Jimmy opened his mouth probably to ask him what the hell he was doing, but the oar was already arching through the air. It connected with the side of his head in a dull thuck Jimmy never heard, leaving a deep dent in his skull, just above his left ear. He had slid bonelessly over in his seat, mouth still open in protest, blood streaming blackly down the side of his face.
Charlie picked him up in his arms and dropped him over the side. Barely made a splash.
But Jimmy Ray didn’t sink right away, instead floated just beneath the surface of the water, the moonlight catching his pale eyes, making them seem alive, giving Charlie a creepy feeling. Son-of-a-bitch can’t even die right.
Using both hands, he’d measured the oar carefully against Jimmy’s midsection, then gave it a hard thrust. He watched with satisfaction as Jimmy Ray sank out of sight, the water closing over him like a black-silver curtain, just as if Jimmy never was.
Nothing personal, Jimmy old boy. I just like to travel alone.
He was a loner, he thought now as he spread the blanket on the floor for what would be its final purpose. In fact loner was one of the words the media used to describe him. He liked the term; it made him sound special, above needing anyone else. Don’t know how he got hooked up with the weasel in the first place. Downtime, you might say.
The thumping against the closet door was growing more insistent. Regret was heavy in him. She had betrayed him again. This was her own doing.
You’re mistaken, Charlie. Just as you were mistaken about the others. She’s not Marie. Marie is dead.
“No, you lie,” he railed at the voice inside his head.
Hearing his cry, Rachael’s skin crawled with fear and dread. Why hadn’t he killed her before now? What was he waiting for? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. In fact, she was quite sure she didn’t. I have to get out of here. I have to. She cried out, a muffled sound through the tape covering her mouth. Her breathing had become shallow, rapid. She was starting to hyperventilate. Get it together, Rachael. She concentrated on breathing through her nose, letting it out slowly. She began to feel calmer. She’d been about to give the door another bump with her shoulder when it opened. He was looking down at her, face unreadable. Then he said, “I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth. Don’t scream. Not that anyone will hear you. But don’t.”
She shook her head to reassure him. Neither brutal nor gentle, he peeled off the tape. Her mouth stung briefly, but that was okay. She could breathe. “Thank you,” she said, voice raspy, dry. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
He paused, then undid the tape from her wrists and ankles. He had to help her to her feet, but she managed to walk to the washroom on her own, albeit on shaky legs. She closed the door after her. Saw that there was no lock. Never mind. The important thing was that she was untied. This might be the last time she was, giving her her one and only chance to escape this madman. But how?
After relieving herself, Rachael righted her clothes. As she did her eyes darted around the small space for something to use as a weapon. She was about to give up hope when she spotted a can of Lysol on the floor, half-hidden behind the toilet. She picked it up as if it were a bar of gold. Thank you.
“Hurry up,” her captor said through the door.
“Just a minute.”
Grimly determined and at the same more terrified than she had ever been in her life, Rachael pointed the nozzle of the can at the door, hopefully in line with his eyes. Her finger poised on the button as if it were the trigger of a gun. She willed her hand steady. Even though she was expecting it, when he banged on the door with his fist, she jumped a foot, nearly dropping the can. Fear threatened to engulf her. Focus, Rachael. Focus. He wouldn’t wait long. She was right about that.
When he yanked the door open she depressed the button, aimed directly into his eyes.
Nothing happened.
Thirty-Eight
Iris tried Rachael’s number for the tenth time. Getting no answer, she replaced the receiver, took to wandering about the livingroom, trying to decide on the best place to hang the plaque she’d received last night. An activity designed to take her mind off Rachael. It wasn’t working.
Iris had practically insisted that Rachael spend the night here last night, rather than going home. Not that it had done any good. Even Peter had raised an eyebrow at his aunt’s adamance. She supposed she could have told Rachael the real reason she didn’t want her to be alone in that housethat the ‘bad feelings’ were on full power. But it would only have frightened her and spoiled what had otherwise been a delightful evening. There are worse things then a spoiled evening, Iris.
She’d heard nothing from Doctor Whittaker since sending him the package. Of course it was Sunday and perhaps he took his day of rest seriously. More likely though that he thought she was some kind of crackpot and had tossed her package in the garbage. She prayed that at least he had looked at the photo of Rachael, compared it with the one in the article.
Last week while snapping a few photographs of Rachael’s latest work to show Hedda, she’d impulsively snapped one of Rachael. In it, Rachael was wearing the apron, had clay on her hands and a dab on her forehead. But since that was the only photo she had of Rachael, it was the one she’d sent to Doctor Whittaker. Surely he would see the strong resemblance to Marie Morley even if Rachael couldn’t.
Iris hung the brass and wood plaque on the wall above the sideboard. Straightening it, she wondered if displaying it on her wall would make her seem pretentious. Well, so be it.
