by Gayle Wilson
Underwater, the machete became an ineffective weapon. More important than that, the disadvantage of his damaged leg would be minimized.
Just at that moment Jemison changed tactics, apparently tiring of thrust and parry. He charged with the blade raised over his head rather than swiping with it at Jeb’s body. Realizing that he had no other option but the river, Jeb turned and ran for it, trying to catch a glimpse of Emma or Susan in the darkness as he did.
He couldn’t see them. That didn’t mean they weren’t there, of course. And Jemison was still focused on him, which meant they would have a few more minutes to find a hiding place in case this didn’t work.
He ran across the wooden planks of the pier, his footsteps more uneven than usual due to pain and fatigue. He tried to judge by sound how far behind him the deputy was. All he had to do was to keep more than the length of the blade between them until he reached the end of the pier.
He had no idea how deep the river was here at this season, but he didn’t have the luxury of worrying about it. It was clear from the sound of feet thudding over the boards that Jemison was gaining on him. Since the original separation between them had been a matter of feet rather than yards, any narrowing of that distance put Jeb in immediate danger of having the blade of the cane cutter buried in his skull.
He made it almost to the end of the pier before he decided his luck had run out. With the next step he vaulted off the side, pulling his legs up under him as tightly as he could.
He struck water at once, praying it would be deep enough. As it closed over his head, he began to swim, the powerful, controlled crawl he’d been taught as a child in this same river propelling him toward its center channel.
As he turned his head to make the next stroke, bringing the side of his head out of the water, he strained to hear the splash that would signal Jemison’s entry. He heard nothing. At the end of the next stroke, he rotated his body in the water, changing to a backstroke as his gaze frantically searched the empty pier and then the riverbank.
It was possible Jemison had plunged in while Jeb was still underwater. Or maybe he was familiar enough with the river here to feel confident about diving in. If so, then he might be gliding toward him right now through the dark, concealing water.
Still on his back, Jeb slowed enough to raise his head, studying the smooth flow of the current around him. He looked for the telltale signs of cross motion or for a trail of bubbles. Despite the flood of moonlight, he spotted neither.
The bastard had to be somewhere out here. He couldn’t believe Jemison would just let him go in order to try to find Emma. Besides, there was no doubt in his mind Susan would have taken advantage of the distraction to get the little girl safely hidden, hopefully making that scenario impossible.
So where the hell is Jemison? His eyes scanned the bank again, this time tracking toward the low building.
If Diane was inside, it was obvious by now that she’d been incapacitated. That had probably been the scream they’d heard, either hers or the child’s reaction. Maybe Jemison had planned all along to kill Diane first, believing Emma would be an easier target with her mother out of the way.
Except Emma had turned the tables on him. She had gotten away, once more cheating the death that had been planned.
Warned either by some subliminal sound or by his own well-defined instincts, he turned just in time to see Jemison’s head and shoulders break the surface behind him. The deputy popped up like a cork, towering above him for a heartbeat.
As soon as he emerged, however, Jemison was forced to suck air into lungs starved for it by his long underwater swim. Taking advantage of his need, Jeb dove, opening his eyes to a world that was far darker than that above.
It took a second or two before he was able to see anything. And then the pale khaki of the uniform he wore betrayed Jemison’s location, almost directly in front of him.
With a couple of kicks, Jeb was able to reach the deputy. He wrapped his arms around the other man’s hips, jerking him down under the water again. He hoped he’d been quick enough to catch his opponent with his mouth open, still sucking in what he had believed would be lifesaving oxygen.
Whatever the results, it didn’t prevent the deputy from mounting a powerful resistance. He struggled against Jeb’s hold, kicking at him ineffectually as Jeb held on grimly, dragging Jemison down with him by slowly releasing the air he’d grabbed just before his own dive.
He had once known to the second how long he could stay underwater. Of course, that had been when he was in training. In shape. Perfect.
It didn’t really matter, he told himself doggedly. Nothing mattered but ensuring that if one of them emerged from the river to search for Susan and Emma, it wouldn’t be Jemison.
He was suddenly aware of a bone-numbing blow to the back of his shoulder. It was far stronger than those water-deadened kicks, but it was not until Jemison began to struggle to pull out the knife he’d stabbed him with in order to use it again that Jeb realized what had happened.
First the cane cutter and then a knife. The deputy had obviously come prepared to kill and to kill silently.
Sound traveled along the river, especially at night. Shots would be heard. They might even be reported. And they were no longer in Johnson County.
Jeb locked the fingers of his right hand around Jemison’s belt, freeing his left to knock away the arm that had wielded the knife. The wound in his back didn’t hurt, but he had no idea how deep it was or how much it was bleeding. And it was the inevitable weakness that would come with blood loss he had to fear.
He had managed to get his left arm over Jemison’s right, pinning it against the other man’s side. The position gave him less control, and the deputy’s struggles had become more frenzied. Apparently he had reached his limits for lack of air.
