"Does she know you're still alive?" They had left the pavement behind.
"Pay attention to your driving," he warned. "You want to make it safely to my boat."
She nodded as if she believed that safety lay ahead of her, and leaned forward, peering through the windshield and carefully steering around the potholes and ridges. Frank's gun banged against her side every time she hit a bump.
"I still don't understand how you fooled the police." She had to keep him distracted while she looked for a reason to get out of the car. Otherwise, she had no chance. He could shoot faster than she could climb out.
"Careful planning," he bragged. "A month ago, I took Lou to my dentist, paid to fix his rotten teeth. Then I paid Hatch to switch our x-rays. He was a burglar before he became a chauffeur, and it's like riding a bike. You never really forget how." Frank laughed at his own joke.
"When the big day came, I drove Lou down in my car and made sure he died happy. Hatch came later. He dropped me at the Biloxi Airport and drove back to switch cars and burn the cabin. My cabin, my car, a body with teeth that matched my dental records... I'm a dead man." He laughed again. "It's a shame I had to miss my own funeral."
"Why do you want people to think you're dead?" They were on top of the old levee now; she was running out of time.
"I told Hatch to drive straight back to New Orleans, no stops where someone might see him." He slapped the dashboard. "He should have been on the highway when the bomb in my Jeep went off. An accident, and that would have been the end of it. I'm dead. The man who killed me is dead. Case closed."
"How do you know he didn't tell the police the whole story? He was in jail for a couple days. You know they questioned him."
"He didn't know the whole story." He pointed to the marked trees. "Don't miss the turn."
They'd left New Orleans under cloudy skies, but now the clouds were breaking up, uncovering a bright moon. She stopped at the edge of the clearing. Moonlight illuminated the skeleton of his cabin and turned the ash-covered ground white, ghostlike.
"I could get a flat tire driving through this debris," she said. "Can we park here and walk to the dock?"
"Keep going. I don't feel like walking, and you've already caused me too much trouble."
"Me?" She was indignant. "I was nothing but a pawn."
"You are nothing but a pawn, the least important piece on the board."
Had only nine days passed since she found the burned cabin? Had she really cried because she thought that Frank Palmer--this monster--was dead?
They passed through the clearing and continued on the track leading to the dock. As they approached the water, the ground became muddier, and water filled the low spots. Claire steered into a puddle and, when she felt her tires lose traction, pressed the accelerator. The wheels spun, digging holes in the muck.
"I've been waiting for you to try something," he said. Their eyes met and she realized Frank was enjoying himself, playing with her confident that he controlled the outcome. Any pretense that he'd let her go had ended.
"Why don't you just shoot me and get it over with?"
"Because I don't want to." He opened the door and eased out of the car. "Get out and start walking. I'm right behind you."
They continued single file down the muddy path. If she tried to run, he'd shoot her before she'd gone three steps. They passed through the last scattering of trees before the water's edge. She stumbled on the step to the dock, and he yanked her to her feet.
"Keep moving."
She pressed her hand against her chest and drew a ragged breath. "I'm having a panic attack," she gasped, "I can't breathe. I can hardly walk." If he thought she was falling apart and unable to resist, he might let his guard down. Just for a moment. That's all she needed.
"You want something to be scared of?" He waved his gun toward a root sticking out of the water. "See that moccasin, over there on that cypress knee?"
The coiled snake was the same dark gray as the gun in Frank's hand.
"Predators come out at night," he said. "There's an old bull gator hangs out here. I don't see him, but you can be sure he's watching us. If you stick your toe in the water, he'll know it. He's big enough to take your leg in one bite."
She searched the water for the half-submerged log that was really an alligator, for ripples that could really be snakes. Moonlight shimmering on the black surface obscured whatever lay below. If a big alligator got hold of her, he'd roll her until she drowned. It would be horrible but over quickly and better than whatever Frank had planned for her.
"Get on the boat." Frank shoved her forward.
