by Lisa Jackson
As soon as they were away from shore, the captain hit the gas, and the boat roared to life.
Behind them, the lights along the shore were brilliant and festive, reflecting in the water and thankfully receding as they headed out to sea. The cutter knifed through the water, salt spray and wind pushing against Bentz’s face as he searched the darkness, silently praying that his wife was alive. Safe. That there was still time.
Montoya and Hayes were talking over the thrum of the engines and the swish of water.
Strategizing.
But Bentz could only think of Olivia and what she was going through. He felt impotent and weak. All his training, all his years working as a cop, and he couldn’t save her.
His hands curled over the railing. Hang in there, he thought. Oh, Livvie, hang in there.
With each sound from above, a footstep, a chair being scraped against the decking, a rattle of chains, Olivia jumped. “Focus, Olivia,” she told herself. “Focus.”
But things had changed, something with the engines…a different noise…Then she saw it. Water seeping across the floor, soaking the pages of the album…still just a little but…“Please, please…no.” Spit rose in her mouth as she thought of drowning.
Where was it coming from? Could she stop it? Plug the leak? Oh, God, where was the source? In a frenzy, she spun around, staring at every inch of the flooring, but saw no gaping hole in the hull, no split in the seams of the vessel. There was nothing she could do to stop the inevitable. Whatever the psycho had planned was already happening. Olivia had no choice but to hope beyond hope her plan would thwart the killer’s deadly intentions. She just had to stay the course.
Setting her jaw, she yanked the last pages from the album and dragged each, along with the leather bindings, into the cage with her, where she pulled the plastic from each thick cardboard page. Then, with bloody pictures of Bentz and his family falling onto the wet floor, she rolled one piece of cardboard into a small bat, leaned far through the iron bars again and started whacking at the camera. It took several swipes in midair before she actually connected.
Bam!
The camera didn’t budge.
“Damn it!”
Again!
Nothing.
The camera remained unscathed. Standing. The red light a small malicious and mocking eye staring at her, recording her futile movements. “You son of a bitch,” she said and took another swipe.
Another hit.
Still the camera stood.
“Bastard!”
Now, there was more water. Sloshing over the floor, wet and cold under her feet. She swallowed hard. How long for a boat of this size to sink?
An hour?
Two?
Or less?
She took in a long, calming breath.
Concentrated.
Gave the camera another shot.
Whack! A solid blow, but the camera barely shimmied. Maybe she was going at this all wrong…she eyed the tripod and took stock. Come on Olivia, you can do better than this. Hurry up! You’re running out of time.
The legs of the tripod were bolted into the floor, yes, but they telescoped and, she thought, might be weak at the joints.
Only one way to tell.
Rolling up and using page after page of the album, she beat at the tripod’s closest leg, shaking the contraption, making it wobble as the water and her panic rose. “Die, you bastard,” she muttered, then grabbed the plastic-bound cover. It was stronger, the frame beneath the smooth simulated oxblood leather either plastic or metal or wood.
It didn’t matter which.
She only stopped to listen once, trying to discern where her jailer was, but she couldn’t get a bead on the woman, heard only the groan of the boat as it began to list slightly and the horrifying slosh of water as it rose, splashing her calves.
The boat was going down.
Fight, Olivia! You can do this!
Terrified, she started swinging like crazy, smashing the cover into the tripod’s legs, swinging with all her strength, her fingers clenched over her makeshift weapon.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
All sounds above stopped.
No footsteps. No scrapes of metal on metal. Nothing but the spookiness of the empty, rapidly-filling hull. Olivia’s teeth were already chattering, her fingers numb, her fear at the quietude complete.
Give me strength, she silently prayed. Please.
Then the sound of footsteps. Fast and furious.
Olivia froze, the album cover raised for a final assault, cold water sloshing around her knees. Her pulse was pounding in her brain, her senses heightened as she strained to listen. More footsteps. Her gaze turned to the stairs as the door above opened.
