by Graham Smith
I unscrew the cap and sniff the contents. I’m not certain, but I think it’s brake fluid. It might work as a temporary distraction if I can splash some onto his face and eyes. While he’s recovering, I can jump out and land a few heavy punches before he gets his sight back. If he drops the Taser so he can rub his eyes I’ll be able to use it against him.
As much as the confined space allows me, I stretch and move my limbs to prepare them for a sudden assault.
I hear the familiar and distinctive riff of Smoke on the Water followed by Ian Gillan’s voice as I reach down and unpick my laces. I kick off my boots, gather them to my chest and re-thread the laces through the top eyelets only.
Wrapping my left hand into the loose end, I leave a clear foot between my hand and the boots. It’s a rudimentary weapon, but it’s the best I can come up with.
A pat of my pockets shows I have my cell with me. The battery might be dead but it may still be traceable. As soon as Cuthbert raises the alarm, Alfonse’s first idea will be to triangulate my cell. I just hope he’s quick.
Another concern is Cuthbert has been killed. While taciturn and monosyllabic, he isn’t a bad guy. I’d hate to be the reason he lost his life. I know I’d feel guilty for the rest of mine.
The music changes again, but I don’t know this song. In the quiet of the changeover, I also detect the sound of tyres on gravel. The car is moving slower and the road rougher.
I tense, expecting the car to stop as soon as it reaches its destination.
79
The car draws to a halt. Every fibre of my body is tensed ready to spring into action. I’ll only get one chance to attack Norm. I have to make it count.
I’ve rehearsed this moment in my mind at least a dozen times. Splash the brake fluid in his eyes, leap out and swing the boots into the side of his head. Then it will be a case of throwing endless punches until I’ve subdued him.
Like all plans it can fall apart due to the slightest miscalculation.
I hear the car door slam and footsteps crunching gravel. The trunk pops open but the lid doesn’t rise at once. I wait for a Taser wielding arm to snake in.
It doesn’t come.
There’s two more footsteps, then the trunk lid is raised.
I don’t see any sign of Norm.
What’s his game? Is he playing with me? Hunting me?
Whatever he’s up to, I can’t do anything about it lying here. I swing my legs out and look around. It’s too dark to make out where we are, but my nose is picking up country smells.
I see him standing at the side of the trunk, out of immediate reach.
I try throwing the brake fluid anyway, but he sees it coming and ducks his head away.
Using his movement to my advantage, I stand up and swing my improvised weapon at his head.
A boot catches the edge of the trunk and collides with its mate, knocking my swing off target. The boots hit Norm’s shoulder, but they’ve lost most of their momentum and don’t have the desired effect.
He straightens as I throw a vicious right cross. It’s a glory punch, but I’m desperate. My intention is to lay him out with a single blow and end this fight.
Norm sees it coming and jerks back, roaring in pain as my fist crashes into the side of his nose.
The momentum of my punch carries me past him and I feel a solid fist hitting my ribcage a second before I feel the sting of his Taser on my chest.
Once again it incapacitates me. I lie on the gravel trying to force some control into my thrashing limbs without success.
I’m aware of him wrapping something around my arms, but confusion has returned to my mind and I know little other than the fact he’s binding me.
I also know I’ll be unable to offer any resistance if I’m tied up, so I struggle harder but with the same lack of cohesion. If I can’t get free he’ll be able to kill me at his leisure.
It’s useless; the jolt from the Taser has done exactly what it’s supposed to.
His hands grab my ankles and I again hear the rasp of tape being pulled from a roll. He turns me over and puts a knee in my back as he binds my feet together.
The rough gravel scrapes my face but it’s the least of my concerns. Now I’ve been tied up, I’m at his mercy. My only hope of rescue comes from Alfonse tracing my cell via a signal that may no longer be transmitting.
Norm flips me onto my back and raises me to a sitting position.
Strong hands grab my arms and I’m hauled upright. He bends a knee and places his shoulder into my gut.
A second later he straightens and sets off walking with me slumped over his shoulder.
He’s only been carrying me for a minute before I hear a sound that chills me to the bone. It’s a pleasureable sound to most, but it scares me more than anything Norm can do.
The smell of lake water rises to my nose. Combined with the lapping of small waves, I figure we must be at Panchtraik Reservoir.
Norm carries me along a small jetty and dumps me into a small motor launch. It’s about twenty feet long at most and there must be a dozen or so of them on the reservoir. They’re used for fishing and family days out.
As I’m dumped into the stern seating area, I spot the name Melanie stencilled onto a life preserver.
It was his wife’s name. Therefore, this must be his boat.
Terror freezes me as I remember the songs he was listening to as he drove here. There’s no question about it. He plans to drown me. The watery thread running through his choice of music was him wringing every drop of pleasure from the experience.
I search the bottom of the boat for anything I can use as a weapon. My eyes find nothing but shadows. As my night vision increases, I see there is nothing there but the sterile base of the boat.