She went with the push and kept going, across the dock and off into the water, arms wrapped around knees held tight to her chest. She found bottom, tried to stand and banged her head on the bottom of the boat. The water was shallower than she'd expected. She crept forward, feeling her way until she reached an edge. Slowly, she straightened up until her head was above water. Metal blades scraped her shoulders. She was wedged between the propellers. She could breathe, and Frank couldn't see her, but this shelter was only temporary. She'd be cut to ribbons when he turned the engines on.
A thump told her Frank had jumped onto the boat. His footsteps thudded along the outside railing, he moved to the other side, and a glow appeared in the water. He was shining a spotlight under the dock. She swam to the far side of the boat and looked for refuge.
A bulkhead lined this side of the channel. It and the floating dock were both a good two feet above the water's surface. Climbing onto either would attract Frank's attention. Her only hope lay in the marshes on the other side where she could hide in the tall grass. She'd have to swim across the channel. Thirty or forty feet--she could do that underwater.
She heard a splash and tensed, alert for movement that could be an approaching alligator. Then, she took a deep breath, dropped beneath the surface and swam for the other side, staying deep, reaching with her arms and scissoring her legs until her lungs burned and her muscles screamed for oxygen. She kicked upward, broke the surface gasping for air, and was horrified by the distance that remained. She'd been swimming against the current.
A gunshot cracked, and furious thrashing roiled the water behind her. She dropped back down. Strength born of terror propelled her forward until the bottom began rising up to meet her, the shallows on the other side. She clawed at the mud, pulling herself along, afraid to kick for fear that her foot would break the surface and make a splash that would reveal her location.
When her fingers touched the first hummocks, she tucked her legs under her body, sprang into the shelter of the marsh grass and lay there, catching her breath. The alligator's bellowing had obscured the sound of her exit, but if it pursued her, even on land, she was doomed. Another gunshot and the noise stopped. The silence was so absolute that she could hear her heart beating. Then the insects and frogs resumed their songs. A nutria screamed.
"Claire, you better listen. I just saved your life. That gator was after you. I got him, but his blood's going to draw others. They'll tear you apart. Show yourself, and I'll pick you up."
She inched away from the water's edge. Swarming mosquitoes formed black swatches as they attacked her exposed flesh. She slathered mud on her arms, face and neck, ankles and feet. The mosquitoes found vulnerable spots around her eyes and mouth, in her ears and nose. They were driving her crazy.
Two more gunshots punched holes in the swamp sounds. One bullet hit the ground near her leg and sent shards of oyster shell into her thigh. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. The mosquitoes dispersed for a moment, but her blood drew them back, and a black cloud descended on her wound. When she batted them away, they attacked her hands. She wanted to scream.
She crawled deeper into the marsh. The tall grass sheltered her, but it also prevented her from seeing more than a couple feet in any direction. Half-buried oyster shells shredded her slacks and scraped the skin from her hands and knees. Sharp blades of grass sliced her arms. Each cut drew blood an
d sent the mosquitoes into a fresh frenzy.
A bright light moved toward her. Frank had turned his spotlight on the marsh. She crawled faster, moving away from his light as quickly as she could. Her right hand slid forward onto nothing, and she somersaulted down a bank into waist deep water, a creek running through the marsh. The light swung in the direction of her splash. She huddled against the creek bank until the light moved on.
Half-swimming half-walking against the current and staying as low as possible, she followed the winding stream until it curved around a bend and spread into wide shallows. Moonlight glittered on a wide expanse of open water, a lake too large to swim across that offered neither haven nor help.
She let the incoming tide carry her back around the bend. The little creek was safer. If she knelt on the bottom, the water came to her neck. Tenting her blouse over her head sheltered her face from the mosquitoes. She could stay here until Frank gave up and left. When daylight came, she could look for a way back to her car that didn't involve swimming across that channel.
When Claire was a little girl, she'd made deals with God, promising to be good if He would just talk her mother into letting her stay up late to watch a favorite television show or help her pass the math test. Things like that. She hadn't asked for favors in years, and after Tom died, she'd stopped believing that God cared what happened to her.
