3 Lies (30 page)

Vonda simply cared more than Beth did now. Maybe even more than her own mother in some ways. Cecelia loved Beth but saw her daughter as a reflection. When Beth started dating Clint, her mother treated it as the culmination of her own life’s work. Not merely a man of wealth and stature but a man of
his
wealth and stature.

The perfect bull’s eye.

Only a royal title could’ve been better.

Her mother expressed surprise when Beth told her Clint knew of her dialysis treatments. Full disclosure was unwise. It might be a deal-breaker. Beth and her mother never discussed her dialysis treatments unless Beth broached the subject, and with her mother’s flustered reactions, she no longer bothered. As if medical need rendered Beth of slightly less value, her disease increased the distance between them.

If Clint were broke, Beth would still find him fascinating, charming, and melt-in-your-mouth handsome. She didn’t know who he was when they met. His wealth hadn’t hit her as an upside. Men from his strata usually wanted someone smart, beautiful, and perky to improve their image at parties. Those types wouldn’t wait out an illness like hers. Oddly, it seemed to draw Clint closer.

He didn’t talk about his nearly-ex much. Beth had searched for Paige Masters on the internet and found a sparkling, dark beauty that pitched in the big leagues of Boston law. Paige in a power suit embarrassed most women in gowns. If Clint ever loved her, she must be a woman of substance. Beth wondered if Clint and Paige had wanted children.

Bone-deep fatigue, along with the continuous swim in her own effluent, threatened to petrify her muscles. Her extremities mimicked those of a blow-up doll. Movement equaled pain. But pain meant she at least still had feeling.

Beth relented to Vonda’s appeal with a weary glance. “You’re right. Can you help me get up? I need to use the restroom.”

Vonda scooped under her armpits, her cheek against Beth’s, and pulled her upright. She lowered Beth’s feet over the edge. Emmy lay sleeping with Maxine’s arm over her while she cuddled her doll.

Beth stood on shaky legs, joints hesitant to commit. Vonda put an arm behind her back and helped her walk to the commode. Beth sat down before working her pants to her knees.

The pressure on her bladder felt full-to-bursting. The urgency of needing to go reverberated through her urinary tract. She released a small amount of liquid but not nearly enough to bring sweet relief.

From the inside of her left thigh dangled the I/O ports to her arterial catheter, one blue-tipped, the other red, to cycle her blood during dialysis. The risk of an infection for arterial catheters remained high without routine antiseptic cleansing. Hers was made of carbothane, so she reached for the bottle of alcohol she left on the floor to clean the site. It was an area of her life over which she retained some control.

She knocked on the door of the bathroom hoping Vonda would realize she needed help.

“I’m right here. What do you need?”

Beth had come to cherish the motley collection of females on this ship. Maybe the experience changed them, made them into a team, or some other group-think entity that brought out an untapped reserve of goodwill. She considered how her mother would react under similar circumstances—kidnapped, confined, under veiled threat—and shuddered.

Beth opened the door. Vonda offered her a hand.

“Upsy daisy.”

“What does that mean anyway?”

“It means, ‘Get your sweet hiney up here, Little Flower.’”

They hobbled over to the futon, and Beth sat on the edge to let her dizziness subside. Her ankles stung from the activity. She reached to rub them, but her swollen abdomen wouldn’t let her stretch that far. As difficult as dialysis had been to get used to, she now viewed it as a blessing. That a machine could perform the job which her reluctant kidneys shirked was a marvel. Had she lived in any other era of history, her illness would have left her dead.

The door opened, and Green-Mask entered their cabin. Her heart bounded, but it was only their breakfast. Toasted bagels and cream cheese. Hunger battled nausea. Her body was out of processing capacity, adding raw materials into her ineffective engine spawned only fear of the unpredictable reaction. Maybe after her first treatment, when the level of poison in her body tapered, food might regain its former appeal. The thought brought her some misplaced tenacity. It was time she got some answers.

“Why are you holding me hostage?”

The man briefly made eye contact. She thought the question amused him. He placed the food tray down on the table.

“Because I like blondes.”

“How many others are on board?”

Her agitation must have shown because he started toward her as if afraid she might fall. Or break. Or explode.

“I do not answer questions.”

She swept her hair away from her face.

