by Tim Green
He grabbed her wrists only an instant before the slashing nails found his face. He twisted her arms. She cried out, but at the same time she kicked his groin. She remembered that, too. She heard him suck in a desperate gasp of air. She felt his grip weaken. She twisted her hands in and away from his thumbs. Remarkable how it all came back. She was free.
She dove over the side, aware of nothing more than a pier and a small collection of other boats moored alongside the one she’d just escaped. The water was cold and clear. Fresh. She held her breath and fought to gain distance from the boat. When she came up out of the water, she looked around, not thinking, still reacting. The man she’d kicked was holding the rail of the boat she’d been on, hunched over in pain and talking into a radio.
Jane spun around in the water, kicking hard. A small skiff with an outboard was tied to the pier fifty feet away. Jane dug into the water, swimming hard against the current and the drag of her baggy clothes.
When she reached the skiff, she grasped the gunwale and heaved herself up into the bottom of the boat, scrambling for the motor. A pull cord and a black rubber handle, like their lawn mower growing up. Two desperate pulls and it started.
Someone behind her in the boat yelled, “Stop!”
Jane had the mooring line undone. She looked up. The man she’d kicked. He had a gun now. She opened the throttle wide. The motor’s grinding scream filled her ears. The vibration shook her whole body. She ducked instinctively, but neither felt nor heard a shot. Risking a glance back, she saw that the man was now behind the wheel of the big boat.
Beyond the pier was a cluster of grimy white buildings with green metal roofs. Another man in a flannel shirt suddenly bolted out of the biggest building and began to work at the big boat’s moorings. Another, holding his eye, came off the boat to help too.
Jane searched ahead, squinting back the yellow rays of the morning sun. She was in a rocky cove. Beyond was open water. Freedom. A rocky spit closed off all but a small entrance to the big water. Mammoth boulders rose up on the shore at either end of the spit. On the side closest to Jane was a small stretch of water riddled with the protruding teeth of jagged stones. At the other end was open water.
Jane looked back. She saw a jeep now, and the big bearded man, Dave, hopping aboard the boat. It pulled away from the dock immediately and headed her way. Along the shore in front of the buildings, the man holding his eye was sprinting for the spit, racing to cut her off.
The black jagged rocks were quickly approaching. She either had to swing away and race the big boat for the opening or risk getting through. Energy flushed her sluggish exhaustion away. Her heart pounded so hard that her chest began to ache. The bow of the boat skittered across the water’s surface, and still she twisted at the handle of the outboard, urging more speed from it. It was futile, but the rocks were upon her now anyway. She could see them glaring up at her from their bed of golden brown sand beneath the clear green water.
The sudden impact tossed her over the skiff’s middle seat and into the bow, banging her bare knees. The motor shook and bounced and made a horrible grating noise. The hull beneath her shrieked as the jagged rocks tore into its aluminum skin. The force was enough, however, to carry her just over the rocks.
From the bottom of the boat, she looked up. The man holding his eye was now atop the boulder point. He backed up on the massive stone outcrop, took a running start, and launched himself with a shout. With arms and legs pinwheeling, he careened through the air, straight for her boat.
CHAPTER 31
The hard drive had been ripped out of Jane’s computer. Mike convinced Tom that she’d have a backup at the paper. Tom knew he could get in.
When they arrived at the Washington Post, Tom stepped right up to the security desk, standing straight. He cleared his throat and in the low tone he used for juries plowed through the security guard and got Don Herman to let him up to the newsroom.
They signed in, and the guard gave them blazing yellow visitor badges before directing them to the fourth floor. They rode the elevator in silence with a handful of the paper’s employees. The elevator stopped at two and three. Tom flexed his hands and tapped his foot. “We’re not criminals, Mike,” Tom said.
“I know.”
“Don’t worry,” Tom said. “Did you see Camelot?”
“In the Ithaca Playhouse when I was twelve.”
“You’ve got to see the one with Richard Harris,” he said. “I saw it when I was a teenager. I didn’t want that movie to end.”
