LUANNE HAD JUST FINISHED tidying up the kitchen when she heard Frey bellow her name. She started for the porch but then realized his shouting was coming from the back hall. She found him in a state of great agitation, trying to pull on an oilcloth raincoat. He’d caught one arm in a tangle of musty-smelling green cloth and was struggling to free it.
“Help me with this damn rain gear,” he snarled.
“Are you going out in this, Mr. Frey?” Luanne said as she freed his arm and then held the raincoat so he could don it more easily.
“I should have done this long ago,” he said. “Long ago….”
“Mr. Frey, maybe you should sit down. You don’t look well. Have you had your pills?” He brushed past her so roughly that she staggered into the wall. “Mr. Frey?”
He went down the back hall to the servants’ entrance, down the narrow stairs to the rain soaked ground, along the path that led down to the dock. Luanne stood just inside the door and watched him. The chill she’d felt earlier returned in force as he walked out into the storm, descended to the dock and began untying the lines that secured the Chris-Craft. What was he doing? Where was he going in this awful weather?
He started the motor and immediately advanced the throttle. The engine was powerful and the sleek boat took the rough water in stride as he accelerated, not toward the other lodge, but toward the point of land that hid the west arm from his view. Luanne felt the cold creeping into her as she watched the boat rapidly dwindle into the distance, pass the point where the plane was tethered and disappear from sight.
Without realizing that she’d made any conscious decision, Luanne burst out of the servants’ entry and into the storm, heading for the boathouse where the old canoe was stashed. It would take her a good half hour of hard paddling to reach the other lodge, but Frey had the only motorboat and she had to warn Graham and Karen Whitten of her suspicions. The cold she felt was born of the fear of knowing just how deep the evil ran in the old billionaire’s bones, and that fear gave her the uncommon strength to drag the canoe to the water, weight the bow with rocks from the shore and leap into the stern, paddle in hand, ready to do battle with the stormy weather.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CARSON REELED IN THE towfish, protected his gear as well as he could, then shifted his weight forward to keep the nose of the inflatable down in the face of the stiff wind. He bailed while Libby drove. The boat had a ten horsepower motor but it was slow going, and the waves were building by the moment. He didn’t have to holler any piloting instructions to Libby. She was a natural. She read the surging lake waters as well as he could have, and her instinctive skills were the only thing that kept the boat from breaching when several rogue waves lifted it and the wind spun it around. Her feet were braced, her head was canted sideways against the rain, and she had both hands wrapped tightly around the tiller. There was no quit in her. Her spirit matched that of the lake itself, and the wildness of the storm. She was magnificent.
He threw back his head and shouted into the wind,
“The time and my intents are savage-wild,
More fierce and more inexorable far
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea!”
She flung the rain from her eyes with a dash of her head and shouted back, “What’s that?”
“Shakespeare. Didn’t you have to memorize any of his damn plays?”
“Not where I went to school.”
“Lucky girl. I had the lead in Romeo and Juliet. I still remember most of the lines, but unfortunately I died in the end.”
“Carson, the waves are getting worse!”
“You’re doing fine. Steady as she goes.”
“We don’t seem to be moving.”
“We’re moving. Mark your progress by the trees along the shore. We’re making headway. Slow but steady.”
“I’m sorry I made you come back out here.”
“I had nothing better to do,” he said, bailing. He straightened to slat the water over the side and his eyes fixed on a dark object looming out of the wave-tossed murk behind them. He cursed aloud when he recognized the shape of the Chris-Craft.
Libby shot a quick glance over her shoulder, then faced forward again to do battle with the oncoming waves. “It’s Frey, isn’t it!”
“Looks like it, and I doubt he’s out here looking to catch a fish. Can you make any better speed?”
She shook her head. “No, we’ll take too much water. Do you think he sees us?”
