She climbs aboard the vessel and looks around, hoping for a sharp-tipped weapon, imagining a speargun or harpoon, but seeing nothing but fishing tackle.
When she spies the backpack she lifts it, hoping to feel the weight of a gun, but then drops it back on the seat.
In the dim light, she notices that her wrists are bleeding. It’s obvious that she needs to free herself. She descends into the cabin and searches, rummaging through a cutlery drawer until she finds a sharp knife.
She thumbs the blade, and a terrifying memory swims behind her eyes: Flint holding a similar knife to her throat, saying, “Stop whimpering or I’ll cut out your voice box and use it for bait.”
Hearing a noise, she turns toward the window and peeks out the curtains. Flint’s boots resound on the wooden dock, his flashlight swinging before him.
Quickly, she sets the knife on the counter, blade up, and tries to saw the plastic tie. But the angle is wrong, and the knife jiggles back and forth, then flips onto its side.
She moans. The footsteps draw closer. She fumbles with the knife, then sits on the bed and grips it firmly between her knees.
Flint’s heavy tread draws steadily nearer as she saws at the plastic tie. The pressure dislodges the knife and it falls to the floor as Flint steps aboard.
She freezes, watching his legs move past the opening. She hears him flicking switches, muttering, “On, on, on.”
The motors roar to life, then settle into a heavy growl as her nostrils fill with the stink of fuel.
She snatches up the knife and sits on the floor to try a new approach. As he moves back and forth, she grips the knife handle between the soles of her boots.
There’s a shift in weight as he steps off the boat. She has a split second of hope that he’ll walk away, but hears him moving around on the dock.
He’s untying the boat. Her pulse races. Sawing desperately, she’s all too aware of Flint moving from stern to bow. The knife slips and as she bends forward to reposition it, the boat comes unmoored with a lurch.
He climbs back aboard and she goes dead still, realizing with dismay that fumbling with the knife has cost her precious minutes.
The boat begins moving forward with Flint at the helm, out of her line of sight. But directly in front of her is the gun. It sits atop a duffle bag on the passenger seat. Flint could reach out and snatch it up in half a second. Her only chance is to climb the steps, exit the cabin, and grab the gun before he can react.
Gripping the knife, she swallows dryly and gets unsteadily to her feet. She takes a step, thinking she needs to act fast, grab the gun, and shoot. She can’t afford to miss.
The boat gains speed, surging through the choppy water. Is there a safety on the gun? She hesitates just as the boat bucks, and she staggers slightly, her boot knocking hollowly against a cupboard.
His shins appear before her, blocking the exit. He bends down to have a look as she straightens, quickly turning the knife blade to lie flat along her wrist, pointed toward her. She holds it hidden between her clasped hands, meets his eye and says, “I came back.”
His face lights with surprise. “Well I’ll be damned.”
“You were right,” she continues, taking half a step toward him. “We should be together.”
“I can’t believe you’re alive. But you shouldn’t have run away like that. I’ll have to punish you, you know that.”
“Yes, but it’s better than having you leave me all alone.” She tightens her grip on the knife and thinks about the gun. There’s no way she can reach it. She has to buy time and get close enough to stab him.
“I was thinking about those designs you were working on at the hospital. Your artwork.”
“You saw those?” His eyes seem wild and strange, like he’s high.
She nods. “They’re . . . they’re very impressive. Especially the ones of the cricket.”
“That’s my favorite.” His eyebrows lift. “So then you understand what I want, don’t you?”
She feels ill. “Of course. You want to embellish the design on the back of my neck.” She takes another step toward him, but he’s still too far away. “And I think you’ll like my idea.”
He rolls his tongue over his teeth. “What idea?”
Her knees are shaking. “It would be best to have three designs, three grouped together. Don’t you think so?”
Eagerness shows on his face. “Come up here into the light, where I can get a good look.” He steps back, watching as she ascends the steps out of the cabin to join him.
