George had nearly cut through the rope that constrained his left hand, but it wasn’t going to be enough. Even if he cut all the way through before Bernie tipped Liana into the ocean, his ankles were still tied together. His hands would be free, but there was almost no chance that he could maneuver his way to the tackle box, remove the gun, and shoot Bernie, not with the lower half of his body still hog-tied.
Bernie tugged violently at Liana again, pulling her up against the edge of the boat.
“Stop,” George shouted, and Bernie turned, an almost-surprised grin on his face, his grayish-purple teeth exposed.
“The boyfriend speaks,” he said.
“I called the police before you shot me,” George said. “I told them your plan to dump us in the ocean. They’ll probably be searching the area now, with planes.”
“Oh, yeah. How did you know I was going to do that?”
“I saw the boat earlier, at the cottage. Where else would you dump the bodies?”
Bernie looked at him with some interest. He had lifted the cement block and dropped it over the edge of the boat. The rope attached to Liana was taut. All Bernie had to do now was lift her body and roll her into the water. “If that’s the case,” he said, “then I ought to work faster. When those search planes fly overhead, I wouldn’t want to have any evidence still on the boat.”
Bernie turned back to Liana. She was now struggling, bending her body back and forth against the restraints. Bernie planted one foot near her head and one near her waist and bent to lift her. George yelled out “Help” as loud as he could on the off chance that another boat had drifted toward them. All he heard in return was the raspy squawk of a circling gull. George yelled again as Bernie grabbed hold and began to lift Liana. They could see each other through Bernie’s spread legs, and Liana shook her head at George. The ocean breeze had caught her hair and pulled it off her face so that he could see both her eyes. They were now flushed of their panic, resigned. George stopped yelling.
“George, I’m sorry,” she said. “I love you.”
“Audrey,” George said.
As George tore frantically at his still-bound left wrist, Bernie rolled Liana’s body up and over the edge of the boat. George heard a single hard splash, then nothing. The cement block had dragged her instantly under the water.
Bernie turned and leaned against the edge of the boat, placed both of his large hands flat on his thighs. “That was harder than I thought,” he said, his voice coming out a little breathlessly. George couldn’t look at him. Exhausted, he rested his forehead on the sticky deck, focusing on Bernie’s shoes, a pair of tasseled loafers. One of the cuffs of his suit pants fluttered in the breeze. George breathed deeply through his nose and took in the acrid coppery smell coming off the deck of the boat. A large emptiness swallowed him. Knowing how soon death was coming, he felt deeply alone. An image of his father flashed into his thoughts.
George heard the scuffed sound of Bernie standing up. He’ll remove the tarp from me, George thought, see the knife in my swollen fingers, and take it away. He will find the severed rope and laugh at my feeble attempt to escape, then retie the rope and give me my own personal cement block to take with me to the ocean floor.
With his head still plastered to the deck, George watched Bernie move toward the front of the boat. George lowered his chin down to his chest and could see three more blocks of cement nestled behind the forward seats. Bernie picked one up with one hand and moved out of his vision. “You’re awfully quiet, George. I’m saving you for last, so you’ve bought a little time. Feel free to talk. I wouldn’t mind some conversation.”
George felt Bernie’s feet move along the deck, the tarp rustling but staying in place. A soft thud made George think he’d lowered the cement block, then he felt two hands, one on his lower back and one on the backs of his thighs, shove him forward a couple of feet. The knife, still gripped in his freed right hand, scraped along the textured decking, and George thought for sure that Bernie would have heard it, but all he said was, “Stay right there, will ya?”
George looked down at his body. The tarp was still over him. Bernie would be busy for a few minutes securing cement blocks to Karin Boyd and Katie Aller before dumping their bodies. He fingered the rope, finding the frayed edge where he’d cut almost three-quarters of the way through. He repositioned the blade and started sawing again.
“I was surprised by this one,” Bernie said. “MacLean’s niece. You do attract the pretty ladies, George, although I can’t say I know why that is. I loaded my darts with just enough juice to knock out someone your size—it’s not an easy science, you know, but it was a little much for this one. Put her to sleep for good.”
George had just managed to cut all the way through the rope around his left wrist, and his arm, its muscles deadened, dropped to the deck. He faked a coughing fit to cover the sound, buckling over and rubbing his numb, stinging hands together. The fake coughing fit soon turned into a real one, the spasms of his diaphragm causing his near-empty stomach to produce its last teaspoonful of bile. He spit it onto the deck.
“This’ll all be over soon,” Bernie said. George couldn’t see him, but it sounded like he was hoisting Karin Boyd’s body over the edge of the boat. Hoping that Bernie was turned away, he quickly moved his hands over his midriff and found a double loop that went relatively loosely around his waist. There was a knuckle-size knot just over his left hip. George knew nothing about knots. He ran his fingers over it, noting only that it seemed extremely tight and that he couldn’t locate any frayed ends to work free. The knot secured a length of rope that was tightly drawn across his thigh and between his legs. If he could sever the rope, although his ankles would still be bound, he would be able to stretch out his body and his hands would be free. He’d have a chance to make it to the gun inside the tackle box.
