Furious

  I nibbled my fingernail and waited.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I could not see anything. Some light had leaked into the compartment when I first hid inside, but not anymore, which meant night had fallen. The humming of the generator filled my ears and my foot throbbed.

  I ran my fingers over the bottom of my foot, and they came away slick with blood. I needed to find the medical bag and stop the bleeding. I braced myself against the sloped ceiling to avoid banging my head and leaned forward, swinging my arms across the deck like a blind woman. My fingers connected with the canvas bag, and I dragged it to me.

  I unzipped the kit, dug through the first modules, and touched the familiar shape of a flashlight. I turned it in my hand and pressed the plunger. The light illuminated the cabin, blinding me, and I covered it with my palm. It was nighttime and probably dark inside the yacht, and if the beam leaked out of the compartment, Brad could discover my sanctuary.

  I parted my fingers, letting a sliver of light escape, and maneuvered it around the engine compartment to reorient myself. A second door opened into the port berth. I had not seen it before, because the generator had blocked my view.

  My foot had painted the floor with blood. I shined the light on my sole. The wound had clotted, but my movement had restarted the flow, and I needed to suture it. In the bag, I found hydrogen peroxide to sterilize my instruments, and a bottle of Betadine, a povidone-iodine for disinfecting the tissue. I collected suture needles, surgical scissors, non-absorbable suture material, syringes, and a scalpel. I laid dressings and bandages beside me and ripped the corners of the packaging to allow quick access when needed.

  This is going to hurt.

  I popped three Tylenol in my mouth, ground them between my teeth, and swallowed the bitter powder. I wrapped a latex glove over the end of the flashlight to cloak the beam, and it glowed like a light bulb. I held the flashlight in my mouth to free my hands. I often joked that I had done so many surgeries, I could operate with my eyes closed, and I would almost have to do that now.

  Now or never.

  I laid a sheet of gauze on the deck and donned gloves to prevent the bacteria on my hands from contaminating my wound. I did not want to think about the myriad of pathogens inside the engine compartment. If my wound became infected, I would have a serious problem. I bent my leg and laid my foot on the gauze with the laceration facing me. I wanted to soak the instruments to disinfect them, but without a container, I had to pour the hydrogen peroxide over them and set them on the pad. I palpated the wound and confirmed I had removed all the glass.

  It’s time.

  I soaked a dressing in Betadine, sucked in a breath around the flashlight, and dug the sterile pad into my laceration. Pain exploded through my foot and traveled up my leg, as if it had burst into flames. I jammed my eyes shut and saw colors.

  I rubbed the gauze inside the wound to clear away any debris, using circular motions to push contaminants away from the site. Blood flowed, and I irrigated the area, dousing it with saline.

  The glass had cut a jagged laceration through my sole and left an uneven flap of skin, which would be difficult to stitch. I pulled the loose skin with my left hand and sliced it off with the scalpel, biting hard on the flashlight. Stars flashed in my vision.

  I dropped the severed flesh on the gauze and took deep breaths. I used the surgical scissors to even the ends of the skin, and my foot throbbed as if I had slammed it in a car door.

  I squished the edges of the wound together, and blood bubbled between my fingers. The compartment filled with the sweet, pungent odor of iron, as if I had prepared a roast for the oven. I grasped the pre-threaded needle and placed it against my skin at the distal end of the wound. I tensed and inserted the needle. My eyes teared, and I stifled a groan.

  I angled the needle at ninety degrees, pierced my skin on the other side. The inflamed area bled and burned. I pinched the shaft on the opposite side of the wound and pulled it until the suture tightened. It hurt like hell but concentrating on my craft—my life’s calling—brought me peace.

  I stuck the needle into my flesh near the first suture and did it again. And again. The laceration was four inches long, and it took twenty stitches to close. A thick sheen of sweat coated my body. My heart pounded and my respirations increased almost to the point of hyperventilation. I tried to take the pain without screaming or crying, but my tears flowed.

  I poured Betadine over the closed wound to kill any remaining bacteria and patted it dry. I covered it with a thick trauma dressing, without unrolling it, to give myself added padding to help me walk. I wrapped the dressing in gauze and covered it with an Ace bandage.

  Done.

  I stretched out my leg, laid down on the deck, and closed my eyes. My breathing slowed and the burning pain reduced to a dull throb. I let myself fall asleep.

  I awoke to a thumping noise. Brad. He ran through the yacht, hunting for me.

  Ambient light filtered into the cabin and I reached for the flashlight. The bulb glowed orange, dim. I had left it on, and the battery was almost dead. I cursed myself for forgetting to turn it off. My foot ached, but no blood had seeped through the bandage, indicating the stitches and dressing had been effective.

  It had been six or seven hours since I had hidden in the compartment and my bladder felt like it would explode. I wanted to sneak into the head, but if Brad found me, I would have nowhere to flee. That left one alternative.

