On the Fourth of July, Graham brought fireworks. At nightfall, teacher and student laughed, exploding bottlerockets, ladyfingers, and cannoncrackers. From far-off cottages, they saw the dazzle of pinwheels and sparklers. With a deafening whump, a skyrocket burst brilliantly over the Bay.
Graham restrained his laughter, popped open a fresh bottle of Dom Perignon, and sat on the lawn, ignoring the dew that soiled the pants of his suit. “I'm delighted.”
“Why?” Savage asked. “Because these fireworks weren't just a gift but a test?”
Graham frowned. “I don't know what you mean.”
“The fireworks sound like gunshots. You wanted to check my nerves.”
Graham laughed again. “I taught you well.”
“And you're still being manipulative.”
“What's the harm?”
“None. As long as we understand each other.”
“I had to make sure.”
“Of course. A teacher has to test his student. But you also tested our friendship.”
“Friends always test each other. They just don't admit it.”
“You needn't have bothered. Didn't my guards report to you that I've been practicing my marksmanship?”
“Yes. At a nearby shooting range.”
“Then you've also been told I'm almost as accurate as I used to be.”
“Almost? Not good enough.”
“I'll get better.”
“Are you still worried that Kamichi's killers or Hailey's men might come after you?”
Savage shook his head. “They'd have attacked when I was helpless.”
“If they'd found you. Maybe they're still looking.”
Savage shrugged. “The point is, I've recovered enough to defend myself.”
“That remains to be seen. I'm flying to Europe tomorrow. Our weekly visits have to conclude for a time. And I'm afraid your guards are needed elsewhere. Specifically with me in Europe. You're on your own, I'm sorry to say.”
“I'll manage.”
“You'll have to.” Graham stood from the lawn and brushed his pants. “I hope you won't be lonely.”
“Exhaustion cancels loneliness. Besides, in summer the Chesapeake Bay's supposed to be so lovely it's all a person needs. I'm looking forward to it. Peace.”
“If everyone felt that way, I'd be out of business.”
“Peace. It's something to think about.”
“I warn you. Don't think too hard.”
24
By mid-July, Savage was able to walk ten miles every morning. By August, he could jog. He did a hundred sit-ups and push-ups. His muscles acquired their former lithe hardness. He swam in the Bay, fighting its currents. He bought a rowboat and stretched his arms and legs. Each evening, he perfected his marksmanship.
Only one thing remained—to reacquire his skills in the martial arts. Spiritual discipline became as important as physical strength. His initial sessions ended in disappointment. Shame and anger interfered with the clarity of his soul. Emotion was destructive, thoughts distracting. He had to compose his spirit and merge it with his body. Instinct, not intellect, would then propel him. In combat, to think was to die. To act reflexively was to survive.
He chopped the sides of his hands against concrete blocks to regain his calluses. By the third week of September, he was ready.
25
He was rowing along the Bay, luxuriating in his exertion, smelling a hint of rain from approaching gray clouds, when he noticed a speedboat bobbing a hundred yards away, two men watching him.
The following morning, as he ran through woods, he saw the same blue Pontiac he'd noticed the day before parked on a nearby country road, another two men watching him.
That evening, he kept to his regular routine, turned off the lights at ten-thirty …
And crept from the cottage.
Clouds obscured the sky. The absence of stars made the night unusually dark. Dressed in black, with camouflage grease on his hands and face, Savage crawled from the porch, past the hot tub, across the lawn, toward murky trees.
Concealed among bushes, he waited. Crickets screeched. Waves splashed onto the shore. A breeze scraped branches together.
One of the branches snapped. But not on a tree. On the ground. To Savage's left.
Bushes rustled. Out of rhythm with the gusts of the breeze. To the right.
Two men emerged from the trees. They joined two others who appeared past the cottage.
They opened the cottage's door.
Ten minutes later, three of the men came out and blended with the night and the trees.
Savage clutched his handgun and waited.
At dawn, a man in a three-piece suit came out, sat on a chair beside the hot tub, and lit a cigar.
Graham.
You bastard, Savage thought.
He rose from cover and approached the cottage.
“What a pleasant morning,” Graham said.
“You set me up.”
“Regrettably.”
“For Christ's sake, to find out if I spotted those jerks in the boat and the car?”
“I had to make sure you'd recovered.”
“They were obvious.”
“Only to someone with skill.”
“And you didn't think … ?”
“You'd retained your skill? I repeat I had to make sure.”
“Thanks for the confidence.”
“But do you have confidence? Are you ready for another assignment?”
THE STALKER
1
Savage struggled to control the yacht in the storm. The heavy rain, combined with the night, made it almost impossible for him to see the harbor's exit. Only periodic flashes of lightning guided him. Glancing urgently behind him, he frowned toward the gale-shrouded white buildings of Mykonos and the murky arc light at the end of the village's dock. The guards who'd chased him and Rachel from Papadropolis's estate continued to stare, helpless, enraged, toward the yacht escaping through the turbulent water, afraid of shooting lest they hit their master's wife.
Despite the gloomy distance, one guard in particular attracted Savage's full attention. Handsome, wiry, brown skinned, his eyes the saddest Savage had ever seen. The Japanese.