It had been a wonderful evening. How elegant Rachael had looked in the winter-white dress, slim as a model, seeming to glow from within. Iris understood part of the reason for the glow, even if Rachael wasn’t ready to admit it yet. She was a woman in love.
And what a lovely couple they made. Everyone had said so. Such a long time since she had seen Peter looking so happy, or so dapper. And Rachael had, over these past few months, become like a daughter to her.
Iris went to the window, parted the curtains enough to reveal a smattering of stars in the darkening sky.
Where could she be?
She could be anywhere, she answered her own question. Rachael is an adult, free to come and go as she pleases. True. But it did little to stop her worrying. Maybe she’s not feeling well and isn’t answering the phone. Or maybe she can’t answer it…
Iris was getting into her coat when the phone rang. She snapped up the receiver before it could ring twice. But it wasn’t Rachael as she’d hoped. It was Elton Sorrel on the phone, informing her that he’d had a call from a Doctor Alan Whittaker, and wanted to drop over and have a talk with her about her friend, Rachael Warren.
Doctor Whittaker must believe there is something to all this to have phoned the police, she thought. As relieved as she was that the doctor had taken the matter seriously, it also frightened her.
Waiting for Elton, she picked up yesterday’s unread paper from the sofa, tried to find something interesting enough to distract her until he got here. Didn’t find anything. (In tomorrow’s paper she would read a write-up of the fire, in which Captain Sorrel would be quoted as saying in reference to the death of Nate Prichard: “Booze and a welding torch don’t mix.”)
Iris checked her watch. Ten to seven. Something is wrong at Rachael’s. Something is definitely wrong.
The doorbell rang, and as Iris hurried to answer she detected, ever so faintly, the scent of Evening in Paris in the air.
Thirty-Nine
From the look on Charlie’s face, it was a toss-up as to which of them had been most surprised when the can of spray proved impotent. A myriad of emotions crossed his featuresshock, amusement and finally anger as he snapped the can from her hand and tossed it across the floor.
“Another good idea gone bad,” he said in mock sympathy. The nozzle had been plugged. Why hadn’t she had the sense to try it first? How could she have been so stupid? She might have succeeded in blinding him, at least long enough to allow her to escape.
&
nbsp; “It’s time,” he said. Over her futile struggles he easily lifted her in his arms and carried her to the cot where he slapped another length of tape over her mouth, shutting off her screams. “Can’t have you disturbing the neighbors, can I?” he smirked. “You have to admit, Marie, I was quite brilliant in the execution of my plan, though in the end it failed. But you have only yourself to blame for that. You know, of course, that it was I who impaled the seagull to your cutting board. I who took the transmitter out of your phone. I put it back when you were in the kitchen making coffee. Just thought you’d like to know.
The entire time he was retying her wrists and ankles he bragged about his cleverness, by turns cursing her betrayal of him. When he began to wrap her in the moldy-smelling blanket, covering her face with it, Rachael panicked. She struggled frantically to free herself, but it was no use. Please, no, I don’t want to die.
Her silent pleas went unheard, as minutes later he lifted her in his arms and carried her across the floor, his boots making a hollow sound on the wood. She heard the click of the lock releasing. They were outside now; she could feel the cold night air through the thin blanket as he carried her down a hill. Toward the beach.
“The water in the ditch wasn’t deep enough to keep you in the grave,” he said. “The bay will be.” His mouth pressed against her ear as he whispered through the blanket, “I love you, Marie.”
Seconds later, she felt herself being lowered, ever so gently, into what she guessed rightly was the bottom of a boat. As he laid her down, sharp pain stabbed between her shoulder blades, lifted her bodily. Although the lifting was really only in her mind. She tried to cry out but managed only a faint moan through the tape and blanket. He had placed her directly on the point of a protruding nail, which dug savagely into her flesh. Rachael strained to arch herself off the nail, and succeeded to a small degree. She both felt and heard the boat being dragged over the sand, then sliding free into the water. It dipped and swayed as he got in.
They were moving now, boat slicing through the water, waves lapping against the sides. The blanket was rough and scratchy against her face, made worse from the salt of her tears. It was so hard to breathe, suffocating. But she knew that to panic would just make it worse. She must stay calm. There had to be a way to save herself. But how? She was bound hand and foot, wrapped like a mummy in this blanket. She knew that as soon as they were far out enough to suit him, he would simply toss her over the side.
How long did it take to drown? Would her body too be found washed up on some rocks? Or would she never be found? Her children never to know what happened to her. This last thought filled her with new determination. She would not die without a fight.
Holding her body above the nail as much as was physically possible, at the same time straining against the tape that bound her wrists under her, she tried to claw at the tape with her fingers, stretching her fingers as far as they would go, but it was no use. The harder she struggled the deeper the nail bore into her back. She tried to roll away from the searing pain, and found some relief in this way. Even in her misery it struck Rachael that if she could just get her wrists positioned over the point of the nail, then maybe she could tear the tape binding them.
