Sleep No More

by Susan Crandall

  “Shut the fuck up. You’re wearing on my nerves,” Toby said.

  “Like I give a shit,” Abby said.

  Toby delivered a quick blow that sent her sprawling onto her back. Her head hit the dock with a thud.

  The gun didn’t move from Bryce’s chest.

  Toby reached down, grabbed her hair, and pulled her to a sitting position.

  Her nose was bleeding. Bryce watched the deep red drops hit the weathered wood. Soon there would be so much more.

  Toby reached into his pocket with his left hand. He pulled out Bryce’s knife and handed it to him. “This whole fucking mess is her fault. Here’s your chance to make her pay.”

  Bryce squared his shoulders and glared at Toby. He did not take the knife. “You’re the one getting paid. I’m not going to do your work for you.”

  “Oh, I think you will,” Toby said. “If you take care of business, I’m going to let you live.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Toby tilted his head slightly. “Dude, it’s this—or you’re as dead as she is.”

  Bryce was breathing so hard and fast he was starting to get dizzy. “You’ll kill me anyway.”

  “Nah, I told you, I like you. I’m giving you a chance. Water’s high. Tide’s going out. Her body might not be found. There’s a good possibility you’ll get away with it. It’s a no-brainer, dude. You kill her. Or I kill you both.”

  Toby extended the knife to him.

  “No.”

  Toby stepped closer and put the gun to Bryce’s temple.

  Bryce squeezed his eyes closed and felt tears run down his cheeks.

  “Bryce, no,” Abby said. “Don’t do it. Make him kill me.”

  I don’t want to die. Oh God, I don’t want to die.

  He opened his eyes—and put out his shaky hand for the knife.

  Father Kevin drank the last of the scotch, letting it linger blissfully on his tongue before swallowing. For a moment, he stared at the small revolver on the passenger seat of the church van. Then he picked it up. Somehow it felt lighter in his hand than when he’d handled it an hour ago.

  He got out and left the van there, at a seldom-used boat launch less than a mile away from the accident that began to unravel it all.

  He walked through the woods along the river until he found a quiet spot where the sun cast brilliant rays through the old trees.

  He sat for a long moment with his hands over his face, his knees bent in front of him, his elbows on his knees. The brown flow of water before him had a hypnotic effect. He’d been fighting the memory of that night for days. Now he let it wash over him, one last time:

  The dark narrow road unfolded in the beams of his headlights. The windows were down. Sweat trickled down his temples, teasing the flesh in front of his ears, feeling like the advance of a column of ants. It was after two a.m. His mouth held the taste of the scotch he’d been drinking since midnight. The moist wind whipped around him, swirling through the car like the breath of a demon.

  Papers rustled on the floor of the back seat: church bulletins and prayer cards.

  Knowing the curves that lay ahead, he shut off his headlights and put his death in the hands of God.

  His eyes closed and he forced himself to keep his foot on the accelerator.

  All sounds became more acute. The slap-snap of bugs against the windshield. The soft flutter of papers reminded him of butterfly wings… angel wings… the wings of death.

  He began a whispered prayer—and heard a motorcycle engine, wound tight, racing…

  His eyes snapped open as he reached to flip on his lights. Too late—

  Father Kevin gasped at the memory of the impact. His eyes opened to the reality of daylight.

  Dear God, forgive me for taking that boy’s life.

  Oh, what a cowardly fool he’d been. He had thought the despair of that night was the worst he could possibly feel. He’d been wrong.

  He tucked the revolver into the inside pocket of his windbreaker—he was dressed in secular clothing. He would not commit this sin in holy garments. Then he walked into the water until it swirled high around his calves, the pressure promising to draw him away with the current.

  Then he knelt, his knees sinking deeply into the muddy river bottom, the insistent water tugging at his hips.

  He closed his eyes and the weight of all he had done settled on his shoulders.

