Divorce Is Murder

by Elka Ray

  He wasn’t coming.

  A slow tentative shuffle to the door, my heart as heavy as my footsteps. Why did he write that note but not come? Had he been caught? Surely, if he could have, he’d have come to me.

  A slick of silver lead my hand to the doorknob, which felt even colder than my creaky fingers. Cold and smooth. It started to turn but stopped. I tried again. And again. It was no use. The door was locked. It couldn’t be!

  I rattled the knob, desperate to escape, no longer caring about the noise, or who might come to investigate. I pushed the door. I rammed it with my shoulder until the pain made me stop. The door barely shook. I clawed at the wood with my fingernails.

  Already in tears, I sank to my knees. Behind me, the hut grew smaller and darker. The walls were pressing closer. I could hear the dead things waking up. The wolf yawning and the lynx stretching. The snap of teeth. The skulls and bones starting to rattle.

  But no, it was me shaking. No air! I was trapped.

  The squawk of a gull brings me back. The bird hovers overhead, one keen black eye upon me. Overhead, it’s still light. I’m surrounded by air and water, space. The breeze is fresh and salty. I look out to sea, inhaling gratefully, then gaze back at Josh’s boat and yard. The lawn stretches up and away, perfect, but with no sign of life. I shake out my legs and stand up, try to shake off the memory of that night in the Nature Hut. I rub my cold hands together. I don’t want to sit around waiting for Josh any more.

  I walk stiffly toward the beach. I’d waited for thirty minutes. That’s long enough. More than enough.

  I’m near the end of the dock when I hear something behind me.

  It’s not a voice but a groan. I turn and listen and it comes again, from the direction of the boat. Is it the buoys grinding against the dock, or some piece of onboard equipment? Or is it an animal? There were paw prints on the deck. I wonder if Claude’s making that sound. Maybe he’s trapped on the boat, sick or injured. I turn back to investigate.

  I set my pastry box on top of the cooler and climb aboard, then stop. I feel like I’m being watched. But that’s ridiculous. Or is Josh watching me from the house, having decided he’d rather not see me today? It’s a crazy idea but I can’t help considering it. If it’s true, what’s wrong with the guy? I’m freshly furious.

  “Josh?” I call, more for something to say than because I expect to find him onboard. Sure enough, the back deck lies empty, although someone was out here recently: a half-full glass of ice water is sitting on a table. I wish Quinn were here. I’m sure she could calculate how long it’d take ice to melt at any given temperature.

  The doors to the salon are closed but have large glass panels, so of course, I peer inside. The interior looks impressive, with pale wood floors and light-colored furnishings offset by some tawny, textured pillows. Despite holding a cream leather sofa, a coffee table, a massive flat-screen TV, and two armchairs, the room looks spacious. I wonder if Louise Dobson decorated this room.

  My nose is still pressed to the window when I hear a scuffling sound overhead. The hairs on my arms stiffen. I imagine Claude trying to drag himself across the floor. While I’m tempted to leave, I should check. Plus I’m curious. I’ve never been on a fancy yacht like this before.

  A white staircase leads to the bridge, my unease increasing with each step. Where’s Josh?

  When I reach the bridge, I’m struck by how bright it is, everything from the deck to the table and chairs painted stark, gleaming white. It’s sunny and I’m forced to squint. Then I see Claude sitting under a table. He’s panting, his pink tongue hanging out. He hasn’t been groomed since Tonya died and is looking bedraggled.

  “Claude?” I ask, and the dog squirms, as though he’s been ordered to stay put. Faced with this large, trembling poodle, I’m confused. Is he scared of me? Something’s not right. Is he hurt, after all?

  The dog’s eyes move and I turn to follow his gaze, my confusion replaced by horror. Out of the corner of my eye I see Josh, one arm raised and a baseball hat low over his face. I try to duck. Something smashes into my skull.

  I hear a loud crack and taste blood. I collapse. Pain and shock take my breath away. For a moment, I lie stunned. Behind me, something moves. I start crawling.

  Through a haze of pain I see Claude watching me, the dog’s eyes holding my tiny twin reflections, plus that of a man in a red hat with a rifle. I hear Josh take a step closer, and feel a rush of air. The dog whimpers. I roll under a table.

