Chill Waters (32 page)

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.

The boat was maybe six yards from her. He wasn’t rowing now, just sitting there watching her, enjoying her helplessness. She used the moment’s reprieve to rid herself of her shoes and jacket.

Along the stretch of shoreline, an occasional light shone from a window, beckoning to her. Her own house was in darkness. She could just make out its shape against the darker woods, and the inky blue sky scattered with stars.

He was rowing after her. She swam, every stroke a reminder of where the oar had struck her shoulder. Thankfully, it had been a glancing blow, and wouldn’t halt her progress significantly.

“You’ll never make it back to shore, Marie,” he called out to her. “Get back in the boat. I won’t hurt you.” His insane laughter chilled her even more than the water. A little closer and he could finish her off with the oar if he chose to. She was swimming as fast as she could but she knew she was only buying time. Because the bottom line was, he could row faster than she could swim. Still, she swam.

He rested the oars. Charlie was taking his time. In no hurry. Even though the wind’s blade cut through his clothes, the way it had the weasel’s the night they rowed across from Harding. The night it all began. It had all led him here, to this moment. It was fated. Her death would free him.

She was about thirty yards from him now, he could just see her head above the dark water, pale arms emerging alternately from the choppy waves. He smiled to himself and reached once more for the oars.

And then he saw something that filled him with stark terror.

Daring a look behind her, Rachael was surprised at how far away from the boat she had managed to swim. And even more surprised to see Charlie standing up in the boat. He appeared to be taking bows before an unseen audience, looking as absurd as a character in a cartoon. Up and down he went, up and down. What is he doing? she wondered. And then she noticed how low in the water the boat was. And she knew.

Treading water, she continued to watch him bail water from the boat with what appeared to be only his cupped hands. From the frantic dipping and rising of his body, she could only assume the water was coming in faster than Charlie could scoop it out. Like viewing a surreal movie, she saw her tormentor shift his weight from one side of the boat to the other until suddenly, and predictably, it flipped over sending Charlie into the bay, leaving her with a vague sense of astonishment. For several long seconds, she did not see him at all. Suddenly he reappeared, reaching for the upturned boat. “Help me, Marie,” he cried out. “Help me. I can’t swim.”

She could not quite believe what she was hearing and seeing. This unexpected turn of events disoriented her. They did not seem real. None of it seemed real. Rachael looked back toward the shore. Strangely, it did not seem quite so far away as it had only moments ago. There was a faint throbbing in her shoulder, but nothing she couldn’t handle. The cold water acted as a balm on her flesh, torn from the nail.

She resumed swimming, her strokes cutting strong and sure through the choppy waves, taking her farther and farther from him. When next she looked back she could no longer see him in the darkness. His pitiful cries reached out to her. “Please. Help me.”

She rested, moving her arms and legs just enough to stay afloat. Can this be happening? Is it possible? The questions came with something more akin to amazement then relief. But relief did come, in a rush, like a damn bursting inside her and she was laughing hysterical laughter that quickly turned to sobs, so violent they caused her to swallow water, sobering her. She turned her back to him and once more, directing all her attention on the shoreline and the faint outline of her house, she swam toward home and safety.

Behind her, Charlie’s terrified cries pulled at her like hateful magnets. They wouldn’t let her be, threatened to break her rhythm. She tried not to hear them. To hell with you. Die, you crazy bastard. like you wanted me dead. Like you killed the others. She swam hard, intent only on putting more distance between them, on reaching shore. Determined not to hear him. Soon, his cries grew fainter.

A wave washed strands of hair into her eyes, stinging them with the salt water. She swam on. She did not hear him after awhile, just the water, the wind, her own harsh breathing. She wanted to live.

It shamed her to think that even for a moment, when her marriage crumbled, she had wanted to die. For life had never seemed so precious as it did in this moment, nor so tenuous.

Exhausted and shivering in the cold water, she tried to estimate how long she had been out here, swimming, treading water. A half hour? two hours? No, not that long. But she couldn’t be sure. She did know that shivering meant her body was trying to keep itself warm; she remembered that from a first-aid course she'd taken in school.

She blinked water from her eyes, pushed away the sodden tendrils of hair plastered to her face.
I'm so tired. I just want to sleep.

Swim.

“I can’t.”

You can. You must.

She heard herself whisper ‘yes’. After maybe a dozen strokes, she knew it was no use. She had no strength in her arms. Nothing left.

You do.
Don’t think. Push beyond the pain. You did before. Do it now.

Yes, I must try. Find the zone, stay in it. Like you do when you’re running.

And for a time it worked.

Grimly concentrated, Rachael swam, and kept swimming until her arms began to feel like slabs of concrete. Then she treaded water some more.

The shore blurred in her vision, seemed a hundred miles away. Land glimpsed in the distance. So far from her reach. How could that be?

Forty

Captain Sorrel had scarcely brought the car to a stop when Iris bolted from the passenger seat and bounded up the porch steps. For an old gal, she’s in damn good shape, he thought, a tad slower in getting out of the car himself.

Rachael’s Cavalier was in the yard. There was no night-light on, and the house itself was in darkness. Iris felt an awful dread even as she rang the doorbell, already sensing there was no one in the house.

“Rachael,” she called out. But there was no answer; she hadn’t really expected one. Still, she called out her name again, pounded on the door. A hollow demand for her to be all right.

Elton swept the powerful beam of his flashlight along the ground by the edge of the house. Minutes later he was standing beside Iris on the porch. “There are fresh footprints under the kitchen window, Iris. The window’s unlocked. Looks like someone got in that way,” he added unnecessarily.

“Oh, dear God…”

“I think this situation warrants the breaking of a rule or two,” the captain said. It took two hard kicks to the door before it flew open.

Inside, they were met with ominous silence. She followed Elton into the kitchen, where a telling puddle of water beneath the window confirmed Elton’s suspicions of how the intruder had gained entry. They searched upstairs and down, but there was no sign of Rachael. Of anyone.

Where was she? What had he done to her? Iris looked around the kitchen as if the answer might be written on the walls, or on a refrigerator door magnet. Elton was talking into his cellphone, his back partly toward her to prevent her hearing. It didn’t.

In the livingroom, Iris saw the crumpled up note on the end table. She unfolded it, read it and passed it to Elton with a hand not quite steady. After reading the note, the policeman slipped it into an evidence bag, sealed the bag. They went outside just in time to see Peter driving up. As he hurried toward them, Iris could see her own fear reflected in her nephew’s eyes.

“Aunt Iris. Captain. What’s going on? I’ve been trying to call Rach…”

“Something terrible has happened, Peter.” Iris tried to stop her voice from shaking. “Martin Dunn, the man Rachael rented the cabin to is not a photographer at all, as he claimed. He’s a murderer. He murdered his own sister. He killed Heather.”

“What? What are you talking…?”

“We don’t know that for certain, Iris,” Captain Sorrel cut in. “Butwell, it does seem that Martin Dunn and Charlie Morley are one the same person, Peter. But we’re only guessing here.”

But Iris wasn’t guessing. She knew. Everything added up to it. The vision she’d had of the girl, the article, Rachael resembling Marie Morleyeverything.

“Martin Dunn is actually the name of Morley’s biological father,” Elton said. “He apparently saw his parents’ names on some papers when he was a kid. He never searched for either of his birth parents as far as anyone knows, but he did remember the name. When he got out of the nuthouse, he used it for his own. A private joke, I suppose. At least, that’s his shrink’s story. And it’s a long, involved one,” he said to the confused man before him. “Enough to say he’s a murderer.”