  I slid to the side of the compartment where the floor slanted toward the stern and moved forward until the roof was high enough to allow me to crouch. I squatted and urinated on the floor. The fluid hit the deck and echoed as if I peed inside a drum. I lowered myself closer to the floor to minimize the noise, and my urine ran between the machinery. The odor filled the room, but I did not care—the release was worth it. I only hoped the smell did not permeate the bulkhead.

  I crawled to the center of the compartment and leaned against the generator, letting it warm my naked body. I was thirsty, hungry, and scared. I was out of ideas, but I could not stay there forever.

  How could this get any worse?

  The flashlight flickered, and the compartment plunged into darkness.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  My skin shriveled from dehydration, becoming aged and wrinkled, and salt stains ran down my arms like ant trails. The pain from stitching my foot had soaked me in sweat and drained my fluids. I wobbled in the dark, dizzy, and held my head in my hands. I had to drink something before I lost consciousness.

  The wine cooler lay a few feet from the cabin door, but the refrigerator with the nonalcoholic drinks sat above the washing machine at the far end of the galley, adjacent to the stateroom. The last time I checked, it had contained a few cans of Diet Coke and a bottle of Perrier. The rest of the bottled drinks were in the hold beneath the floor. It would be too noisy to open the hold, but I might make it to the refrigerator without alerting Brad, assuming he was on deck or asleep.

  A dehydration headache pounded in my temples. I had no choice.

  I crawled through the blackened compartment and ran my fingertips across the wall unit I located the latch. I put my ear against the cool fireproofing lining the inside of the door and listened to the sounds of the yacht, but I could only hear the low hum of the generator and the beating of my heart. I slipped my finger around the latch, held my breath, and pushed it open.

  The moon glowed through the cabin portholes, illuminating the engine compartment. I poked my head into the berth.

  Empty.

  I held the cabinet door and slipped into the cabin. Pain radiated through my foot, and I expelled a long stream of air to keep from screaming.

  The cabin door lay shattered on the flo
or where Brad had broken it down. I peered through the doorway into the galley and enough moonlight filtered in to confirm it was unoccupied. Brad could be on deck or in the other berth or stateroom. I had no way to know. He could also be hiding in the salon, just out of view, waiting for me to show myself.

  I shook my fear away.

  I closed the cabinet behind me, and the clasp clicked into place.

  Too loud.

  I froze and waited. Brad did not come running.

  I took a step and wood crunched under my foot. I stopped and examined the splintered wood and pieces of the locking mechanism spread across the floor, then placed my hand on the wall for balance and tiptoed through the rubble. The stitches in my foot pulled with every movement, and I bit my lip to smother the pain.

  I poked my head out of the cabin. To my left, the companionway, navigation station, and salon were empty. In front of me, padded rails ran along the galley appliances and the back of the salon couch. I moved into the galley and braced my hands against both rails—using them as crutches—and limped forward on my swollen foot. I tiptoed to minimize the sound of my footfalls, but the stitches twitched, and my skin burned.

  I stopped, halfway through the galley. I needed to arm myself. I opened a cabinet and removed a steak knife. It seemed small and impotent at the end of my thin arm. I replaced it and grabbed the butcher knife we had used to cut meat. I balanced the blade in my hand and the weight gave me a momentary sense of power, then my cheeks warmed, and I felt ridiculous. Could I use it to defend myself? Could I kill Brad?

  At least having the knife was better than nothing—it gave me a chance.

  The ocean lapped against the hull and the sound intensified my thirst. I glanced at the faucet over the sink, but I could not risk the noise I would make retrieving a glass and running the faucet. I shuffled past, without slowing.

  I paused at the end of the galley and leaned around the corner. The stateroom door stood a few inches ajar. I listened. No sound. I stepped into the alcove and opened the cabinet containing the refrigerator, a quarter-sized unit, like the one I had kept in my college dorm.

  I pulled the handle, and the seal popped. I opened the door, jiggling cans on the plastic rack inside. I held my breath and listened to the soft lapping of the sea against the hull. A plastic bottle of Perrier and two cans of Diet Coke sat on the shelves. I lifted the Perrier, careful not to shake the rack.

  Behind me, something thumped on the deck in the stateroom.

  He’s coming.

  I moved out of the alcove and looked at the berth. Too far. I would never make it.

  Another thump on the floor. Louder, closer.

  I slipped between the salon couches and ducked under the dining table.

  Brad exited the stateroom and stood in the alcove. I only saw him from the knees down, and his calve muscles rippled with spasms.

  I squeezed the bottle in one hand and the knife in my other, remaining motionless on my hands and knees. Brad stood still, facing starboard. What was he doing?

  I peeked between the couches.

  Brad stared at the open refrigerator which I had forgotten to close. He cocked his head like a dog trying to solve a math problem.

  “Glompf, nnngh, where are you?” he yelled, turning toward the companionway.

  The tabletop concealed me from his view. For now.

  What was he thinking?

  He stepped aft then stopped. His drool dripped on the deck in front of me.