“Savage?” the man had shouted, racing to a halt at the end of the dock.
“Akira?”
Impossible!
The guards charged back along the dock. The Japanese lingered, glaring toward Savage, then rushed to follow the guards. Darkness enveloped them.
The yacht tilted, shoved by the wind. Waves spewed over the side.
Lying on the deck, Rachel peered up. “You know that man?” A flash of lightning revealed her bruised, swollen face. Her drenched jeans and sweater clung to her angular body.
Savage studied the yacht's illuminated controls. Thunder shook the overhang. He felt sick. But not because of the churning sea. Akira's image haunted him. “Know him? God help me, yes.”
“The wind! I can't hear you!”
“I saw him die six months ago!” A wave thrust his shout down his throat.
“I still can't—!” Rachel crawled toward him, grabbed the console, and struggled to stand. “It sounded like you said—!”
“I don't have time to explain!” Savage shivered, but not from the cold. “I'm not sure I can explain! Go below! Put on dry clothes!”
A huge wave smashed against the yacht, nearly toppling them.
“Secure every hatch down there! Make sure nothing's loose to fly around! Strap yourself into a chair!”
Another wave slammed the yacht.
“But what about you?”
“I can't leave the bridge! Do what I say! Go below!”
He stared through the rain-swept window above the controls.
Straining for a glimpse of something, anything, he felt motion beside him, glanced to the right, and saw Rachel disappearing below.
Rain kept lashing the window. A fierce blaze of lightning suddenly revealed that he'd passed the harbor's exit. Ahead,
all he saw was black, angry sea. Thunder rattled the window. Night abruptly cloaked him.
Port and starboard were meaningless bearings. Forward and aft had no significance in the rage of confusion around him. He felt totally disoriented.
Now what? he thought. Where are you going? He checked the console but couldn't find the yacht's navigation charts. He didn't dare leave the controls to search for them and suddenly realized that even if he found them, he couldn't distract himself and study them.
With no other recourse, he had to depend on his research. The nearest island was Delos, he remembered: to the south, where he'd arranged for a helicopter to wait in case his primary evacuation plan had failed and he and Rachel needed an airlift from Mykonos.
Delos was close. Six miles. But the island was also small, only one and a half square miles. He might easily miss it and risk being swamped before he reached the next southern island twenty-five miles away. The alternative was to aim southwest toward an island flanking Delos. That island, Rhineia, was larger than Delos and only a quarter-mile farther. It seemed the wiser choice.
But if I miss it? Unless the weather improves, we'll sink and drown.
He studied the illuminated dial on the compass and swung the wheel, lighting waves, heading southwest through chaos.
The yacht tipped over a crest and plummeted toward a trough. The force of the impact nearly yanked Savage's hands from the wheel and threw him onto the deck. He resisted and straightened, at the same time seeing a light pierce the dark to his right.
A hatch opened. Rachel climbed stairs from the underdeck cabin. She wore a yellow slicker. Presumably she'd obeyed Savage and also put on dry clothes. Ignoring his own risk, he'd worried that the cold rain would drain her body heat and put her in danger of hypothermia. Her shoulder-length auburn hair clung drenched to her cheeks.
“I told you to stay below!”
“Shut up and take this!” She handed him a slicker.
In the glow from the instrument panel, Savage saw the determined blaze in her eyes.
“And put on this dry shirt and sweater! You stubborn … ! I know about hypothermia!”
Savage squinted at the clothes and the slicker, then peered up toward her bruised, intense face. “All right, you've got a deal.”
“No argument? What a surprise!”
“Well, I'm surprised. By you. Can you take the wheel? Have you piloted a yacht before?”
“Just watch me.” She grabbed the wheel.
He hesitated, but a bone-deep chill forced him to relinquish his grip. “Keep the compass positioned as is. Our bearing's southwest.”
In a corner beneath the overhang, partly sheltered from the rain and the waves, he rushed to change clothes and at once felt new energy, grateful to be warm and dry. Protected by the slicker, he took the wheel and checked the compass.
Directly on course.
Good. He planned to tell her so, but a wave struck the yacht, cascading over them. Rachel started to fall. Savage gripped her arm, supporting her.
She caught her breath. “What did you mean I surprised you?”
“When I work for the rich, they're usually spoiled. They expect me to be a servant. They don't understand …”
“How much their lives depend on you? Hey, my dignity depends on you. I'd still be back in that prison, begging my husband not to rape me again. If you hadn't rescued me, I'd still be his punching bag.”
As lightning flashed and Savage again saw the swollen bruises on Rachel's face, he shuddered with rage. “I know it doesn't help to hear it, but I'm sorry for what you've been through.”
“Just get me away from him.”
If I can, Savage thought. He stared toward the convulsing sea.
“My husband's men?”
“I doubt they'll chase us blindly in this storm. In their place, I'd wait till it ended, then use helicopters.”
“Where are we going?”
“Delos or Rhineia. Assuming the compass is accurate. Depending on the current.”
“And where do we go after—?”
“Quiet.”
“What?”
“Let me listen.”
“For what? All I hear is thunder.”
