Grace watched his back, watched him open the hatch that led below and disappear through it.
He’s great with boats, really at home.
Broderick had kept a boat. Had died on a boat.
Or not.
Grace ripped the sticking plaster off her palm, took off the gauze, held it up to her nose and sniffed at it. She could smell something, but she didn’t know what it was – it might have been antiseptic, it might have been some chemical, poison even, something that could have entered her bloodstream, triggered a reaction, made her feel this way . . .
Wasn’t that just the kind of thing Broderick would have done?
‘Oh, Christ,’ she said, out loud.
She moved as fast as her unwieldy limbs would let her – not as fast as she wanted to move, not nearly as fast – it was the way one sometimes felt in bad dreams, the common dreams that some of her young patients had, in which they wanted to run but their legs felt leaden.
Still, she made it, over to the side, and if Hayman came up and saw her, Grace thought he’d probably assume she was about to throw up, but that wasn’t what she was doing. She stuffed the gauze into the right-hand pocket of her jeans, waited for the next wave to rock the boat so that she could lean closer to the water—
There . . .
The boat heeled about seventy-five degrees, enough for her to dunk her injured hand into the salt water.
It hurt.
Better than being poisoned.
Grace felt the small but fiery pain bum through her palm.
One thought, now, was going through her mind, repeating itself over and over again. It was short and to the point.
Why the hell had she agreed to come on Hayman’s damned boat?
How the hell could she – a supposedly intelligent woman – have been so utterly and completely stupid?
Chapter Fifty-three
Sam was still ignoring the small – not so small – warning voice that kept reminding him he was way out of his jurisdiction and that he ought, by rights, to be handing this over to the Monroe County Sheriffs department. To begin with, he told the voice, he didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to be handing over to them, and to end with, rational men and women as he presumed they were, they were hardly likely to raise their blood pressure over what was little more than a probably ill-founded hunch.
He’d found Dooley’s Marina, found a middle-aged bald guy cleaning a boat who’d said he knew Peter Hayman and his boat, the Snowbird.
‘Took her out a while back.’ Stripped to the waist and well-muscled, the guy had gone on scrubbing the deck.
‘Was he with anyone?’
‘A woman.’
‘What’d she look like?’
‘Didn’t much notice. Blonde.’
Good enough.
‘Is this your boat?’ Sam had taken a better look at the runabout – name of Delia – with its Yamaha outboard motor and back-to-back seats.
The man had looked up for the first time, with pale eyes. ‘Why?’
‘I need you to take me out.’
‘I’m not for rent.’
‘I’m not renting,’ Sam had said.
‘Take a hike.’ The man had gone back to work.
Which was when Sam had dumped every rule in the book, gotten on board the Delia and pulled out his badge for the second time.
‘Police business, sir,’ he’d said. ‘I really need your help.’
The man had dropped his scrubbing brush and given Sam his attention. ‘I thought you guys had your own boats?’
‘No time,’ Sam had told him. ‘This is an emergency.’
The pale eyes had started calculating. ‘It’s going to cost me.’
‘You’ll be reimbursed.’
‘You’re a Miami Beach cop – you sure they’ll pick up the tab down here?’
‘Same state.’ Not exactly a lie. ‘You’ll get your money.’
‘You want to go after the Snowbird?’
‘You got it.’
‘It’s a big ocean, man.’
‘You saw which way Hayman was headed, didn’t you?’
‘Only so many ways out of here – they could have gone anyplace after that.’ The boat-owner looked up at the sky. ‘Mind you, there’s weather coming in, so he’ll probably be sticking close to land.’
Unwilling to waste another second, Sam had stopped to pull the runabout closer to the dock and stepped on board. The bald man had opened his mouth to protest, then remembered either the badge or what he might possibly get out of the situation.
‘Suppose it won’t hurt to help the law.’
‘The law’ll be very grateful.’
The man had stowed his scrubbing brush and bucket, then turned back to Sam and held out his hand. ‘Name’s Kuntz. Phil Kuntz.’