“I think he’s aiming straight for us,” Carson said, fear tightening like a fist in the pit of his stomach. They were still a long way from shore. On a calm day that distance would be nothing, but tonight the lake was anything but calm. He reached for the edge of the dodger’s framework and jerked it back, collapsing it onto the bow. “Listen to me, Libby,” he said, moving toward her, reaching down and cinching up the leg belts on her mustang suit, tightening her waist belt as the big wooden cruiser bore down on them. “If you go overboard, that mustang suit will keep you afloat and protect you against hypothermia. You’ll be okay, just keep swimming for shore.” He glanced up. The Chris-Craft was gaining on them rapidly.
He reached behind her. “There’s a zippered pocket below your hood that contains an uninflated air bladder,” he told her as his fingers worked the zipper, dug inside and pulled out a length of black tubing with a mouth valve on the end. He took the tiller from her and handed her the end of the tube. “Blow into the tube!” he shouted over the wind. “It will inflate the flotation device inside that pouch. Hurry, goddamit, we don’t have much time!”
Carson opened the throttle but he knew it was a futile gesture. The small motor on the rubber boat was no match for the Chris-Craft, which was quickly closing the distance between them. Over his shoulder and through the dark veil of rain Carson could see Frey standing at the helm. The crazy bastard! There was no way out of this situation. No way to outrun Frey’s boat, and no way to outmaneuver it.
“He’s going to ram us!” Carson shouted. “We’re going to have to jump before he hits our boat. Understand?”
Her eyes were round with fright, but she nodded.
“It’ll be hard for him to see us once we’re in the water. It’s getting darker and the waves are big but we’ll stick together and swim to shore.”
“Carson…!”
He glanced back again. They were out of time. He stood and seized the belt around Libby’s waist, wrenching her to her feet with him. With the same movement he shifted his grip, hooked his arm around her, and hurled her overboard just before the heavy wooden Chris-Craft struck the rubber boat. Carson felt the boat heave out of the water as he flung himself over the side and into the dark and shockingly cold depths. He came up in time to see the stern of the cruiser pass within inches of his head, throttle wide-open. Waves battered him and he spat a mouthful of water. He looked for the rubber boat, but it was gone.
So was Libby.
Panic gripped him as he looked for her. She had to be close. Really close, but those mustang suits sometimes slowed a surface ascent. Maybe she’d gone under too far when he’d thrown her from the boat. Maybe she couldn’t get to the surface in time….
He shouted her name. Saw the dark ominous approach of Frey’s boat making a return run over the impact sight. Carson dived beneath the surface and kept himself submerged until the sound of the motor faded. He checked the murky depths before he rose to the surface but couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t find Libby. He surfaced, lungs burning, and scanned the choppy water. Saw a flash of orange farther away than he would have thought. He swam toward it, casting a backward glance to locate Frey, but the Chris Craft had already vanished into the twilight. He saw Libby floating on the surface, her head bent to one side, arms flung out and oddly motionless, and his panic level deepened. When he reached her he saw that she was unconscious, a fresh dark welling of blood streaking her temple every time a wave washed it clean.
If she was bleeding, she was still alive.
Carson gripped
her with his good hand, shifted her to get a better hold around her torso with his arm, then began swimming toward the shore. The wind was lifting water off the crests of the waves and blowing it in a solid gray sheet across the surface of the lake. He had to swim at an angle to the wind in order to reach shore, which made the distance longer, and conditions were rough and getting rougher. He knew the odds were against him making it, but somehow he had to save Libby.
She had to survive.
LUANNE MADE GOOD TIME in the old canoe, in spite of the driving rain and gusting winds. She tied it to the dock, raced up the steps and onto the porch, and burst into the lodge’s living room. Lamps had been lit against the early gloaming and men were seated in various groupings around a big fieldstone fireplace. Some were playing cards, some were smoking pipes and reading. The scene was so tranquil it seemed otherworldly in contrast to the wild weather outside and the clutch of fear that constricted her chest. They all looked up, startled, when she entered.
