The water was relatively calm tonight, no more than a three-foot chop. Amelia had seen the waves so high here that they splashed over the roadway. Driving the bridge-tunnel was an ordeal for Thomas, but she didn’t mind. The drive could be tedious if you got behind a camper or a poky tourist, but she seemed to have hit it at exactly the right time today.
She’d not gone far when she noticed in her rearview mirror a large dark truck with a massive steel bumper and headlight guards. She was driving her normal eight miles above the posted limit, but the truck quickly ate up the distance between them. She increased speed, leaving a safety window between them. The driver took the hint and slowed until he was traveling at the same speed as she.
Amelia removed the soft-rock CD and replaced it with one of her favorite Beatles albums. She passed through the tunnel at the deepest part of the channel and found herself singing along to the classic with Ringo, John, George, and Paul. They seemed to be the only ones on this stretch of the bridge, perhaps the only people in the world.
The black truck loomed out of the darkness, suddenly only a few car lengths from her back bumper. Amelia held her speed steady, refusing to be bullied. The driver behind her accelerated, coming close enough to nudge her car.
Amelia’s heart thudded against her ribs. What was the fool trying to do? She pressed down on the gas pedal, and her red sports car leaped ahead. Amelia fumbled for her cell phone in her open purse. Road rage was a menace on the highways, but a quick call to 911 might clip his wings. To her dismay, the purse slid off the seat onto the floor. At this speed, she couldn’t reach it without taking her eyes off the road, and the guard rails were flashing by much too fast.
The truck engine roared behind her. Amelia’s hands began to sweat. Her muscles tensed. She leaned forward, gaze fixed on the solid yellow line. She knew the convertible wasn’t at full speed; the little sports car could certainly outrun him. But flying down I-95 in broad daylight was one thing, and driving like this at night on a narrow bridge was another scenario altogether.
A cluster of white feathers ahead on the road surface made Amelia touch the brake. The bodies of greedy seagulls occasionally littered the bridge, and they could make the surface slippery. If she slowed, the fool would be forced to pass her in a no-passing zone or slow down as well. At fifty-five, perhaps even fifty, she could reach her purse, retrieve the cell, and have police waiting for him at the south end of the bridge.
The truck pulled left, and Amelia released her pent-up breath with a sigh. She eased off on the gas as the driver brought the truck up alongside her convertible. She glanced over, unable to make out anyone in the high cab through the tinted windows.
Incredibly, the truck drifted closer, crossing the solid line, crowding her against the rail. Amelia’s mouth went dry. Her fingers tightened on the wheel. Out of instinct, she sped up again. The truck kept pace, going faster and faster. She pushed down on the pedal, and the nose of her car inched ahead of the big vehicle. Her right front bumper came perilously close to the rail, and it scared her so badly that she applied less pressure to the gas pedal.
“Pass me! Pass me!” she cried.
When his right bumper was level with Amelia’s door, the driver veered right, smashing into her. Amelia screamed as metal shrieked against concrete. The wheel wrenched out of her hands and glass shattered. “Jesus!” she cried as pain knifed through her left arm and shoulder. The massive truck kept coming, plowing into her, sending the sports car ricocheting off a post and bouncing end over end to somersault over the guard railing into the bay.
The last sensations that Amelia felt were the icy embrace of water and blessed, blessed silence.
Smiling, the Game Master slowed, straightened the wheel, and continued on. In time, some do-gooder would notice the bits of glass and metal on the road and notify the proper authorities, but by then he would be well off the bridge and lost amid the throngs and traffic jams of Friday-night Norfolk motorists. He knew just the spot to dispose of the truck, a wooded swamp in North Carolina only two miles from a truck stop. The Game Master had already filed off the serial numbers, but he’d change the plates at least once more before he burned the truck. Details were important, and he was nothing if not efficient in his planning.
He regretted leaving the roadway in such a shambles. Littering went against his grain, and the next vehicle might well shred a tire. But tonight was an exception to a lifetime of picking up after other people. Let someone else share the burden of housekeeping this time. Doubtless, they’d have to close the lanes to clean up the shards of glass and metal.