“What the hell?” the woman yelled. “What’s that banging? What’s going on down there?”
Damn!
Suddenly the footsteps were ringing down the steps.
No!
Olivia wasn’t ready.
She threw another blow at the tripod, hitting hard as her attacker descended. Wearing a wet suit, she dropped to the floor of the hold, splashing water.
The camera teetered.
Olivia gave the tripod a final whack!
The legs gave way and the camera flopped off its base and fell into the water.
“Noooo! What the hell is this?” her attacker demanded, an expression of sheer horror on her face. “You miserable bitch, stop it!” She was sloshing through the salt water, trying to reach the camera as it sank.
Olivia fell to her knees, her hands scrabbling outside the cage, trying to reach the camera, water splashing around her face. She held her breath. Scrabbled frantically. Her finger grazed the side of the camera. It floated off. She tried again, sweeping it with a paddling motion toward the bars.
“Hey!” the woman screeched. “No! Stop! What do you think you’re doing?” She lunged through the water to the cage.
Olivia’s fingers curved over the handle and she pulled. The camera hit the bars and she nearly dropped it.
Her attacker sprang forward.
Gulping salt water, Olivia adjusted the camera so that it slipped through the bars to the inside of the cage.
Freezing, she was coughing and choking on the briny seawater, but she didn’t care as she turned the lens on the woman who’d abducted her, the woman glaring at her and standing knee-deep in water.
“Give it back.”
Olivia, seeing the red light was still glowing, kept filming.
“I said, give it back to me right now, you little bitch!”
“Come and get it.” Even if she pulled out a gun, or the Taser again, Olivia wouldn’t give up her prize.
The woman was freaking. “I said…” Her gaze swept the interior of the cage where her pictures were floating in the water. “What? You tore up my album!” Her eyes rounded in pure horror. “No! You couldn’t.” As pages reached the edge of the cage, she reached through, plucking them up. “No…no, this isn’t right! This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.” She picked up each page and held it high overhead, shaking them off. “Oh God, what’s wrong with you? You can’t…” She spied more of the pages inside the cage, far from her, the pictures scattered, the bloody plastic sheaths cast aside.
“No!” She was fumbling with her keys, desperate to retrieve the album. “No, this is all wrong.”
Olivia just kept on filming.
“Look what you’ve done!” She was frantic, desperate to retrieve what was left of the soggy, disintegrating album. “You screwed everything up! You’re ruining everything!” Her frustration and paranoia mounted and for the first time, it seemed, she realized her actions were being caught on camera.
“Give that back to me now!”
Olivia wasn’t in the mood. Shivering, keeping her tormentor in her viewfinder, she said, “You want it, bitch? Then come and get it.”
“There she is!” the skipper yelled over the cutter’s engines and the rush of wind. They were jetting through the dark water, leaving a whi
te wake behind.
“Oh, shit, she’s listing.”
Bentz squinted into the night, saw the Merry Anne in the powerful beam of the search light.
His heart fell to the floor as he saw the skipper was right; the vessel was leaning hard to one side, sinking fast.
“No,” he whispered, disbelieving. “Oh, God, no!” Against everyone’s protests, he’d donned a wet suit with the intent of boarding, but now the captain was pulling up short. “Get closer!”
“No. We’d better leave this to the Guard,” he said. Already rescuers were trying to board the smaller craft. “Just wait.”
Not a chance.
“Pull up closer,” Bentz insisted.
He thought Montoya would argue. Instead, he turned to Hayes and ordered: “Do it.”
The cutter drew alongside the listing boat. “Really Bentz, you should leave this to the professionals,” Hayes warned. They were less than twenty feet from the sinking Merry Anne. “You’ll only get in the way.”
“I am a professional,” Bentz reminded him as he climbed onto the railing. “And it’s my damned wife.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Hayes lunge, ready to restrain him, but Montoya caught the L.A. detective’s arm. “Let him go.”