Tonight, kneeling in the creek, she prayed for her life.
As if he'd intercepted her prayers, Frank called, "Are you listening, Claire? The next sound you hear will be me pulling wires out of your car."
A few minutes later, she heard a splash.
"That was your distributor cap. You're going nowhere."
Frank cursed his impatience. He had seen movement in the water and fired too quickly. Instead of hitting Claire, he'd taken out the alligator that was going for her. If he weren't furious, he'd appreciate the irony. He wanted her dead, and the gator would have done the job for him. Now, she was unfinished business. He couldn't leave her here alive--not even with her car disabled. There was an off chance someone would find her while she could still talk, and she knew too much.
The forty-five that had kept Claire obedient and killed the gator wasn't accurate at distance, but he had other options. No one went unarmed in the Gulf. Too many smugglers were looking for a new boat. His armory included an AK-47 that would slice through the marsh grass like a hot knife through butter and cut Claire in half. The thought tempted, but sound travels across water, and volleys from a machine gun would raise a big red flag. He selected a shotgun, more than enough firepower to take care of an unarmed woman. Claire had screwed up his careful plans for the last time.
He'd put together an exit strategy after that sniveling hypocrite, Andrew Walsh, accused him of molesting girls from The Home. Molesting, what a laugh, those girls were ready, willing and able. Their pretending to be reluctant made it more fun for everyone. Andrew had demanded he stay away from the girls and asked for a million dollar donation, what he called an act of contrition and anyone else would call blackmail.
Paying was never an option. Andrew's noble justifications were bullshit. Some of the money would stick to his fingers. There'd be another demand and then another. He'd considered a fatal accident for Andrew, but the bloodsucker had thought of that too. He warned that certain pictures would surface if anything happened to him. More pictures--Andrew and Annalisa--his photography hobby was his Achilles heel.
Then he'd had an inspiration.
He feigned remorse, said it had never happened before and would never happen again. He asked for ninety days to get the money together, knowing he could do it in sixty. Promising to make the donation at the awards ceremony had been a stroke of genius. One of his few regrets was not being there to see Andrew's face when he realized his meal ticket had expired.
He was ready to move on. He'd had enough of crooked inspectors and lazy subcontractors, of Bobby's bank demanding money back, with interest, while he did all the real work. He was tired of the same people saying the same things at the same parties and was getting tired of Melissa. Still, he resented the attempted blackmail that had catalyzed his discontent. The slate wouldn't be clean until Andrew Walsh suffered his fatal accident, but it could wait. Tonight was Claire's turn, and she was going to regret crossing him.
He untied the lines and set a bow anchor to hold the boat in the middle of the channel. From this position, he could see across the marsh to the lake. He imposed a mental grid on the tall grass, the only place Claire could be hiding, and began a methodical search using a high-powered marine flashlight. When he found her, he'd give her one more chance to return. If she refused, he'd shoot her and leave her body for the gators. He'd rather take her on board, have a little fun before tossing her to the sharks, but he didn't have time to go into the marsh after her, and she wasn't worth missing his connection.
CHAPTER 33
Daniel slouched in the booth, one of several lining the back room of Ray's Café, and contemplated the stupidity, or perhaps the brilliance, of bluffing with a pair of fives. He, Ray and Vinnie were into their third hour of penny ante poker. Thanks to a series of crappy hands, he was down six dollars. The sound of wheels on gravel brought everyone to attention. Ray killed the light. Vinnie picked up his shotgun.
"Hey Daniel, it's Jason. Your Mom said I'd find you here." The deputy was out front and hollering loud enough to wake the dead.
"Shit. He's going to get me killed," Daniel hissed.
"I need a hand, Daniel. Are you inside?"
Ray was half way to the door when Jason kicked it in.
"Aw, man, you didn't have to bust in. I was coming."
"Sorry, Ray. If anything's broken, the Sheriff's Department will send someone to fix it. Is Daniel here?"
