A tiny, cruel part of him had wanted to see what he had spawned as a young man in the throes of a violent passion. Another, less familiar side of him had winced with regret.
Not because of his plans to murder an innocent young woman, but because, after her demise, he would never father another child.
Needing a drink, Tate turned away and started for the salon. "Would you like a cognac, Kyle—”
The yacht lurched. The sound of splitting fiberglass and the screeching of metal against metal shattered the stillness. Tate fell sideways, the throttle housing ramming into his shoulder as he went down.
His first thought was that Kyle had run them aground. Rage poured through him at the thought. With an unwilling guest onboard, how could the man be so negligent?
The Anastasia shuddered. The engines coughed and died. A startling silence resounded through the cabin, punctuated by the sound of waves slapping against the hull. Tate dragged himself to his feet. Glancing out the windshield, he felt his blood run cold.
A vessel, stark and white against the black water of the bay, rocked in the choppy water. He blinked at the surreal scene, disbelief and rage pumping through him.
Only then did he realize he'd underestimated Randall Talbot.
Chapter 29
The impact slammed Randall against the wheel. Pain ricocheted through his body. He groaned, felt his knees give. A curse flittered through his brain, but he didn't speak. Knowing he was dangerously close to blacking out, he clung to the chrome support next to the wheel and hauled himself to his feet.
Even in the darkness he spotted the other boat just off the bow. The Anastasia sat low in the water, rolling in two-foot swells. There were no lights, no engines, and no sign of a crew.
The Pulpit listed sharply starboard. He knew instantly she was taking on water. Pulling the Beretta from his waistband, he checked the clip, wishing Clint had kept an extra on hand. He opened the pilot house door. Cold night air and ocean spray rushed over his face. He studied the position of the Anastasia, realizing with alarm that the two yachts were drifting apart. A kick of adrenaline had him ascending the ladder. He had to board the other vessel before it drifted too far away.
A bullet zinged past him as he reached the deck. The window behind him exploded, showering him with shards of Plexiglas. The flash had come from the other boat's pilot house. Blindly, he took aim, fired off six rounds.
Nine rounds left. Hoping he'd gotten lucky and hit his target, he clambered onto the gunwale and leaped.
* * *
The impact had thrown Addison to the floor. Hands bound, she hadn't been able to break the fall and tumbled amid the flying debris and broken glass, landing hard against the opposite wall. She was back on her feet in an instant, listening to the quiet rush of water and the sound of the waves pounding the hull. All the while Tate's words echoed in her ears.
Your death won't be an easy one.
The water terrified her. It was ice cold and ankle deep in the galley. Staving off panic, she waded toward the salon, clinging to the thought that Randall had come for her. That the Coast Guard had somehow stopped the boat.
Her gaze paused on the table where Tate had left the tumbler of cognac. The tumbler-lay on the floor in pieces. She ran to it and dropped to her knees. Frigid water bit into her legs, but she ignored the discomfort, knowing she had only a few minutes to free herself. She turned her back to the broken glass and grappled for the largest piece. Using her right hand, she gripped the shard between two fingers and began sawing at the nylon handcuffs.
The sound of footsteps snapped her head up. The stairway door opened. Tate stepped into the room. He looked like an evil hologram, standing there with his black heart and malicious eyes. Though unable to tear her gaze away from his, she continued the back-and-forth motion with the glass.
"Put it down." He approached her. Without warning, he reached down, grasped a handful of her hair, and yanked her to her feet. "That son of a bitch killed Kyle."
The glass slipped from her hand. She strained against the binds to no avail. Despair tore through her. The water was now nearly a foot deep in the galley, ankle deep where they stood.
"We're sinking, for God's sake!" she said.
A strange light entered his eyes. A bizarre combination of disbelief and rage. Addison watched as he strode across the room and lifted the cover of a rosewood hatch recessed into the wall.
He extracted a small pistol that gleamed like an evil diamond in the palm of his hand. He turned to her, his eyes flat and dangerous. "Let's go."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
Grasping her arm, he shoved her toward the staircase that led to the upper deck. "You'll do as you're told."
Reckless anger swirled dangerously inside her. She wanted to fight back. But with her hands bound there was little she could do.
The gun pressed between her shoulder blades. "Move."
She took a first tentative step, wondering if he was going to shoot her or use her as a shield.
"Your lover just made a fatal error," he said.
Her heart bumped hard against her ribs. Something akin to relief washed over her. Randall was alive. He'd come for her. She turned and looked at Tate. "Let me go," she said. "Please. You can still get away."
His smile frightened her even more than the pistol poised at her spine. It was a dead smile, devoid of emotion. Inhuman. Insane. "Walk up the steps," he commanded.
