“You’re hurting her! Put her down,” Mer said.
He lowered Amber to her tiptoes, but she still struggled to breathe. “All I wanted to do was disappear,” he said.
Anger overrode Mer’s common sense. “Bullshit. If that’s all you wanted, you’d be gone by now.”
He seemed to consider that a moment. “Do you ever keep your opinions to yourself?”
“The great Ishmael Styx. The ghost of the Spiegel Grove. You used your position, your fiancée, me.” She rubbed her fingers across her mouth and pulled back her hand. Blood stained her fingertips. “And you didn’t care what it cost us.”
“If you had just let it go, it wouldn’t have cost you your life.”
Fear trickled down Mer’s spine and numbed her body until she couldn’t move, could barely breathe. “You’re not a murderer, Ishmael.”
A satisfied expression settled on his face, but he shrugged it away. “I know how you hate to be wrong, but Lindsey would disagree.”
Amber whimpered. Mer said nothing. She scanned the deck. Everything had been stowed in preparation for the storm except some scuba gear. Ishmael controlled the only weapon. The boat seesawed in the waves. If she could knock him off balance, she might be able to get the gun before he could pull the trigger. Her heart hammered. Pulsed in her ears. Shut out even the wind. She had to think.
Ishmael’s grip squeezed Amber’s windpipe. She hung like a rag doll, her mouth opening and shutting with each labored breath. Even two against one, Ishmael held the advantage. Mer had to outsmart him. She just wished she had a clue how to do that. The only thing she did know was that the longer he talked, the more time she had to come up with a plan.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” she said.
Ishmael dragged Amber toward the scuba gear. “There you go again.”
“Oh, come now, Ishmael. Hurricane Moby. Really? You don’t see the irony?”
He dumped Amber onto the deck. She landed in a huddled mess at his feet. “I’ll be out of here before it hits.”
He’d obviously never weathered a hurricane in the Keys. People might be cavalier about their own safety but not their boat’s. The main canals had shut down an hour ago. By now they were impassable, blocked with a web of mooring lines and boats that crisscrossed the water. She had to keep him talking. Think of a way to get Amber and herself off the boat.
“Ishmael. The character, I mean. Wasn’t he just a narrator? A bit player,” she said.
“He was the only one who survived to tell the tale, Dr. Cavallo. Fitting, all things considered.” He nudged Amber with his foot and pointed to the buoyancy compensator. “Put that on.”
Fear-filled eyes overwhelmed Amber’s delicate face. “You’re crazy. There’s a storm coming. I’m not going diving.”
“Not technically.” He lifted the vest and threw it at her. The warmth he’d used with her a moment ago was gone. “That would require a tank. Now put it on.”
“I won’t!” She hugged her arms around herself.
Ishmael’s chest rose and fell as if he sighed, then he pointed the gun at Mer and pulled the trigger.
Fire erupted in her right thigh and she clutched her leg. Amber screamed. It sounded very far away. Blood seeped between Mer’s fingers. She didn’t dare look beneath her hand, didn’t want to see a hole in her skin, didn’t want to feel the pain that would come. Later. When she could think again. For now, everything looked a little sharper, more colorful. Too colorful. It hurt her eyes, made her dizzy, sick to her stomach.
Amber scrambled to Mer’s side. “Ohmygod, ohmygod. Oh. My. God.” She clutched Mer and rocked back and forth.
“I don’t have time for games,” Ishmael said. “Put on the damn vest or next time my aim won’t be so good.”
Amber sobbed. Mer felt the fear pulsing through the younger woman, felt her move away. Then there were only her own breaths, shallow and rapid.
“Don’t hurt her.” Tears streaked Amber’s face. She reached for the vest.
But he had hurt her. The bastard had shot her. Waves of pain surged through Mer’s body. Fueled her anger.
She remembered the comment Selkie made after Rob tried to attack her. “Always target the greatest threat first.” Well, Ishmael had. He’d neutralized Mer and in the process generated enough fear to gain Amber’s compliance. Once he had what he needed, he’d kill them both.
