Maria had thought this over again and again.
This was the only way.
It somehow all made sense to her, even though it left a cold feeling at the small of her back. Like an ice cube slowly tumbling down her spine.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The sun was blood orange, just beginning to dip below the horizon when Paul decided to go back and collect his passport. He’d checked the pocket in his case, and found it empty. He was sure he’d taken the passport and packed it.
Lying on the couch in the cabin, he’d stared at the ceiling for an hour or more and ran through all the possible scenarios. There were many, but some were more troubling than others. He didn’t want to go back. Someone had found him. What if Maria had been captured, and the text was a trick to lure him back?
The thought that she could be harmed brought a sour taste to his mouth. He closed his eyes, cursed his stupidity. He had let himself believe that he could hide. He should’ve resisted Maria, suppressed his feelings. Allowing himself to love her had put her in danger. His own selfishness had caused this. Then again, maybe it was Maria who had sent the text? Whatever the real scenario, it made him even more convinced that he had done the right thing by running.
He decided he would go home, wait until it was really late and sneak into the house while it was dark. If Maria was asleep, he wouldn’t disturb her. If he thought something else was going on, he would deal with it. He needed to bring the revolver with him. If he saw anyone in the house but Maria, he would go in shooting. Only way to be safe.
Decision made, he inhaled and let out a breath slowly. A creeping unease spread through him, making the hairs on the back of his neck tickle. Something wasn’t right. It was then, free from distractions, that he noticed the boat no longer felt like it was rocking.
He raised his back off the couch, swung his feet around and placed them on the floor searching out his boots.
Instantly, he brought his feet back up to his chest, swore. His socks and feet were freezing – like he’d just dipped them in a bucket of ice.
No, not ice.
Water.
He looked down and saw a thin layer of seawater on the cabin floor.
Jesus Christ.
Those crashing sounds as he’d brought the boat, full throttle, over the large waves. Maybe he’d hit something – damaged the hull.
First things first. Paul grabbed the laptop from the table and pulled it toward him. He checked the latest version of the manuscript had safely uploaded to the USB memory stick, and then removed the stick and placed it in a plastic baggy. He kept a handful of baggies on the table. He’d once made the mistake of leaving the boat with the USB stick in his pocket and he’d slipped on the deck before leaping onto the jetty, falling into the water. He got out just fine, but he’d lost three days’ worth of work.
He sealed the bag and put it in his pants pocket.
Wishing he could remember more from his boat safety course, he decided he had to do something at least. He ignored his boots. His feet were soaking anyways. He stood up and his first thought was to try and start the engine.
It failed.
He went below, checked the bilge pump. This cruiser had a wooden hull, built in the fifties and while it looked pretty, it didn’t possess a lot of the finer safety equipment that would’ve helped in this type of situation. It did have an electronic bilge alarm. He checked it, found it dead. There were other back-up safety systems that he was encouraged to fit to the boat, but he figured this beauty had been sailing for sixty years without one and he wasn’t going to start messing with that. He regretted it now.
The bilge pump was dead. Oil flooded the pump housing, mixing with the water. There was a hand-crank pump somewhere, maybe on the deck, but Paul’s heart was tripping faster than he could think and he had no idea where the hand-crank might be or how to operate it.
The radio.
Paul had a VHF radio. He went back to the helm, found it, turned it on, looked for the book that came with the radio so he could find the correct channel to send a distress signal. He swore instead, and just started talking on the thing. He looked at the GPS system, read his co-ordinates out and screamed into the mic that his boat was sinking.
No answer.
He opened the box marked for emergencies, took out a life vest and a personal locator beacon. This piece of equipment he did know how to use. He switched it on, watched the little red dot flash and then put the life vest over his head just as the boat tilted, throwing him down onto the deck. Paul spread out his hands to break his fall, but not quickly enough.
A dull thud was the last thing he heard before the lights went out.
He woke up choking in the dark.