"He's in the back. Him, me and Vinnie, we've been playing cards." Ray flipped on the lights. "It sounded like you did real damage."
"Vinnie, Daniel, how're you doing?" Jason acted like he'd been invited.
Vinnie said hello, but Daniel wasn't going to pretend he was happy to see Jason. A man who hadn't done anything wrong ought to be left in peace. Jason pulled a chair up to the end of the booth and made small talk with Vinnie until Ray came back from examining the door.
"I'm here about that cabin fire," Jason said. "From day one, we knew it was arson. Tonight, we figured out that Palmer was the killer, not the victim."
"What a kicker." Daniel hooted. "I knew he was an asshole."
Jason didn't crack a smile. "So far, Palmer's responsible for three deaths," he said, "one of them your cousin Jimmy. Claire Marshall could become number four. He's kidnapped her."
"Why are you telling us?" Vinnie said.
"I'm looking for help. Palmer could be taking her to his boat. We have cars on the way, but it's slow going. I'm looking for someone to motor me over there. How about it, Daniel?"
"No way, José."
"What's a'matter Danny? Are you yellow?" Ray said.
"I ain't yellow, but I don't go looking for trouble. This ain't my business." He glared at Jason, who was supposed to protect people and had just told the world where he was hiding. If Palmer was anywhere around, he'd heard.
"What happened to Jimmy is family business, and you're part of the family." Ray said. "Why do you think Vinnie and I are watching over your sorry ass?" He spit on the floor.
"Hold on." Jason walked over and put his hand on Ray's shoulder. "Give the man a break. Me, I'm not looking to confront Palmer, and I'm not yellow."
"How come you want to go over there?" Daniel appreciated the good words, but he wasn't going to get sucked in.
"All I want is to see if anyone's there. We scope it out and radio the guys in the cars what to expect."
Daniel picked his cards back up and studied them. They were playing seven-card stud, and all he had was a pair of fives with nine high, another losing hand. He folded everyone's cards back into the deck.
"Whose deal?" he said.
Vinnie finished his be
er and tossed the bottle in the trash. "I'll take you, Jason," he said. "I can find Palmer's cabin."
"I appreciate the offer, Vinnie, but I'm not sure you're the man for the job. I need someone who can get in close and stay out of sight."
Daniel felt everyone looking at him. He spread the cards on the table and mixed them around. His hand was still swollen from hitting Sammy, and it hurt to shuffle.
"Maybe I'm not your first choice, Jason, but I'm what you've got." Vinnie stood up and walked over to Jason and Ray. "Danny, you couldn't find your dick in the dark if you used both hands."
"His boat's out of the water," Ray said. "I got a key to the lift."
"Hey, no one's taking my boat anywhere," Daniel jumped to his feet. "Jason, you gonna let them steal my boat?"
"I'm commandeering your boat."
"You can't do that."
"This says I can." Jason pointed to his badge.
Daniel couldn't believe what was happening. His own cousins were ganging up against him and stealing his boat. Vinnie didn't know his way around. He'd run aground, bend the propeller blades, and muck up the engine.
"All I want to do is look," Jason said. "That's all. You with me, Daniel?"
"Forget him," Ray said, "He's yellow."
Daniel realized that his boat was going with him or without him. With Vinnie at the helm, it might not come back. He slid out of the booth. "You heard what the man said. He needs someone who can find his way, which ain't either of you."
Putting the boat in the water went quickly with all four of them pitching in, pulling off tarps, reseating the motor, fetching a gas can. "I can get us there in ten-fifteen minutes," Daniel said as he pushed off from the dock. "But Palmer's not stuck 'til daylight. All he needs is four feet of water at the mouth. Rest of his channel's plenty deep, and tide's coming in. Another thirty or forty minutes, he can find his way out."
"He's that good a sailor?"
"He doesn't have to be. He's got a depth finder, sonar, you name it. His control panel looks like a fucking rocket ship."
Jason gave him a funny look.
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 22