“No,” Savage said. “That's not thunder.”
She cocked her head and suddenly moaned. “Oh, Jesus.”
Ahead, something rumbled.
“Waves,” Savage said. “Hitting rocks.”
2
The rumble intensified. Closer and closer. A deafening roar. Savage's hands cramped on the wheel. His eyes ached, straining to penetrate the dark. Assaulted by bomblike concussions, his ears rang. He urged the yacht northward, away from the breakers. But the force of the wind and the waves shoved the yacht sideways, relentlessly toward the continuous boom he struggled to escape.
The yacht listed, pushed by the eastward-heaving current, tilting westward. Water gushed onto the deck.
“I'm afraid we'll go over!” Savage said. “Brace yourself!”
But Rachel darted toward the underdeck cabin.
“No!” he said.
“You don't understand! I saw life vests!”
“What? You should have told me earlier! That's the first thing we should have—!”
Abruptly she emerged from the hatch, handing him a flotation device, strapping on her own.
The yacht tilted sharper, deeper, westward, toward the boom. Water cascaded over the portside gunwale, filling the deck, listing it farther westward.
“Hang on to me!” Savage shouted.
The next wave hit like a rocket. Up became down. The yacht went over.
Savage breathed, lost his balance, struck the deck, grabbed Rachel, slid, and tumbled over the side.
A wave engulfed him. He twisted and groaned, gasping water.
Rachel clung to his life vest.
Savage jerked his head up, breathing frantically. “Kick!” he managed to shout before another wave thrust him under.
Have to get away from the yacht. Can't let it slam against us. Can't let it suck us down when it sinks.
“Kick!”
Rachel lost her grip on his arm. He tightened his grasp on her life vest.
Kick! he thought.
He went under again.
Damn it, kick! He forced his head up, inhaled, swallowed water, and coughed convulsively. The darkness around him was absolute, a nightmare of black, raging madness.
Lightning blazed, searing his eyes. In the agonizing brilliance, he saw towering waves that threatened to crush him, and beyond them even taller waves, impossibly huge.
No! he suddenly realized.
Those massive shapes weren't waves!
They were hills!
Clutching Rachel harder, he felt his stomach drop as a wave scooped him up, and at the crest, an instant before the lightning died, he saw boulders at the base of the hills, waves exploding over them.
Darkness blinded him again. The storm gathered force and catapulted him toward the breakers.
Rachel screamed. As Savage slammed past a rock, he started to scream as well, but water strangled him.
He sank.
It seemed he was back at the Harrisburg hospital, enveloped by the darkness of Demerol.
It seemed he was back at the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat, collapsing into darkness after repeated impacts from Japanese wooden swords.
He saw a gleaming steel sword, a razor-edged samurai katana, slice Akira's neck.
Saw blood spurt.
Saw Akira's head thunk onto the floor.
Saw it roll and stop upright, eyes blinking.
“Savage?”
“Akira?”
Madness!
Chaos!
The breakers engulfed him.
3
“Hush,” Savage whispered. “Quiet.”
But Rachel continued moaning.
He pressed a hand across her mouth. She jerked awake, shoving at his hand, her eyes wild as if she feared he was Papadropolis come to beat her again.
<
br /> Then recognition replaced her terror. She sighed. Stopped struggling. Relaxed.
He took his hand from her mouth but continued to cradle her against his chest. They were slumped against the back wall of a shallow indentation in a cliff. Boulders rimmed the opening. The morning sun was high enough to shine past the boulders, warming Savage, drying his clothes. The sky was almost cloudless. A gentle breeze drifted over them.
“You were having a nightmare,” he continued to whisper.
“You started to scream. I had to stop you, couldn't let them hear you.”
“Them?”
He pointed through a gap in the boulders. A hundred yards down a steep granite slope, waves continued to crash on the shore. The storm had thrown the yacht onto rocks, breaking it apart. Large fragments lay along the waterline. Two burly men—Greeks, wearing fishermen's clothes—stood above the waves, their hands on their hips, scanning the wreckage.
“Jesus, from my husband?”
“I don't think so. The fact that they're dressed as fishermen means nothing, of course. Your husband's men might decide to put on clothes that help them blend with the local population. But I don't see any guns, and just as important, they don't have walkie-talkies to report what they've found.” Savage thought about it. “It's never wrong to be cautious. Until I decide what to do, I don't want to advertise ourselves.”
“Where are we?”
“No way to tell. A wave pushed us over the rocks. When we hit the shore, you passed out.” Savage had fought to keep his grip on her life vest, knowing he'd never find her in the storm if they were separated. The undertow had tried to suck him back. He'd managed to stand. The waves had slammed his hips. He'd lost his balance, gone under, stood again, and struggled, dragging her from the water. “I carried you up here and found this shelter. The storm didn't end till sunrise. You had me worried. I wasn't sure you'd ever wake up.”
She raised her head from his chest, tried to sit straight, and groaned.
“Where do you hurt?”
“The question is, what doesn't hurt?”
“I checked your arms and legs. I don't think they're broken.”
She moved them gently and winced. “They're stiff. But at least they work.”
The Fifth Profession Page 12