He made love to her, desperate and ravenous.
She made love to him, shy and giving and joyful, and at the end, she came with a long, shuddering orgasm.
She was smiling as she fell asleep.
Cobb waited until her breathing became soft and regular, then quietly withdrew from her, rose from the bed, and showered. He dressed in blue jeans, denim shirt, a pair of old tennis shoes and a cap, put a jacket on, and went outside.
Twenty-four hours to go, and he would be around the bend, on the homestretch. Twenty-four hours to go. A day and a night of this. He had not slept during the night, partly because of his pain and partly because of his fear of the horrors sleep brought. He felt ragged, charred, burned out. He was still enduring alternating chills and flushes, and the ache in his limbs was powerful. His bowels were still the slaves of some intractable and unforgiving tyrant.
Outside, long arms of mist reached toward the beach, where the breezes shredded them. The sky was vapid, aqueous, and behind the house the sun inched gingerly above the trees. A chocolate-colored song sparrow, testing the spring, sat on an alder branch and sang with lilting grace.
Cobb was bitter that he could not enjoy the beauty of this place and time, and grumbled to himself as he walked toward the beach, onto the wet sand. A group of beachcombing crows flapped into the air and shrieked displeasure at his intrusion.
Cobb walked the length of the beach, then back. And forth. And back. He walked with a quickening pace, then began to jog, then to run. He ran over the sand, back and forth between the giant granite pillars that guarded the beach, and st artled a pair of oyster-catchers, which peeped and squeaked at him, then flew to the rocks and rested there, tilting their heads at him inquiringly. He ran until his breath came in gasps, until the pain in his lungs was greater than the pain in his limbs. Then he stopped and sat for a while panting on the sand, a huddled lonely form.
Above him, high atop one of the rock pinnacles, seventy feet above him, a bald eagle sat on a pine branch surveying its wide kingdom, casting an evil eye upon the strange conformation on the sand, its knees clasped between arms, rocking, swallowing deep lungfuls of air.
Cobb stared back.
The climb to the top of the rock would be ardous, but Cobb, tracing a possible route, thought it could be managed without a rope. Managed easily, perhaps, if he were in health. The rock was the highest point on the little island, and from the top of it he would be able to see the eagle’s world, the sea around the island, the desolate shores of Vancouver Island.
Tentatively at first, he began to climb, using handholds in the rock, or grabbing at roots from shrubs growing in its niches. The pain was there, but it did not control him. His efforts were focussed on climbing, not suffering.
In twenty minutes, surprising himself, he was at the top, beside the eagle’s contorted roost. The eagle frowned; then its great wings lifted it from its perch and slowly carried it into a warm updraft, and it soared away.
Cobb, triumphant upon his conquered peak, scanned the west horizon where the sea and sky merged in mist. A distant seiner bobbed in the ocean, struggling north to the good herring waters. Cobb swivelled in a half-circle and saw below him the house and its outbuildings. Smoke drifted from the chimney. His eyes followed the path which led behind the house to the dock, where the small boat rocked and dipped in the gentle waves.
Cobb looked beyond the bay to the shore of Vancouver Island and its beaches and sandstone ledges stretching endlessly south and north. His eyes followed the shoreline north until it melted into the mists.
And in those mists, in the amorphous merging of land, sky, and ocean, his eyes caught something.
Something moving. Passing in and out of the swatches of grey that hung over the ocean. It emerged from the mist. A boat. A long wake behind it.
A high-powered launch that was making turbulent passage. A rich man’s plaything, he could see now. An unlikely presence in the open North Pacific in March. It definitely was not a police boat.
Cobb knew.
Good Friday, the Twenty-fourth Day of March,
at Eleven O’Clock in the Morning
Cobb went through changes. Standing frozen, immobile, at the top of the rock pinnacle, he underwent an explosive head trip.
The first reaction was not at all complex. He felt jolted by a pulsing high-energy current.
Then slowly, from some secret spring within him, came a strength flowing and rushing into his organs and limbs and his heart and head.
