by Jeff Gunhus
She staggered over to the main hatch that led to the large living area down below. There had to be a radio down there. Maybe even an emergency beacon. She timed opening the door with the waves, aware that it would only take seconds to flood the hulls. With a yank on the hatch, she ducked inside into the dry safety of the cabin.
Only after she slammed the hatch behind her did she realize how loud the storm was outside. Even inside, sealed off from the worst of it, the wind howled and thunder rattled the windows.
She flipped the switches on the wall and the cabin lit up. It looked like the living room in a high-end furniture catalog, completely out of place compared to the dark world outside.
It made sense to her that the radio would be near the door for easy access, but she didn’t see one. She tore open the cabinets and rifled through closets. Nothing.
Allison crossed the room, searching the cabinets in the hallway leading to the stateroom in the catamaran’s bow. Bingo. The boat’s emergency kit. In a clear plastic tub, she found a flare gun, a strobe light, and, most importantly, an emergency transponder. No sign of a radio anywhere, but she hoped the transponder would do the trick.
She ripped open the directions that were taped to it and poured over them. She was halfway through when she heard a sound that made her stomach turn.
It wasn’t the grating sound of the hull on rocks.
It wasn’t the gush of water pouring into the hull.
It was the sound of the storm filling the cabin as the hatch opened, followed seconds later by the hatch reclosing and the relative quiet returning to the cabin.
Quiet, that is, except for the sound of wet footsteps across the floor.
The closet doors blocked her view of the main room, but she knew who it was.
Arnie.
CHAPTER 52
Allison cursed herself for not pulling his body in and making sure he was dead. How could she have been so stupid?
She grabbed the flare gun and crouched to the ground, trying to get it loaded. The steps paused.
“Allison,” Arnie whispered hoarsely. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
The flare shell tumbled out of her fingers and hit the floor. The boat tilted precariously to the side, and the flare rolled down the hall toward Arnie.
“I can see you,” Arnie called out. “C’mon. Let’s play.”
Allison slid past the closet door and took a firing stance, the flare gun gripped in both hands. She froze for a second on seeing Arnie. Blood poured from a ragged gash across his throat, covering his clothes. His eyes were wild. Bruised, swollen lips were pulled back in a snarl showing blood-stained teeth. He looked more like an animal than a man. “On your knees, Arnie! Right now.”
Arnie smiled. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
He stumbled a little as the boat rolled. He seemed out of it. Maybe in shock. But Allison knew better than to underestimate him. She wasn’t taking any chances.
“I said get on the goddamn floor, Arnie!” she yelled. “Or so help me, I’ll shoot you right here and now.”
Arnie lowered his head, cowed. “Don’t want any problems, OK? No muss, no fuss.”
Arnie held a hand to his throat as blood trickled out. He was pale, his lips blue from the cold water. “I’m so fucking smart, I’m stupid. Right? Isn’t that right? My wife always said . . . she always said I was. No muss, no fuss.”
He wasn’t making sense now. Allison didn’t think he could stay on his feet much longer.
“Sit down, Arnie. Right over there.”
Arnie ignored her. “Why?” Arnie mumbled, fighting to keep consciousness. “Why did you . . . did you . . .”
Allison chanced a glance at the flare shell, rolling back and forth on the floor with each swell. Even in Arnie’s weakened state, she knew she’d feel a lot better with the gun loaded. She moved toward it slowly as she spoke.
“Why did I risk everything to catch you?” Allison asked. “It could be that I’m ambitious and wanted to prove myself. But that’s not it.” She trapped the shell with her foot. “It could be that I needed to do this to prove to myself that I could take control and not be a victim.” She bent down and picked up the shell. “But that’s not it either.”
“Then what?” Arnie slurred. “What was it?”
Allison slid the flare shell into the gun’s chamber. “My sophomore year in college, I got a phone call from my dad. He was crying. Dad never cried.” She snapped the gun in place. “It took me a minute to understand what he was saying. Then I finally got it. My kid brother was dead. Only a high school senior, and he was dead.”
Arnie’s eyes went wide as he pieced it together. Allison savored the moment. This was the script she’d written and rewritten in her head for all those years. This was the scene she’d played out in her mind during the long hours of studying her criminal justice courses. During the years of training in the FBI. During the hundreds of off-duty hours put into cold cases and tracking down dead-end leads. This was it.
This was the way it was supposed to go.
“Oh my God,” Arnie whispered. “Edgar. The kid in the convenience store.”
“Don’t say his name,” Allison spat. “You don’t deserve to say his name.”
“No, no. He taught me how . . . he taught me t-t-to fly. I jumped . . . from the canyon wall. H-h-h-e made me who I am.”
“How dare you say that? He was just a kid.”
“I’m sorry . . .” Arnie mumbled.
“I pledged to find his killer . . .”
“I’m sorry . . .” Arnie’s eyes sagged.
“. . . and avenge his death.” Allison said, her voice stone cold.
Arnie’s head hung low. “I’m sorry to disappoint you . . .” he mumbled, barely audible. “But that’s not how it’s going to work out.”
