It wasn’t Daphne.
The woman was older; her husband, trying in vain to keep a comforting arm around her, was both pointing toward the shaft of sunlight and awkwardly holding a bright red umbrella.
Angered, Lou Boldt looked away, stepping back, glancing down toward the lower level. There, his eyes met those of Daphne Matthews, in the firm grasp of James Royce, who was himself looking down at the loading area. She was wearing his coat, her hair matted from the rain, clinging to her face like seaweed to a rock. Her dark brown eyes registered a faint flicker of hope and she passed beneath him smoothly, never breaking stride, not uttering a single gasp of realization. Royce walked her along, firmly in control, remaining just under the overhang and out of the light drizzle. Lou Boldt angled the umbrella to block himself from view, descended the stairs, and walked in the opposite direction.
The ferry’s deafening horn sounded, resonating over the swelling water, rumbling up behind him through the narrow city streets. Boldt jumped with the blast and lost his balance momentarily; the ship was moving.
The ferry pulled away from the pier.
A handful of people waved toward shore.
62
The oval cabin area that formed the center hub of the ship was mostly glass to afford passengers a view. With his back to Royce and Daphne, Boldt headed toward the bow where a number of benches, bolted to the deck, sat beneath an overhang for sightseeing during nicer weather. A young couple in bright rain gear were huddled together here, kissing and talking softly, the only two people in this area. The sight of their innocent enjoyment of each other so contrasted with what he was feeling that he caught himself staring in disbelief.
Lou Boldt turned and tried to spot Royce and Daphne by looking through the cabin area and out through the windows at the stern, but he had lost them. He edged his way to the starboard side of the ship but stopped before rounding the corner, afraid he might end up face-to-face with them. He peered around this corner. The side benches were all empty. He waited impatiently for several minutes, wondering where they had gone. He thought his presence might provide Daphne with a degree of hope, no matter how faint, knowing that in hostage situations hope was essential.
He wasn’t sure where to go with this. Should he confront Royce here on the ferry where the man was essentially trapped? Would such a confrontation work, or would it only end up with Daphne dead and another passenger taken hostage? Boldt refused to put Daphne in any more danger than she already was. He was overwhelmed with emotion as he thought of their passing a moment earlier—she had handled it so well, so professionally. She was trained to deal with unstable people while at the same time keeping a level head. Boldt, on the other hand, found himself nervous, agitated, and impatient. He wanted the situation over with. Now. He wanted Daphne safe and he wanted Royce locked up. Or dead.
He peered around the corner again expecting to see them. But they weren’t there. He reversed directions and returned from where he had come, moving around the far side of the ship carefully, curiosity driving him on. He passed the very spot where they had seen each other and he continued on, umbrella pulled low, venturing an occasional glimpse ahead of him. The problem was that he had windows to his left. If they had entered the cafeteria area, they might be looking out in his direction. For this reason, he tilted the umbrella more toward the glass, exposing him to the front, a compromise he felt necessary. He walked slowly, not wanting to appear restless.
As he rounded the stern, he spotted them. They were sitting on a bench, outside, but blocked by a glass-and-steel panel that served as a windbreak. It was too late to suddenly turn around without attracting attention. Boldt, umbrella cocked to block his face from their view, walked to the far stern railing and looked down into the white frothy wake above which several sea gulls flew playfully. He could feel her eyes boring into him. He could not turn around to look, and it occurred to him that Royce could be approaching with the scalpel drawn, and that the last thing he might see of this world would be these carefree gulls riding the wind, and the churning waters of the ship’s wake.
He was helpless to do anything, stranded here against the rail. He reached inside his coat, touching his weapon. Did he dare approach them now, abruptly withdraw his gun and kill Royce before the man had a chance to react? Would it work?
He edged along the stern rail, keeping the umbrella between himself and the couple, unable to see them, moving slowly but steadily around the ship’s perimeter until he had cleared the stern. He risked one quick look through the corner of the cabin and saw the backs of their heads.
So close, he thought. So very close.