  His sins were many. He knew this baptism would serve no purpose. But he wanted the Lord to know that no matter how flawed he’d been as a man, even in the disgrace of this final sin of his death, he was recommitting himself to Jesus Christ.

  He gripped his rosary, bowed his head, and made the sign of the cross.

  Abby was still blinking from the blow to her face. Her scalp throbbed from the man hoisting her by the hair. But she was not going to give him the satisfaction of showing fear.

  She looked up to glare defiantly at him—and saw that Bryce had the knife in his hand.

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  Bryce grimaced and raised the knife high.

  His yell filled her ears. And the knife came plunging down in a flash of silver and pain.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Explorer fishtailed as Jason made the sharp turn onto the dirt road that led to the shack where he and Bryce had cleaned the fish they’d caught while boating years ago. Its discovery had solved one of the negatives of fishing; Lucy refused to have fish cleaned at the house. Unfortunately, the second negative never disappeared. Bryce had always been bored out of his mind.

  The shack had been abandoned long before they’d happened across it. And Jason had just discovered how much farther it was from town by road than by water.

  Bryce’s car was parked in the tall weeds in front of the shack. Three of the Civic’s four doors were open.

  Jason slammed on the brakes and the Explorer skidded to a stop.

  The shack wasn’t more than a rusty metal roof, a single room with half-walls and a plank floor. The top half of the walls had once been screened, but those screens had been reduced to a few scraggly, fluttering remnants. The old screen door hung askew, no longer a rectangle that fit its opening.

  Bryce was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Abby. Nor the gray Impala Jason had expected to find.

  That didn’t mean Toby wasn’t here. He’d used the river before. And Bryce had clearly felt threatened or he never would have sent the text message that led Jason here.

  He picked up the gun he’d laid on the passenger seat, jumped out, and crouched low near the vehicle, scanning the area.

  No movement in the woods or the shack.

  He listened.

  There was a siren, but it was still far away. A police helicopter thudded somewhere in the distance; Kitterman had said he was dispatching one, as well as water patrol, in case of a chase.

  The absence of the Impala said that if there was going to be a chase, it would be on the water. Jason thanked God for Kitterman’s forward thinking.

  He carefully moved away from the Explorer. When no one shot at him, he started running toward the river.

  The sirens got closer.

  The sound of a gunshot tore through the quiet. Birds startled en masse from their roosts in the trees.

  The river was still about forty yards away; Jason could only see a small sliver of brown water at the end of the path through the trees. He pushed harder, arms and legs pumping. His heart felt like it was going to explode in his chest. He pressed on, his lungs burning, fear rising like bitter bile in his throat.

  Dear God, please let me be in time.

  But that gunshot… Jesus, that gunshot. Neither Abby nor Bryce was armed.

  The dock was off to the left of the path. Jason erupted recklessly from the cover of the woods.

  There was only one person on the dock. A guy Jason presumed to be Toby aimed his gun at the water and fired… and again. The sound of repeated shots covered Jason’s careless approach.

  Jason’s feet hit the long
dock. The vibration made Toby stop firing and look over his shoulder.

  He spun and pointed the gun at Jason. But Jason had already stopped and aimed.

  He fired first.

  The bullet hit Toby’s right hand; his gun clattered to the dock. He immediately reached down for the gun with his left hand.

  Jason fired again, this time hitting him in the left knee. Jason was a doctor; he’d spent a lot of time perfecting his shot to maim, not kill.

  Toby went down, his foot knocking his gun off the edge of the dock.

  Jason ran somewhat closer, his aim now on Toby’s head. He cast swift glances toward the water, but didn’t see a sign of Abby or Bryce in the river.

  “Where are they?” Jason shouted, praying for an answer that contradicted what logic told him.

  “You’re too fucking late.” Toby started to push with his good leg toward the boat.

  “Stop!” Jason held himself in place, resisting the instinct to move closer. He had to stay far enough away so Toby couldn’t take Jason’s legs out from under him. This guy was a killer. He wasn’t done fighting yet.

