Saving Emma

by Banks, R. R.

  “Looks like they're headed toward the marina,” Jerry says.

  “I read somewhere that Hawkins has a place on Catalina,” Ava says. “A house on a hill kind of thing. Isolated.”

  “A perfect murder spot,” I say. “And the channel out there might be the perfect place to dispose of a body.”

  She nods. “We really need to call the police, Brice,” she says. “They need to handle this.”

  I'm moving before the last words even come out of her mouth. “No time. And I don't trust them anyway. Jerry, send that map to my phone. I want to be able to track them.”

  “You got it.”

  Ava catches up with me before I get to the front doors. She puts a hand on my shoulder and turns me around to face her.

  “This is crazy, Brice,” she says. “That man is a brutal murderer.”

  “He kills young girls, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm not that,” I say, the rage starting to smolder within me. “And he has Emma.”

  “But, the police –”

  “Are incompetent at best,” I say. “Complicit at worst. I'm not putting Emma's life in the hands of anyone I can't trust.”

  She gives me a firm look and a tight smile. “Be careful,” she says. “Whether you're a young girl or not, he's dangerous. He's a predator. And he's been killing a long time. That gives him an advantage over you.”

  A lopsided grin tugs one corner of my mouth up. “Careful. Your humanity is showing,” I say. “You actually sound like you care.”

  She rolls her eyes, letting out a nervous sounding laugh. “What is with you and Emma, and this caring crap?” she says. “Simply looking out for my investment. That's all.”

  I grab hold of her forearm and give it a gentle squeeze. Ava is as tough as they come, but deep inside, she's got a heart of marshmallow for those she cares about. Though she'll never admit it, it’s plain as day.

  “Bring our girl home,” she says softly.

  “Count on it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Emma

  My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton, and I can't quite get the smell of that damn chemical out of my nose. As I come to, I realize I'm lying on a blanket spread out on the floor in the back of a windowless van. My hands are tied behind my back, my feet are bound, and there's duct tape over my mouth.

  Other than that, I'm having a great evening.

  I wiggle myself around enough where I can see through the windshield of the van. We're on city streets. And as we pass through a couple of intersections, I can see the street signs with familiar names. We're still in Long Beach. But, where in the hell are we going? Where is he taking me?

  Carlyle Hawkins is sitting behind the wheel in the driver's seat. He's focused on the road ahead, not paying attention to me. I feel the van slowing, and then come to a stop. I look up and see that we're at a light.

  Not knowing where he's taking me, but knowing he'll kill me once we're there, I do the only thing I can think of – I start to piston my bound feet against the side of the van. I kick the side of the van, trying to create enough noise that if there's anybody – and hopefully there is – sitting next to us at the light, they'll hear me.

  “Knock it off, or I'll kill you right now,” he says, his voice like ice. “Besides, there's nobody out there who can hear you. That noise is only annoying me.”

  I feel my heart sink into my shoes as fear ratchets up inside of me. I can see his eyes. He's looking at me in the rearview mirror. Those eyes are so cold. So emotionless. So – evil – that it sends a chill colder than anything I've ever felt before, rushing through me. If it were possible to get frostbite from just a glare, I would definitely have it right about now.

  I try to speak, but the tape muffles my voice. I've never been more scared than I am right now. I'm practically numb with fear and am managing to keep functioning on pure adrenaline.

  When I opened the bathroom door and saw him standing there, with that blank, emotionless look on his face, it scared the hell out of me. But that fear was nothing compared to what’s running wild and unchecked through me now.

  He starts the van again, and I can feel every bump in the road below us. I rack my brain, trying to figure a way out of this, but come up empty. It's not like I have a lot of options – I'm bound up like a damn turkey in the back of a van, being chauffeured to my personal execution.

  All I can hope is that Brice has people looking for me. Surely, they've noticed I'm missing by now. Somebody knows I'm gone. As I struggled with Carlyle, and before he took me, I made sure to throw my phone down in the bathroom – an obvious clue that something wasn't right. I just hope that somebody has bothered to check the bathroom, find my phone, and do the math.