Numbly, Addison started up the staircase. She wondered if Randall knew Tate was armed. Not thinking of the repercussions or her own safety, she bolted, taking the steps two at a time. "Randall! He's got a gun!"
She heard Tate moving behind her. The sound of his wingtips against wet carpet. Ragged breathing. Her own sobs wrenching from somewhere deep inside her. She felt his hand on her hair. Pain flashed across her scalp when, he jerked her back. She heard herself cry out. The sound of hair being tom from its roots.
Savagely, he twisted her hair. "You stupid bitch! Do as I say!"
"Let go of me!"
He spun her around to face him. The blow caught her left temple. Pain. An explosion of light. A scream of outrage tore from her throat. She cursed him through tears of rage.
"Don't try that again." He shoved her forward. "Now, get up those fucking stairs!"
Dizzy from the blow, shocked by the pain billowing through her, she stumbled up the stairs. When she reached the door, Tate stepped past her and swung it open.
Cold ocean air crashed over her as she stepped out onto the deck. Light rain fell from a black sky.
"Let's go find lover boy."
"I'm right here, Tate."
Addison choked back a cry at the sound of Randall's voice.
Boldly, he stepped into the open. Stance wide. Hands gripping an ominous-looking pistol. Even in the darkness she saw the glint of rage in his eyes.
The sight of him stopped her heart. "Randall." She heard his name, though she barely felt herself utter it. "He's armed."
"Are you all right?"
In spite of the gun poised at the base of her skull, it took every bit of self-control for her not to throw herself into his arms. "I'm okay."
He shifted his stance, aiming the pistol more squarely at Tate. "Let her go, Tate." Then his voice changed. Lowered to the sound of rapidly approaching thunder, the kind that struck unexpectedly and with deadly force. "Get your hands off her or I'll fucking blow you in half."
Tate touched the side of her face with the gun. "And risk my putting a bullet in this pretty face? I don't think so."
"Release her, and I'll let you walk away," Randall said. "If you hurt her, I'll kill you."
Tate made a sound of irritation. "Drop the gun, Talbot. Or I'll put a bullet in her head. Just above the hairline. Here, in the back. The medulla, I believe it's called."
Addison's nerves jumped as he ran the muzzle of the gun over her scalp. "Don't do it, Randall." Her voice barely carried over the sound of the wind. "He's insane. He'll kill us both."
"Weak lies, Talbot. All of it. You and I both know there's no proof. Just as we know that no newspaper in the country will print such a ludicrous story without substantiation."
''The cops know about Agnes Beckett. They know about Bernstein. About Patty and Larry Fox. A Coast Guard cutter will be here any minute, Tate. Give it up." Randall edged closer, his voice smoothing out. "It's over. Give it up."
The macabre sound of Tate's laughter drowned out the last of his words. "Once the both of you are dead, this nasty little business will be finished forever. Now, get the hell back, you two-bit drunk."
The pistol shifted, digging into the tender spot just below her left ear. Addison shuddered uncontrollably as she imagined a bullet leaving the chamber and slamming into her skull.
"Let her go, Tate. You don't have to die over this. I'll let you walk. Just let her go." Randall edged closer. "You're a powerful man. You can run anywhere in the world. If they catch you, you can afford the best attorneys our legal system has to offer. Release her, and I'll let you go."
The pistol trembled against her scalp. Slightly at first, and then violently until the muzzle of the gun shook against the side of her head.
Randall moved closer, his pistol steady. "Let her go. You don't want to hurt her."
"She means nothing to me," Tate said. "I have no compunction about—"
The gun blast deafened her. Next to her, Tate grunted, his body jerking. He looked down in disbelief at the blood coming through his jacket. In the back of her mind, Addison knew Randall had shot him. Hope jumped through her. She waited for Tate to crumple.
Instead, he raised the gun and fired point-blank at Randall.
"No!" she screamed, watching in horror as the man she loved reeled backward and landed on the cold, wet deck.
"Randall!"
Tate's arm snaked around her waist. "I warned him not to fuck with me!" he snarled.
Addison fought him with all her strength, but he was too strong and dragged her toward the rail. Twisting, she spotted Randall on the deck, crawling toward the gun he'd dropped.
Relief exploded in her chest. He wasn't dead. The vest had saved his life a second time.
Tate shoved her violently against the rail. Her hip slammed hard against the wood. Rivulets of pain speared through her. Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard Tate shouting, but she couldn't make out the words. All she could think was that Randall was alive. And somehow he was going to get them out of this.
Suddenly, Tate's arms tightened around her. In the next instant, her feet left the deck. She was halfway over the rail by the time she realized what he was going to do. Horror raged through her. Oh, God. Oh, God! He was throwing her overboard.