  The sirens grew louder, then stopped.

  Toby scooted closer to the boat.

  Jason fired again, hitting Toby’s right calf.

  The helicopter thumped closer, hovering over the water. The wash from its blades pressed Jason’s clothes against his body. The turbulent gusts tossed tree branches and sent ripples across the surface of the river. Jason squinted against the wind and saw two officers with flak jackets and rifles in the chopper’s open doorway.

  The loudspeaker bellowed, “Drop your weapon.”

  Jason carefully placed his gun on the dock beside him and held his hands where they could easily be seen.

  Then he yelled, “Check the river! They’re in the river!”

  He pointed downstream, keeping his hand movements slow and away from his body.

  Feet pounded the dock. Jason spun around, hands in the air, and faced two officers who luckily knew him. He shouted as he kicked off his shoes, “Tell them not to shoot me. They’re in the water. Have the helicopter search!”

  Officer Bigelow reached for his radio and started talking.

  Jason dove off the side of the dock.

  Even with her eyes wide open, Abby couldn’t see anything except the blurred image of Bryce’s face inches from hers and a swirl of something darker in the water. Blood?

  Hers or his?

  He had come at her with the knife. There had been the pain of impact; she didn’t think the knife had hit her, but she couldn’t be sure. Then they’d tumbled over the edge of the dock. As she’d fallen, she’d heard a shot, followed by Bryce’s grunt of pain.

  Now he was holding her under the water. It was so cold she felt as if knife blades were flaying her flesh from her bones. Her lungs burned and felt ready to burst.

  She struggled against his hold, but with her hands behind her, she was helpless.

  She twisted her wrists against the tape.

  He dragged her deeper.

  The zing of bullets entering the water was getting quieter. Abby wasn’t sure if they were moving away, or if she was losing consciousness. Everything had been so acute when she’d hit the water; now her senses were muffled. The sounds were less distinct, the pain rolling into numbness.

  The current held her with a grip of its own. Without the use of her arms, she wasn’t sure that she’d be able to surface even if he did let her go.

  Even so, she kicked at him. He was drowning her. She writhed in panic, but he held tight.

  Drowning. Drowning. Air. She had to get air.

  Jason dove deep, ignoring the needles of pain caused by the cold temperature. The water was so murky, he would have to be right on top of them to see them. He flung his arms, feeling for skin or clothing.

  Had they both been shot? Were they dead already?

  The current was moving him away from the dock. Away from the whump of the helicopter.

  He surfaced for air and discovered he’d been carried about twenty yards downstream. The helicopter was moving slowly along the course of the river, the two police officers leaning out, searching the surface of the water.

  Jason’s chances of finding Abby and Bryce were ridiculously slim, but he had to try.

  He dove again.

  He couldn’t stay under as long this time. When he was forced to surface, a patrol boat was fast approaching from upstream. It slowed as it reached him.

  One of the men on board called to him. “Here!” He tossed a life ring on a line. “Grab this!”

  Jason ignored it and took a deep breath.

  “Don’t!” the man yelled. “We have divers on the way. Get out before we have to rescue you, too.”

  His limbs burning with exhaustion, Jason dove again.

  The bullets had stopped—or they were far enough away that Bryce could no longer hear them. His lungs ached. He struggled not to suck in water.

  His grip on Abby was growing weaker; luckily her strength against him was fading, too. His left arm was going numb and his shoulder felt as if it had been skewered.

  He couldn’t let her go.

  Had to hold on… hold on… hold…

  Jason heard the muffled drone of the boat’s motor. He continued to grope blindly with no results. He was having a more difficult time keeping himself oriented in the water; the cold temperature was robbing him of his senses. And the current seemed to pull more insistently on his tired limbs.

  He couldn’t give up. Not until he found them.

  Finally, he was forced to come up for air. Almost as soon as his head popped above the surface of the river, something snagged him around the chest.

