of the bunk and hug him tight, kiss his forehead. Tears are streaming down his face and mine. “He can’t hurt you.”
The ropes are tightly knotted in a complicated configuration. “I have to get a knife to cut you free. I’ll be right back.”
I run back to the galley, pull out a chef’s knife, and return. I scrape at the ropes, slicing through the thick fibers. First the right wrist, then the left. With his hands free, he sits up, staring at me in shock, as I tackle the ropes on his ankles. I help him lift his legs over the edge of the bed. “Can you stand?”
He stands, his face crumpling. He leans into me. “Mom, I’m so sorry. I should’ve gotten away. He said he’d shoot up the school. I—”
I stand and pull Rory in tight, hugging him hard. “You did everything right, son. Everything. I love you so much.”
His skin is cold, and he is shaking. I rummage through the cabinets in search of a blanket. Instead, I discover the body bag.
The Wonder Test Page 32