No. She pressed her lips together. Not today. Not ever.
If she only had a plan.
Amber threaded her arms through the two openings and buckled the vest. Sized for Ishmael, it hung below her hips.
“Throw me the weight pockets,” Ishmael ordered.
With fumbling fingers, Amber unlatched the clasp that secured the right weight pocket, then pulled it out. The other clasp failed to release. It took her nearly a minute to unhook the pocket. She tossed both pockets at his feet.
Ishmael filled them with lead weights. Mer watched in horror. A woman Amber’s size needed about four pounds to counterbalance her natural buoyancy in the ocean. Total. Ishmael loaded each pocket with at least twelve pounds of lead. She’d sink like a rock.
He slid the pockets back to Amber. When she hesitated, he swung the gun back toward Mer. Amber grabbed the closest one and stuffed it into place and snapped the buckle. She wiped her nose and grabbed the second weight pocket.
A length of rope struck Mer in the leg.
“Tie Amber’s hands behind her back.”
Mer shifted her weight and immediately regretted the movement. “You love her too much to kill her, Ishmael.”
A goofy grin erased the years from his face. He leaned over Amber and wiped the tears from her cheek with his thumb. “I do love you, baby. I had so many plans for us.” He turned his spooky green eyes back to Mer. “You’re right, of course. I can’t kill her.”
Relief washed over her. At least Amber would be safe.
“Which is why you will.”
Amber’s wail melded with the howl of the wind in an eerie duet. A chill knifed through Mer’s chest.
He lifted her left hand and worked the engagement ring from her finger. “Waste not, want not.”
The pitch and yaw of the boat had worsened, and the seawater roiled. The time for Ishmael to escape by sea had passed—even if he didn’t recognize that. Once the storm subsided, however, the canals would return to normal. Possibly tomorrow, maybe the day after, but with neither Amber nor Mer around to foil his plan Ishmael would escape.
“Mer? The rope.” He trained the gun on her other leg. She picked up the length of line. Smooth. Pliable. Deadly.
Ishmael hauled Amber to her feet. Burdened with lead, the front of the buoyancy compensator hung low. He pushed her onto the swim step. She stood, trembling, inches from the edge, clutching the railing to keep from falling into the ocean. The two engines belched diesel fumes next to her.
They had to get off the boat. Mer ran her hand through her hair. Her leg ruled out trying to jump to the dock. That left the ocean. With her hands bound, Amber wouldn’t be able to dump her weights. She’d plummet to the seafloor twenty feet below. Panic clogged Mer’s throat. Not even Houdini could escape drowning with his hands behind his back.
Unless he had help.
An assistant. A distraction. Maybe a bit of misdirection.
Her mind rebelled even as she recognized the logic. She’d have to go, too. Amber needed her. As plans went, it was weak. If it failed, they’d both drown, but it was all she had.
Holding the rope, Mer used the railing to pull herself to her feet. Ishmael stepped back but kept the gun trained in their direction.
The swim step had little room for two. Mer hopped over to Amber. The movement jarred her injured leg and fear threatened to buckle her good one. She grit her teeth.
Amber’s face nearly broke her heart. Tears streaked through the dirt the wind had deposited on her skin. Her lips quivered, but she tried to smile. Mer turned her back to Ishmael and spoke to Amber as loud as she dared. “Trust me.”
>
Amber nodded slightly.
“You’re going to need to hold your breath. You’ll know when.”
Another nod, then she presented her back to Mer.
“Move so I can see you tie it,” Ishmael said.
The boat pitched. Mer bounced to the side and banged her hip against the engine. She looped the rope around Amber’s wrists, then created a bight in the end of the rope. She pushed it under the main rope and over the other side. Rabbit wasn’t the only one who knew a couple of tricks. A few more manipulations and she slid the knot against Amber’s skin.
“Tighter.”
Mer snugged the line.
“Very nice.” Ishmael gazed at his fiancée and rubbed the heel of his free hand over his heart. “I am sorry, Amber.”
The time had come. Mer needed a distraction. She shifted her eyes from Ishmael’s face and focused on a point behind him, lifted her arm above her head, and waved. “Over here.”