He starts the engine and casts off. The engine putters until he clears the jetty and then as he opens the throttle it deepens. I get the impression he could go faster but he’s wanting to draw this out for me. He wants me to know what’s coming and fear it.
I won’t admit it to him, no matter what he does to me. But if he’s trying to terrify me, he’s more than succeeded.
As I try and struggle free of the tape binding my wrists and ankles, I feel something scratch my arm. It’s a rough screw head or something like that, but it may just be sharp enough to cut the tape.
I wriggle until I can feel the screw head snagging on the tape. Moving with care, I rub the tape back and forth hoping it doesn’t resist the short spike. Another concern is the noise of the tape snapping could alert Norm. I have to do this in silence.
I feel it digging into the tape without any of the effect I’m desiring. Pressing harder, I keep going in the hope it will wear its way through.
My shoulder aches from the yank it received yesterday. Although the pain is a lot easier to ignore than the prospect of drowning.
Five minutes of rubbing later, I hear the engine note change. It softens to a gentle throb as it slows until it’s ticking over on idle. Putting my muscles to work, I pull against the tape and feel less resistance.
80
Norm turns away from the controls and faces me for the first time since casting off.
‘You’ve gotten off lightly, Boulder.’ His voice is filled with contemptuous malevolence. ‘I wanted a far worse fate for you than drowning. One that would have you screaming in agony. Leave you begging for death. Instead the fates have been kind.’
I want to ask him how, but the tape over my mouth prevents it.
‘When I picked the method out of the bowl, you got lucky. They say drowning is one of the most peaceful ways to die.’ His grin is wicked in the pale moonlight. ‘You’ve dodged being doused in gasoline and set alight, being buried alive or having your flesh peeled off as I towed you along the highway. But instead of getting any of those excruciating ways to die, you got lucky, you got an easy way.’
Listening to him speak, I’m struck by the lack of reality he’s experiencing. He’s not just killing people; he’s selecting the most horrif
ic ways imaginable. Not content with taking their lives, he has to exercise his superiority by having them plead and beg.
It’s what he wants from me.
As much as the thought of drowning terrifies me, I’m not prepared to give him the satisfaction of hearing me ask for clemency. Given the choice, I’d take buried alive over drowning every time. Even the short-lived but excruciating agony of incineration seems preferable to having water force its way into my lungs.
‘I see the terror in your eyes. You know I’ve won. As clever as you may think yourself, you’ve just lost the most important game of all. You’re going to be my thirty-fourth victim. I’ll be remembered as one of the greatest serial killers ever. You’ll be just another line on the list of my victims.’ He raises a hand as if scanning a headline. ‘Jake Boulder. Drowned.’
Not if I can help it I won’t. His megalomania isn’t going to cost me my life. All the time he’s been talking, I’ve thrashed as if trying to free myself, while continuing the sawing movements against the sharpness behind me.
I can feel my bonds starting to give. Not enough to break free, but enough to suggest that moment isn’t far away.
He bends down and looks at me from a distance of two feet. Too far to strike with a head butt, yet far closer than I want him to be. The meek Norm has been replaced by a feral killer enjoying his work.
He pulls a knife from his pocket. Despite being stiletto thin it catches the moonlight and my attention.
What I wouldn’t give to be the one holding the knife. I’ve never before felt such fear. Or the level of hatred I’m experiencing. The MacDonald blood may be rushing in my ears, but my every focus is on the knife as it moves towards my face.
Norm is in no hurry. The knife takes an age to come forward. So long, I have time to consider throwing myself forward onto it. If I get the angle right, the knife should slide through my eye and pierce my brain.
A far preferable death to drowning, it will also rob him of his chosen method. It would be a hollow victory, but a hollow victory is always better than a resounding defeat.
I dismiss the idea. I’m not ready to die yet. There’s still fight in me.
‘Keep very still and you won’t get hurt.’ He gives a maniacal laugh, uncaring about anyone else who may be on the lake. ‘Yet.’
The tip of the knife pushes at the tape covering my mouth. Once, twice then a third time he makes a tiny hole.
I understand what he’s doing. Air and water will get in but shouts for help won’t get out.
The knife is returned to his pocket.
The clenched fist that hits my temple moves so fast I don’t see it coming.
I almost black out, but manage to retain some kind of awareness.
He stoops over me and removes the rope holding me in position. Stepping back, he grabs the lapels of my shirt and yanks me out of my seat. I fly past the point of balance and plunge head first over the side of the boat.
81
I slip into the dark water and the first thing I feel is cold. Not just the cold of the water, but utter, bone-chilling panic. I feel momentum pushing me down. Gravity and my struggles are helping me to sink ever deeper, so I try and force myself to be calm.
I fail. Badly.
As I thrash around under the water, I feel every sinew stretching itself to breaking point. The tape binding my arms snaps under the stress of my frenzied contortions. Having them free takes the edge off my terror. I have never learned to swim, but at least I have a half chance of not drowning if I have the use of my arms.
Slamming the panic down, I use brain instead of brawn for a moment.
My lungs are full of air but I know it won’t last me long. Not with the way I’ve been fighting my bonds. Not with my head so far from the surface.