The withdrawal sickness seemed to shrink into some far compartment of his brain. The tremors in his hands stilled. It was a calming, deep and serene.
Partly, he just willed his strength, and partly, he got outside himself and excised fear, confusion, and sickness. To break an addiction, it is ultimately necessary to find that kind of strength, and Cobb had found it once before, in jail at the age of eighteen, when he made a decision about the path of his life. A similar strength came to him now. But it came rushing.
He took three deep breaths to still himself. He felt his heartbeat slacken and his mind begin to click, to gear up.
He started to climb down, weighing and assessing the factors as he did. It was unlikely that they had seen him. It was also unlikely that he could get to the house before Au and his men arrived there. And his gun was in the bedroom. Where Jennifer Tann was sleeping. He took another deep breath.
The boat was looming swiftly closer, and Cobb could see figures in it now. His route down the rock would have to be out of sight of the bay, or they would see him. A possibility: if no one remained to guard the boats, he might make his way to them before being sighted from the house. The ignition key was in the runabout. But Jennifer? Some way would have to be devised . . .
Jumping to reach a narrow ledge that would take him out of view from the house and the bay, he slipped as a loose rock crumbled beneath his foot. He grabbed the rock face for holds, and found none, and slid six feet to a grassy outcropping, tearing skin from his palms and twisting an ankle.
He took another deep breath, and kept descending. Time seemed to rush past him as he moved with aching slowness.
Then he heard the engine cut. They were at the dock.
The yacht drew into the dock at the bow of the outboard, and Snider and Ng Soon scrambled off and tied her up. Cudlipp followed, then Au in his long cape, and Feng, whose eyes rarely left his cousin.
“Please look to the small boat,” Au said to Feng. “Then join us at the house.” Feng was pleased at that. He would have a chance to be alone for a few minutes.
The four other men began walking toward the house; then Au looked at Ng Soon and spoke to him harshly in Ch’ao-chou. “You are not prepared.” Ng Soon trotted back to the launch and returned from it with an American war-surplus M16. “It was stupid and dangerous to leave that aboard,” he said, glancing quickly at Jin Feng. Feng remained expressionless, his eyes half-lidded.
Ducking behind a growth of salal and Oregon grape, Cobb found his way to the path that headed north to the top of the island. A few hundred feet to the south were the clearing and the house.
Were they already there?
His answer was a single gun shot, which rang out from the direction of the house. As the shot echoed, he heard a human voice crying out. A scream. And it was Jennifer’s voice. . . .
His heart seemed for a moment or two to bounce wildly in his chest cavity. He stilled it with a surge of effort. And he took another deep breath. And somehow he was again his own master, under the control of his own will.
Again he ticked off the factors. One: the men were inside the house. Two: Jennifer Tann was . . . shot? He made his calculation coldly: if she were dead, there was no reason to go directly to the house. Three: he was unarmed, helpless. Four: the men did not know where he was. Five: the boats provided the only escape route. Perhaps the ignition key had been left in the launch. Pe
rhaps a weapon.
It would take him ten minutes to circle the island, along the path from the beach to the north point, then to the cove and the wharf. He went at a trot, limping slightly.
He rounded the point, breathing heavily, and finally slowed where the trees began to thin near the clearing. The salal was high here, and he crouched behind it and scanned the clearing.
And there: Dr. Au. Standing by the side of the house. Now turning to walk. Now a young man joined him, carrying an automatic weapon. Then they disappeared around the corner toward the front of the house, and Cobb, running and stumbling, sprinted across the clearing to the water, toward the barnacle-encrusted rocks that were grouped along the shoreline. The tide was low, so the rocks afforded cover, and he was out of sight here from both the house and the wharf. Craning his neck, Cobb could see the boats, and suddenly he saw a man dressed in black step lithely into the outboard boat.