Four feet of water in the boat and the stern had completely sunk into the freezing black waters. He had almost slipped into that water and been drowned in his own cabin. He felt his way out of the cabin and crawled up the main deck toward the bow. He was slipping and sliding on the smooth boards, and blood poured from a cut on his scalp. Looking around, he saw nothing but black sea, black night and blood in his eyes.
Paul lit the torch on his life vest and jumped overboard. The boat was going down, and unless he got off it he was going down too.
He thought it would be okay. The Coast Guard would be on their way to him right this second. A boat and a chopper. He would be fine. He’d seen it on the Discovery Channel. Soon as he hit the Personal Locator Beacon, the alarms started going off in the US Coast Guard’s office. For a moment he felt like he was doing the right thing. Getting off the sinking boat would save him.
He couldn’t feel his feet anymore, they were so cold. So he didn’t notice the change in temperature until his whole body hit the waves, and his head momentarily went under before shooting back to the surface with the forceful buoyancy of the life vest. Then he noticed the cold.
The shock.
It was like something was strangling his entire body, and burning it at the same time. He couldn’t get air, and his mouth opened to suck in a lungful and fend off the blaze of agonizing cold that hit his system like a wrecking ball. But there was no air. Just seawater.
He vomited, instantly. But still there was no oxygen, even though his mouth lay open and his body screamed for it. His arms stopped moving. His legs stopped kicking. The cold paralyzed him. For a second Paul thought he’d just taken a dive into battery acid. His skin was alive in agony. A pulsing, searing agony that took everything from him – his voice, his air, his limbs.
But not his thoughts. He could think clearly. The cold-water immersion had triggered shock. Even if he survived that, he wouldn’t live long in the water. He knew his body temperature was falling rapidly, his system cooling, shutting down. Strangely, he began to feel warm.
He knew he was going to die before he passed out and the cold really took hold of his bones. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was the light flickering on his vest and the last thing he thought of was Maria.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Paul’s eyes opened to black.
He felt a massive pressure on his chest and suddenly his mouth filled with water. It sprang from his throat like a burst pipe, covering his face. He coughed, tried for air, got some and struggled to lift his head, but could not.
Black above him and now something else. Stars.
A noise filled his ears – the roar of a motorboat. His arms fell by his sides and felt something solid. A face loomed over him. A man, with dark stubble and a sharp face. He wore a bright yellow waterproof coat and he was speaking although Paul couldn’t hear him at first. Paul’s eyes felt heavy, he could barely focus.
‘Hey! Stay with me buddy!’ said the voice.
Buddy? Paul didn’t recognize the man. Maybe the man knew him, maybe not.
Paul felt so sleepy.
Something smacked off his cheek, stinging his face. He opened his eyes and found the man there again, in his face, screaming at him to stay awake. Paul could smell fish. And his hands on the
deck of the boat felt slimy.
A fisherman.
A fisherman had rescued him.
Paul smiled, laughed, and felt a sharp pain in his legs and then he was moving. The man was dragging him across the deck. Then the fisherman was there again, close now, wrapping his arms underneath Paul’s, hauling him up. Paul could smell the catch on the man’s skin. The stink of fish made him gag again and more seawater erupted from his stomach. Then he was inside, out of the cold. The fisherman was pawing at him, removing his clothes, rubbing his skin, putting a shiny silver blanket on top of him. The fisherman had a kind face. His hands felt rough, hard. Paul imagined that years of pulling ropes, hauling nets and gutting fish had worn those hands into stone.
‘It’s okay. You’re gonna be just fine, pal. I’m taking you in. You’re the biggest thing I’ve caught today,’ he said, in a pure Southern accent. He followed it with a long, loud laugh. That laugh was reassuring. The danger had passed. He was going to be fine, just as the fisherman said.
Paul felt warm again, and yet he knew he was safe. He always liked fishermen. They were real men, who took real risks with their lives. They lived hard, and there was no give in them at all. Particularly this one. Quick to laugh, and solid. Paul drifted off to sleep.