  He looked behind him. One of the men in the boat held a long pole on which there was a hook that encircled Jason.

  The man was pulling him closer to the boat.

  No! He had to keep going.

  He struggled only briefly. He realized his limbs were so fatigued that if he located Abby or Bryce, he wouldn’t have the strength to pull them from the water.

  As soon as the officers had hauled him into the boat and laid him on the deck, he gasped, “Keep looking. Find them.”

  As he lay there heaving in great gulps of air, he tried to tell himself that they were alive. Even if they’d been shot, the water was cold. There was a chance. He had to cling to hope.

  The boat’s motor revved up.

  One of the men said, “We’re using fishing sonar. We’ll find them, sir.”

  If only he sounded like he believed it would be in time.

  Abby’s right hand finally pulled free of whatever had bound her. At that same moment, she felt Bryce’s hold on her relax. His eyes closed and his body started to separate from hers.

  She grabbed the front of his shirt with her right hand. Stroking with her left, she began desperately kicking toward the surface.

  The current tugged, but the light was growing stronger. Almost there!

  Finally, she burst through the surface, gasping, her need for air overwhelming all else.

  Coughing and sputtering, she struggled to pull Bryce’s face above water. Her strength was failing.

  With a frantic gaze, she looked to see which bank was closer. They were maybe thirty feet from the right bank, the bank they’d started on, still moving downstream. Luckily, the dock and the guy with the gun weren’t in sight.

  She heard a helicopter, but couldn’t tell how near it was. She prayed it was looking for her.

  She wrapped her right arm over Bryce’s right shoulder and across his chest, hooking her hand in his left armpit. Then she rolled onto her back beneath him, supporting his head with her chest. She sucked in a breath and yelled, “Help!” Her second cry was cut off as the water came up over her mouth.

  She started swimming toward the bank, pulling with her left arm and scissor kicking. The shore didn’t seem to be getting much closer.

  She might be able to make it alone. But she would not let Bryce go. She couldn’t
. Not ever.

  Rolling onto her back again, she took deep breaths. She tried calling one more time.

  “Here!” a man yelled. “Here!”

  Abby rolled onto her side again, kicking toward the bank. A man was slightly downstream, chest deep in the river, hanging on to the limb of a huge tree that had fallen into the water. “Here!” he encouraged. “You can make it.”

  Abby kicked with all she had, pulling with her left arm. She had to get over there before they passed the fallen limb.

  It was coming fast.

  Almost.

  She gave a big kick and stretched her arm out as far as she could.

  She wasn’t going to make it.

  Just as she passed, the man lunged out and grabbed her wrist. He clung to the branch with his other hand, strung between the tree and Abby like a man on whipping posts.

  She looked at his battered face and realized it was Father Kevin. His teeth gritted with strain as the current tried to pull her away from him.

  Abby kicked furiously, holding tightly to Bryce.

  Finally she reached the spot where the flow eddied around the fallen tree enough that it gave her a boost to swing closer to Father Kevin.

  He kept pulling until she could grab a branch herself.

  She realized he was standing and put her own feet on the river bottom.

  Father Kevin tried to take Bryce from her, but she wouldn’t let him go. She steadied herself by holding various limbs until she reached the point where she could no longer float Bryce along with her.

  Father Kevin immediately moved to Bryce’s feet. They hauled him out of the water, more dragging than carrying him.

  Once Bryce’s torso was over solid ground, they set him down. Abby and Father Kevin were breathing like sprinters. Bryce wasn’t breathing at all.

  Father Kevin checked for a pulse. Then he put the heels of both hands on Bryce’s abdomen and pressed fast and hard. Once. Twice. On the third try, water bubbled out of Bryce’s mouth.

  Father Kevin moved quickly, turning Bryce’s head to the side until the water stopped coming. Then he repeated it.

  Then he checked for breaths.

  “Come on,” Abby wheezed.

  Father Kevin began CPR, alternating between breaths and compressions.