"No!" she screamed.
"See you in hell," he said and shoved her over the side.
Addison flailed, the cold, thin air rushing around her. The ocean laughed as her own wrenching scream pierced the air.
She was falling.
Then the water rushed up and received her with sharp, icy claws. It ripped into her, tore her open from end to end. Encompassed her like an arctic crypt. Her senses scattered as the shock incapacitated her, physically, mentally.
A rush of disbelief engulfed her. Her mind rebelled against the terror spiraling out of control inside her. This can't be happening, she thought with startling clarity. Not when Randall had been just a few feet away.
The water sucked her down. Her mind acknowledged the sensation of nothingness. A black void. An icy tomb. She struggled against her binds, not knowing up from down. A bolt of adrenaline surged through her muscles. She sucked in a mouthful of saltwater and choked. Panic swirled inside her like a tornado.
She opened her eyes to total blackness and felt the burn of saltwater against them. She kicked with all her might, cursing the boots that weighed her down.
An instant later she broke the surface. Sound and light and bitter cold assaulted her senses. She kicked, struggling to keep her mouth above the waves. The water tugged her down. Her face slipped below the waves.
And she was drowning.
Chapter 30
Randall reached the gunwale just as Tate crumbled. An animal sound ripped from his throat as he leaned over the rail. Ten feet below, the unforgiving water churned angrily. "Addison!"
Desperate, he turned, spotting the cabinets set into the transom at the stem. Sprinting across the deck, he dropped to his knees. One by one, he ripped open the cabinets, finally locating a cache of life vests.
Jerking the vests from their nest, he rose. Ten feet away, the sight of Tate lying face down in a pool of blood stunned him.
Randall shook himself and darted back to the rail. There, he secured one of the vests at his waist, lodging two more beneath his arms. Without a thought for his own safety, he climbed onto the rail. From atop the gunwale, he scanned the water and listened for cries that never came.
"Addison!"
It was December and the water in the bay couldn't be much over fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Randall knew how quickly hypothermia set in. Christ, how long could she tread water with her hands bound?
Panic hammered at him. Screaming her name, knowing there was no more time, he tightened his grip on the vests and hurled himself over the edge.
* * *
Addison wasn’t sure how long she’d been in the water. It seemed like hours, but it could have been minutes, even seconds. Cold numbed her body. She no longer felt her hands or feet. The muscles in her legs throbbed with the effort of keeping her head above water. Her clothes and boots felt like dead weight.
Oh, dear God, where was Randall?
Despair stabbed through her. She couldn't stay afloat much longer. The cold was zapping her strength with frightening speed. She couldn't see the boat; she couldn't remember which direction it was in.
A wave washed over her. Choking, she rolled onto her back and kicked. An eerie calm descended over her. She felt as if she'd been drugged. Detached. She closed her eyes. The darkness enticed with a warm embrace and a murky promise to end the pain. To end the struggle.
Her face slipped below the surface. She sucked in water, felt it burn her lungs. Raw adrenaline speared through her. She surfaced again, coughing. "Randall! Help me!" she choked. "Oh, God, help me, please!"
A wave crashed over her, pushing her down. She kicked violently, using the last of her strength to break the surface.
One more time, she thought wildly, one more breath. One more minute of life. She took in a mouthful of acrid water. She coughed, shuddered with the effort, and felt herself slipping under.
She barely felt the hands lift her, forcing something solid beneath her arms. "Addison! Honey, it's me."
Randall. Beside her. Touching her.
“Talk to me, dammit!" Without finesse, he slapped her cheek with an open palm, shaking her gently. ''Wake up! Honey, we've got to swim back to the boat."
She was aware of him struggling, the breath rushing between his teeth, the hardness of his body bumping against hers as he stroked through the turbulent water.
She tried to speak, but her mouth couldn't form the words. She felt warmer now. Slipping away to a place that wasn't so cold.
* * *
Randall couldn’t believe he’d found her. Now that his arms were wrapped around her, he swore he'd never let her go. But she was cold. So cold it frightened him.
They were less than ten feet from the boat when he heard the low rumble of an engine. He stopped stroking and cocked his head to listen. The smell of exhaust reached him through the rain and wind. Terror ripped through him, shaking him to his very foundation as he watched the Anastasia pull away.
Tate was alive. And he was leaving them to drown.
Randall bellowed a curse. He slammed his fist against the water in outrage. Lying against him, barely
conscious, Addison stirred.
Fighting panic, he shook her. ''We're going to swim for the other boat. I need for you to kick your feet, Addison. Right now. Come on! Kick for me."
Even in the darkness, he saw the distance in her eyes.
When she tried to speak, her words were slurred, unintelligible.
The Perfect Victim Page 32