With surprising speed, Arnie lunged across the room. All the disorientation and weakness had been an act. And it worked. Allison was caught off guard. Arnie smashed into her, and the flare gun went flying.
Allison fell and Arnie landed on top of her. The blood from his neck wound poured onto her face and mouth. She spit and hacked it up, wrenching her body left and right to get him off. But he was too strong.
Strong hands wrapped around her neck.
She looked up and it wasn’t Arnie anymore. It was Craig Gerty. Red-faced and straining. She closed her eyes to block out the image. When she opened them it was Arnie again, his face contorted in anger. The edges of her vision blackened.
Then something in her clicked.
I’m not giving in, you mother fucker. Not this time.
Allison used the slipperiness of Arnie’s own blood and slid her hands into his grip. In one motion, she leveraged the pressure points on his wrists and collapsed his hold on her neck.
But Arnie wasn’t going easily. He head butted her, and she almost blacked out from the blow. Arnie used her disorientation to lean back and slam a fist across her jaw.
He leaned back again, but this time she was ready for him. She rolled to the side, and his punch smashed into the floor.
She rolled the opposite direction, pinning his arm to the floor and bending it backward at the elbow. She flung a wild elbow and it connected with Arnie’s temple.
He sagged to the floor, but only for a second. With a grunt, he got back on his knees, too exhausted to stand. He pulled back to punch her again, but Allison was too fast. She lunged forward and delivered a vicious punch to his throat.
Arnie rose up, grabbing his wound. She took the opening and pulled up her right leg, then landed a kick across his jaw.
Arnie flew back and landed hard on the floor.
Allison scrambled for the flare gun, grabbed it, then shoulder-rolled up into a crouched firing position.
Arnie ran at her. Hands outstretched. Mouth open in a primal scream, foamin
g with spit and blood.
Allison didn’t hesitate. She eased back on the trigger just like the tens of thousands of times she’d practiced on the range, pretending Edgar’s killer was on the receiving end of each shot.
Instead of a small caliber bullet making a small tear in a paper target, the flare projectile exploded from the gun and found its target.
Right into Arnie’s mouth.
It shattered a few teeth on the way in, but it fit.
The flare ignited inside Arnie. White phosphorus blew through the thin skin of his cheeks. Ripped out the soft tissue of his sinuses. Melted his eyeballs and shot out from his sockets.
Impossibly, he fell to his knees and remained upright, his head shaking as the flare burned hotter inside his skull.
Allison couldn’t take the sight anymore. She kicked Arnie’s side and he toppled over, his head now engulfed in light.
The boat hit a swell hard, and Allison had to grip the wall to stay on her feet. It was a reminder that even with Arnie dead, she wasn’t safe yet. Gasping for air, she grabbed the emergency beacon and made her way to the hatch.
The wild gust of the storm was a welcome relief as she climbed back on deck. She took long, deep breaths, trying to settle her stomach.
She punched a button and activated the emergency beacon. It came to life in her hands, lighting up and pulsing comfortingly. She grabbed the steering wheel and turned the catamaran into the wind. Given the conditions, she wasn’t sure how long it would take them to come for her, or even if anyone would. But if the Coast Guard showed up, they wouldn’t find her huddled in a corner waiting to be rescued. That Allison was gone forever.
Instead, she gripped the wheel and set her course toward lights in the distance that she hoped would be a shoreline. As the catamaran cut through the waves, she allowed tears for both Richard and Charlie to flow freely down her cheeks. She cried for the life her brother never had a chance to experience. And she kept part of her grief for herself and for the gaping hole in her that had so long been filled by her need for vengeance. A hole that now still felt empty.
She allowed the sadness in because she knew now that she was strong enough to handle it. The walls she’d erected around herself were no longer necessary. She knew a truth that Arnie Milhouse never grasped. Allison understood that true power didn’t come from dominating others; it came from peace within herself. From being comfortable in her own skin and confident in who she was.
With a smile, Allison rode confidently into the storm. Unsure of her destination but more ready than ever for the journey.
EPILOGUE
The debriefing after the raid on Arnie’s house took a couple of days. Director Mason did his part to exert control over the turf war that erupted over jurisdiction of the case, not to mention the inevitable media frenzy right afterward. He only asked her once about whether the call girl photos had ever come up. When she told them they had not, he seemed inclined to leave things at that.
Arnie’s son, Jason, was found in Florida three days later from an anonymous tip. The working theory within the Bureau was that whoever was supposed to take care of the kid in the case of Arnie’s death had gotten cold feet when the case drew national media attention.
Garret Morrison flew down to Florida personally to take custody of Jason from the local authorities. Allison wasn’t surprised to hear that Garret was wedging his way into the case. A fourteen-year-old raised by a serial killer was too good of a study subject for the head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit to pass up. Allison knew she wouldn’t be involved in the conversations with Jason regardless of Garret’s involvement. The twenty-four-hour news cycle was filled with the story of an unnamed female FBI agent who had fought and killed mass-murderer Arnie Milhouse in self-defense. Jason was a smart kid. He knew it was her.