Bentz focused on the boat, looming larger as they closed in. Twelve feet away…eight feet…five…At that second, Bentz jumped.
The killer’s plan was falling apart.
As her precious photos swirled on the surface of the rising water, she gathered them, one by one. “No, no, no!” she whined, temporarily forgetting her prisoner. “All my work…years…oh, God, this can’t be happening…my photographs!” She seemed near the brink of tears as water sloshed around her waist and Olivia, fighting cramps and freezing, caught her paranoia on film. Plastic pages floated past, photos curled as they became saturated with water. Olivia’s back was pressed against the bars, the boat tilting at a frightening angle. In a few minutes it would be over. She had to get the damned keys!
Plastic pages floated past.
Olivia thought she heard a noise, a thud. Oh, Jesus, was the boat breaking apart?
The woman heard it as well and she seemed to snap back to reality, noticed again that she was being caught on film.
“Give me back the camera!”
“I said come and get it.” Olivia stood firm, propped by the steel bars, the camera trained on the bitch’s face. Water was splashing above her waist now, weighing her down.
“Damn it!” the woman held the wet photos against her with one hand and struggled with her keys in the other.
“Who are you?” Olivia said. “You might want to tell the viewers your name so you get all the credit that’s due you. Let’s see, is your name…Dawn?” Olivia guessed, remembering that Bentz had once been involved with a cop by that name.
“Stop it.”
“Or are you Bonita…was that it?”
“That bitch? No way!” She snorted in disgust. “Bentz must have mentioned me.”
“I don’t think so.”
Another thud…oh, God, the boat was going down!
“Sure he did. Corrine. Right?”
Olivia shook her head. This woman was Corrine O’Donnell? Of course she’d heard the name before, but she wasn’t going to give this twisted killer the satisfaction. The boat groaned menacingly.
“Corrine. I worked with him. Dated him. Jesus, we slept together and…he loved me. We…we dated twice, almost lived together but then he left me. Both times for Jennifer…” Her voice trailed off. “They all leave, you know. Every one of them but Bentz…I was fool enough to have trusted him twice and he left me alone…all alone…” She shuddered, then, as if realizing she was letting on too much, focused on Olivia again. “I should have used the stun gun on you again!” Another picture passed by, this one of her with Bentz.
She let out a little squeak of denial, then snatched it up. She nearly lost the keys, trying to unlock the gate, “But I wanted you to fight. I wanted ‘RJ’ to see you straining to breathe your last pathetic breath, and now…” She gasped as the keys fell from her fingers, drifting through the bars to the inside of the cage.
Panicked, she tried to stretch her hand into the cage to take hold of them.
Olivia, seeing her chance, shoved the woman back. If she could snatch the keys and unlock the gate, maybe make it to the stairs…
The boat let out a long, low moan and the lights flickered. Olivia’s heart sank. It was now or never!
Taking in a gulp of air, Olivia spotted the fallen keys, then dove down. Her hair and clothes floated around her. On the floor of the cage, the keys glistened enticingly as she reached for them.
To her horror she saw the killer’s hand snake through the bars even further, her index finger catching the ring!
No! Olivia thought, her lungs protesting, her abdomen still cramping. No!
She surfaced at the same moment the killer did and thrust her arms through the rails, her fingers tangling in the woman’s hair and pulling her under.
Her assailant struggled, wrenching back, whipping her head around.
Olivia hung on. If she was going to drown, by God, this woman was going to drown, too! Struggling, fighting, splashing, they fought. Twisting, turning. Olivia’s lungs felt as if they would burst. Oh Lord, help me…
Again she thought she heard something.
But not the boat keening. No…it was different. Shouts?
Footsteps?
Could someone be on the boat? Oh, God, please!
The lights flickered again.
She took in another huge gulp of air mixed with salt water.