  The second blow lands above my left ear, the force propelling me across the deck. I collide with a chair, which falls over. Behind shut eyes, I have a vision of Tonya’s battered body. He’s going to kill me! How could I have been so wrong? I was attracted to a killer!

  My last thought, before blacking out, is of Quinn’s baby. Pain fills my head like lightning, and yet I see it so clearly: screaming, wrinkled, and red, with Bruce’s chin and Quinn’s high forehead. The light fades and the image distorts. It takes all my strength to see—it’s a girl! Darkness overtakes me.

  As I slip under, I can feel my heart breaking. If I die, Quinn will name her Toby.

  I’m not dead yet, although I know Josh plans to kill me. I’m on the boat, tied up, and my head hurts terribly. Josh hurt me. I feel sick with pain and betrayal.

  I can hear the sound of the motor and waves slapping against the bow, and feel the boat moving beneath me. Finally, despite the pain, I manage to crack open one eye. The sun is much lower in the sky. What time is it? I must have been unconscious for hours. I try to wriggle my fingers and toes, which feel frozen. I wonder what Quinn will think when I fail to show up at her baby shower. She’ll be furious, at first. She’ll think I skipped her special day to spend time with Josh. She’ll feel betrayed. She’ll question why she picked someone so flaky to be her kid’s godmother. When will she realize something’s wrong? Is she already looking for me?

  A slight tilt of my head reveals the chrome base of three stools. A pair of large Pumas-clad feet hangs from one. Looking up, I see Josh’s back. He’s wearing his red raincoat and is steering the boat with one hand, the rifle across his knees. To his right lies Tonya’s dog, sleeping.

  While it hurts to move, I force myself to peer around, which is when I realize: someone is lying beside me, clad in an old camel jacket with a smear of blood on the back. His face is turned away, but I recognize his wavy blond hair. It’s Josh’s brother, Mike. Is he breathing?

  Faced with Mike’s inert form, I feel even more hopeless. Did Josh attack him before or after he hit me? My head throbs. Am I just collateral damage, caught up in the Bartons’ family feud? I recall Quinn’s theory that Josh killed Tonya and was waiting for the right time to take revenge on Mike. If only I’d listened.

  Like me, Mike is bound at the ankles and wrists, his hands tied tightly behind him. When the wind ruffles his hair I see blood on his scalp. He might be dead, or fatally injured. I slide closer and nudge him with my knees, steeling myself for his body to be limp. Instead, he rolls over.

  There’s a gash over his left eye, the blood dried to resemble a gruesome eye patch. I catch my breath. I was wrong. It’s not Mike but Josh. In my dazed state, this is hard to grasp. Despite my grim situation, I feel a wave of relief. Thank God! It wasn’t Josh who attacked me. I mixed them up, again.

  For a brief instant, Josh looks happy to see me. He opens his mouth, as if to speak. I flick my eyes toward the wheel and he freezes. Staring at his brother’s back, fear and anger fill his blue eyes.

  Mike. I got it all wrong. He killed Tonya and plans to kill Josh. I should have known. No doubt he’s after Josh’s fortune.

  Josh grimaces in pain. His head wound looks serious. I bet we both have concussions. Maybe that’s why Mike didn’t gag us. He figured we wouldn’t regain consciousness. Plus, who cares if we yell? I move my head slowly in all directions but see only sky. We’re alone in the middle of the ocean.

  Overhead, a seagull squawks. Neither of us dares to move or speak, since one glance from
Mike would be the end of us. It’s too risky to whisper. Trussed up like pot roasts, it’d be so easy for him to dump us. It’s hard not to feel hopeless.

  The bindings on my wrists are painfully tight. I look around for something sharp but don’t see anything. “Knife,” mouths Josh, lowering his eyes toward his jeans’ hip pocket. Moving slowly, I roll away, my back now toward him. Keeping one eye on Mike, I wriggle down until my hands are level with Josh’s belt buckle.

  My fingers are numb with cold and poor circulation. When I feel the bulge of Josh’s button-fly, I fight down a hysterical laugh. This is not the way I’d hoped to get my hands into his pants.

  I’ve worked a finger into Josh’s pocket when Mike stretches. I freeze. He tosses an empty beer can overboard. Claude has woken up, his big black eyes upon me. I will the dog not to react. It’s hard not to think of Claude as an enemy. Did he watch Tonya die? A wave of nausea overtakes me.