  Please, Brice. Find me. Save me.

  I idly wondered if the cops would help. If Brice called them, would they come looking for me? Or, given our ongoing spat, would they look the other way? As we hit a pothole that bounces me up, then slams me back down to the floor of the van, pulling a pained groan from me, an even more chilling, completely unsettling thought occurs to me.

  What if, they're not only looking the other way, but given our ongoing feud, they actually put him up to this?

  It's an incredible thought. One that I should be able to reject, out of hand. But, after the implied threat the Deputy Chief dropped on me recently, I can't. I can't discount the possibility that they told him they would look the other way if he shut me up.

  Paranoid? Maybe. Probably. But, that doesn't mean I'm wrong. Like that old saying goes, just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

  My stories have created some serious controversy in the city. People are talking about the serial killer – Carlyle Hawkins, though they don't know that part yet – and it's created a palpable sense of tension and fear. It's also made the police and local politicians the frequent targets of critics, not to mention a tsunami of backlash from the people.

  The conversation has been started – an important conversation. People have every right to be informed, no matter how inconvenient the facts may be for certain people. If there is a predator operating in the city being protected by the authorities, either by their own incompetence or something darker, they have every right to know.

  The van comes to a stop, and Carlyle shuts the engine off. He looks back at me and gives me a smile that chills me to the bone – one that contains no warmth or humor. It’s cold and reptilian – the sort of smile a snake might flash a rat before consuming it whole.

  “Really can't wait to get you out to my place on Catalina,” he says. “I'm gonna have some fun with you before I kill you. You've made life a little difficult on me, so I need to make your death a little difficult on you. It's only fair, right? I'm all about being fair and balanced.”

  He gets out of the van and comes around to the back. The cool rush of the night air washes over me, as does the cloying scent of the marina. Carlyle grabs hold of the blanket I'm on and pulls it to him, dragging me along on the blanket like I weigh nothing at all. I struggle and thrash, fighting desperately to break free.

  I hear the sharp crack of his flesh meeting mine a moment before I feel the sting in my cheek. My head rocks to the side with the force of the blow. I turn my head and glare at him, the hatred burning in my eyes matching the disgust in my gut.

  “Do that again, and it'll be harder next time,” he says.

  He wraps me up tight in the blanket, and I feel him sling me over his shoulder. I know if let him get me on that boat, I'm going to die. I struggle, kicking with my feet, trying to flail my arms, but he only tightens his grip on me that much harder.

  “Keep struggling,” he says, his voice low and threatening. “You'll only make it harder for yourself at the end. Besides, there is nobody around the marina this time of night, Emma. Nobody is coming to help you. You're alone, and you're mine.”

  My heart is beating so hard, I fear it might burst. I feel Hawkins carry me down a ramp, and then hear his shoes thumping
hollowly as he carries me down a dock. My mind and emotions are spinning wildly out of control. If he gets me on that boat, I'm dead. But, there's no way I'm going to be able to keep him from getting me on his boat.

  Which means, I'm dead. Shit.

  This is not how I pictured my end – alone, in a dark room, at the mercy of a serial killer. I've always thought I'd have a long life. Secretly, I hoped that I'd meet a man, fall in love, and start a family. And I always believed that I'd be a celebrated journalist one day. That my work would be powerful and influential for years to come. Is that too much to ask?

  Now, I'm just going to be a cautionary tale – if that.

  Carlyle sets me down and unwraps me. I look up and find myself staring into his face. He doesn't look angry. He looks calm. Maybe even excited about his plans for me. He almost looks overjoyed, like a child waiting to open a long-awaited birthday present. Which is somehow ten times creepier than if he'd been enraged and out of his mind.

  He reaches down and yanks the duct tape off my mouth. I look around and see that I'm in one of the cabins on Carlyle's yacht. It's probably deep in the belly of the ship, which means that I can yell my head off for days, but nobody's going to hear me down here.