Green-Mask’s weight shifted lightly from foot to foot like a cat judging the distance before a pounce. “Enjoy your breakfast.” Then he left the room.

Maxine had woken during the visit. “Are you all right?”

“I’m still here.”

“Emmy’s waking. Did you hear her crying last night?” Maxine whispered as she stroked the child’s hair. “How long can they keep this up?”

Vonda filled her plate with two bagels. “Beth might get a dialysis machine today.”

“Oh, thank God.” Maxine sat upright. “I’ve been so worried about you. Watching you get sicker and sicker—” She clapped her mouth. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear this.”

Beth tried to scoot back to rest on a pillow. “Your saying it doesn’t change my options. Without my machine—” She couldn’t move herself without help. Vonda came to her aid. Beth collapsed into the pillow and fought the urge to cry.

Emmy rolled to her belly. “Can I go home?”

She said what they all hoped.

“That’s what we’re working on. C’mon, let’s get you some breakfast.” Maxine stood and selected three bagels for Emmy to choose from and put them on a plate.

Emmy The Brave and The Smart showed more courage than Beth could muster, but then she didn’t fully understand the danger.

Beth whispered to Vonda. “They’re not bringing me a machine. I can see it in his eyes. We’ve got to get out of here.”

Vonda tore off a piece of bagel and gave it to Beth. “I don’t believe they plan to let any of us out alive.”

Beth’s brain scampered through their options. “Maybe we can turn the tables somehow.” She flushed. “That’s silly. I can barely move.”

Vonda’s head bobbed sideways. “Maybe not so silly. Maybe we can use your condition to our advantage.”

Abe’s information, while interesting, didn’t give Clint anything solid to use in finding Beth. Now he merely felt sorry for Abe. The man lived his life on paper. His decisions reached into the lives of millions, yet he declared himself impotent to help someone he loved.

He got in the car, and Merlin drove toward Whalers Marina. He called Todd just to bounce Abe’s insanity off him. As expected, Todd was en route somewhere, but he listened with his usual radar for stupidity.

“How do you find these people?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you thought about calling the police?”

“Of course, but I’ve got no evidence. It’s my word against the Chief Justice of the United States. Who do you think they will believe?”

“He didn’t help your reputation with them any.”

“No. One of the hostages isn’t even a relative. They have a little girl that happened to be in the wrong place.”

Todd paused. “Bummer.”

“I need to do some thinking.”

“Paige told me about the paternity test results. I don’t know what to say. Sorry? Congratulations? Tell me what to say, and I’ll say it.”

Clint’s smile went crooked. “When I figure it out, I’ll get back to you.”

“You be careful, man.”

Careful. His new middle name.

The PI in Los Angeles rang Clint as soon as his call with Todd ended. He already knew Justice Harkins in New Orleans had someone in the game—Abe confirmed it—but Clint wanted any help he could get.

“Justice Millicent Hawkins. Her cousin, a Gordon Bankston from Bossier City, Louisiana, appears to be missing. The Louisiana State Police impounded his car yesterday. It’s been parked off Highway 71 near Loggy Bayou since Tuesday morning. Bankston was retired and a widower. I’m not sure anyone was looking for him.”

“How did you find him?”

“We’ve been watching a few people close to Harkins. He was in Harkins’ wedding party thirty years ago. Once we heard they found his car, we swarmed.”

“Was there any sign of a struggle?”

“No, but get this. The guy had a triple-A sticker on his windshield. So we checked around. He called for service Tuesday morning, but when the truck came to help him, he was gone. He’d reported that he’d run out of gas, but the gauge still registered a quarter-tank. When the police found the car, it was locked with the keys on the floorboard. It fired up on the first crank.”

“Anything else?”

“He didn’t plan to be gone long. His mail hadn’t been collected, and newspapers piled on the lawn. The neighbor said he got a call from a woman on Tuesday about Bankston, but she didn’t leave her name. She wanted to know if he’d seen Bankston that day. He hadn’t. He gave us the caller ID number that we traced to Justice Harkins. She’s been worried since Tuesday.”

A disturbing thought occurred to Clint. But most of his recent thoughts disturbed him, and enough of his freaky ideas already materialized. He needed to clear all his suspicions. “Do you have the information on Bankston’s car?”