She glimpses the gun—so close—but is it even loaded? Clutching the knife with both hands, she dips a shoulder and lowers her head, saying, “Look, you could put three designs in a group. There’s room for two more, isn’t there?”
She watches him out of the corner of her eye as he sweeps her hair aside. Her heart gallops. The knife’s handle feels wet in her hands.
He says, “Maybe so, maybe there’s room enough.”
She widens her stance, tightening her core as he touches her skin, saying, “I’ll put one here, and here, and—”
She wheels at him with the knifepoint aimed at his throat, but the blade only nicks him. He jerks back, grabbing his ear. “You bitch! I should have killed you years ago!”
They both grab for the gun, knocking it to the floor, where it slides away. He’s faster and snatches it up, but she reacts instantly, driving a shoulder into his diaphragm. He staggers while cracking the butt of the gun hard against her skull. The blow sends her sprawling with an explosion of pain.
The boat slams through the waves, sending up spray as he fires the gun, sending a bullet through her hair and into the gunnel. She scuttles blindly on the slippery deck. The boat bucks underfoot and Flint loses his footing, skidding sideways. She sees her chance and grabs the wheel with both hands. She cranks it hard and the boat spins like a demon, hurling him overboard.
There’s a splash and a sudden thump. She gasps, staring back at the boiling wake, guessing he’s been hit. Scrambling to her feet, she searches the water’s surface, but sees nothing but inky blackness.
With effort, she gets the boat under control, slows its speed, and then finds the flashlight. Grasping it in her bound hands, she begins scanning the water’s surface in all directions. She sweeps the beam across the choppy water until—there!—something catches her eye. She loses it, then finds it again, but has to set down the flashlight in order to steer the boat toward the spot.
It’s hard to judge distance. When the boat seems near where she last spotted him, Reeve leaves the helm and again grabs the flashlight. Its beam barely cuts the darkness. She sweeps the beam left and right, seeing nothing but whitecaps, until . . . She catches another glimpse, sure that it’s him. It must be him. She struggles to keep the beam fixed on that spot, but it wobbles and sways as the boat rolls underfoot.
She has to set the flashlight down to steer closer. Gripping the steering wheel, she closes the distance, but he seems to have disappeared. She grasps the flashlight, playing the beam across the surface.
The black water suddenly lifts him, and the flashlight’s beam seems to intensify until it’s bright as a spotlight, illuminating him. As the boat approaches, she expects him to shout and curse, but abruptly sees that he’s floating face down.
She peers over the side at his floating body but cannot trust her eyes. An incomprehensible pattern of slashes runs across his back. With a hard shudder, she realizes these must be propeller wounds.
As the boat glides past, a flap of scalp floats beside his head, still attached and tipping like a cap. Tipping, tipping . . . and then his body is claimed by the waves.
Her mind is reeling. The flashlight slips from her grasp, and she’s overcome with a strange sensation, as if she has left her body and is rising up and up into the night air. She feels untethered, weightless. For one sublime moment, she is free of gravity, free of time and cold and pain.
But then her stomach clenches and she’s snatched back to the boat, wher
e she’s bent over the side, vomiting.
When her stomach empties and the spasms cease, she straightens, wipes her mouth, and approaches the helm feeling shaky. The display panel swims before her eyes. She knows she cannot think about Flint. She must force all else from her mind and focus instead on the switches, dials, and gauges. She tries to get her bearings using the electronic map, but it’s unfathomable. The throttle and the wheel are the only things that make sense.
When she looks ahead, the shoreline is approaching fast. She grabs for the throttle and quickly shifts to neutral. The boat wallows in its own wake, decelerating so sharply that she nearly falls. She fumbles with the controls, shifts back into gear, and spins the wheel, swerving and overcorrecting as she executes a U-turn.
She has no idea how to get her bearings, but steers toward what seems as good a direction as any, searching the horizon for signs of life. The only lights seem to waver many miles away.