Ishmael jerked around.
“Now!” Mer seized Amber around the waist and propelled them off the boat. She heard gunfire, engine noise, then nothing but the churning of water as it closed around them. Welcomed them. Hid them from the madman with a gun.
Chapter 34
Amber thrashed and kicked as the weight in her vest dragged them toward the bottom of the marina. Mer ignored the pain in her leg and groped for Amber’s bound wrists. Found the knot. Her fingers traced the contours of the line. Underwater, it felt like a bewildering tangle and not the carefully crafted exploding knot she’d tied on board. Finally, she found the tail she’d been searching for, and with a single tug the bind fell away.
Instead of reaching to ditch the weight pockets, Amber panicked and tried to stroke upward, heedless of the drag.
Mer located the releases and pulled. One weight pocket slid from its sheath, but the other buckle jammed. She yanked again, but it remained immovable. Amber continued to struggle. Time was running out. If Mer couldn’t get the weight out, she’d have to remove the whole buoyancy compensator.
Four buckles trapped Amber in the vest. Mer grabbed the front of the jacket and spun the other woman underwater so they faced each other. The water surged around them. Slammed them into each other, tried to tear them apart. Her eyes stung. Everything underwater looked blurred. Gray. She dragged her hand down the front until it caught on the chest strap. Her fingers fumbled to find the right position, then she snapped it open.
Engine noise rumbled through the water. It filled her ears. Blocked out everything else. Ominous. She didn’t want it to be the last sound she heard. She attacked the remaining buckles. This was no different than any other rescue. Methodical, controlled. Except they were sinking, they had no air, and a crazy man would be waiting for them when they came back up.
The first shoulder released without an issue, but Amber’s writhing made it difficult to find the second buckle. Mer clamped her good leg around the woman to immobilize her and found the second release.
They settled in the silt of the bottom and broke apart. Twenty feet of water separated them from the surface, and Amber was still ensnared by the dead weight in the equipment. Mer’s lungs burned. She needed air. Even kicking up now, she wasn’t certain she’d make the surface before her lungs demanded that she draw a breath. And that breath would be salty. She would drown.
Again.
Amber struggled. Silt clouded the water until Mer couldn’t see anything. She closed her eyes, plunged herself into blackness. Amber kneed her in the thigh. Splashes of pain erupted behind Mer’s eyes and she almost screamed, but she needed her air. Needed to get them safely to the surface. Ishmael would not win. She would not die. And neither would Amber.
The waist closure had two parts. The buckle parted easily, but Amber’s flailing made it difficult for Mer to find the edge of the Velcro cummerbund. Finally, the tips of her fingers felt the bump of fabric and she ripped the pieces apart. The buoyancy compensator peeled away from Amber’s body.
Mer bunched her legs and pushed against the seafloor. Her feet sank into the silt and a stabbing pain shot from her wounded thigh, but she gained a bit of momentum. Together, the two women swam for their lives.
Mer’s lungs demanded air. Her diaphragm quivered with need. The water brightened as they neared the surface. Boat noise surrounded them, but she couldn’t see the shadow that marked its location. They had to surface away from the boat. Away from the spinning prop blades that sliced the water.
Black spots appeared in her vision. Only a few feet to go. Her head broke through the water and she gasped huge lungfuls of air. Amber surfaced next to her, coughing and sputtering. They rose and fell with the chop, choking on spray.
The Sir Simon was gone from the slip. Mer’s right leg was numb. She used her arms to spin herself around in the water. She had to find the boat. Find Ishmael. The gun.
A wave broke over Amber and pushed her under. Mer grabbed her and muscled her back to the surface. She was too still.
“I’ve got you. Stay with me!” Water filled Mer’s mouth. She spat it out. Coughed. The dock was only feet away. Mer kicked toward it with her good leg.
Waves smashed against the underside of the dock and blasted angry white foam through the slats. Definitely not a good place to hide.