Mike tilted his head, listening as the elevator shot upward, slowed, and stopped.
“It’s all about ‘might for right,’” Tom said. “‘Might for right.’”
Finally, they reached four. A balding man with kinky auburn hair, a rumpled shirt, and a loud blue tie stood waiting for them.
“I’m Don Herman,” he said to Tom, extending his hand. He glanced briefly at Mike. “How are you?”
“Not that good,” Tom said. “This is Mike Tubbs. He’s a private investigator and my best friend.”
Mike moved his shoulders back and smiled at Tom as he shook the editor’s hand.
“Why don’t you come with me,” Don said, leading them through the labyrinth of desks.
Tom noticed the stares they drew. Mike, he realized now, had a spatter of dried blood on his thick upper arm. His thin red hair was tousled and flaming upward. Tom looked down at himself. His shirt and pants were smudged from hitting the deck in the culvert pipe. At least it helped disguise the coffee he’d spilled down the front of his shirt during the drive.
Tom was glad that Don Herman had a place for them to go—a glass-enclosed conference room with black leather swivel chairs and a glossy black table sporting three telephones that filled the center of the room. At one end of the table sat a small man in a silky chocolate brown suit with a yellow bow tie. Beside him on the carpet was a leather briefcase. In front of him were a blank yellow pad and a Mont Blanc pen.
Tom stepped farther inside. He had to push the end chair tight to the table and wedge himself around the corner to make room for Mike. He signaled to Mike to wipe the flaky crumb from the breakfast sandwich out of his beard, but he only stepped back, and when Don Herman tried to shut the door, he banged Mike’s foot.
“Ow. Shit,” Mike said.
“Sorry,” Herman said, finally getting the door to close. There was a narrow sideboard against the wall with two plastic thermoses of coffee, some mugs, and a sweaty pitcher of water.
“Please,” the editor said, moving down to the lawyer’s end of the table, “sit. Can I get you a coffee?”
“Thanks, but I don’t have time to sit or have coffee,” Tom said, remaining at his end of the table. “‘An inch of time cannot be bought by an inch of gold.’”
“Chinese proverb,” Mike said. He wedged himself in beside Tom with his hands on the back of the end chair.
“That’s right,” Tom said.
“I hope we’re all just making more of this than it is,” Don Herman said.
The little man in the bow tie covered his mouth and coughed.
“We can’t make enough,” Tom said. He held out the watch on his wrist for Herman to see.
Don Herman wrinkled his brow and said, “Military time?”
“No,” Tom said. “13:57:37. As of right now, I have no idea where she is, and I’ve got thirteen hours fifty-seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds to find her. Thirty-five seconds now.”
“Mr. Redmon?” Herman said, arching his eyebrows.
“The first forty-eight,” Tom said.
“Of course,” Herman said.
The man with the bow tie wrote something down. He looked up, blinking from behind his silver glasses.
“Okay,” Tom said as he began ticking things off on his fingers. “I want the last ten people who talked to her in here in the next ten minutes. Anyone she’s close with. That Gina woman. I want any notes she might have had. Also, any audiocassettes she may have dictated. Let’s get t
hem transcribed . . .”
“Mr. Redmon,” Herman said. “That’s quite a list. Now, I know you’re anxious, but we’ve arranged for a suite for you at the Ritz-Carlton in Crystal City right across the river. The police are working quite hard. I think you could use some rest. You look exhausted.”
“I want her things,” Tom said.
“Of course, and you’ll get them if it’s necessary,” Herman said with a small laugh. “But Jane may be fine. She wouldn’t want anyone, even you, going through her work. She might just be upset with the paper. You see, I left her a message the night before last that we were putting a hold on her story. We think she may have been given some erroneous information about Senator Gleason.”
“Believe me,” Tom said, “her story on Gleason is true. She’s gone. Someone took her.”
“Excuse me,” the little man said, “but how can you be so sure?”
Tom tilted his head and said, “You’re the lawyer, right?”
