The Girl on the Yacht (4 page)

Except for the well-lit building on the knoll, darkness had enveloped the small marina. Michael slipped on his leather gloves and strolled up to the clubhouse’s main entrance. As an afterthought, he turned the knob––it was unlocked.
Strange
. He stepped into the bright lobby with its blue marble floors.
Is the security guard somewhere inside?
A sign indicated the way upstairs––Gym, Open 6 a.m. to 10 p.m.
Mystery solved
. The building remained open for the boaters seeking exercise.

He examined the interior of the spacious lobby and focused on the set of glass doors at the back that led into the marina office. He glanced around the empty facility and moved toward the doors while pulling a lock pick from his pocket. The cheap doorknob mechanism sprung in a few seconds, and he was inside the three-desk office. Michael’s eyes fell upon a door at the back that resembled the entrance to a closet. From his extensive training, he knew that the solid wooden door and more substantial deadbolt identified it as the security room.

Once inside the tiny, windowless space, he sat down at the desk and examined the digital equipment. A simple system, not too old, but adequate. On the monitor, there appeared eight small images of the cameras on site––three that he knew about kept watch on the sidewalks outside of the dock ramps to the boats, another two covered the 800-car parking lot, and the final three were dedicated to the inside of the clubhouse.

He picked up the remote to the digital video recorder and tapped the high-speed reverse to eight o’clock that morning.
When had she arrived?
His target appeared on the monitor with the time stamp of 10:26 a.m. It was definitely the woman, but she
wasn’t
coming from the parking lot to the gate as he had expected. She was walking toward the restroom building next to the clubhouse
from
the boat slips.
She was already on her boat. I need to go back earlier
.
Before he rewound further, he watched her move on the screen—her casual stroll up to the restroom—her fumbling with the keycard—her unlocking the bathroom door and entering.

A question came to him,
Why go to the restroom on shore? These yachts all have heads.
It came to him––the waste holding tank on the boat would fill quickly if she were staying aboard. Then she’d have to take the boat to a waste station and dump it.
It’s just easier to walk up the ramp.

He reversed the video and studied the previous night’s footage. When 9:22 p.m. posted on the upper right of the screen, he spotted the uniformed guard near A-dock. Michael concentrated on the man’s anomalies, habits, patterns, and random activities. One thing stood out––during his single route patrol, the young man never went down any ramp leading to the boats.
There’s that yacht owner’s privacy thing again
.

One loop complete, the guard strolled over to an old VW van at the far corner of the parking lot, opened the side door, and disappeared inside the vehicle. Michael focused on the rickety van while continuing on fast forward. At sunrise, the guy reappeared to the world from his restful hibernation. The newly refreshed rent-a-cop entered the clubhouse. Another camera view showed him in the office, time-stamping his card before leaving the building. He strolled back to his van and drove away.

Michael checked his dive watch. The hours had slipped away, and it was getting close to midnight. He leaned back in the office chair and gave the information a few minutes to percolate.
I can’t do it here during the daytime––too many people.
His plan began to formulate.
The night guard doesn’t go near the boats or anywhere else after he puts himself to bed around ten. The target uses the restrooms on shore, and she’s been drinking at the party for hours. She’ll have to use the toilet sometime during the night or early morning.

He scanned the small office to do what he came in there to accomplish. He began pulling out the cables from the recording machine.
Nobody will come in this locked room until tomorrow.
With the guard’s bedtime well into its second hour, he picked up the slim recording unit and headed out the door. Minutes later, he strolled along the embankment until he reached the end of the docks. With a mighty heave, he flung the unit like a large, flat stone into the quiet bay. The single skip on the surface and subsequent sinking of the unit signaled its doom––salt water had a way of destroying electronic circuit boards. There would be no record of him at the marina that night.

He peered out to the end of E-dock and couldn’t help but think of her.
I’ll bet she believes her sheltered world of the marina is safe.

A slow, haunting rhythm of a distant foghorn penetrated the silence sending its warning of the ominous grey mass advancing toward the coast. The high pitched singular note repeatedly pierced his deadly thoughts before fading back into the interrupted stillness.

Michael pulled back his glove and glanced at his watch––twenty minutes past midnight. The light cloud cover provided a darkened shroud for his swift movement along the embankment. He scaled the shoulder high metal gate and, like a shadow against the white-hulled boats, continued his hunt down the E-dock leg of the Blue Water Marina.

Backed into their slips, the thirty-seven vessels at rest along his path were pointed seaward as if preparing for an early morning race. It was a reminder that he needed to be gone by daylight when things started happening around the docks. Michael was all too familiar with power boat marinas––their early morning starts and their weekend activities. Of concern to him were the seven vessels on E-dock occupied that night by their owners.