Sam had gripped the hand firmly. ‘Sam Becket.’
‘Detective, huh?’ Kuntz had moved towards the controls.
‘We need to get going, skipper.’ Sam was no sailor, but he knew enough to untie the lines tethering the boat to dry land.
‘Just make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ Kuntz was ironic.
‘Just trying to help.’
‘How grateful is grateful exactly?’
‘More grateful if you get us moving fast.’
Kuntz had looked up at the sky again. ‘I don’t like the look of this weather.’
‘All the more reason to move fast,’ Sam said.
The pale eyes had veered back to Sam’s face. ‘This isn’t going to turn into a heavy situation, is it, detective?’
‘No way,’ Sam had assured him. ‘All I need is to find Snowbird and speak to the woman with Hayman. Okay with you, skipper?’
‘I guess.’
They were out on open water now, bouncing over increasingly choppy waves, and Sam was grateful that the occasional queasiness that had made him the butt of certain medical examiners’ jokes had never extended to seasickness.
‘This gets much worse,’ Kuntz told him, ‘I’m going to take her in.’
‘Not until we have to,’ Sam said.
‘Can you see any other boats this size, detective?’
Sam looked around. ‘No.’
‘That’s because most people got more sense than to stay out with a storm blowing in.’
John Broderick’s actions of nine years ago came back into Sam’s mind.
‘We could use the radio,’ Kuntz suggested, ‘to track the Snowbird. I got a handheld VHF, got a range about five miles. We could ask other boats to look out for her?’
‘Not a good idea,’ Sam said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because Hayman might hear us.’
The pale eyes grew suspicious. ‘Thought you said this wasn’t going to turn heavy?’
‘It isn’t,’ Sam said, easily. ‘I just think Hayman might not want me to find him, that’s all.’
‘Who’s the woman?’
‘A friend.’
Another wary glance, not exactly condemning but definitely an arched eyebrow kind of disapproval. If he and Grace had any kind of a future together, Sam knew they were going to have to get used to looks like that.
‘Can you take the wheel a second?’ Kuntz asked.
‘If you trust me,’ Sam said.
‘Just hold her steady.’ Kuntz got up, reached into a small storage compartment, pulled on a T-shirt and white baseball cap, then took the wheel back. ‘It’s getting cool.’
‘A little,’ Sam said.
‘Hayman been treading on your toes?’ Kuntz asked. ‘Nothing like that,’ Sam said.
‘Over to the east,’ the other man said, suddenly.
Sam turned his head and saw white sails on the horizon. ‘Think that’s her?’ His heartbeat quickened.
‘Could be – too far to tell.’ The boat turned, and a big wave rocked them. ‘Hold on, man.’
Sam didn’t need telling – he was grabbing on to the side and trying to keep his eyes fixed on the sailboat. ‘Do you have binoculars?’
‘In the cubbyhole aft.’
Sam got off his seat and moved carefully to the back of the boat, found the cubbyhole and binoculars and lurched back. ‘See anything?’ Kuntz asked.
‘Not yet.’ He could see the boat more clearly now, enough to see its blue trim and a distant figure on deck, fighting with the sails, but he couldn’t see the name on the boat and he couldn’t see anyone who might be Grace, and he still didn’t know what Hayman looked like.
He felt and heard the engine note change.
‘Why’re we slowing down?’
‘It’s not the Snowbird.’
‘Are you sure?’ Sam kept looking through the binoculars. ‘Sure.’ Kuntz slowed them right down. ‘Listen, man, I don’t like being out in this weather, and I don’t like that you won’t let me use the VHF.’
‘I didn’t say you shouldn’t use it,’ Sam said, ‘just that I don’t particularly want to alert Hayman to the fact that we’re looking for him.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that either.’
‘You want to help or not?’ Sam asked.
‘Not as much as I did.’
Through the glasses, Sam saw that the boat they’d been chasing was called Lady Blue. He bit down on his disappointment, and turned his head slowly, checking for more possible sightings.
