Girl Missing (27 page)

Kat attacked, clawing for the gun, but Ratchet had too firm a grip. Enraged, he swung at her, his fist slamming into her jaw. The blow sent her flying. She tumbled across the floor to land in a pile of damp burlap. Through eyes half blinded by pain, she saw Ratchet turn and walk over to look at Adam, who now lay motionless.

He’s dead
, she thought.
He’s dead
. Fueled by grief, by rage, she staggered to her feet. Even as blackness gathered before her eyes, she struggled desperately toward the warehouse door, toward the far-off rectangle of daylight.

Just as she reached the doorway, Ratchet turned to her, raised his gun, and fired.

The bullet splintered the frame, and fragments of wood stung her cheek. She flung herself through the doorway, into the driving wind.

With Ratchet right behind her, a few seconds’ head start was all she had. Still dizzy from the blow, she was moving like a drunken woman. The car was parked a few feet ahead. Beyond it stretched the pier, barren of any cover. Running
was futile. It would be a single shot, straight into her back.

No escape
, she thought.
I can’t even see straight
.

Just as Ratchet came tearing out of the warehouse, Kat ducked around the rear of the car. He fired; the bullet pinged off the rear fender. Kat scurried alongside the car and yanked the passenger door open. One glance told her the keys weren’t in the ignition. No escape in there, either—the car would be a trap.

Ratchet was moving in for the kill.

She heard the creak of the planks as he moved along the other side of the car, circling to the rear. Ahead there was only the warehouse, another dead end.

She took a deep breath, pivoted away from the car, and leaped off the pier.

T
HE STOMACH
-
WRENCHING PLUNGE HURLED
her into icy water. She sank in over her head, into a frightening swirl of brine. She floundered to the surface, gasping, her eyes and throat stung by the salt. One breath was all she managed; the zing of a bullet through the water sent her diving once again into the depths.

Frantically she stroked her way under the pier and surfaced again to cling at the foundation post. Windblown waves churned and thrashed against her face. Her hands had already gone numb from cold and fear, but at least her head was now clear. She glanced toward land, saw that the only way to shore would mean a clamber across exposed rocks. In other words, suicide.

She looked up through the gaps in the planks and spied Ratchet at the other edge of the pier, scanning the water. He knew she wouldn’t swim away from the cover of the pier. He also knew the water was frigid. Fifteen minutes, half an hour—eventually she’d die of hypothermia. For him it was a simple waiting game. One she was sure to lose.

Numbness was creeping up her feet. She couldn’t bob in this icy bath forever. Neither could she risk climbing those rocks. She had no choice—she had to do the unexpected.

Treading water with her legs, she managed to pull off her jacket. She tied the sleeves together, trapping air in the body, and tossed the jacket away, toward the edge of the pier where Ratchet was crouched. Then she dove and began to swim frantically in the other direction, into open water.

The sound of gunshots told her the ruse had worked. Ratchet was too busy firing at her jacket to see that she was swimming away from the cover of the pier. She surfaced for another breath, dove, and kept swimming an underwater course parallel to shore, surfacing, diving again. She could hear Ratchet still shooting. Sooner or later, though, he’d realize
he was aiming at an empty jacket and he’d turn to scan the open water; she had only a few precious seconds to put as much distance as possible between her and the warehouse pier.

She surfaced a fifth time and saw that she’d pulled even with the next pier, where the trawler was moored. She turned toward shore and began to stroke for all she was worth, aiming for the trawler.

The gunshots had ceased. She came up for air and glanced in Ratchet’s direction. He was pacing the pier now, his gaze scanning an ever-growing perimeter. She ducked under the surface and kicked wildly. When she came up again, the stern of the trawler was only twenty feet away. From the gunwale hung a rusty chain ladder—she could pull herself aboard! With escape so near at hand, she began to swim with abandon across the surface, drawing closer and closer to the trawler. Finally she reached up; her fingers closed around the first steel rung.

A gunshot rang out, ricocheted off the trawler’s hull. He had spotted her!

Soaked, exhausted, she could barely pull herself up onto the next rung. So little time—already Ratchet was dashing back up the warehouse
pier, toward shore. Another few seconds and he’d be on the next pier, cutting off her escape. She reached for the next rung, and the next. Water streamed off her clothes. The wind kept banging the ladder against the hull, bruising her fingers. She grabbed the edge of the gunwale and hauled herself up and over.

She tumbled, gasping, onto the deck.
No time, no time!
She struggled to her feet and dashed to the starboard side, ready to leap off onto the pier.

Too late. Ratchet was already running along the shore. He’d reach the head of the pier before she could. Her escape route was cut off.

She scrambled to the ship’s pilothouse, yanked at the door. It was locked.
What now? Back in the water?

She ran back to the stern and gazed down at the roiling waves, preparing herself for another dive. But she knew she didn’t have the strength to swim any longer. Her whole body was shaking from the cold. Another ten minutes in the sea would finish her.

She looked toward shore: Ratchet was on the pier now, and coming her way.

Her gaze shifted back to the stern, and two
words stenciled in red on a deck locker caught her eye:
EMERGENCY SUPPLIES
.

She threw open the lid. Inside were life jackets, blankets, tools.

And a flare gun.

She reached for it. With trembling hands, she slipped a flare in the barrel, cocked the gun. One shot—that was the only chance she’d have.

Ratchet’s footsteps thudded closer across the pier.