When he came to the boat that he wanted, he veered left, and swiftly crossed over on to the swim step of the elegant yacht. It swayed gently from his weight, and the dock lines strained from the sudden movement. In the pitch black night, he felt around at waist height until he found the large slide on the heavy canvas. He unzipped it, creating a doorway into the tent-like enclosure. Before entering through the opening, he stood motionless while his eyes made a sweep of the entire marina.
No movement.

With a trained nimbleness and stealth, he slipped inside the expansive cockpit. Michael dropped on to one of the oversized white leather chairs that faced the back of the boat, took in a deep breath of the cool salt air, and settled in to wait. The once clear plastic sides of the canopied enclosure had faded over time to a near opaque from the elements––the sun, the rain, and the smog. He pulled back a small corner of the isinglass to give him an unobstructed view of the boat farther down the dock where she would appear.

Through a slit in her curtains, a single beam of light projected outward from a small lamp within her salon, transfixing him by its dance upon the water’s surface with every movement of the boat.
She must be awake.

Over the next few hours, fog rolled in and lightly veiled the marina. The moon’s penetrating rays hardly lit the far extension of the long dock where the largest boats rested for the night. It was stone black, and he strained to see the boat through the gloom––still no movement.
I could slip down there, go on board, and get the job done.
He discounted the thought––too many variables.
She might be with the big guy. They might have weapons on board. They would surely feel the boat move when he boarded.

Suddenly, there was movement. A man climbed off a boat across from hers and was walking in his direction from the end of the dock. Michael froze and watched in total darkness while the man passed his position en route to the gate. Michael’s eyes followed the man along the embankment until he made a turn toward the parking lot.
I wonder if he’s coming back.

The sounds of the bay crept into the space. When he heard a fish break the water’s surface, then saw its high leap from the dark pool, his neck muscles tensed. At its apex of flight, the cold-blooded animal spun while gravity pulled it back into the sea. It splashed on its side and disappeared into the murky water leaving behind the concentric rings that expanded from the spot towards infinity.
Was it predator or prey?

The dock lines creaked, and he felt the change––the tide had turned. The water began its journey back out to the open sea––continuing its ancient cycle.

__________

She felt her boat move slightly with the tide change. The lines pulled on the port side bringing it to a stop. She placed the hardcover book on the galley countertop and glanced at her watch. That was enough work for the night. Under the table, the boat sandals slid easily on to her narrow feet. She wondered if she needed a sweater and looked at the outside temperature gauge––72 degrees.
June is going to be a great month around the marina
––she smiled at the thought.

She squeezed the handle and slowly pulled the sliding glass door. For a few moments, she stood in the open doorway admiring the water’s reflections and breathing in the ocean air. Golden lights of the high-rise buildings across the bay sparkled in the gentle ripples. She loved the peaceful feeling in the early morning hours. Mesmerized by the tranquil quality of the water, she stretched her arms and felt the cool breeze on her face.

__________

Michael heard the distinctive resonance of a sliding glass door being opened. She stood in the doorway with the salon light behind her. “Come on out into the night,” he whispered. As if by willed command, she crossed the threshold. Her blonde hair caught a beam of the moonlight and illuminated the air around her. Within a heartbeat, the adrenaline pumped through his veins, and he felt like a prowling black panther in the shadows, alert––sensing the kill.

She grabbed the rail, stepped from her boat, and moved quickly down the dock. With no visible awareness of the hidden danger, she passed by less than eight feet from his position inside the boat.

I’ll be ready when she comes back
. He watched until she reached the top of the ramp, then slipped from his borrowed yacht and became invisible in the darkness. He crouched on one knee and waited for her return.

Approximately ten minutes elapsed before he saw her come out of the restroom near the clubhouse. She shuffled over to the gate, extended her keycard from the lanyard around her neck, and slipped it through the electronic lock. Her eyes caught something and she hesitated. He tensed––
had she seen him?
He realized she was watching a fishing boat headed away from another dock.

He waited for her to come to him. The panther’s steely eyes followed her every movement. She walked down the ramp toward his position. He let her pass and one last time surveyed the surroundings––they were alone.

The former Navy SEAL pounced and closed his powerful arm around her delicate neck. His forceful chokehold lifted her quickly from the dock and prevented her from making a sound. In her terrified silence, she struggled violently, pulling frantically at his tattooed forearm. Her blonde hair brushed against his face, and he caught a gentle whiff of her scent. Seconds later, her movement stopped.

The petite body easily draped over his broad shoulder, and at the last row of high-priced boats, he laid her on the edge of the cold, wet dock. From under his shirt, he pulled out a small diver’s weight-belt and fastened it tightly around her waist.

Gently, he slipped her into the dark bay and watched the final gurgling air escape from her lungs. The yellow hair fanned out on the water’s surface until it followed her below. She was gone.

While he walked away, he worried that her hair floated longer than expected––maybe he hadn’t added enough weight to the belt, and the body might resurface sooner than he had calculated. It didn’t matter. Submerged, she would be drifting toward the open sea within a few hours; the receding ebb tide would take care of that.