Only then did he realize he’d left his case on board. Along with his traveling money. His phone. And the revolver. It was all gone.
But at least he was alive.
CHAPTER TWENTY
She opened the front door when she heard Daryl’s feet on the gravel. He slipped inside and she closed the door quickly. Taking him by the hand, she kissed him hard. It was part passion, part fear.
‘The cops came to the club today. Maybe it had nothing to do with me, but it was scary, you know? I drove around and around for an hour. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t being followed. It’s fine, it’s just me being paranoid, honey,’ he said, before embracing her again.
The mention of police gave her another frisson of fear but, like Daryl said, it was probably nothing. He’d been careful, but more than that. He’d called her honey. It was the first time he’d used a word like that. A special word, for her. To hear Daryl use a word for her made her stomach flutter. It felt like something he would say to her when they were living together, a year from now, in their home far away from Port Lonely.
It was a glimpse of a new life. And she loved it.
He took her in his arms and Maria knew peace. She loved the smell of him, the feel of him. The strength in his body tempered by the smell of citrus and spice from the scent he always wore. It reminded her of Christmas. She nestled her head in the crook of his chest, felt his hand stroking her hair.
He released her, kissed her delicately, and she led him down the hall. Daryl stopped dead at the kitchen door, taking in the scene. Maria smiled, and hoped he would be pleased with her work. He followed her into the kitchen.
Every surface was covered in thick plastic dust sheets, apart from the far window at the end of the room. The sink and counter below the window also remained uncovered and the remnants of a meal lay there. Spaghetti in a pot, a bowl with the red stains of tomato sauce and a chopping board with a large kitchen knife still resting upon it beside the stains of chopped yellow peppers and basil.
A dining-table chair sat in the middle of the plastic sheets.
Daryl looked around for the rest of the supplies. They were gathered in a neat pile in the corner.
‘I got everything. You’d better hurry, he could be back any time now,’ said Maria, and she grabbed Daryl by his shirt, leaned in and kissed him roughly before pushing him toward the pile of items.
He smiled, turned away from her and she watched him rip open the sack containing the overalls.
Maria grabbed a handful of cable ties and the duct tape, put them on the counter beside Daryl.
‘I opened the paint, left the can on the floor so he’ll see it when he comes into the kitchen,’ said Maria. Daryl zipped the white plastic overalls up to his chest before covering his head with the hood, and then zipping it all the way up to his throat. He fitted a mask over his mouth and slipped the elastic behind his head.
‘It’s not too late to back out,’ said Daryl.
She wrapped her arms around her body, holding herself together.
‘I’m not backing out. I just want to make sure we don’t get hurt. I should’ve bought a taser or something. What if he reacts and we can’t handle him? What if he comes through the door with the gun in his hand?’ she said.
‘I’ll be behind the central counter. That way I can move without him seeing me. We’ll hear his car in the drive, you check out front then lead him in here, get him to sit down and talk.’
‘What if he won’t talk? What if he shoots me?’ she said.
Daryl looked around the kitchen, saw an open tool box in the corner with a screwdriver lying next to it on the floor. The tip of the screwdriver was covered in paint and it had stuck to the plastic sheeting. Daryl went over to the box, picked up a claw hammer.
‘If he threatens you in any way, I’ll tag him with this,’ said Daryl.
A cold shudder rippled through her.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t let him hurt you none,’ said Daryl.
The sudden change in the timbre of his voice made Maria turn sharply. The vision before her was at first confusing.
Daryl was standing right behind her, only a few feet away. He looked scary in those plastic overalls, but now she saw the hammer in his right hand. She knew then that this was a terrible mistake. It could all go horribly wrong. Maria felt a sliver of fear even now, watching her lover stand there before her.