She could try. She could at least try. Pushing past the pain, Rachael began inching herself backward, toward the stern. It was a slow and agonizing process, with the nail digging into her back, tearing her flesh in direct proportion to her progress. The tears came of their own accord and she tried to ignore them. She would wait for the fire in her back to subside to a steady flare, then start the process again. Stop. Wait. Repeat. All the while she prayed that her efforts would not be in vain, and that she wouldn’t pass out in the meantime. There were moments when the pain was so severe she thought she would go mad.
Inside the blanket, despite being drenched with sweat, every nerve and muscle in her body trembled with exertion.
But at last she was there. Her wrists poised directly over the nail, she was able to force her hands apart just enough to bring the tape down on its point. She repeated this action again and again, each time having to lift herself bodily. Her arms and shoulders ached horribly from her efforts. Efforts that failed more times then they succeeded. Sometimes she missed the tape entirely and the nail would gouge her wrists. If the tape had not been across her mouth, she would not have been able to stop herself from screaming. And above all, she knew she must not alert him.
She felt water seeping up through the blanket and her clothes, chill against her skin. The boat must be leaking. But, intent on her mission, she was barely mindful of it. Once more, arching her back, Rachael brought the point of the tape binding her wrists down on the nail. And again. Beyond thinking now, driven, the pulsing pain in her back distant from her, yet at the same time was a constant, familiar shrieking to which she had grown accustomed.
The realization that the boat had stopped moving came suddenly, jarring her into full awareness. She heard wood scraping against metal as he drew the oars up through their oarlocks. Terror made her light-headed, and she feared she was going to pass out after all. She breathed in through her nose, closed her eyes. You are not going to pass out. Keep going. Don’t stop now!
Once more, she arched her back, brought the tape down on the nail. Hurry! Oh, please, hurry! Again. And at last, felt a small rip in the fabric, a loosening. Afraid to believe, for a moment she did not move. Then, with a single, outward jerk of her hands, her wrists parted from one another. Her hands were free.
Her back felt like it was being systematically scalded with hot pokers, but she could bear the pain. She had succeeded. Rachael tried to quiet her labored breathing as she heard him say, “Far enough.” She fought back fresh panic. The boat began to rock, and she knew he had stood up. And then, once more, she felt herself being lifted in his arms.
Heart thudding in her chest, Rachael steeled herself for the icy waters. She tried to gauge her chances of making it back to shore. How far out were they? Half a mile? Farther? She’d been so intent on freeing her hands, time was lost to her. It could have been an hour that she was in the boat, or fifteen minutes. But she was a good swimmer, or at least she used to be. And she was strong from all the running. She could make it. I have to make it. Time stood still. Why wasn’t he throwing her in? What was he waiting for? In horrible answer, she felt herself being lowered back down onto the bottom of the boat. As he unwrapped the blanket from her, her heart sank like a rock into the sea. But still she kept her hands tight together behind her back, praying he wouldn’t notice they were no longer bound. But when he turned her onto her stomach, she knew he had somehow guessed, and that she was going to die. Her last chance to escape this madman was gone.
“Clever,” he said softly. “Almost fooled me.” He tore a strip from the blanket to retie her hands. “This is your own doing, you know that, don’t you?
So you keep saying.
You’re not tied yet, Rachael. If you let him succeed in doing that, it really will be over. There was still a chance. Slim, but a chance. Her timing would have to be perfect. Bracing herself in both mind and body, every nerve in her body taut as a cat about to pounce, she focused on a single move, visualized the move. As he reached for her hands, she executed it. With every ounce of strength she could summon, Rachael reared up hard and fast, catching him full in the chest. With a grunt of surprise, Charlie flew backward in the boat. Without hesitation, Rachael was over the side.
Nothing could have prepared her for the icy waters of the Bay as they closed over her, freezing the breath in her lungs, dragging her down into its green depths, thundering in her ears. Her clothes were weights that pulled her deeper. She kicked frantically to bring herself back up. As she broke the surface, gasped in air, something hard glanced off her shoulder, bringing a flash of pain. The oar slashed down again, missing her by inches, chopping the water beside her. She ducked under again, at the same time ripping the tape from her mouth. She swam hard away from the boat, resurfaced about twenty yards away,
lungs bursting for air. She gulped it in. Held the last breath. This time when she went under, she brought her legs up in a crunch and fumbled at the tape around her ankles, trying to remove it, but only managed to sink deeper. Her fingers were clumsy and stiff from the numbingly cold water. Twice more she resurfaced, coughing up salt water, gasping for air. But at last the tape was off. She watched it float away from her like some strange water snake.
Chill Waters Page 26