“Foster sits in on a lot of meetings we have with people outside the paper,” Don Herman said. “It’s not anything out of the ordinary.”
“Being a lawyer myself,” Tom said, “I know it’s pretty safe to presume that when someone brings one to a meeting, it’s not to help the other guy.”
“We certainly want to help, Mr. Redmon,” Herman said, “but this is a very sensitive situation. Senator Gleason is talking about a lawsuit.”
“Since you’re talking to someone who sued the New York Times,” Tom said, “you’ll understand why I don’t give a rat’s ass about that. I can sue you too. You’re obstructing justice.”
“Mr. Redmon, can I ask why you said you knew she was right about Senator Gleason?” the lawyer said.
“I got a call from her phone, late on the night she disappeared,” he said. “I think I heard her . . .”
“Yes . . . ,” the little lawyer said. “We know that sometimes you do hear . . . things, Mr. Redmon. The police have asked us to be very careful with how we proceed here.”
Tom felt Mike’s fingers touching the back of his arm, as if he was getting ready to hold him back.
“I need to know who she was talking to. There were other people,” Tom said. “Sources. We need to know who. You can tell me that at least, right?”
Don Herman cleared his throat and said, “This story came together unbelievably fast. I’m the one who knows the most about the story and—”
“And we want to help, Mr. Redmon, give you everything you want,” the lawyer said, cutting off the editor. “And we’ll do all that. But right now, the best way we can help you is by working with the police.”
“They’ve already contacted Senator Gleason,” Herman said. “They’re going to talk to him later today. He may be able to help us.”
“The hell with the police. You’re going to stand there and withhold information from me about my own daughter?” Tom said, clenching his fists.
“What I know isn’t going to help you, Mr. Redmon,” Don Herman said, holding up his hands. “Let’s not get into an altercation here about something that’s insignificant in the first place.”
“I don’t know if it’s insignificant until you tell me what the hell it is,” Tom said. His voice was raised.
“Tom,” Mike said, his mouth close to Tom’s ear, his voice insistent, “come on. Let’s go. There’s nothing here for us. I’ve got an idea. Come on. Trust me.”
Tom allowed Mike to tug him toward the door. He glared at the lawyer. When they were outside the glass office, he turned to Mike and said, “Why?”
“Trust me,” Mike said, continuing to tug him along through the desks. “They’re giving us that passive-aggressive bullshit, but I’ve got an idea. You walk with me to the elevator, then I want you to march right back in there and give them hell for about five minutes. That’s all I need.
“If they won’t help us,” Mike said, “I know how we can help ourselves.”
CHAPTER 32
Jane dove back into the stern of the skiff.
The motor was still racing, vibrating the entire aluminum shell, but the boat wasn’t moving.
The man hit the water close enough so that fat droplets spattered her cheek. As she fumbled with the motor, she made a groaning sound. She could hear him splashing toward her. A hand appeared suddenly on the shivering gunwale, rocking the skiff. At the same time Jane saw what she thought was the lever that would put the outboard motor back in gear. She grabbed hold of it with both hands and with the engine still screaming, pulled it forward as hard as she could.
The transmission popped and the boat jumped forward, veering back toward the boulder point under the lopsided drag of the man, who now had both hands locked on the gunwale. He was heaving himself on board. Jane grabbed an oar from the bottom of the boat, which was taking on water, and swung at the man’s head. The crack of board on bone was startling. The boat lurched, suddenly free from his grip. Jane staggered, her arms flailing, and nearly went overboard. She lunged for the outboard’s throttle and grabbed hold, saving herself and quickly regaining control of the boat.
On the other side of the spit, the patrol boat was surging for the mouth of the cove, a creamy white foam slipping along its gray hull. Jane pushed a dark string of wet hair off her face and looked ahead. To her right was the patrol boat, now almost invisible in the glare of the rising sun. Ahead, water forever. To her left, a point of land. Beyond that? Maybe something. They would catch her on the open water. She went to the left.