Is that mist? Is she seeing clearly?
It occurs to her that it might be smart to go below and look for something to keep her warm, but somehow she cannot pry her hands from the wheel.
After what seems a long while, a small light twinkles ahead. She steers toward it, and gradually the light draws nearer, brightening until she can make out a boat dock. The light tops a post. A single boat is tied beside it. She searches the shore and hillsides for signs of a house, but sees only trees and darkness.
Moonlight shines on the approaching shoreline. Steering parallel to the dock, she eases back on the boat’s speed. She knows from riding ferryboats that you have to reverse engines to stop a boat, so several yards from shore, she shifts the throttle into reverse, but she’s too late. The boat grinds on the bottom and slams to a halt, knocking her off her feet.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Annie Swann’s dog occasionally barks at bears or raccoons or other nocturnal creatures, but he has never sounded like this, with such urgent baying. And he has never behaved like this, up on his hind legs, pawing at the back door.
“Moose! You stop that!” Annie Swann commands, but the big hound just looks over his shoulder and barks sharply, as if throwing her words back at her, and continues scratching at the door.
She peers out the window. The sky is barely beginning to brighten, and her night-adapted eyes see nothing but the familiar blue-black shapes of the patio furniture. She snaps on the light. The back deck glares empty.
“There’s nothing out there,” she says to the dog, but her words only encourage him to drop to all fours and bark louder. She has never seen him this insistent.
She takes a breath. She had always feared it would come to this—a woman alone in this remote old house—but has prepared for danger since her husband died last year. She puts her shoulders back and quickly pulls on some warm clothes, steps into her galoshes, and fetches the rifle. She makes sure it’s loaded. Then she grabs the big flashlight and debates whether or not to step into the glare outside the door.
No. She switches off the light.
Moose whines at her, dancing anxiously.
She puts her hand on the knob, steels herself, and says, “Go get em,” opening the door.
Moose charges out to gallop across the deck, down the steps and away. Annie cautiously follows, scanning the lawn, the garden, the surrounding woods. The beam of the flashlight pierces the darkness, but Moose has already run well beyond its reach. She sees nothing unusual as she moves away from the house and down the path.
Following his noise into the dark, she is surprised that the dog is racing downhill to the boat dock. She hurries across the dewy grass and down the slope, wondering what kind of creature could have excited him like this.
Please god, not a bear. Annie Swann hurries forward, ready for some kind of fight with an animal, fearing rabies, wounds, and veterinary bills.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
The boat lists on its side, pitched at an angle. Reeve rests where she fell, eyes closed. The pain in her side only flares when she tries to rise. But that doesn’t matter, because now she can think of nothing other than sleep. All urgency has drained away, replaced by a numb indifference. Her thoughts drift.
Somewhere far away, she hears—what? A dog? Not the same dog as before, she reasons dimly. This is a baying dog, with a deep-throated voice.
The dog falls silent, and the night folds over her. Waves slap against the hull. Wind churns the sky.
The dog’s baying resumes, louder, closer, rising half a tone.
A woman’s voice calls, “Hello! Who’s there?”
Reeve’s eyes flutter.
“Is someone aboard? Are you all right?”
A bright light pierces the darkness, waving back and forth.
Reeve opens her mouth and tries to speak, but the sound she makes isn’t quite human. The dog woofs in response.
She rises painfully onto her elbows and stares into the blinding light.
“Oh, dear god!” she hears, followed by running, splashing, a scrambling noise. In half a minute, the woman is kneeling beside her, whispering, “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
The woman’s face hovers. She wears a halo of white hair. Pressing warm fingertips to Reeve’s cheeks, to her neck, she asks, “Can you speak? What’s your name?”
Reeve mumbles and manages to sit up.
The woman gasps. “Your wrists! We need to get you to a doctor. We’ll do this together, okay? Can you stand? Can you? Let me help you up.”