Only a few more seconds, Jeb told himself. Panic would set in, and that’s when the bastard would try to breathe, taking in the tepid, brackish water of the river instead of the blessed oxygen he wanted. Only a few more seconds…
Jemison began to kick again, this time trying to propel himself to the surface. He twisted and turned, fighting to free himself from the weight of Jeb’s body, which continued to drag him down.
A few more seconds…
Jeb’s own lungs burned with a raw, aching need that seemed more powerful even than his will to survive. He knew what would happen if he attempted to take the breath they screamed for. If he gave in to that desperate urge, he would lose.
And so would Emma and Susan.
Better that he and Jemison both die in the shadowy depths of the river than that Jemison should be the one to survive. All he had to do to prevent that was to hang on, despite the increasingly frantic thrashing of his opponent.
The desire to give up and shoot upward for the surface had become almost unbearable. He would take only one breath. Just one. Just one.
He could pull Jemison under again, his madness reasoned. And this time he’d last him out. This time—
Suddenly there was a change in the frenetic movements of the man he held. His stomach expanded, moving outward against Jeb’s chest. His frame seemed to shudder and then convulse, before finally going limp in his arms.
Still Jeb hung on. They began to sink together, going down farther and farther into the pitch-black darkness.
He could no longer remember why it was important he hold on. He only knew it was. A matter of life and death, but he couldn’t remember whose life was involved.
The water no longer seemed cold. It was almost comforting to sink into its warm depths. Safe. Familiar. Soothing.
Snug as a bug in a rug. The phrase, so quintessentially Southern, echoed in his mind. And he knew it was Gladys Caffrey’s voice that said the words.
She’d been talking to Susan. Talking about Emma the night Richard had brought her into the store. Telling Susan that—
Susan. Susan and Emma were waiting up there for him. He’d done what he had set out to do. Jemison was dead. All he h
ad to do now…
With arms so numb they seemed to belong to someone else, he released the body. He watched it fall away from him until he couldn’t see the pale uniform anymore. Then he looked up, finding only darkness there as well.
With an effort that seemed beyond his strength, he moved one foot and then the other, feeling his body begin to rise as he kicked. Almost without his conscious direction, his arms began to move too, pushing water away from his body as it rose.
The pressure in his chest was unbearable. Beyond pain. Beyond need. There was no way that he would be able to keep doing this. Not another second. Not another heartbeat.
His lungs were on fire, and still there was no sign of light above him. He must surely be nearing the surface by now, he thought, unless somehow during the struggle with Jemison he’d become disoriented. He’d heard of that happening to divers. Was it possible that instead of swimming upward, he was sinking toward the bottom of the channel…and to his death?
Just as he had begun to despair, he burst into the cool night air, trying to pull it in almost before he’d cleared the surface. Long, whooping gasps filled his lungs with lifesaving oxygen, soothing their agony of deprivation. As it did, the fog that had enclosed his brain began to clear.
Despite the fact that he had felt Jemison’s body go slack, had felt it slide into the cold, black heart of the river, he turned in a tight circle, looking across the water in every direction. Expecting the deputy to slip up behind him just as before.
The harshness of his own breathing was the only sound in the stillness surrounding him. There was no sign of Jemison. No movement disturbed the flow of the river but his own tired dog paddle, designed to do nothing more than to keep him afloat.
The danger was over. For all of them.
Only when that sank in did he become aware of the depth of his exhaustion. His eyes searched for the pier and saw that the current had carried him past it and into the center of the river perhaps a hundred feet, a distance that seemed insurmountable.
It was the only way to get back to Susan, he told himself. He had to swim to the end of the pier and then drag his body up the wooden slats that had been nailed to one of the pilings.
He lifted his arm to take the first stroke and was forcibly reminded of the wound in his back. Only pain. Something with which he had a long and intimate relationship.
And this would be dealt with the same way he had dealt with all the others. With a dogged determination to ignore it and get on with the task at hand.
One more repetition with the weights, despite damaged muscles that trembled with fatigue. Another hour on the stationary bike, pushing his body until the salt of his own sweat and tears blinded him.
This was no different, he told himself as he began to swim. All he had to do was take one stroke at a time, each carrying him nearer the end of this nightmare.
A nightmare that hadn’t been his. At least not in the beginning. And now was.
With the next stroke he lifted his head above the water far enough to locate the pier. It beckoned in the moonlight, perhaps half the distance it had been when he’d started.
He didn’t dare look up again. He was afraid that if he did, he would once more feel that seductive pull just to let go and let the river support him. Just to let the waters cushion his aching body.
He was surprised when his fingers brushed the rough, creosote-treated piling. He wrapped one arm around it and rested his cheek against its cool, solid wood, hanging on until his breathing eased.
Then, keeping a hand on the ends of the boards, he moved along the pier to the primitive ladder, grasping one of the narrow two-by-fours that had been nailed to the piling. Beside them hung a weathered sign, made from the same planks as the pier. It was obviously intended to identify the property to anyone arriving by boat.
There was one word painted on it in script. Invictus.