  When Mike slips off the bar stool I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping he won’t come closer. Where are we? Has he decided to dump us? The water off Vancouver Island is very deep. If he weights our bodies, we might never be found and he’ll get away with three murders.

  Josh and I lie as still as possible. When I dare open my eyes I see Mike rummaging around in a drinks cooler. He extracts another can of Molson and cracks it open. I hope he’s had a lot to drink so his reflexes will be slower. He straightens up, then starts to turn our way. I bite my lip in terror. This is it. We’re done for.

  Mike must see something up ahead because he stops and shades his eyes, then strides back to the wheel. The boat turns gently to port and slows. My heart continues to race. Are we stopping here?

  It’s a relief when we speed up again. At least for now, Mike’s attention is fixed on the horizon.

  My fingers shake harder than ever as I resume my efforts to extract Josh’s pocketknife. Since I can’t see what I’m doing, and am working backward, it’s hard to coordinate my stiff fingers. Eventually, I manage to grasp the knife, only to lose it again. After a few more failed attempts, I gently tug it free from Josh’s pocket.

  Opening it is even harder. Josh too rolls away from me, our bound hands touching behind us. Through trial and error, we work out a system: I hold the knife while he tries to pry it open. I’ve never been so focused in my life, or so desperate. Each time the knife slips, my panic grows. The sound of it bumping against the deck seems like a drumbeat. At any moment I expect Mike to spring from his chair and swing the rifle at us.

  My arms and shoulders ache from the strain, and my fingers burn. Despite the agony, I keep trying. I think of my mother, and how devastated she’d be if I died. I can’t leave her alone—not now, when she needs me. And I want to meet Quinn’s baby.

  Knowing Josh is here also helps. He’s counting on me.

  Somehow, the knife unfolds. I lie still as Josh starts to saw at the bonds. Also working blind and backward, he keeps nicking my wrists. I grit my teeth to stop myself from screaming.

  When the last chord snaps, I feel euphoric. But we’re not free yet. I wriggle my fingers and make fists. Then I slowly roll to face Josh and start hacking at his bonds. For the first time since I came to, I have hope. We might make it.

  After Josh’s wrists are free I wriggle down to start on his ankles. Josh keeps an eye on his brother. The closer we get to being untied, the more desperate I feel. We’re so close. Please, please, don’t let Mike turn around and see us.

  I’ve been so focused that I failed to notice the fading light. The sun is lower and the sky full of dark clouds. The wind has risen too, the boat pitching and rolling.

  Just as I manage to free Josh’s ankles, Mike looks over his shoulder. He jumps to his feet and his hat flies off, his red raincoat flapping. His mouth tightens, except it’s not Mike’s mouth. I freeze in shock, unable to take this in. It’s Mike’s wife, Chantelle! Mike’s not here. I just saw what I expected to see. But why would Chantelle want to hurt Josh? Or me, for that matter?

  She raises her rifle. I scream: “Lookout, Josh!”

  The rifle swings my way.

  I roll left. My ears ring and pain sears my left shoulder. Another shot. A chair to my left explodes. Looking down, I see blood. My blood.

  “No!” screams Josh. He leaps to his feet and springs toward Chantelle. Is that blood on her face? Or lipstick? The rifle bucks in her big white hands.

  I scream and curl into a ball.

  Instead of a shot I hear a loud grunt followed by a crash. Twisting around, I can see Chantelle and Josh rolling across the deck, fighting for the rifle. I am panting. Blood snakes hot down my arm. I clutch my shoulder and look for the knife. Where is it?

  I see it about ten feet away. Compared to a rifle, a pocketknife isn’t much help, but it’s my best bet. I start to crawl, an ungainly wiggle since my feet are still tied and I can’t put any weight on my left arm. Behind me, Josh and Chantelle are flailing on the metal deck. I pray that Josh is winning. He must be stronger, although he is injured. How badly, I don’t dare think about.

  The knife. I grasp it. My hands are sticky. It hurts to use my left hand, but I persevere, sawing through the ropes at my ankles.