Kat swiveled, ducked around to the port side of the pilothouse. There she crouched, waiting, listening. She heard his footsteps come to a stop on the pier somewhere along the starboard side. Then she heard the soft metallic
thump
as he stepped aboard.

Which way was he coming? Fore or aft?

She took a gamble—maybe the last she’d ever take—and moved toward the bow, crouching at the edge of the pilothouse. Not a sound reached her. Not a footstep, nothing. There was only the roar of her own blood through her ears.

Then, suddenly, there he was. He stepped around the corner of the pilothouse, right in front of her. There was no pity in his gaze, no expression at all. He raised the pistol.

She brought the flare gun up and fired.

His shriek was like a wild animal’s, cutting through the roar of the wind. He staggered backward, his chest hissing with phosphorescent sparks. His gun clattered to the deck. Kat scrambled forward and grabbed it. Ratchet fell on his back and lay jerking in agony, screaming, tearing at his clothes. Kat clutched the pistol and stood over him, the barrel pointed at his head.
I could pull this trigger
, she thought.
I could blow you away. I want to blow you away
.

But she only stood there, watching him twitch. The terror, the exhaustion, had drained her of the ability to move. She was afraid to turn her back on him, even for an instant, afraid he’d suddenly rise up like a monster from the grave. So she kept the gun pointed at him, even as the sound of sirens wailed closer, even as the wind shrieked in her ears. She heard car doors slam, heard footsteps pounding up the pier. Only when they’d twice yelled the command: “Drop it!” did she finally look up.

Two cops stood on the pier, their guns pointed at her.

“Drop it or we shoot!” one of them shouted.

She dropped the gun and kicked it away,
where Ratchet wouldn’t reach it, even if he could. Then, slowly, she turned to the cops and staggered toward them.

“Help me,” she said. She stretched her hands to them, and her voice dissolved into a moan of grief.
“Help me …”

He still had a pulse. Crouching beside him in the darkness of the warehouse, Kat felt the faint throb of Adam’s carotid artery. “He’s alive!” she cried.

The cop shone his flashlight, and the beam came down on Adam’s blood-soaked shirt. “Jesus,” he muttered, and turned to yell at his partner. “Get the ambulance crew in here first!”

“Adam,” whispered Kat. She brushed back his hair, cradled his face in her lap. “Adam, you have to live. Do you hear me? Damn you,
you have to live!
”

He didn’t answer. All she heard was the sound of his breathing. It came in short, unsteady gasps, but at least his lungs were working.

She was still holding him in her arms when the EMTs arrived. They swept in with their
stretcher, their IV bottles, their bag of tricks. As she stood by uselessly, they bundled him up and away, into the ambulance. She was left standing in the buffeting wind as the wail of sirens faded into the distance.

“You have to live,” she whispered. “Because I love you.”

Footsteps creaked across the pier. Dazed, she turned to see Lou Sykes, holding out a blanket. “Blue lips aren’t very becoming,” he said, and slipped the blanket over her shoulders. “You okay, Novak?”

“Just … cold.” She shuddered, and the tears suddenly flooded her eyes. “He saved my life.”

“I know.”

“And I didn’t believe in him. I was afraid to believe in him …”

“Maybe it’s time you did.”

She looked up at Sykes’s gleaming face.
Leave it to a homicide cop
, she thought. An old hand at death dishing out advice to the living.

She turned to his car. “Take me to the hospital.”

“Right now?”

“Right now,” she said, and climbed into the car. “When he wakes up, I want to be there.”

She was there when he came out of surgery. She stayed at his bedside as he slept all night. Other visitors came and went, but she remained. He slept most of the next morning as well, kept under by narcotics. The bullet had passed through his left lung, nicked his pericardium, and missed his ventricle by a fraction of an inch. He’d lost huge amounts of blood, his lung was collapsed, and he had plastic tubes gurgling out of his chest, but he was a lucky man.

At ten
A.M.
Sykes appeared to fill her in on the latest. Ratchet had massive phosphorus burns on his chest, but he would be okay—certainly well enough to stand trial for murder times three. Ed Novak was telling the press he’d long had suspicions about Ben Fuller’s death, and only his tireless efforts had broken the case. He was going to come out smelling like a rose, but Kat didn’t care. She figured that if the voters of Albion chose to elect Ed Novak and Mayor Sampson, then mediocrity was exactly what they deserved.

At noon, another visitor showed up. There was a knock, and then Maeve appeared. She didn’t come in at first; she just stood in the doorway, staring across the room at her sleeping
father. She was stuffed tight as a sausage into a black leather dress, but her rainbow-tinted hair had been gathered almost demurely into a ponytail, and her face was white with fear.

“Is he gonna be all right?” she said.

“I think so,” said Kat. “Why don’t you come in?”

Maeve crept almost timidly to the bedside. She said, “Dad?” Adam didn’t stir.

“Sleeping meds,” said Kat. “He’s out cold.”

Maeve touched her father’s face, then pulled away, as though embarrassed.

“He almost died,” said Kat.

For a moment Maeve didn’t respond; she just stared at Adam. Softly she said, “He drove me crazy, y’know? Telling me what to do, what not to do. But he was always there. I have to say that for the old man. He was always there …” She wiped her hand over her eyes. Then, abruptly, she turned and walked toward the door.

“Maeve?”

Maeve stopped, looked back. “Yeah?”