  An itch tickled my parched throat, and I had to cough. I pushed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and tried to squeeze moisture out of it, but I had nothing left. I ground my teeth to suppress the urge and took shallow breaths.

  Brad moved forward to the companionway and climbed the stairs. If he turned, he would spot me under the table. I watched him ascend the steps and disappear on deck.

  I coughed. I had to move now.

  I crawled out from under the table and slipped around the couch. I backed against the railing and hurried toward the starboard cabin. I kept my eyes riveted on the top of the companionway. Brad remained out of sight.

  I turned to step into the cabin and stopped.

  Beyond the companionway and over the navigation table, the severed satellite telephone cord dangled from the instrument panel where Brad had ripped the phone from the wall. The frayed ends of wires protruded out of their plastic sheath. If I found the phone and spliced the wires, maybe I could call Medevac Worldwide Rescue and they could triangulate our position.

  Something thumped on deck near the helm.

  I had to hide. I climbed into the engine compartment, set the bottle and knife at my feet, and pulled the cover closed behind me. The room plunged into darkness.

  I groped for my bottle and guzzled the Perrier. The liquid revived me as it coursed through my veins. I moved away from the doorway and sat on the floor. I could no longer hear anything outside the compartment. I was a prisoner in a hole, on a boat surrounded by thousands of miles of ocean, with a madman hunting me.

  If I stayed there, I would die.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  I sat in darkness with my eyes burning and my throat constricting. Despair boiled inside me, spreading from my heart through my chest until it consumed all of me. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and my chest heaved. My body spasmed. I pressed my hands over my mouth.

  How did I end up on a boat?

  After my childhood trauma, I had sworn I would never go near the water again. It happened twenty-one long years ago, but it felt like yesterday—the memory burned into my mind by scalding tragedy.

  It had been a Saturday in July, warm and sunny, the kind of day New Englanders dreamed about all winter long. My father had woken me with a radiant smile.

  “How about we spend the day together?” he asked.

  “Really, Daddy? You don’t have to work?”

  “I do, but I’d rather go swimming with you, Princess.”

  I leapt out of bed, threw on a swimsuit, and an hour later, we arrived at the Roosevelt Center—a massive, Olympic-sized pool, with five diving boards and an expansive shallow end for kids. Parents and children splashed in the cool water, filling the air with giggles, screams, and joy. My father gave me ten dollars for snacks, and I skipped to the food truck to buy an ice cream cone.

  Fifteen minutes later, I returned and found two dozen people huddled together, staring at something on the ground. I called for my father but did not see him. The pinched expressions of the people—now quiet and solemn—pulled me toward them like the gravity of a black hole.

  I parted the crowd and saw my father laying on the cement, pale and still.

  A lifeguard, a boy no older than eighteen, blew air into my father’s lungs. Even then, I knew it was a poor attempt at CPR. I watched as my father’s lips turned blue, and the color left his body. He died before the ambulance arrived.

  I stood there and watched with ice cream dripping between my fingers and tears streaming down my face.

  Later, I learned my father had hit his head and been underwater just long enough for liquid to seep into his lungs. The lifeguard had failed to roll him over and expel the fluid from his airway before starting CPR, and his efforts blew chlorinated water further into my father’s bronchi, deep into his lower lobes. The lack of air caused a cardiac arrest, but the lifeguard never did chest compressions, depriving my father’s brain of oxygen.

  I had watched the life leave my father’s body, all because nobody knew how to administer CPR. If they had, my father would have survived, but instead, he died. Needlessly. The person I had cared about most had been ripped from my life, lost, because no one had pr
oper medical training. It had been the defining moment of my life, the reason I became a doctor, the reason I never swam again.

  Yet here I was on a boat. A nightmare cruise.

  Was I smart enough to think my way out of this? Was there a solution to the puzzle?

  I could confront Brad and try to overpower him—end it right now—but that would result in my gruesome death. Or I could give up and accept defeat. It would be easy to slip off the stern, sink below the surface, take a final breath of saltwater.

  I wiped my eyes. No, I would never give up. I had to take responsibility for my decisions and deal with my situation. Win or lose, I would fight to the end.

  I needed to fix the satellite phone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  I did not hear Brad. I heard nothing. I was taking a huge chance, but if I fixed the phone, I could direct rescuers to us. I had to risk it.

  I unlatched the compartment door and cracked it open. The berth remained empty. I stepped into the cabin and closed the portal behind me, because I could not allow Brad to discover my hiding place, my only sanctuary onboard. I tiptoed through the debris and peered into the salon.

  No Brad.

  I had not seen what he had done with the phone after he ripped it out of the wall, but if he had thrown it overboard, I was dead. I hoped it lay somewhere in the main cabin. It had to be there.

  I stepped through the doorway and surveyed the furniture and tabletops. No phone. I squatted beside the companionway and squinted through the shadows on floor.

  There!

  The satellite phone lay under the couch against the port wall. I squinted past the companionway into the night. No sign of Brad.