The man who had just called her honey. The one she loved more than any man. And yet seeing him dressed like that sent a million goose pimples prickling over her skin. There was no way she could go through with it. Paul had betrayed her terribly. The other woman, the money, the life he denied her. And yet the betrayal did not warrant this risk. What if someone got badly hurt? She couldn’t risk Daryl. He was too precious. No way. It wasn’t too late. She could put a stop to this. She had visions of Paul shooting Daryl, and then her. It wasn’t worth it for all the money in the world.
Yes. Stop it. Stop it right now.
The sense of relief swept over her body like cold mist. It wasn’t going to happen. It felt like waking from a long, terrible dream. Back to reality. Back to safety.
She opened her mouth, and was about to tell Daryl that she wanted to stop when her breath caught in her throat. Daryl’s eyes were no longer his own. She saw something hard in those eyes – something empty. A look she had never seen before. He seemed taller. The surfer dude slouch had gone. He held his back straight, head up, shoulders squared. Ropes of muscle stood out in his neck.
‘I can’t risk this. It’s not worth it, let’s forget the whole thing and we’ll just pack our bags and go.’
Her words didn’t soften his stance, or his eyes. From behind the mask he said, ‘Sure, whatever you want. Grab the dust sheets. Let’s clean the place up and go.’
Maria turned away from Daryl, picked up the dining-table chair. She felt another huge wave of relief. Her mother had put her father through a window to save her. And although they were happy together after, she knew her mother carried that weight even if she never spoke of it. Maria couldn’t take the chance that her plan could all go south. She was moving on. Getting out of Port Lonely. To hell with the money, she had Daryl and they would make do.
She began to turn to her left with the chair, ready to put it back behind the dining-table when something stopped her. Maria heard a pop and the world tilted and shuddered before the black took her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Watching Maria fall to the plastic-covered floor, Daryl swore and then bit his lip behind the mask. The blow had struck her on the left temple, sending a small yet powerful blast of fine blood mist into the air. He heard the faint pitter patter of the spray hitting his white plastic overalls. He even felt spots of blood landing o
n his brow as softly as sea spray.
The blow had force behind it. Real power. Yet it landed when she was turning her head, the hammer glancing from her skull.
Crouching beside Maria he saw her eyes closed, her mouth open. Unconscious, not dead. Daryl raised the hammer again and brought it down with a terrible crack on the front of her head. More blood hit him back in retaliation, and Maria’s body began to convulse. Her limbs jerked and flailed. One eye opened. Not an accusatory stare, nor one of horror. It was a pitiful eye that had ceased to operate with any intention at all and yet her body continued to twitch.
The plastic sheeting screeched beneath her, and Daryl hated the sound. It reminded him of a kid in school who could run his nails down the chalkboard. That was a noise Daryl felt he wasn’t programmed to hear.
He raised the hammer again. Took a deep breath. The twitching slowed, then stopped. Her one visible eyeball stared into space, and her body did not move.
He waited for a few seconds. Staring down at her, the pool of blood collecting on the sheet beneath her head. The hammer hadn’t seen much use. It had a few notches on the head and was scraped here and there. It was Paul’s hammer. One that he’d used in the house. It would carry his prints and his DNA. He dropped it beside Maria.
He stood up and found the edge of the sheet that Maria lay upon, tore it away from the duct tape holding it to the floor and proceeded to kneel down again and wrap Maria’s body, rolling her over and the sheet with her. Wrapping her like a Christmas present. When the sheet had been rolled to the other edge, he stopped, got up and went to the front door and opened it. He ran his gloved hand over his chest then smeared a little on the front door. He went back inside, carefully took off the overalls and mask. Then he placed them in a bag, along with the gloves and put the bag in his jacket pocket.
Daryl turned out the lights before he left the house. He got into his car and drove to the top of the driveway, stopped. From the trunk of his car he took a ten-pound hammer and approached the mailbox at the top of the drive. One swing would do it. The hammer caught the wooden post at the base, and the mailbox went over into the dirt. To the casual observer, a car could’ve misjudged the road and taken out the box. He put the big hammer back in his trunk, and got into the car.
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