Water bubbled up from the leaky bottom. Jane’s sneakers were underwater. She looked back. The big boat was at the mouth of the spit. She twisted the throttle, but it was already as far as it could go.
By the time she reached the point, they were fishing the man she’d clubbed out of the water. She rounded the point and lost sight of them. Ahead was more water. Flat water forever and no sign of another boat. To her left, the shoreline continued. An island? That or a massive peninsula.
Either way, there was no sign of anything but rocks and trees. Jane strained her eyes. Was that an inlet? She could hear the rumble of the big boat’s engines as it approached the point. She looked back and saw its bow plowing up the water. She willed her skiff to go faster, but it did the opposite. The water in the bottom now sloshed up over the tops of her ankles, and its added weight was slowing her down.
There was an inlet. She could see it clearly now. The small dark opening in the shade of the trees. She craned her neck. A narrow murky stream. The water was dark, soiled by the mud from the small estuary. Jane looked back. She could now make out the forms of the men on the bow of the patrol boat. One of them had what looked like a shotgun. He aimed it at her.
Jane looked back at the stream. She was almost to its mouth. She turned her attention again to the patrol boat and saw the small burst of smoke issue from the shotgun’s barrel. A second later, she heard the slug buzzing angrily past her. It struck the stump of a nearby tree with a thwack. The man fired again. Jane felt a fresh bolt of fear. She crouched and swerved her boat back and forth. The leaves and branches of the trees snapped and hissed at the passing slugs.
She was at the mouth of the stream now. She shot right in and soon had to duck to avoid random low-hanging branches. The morning light filtered through the heavy canopy of leaves. It filled the cool air with soft brown light. The motor’s whine was muted now by the thick foliage and the heavy smell of mud and sulfur and rotting plants. The water’s edge was crawling with thorny brambles.
The stream began to bend wildly and she was forced to slow down. Jane puttered on, careful not to entangle her boat in the thickening foliage. Above, the canopy began to diminish, and the cool air was replaced by the burning yellow sun. The stream grew wider. Many of the trees were now dead, bleached by the sun, rent with dark holes, broken and decayed.
Now the motor began belching blue smoke. She was riding too low. The water in the bottom of the skiff was almost to the middle of her shins. She doubted that she could go much farther before sh
e sank. The stream became a swamp, thick with dead trees. Green slime floated atop the water now.
Jane let up on the throttle for a moment to listen. In the silence of the swamp, she could easily hear the distant putter of another outboard motor. It was hard to tell, but she could only presume that they had lowered another skiff from the big boat and were now pursuing her into the swamp. She opened up her outboard again, frantic now for a landfall.
When she saw a grassy finger, she headed directly for it. It wasn’t until she was beneath the big dead tree that she realized it was covered with something strange, as if it had endured a snowfall of slick black jelly. Each of its dozen or more dead branches was heavy with whatever it was. She was under the first branch when she saw the loop.
They were snakes. She swung the outboard hard to the right to get away, but the maneuver bumped the stern into the trunk of the decaying tree and the snakes all began to writhe at once. One dropped down into her boat and darted toward her with its teeth bared. Jane shrieked. She jumped up and fell backward over the gunwale, into the slime.
The water’s surface boiled with writhing black snakes. Jane splashed toward the grass. Something bit her neck. She screamed. Her feet found the mucky bottom, and she thrashed at the water. Another snake bit her leg. She spun, kicked, and screamed again, throwing herself back into the warm grass. She crabbed backward, kicking at the snakes. Her fingers dug into the sandy dirt, and she flung handfuls of it at the writhing snakes.
Then she blinked, and they were gone. The last flicker of a tail whipped away into the shadows of the tall grass. Jane looked up. The skiff had continued on without her, slogging slowly through the swamp, leaving a dark plume of smoke floating in its wake.
Jane grabbed at the stinging in her neck. Her muddy hand came away with a streak of bright red blood. She gasped and pawed at her leg. Two deep holes oozed blood of their own. Breathing heavily, she unzipped Mark Allen’s sweat jacket and pressed the clean white lining against the bleeding bite. How poisonous?