He had not formulated any particular plan. He dreamed up any number of ideas as he rode out the remainder of the ferry ride, but time seemed to work against most of them. If he phoned Shoswitz from Vashon and called in backup, it would take at least an hour to organize, and by that time he believed Daphne would be dead. Royce would have no more use for Daphne soon; she would be an unnecessary burden.
This was unproven territory for Boldt. He was used to examining a situation from the role of the victim—a dead victim. Now he was forced to join the living and consider this from the killer’s perspective, something he found difficult, if not impossible, to do. Was there anything predictable about an insane killer?
Yes, he suddenly realized, elated at his deduction. Royce was a copycat, meaning the man felt safest in duplication. If he possessed any cognizant reasoning powers—which he must—then he understood he was best at reproducing events, not creating them. If one accepted this as fact, then there was little question what the man was up to: he was going to duplicate Fuller’s murder, a murder he had already committed. He was not only headed to Vashon in an effort to elude the police, but also because he felt a certain comfort in duplicating his earlier method of killing. He didn’t have to think, he merely had to reproduce the event.
This made him predictable. It meant he was headed to a specific location on the island and had a specific plan he was following. He had done this before.
Boldt recalled the tests they had run on the working model of Puget Sound and could visualize in his mind the approximate location of where Fuller’s body had entered the tidal estuary. He remembered watching the tiny ball of wax being drawn along by the undercurrents.
The loud horn sounded and Boldt spun around to see the shore of Vashon quickly approaching. Time seemed to suddenly speed up. Royce brought Daphne to her feet. Boldt prepared to hide himself under his umbrella again, but a sudden gust of wind kicked up and the umbrella inverted, now a long and tattered mess of aluminum and nylon.
Through the corner of the cabin Boldt could see the two approaching him. He glanced over his shoulder: the nearest exit of any sort was at midships, what seemed like miles away. He dropped the umbrella, turned, and began the interminable walk toward the center stairs. Behind him the umbrella’s skin flapped against the steel deck like the wing of a wounded bird. Bitter wind gnawed his face and tears formed in his eyes.
Nothing is ever simple, he reminded himself.
The ship was at least a half mile offshore, still a good ten minutes or more from docking. But, because of the horn, passengers were already collecting their things and moving toward the stairways that fed the bottom level. At this particular moment it left them the only three people remaining on the starboard deck. Rain began falling again, adding stinging needles to the wind.
How much further could that stairway possibly be? he wondered. It felt to him as if he had already walked far enough to reach the shore—a shore that seemed so close. Pane after pane he passed the cabin windows, catching glimpses of people inside. He knew that not far behind, the two of them continued their approach. He wondered what Daphne was thinking as she watched him walk away from her. I haven’t deserted you, he told her silently, but he began to wonder if it was true or not. Since their one evening together he had begun deserting her, at least emotionally. He had erected a wall between them, carefully avoiding her. He h
ad begun to piece back together his feelings for Elizabeth, to convince himself it could work again, would work again.
The door. Finally! He leaned his weight against the tightly springed door and pushed his way through. He would not abandon Daphne any longer. He would act. He leaned back against the wall slightly behind the door, the rainwater running down his unshaven face like sweat pouring out in a tropical heat. His eyes remained fixed on the door’s safety glass as his hand automatically gripped the butt of his gun and withdrew it from the holster.
Boldt spun, yanked open the door, and trained the gun on Royce. But Royce had the blade held to her throat and was awkwardly backing her up toward the rail. Boldt approached through the falling rain, water streaming from the V of his chin, gun held in both hands, arms outstretched. “Let her go, Royce. We can work this thing out.”
“Listen to him,” Daphne pleaded, stretching her head back to try and make eye contact with her captor, exposing even more of her long, vulnerable neck.
“You knew!” Royce said angrily to her, pushing the blade more firmly against her throat, maintaining his eye contact with Boldt. “You knew he had followed us.” His face tightened manically and he shook her from side to side and shouted, “I should kill you!”