  Behind me, a loud thud is followed by a moan. Chantelle is on top of Josh, pressing the rifle butt to his throat. He twists and writhes under its weight. His eyes are like a panicked horse’s, with too much white showing. The veins in Chantelle’s thick neck stick out. I kick my legs free and stagger toward Josh. The deck is slick and I lurch like a drunk. My feet feel numb. It’s raining, hard. When did it start? The cold drops sting my cheeks like tossed gravel.

  Beneath wind-whipped, wet hair, Chantelle’s mouth and nose are bleeding, horsy teeth bared in a wild grimace. Josh’s face is dark pink, his eyes like a bubble-eyed goldfish’s as he struggles to breathe. His body convulses as he tries to push the rifle off his throat. I’m scared he’ll pass out again.

  “I should have done this years ago,” snarls Chantelle, her face just inches above Josh’s. “Always lording it over Mike! Your own brother!” She looks triumphant as she watches him struggle to breathe. “You bastard!”

  I read somewhere that an overhand stab has less force behind it. I take a deep breath and swing the knife underhand.

  I’m aiming for her chest but she moves. The knife strikes her right shoulder. She blinks in surprise and takes a hand off the rifle. Her fingers find the hole in her shoulder. Josh shoves the rifle off his throat and rolls out from under her. He pushes himself to his knees, panting. The color has started to drain from his face—blood red fading to bone white. He looks faint. He starts retching.

  “You?” screeches Chantelle, her attention now fixed on me. She drags herself upright, looming over me. Even without the rifle, she is terrifying, red lipstick smeared across her chin and her eyes bulging. “You never could mind your own business!” Her voice rises to a howl. “Mike was counting on that partnership in the boat!” I back away but she sways closer. “You put Josh up to firing him, didn’t you? What did you tell him, eh?”

  The boat is lurching, sheets of rain and salt-spray washing over us. “The truth!” I yell. “That Mike was sleeping with Tonya!”

  I figured Chantelle knew, but from the way her mouth falls open, like a lunchbox that’s come unlatched, it’s clear she didn’t. Strands of wet hair writhe around her face. “Wha . . . No! You’re lying!” She leaps at me.

  I jump backward but slip. My hip hits the deck, hard. The pain knocks my breath away. The boat is really rocking now, the deck as slick as ice. I crab-crawl away from Chantelle.

  I hear a high-pitched wail. What is that?

  Chantelle is gaining on me. “You little bitch!” she screams. “Mike would never! Never!”

  I’m on my butt, still backing away from her. “Isn’t that why you killed her?” I ask. My back hits the side of the boat. I pull myself to my feet and clutch the boat’s railing.

  Chantelle stops moving and barks out a vicious laugh. “What? You’re crazy! I didn’t
kill her!” She looks so surprised I think she might be telling the truth. Out of the corner of my eye I see a blue light. I realize it’s gotten dark. And that strange wailing is louder now.

  Chantelle must see the light too because she’s staring off into space. Turning, I see a boat slide out of the gloom. A blue light spins on its mast, above a flapping Canada flag. My knees feel weak with relief. It’s the coast guard.

  Over the sound of the wind, I recognize Colin Destin’s voice, amplified by a megaphone. “Stand back. We’re boarding,” he says.

  “Help!” I yell. “Colin! Hurry!” The wind grabs my cries. I’m too exhausted to yell again. Icy rain fills my nose and mouth. Each time the boat dips, my grip on the rail weakens.

  I’m so intent on the boat—and our imminent rescue—that I don’t hear Chantelle’s approach. She grabs me and lifts me as I cling to the railing. “Stay away!” she screeches. “Or I’ll throw her in! Get away from me!”

  A gust of wind pummels us. I’m scared we’ll be swept overboard. I hear footsteps on the stairs. Below, the sea seethes, rising and falling.

  “Get down! Get down!” yells a loud male voice. Volleys of hard, frigid raindrops blind us.

  Chantelle is trying to climb over the railing and to drag me with her. I am fighting for my life, clinging to the rail, kicking at her. Time slows down. Rain stings my skin. The taste of blood fills my mouth. I can hear the coast guard vessel clanking against the Great Escape. I can smell beer on Chantelle’s breath.

  Three men in black are running our way. They drag Chantelle off me. She’s kicking and screaming. Strong arms reach out to me. When I fall, someone catches me. It’s Colin Destin.

  “Chantelle,” I mumble. My whole body feels limp.