  The crushing weight of my impending death presses down on me. Making it almost impossible for me to breathe.

  “All you had to do was leave me alone,” Carlyle says, sounding like he’s the most reasonable man in the world. “That's all I wanted. To be left alone.”

  “You're a fucking murderer,” I hiss.

  He shrugs. “We all have our hobbies,” he says. “The point is, none of this had to happen. You didn't have to die like this. You could have gone on and lived a long, happy life. But, you just couldn't leave well enough alone.”

  “It doesn't matter,” I say, attempting to project an air of confidence I don't really feel. “My colleagues have all my notes. The story will go on without me. They're going to expose you, Carlyle. They're going to make you pay for the lives you took.”

  His laugh is cold and humorless, his expression totally alien. “We'll see,” he says. “It pays to have friends in high places, you know. Friends who perhaps, share some of the same proclivities that I do. Friends who protect me because I'm discreet, and help feed their – habits, and predilections.”

  The enormity of what he's saying sinks in, and I stare at him in wonder. Even now, facing my own certain death, I can't stop being the reporter. If what he's saying is true, it's a story that needs to be told. These men in their ivory towers need to be struck down. They need to be exposed for the horrific monsters they are.

  This story can't die in the dark. With me.

  “Well,” he says. “Shall we get going?”

  A hard thump overhead draws our attention. I see a look of mild concern cross his face, which tells me he's not expecting any visitors. It makes a small sliver of hope blossom in my chest. He gives me a long look, as if trying to determine if I somehow used mental telepathy or something to contact somebody to save me.

  He stands and without a word – or reason – delivers a vicious backhand. I slump to the side, feeling a small rivulet of blood trickle out of my nose. The pain is making my face throb, but I can't stop the feeling of hope flaring up within me.

  Someone is here. Someone is coming to save me.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Brice

  “What's the name of his boat?”

  I'm running across the parking lot of the marina, the phone pressed to my ear. I can hear the clack of keys on a computer on the other end of the line as Ava searches for me.

  “Come on, come on,” I press.

  “Right,” she says. “It's called the Pacific Queen.”

  “Great. Thanks,” I say and disconnect the call.

  I drop the phone in my pocket and pull open the door to the Harbor Master's office. I step to the counter and start dinging the bell over and over. A grizzled older man with greasy dark hair, and a sallow complexion, finally steps out of the back office, a sleepy, but irritated look in his eye. He very pointedly pushes the bell out of my reach.

  “What do you need?” he asks.

  “The Pacific Queen,” I say. “I need to know where it's docked. And I need to know now.”

  “Carlyle Hawkins' boat?” he asks. “Why do you need to know that?”

  “Berth number,” I say. “Where is it?”

  “Listen, mister, he doesn't usually allow visitors, and I can't give out that kind of personal information,” he says. “Now, if there was some incentive to be hand, maybe we could –”

  My movements fast and sharp, I reach across the desk, grab the smaller man by the front of his shirt, and drag him over to my side, pulling him completely over the counter. I step closer to him – looming over him by a good five inches and outweighing him by at least sixty pounds of pure muscle.

  The man looks up at me, eyes wide, and swallows hard. He smells like stale cigarettes and piss. He's disgusting, and the sooner I can be away from him, the better.

  “Here's your incentive,” I say. “Tell me where the Pacific Queen is berthed, and I won't beat the shit out of you. Keep fucking with me, and I'll beat you within an inch of your life. I may even beat you to death. You got that? Hawkins' berth number. Now.”

  The man is trembling in my grasp, and when I look down, I see the front of his pants growing wet. He's pissing himself. Literally. Not releasing my grip on him, I still take a step back, trying to avoid getting piss on my shoe. The stench, however, is quickly becoming unbearable.

  “Last chance,” I say. “Berth number.”

  “T – t – two thirty-three Bravo Delta Charlie,” he stutters. “Berth two thirty-three BDC.”