Boldt heard the door open behind him. One of the crew tried to restrain a small group of curious onlookers. Boldt felt out of his element here. He wasn’t sure what to say, fully aware that the wrong thing would have disastrous results. “Release her, Royce. James. We can handle this. Just you and I. Is hurting her going to help your situation any? You going to hurt all of us?” he wondered, waving toward the unseen crowd behind him.
“Don’t kill her,” he heard someone yell from the crowd, followed quickly by the crewman’s voice as he told everyone to move back through the door.
“Get back!” Royce yelled. “I want a car. I want a car and some time. A head start. You leave me alone or I’ll kill her. Worse than the others.” He drew the blade effortlessly across her neck and Boldt saw the line of blood that resulted. Daphne cringed, but surprisingly maintained her composure. It was a tiny cut—a warning—but the sight of blood triggered images in Boldt’s mind of all the earlier victims, and he felt his finger tighten on the trigger. He thought it might be possible to shoot Royce cleanly from here, to put a single bullet into the man’s head and kill him before he had the chance to do Daphne any more harm. Then again, the shot could cause the man’s muscles to contract, and Daphne’s throat would be severed.
As if he heard Boldt thinking, Royce hid his head behind Daphne’s, his wild eyes peering over her hair. “Well? Deal, Boldt? You’ve always struck me as a reasonable man. A car. I want a car and a head start.”
Boldt lowered his gun, still holding on to it, hoping to relax the situation. He shook his head. “That’s unacceptable, Royce—James—and you know it. I’m not going to let you leave.”
Royce glanced quickly behind him, down toward the churning water.
Daphne told the man, “This isn’t what you want, James. Think about it.”
“I’m willing to negotiate,” Boldt added, “but Daphne stays with me. You can have the car. We’ll give you all the time you want, but Daphne stays behind.”
“Oh sure! Jesus Christ. You must be insane.” His face changed, now demonic with the realization that Boldt thought him insane. “You don’t have a clue, do you? You think I’m like him? You think I’m like your killer?” Daphne tried to shake her head, but Royce wouldn’t have any of it. He pressed the blade more strongly against her throat and drew more blood. “You want to stand here and watch me kill this bitch, it’s up to you. Get me the car, Boldt. Now! Or say good-bye.” He lifted his elbow and the blade cut her skin.
Boldt watched as Daphne’s eyes tightened with the pain. He took a step back. He couldn’t push any further. It was time to give in. He stopped. Or was it? Wouldn’t Royce kill her eventually anyway? If Boldt let him take her, was there any chance of seeing Daphne alive again? He took another step back. There’s always a chance.
As Boldt moved away, Daphne shouted gutturally, in a voice that didn’t belong to her, “No! No you don’t, Lou. You’re not leaving me with him. Not with him. God, no. Please. He’s an animal!” she screamed, saying the one word that came the hardest for her.
“You’re a reasonable man,” Boldt offered. “No bargain is ever entirely one-sided. You have to trade this for that. Right?”
“Put down the gun!” Royce demanded.
“Shoot him!” Daphne screamed into the harsh wind. Blood had smeared her neck. Royce, seeing the effect she was having on Boldt, cut her badly and she screamed and fought wildly to get loose.
Boldt tracked Royce’s movements with his gun. He nearly had a clear shot…. He stepped closer.
Still struggling with her, Royce yelled, “Back. No closer. Get back,” but he was clearly losing control of her. She didn’t seem to feel the blade at her neck any longer. She didn’t seem to feel anything. She kicked and writhed and fought against his strength despite the damage from the knife.
Boldt brought his left hand up to steady the gun, Royce looking back and forth between Daphne and Boldt. Royce saw his situation deteriorating. Again, he glanced over the rail.
Boldt took another step forward. He was close now. Very close. All he had to do was aim and pull the trigger. A head shot. But what if he missed. What if he hit Daffy?
Daphne whipped her head back and forth, her dark hair flying, and some of her blood splattered across Boldt’s face. She was cut horribly, still fighting with all her strength.