A wave swelled, lifting them. The Sir Simon chugged for the main canal. Ishmael would know within minutes that he was trapped in the marina. His only option would be to return. Ditch the boat. Escape on land.
They had to get out of the water before that happened. Before he found them.
She wrapped one arm across Amber’s chest and stroked toward the dock with her free arm. If she timed it right, it would be like grabbing the ladder at the back of the LunaSea. Only there wasn’t a ladder, Leroy wasn’t there to help lift Amber, and if she missed they’d both be dashed against the dock.
Ducky.
She’d have to use the power of the ocean. Let it lift them onto the dock.
Mer got as close as she dared. Amber’s eyes fluttered.
The water swirled and intensified under them. It gathered power as Mer’s strength dwindled. The swell bore them up and hurtled them at the dock. They crashed onto the wood in a tangle of limbs. Mer grabbed the far edge with one hand and clutched Amber with the other, her muscles fighting the pull of the receding water that tried to reclaim them.
Mer scrambled to her hands and knees, dragging her right leg behind her. She rolled Amber onto her back. A large goose egg had risen on her forehead, but she had a strong pulse and her chest rose and fell steadily.
Clouds darkened the sky, obliterating the sun.
Another wave rose. The dock shuddered with the impact. They had to get to shore.
The distance spanned less than twenty yards, but with a bum leg the length seemed insurmountable. Mer positioned herself behind Amber and threaded her arms under the unconscious woman’s armpits. Using her good leg, she pushed her butt backward, then leaned back and dragged Amber to her chest. Over and over, she repeated the maneuver, like rowing. Bend forward, arch back, pull.
They progressed slowly. Mer panted. Her muscles strained. The commercial buildings around them stood empty. She wished she had her phone, salt-free and dry.
Scooch, arch, pull.
They neared the only other docked boat. It bobbed maniacally, crashing against the dock, splintering the wood.
Sweat dripped from Mer’s face. She wanted to rest, lean her back against the wall of the fish market, but the Sir Simon had turned. The boat was heading back to its slip. There was no way she’d make it off the dock in time. Ishmael would find them.
The boat. It would have a radio.
Gritting her teeth, Mer dragged Amber to the fishing boat. The stern butted against the dock. With the tide up, the swim step was almost even with the dock, but, like everything else, it pitched frantically in the chaotic combination of wind and waves.
Mer positioned Amber on her side and stood. With only one good leg, she’d have to hop from the d
ock. She had to get help. The only way to do that was to radio a distress call on the marine-emergency channel.
Timing the waves, she jumped. Her good leg crumpled beneath her and she collapsed on the swim step, wheezing in pain. There was no way she could bring Amber on board. She’d have to hurry.
Mer struggled to her feet and hopped across the small deck. The door to the berth was locked with a hasp and a padlock. She pulled on the lock. It didn’t give, but the elements had rotted the wood around the hasp.
The storage compartments along the sides were empty, but she found a large wrench in the bait box. She swung it at the wood like a sledgehammer. The third blow splintered the area surrounding the hasp and she pushed the door open.
The smell of musty fabric greeted her. Dim light penetrated the recesses of the V-berth. The radio hung suspended just inside the entrance, its cord swinging with the motion of the boat. She selected Channel 16 and keyed the mic. It clicked to life and she raised it to her mouth, then reluctantly released the button.
The Coast Guard monitored the emergency channel, but so did every other boater. The moment she broadcast her location, Ishmael would know where to find her. It would become a race to see who could reach her first, and Ishmael would win.
Mer rifled through the drawers and cabinets, desperate to find a weapon. Plastic utensils, paper plates, a bottle opener. Under the bench seat, she found a collection of orange horse-collar life vests. Motor oil, rags, charts. She pocketed a screwdriver. Not as good as a knife but better than fingernails. She tossed aside two stained pillows and uncovered an orange case.
Bingo.
She opened the case and pulled out the orange-handled flare gun. Six flares that resembled shotgun shells rattled around in the case. She cracked the barrel forward and inserted one. Stuffed the remaining cartridges in her pocket. She slid the flare gun in her rear waistband and grabbed the radio. Now she could call for help.
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