To reach the wharf from the rocks would be a wet but not impossible feat. It was possible to stay between the rocks and the boats, yet remain out of view of the house, and one could crawl under the wharf and slip into the water then swim to the point at which the boats were tied. Once there, Cobb would have to dive below the yacht and come up on its starboard side, away from the wharf and out of view of Au’s man.
Cobb was a strong enough swimmer, and the cold of the water could somehow be borne. He waded in, and finally plunged, keeping only his head above water. The cold of it was numbing, but Cobb knew he could handle it for the short time he would be in. He swam to the floating dock and crawled along beneath it, raising his head every several feet for air. Looking up between the cracks of the decking, he saw no sign of Au’s man. He prayed he was still in the outboard.
Cobb rested for a minute, then took a deep swallow of air and dived beneath the cabine cruiser. The keel was deep and he was struggling as he reached it, and then suddenly he was beneath it, coming up the other side with a gasp and a splash — sounds which he prayed had been drowned by the steady slap of waves around him.
There was no ladder, but he found a rope hanging loosely over the side, near the cabin. Using it, he pulled himself over the bulwarks and hoisted himself over the rail and onto the deck. As he went over, he spotted the man in black, still on the small boat, working at something. His back was to Cobb.
Cobb lay quietly for a while on the deck, gaining his strength. Then he crawled on his stomach to the cabin door, which was open, and entered.
He scrabbled about hurriedly in quick search for weapons, and found none. The key was not in the ignition. But with time, barring any interruptions, he could wire it (certain skills had been learned in the Youthful Offenders Unit). He would need a knife, and something like tweezers. He rummaged through drawers for tools, and finally found a large tool kit beneath the steering panel.
Then suddenly the boat lurched a little, as if someone had just boarded it. Grabbing an eighteen-inch crescent wrench, Cobb scrambled to the top of a high bunk beside the cabin door, just as Jin Feng, lowering his head to clear the portal, stepped inside. Peering over the edge of the bunk, Cobb watched Feng, below him.
Feng opened his satchel swiftly, turning it upside down and dumping out clothing and books. Then, crouching, he pried loose with his fingernails a wooden false bottom. Beneath was a two-shot derringer pistol and a few .32-calibre bullets wrapped in tissue paper. Feng clicked two bullets into the chambers.
As he stood up, Feng sensed movement above him. He turned his eyes upward and suddenly opened them wide in surprise at the sight of the crescent wrench accelerating downwards toward his forehead. It connected with a crack, the sound of hard metal on bone. Feng’s pupils rolled up and he collapsed in a limp tangle of arms and legs.
Cobb jumped down and retrieved the derringer, which was spinning slowly on the cabin deck. He went through Feng’s pockets, finding no other weapons. He did find the keys for the outboard.
He put the gun to Feng’s head and slapped him hard three times.
“Is she alive?” he asked in a heavy, angry voice.
The man did not stir. Cobb pulled off his soaking jacket and wrung water from it onto the man’s face. Feng groaned. He slapped him again. Feng rolled over and slowly opened his eyes.
“Is she alive?”
Feng slowly focussed on Cobb standing over him, leaning against a table, water streaming from him, breathing heavily, clenching the derringer, which was pointed at his heart. Feng eyed the gun and wet his lips.
“Is she alive?”
“What?” Feng groaned.
“I said: Is she alive? If she has been killed, nobody will leave this island. Nobody. I will bust up the engine, and then I will kill as many as I can.”
“The woman,” Feng mumbled. “I don’t know.” He started to get up.
“Don’t move,” said Cobb. “I will shoot you.”
Feng eased himself back to the floor, propping himself up with his elbows. A purple welt was emerging slowly on his forehead.
Feng shook his head as if to clear it. Then he looked hard into Cobb’s eyes. “Mr. Cobb. You are making a mistake.”
Cobb cut him off. “Shut up. Put your hands on top of your head and walk out in front of me.” His speech was clipped and sharp.
“Mr. Cobb —”
“Get out the door. Or I will kill you. You can bank on it.”
Feng grimaced, and joined his hands over his head. He went outside the cabin, and Cobb followed, the gun inches from Feng’s back.