Coughing, sputtering, hanging on for dear life, she dragged the killer’s head closer to the bars and swung hard with the camera, connecting with the woman’s skull. Thud! A sickening crunch.
Blood stained the water.
More shouts from above!
“Help,” she screamed. “Help! Down here!”
Corrine grabbed her by the neck and dragged her down. Olivia, gasping, took in air and water as together they sank below the surface.
No! No! No!
Olivia thrashed wildly.
Corrine’s grip tightened. Their eyes met. Corrine was smiling beneath the water, her dark hair and a spreading plume of blood fanning around her, her eyes bright and psychotic. I’ve got you, she said without words. You and your baby are going to die right now!
Olivia’s lungs were on fire.
The world was swirling, swimming. She tried to pry Corrine’s death grip from her throat.
She couldn’t hold on. She needed air!
Feebly, Olivia struck again with the camera, connecting with Corrine’s forehead.
Then the lights went out.
Were those footsteps? Frantic voices? The sound of angels calling?
In the darkness she felt the camera slip from her fingers…felt Corrine’s hands on her throat…felt herself drifting away in the cold and the blackness…
Her abdomen ached and she thought of the baby and of Rick Bentz. I love you, she thought and saw the light, the round white light as if it were in a tunnel.
We’re dying, she thought, floating upward. My baby and I…we’re dying.
The lights went out just as Bentz and two rescuers from the Coast Guard entered the hold. He caught a glimpse of the two women struggling, separated by the horrible cage, Olivia trapped inside, Corrine on the outside. Blood diffusing in the salty water.
“No!” His voice ricocheted through the dark, cavernous hold as he raced down the stairs, his feet splashing in water covering the lower rungs.
“Hey, wait up, man,” one of the divers said, flipping on a flashlight that gave the interior of the listing bolt a weird, macabre look.
Bentz sprang, diving into the water, thrusting himself toward the cage, guided by the eerie light. He was vaguely aware of the others behind him, rescue workers with flashlights and crow bars and floatation devices.
A horrid gash cut across Corrine’s
forehead, still oozing blood as she looked up at him. “Bentz,” she said with a ghastly smile. “You son of a bitch. This is all your fault…she’s going to die, her and her baby, because of you.”
“No way,” he growled and pulled her away, flinging her toward one of the divers. “Arrest her!”
“No! You can’t!” Corrine was sputtering, blood coming up with her spittle.
Bentz ignored her, reaching for Olivia, who was drifting away from him, so blue and cold…He pulled Corrine away, then reached for Olivia through the bars. “Livvie!” he cried, holding her face above water. “Olivia!”
The boat let out a long groan, like a whale in death throes. “Let’s move it!” One of the rescue workers switched on a high-intensity under water light, illuminating the hold, showing Olivia floating inside her cage, her hair a golden mane on the waters’ surface.
“We’ve got her, sir!” one of the divers said as he found the keys and unlocked the cage. The other diver had dealt with Corrine, dragging her up the stairs, bracing himself against the wall as the boat sank deeper, shuddering. “Let her go…we’ll take care of it.”
“No!”
“Sir, please!” the order was sharp but Bentz ignored it. Olivia was his wife. She was barely breathing, but alive. He carried her up the stairs and she coughed.
“Olivia?”
She coughed again, a deep, racking cough, and he held her tight while she spewed salt water all over him as the boat shuddered, a horrid cracking sound ripping through it.
“Let’s get out of here now!” The divers pushed them forward, across the steep deck.
“Hold on,” he said, feeling the seams of the vessel, giving way.
“NOW!” With the help of the rescuers, Bentz helped Olivia into the cutter, just as the Merry Anne, with a final horrifying groan, cracked apart, timbers and glass sliding into the sea.
A medic attended to her while another worker wrapped Corrine in blankets in the next berth. She was barely breathing, her eyes fixed. “She’s still got a pulse,” the medic said, though Bentz didn’t care.