A pity, he thought. It might be hours, days even, before the wreckage of the red convertible was pulled out of the water. And the professor’s friend might not even be in the car any longer. Had she been wise enough to wear her seat belt? So many women didn’t bother. They believed that they were invincible, immune to death.
What would the professor say when the phone call came? A tragic accident. A friend’s life cut short all too soon.
Poor, poor little professor. Bit by bit, he was stealing her life. Soon she would have nothing left to live for . . . He chuckled. This had been fun. He’d have to try it again some day, just pick a car at random and send it flying over the side of the bridge. It took skill, planning, and luck. Additional traffic wouldn’t necessarily prevent him from success; other cars could add to the thrill. He grimaced, regretting the overabundance of cell phones. Science moved too quickly. Life was better when one didn’t have to worry about every Tom, Dick, and Harry playing hero by interfering in his pleasures.
What would the professor do when she heard the news? He hoped she would be within range of one of his cameras when she took the call. It was one of those Hallmark moments that were too good to miss.
Liz was awakened just before eight on Sunday morning by the crack of a windowpane breaking. She leaped out of bed, dug the revolver out of her nightstand drawer, and ran to peer cautiously out another window.
Jack was standing on the lawn with a sheepish expression on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said as she pushed up the window. “I didn’t mean to . . . I’ll fix it.”
“You’re damn right you’ll fix it,” she called down to him. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you!”
Heart thumping, Liz emptied the shells from the Smith & Wesson and returned both handgun and bullets to the drawer before hurrying downstairs to open the kitchen door. “You’ve got to be a madman,” she said.
Jack grinned and held up a bag labeled Red, White, and Blue Bagels. “Tarzan bring peace offering from Big Apple.”
“Red, white, and blue bagels?”
“Not to mention Wawa coffee and the Sunday News Journal.” He leaned down and kissed her. She turned her head at the last instant so his lips brushed her cheek and eyebrow.
“I had a newspaper in my box at the end of my lane.”
“Tarzan know. Where Jane think he get this one?”
She laughed. “Enough with the theatrics. It’s too early. And why did it seem like a good idea to throw rocks at my window?”
He shrugged. “If the bike didn’t wake you, what was I supposed to do?”
“Knock?”
“I did knock. Back door and front. You were snoozing pretty good there, Lizzy.” He pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down. “High tide’s at one. I thought maybe you’d like to sneak out for a little trout fishing.”
She took cream cheese, jelly, butter, and a carton of half-and-half from the refrigerator. “I love bagels, but I’ve never had blue ones.”
Jack rose and fetched two cups and spoons. “If you don’t mind. I hate paper cups.” He poured coffee from a tall container into the mugs. “I got plain, onion, and all-grain, but they’re the normal color for bagels. I got them from a little bodega off Broadway. I think the red, white, and blue is a new American’s attempt to show patriotism. If I had to guess, I think the owner was Tibetan or a Laplander. Anyway, he makes good bagels.”
“A Laplander
? What would make you think that?” she asked, knowing she was being set up for more of Jack’s nonsense. Broken window or not, she was glad to see him this morning. More than glad, she was delighted.
“I don’t know, maybe the live reindeer at the register or—” Liz threw a bagel at him. He caught it, and they both laughed.
Within a few moments, the awkwardness that had marred their last day together vanished and Liz found herself telling him about her emergency flight to Texas and her mother’s death. He listened, as he always had, not saying anything until she was finished.
“So, while I can’t say that there was any deathbed reunion between me and Patsy, it was good to patch things up with Crystal.”
Jack licked cream cheese off his fingertips. “It sounds as though she’s found something good.”
“Henry’s nice. Dull, sweet, and nice. I’d given up hope of her ever dating anybody normal, let alone marrying again.”
“It just goes to prove that even the good ones can be captured with the right bait.”
“Crystal?” Liz asked.
