Chill Waters (31 page)

“
So what makes you think you’ll find it this time?” Charlie had asked, resting the oars in their locks, fishing his cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

“’
Cause I got my good buddy with me, that’s why. We’ll find it together and do an even split just like I promised. Uh, don’t think you should light up…”

Charlie returned the pack to his pocket. “Not as stupid as you look are you, Jimmy boy?” Jimmy smiled that shit-eating grin of his.

“
Jeez, Charlie, I’m freezing,” he whined, hugging himself tighter against the biting wind. “Let’s go man.” When Charlie didn’t answer, the weasel tried to seduce him with talk of his Aunt Ethel’s good cooking, coffee that burned your mouth, steaks smothered in onions and beds with sweet-smelling sheets. His aunt would take care of them. A God-fearing woman, she would have forgiven Jimmy Ray by now. She’d be glad to see them, he said.

There was only mild puzzlement in Jimmy Ray’s eyes when Charlie drew only one oar from its oarlock and stood up in the boat, careful to plan his feet firmly to keep the boat from rocking too much.

Jimmy opened his mouth probably to ask him what the hell he was doing, but the oar was already arching through the air. It connected with the side of his head in a dull thuck Jimmy never heard, leaving a deep dent in his skull, just above his left ear. He had slid bonelessly over in his seat, mouth still open in protest, blood streaming blackly down the side of his face.

Charlie picked him up in his arms and dropped him over the side. Barely made a splash.

But Jimmy Ray didn’t sink right away, instead floated just beneath the surface of the water, the moonlight catching his pale eyes, making them seem alive, giving Charlie a creepy feeling. Son-of-a-bitch can’t even die right.

Using both hands, he’d measured the oar carefully against Jimmy’s midsection, then gave it a hard thrust. He watched with satisfaction as Jimmy Ray sank out of sight, the water closing over him like a black-silver curtain, just as if Jimmy never was.

Nothing personal, Jimmy old boy. I just like to travel alone.

He
was
a loner, he thought now as he spread the blanket on the floor for what would be its final purpose. In fact
loner
was one of the words the media used to describe him. He liked the term; it made him sound special, above needing anyone else. Don’t know how he got hooked up with the weasel in the first place
. Downtime, you might say.

The thumping against the closet door was growing more insistent. Regret was heavy in him. She had betrayed him again. This was her own doing.

You’re mistaken, Charlie. Just as you were mistaken about the others. She’s not Marie. Marie is dead.

“No, you lie,” he railed at the voice inside his head.

Hearing his cry, Rachael’s skin crawled with fear and dread. Why hadn’t he killed her before now? What was he waiting for? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. In fact, she was quite sure she didn’t. I have to get out of here. I have to. She cried out, a muffled sound through the tape covering her mouth. Her breathing had become shallow, rapid. She was starting to hyperventilate. Get it together, Rachael. She concentrated on breathing through her nose, letting it out slowly. She began to feel calmer. She’d been about to give the door another bump with her shoulder when it opened. He was looking down at her, face unreadable. Then he said, “I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth. Don’t scream. Not that anyone will hear you. But don’t.”

She shook her head to reassure him. Neither brutal nor gentle, he peeled off the tape. Her mouth stung briefly, but that was okay. She could breathe. “Thank you,” she said, voice raspy, dry. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

He paused, then undid the tape from her wrists and ankles. He had to help her to her feet, but she managed to walk to the washroom on her own, albeit on shaky legs. She closed the door after her. Saw that there was no lock. Never mind. The important thing was that she was untied. This might be the last time she was, giving her her one and only chance to escape this madman. But how?

After relieving herself, Rachael righted her clothes. As she did her eyes darted around the small space for something to use as a weapon. She was about to give up hope when she spotted a can of Lysol on the floor, half-hidden behind the toilet. She picked it up as if it were a bar of gold. Thank you.

“Hurry up,” her captor said through the door.

“Just a minute.”

Grimly determined and at the same more terrified than she had ever been in her life, Rachael pointed the nozzle of the can at the door, hopefully in line with his eyes. Her finger poised on the button as if it were the trigger of a gun. She willed her hand steady. Even though she was expecting it, when he banged on the door with his fist, she jumped a foot, nearly dropping the can. Fear threatened to engulf her. Focus, Rachael. Focus. He wouldn’t wait long. She was right about that.

When he yanked the door open she depressed the button, aimed directly into his eyes.

Nothing happened.

Thirty-Eight

Iris tried Rachael’s number for the tenth time. Getting no answer, she replaced the receiver, took to wandering about the livingroom, trying to decide on the best place to hang the plaque she’d received last night. An activity designed to take her mind off Rachael. It wasn’t working.

Iris had practically insisted that Rachael spend the night here last night, rather than going home. Not that it had done any good. Even Peter had raised an eyebrow at his aunt’s adamance. She supposed she could have told Rachael the real reason she didn’t want her to be alone in that housethat the ‘bad feelings’ were on full power. But it would only have frightened her and spoiled what had otherwise been a delightful evening. There are worse things then a spoiled evening, Iris.

She’d heard nothing from Doctor Whittaker since sending him the package. Of course it was Sunday and perhaps he took his day of rest seriously. More likely though that he thought she was some kind of crackpot and had tossed her package in the garbage. She prayed that at least he had looked at the photo of Rachael, compared it with the one in the article.

Last week while snapping a few photographs of Rachael’s latest work to show Hedda, she’d impulsively snapped one of Rachael. In it, Rachael was wearing the apron, had clay on her hands and a dab on her forehead. But since that was the only photo she had of Rachael, it was the one she’d sent to Doctor Whittaker. Surely he would see the strong resemblance to Marie Morley even if Rachael couldn’t.