Boldt squeezed the trigger….
Royce drew the blade across her throat and threw her forward.
The gun discharged.
Royce went up and over the railing.
Boldt dropped the gun and caught her in his arms as she fell. “Oh God, no,” he said, hand trembling in uncertainty, afraid to even touch her.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the crewman pick up his handgun and step to the rail. He made no attempt to stop the man. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man throw a life ring overboard.
“I’m a doctor,” a distinguished-looking man in a blue Goretex jacket said, helping Boldt to lay Daphne down.
Boldt nodded, unable to get out a word, unable to take his eyes off of Daffy. He finally reached down and touched her matted hair lightly, brushing it out of her eyes. She blinked, squinting, rainwater pelting her. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. She was losing a great deal of blood and from the awful sound, Boldt thought her windpipe must be severed. He watched her lips as they moved for the last time before her eyes shut and she passed into unconsciousness. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she said, “Thank you.”
63
The double doors swung open, the silence of the offices suddenly shattered by reporters shouting loudly in the background, the lot of them restrained by a number of patrolmen.
“We’re putting you under protection, like it or not,” Shoswitz reiterated, leading the way for the disheveled Boldt and the member of the ship’s crew, both wrapped in gray wool blankets bearing the ferry line’s logo. “It’s down to the minors for you, Lou.”
“Water’s too cold, Lieutenant. He couldn’t possibly survive,” Boldt objected. They were merely continuing an argument that had begun in the car. “Besides, I’m positive I hit him.”
“Not according to your friend here. Right?” Shoswitz reminded.
Boldt complained, “He never even saw him.”
“I saw him on the surface, just once,” the young man corrected proudly. “He must have seen the life preserver.”
Shoswitz interrupted, looking over his shoulder at Boldt disapprovingly, “What the hell was he doing with your gun?” He opened the door to interrogation room B and ushered the two inside. It was smaller than A, darker, and smelled worse, if that was possible.
“I was tending to Daphne—to Matthews, Lieutenant.”
“Goddamned lucky thing a doctor was aboar
d or she’d be dead,” Shoswitz said. “And no thanks to you, I might add. This thing was badly mishandled, Lou. You made bad calls right from the start, and there’s going to be hell to pay. And it’s yours alone, friend. I’m washing my hands of it. You hear me? All fucking alone. You want the list?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. He emphasized his points by counting his fingers as he spoke. “You didn’t use your walkie-talkie to alert us in the very first place; you ignored or switched off your car’s radio; you went after them without backup, without notice of any sort; you struck a fellow officer, who, incidently, has already filed a complaint against you; your gun turned up in the possession of a civilian…. Need any more than that? Jesus Christ!” He leaned back and collected himself. “We’ll get him,” Shoswitz added as an afterthought. “Coast Guard’s out in full force.”
“I hit him, Lieutenant,” Boldt said.
“Yeah? Then I want the body. When I have a body I’ll be happy. Until then, I take your shield and your gun and we put a couple guys on you.”
“You take my shield because I hit Kramer?” Boldt objected. “That’s absurd.”
“Because you violated procedure. There will be an inquiry.”
“And Kramer?”
Shoswitz nodded. “He came clean. It was him all along. He’s a mess. A basketcase. The state’ll press criminal charges. They’ve been waiting for an open-and-shut case like this. He’ll do time.”
“A long time, I hope.”
“You’re not careful, you’ll be there with him,” Shoswitz warned.
“Phil?”
“Don’t start with me. Listen, our resident shrink is hooked up to a dozen tubes in the hospital, okay? No thanks to you. So you got my opinion to live with, like it or not, until we get another pro in here to evaluate this thing for us, and I say if this guy is still alive, then he has one of two possibilities: blow town right away, or kill your ass and then blow town.” He paused, face scarlet from his shouting. “If I were him,” he added, “I’d blow you away first.” He raised his eyebrows. “I probably ought to do it for him. Save the taxpayers the cost of a disciplinary review.”
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