The name nagged at him, but he was too tired to remember why. Maybe he’d seen it in the days when he and his friends had skied the river all summer. At least knowing the name of the house would give the locals a place to start searching for Jemison’s body.
Giving up the puzzle of the familiar word as too difficult to solve right now, he dragged himself up the ladder, crawling onto the boards of the pier, still warm from the afternoon sun.
He fought the urge to simply sprawl facedown on them. To lie against that warmth, absorbing it through his chilled skin. To rest. Just to lie here for one brief minute before he went to find Susan and Emma. After all, there was no hurry now. And nothing left to fear.
He closed his eyes, almost giving in to the lethargy. He opened them again, knowing there was something he still had to do. Something—
Susan.
He tried to push his torso off the planks by straightening his arms and locking his elbows. The wound in the back of his shoulder protested, the skin seeming to tear further with the movement. Reminding him.
Given his exhaustion and growing disorientation, he knew he had lost a lot of blood. And that he was running out of time.
He needed to find Susan. She could fashion some kind of pad to staunch the bleeding until they could get to Pascagoula. Susan could drive.
All he had to do…
He managed to get to his hands and knees, head hanging as he swayed slightly from side to side. With an effort that pushed air from his lungs and through his open mouth in a moan, he got to his knees, one hand against the pier for balance.
The house on the bank was still dark. There was no sign of life anywhere.
No sign of life. The words echoed in his head, just as the name on the wooden sign had done.
Except he knew Susan and her daughter were out there somewhere. He had done what he’d set out to accomplish. He’d kept Jemison away from them. Now, all he had to do was to find where they were hiding and get them out of here.
He climbed to his feet, staggering a few yards before he seemed to get feeling back into his legs. One step at a time. That’s all he had to do. Just as he’d done everything else for the last year. One slow, painful step at a time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SUSAN WASN’T SURE which was worse—knowing nothing about what was going on or knowing just enough to be completely terrified. Or maybe recognizing she couldn’t do anything to influence the outcome of what was happening.
She pulled Emma closer, laying her cheek against the top of the little girl’s head. Her hair smelled of shampoo and the sweet warmth of children in summer.
She closed her eyes, reminding herself that if she tried to help Jeb, she would reveal their hiding place, giving Emma over to whoever intended to kill her. No matter what was happening out in the river, there was no way she could do that.
She couldn’t sacrifice Emma’s life, now that she’d finally found her. Not even to save Jeb’s. And he would never expect her to, although there was small comfort in that knowledge.
“Susan?”
She held her breath, waiting for the call to be repeated. Wanting to reevaluate the voice to be absolutely certain it had been Jeb’s. If he was calling for her to come out of hiding, then that must mean—
“Susan? It’s okay. It’s over.”
Beneath the protection of her arm, Emma shivered, trying to burrow closer to her side. “It’s all right,” Susan whispered. “That’s Jeb. He’s…”
There were no words that could express what Jeb had become to her in these few short days. Someone who had bought into her certainty that her daughter was still alive. Someone who had risked his life to help find her. Someone who even now—
“Susan.” The voice was closer, its tone impatient.
“Come on.” She took Emma’s hand to draw her out of the tall grasses at the verge of the river where they’d hidden.
Their shoes made sucking noises as they splashed through the shallow water of the marsh. She hadn’t spotted Jeb, but then there were a lot of trees along the bank here. That had been one reason she’d chosen this spot. The shadow
s their moss-hung branches cast would make it harder for anyone to see them.
“We’re here,” she called, pitching her voice to carry through the stillness.
Although Emma had been trailing behind obediently, she suddenly resisted the pull of Susan’s hand. Surprised, she turned back to find that the child wasn’t looking at her. Instead, she was staring toward the low structure Susan had noticed when they’d first reached the clearing.
“What is it?” she asked, glancing from the building back to Emma before she remembered.
The little girl had been brought here by the woman she believed to be her mother. Whatever happened before she and Jeb arrived must have taken place in that house. Given the scream they’d heard, Susan was afraid she knew what that had been. And Emma, of course, had been a witness to it.
“It’s okay, baby. I know you’re confused, but…”
There was no way she could explain everything that was going on to a terrified eight-year-old. Especially one who had no reason to believe anything she said. This was what Jeb had warned her about. Emma didn’t know her. She had no reason to trust her or anyone else. Not after what had happened to the two people at the center of her small world.
Despite the fact that Wayne Adams had stolen her daughter, he and Diane were the only family Emma had ever known. To lose both of them—suddenly and violently—was more than any child should be expected to endure.
“That’s Jeb,” Susan said, trying to make her voice reassuring. “He’s a friend. Everything’s all right now, I promise. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”
The child had looked at her as she talked, but almost immediately her eyes darted back to the house. She shook her head as Susan attempted to urge her forward again.
“You don’t have to go back inside. We’re going to walk along the track back to the highway—”
“Susan?”
“We’re here.”
Again, she tried to locate Jeb. He turned at the sound of her voice, the motion drawing her eyes. With the darkness of the soaked T-shirt and jeans he wore, it had been almost impossible to spot him until he was facing her.