Michael made his way up the long dock to the gate. Without warning, the lone night guard rounded the corner of the building at a jog. Michael froze in the shadows, no more than a few feet away from the man. The inept sentry swiped his keycard at the restroom security reader, yanked open the door, and disappeared inside. Before the door fully closed, the killer was in motion again over the gate and silently on the move to his Suburban that waited on the street for his return.

At the vehicle, he glanced around, checking the perimeter, slid into the driver’s seat, and turned the key. He drove the block to Coast Highway, with the headlights off.

Michael reached up and toggled the lights on, and the shadowy Suburban shot down the black asphalt toward the Peninsula. Halfway across the harbor bridge, he saw that most of the remnants of the morning fog had drifted off with the gentle breeze and left the image of the full moon mirrored on the placid water. In the distance was a scene of serenity in the silvery light. Sheltered from the harsh sea, sailboats swayed quietly in the visitor’s anchorage.

It always astonished him how easy it was to end a life and move on to his next mission. She would be a faint recollection shortly, but for now, the essence of her scent lingered.

The early morning light seeped through the porthole in his master suite aboard
The Hunter.
Without turning over, John slid his hand across the empty satin sheets toward the pillow. Truly excited by the coming day and all of its prospects, he threw himself out of bed and past the mirror, where he caught the broad smile on his face.

The feelings for Marin had long ago subsided in his being––now back, he remembered, deeply, how much she had meant to him. His plan that morning was to take her on a short cruise and anchor in the crystal blue-green water off Emerald Bay, then surprise her with breakfast on the water. It was going to be a great day.

After donning his khaki shorts and soft olive Polo shirt, he headed out of the stateroom, up the corridor, and into the salon. In the galley, he started a fresh pot of coffee and glanced over at the clock on the microwave––6 a.m. He had asked her to come over at six-thirty. Not a big deal, since she would already be up––always the insomniac.
I need to get the boat ready.
He let the coffee brew and went outside into the cool stillness.

The golden sun crawled over the black silhouetted mountains to the east. The sliver of light seemed to pick up speed by the minute until the full radiant orb was looking down on them. John loved the moment on the water. The warmth of the newly regenerated sunlight and the smell of the morning salt air; it was different from any other time of the day—or any other place. He couldn’t explain it to anyone. The difference he believed was that his senses were moved up a notch by the anticipation of the day’s coming adventure. He shot up the stairs to the upper helm station on the flybridge and began flipping switches and checking gauges.

While he scanned the horizon, he tuned the VHF radio to the marine weather station and listened for the report for the Southern California coast. “Light south breeze––three to five knots through noon, increasing to twelve to fifteen by two in the afternoon,” the mechanical voice announced. They needed to get going. The wind would be up in the afternoon, and he wanted to be back inside the harbor by that time. Sailboats loved the wind to fill their sails––motor yachts were difficult to pilot in the wind.

He continued to flip toggles at the console and busied himself with his checklist. Blowers were switched on, engines were cranked over, and a GPS course was plotted. Pretty much ready, his thoughts drifted to his coffee in the galley.

When he felt the boat move, he turned and looked down expecting to see Marin at the stern. Instead, Dan Douglas stood at the bottom of the stairs shading his eyes from the morning sun.

“Have you seen Laura?” he asked.

“No,” John said, “but I just came outside.”

“When I woke up, she wasn’t there.” Dan shrugged his shoulders in the classic gesture of husbands looking for their wives. “I’m guessing she’s on someone’s boat having a long conversation about something.”

“We’re not leaving for a while. Come and have some coffee. I’ll be right down.” John glanced at his watch––6:35.

“Okay.” Dan scanned back up the dock before he entered the cabin.

John hurried down the stairs and stopped at the back door. “That’s odd.”

“What?”

“I haven’t seen Marin this morning, either.” John glanced past Dan’s boat to the new Carver. “Maybe Laura’s with her. In any case, we now have two missing women. I’ll bet they’re both over there. I’ll be right back.” He darted down and across the swim step to the dock.

He scouted the upper deck of Marin’s Carver and peeked through the window into the cabin––no sign of either woman. He tried the door. Locked. He knocked. No movement inside.

John walked back over to his boat and entered the salon. Dan sat at the galley table with a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Your coffee’s on the counter. I didn’t know how you liked it,” Dan said.

John picked up the heavy mug, “Just black with,” he reached into the overhead cabinet, “a little Irish whiskey.” He poured a healthy dose of his morning pick-me-up into the cup and took a sip before sitting at the table with Dan. “I guess we’ll both have to wait before getting started.”

“Yeah. I wanted to get out on the water early.” Dan blew on his steaming brew.

“Me, too. I had plans.”

“I don’t know,” Dan said with a distant look on his face.

“What?”

“I’d swear that Laura didn’t come to bed. When I went to sleep, she was still up working on her conference presentation.”

The Hunter
swayed from someone stepping on the back deck outside. They both turned when the door opened.