Her legs wobble, and the woman helps her to her feet, saying, “We’re just going a short way, just to my boat. That’ll be easier that getting you up to the house. That’s it, that’s good, come along now.”
The woman keeps talking as they make their way ashore. She steers Reeve along the dock, the dog dancing at their heels. A minute later, they are stepping over the gunnel and boarding her boat. She settles Reeve on a cushioned bench, and then finds some scissors to cut the tie, freeing Reeve’s wrists.
The relief is exquisite.
While the woman cleans and bandages her wrists, Reeve tries saying, “Thank you,” but her tongue feels thick and foreign.
The woman peers into Reeve’s eyes, saying, “You must rest, understand? My name is Annie. We’re going to the hospital. It’s faster by boat, anyway.”
Annie grabs some blankets and tucks them around Reeve. “Moose, up!” she says to the dog, patting the cushions. He jumps up, and she tells him, “Settle down right here. That’s a good boy.”
The dog’s breath is hot on Reeve’s face.
“He smells, I know, but he’s a furnace. And you can’t beat a dog for warmth.” Annie climbs out onto the dock to quickly untie the lines, then hurries back aboard. She takes the helm, starts the engines, and throttles forward. The boat’s hull cuts through the black water, trailing a fat wake.
Reeve swallows, coughs, and settles back on the cushions. The stink of dog wafts around her as the engines roar and the boat gains speed. She looks up, hoping to see the moon, but it has slipped out of sight. Dawn begins to blush, and the big dog stays warm at her side as she surrenders to exhaustion.
SEVENTY-NINE
Island Hospital
Anacortes, Washington
Reeve can’t help feeling sorry for Case Agent Pete Blankenship. He wears a stricken expression as he sits at her bedside, appearing much paler and older than the first time they met, just days ago.
After he has dutifully taken her official statement, he sets down his pen and says to her, “Okay, now it’s your turn. Any questions?”
She goes rigid. “Did you find Flint’s body?”
“A local fisherman found him. No need to wait for the official autopsy. Propeller wounds are pretty distinct.”
She closes her eyes, clamps her palms together, and searches her feelings, expecting something heavy and profound. What rises instead is a relief so powerful she can scarcely catch her breath.
Opening her eyes, she asks, “How’s Milo Bender doing?”
“Uh, still in the hospital,
recovering, last I heard.”
Before she can ask for more details, Blankenship says, “He sure opened up a can of worms. Did you hear about Walter Wertz?”
“No, not much.”
“That fishing cabin wasn’t his only property. Wertz’s family owned acreage all over the Pacific Northwest, plus a house in Olympia that Bender tracked down about ten years ago.”
“Ten years ago? You mean, Milo Bender was investigating Wertz while I was locked in Flint’s basement?”
“Right. Bender checked his old records and acted on a hunch, then went to Olympia to search the house. Looks like Bender did a little B and E, and—”
“What’s B and E?”
“Breaking and entering. Pretty illegal, but I doubt that anyone’s going to press charges.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Well, everyone seems to believe that Walter Wertz is dead.”
“Dead? Flint killed him?”
“Everyone thinks he died of renal disease. Kidney failure. Because according to medical records, the man was on dialysis and in serious need of a transplant. And here’s the interesting part: Wertz stopped getting treatment and disappeared a few months ago, but his neighbors saw him return to the house a few days after Flint escaped.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Seems that Flint was in disguise.”
“What? So Flint was pretending to be Wertz, a man who is actually dead?”
“That’s what everyone seems to believe.”
“You keep saying that. You don’t believe it?”
“Let’s just say our investigation remains open, and I’m reserving judgment. This guy Wertz was pretty smart. Plus, he’s wealthy, and he has connections. Seems to me, a man like that could arrange a kidney transplant if he wanted one.”
“Oh, man. This is making my head hurt.”
“I know, it’s crazy. But what’s unequivocal is that Flint’s fingerprints were all over Wertz’s place, plus we found wigs, IDs.”
Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) Page 29