George heard a splash—Karin Boyd going to her watery grave—and then he heard a deep exhalation from Bernie. Was he getting tired? He was strong, that much George knew, but even though the day was relatively cool, the sun was at its peak and Bernie was dressed in dark suit pants and a shimmery gray silk shirt.
“Ah, Katie,” Bernie said as George heard the sound of rustling plastic. He imagined she was still rolled up and bound like a carpet, the way he’d seen her in the house on Captain Sawyer Lane. “You didn’t really know Katie, did you?”
“I met her,” George said, wanting to keep Bernie talking. George had gotten the blade of the knife under the taut rope that connected his waist to his ankles.
“Then you probably know that I didn’t so much kill her as beat her to the punch. Do you know how old she was? Twenty-two going on eighty-two. She’d been a drug addict for less than a year, but what a year.” Bernie barked out a laugh. “You know who introduced her to drugs, don’t you? Your precious Jane. She had a real knack with the ladies, just like you.”
George was starting to feel weak, his head swimming, sweat slicking his entire body, and he needed all the energy he could muster to cut his way through the last few pieces of rope. The sun hitting his face made him feel like a piece of meat under a broiler.
He heard Bernie grunt a little, and the plastic rustled again. “People are heavier when they’re dead, you know that? I hurled this thing around a couple of times when she was still alive, and she didn’t weigh a whole lot more than a rag doll, but now, Jesus, I’m getting old.”
The rope George was working on split in two and his legs were freed. He was still bound at the ankles, but he was no longer trussed like a turkey. It was all he could do to stop himself from stretching out the cramped, numb muscles of his legs, but he didn’t know where Bernie was looking. Stretching his head back as far as possible, he could see only the sky, now streaked with a few scudding clouds. He heard the splash as Katie Aller was dropped into the sea. He was now alone with Bernie on the boat, and he realized that there was no way he was going to be able to cut through the rope binding his ankles. He twisted his head the other way, looking back towa
rd the spot where Liana, bound up, had been lying. Bumping up against the side of the boat was the tackle box she had mentioned. Next to it was a bright red life vest, and George wondered if it wouldn’t be better to simply grab the vest and dive into the water, take his chances there.
He heard the scrape of Bernie’s shoes on the deck behind him. He tried to take a deep breath, but the air he pulled into his lungs felt thin and deficient. Any moment now, Bernie will rip the tarp away from me, he thought, see how I’ve worked my way free from the rope, and then I will have to act, striking out at him with a knife designed to cut through nothing tougher than a New York strip.
Bernie made a sound behind him, a brief humming noise in his throat that sounded like a question, then took three steps toward the helm. George watched him bend and unlatch a compartment, pull out a pair of binoculars. He brought them to his eyes and stared into the distance. George had been given his chance.
With as much speed as he could muster, George rolled from his side onto his hands and knees, then pushed himself forward from his knees and toward the tackle box. His muscles felt slow and stiff, as though he’d been tied for days instead of hours. He unsnapped the box’s lid and dumped its contents onto the deck. Tools, fishing gear, and several flairs spilled out, along with a black revolver that had been wrapped in a greasy cloth. George grabbed it with his right hand and rolled back into a sitting position. Bernie was still calmly standing at the helm, the pair of binoculars in his hand. There was a slight quizzical smile on his lips, and George watched Bernie’s eyes move from his face to the gun in his hand and back to his face.
“It’s not loaded,” Bernie said.
“You sure?” George asked and pulled the hammer back. It clicked into place easier than he thought it would. His arm was shaking, out of both fear and fatigue, but he didn’t care.
“Go ahead and fire it,” Bernie said. “It really isn’t loaded. Why don’t you just take that life jacket and—”
George pulled the trigger. A slight recoil bucked his hand, and the gun issued a sharp bang that sounded like a firecracker. Bernie dropped his binoculars onto the deck and lifted his right hand to his neck. A terrible burbling sound came out of him, and a dark sheet of blood spread down his front, soaking his satiny shirt.
Bernie squeezed his neck harder, but blood coursed over his knuckles, slicking the back of his hand. He reached out with his other hand and grasped the back of the pilot’s swivel seat, lowering himself into it like an old man with joint problems.
Bernie’s eyes stayed on George. There seemed to be no fear or anger in them—just confusion, as though he were wondering why his neck had suddenly sprung a leak, and what that might have to do with the gun that George was still holding. Bernie slouched in the chair, still turned toward George, and his blood-covered hand dropped to his thigh. The entire front of his shirt was drenched in blood, and his drained face had turned a ghostly white. His eyes no longer looked confused. They looked like nothing. He had died.
George turned away and looked around at the surrounding ocean. He expected to see a boat on the horizon, or whatever it was that had distracted Bernie, but all he saw was a horizon line that extended in all directions. A gull bobbed on the blue swell about twenty yards away, but that was the only sign of life.
He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind for a moment, tried to comprehend what it was that had just occurred. The harsh sun itched at his skin and the deck tilted. Dream images flirted at the edge of his consciousness, and for a brief hallucinatory moment George almost allowed himself to fall asleep.