  I let go of him and turn, as eager to get out to Hawkins' boat as I am to forget about this ratface’s existence.

  It takes a minute, but I find the right berth. When I see it still moored there, I let out a long breath of relief. I've been scared this whole time that I'd get there only to find it gone. Out at sea already. I know that if the ship leaves the dock, Emma is a dead woman.

  The Pacific Queen is moored alone, out on the end of a long dock that only has room to fit one boat at a time. Well, only one at a time because of the size of the Queen. She's a big yacht and takes up a lot of space. And it works to Hawkins' advantage to be moored out there alone – not only are there no neighbors who could hear a woman scream, but he can sit up on the bridge and see who's approaching the ship. He could be up there eyeballing me right now, in fact.

  But, I'm not here to be subtle. I'm here to save my girl. And I'll do it by any means necessary. I race down the gangway and up the dock toward the boat. I can hear the engines rumbling as it warms up, telling me I did get here just in the nick of time. At least something's going my way tonight.

  As I approach, the rumble of the engines grows louder, but as I stare at the bridge, don’t see anyone up top. Which means that Hawkins – and Emma – are down below. All I can hope is that I got to this son of a bitch's floating murder house in time.

  I climb the short ladder, step over the gunwale, and drop down onto the deck with a hollow thud. I look one way and then the other, unsure which way I should go. I know he must be keeping her below decks somewhere, so I find the nearest door, and pull it open.

  I find myself in a lounge area. It's furnished in dark wood paneling, has a bar along one wall, and a lot of seating. On the far side of the room, I can see a staircase that leads down. Exactly what I need. I head for the staircase, and as I turn the corner and am about to step down, I see Hawkins on the deck below me, looking up. There's a fury in his eyes, and he raises his right arm. It's only then I notice the gun in his hand.

  “Shit,” I growl.

  I dive to the side just as I hear the roar of the handgun. From the corner of my eye, I see the bullet tear a hole into the wood paneling of the ceiling, sending wood chips flying everywhere. I quickly get to my feet as I hear Hawkins' footsteps thumping up the stairwell. I lo
ok around frantically, searching for anything to use as a weapon, and come up empty.

  “You can still walk away from this,” Hawkins calls to me. “Nobody else has to get hurt.”

  “You need to be hurt.”

  I grab a chair that's near at hand and fling it at the retaining wall around the stairwell he's behind, as hard as I can. It crashes into it, sending splinters and pieces of wood flying. Hawkins grunts then his gun discharges, and I hear the bullet whine off metal.

  “Dammit,” he curses.

  A moment later, I hear the clatter and clang of something hitting the deck below, and I'm gambling that it's the gun. He dropped it when the chair exploded off the wall. This is my chance.

  Moving quickly, I round the corner and find Hawkins a few steps below, waiting for me. He lunges at me with a large hunting knife in his hand. I growl when the point of his blade pierces my arm, his momentum driving it in deep. The pain in my arm burns bright, but I still have the high ground, and that gives me an advantage.

  Raising my foot, I piston it out and it catches him square in the face. He lets go of the knife handle and goes tumbling ass over tea kettle down the flight of stairs. He hits the bottom deck, his head slamming against the wall, sending a dull steel ring, like the gong of a Buddhist temple bell, echoing through the lower deck. Gritting my teeth, I grip the handle of the knife and pull it out of my arm. I feel the warm, sticky flow of blood rush out immediately. I need to stop the bleeding immediately.

  My arm is throbbing, and the pain is fierce, even with the adrenaline and testosterone raging through my veins. I need to keep going, though. Outside, I hear the faint sound of sirens. I think. It sounds like they're drawing closer, but part of me is wondering if I'm imagining it. Doesn't matter.

  I descend the stairs quickly. Hawkins is sprawled out on the deck, unconscious. There's a gash on the back of his head from where he hit the wall, and the back of his neck is bloody, but I can see his chest rising and falling. He's breathing, so I know he's not dead. Unfortunately. It would make things a lot easier if he was.