Iris hung the brass and wood plaque on the wall above the sideboard. Straightening it, she wondered if displaying it on her wall would make her seem pretentious. Well, so be it.

It
had
been a wonderful evening. How elegant Rachael had looked in the winter-white dress, slim as a model, seeming to glow from within. Iris understood part of the reason for the glow, even if Rachael wasn’t ready to admit it yet. She was a woman in love.

And what a lovely couple they made. Everyone had said so. Such a long time since she had seen Peter looking so happy, or so dapper. And Rachael had, over these past few months, become like a daughter to her.

Iris went to the window, parted the curtains enough to reveal a smattering of stars in the darkening sky.

Where could she be?

She could be anywhere, she answered her own question. Rachael is an adult, free to come and go as she pleases. True. But it did little to stop her worrying. Maybe she’s not feeling well and isn’t answering the phone. Or maybe she can’t answer it…

Iris was getting into her coat when the phone rang. She snapped up the receiver before it could ring twice. But it wasn’t Rachael as she’d hoped. It was Elton Sorrel on the phone, informing her that he’d had a call from a Doctor Alan Whittaker, and wanted to drop over and have a talk with her about her friend, Rachael Warren.

Doctor Whittaker must believe there is something to all this to have phoned the police, she thought. As relieved as she was that the doctor had taken the matter seriously, it also frightened her.

Waiting for Elton, she picked up yesterday’s unread paper from the sofa, tried to find something interesting enough to distract her until he got here. Didn’t find anything. (In tomorrow’s paper she would read a write-up of the fire, in which Captain Sorrel would be quoted as saying in reference to the death of Nate Prichard: “Booze and a welding torch don’t mix.”)

Iris checked her watch. Ten to seven.
Something is wrong at Rachael’s. Something is definitely wrong.

The doorbell rang, and as Iris hurried to answer she detected, ever so faintly, the scent of Evening in Paris in the air.

Thirty-Nine

From the look on Charlie’s face, it was a toss-up as to which of them had been most surprised when the can of spray proved impotent. A myriad of emotions crossed his featuresshock, amusement and finally anger as he snapped the can from her hand and tossed it across the floor.

“Another good idea gone bad,” he said in mock sympathy. The nozzle had been plugged. Why hadn’t she had the sense to try it first? How could she have been so stupid? She might have succeeded in blinding him, at least long enough to allow her to escape.

“It’s time,” he said. Over her futile struggles he easily lifted her in his arms and carried her to the cot where he slapped another length of tape over her mouth, shutting off her screams. “Can’t have you disturbing the neighbors, can I?” he smirked. “You have to admit, Marie, I was quite brilliant in the execution of my plan, though in the end it failed. But you have only yourself to blame for that. You know, of course, that it was I who impaled the seagull to your cutting board. I who took the transmitter out of your phone. I put it back when you were in the kitchen making coffee. Just thought you’d like to know.

The entire time he was retying her wrists and ankles he bragged about his cleverness, by turns cursing her betrayal of him. When he began to wrap her in the moldy-smelling blanket, covering her face with it, Rachael panicked. She struggled frantically to free herself, but it was no use.
Please, no, I don’t want to die.

Her silent pleas went unheard, as minutes later he lifted her in his arms and carried her across the floor, his boots making a hollow sound on the wood. She heard the click of the lock releasing. They were outside now; she could feel the cold night air through the thin blanket as he carried her down a hill. Toward the beach.

“The water in the ditch wasn’t deep enough to keep you in the grave,” he said. “The bay will be.” His mouth pressed against her ear as he whispered through the blanket, “I love you, Marie.”

Seconds later, she felt herself being lowered, ever so gently, into what she guessed rightly was the bottom of a boat. As he laid her down, sharp pain stabbed between her shoulder blades, lifted her bodily. Although the lifting was really only in her mind. She tried to cry out but managed only a faint moan through the tape and blanket. He had placed her directly on the point of a protruding nail, which dug savagely into her flesh. Rachael strained to arch herself off the nail, and succeeded to a small degree. She both felt and heard the boat being dragged over the sand, then sliding free into the water. It dipped and swayed as he got in.

They were moving now, boat slicing through the water, waves lapping against the sides. The blanket was rough and scratchy against her face, made worse from the salt of her tears. It was so hard to breathe, suffocating. But she knew that to panic would just make it worse. She must stay calm. There had to be a way to save herself. But how? She was bound hand and foot, wrapped like a mummy in this blanket. She knew that as soon as they were far out enough to suit him, he would simply toss her over the side.

How long did it take to drown? Would her body too be found washed up on some rocks? Or would she never be found? Her children never to know what happened to her. This last thought filled her with new determination. She would not die without a fight.

Holding her body above the nail as much as was physically possible, at the same time straining against the tape that bound her wrists under her, she tried to claw at the tape with her fingers, stretching her fingers as far as they would go, but it was no use. The harder she struggled the deeper the nail bore into her back. She tried to roll away from the searing pain, and found some relief in this way. Even in her misery it struck Rachael that if she could just get her wrists positioned over the point of the nail, then maybe she could tear the tape binding them.

She could try. She could at least try. Pushing past the pain, Rachael began inching herself backward, toward the stern. It was a slow and agonizing process, with the nail digging into her back, tearing her flesh in direct proportion to her progress. The tears came of their own accord and she tried to ignore them. She would wait for the fire in her back to subside to a steady flare, then start the process again. Stop. Wait. Repeat. All the while she prayed that her efforts would not be in vain, and that she wouldn’t pass out in the meantime. There were moments when the pain was so severe she thought she would go mad.