Still, she felt an obligation toward the boy. When the FBI Cessna taxied into the private hangar at Reagan National Airport, Allison was in a side room watching as the team handling his case waited for him. Counselors, psychiatrists, doctors. The Bureau needed answers to find all of Arnie’s past victims, and, whether he knew it or not, Jason likely had clues that would help them.
Garret appeared at the door first, his square jaw set, surveying the hangar as if he were on a security detail. He turned and motioned behind him. Jason appeared framed by the Cessna’s metal door. Garret reached out and placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder to guide him forward. Jason shrugged it off and glared at him. Allison wasn’t sure what she expected. Maybe someone looking lost, eyes red from crying, a little boy scared what the future held for him. Instead he looked over the assembled group with nothing but pure hatred in his eyes.
Jason seemed to turn right toward her and catch her staring at him. She pulled back farther in the shadows, even though she knew it was impossible for him to see her from his position. Still, the look in his eyes unnerved her. She’d seen that look before. And, as they guided Jason away, something told her she might see it again someday.
She could have used Jason holding her hand two days later during Richard’s memorial service. It was small consolation that the initial medical report showed that a broken back from the fall had killed him instantly. At least he hadn’t suffered. But the same couldn’t be said for the living. A collection of friends, family, and colleagues that numbered in the hundreds cried and laughed together as they celebrated his life and mourned his death.
Director Mason gave a eulogy of Richard’s professional life that would have made any agent proud. Allison ached from the loss and from the possibility of what might have been between them if he had survived.
Allison made a quick appearance at Jay’s Saloon, Richard’s favorite dive bar, where his Bureau friends congregated after the service to share stories and get drunk even though it was barely past noon. But she couldn’t take the sympathetic looks, the awkward words of consolation, the whispered conversations that followed behind her as she walked across the room. It was all too much to bear. So she mumbled a quick good-bye to Richard’s closest friends and snuck out a side door.
The drive was welcome downtime to clear her head. She rode with the windows down, brisk air filling the car. She headed toward Annapolis and within an hour, she was at the Naval Academy Main Gate with a marine scrutinizing her credentials. She was early to her appointment, but he waved her through.
She expected to feel a sense of dread as she entered the campus, but there was none. The midshipmen looked like kids to her now. Fresh-faced, pimply college students. Worried about their grades. Worried about a date they had that night. There was no menace. No ice pit in her stomach.
She walked to Dahlgren Hall, the massive administrative building in the center of campus. The last time she had been there was for her panel interview regarding her rape allegations. Walking across the wide concrete courtyard where the brigade held its twice-daily formation, she remembered how small she had felt all those years ago.
She didn’t feel small today.
A young lieutenant met her at the building entrance. He explained that, although she was early, the commandant had cleared his schedule and was waiting for her. Allison followed the officer into the building, never more confident in her life that she was doing the right thing.
An hour later, Allison emerged from her meeting, satisfied that the commandant had heard her out, dissatisfied that he intended to do not a damn thing with the information. Despite the assurances that an investigation into Craig Gerty’s performance would be conducted, she knew a patronizing smoke blow when she saw one. She shook hands with the commandant and said she would follow up in a month to see if there was any progress. Allison could tell the commandant didn’t like the implication that she didn’t believe there would be any, but he bit his tongue and asked the young lieutenant to show her out.
When they reached the door, evening formation had already begun. All four thousand midshipmen fell into their platoons, read
y to be counted and inspected prior to evening meal. The ceremony had yet to begin, so the lieutenant walked them through the middle of the courtyard. Halfway across, Allison spotted Craig Gerty walking straight toward her.
She shook her head. The old boys club was still at work at the academy. Someone had already tipped him off that she was there and why. The lieutenant escorting her said a hurried good-bye, turned, and walked back toward Dahlgren Hall.
Allison faced Gerty, squared her shoulders, and waited for him.
Gerty came to a stop in front of her. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Right now I’m talking to a piece of shit,” she said.
“What do you think is gonna happen?” Gerty said, leaning in. “Just ’cause you’re FBI now, you think they’re gonna believe you?”
“Worth a shot.”
“No, it’s not. Know why?” Gerty asked. “It’s ’cause they don’t wanna know. When are you gonna get that through your thick head? You got raped. So what? It happens. Suck it up and be a soldier.”
“Is that what you teach the young women here at the academy, Gerty?”
“Just the lucky ones,” he said with a sneer. “Shit, you weren’t even that good. I like it when they fight more. After I forced your legs open and got inside you, you just kind of gave up. Remember?”
Allison met him eye to eye. “Trust me, I remember. Turns out, I don’t give up anymore.” She pulled back the lapel of her jacket and revealed a small microphone.
“What the fuck is that?”
“That’s your confession, asshole. Enjoy your time in the brig.”
Allison pushed her way past Gerty. Behind her, she heard him growl, “Come back here, you bitch.”
She felt him grab her roughly on the shoulder.
It was exactly what she’d hoped would happen.
She reached back and grabbed his wrist. In a fluid move, she spun his arm around and bent his wrist back painfully.