“I need to speak with Karen and Mike Whitten!” she blurted out, breathless from her run and dripping wet. “I need to find Graham Johnson.”
“Graham’s down at the guides’ camp,” one of the men said, rising to his feet. “Mike and Karen are in the kitchen. I’ll get them.”
But having heard the commotion, they were just coming into the room. “Luanne? What is it?” Karen said. “Has something happened to Mr. Frey?”
“No. But Mr. Dodge and Libby Wilson might be in trouble out on the lake.”
“I’ll go get Graham,” Mike said, leaving the room.
“What makes you think that?” Karen asked. “Did you see something?”
“Mr. Frey saw them go around the point in that rubber boat after supper. He became very upset and not long after that he went out in his own boat. He’s been acting strangely. I think he might try to do something to them.”
Karen’s face paled. “How long ago did he leave?”
“About half an hour. I came as quickly as I could.”
“You did well. We’ll get a couple boats out right away to look for them.” Karen moved to the lodge window. “I can’t see Frey’s boat at his dock, but the visibility is poor.”
They heard running footsteps and Mike came back into the lodge trailed closely by Graham. Luanne caught his eye across the room and didn’t have to say a word.
“I’ll get the boats ready,” he said, and dodged back out into the rain.
IT WOULD HAVE BEEN EASY if it weren’t for the frigid water, the strong winds, the lashing rain and the waves. It would’ve been effortless if it weren’t for his bad leg and useless lung and crippled-up hand. But as the long minutes passed Carson felt his strength slipping away, and the dark line of the shore seemed no closer. He took a fresh grip on Libby and kept up with the side stroke, kept spitting out water as the waves crashed over his head and the wind-driven rain blinded him, kept taking his bearings on the shore and kept trying because that’s all he could do. Keep swimming. Keep moving. Keep trying. Had to save her, had to get her to shore.
He began to sing because the wind had somehow picked up the strains of the old song and carried it over the water, and he recognized it as a hymn he’d learned in the navy. He sang choppily, ducking to avoid mouthfuls of water. He sang in spurts around painful, gasping breaths, and half the time he wasn’t sure he was even singing aloud, but he sang to keep Libby’s spirits up because he thought she might be afraid and he thought she might hear him and he thought the words might give her courage and hope and keep her alive because above all, she had to live.
“Eternal Father…strong to save…whose arm…doth bind…the restless wave…”
His own arm was failing by the moment. Libby kept slipping out of his grasp, and his responses were becoming more and more sluggish.
“Who bidd’st…the mighty ocean deep…its own…appointed limits keep…”
What the hell did that mean, anyway?
“O, hear us…when we cry to Thee…for those in peril on the sea…”
Most of his life had been spent on the sea. He’d had his share of rough moments and close calls. He’d always thought he’d die there, some day, in some kind of peril or other, but was it this lake that would claim him in the end? Would his bones lie on the bottom along with the bones of Libby’s father? Would more secrets haunt these deep, mysterious waters?
He remembered the friends he’d lost. There were many, but one in particular. Best friend. Navy diver who worked in combat demolition, same team as his, same outfit, same mission, but somehow Brad was killed and Carson survived to sit through all those hymns they sang at the endless Catholic mass. Glad he wasn’t Catholic. Didn’t want a funeral. Didn’t want all that droning Latin fuss….
Still had Brad’s diving helmet…how odd that a helmet could outlast a man….
Cold. Damn, it was cold. One fight more, the best and the last.
The last, hell. He’d live to fight many more fights, and so would Libby. She’d live to find her father. She’d live because he wasn’t going to give up. He was going to fight hard enough for the both of them.
He blinked the water out of his eyes, coughed and felt the agonizing burn intensify deep in his chest. The shore was closer. He could make out individual trees snagging at the dark sky with darker teeth. He could see the wind-whipped breakers crashing up against the gravel. He stroked with renewed energy. Closer. It was closer.