When he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. He was alone on the deck of the boat with the spilled contents of the tackle box and a cement block that had been meant for him. The revolver thrummed in his hand. Bernie lolled in the pilot’s seat, swaying back and forth in rhythm with the gentle swell of the sea.
Chapter 24
George returned to Mather College. Even though his trip down to Sweetgum had felt like a lifetime, in reality he was back in his dorm room less than a week after he’d left. He told his roommate, Kevin, and anyone else who asked, that he had gone home for a few days. Back to Massachusetts to be with his parents. No one questioned him.
He felt guilty lying, but told himself that he was protecting Liana.
George had decided that Chalfant was right. That there was a chance that Liana would come back to Mather to look for him. She couldn’t go back to Florida. She had no other family. Where else would she go? And George had decided that if Liana came to him he would help her, at whatever cost. He might try to convince her to turn herself in, but if that didn’t work, then he would be willing to do whatever it took to make sure she wasn’t caught. And to make sure that he had some part in her life.
George had not been particularly social his first semester of college, mostly because of Liana, but he became even less outgoing that second semester. He never went to parties, and he stopped regularly hanging out with the guys in the quad at the end of his hall. He often ate alone in the dining hall, tucked behind a copy of the school newspaper. He walked from class to class alone, hunched in his winter coat, a constant cigarette between his lips. His free time was spent in the same isolated carrel in the library, on the basement level. It was quiet there, even by library standards, the only sounds the click and hiss of an ancient radiator. He studied hard, trying to make up for the unspectacular grades he’d received first semester. He could tell that the other freshmen from his hall, Kevin in particular, felt hurt by his sudden distance. But he was protected by the death of Audrey, by what they perceived as his grief.
That winter was the coldest on record for over fifty years, with temperatures in the single digits for weeks on end. As the shortened days crawled by the cold and the dark made George’s time in Florida, and also the previous semester, seem like a dream of another world. Still, whenever the phone rang in the dorm room he shared with Kevin, a small jolt in George’s stomach would make him wonder if Liana was making contact. But it was never her.
For February break George returned home. His mother never mentioned Audrey, but his father did, asking George how he was doing after the sad news. George told him he’d been better, and his father offered him a scotch and water, the first time George had ever been offered an alcoholic drink in his home. He accepted, and they sat together, quietly, in his father’s den and drank.
“How do you like it?”
“Maybe it’s an acquired taste.”
His father laughed, showing yellowed teeth from a longtime pipe-smoking habit. “I should have made yours with ginger ale.”
“No, this is fine. It’s growing on me.”
Back at school, the days grew longer and the temperatures warmed up. George missed the anonymity that his hooded winter coat had provided him. Walking across campus, he felt eyes rest on him a little longer than was necessary. He knew what people were thinking: There’s George Foss. His girlfriend committed suicide over Christmas break, and now he hardly talks to anyone. Just keeps to himself. George didn’t particularly mind. He was lonely, but the thought that Liana might one day show up or call kept his hopes alive.
When a phone call finally came, it was from Detective Chalfant. Kevin took it, one Saturday morning when George was at the dining hall.
“You in trouble?” Kevin said after delivering the message and a number to call back.
“He’s a family friend. Calls himself ‘detective.’ Kind of a joke.”
Instead of calling back from his room phone, George brought a calling card to one of the phone booths in the student center. No one used that particular bank of phones, and George knew he’d have privacy. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, then dialed the number.
Chalfant picked up on the second ring.
“It’s George Foss, returning your call.”
“Hi, George. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Any word from our mutual friend?”
“Uh, no. I haven’t heard from he
r. I thought maybe you had news.”
“I’m afraid not. We haven’t turned up anything. She’s well and truly disappeared.” George listened to a shuffling sound, as though Chalfant had transferred the phone from one hand to another. “George, I want to give you a heads-up. I don’t know if you’ve been following our local news down here, but Liana Decter’s father is dead. He died on the night that Liana took off from Chinkapin. I didn’t tell you then because I didn’t want to muddy the waters, and truth is, we didn’t know what we had on our hands at that point in time. But now there’s a second warrant out for Liana’s arrest. It’s a first-degree murder warrant, George, for her father’s murder.”
“What?”
“It’s pretty clear-cut. And it’s starting to make some splashy news around here, and nationally too, we suspect. That’s why I wanted to call you. I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
“Why would she kill her father?”
Chalfant sighed. “The reason it took us so long to issue a second warrant was because we had reason to believe that Kurt Decter was killed by a bookie he owed money to.”
“Dale.”
“Yes. Dale Ryan. I forgot you knew about him. We held him for questioning, and he admitted that Decter owed him money, but said he had nothing to do with his death. He had a strong alibi and nothing came up forensically, so we let him go. We are now operating under the assumption that Liana killed her own father before fleeing in order to . . . this is just a theory, of course . . . but in order to protect him from Dale. It seemed that occasionally Liana would perform sexual favors in order to pay back some of her father’s debts.”
Chalfant paused, but George said nothing. Even though he already had this information, hearing it again from another source caused a slight tightening in his stomach.
The Girl with a Clock for a Heart: A Novel Page 21