‘I’m going to switch on Weather One,’ Kuntz said. ‘Okay?’
‘Sure,’ Sam said.
‘I still think the working channels are our best bet for finding Snowbird.’
Sam thought for a moment. ‘If we haven’t spotted them in ten to fifteen, we’ll try it your way.’
‘If the weather warnings tell us to take Delia in, we may not have another fifteen minutes,’ Kuntz told him.
‘Just keep us moving, skipper,’ Sam said.
‘So long as you remember this is going to cost you, man.’
‘I’ll remember,’ Sam said. ‘Especially if you find them.’
Chapter Fifty-four
Grace didn’t know what he’d been doing down below, but by the time Hayman came back up, she’d had time to get a good minute’s worth of salty ocean water into the cut on her palm, had dried it off and stuck back the plaster as well as she could manage.
‘How’re you doing?’ he asked.
‘Not bad,’ she said. It was almost the truth – the sting of the sea water had cleared away a little of the fuzziness in her head.
‘You got more colour in your cheeks.’ He came up to Grace, put his right hand up to her forehead, and she flinched. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Just making sure you’re not running a fever.’
‘I think maybe I am.’ She moved out of his reach, trying not to be too obvious about wanting to keep her distance from him. ‘I really think I need to get on shore as soon as possible – Long Key sounds good – anyplace I can rest for a while, maybe find a doctor.’
‘I don’t know if finding a doctor’s going to be all that easy,’ Hayman said. ‘But since you have one right here, that’s not such a predicament.’
The boat rocked and rolled and Grace grabbed on to the rail closest to her, but Hayman stayed almost steady on his feet.
‘Forget the doctor,’ she told him, shakily, ‘but if you don’t get me back on dry land soon, I’m going to get real sick.’
‘You’re going to be fine, Grace.’
He held up his left hand, and she saw that he was holding a hypodermic syringe. Her heart began to race. ‘If that’s what you have in mind for my nausea’ – she struggled to keep sounding at least reasonably light – ‘I’ll do without.’
‘Don’t tell me you have a thing about needles,’ he said.
‘I’m not crazy about them – especially when I don’t know exactly what’s in them.’ She wanted to move away, but the waves were hitting the boat so hard that she didn’t dare let go of the rail. ‘Do you always keep a loaded hypodermic around, Peter?’
‘I’m a psychiatrist, remember?’ He was gentle, calm. ‘Fully qualified to administer medication – and this is hardly the first time I’ve had a seasick passenger on board.’
‘I told you, I’m not seasick.’
‘It doesn’t matter what’s causing the nausea, Grace,’ Hayman told her. ‘This stuff is fabulous – one little shot and you’ll be feeling better in next to no time.’
The boat pitched hard, and even Hayman stumbled backwards. The wind was starting to whistle in a way that would probably, under other circumstances, have unnerved Grace, and the sky was growing meanly black, yet right there and then she was grateful for the diversion.
‘Forget my nausea, Peter, and do something about the sails.’ She had to raise her voice over the strengthening wind. ‘And I really think we should be heading into shore.’
The Snowbird rolled again, badly, but Hayman was back upright, leaning on the rail close to Grace. He transferred the hypodermic to his right hand and raised it in front of his face.
‘Peter, what are you doing?’
‘I’m just going to give you your shot, and then I can concentrate on riding out this wind.’ He sprayed a little into the air.
‘Peter, you’re not listening – I don’t want a shot.’
‘Come on, Grace, don’t be a baby.’
He reached for her arm, but Grace snatched it away and backed further up the side of the boat, still holding the rail for support, knowing she couldn’t afford to fall. The wooziness was coming back again, and she was finding it harder to focus, physically and mentally. All she could see was Hayman coming closer and closer with the syringe in his hand, and the only thing she was sure of now was that she had to stop him sticking it in her.
‘Is this what you did to Marie?’