I blow a tiny amount of precious breath through my nose and feel the bubbles pass over my chin.
Now I know which way is up, I claw towards the surface. My movements are ungainly but I feel the weight of the water pushing down on me lessen. I’m making progress.
My head breaks the surface for a second and then I start to sink all over again.
Is this what is to become of me? Bobbing up and down from the depths to the surface until my strength wanes and I inhale lake water?
The other danger is Norm sitting on his boat watching. A crack from the boathook he’d used to push off from the jetty will knock me unconscious. Hell, he won’t even have to hit me with it, he can just use it to hold me under the water.
As I flap my way to the surface for a second time, I dig a nail under the tape over my mouth and yank the tape free. It stings, but a kiss from a supermodel couldn’t open my mouth right now, so there’s no way a yelp of pain is going to happen.
This time when I break the surface, I get a decent lungful of air. I also open my eyes for the first time since entering the water.
Norm is standing on the boat with his back to me. I see him turning as I slip beneath the water.
While I know I can’t keep up this rhythm for long, every time I break the surface feels like a victory as well as a chance to replace the spent air in my lungs. With two of Norm’s three pieces of tape removed from my body, I start figuring how to remove the third.
Stuffing a hand into my pocket, I draw out the key to my apartment. It’s a Yale key with a rough serrated edge. With it clamped between my fingers, I saw at the tape around my ankles.
It snags and tears at the coarse tape. Feeling the key slipping, I realign my fingers and ignore the fact I’m sinking as I resume my attack.
With my ankles free, I start to kick and claw upwards. There’s a strong temptation to flail and panic, but I know I must retain the small measure of control I have. If I lose my head now, I may never taste air again.
This time when I break the surface, my eyes can’t find the boat or Norm. Either he’s started the engine and struck out for home or the moon is behind a cloud and the boat is shrouded in darkness.
Despite him trying to kill me, I now feel his disappearance as a form of abandonment. At least when he and his boat were here, there was the tiniest glimmer of hope that I may be able to somehow board the boat without Norm knowing and overpower him.
Now the boat is gone, even that slim chance has been stolen from me.
My head ducks below the surface again. A couple of strong kicks from my legs solves the problem. I’ll never achieve proficiency as a swimmer, but I’m managing to keep my head above the water with increasing regularity.
I can feel my breathing settle into a more normal rhythm than the frenzied gasps I’ve been giving.
While I may be literally keeping my head above water, this submerging and fighting to get to the surface isn’t going to work as a long-term solution.
I cast my mind back to the many pool parties I’ve attended – I remember Alfonse and others splashing around in the water. A memory strikes me as a bolt of inspiration.
Kira lying on her back in Claude’s pool. She’d lain motionless in the water with her face turned to the sky. She’d looked so relaxed, letting the water support her.
When she wanted to move she just kicked her legs, the action enough to propel her steadily towards her destination. Her movements had been so languid and graceful they were on the point of being balletic. I can’t begin to emulate her grace, but I love the idea of keeping my mouth and nose above the water.
I tilt my head back and give firm kicks with my legs. It’s enough to set me off backwards. I won’t win any awards for style, but I’m moving. On top of the water instead of underneath it. I realise the good fortune in taking off my heavy boots to use as a weapon. My feet would have been forever pulled downward by their weight. Norm removing the cumbersome bulletproof vest from me is also working in my favour.
If the need for stealth wasn’t so great, I’d cheer. Despite my fear of water, I haven’t drowned yet.
The next concern is which way to go. I know Panchtraik Reservoir is shaped like a kidney bean and I don’t have to be a
genius to work out Norm has dumped me overboard as near to the middle as possible.
Floating as I am, I have no idea which way is the shortest to shore. The reservoir is at its longest on a southeast–northwest axis, so the shortest way to shore is northeast or southwest.
Without the light of the moon or stars to guide me, I have no way of knowing whether the direction I’m taking is the best or worst.
A flash of light attracts my eye. I lift my head towards it, but stop the movement as soon as my feet start to sink.
A voice carries across the water. Strong and confident. ‘I know you’re still alive, Boulder. I can hear you splashing. I’m coming for you.’
82
I slow the kicking of my feet until they drift under the surface. My back is arched and my arms are frog-kicking to help propel me away from Norm’s flashlight.
Direction no longer seems so important. As long as I’m moving away from the light, I’m heading towards safety.
The beam of the flashlight plays across the water. It doesn’t find me, but it’s searching the right area.
Norm is steady and calculated with his sweeps. He’s moving outwards a couple of feet at a time.
His actions speak of calm, of training, of experience in managing life or death situations.
I recall what Alfonse unearthed about him. He’s a trained Marine with gaps in his service history, which speak of secondment to a black ops or Special Forces unit.
He’s in a boat hunting a man who’s only just learned to swim. Never mind the smart money, even dumb folks would back him against me at this point in time.
I increase my efforts to put a greater distance between me and the flashlight. I’m desperate to thrash my legs but I daren’t make a sound.