So close, but he was so cold. So tired. It would be so easy to just slide under the waves…. The night is upon us…dark are the waters…asleep in the arms… Fragmented thoughts and words streamed through his mind as he dragged Libby through the water. Hours passed. Days, months and years passed. He looked again, sure they must be nearly there, but it had been an illusion. He was no closer. The shore was always going to be just out of reach, and just a heartbeat away….
THEY TOOK TWO BOATS OUT, with two guides in each boat and bright lights to search the stormy waters. Luanne waited in the lodge with Karen and watched the boats disappear around the point. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, and felt Karen’s arm slip around her shoulders. “They’ll be all right,” she soothed. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll get you some dry clothes, and we could both use a cup of tea.”
Luanne changed into the borrowed clothing then sat at the table and shared a pot of tea with Karen while the minutes dragged. “I’m not going back to work for Mr. Frey,” she said. “If you would hire me, I’d work hard.”
“Graham’s been hoping you’d quit that job. He doesn’t like you being over there. I probably won’t be able to pay you as much money….”
Luanne shook her head. “That doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll get through school, one way or the other. I don’t need Mr. Frey’s money. And Mr. Frey will still have a cook and a housekeeper and groundskeeper living with him. He won’t be all alone.”
By the time they finished the pot of tea, it was nearly eleven-thirty. Luanne heard the sound of an approaching motor and grabbed her jacket. Karen was right behind her as she raced down to the dock. Graham and Joe Boone were climbing out as the two women arrived. Luanne’s heart dropped at Graham’s solemn expression.
He shook his head in answer to their mute question. “The only things we found were some pieces of the rubber boat that were still afloat, a life jacket and one wooden oar. Mike’s gone over to talk to Frey. His boat is back at the dock. We searched the shoreline for a while, too, but didn’t find anything. The water’s pretty rough. It’s wild out there, but that guy, Dodge, I don’t think he’d drown too easy.”
“Libby was wearing an orange flotation suit,” Karen said.
“We’re going back out again as soon as we’ve refueled,” Graham told her. “We’ll keep looking until we find them.”
Karen nodded grimly. “I’ll put the coffee on, and call the wardens.”
THE SOUND OF THE WAVES broke into Libby’s consciousness, drew her up out of the dark place and into an even darker one. She became aware of a te
rrible crushing pain in her head as she opened her eyes on a hostile world of shadows, high winds and hard rain. She was lying on her side and her feet were still in the water, stinging with cold. She drew them up and curled into a ball. The movement made her nauseous and she lay still for another long moment until she could roll onto her hands and knees. This time the nausea overwhelmed her, and she retched painfully onto the gravel shore as the rain pelted down.
She remembered the boat, the big wooden boat bearing down on them, and Carson lifting her up as though she weighed no more than a child. She remembered being thrown into the water, but that was all. Everything else was a blank. She had no idea how she got to shore, but she knew she hadn’t managed it on her own. Not from so far out on the lake, and not with this terrible pain. She raised her fingers to the side of her head and felt the thick sticky warmth of blood. Must’ve hit her head on something. God, it hurt….
Carson! Where was he?
She sat back and looked up the shoreline, then turned and looked behind her. Her relief at seeing him lying almost within arm’s reach was immediately replaced by a surge of dread. He was sprawled facedown, lying half in the water, and he wasn’t moving. She crawled to him on her hands and knees and grabbed his shoulder. “Carson!” She bent closer with a whimper of pure terror. Was he even breathing? She shook him again, harder. “Carson!”
Was that a moan? Yes. Yes! Libby collapsed beside him, overcome. “Oh thank God, thank God!” She wept, not caring about anything at the moment except that he was alive. She sobbed while the storm raged around them, and then a dull awareness came over her and she pushed herself back onto her knees. This wouldn’t do at all. She had to get him out of the water. “Come on,” she said, latching onto his arm with both hands and tugging. “Carson? You have to move. You have to get out of the water.”
Everything To Prove Page 20