“Yeah. Hang on.”

While Clint was on the phone, Merlin competed with impatient drivers for a spot on Mass Avenue. He flipped his right directional. Amateur move. A woman zipped up from behind him in a red Prius. So much for her gas mileage. He changed lanes anyway and looked through the rearview mirror. She rewarded them with a snarling mouthful of expletives to lip-read.

“He drove a brand new Lincoln MKS. Silver, license plate—”

“Wait. Let me get a pen.” Clint opened his notebook. “Okay.”

“License plate R-E-T-Y-R-E-D.”

“You got the VIN?”

“Ready when you are.”

“Go.”

“One-Golf-Six-Kilo-Delta-Five-Seven-Yankee-Xray-Eight-Uniform-One-Zero-Two-Zero-Four-Niner.”

“Thanks. Awesome job.”

It didn’t matter, but he hoped the PI didn’t detect his growing sense of dread.

With each minute, Beth slipped deeper into danger, and Clint had no idea how to find her. Merlin dropped Clint off at Whalers Marina to retrieve the
No Moor
. He wanted to sail her back to the Clement Marina now that he and Abe were on the same side. Plus, he needed the sea breeze to blow out the tensions, so he could think.

From the moment Clint returned to the boat, Louie stayed by his side. The black lab seemed putout, depressed, or possibly sick. Clint examined him, but found no physical cause. Louie had been alone longer than usual, getting a little less exercise. Clint could use some himself. When they got home, they could take a extra long run. Clint wasn’t sure what else to do anyway.

Louie ran to the cabin door, banging his haunch as he turned, then came back, circling Clint as if mapping out his turf. A rear foot scratched his rib cage as he owwwoooed softly at Clint. The dog lay down with a moan and draped both paws across his master’s shoes.

Animals often took their cues from humans. Maybe Clint’s erratic behavior of late played on the lab. While Louie’s mental health wasn’t first on the priority list, the dog’s behavior earned Clint’s concern.

“What’s up, boy? ” He nuzzled the wiry chin in his hand. “How about some treats?”

Louie pawed at the deck and grunted, nosing Clint’s leg with force.

“C’mon, boy.” Clint descended the stairs to the galley.

Louie sat at the top of the companionway. His eyebrows twitched into rolls of fur. A whiny errrruufff sounded from him.

Clint stepped below and called for the dog. “C’mon, Louie.”

His black muzzle appeared at the top of the stairs. He hesitated.

“Louie old man, what is your problem?” Clint picked up the dog’s water bowl from the floor and filled it at the sink.

“C’mon, buddy.” He set it back on the floor.

Louie stayed put. His dark eyes, furled, pleading. Then he stood.

“Lou—”

“Rruff.” He barked sharply.

Clint’s belly rippled with dread. He spun around and met a man in a black ski mask aiming a gun at his chest. The gunman’s eyes were black and rimmed in brown skin. He was small but fit, and the glint in his eye revealed smug certainty of an upper hand.

“What do you want?’

“I have your attention. That is good. Your interference must end.”

“Interference? In what?” Clint tried to look at the stranger’s face and not the silencer on the end of his gun.

“Please. Let us not insult one another. Any continued meddling by you will put your girlfriend at a distinct disadvantage. Left alone, you see, we have no reason to harm her. But if you insist—”

“Does she have a dialysis machine? She’ll die without—”

“Let me make myself clear.” He turned the gun toward Louie and fired before Clint could react.

The bullet hit Louie in the head and knocked him backward on the deck. He made no sound, the shot dropping him instantly.

Rage ruptured in Clint’s belly like a bad appendix. He lunged toward the man. “You sick bastard.”

But the distance between them was to the gunman’s advantage. He sidestepped. Clint fell against the galley counter, sagging with each exhale. “Why?”

The gunman swayed. “Stay out of the way.”

Clint scanned the items around him for anything he could use as a weapon. The kitchen knives. Only half a step away. He eased toward the knife block on the counter.

“Go. Up the stairs.” The gunman gestured with the gun. “I came to warn you. Stay out of the way. Or blood will continue to flow.”

Clint bit his lip. He looked up the stairs toward Louie. The dog tried to warn him. Louie would have probably rolled over and let the sonovabitch scratch his belly. There was no cause. Only making a point.