Ng Soon, standing by the back door of the house, saw them emerge and began running toward the dock, his rifle held in firing position. When he saw the gun in Cobb’s hand he stopped cold, then backed up a step or two. He was fifty feet from them. Cobb moved Feng between them as a shield.
Now Au came from the back door of the house and stopped there, leaning against the doorpost, watching. After half a minute he pushed himself away from the doorway and slowly walked down the path toward the dock, stopping beside Ng Soon.
Cobb and Feng stayed on the boat dock. A minute passed. Then Au spoke. “May I suggest an arrangement?” he said.
Through the doorway of the house Cobb saw a frightened, quick movement. Was it Jennifer? Was she alive?
As if he had heard the questions that had been spoken in Cobb’s mind, Au provided the answers.
“No, she has not been hurt,” he said. Au turned to the house and called to someone. “Send her out.”
An arm appeared, pushing Tann through the door. She stumbled at the threshold, falling to her knees. Slowly she got to her feet. She was barefoot, wearing jeans and a blouse torn down the middle. A red welt and a trickle of blood showed on her left cheek. Otherwise her face was ghost white. Her eyes were the eyes of a dazed and frightened fawn. Cobb held off an impulse to run to her. He calmed himself again, breathing slowly.
His eyes went from Tann to the figure now standing beside her. Everit Cudlipp . . . Cobb was shocked. The man had sunk to the ultimate depth.
Cudlipp was holding Cobb’s police .38 in his hand. There was blood trickling from above his left knee. A flesh wound. So. The shot that Cobb had heard from the house had apparently been fired by Tann.
Au called to him again: “Mr. Cobb, I am suggesting an arrangement. A deal. Lawyers are always partial to a little plea bargaining.”
Cobb waited for him to continue.
“An out-of-court settlement, as it were,” Au said. He and Ng Soon began slowly walking toward Cobb. “All I want is your life. I will give you the woman’s in exchange. She means nothing to me. You will give our Jin Feng the gun, and she will be allowed to leave in your boat. She can land anywhere on shore. There are many places to hide. When the authorities come, they will find her.” They were within thirty feet of Cobb now, and he stopped them.
“Don’t come closer. I can kill this man and one other.”
Au smiled. His m
ind was in a functioning phase, and his eyes were sharp and alert. “Unfortunately,” he said, “the young lady did not demonstrate much dexterity in the use of your firearm. The reflexes of my good and proven friend Mr. Cudlipp were equal to the task of disarming her.”
Cobb made no response.
“Mr. Cobb, we will let her go to the boat if you will render the gun to Mr. Feng.”
“Please give me the gun,” Feng whispered. “It will save your life.”
“Jennifer,” Cobb called. “Come down to the wharf.”
“Mr. Cobb,” said Au, “your part of the bargain involves the surrender of the gun. I promise you that she will be safe. She will be allowed to depart before you are killed. I will go this far: I will kill you quickly, without pain.”
Tann stepped woodenly down the path toward the wharf, clutching the torn blouse about her. She stepped off the path to get around Au and Ng Soon, and kept coming.
“Yours is not a position of strength, Mr. Cobb,” Au said. “You might have time to shoot once, and then you will fall under our fire. After that, I assure you, Miss Tann will die. And I can promise you that her death under the circumstances will be a long and arduous and artistic piece of work. She will remain conscious throughout.”
Tann seemed to hesitate.
“Keep coming,” Cobb told her. She walked a few more steps forward, and Ng Soon, on a word from Au, quickly went forward and grabbed her arm. She did not struggle.
Cobb studied the situation for a minute, and finally said: “Give her a head start. When she has gone, I will give your man the gun.”
“Mr. Cobb, I prefer it otherwise,” said Au. “I had rather you give Jin Feng the gun now, and then Miss Tann will be allowed to go. I promise that your ordeal will be a short one, because in any event we cannot tarry here. Does it not seem fair?”
“Tell your goon to let her go or I will blow this man’s head off.”
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