The words were blurted before she had time to think about them. She didn’t know which of them froze the fastest. Grace could hardly believe she’d said that. If he was Broderick, it was the craziest thing she could have asked him.
As for Hayman, his face seemed to go almost blank with confusion.
‘What did you say?’
Grace’s head was swimming, but there seemed to be no way back.
‘I asked you if this is the way you gave Marie her injections.’
Chapter Fifty-five
‘We’re in luck,’ Phil Kuntz yelled over the noise of the wind and ocean less than five minutes after Sam had given him the go-ahead to put out a radio call. ‘There’s been a sighting about two miles south of Long Key.’
‘How far away is that?’ Sam yelled back.
‘About six, seven miles – but you’re going to have to tell someone else to find the Snowbird.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means it’s too far, which is why I’m going to take us into shore right now.’
‘Six miles is nothing.’
‘Six miles is more than enough to turn us over and drown our asses.’ Kuntz was fighting with the wheel to keep the boat straight in the increasingly turbulent water. ‘I’m sorry, man, but I don’t want to lose my boat, never mind my own skin.’
‘You’re not going to lose your boat, Kuntz.’
‘Can you guarantee that?’
‘No, but I can give you five hundred bucks and take full responsibility for replacing the boat if the worst does happen.’
Kuntz stared at him. ‘Is this you talking, or the Miami Beach Police Department or the Florida Marine Patrol or who?’
‘This is me, Sam Becket.’
‘You got that kind of money?’
‘I can get it if I have to.’
The pale eyes looked suddenly amused. ‘That blonde must be quite something, Becket.’
‘Yes, she is,’ Sam yelled, ‘so can you just get this boat the fuck moving again so we can find her?’
Driving the Delia through the rising Atlantic was getting more and more like forcing a blunt knife through a gigantic, super-toughened pumpkin and getting buffeted and half-drowned into the bargain – but whether it was the promise of five hundred dollars and a new boat if this
one foundered, or whether some sense of challenge was now filling Phil Kuntz’s veins with fortitude, he seemed just as hellbent on reaching the Snowbird as Sam.
‘There she is!’ he bawled, a few minutes after he’d put on a life vest and thrown a second one to Sam.
‘Where?’ Sam followed the line of Kuntz’s pointing hand. ‘Is that it?’
‘Has to be,’ Kuntz told him. ‘I don’t see any other damnfool sailboats hanging around, do you?’
Sam dragged the binoculars hanging around his neck up to his eyes and tried frantically to focus. Pure white, dipping up and down wildly like a swan on speed, half disappearing every couple of minutes beneath the swell. Sam adjusted the focus so that details came more sharply into view – for the first time since coming on board Kuntz’s boat, his stomach started to heave from the unnerving sensation of keeping the lenses trained on the right spot.
He saw the name.
‘It’s the Snowbird,’ he shouted.
‘Told you.’ Kuntz glanced at him. ‘What now?’
‘Get closer so I can see what’s going on.’
‘What should be going on?’
Sam was too busy looking to answer. He could see a figure – it was a man – had to be Hayman . . . He scanned around for Grace – there she was, looking tiny and fragile from this perspective . . .
‘Shit!’ he cried out.
‘What?’ Kuntz stared at him. ‘What?’
‘She’s too close to the side!’ Sam yelled.
‘Probably just looks that way from this angle – she’s probably just hanging on to the guardrail.’
Sam had the binoculars jammed so tightly against his face that the pressure was hurting his nose. ‘I don’t know – I can’t tell—’
‘Want to get closer?’
‘I want to get close enough to get on board,’ Sam said. He had Hayman in his sights again, trying to see if he looked like Broderick, but it was almost impossible to tell from this distance. He looked to be around the right height, but a lot lighter – which meant zip – but none of that mattered right now. What mattered was that it looked as if Hayman was almost on top of Grace.
Sam’s heart had started pounding again, felt like it was hitting his ribcage as roughly as the waves were blasting against the sides of the Delia. ‘Do you have a gun, Kuntz?’
Mind Games Page 29