“Nope.” Jack chuckled. “The fifty thousand Henry won in Vegas. Money strips a man of his wits faster than anything else.”
“I suppose that means that you’re better off poor?”
He grinned. “Didn’t say that, either. Money you work for is one thing, windfall’s something else. They say most big lottery winners end up broke and unhappy.”
“So you don’t buy lottery tickets?”
“Nope. I don’t like the odds. I prefer to bet my hard-earned dollars on a sure thing.” He laid his hand over hers, closing his fingers around hers and turning her hand to kiss the underside of her wrist.
“Jack,” she murmured.
He pulled her out of her chair and into his lap. His kiss sent a tingle of excitement to the tips of her toes. “Mmmm,” he said. “You taste like onion.”
“I thought we were going fishing.”
“The fish can wait.” He kissed her again.
This time they made it to her bed.
The afternoon on Jack’s boat was carefree. They caught a half-dozen trout, and drank a bottle of red wine from a local winery. Once the fish stopped biting, Jack took the boat in closer to shore and anchored.
“Ready for a swim?” he asked Liz.
“No. The water’s not warm enough yet.”
“I knew it. All that education made you soft.” He stripped off his jeans and shirt and dove in.
Liz contented herself with stretching out on a blanket on the bow. “Do you have any hamburger or liver?” she asked. “If I throw out a little chum, maybe we could lure a few sharks—”
“No sharks,” he said in mock horror. After a few minutes, he climbed the ladder at the stern, wrapped a towel around his hips, and joined her on the bow deck.
“I expect you to repair my window when we get home,” she reminded him. “There are panes from a matching one in the barn loft. My carpenter wanted to haul it to the dump, but I’ve got too much of my dad in me. If you remember, he couldn’t throw anything out.”
“Will do,” Jack promised, stretching out beside her. “I like having you here, Lizzy.” He nuzzled her neck, and when she laughed, he kissed her lips. “I could never forget you.”
“Like a bad case of poison ivy?” she teased.
“Exactly.”
She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the waves lapping against the boat hull and the cries of seagulls overhead. “I like being here,” she said.
“With me?”
“With you.”
“Even if you did try to kill me this morning?”
“I did not try to kill you. You told me that I should have a gun, so I have one. What can you expect when I wake up to some wild man breaking my windows?”
“Guilty. It didn’t work like that in that movie.”
“What movie?” A fish jumped about ten yards from the boat.
“I don’t remember the title. Sleeping in Seattle?” She chuckled. “There were no rocks flying through windows in Sleepless in Seattle.”
“It was one of those movies. The hero pitches the rocks. The heroine leans out in her lacy black nightie.”
“Right. I hope you saw what I sleep in.”
“The same as that girl in She’s Got Mail.”
“No. Jack, you are hopeless when it comes to movies.”
“No, I’m sure I’m right. Mom’s got the DVD. We can borrow it and watch it at your house. Is your TV in your bedroom?”
“No. You were in my bedroom,” Liz answered. “Did you see a television or a DVD player there?”
“We’ll have to remedy that. Or we could watch it here on the Dolphin. I like to watch movies in bed. Sometimes I even watch X-rated ones.”
“By yourself, I’m sure.” She handed him a tube of sunblock and rolled onto her stomach so that he could rub it on her back.
“Who else would I watch them with?”
“I can’t imagine.” She groaned as he rubbed the cream into her skin. “That feels heavenly. I haven’t had anybody do that for me since Katie went to Ireland. You’d like her, Jack. Strangely enough, I think she’d like you too.”
“Strangely?” He made a sound of amusement.
“You have to admit, you’re one of a kind. More of a nineteenth-century man than a twenty-first. But I suppose a lot of watermen are.”
“Your dad included?”
“Daddy especially. He was such a great father—when he wasn’t drinking. And even when he was, he never lifted a hand to Crystal or me.”
“Wish I could say that about Pop. Although I have to admit that George and I deserved a taste of the belt now and then. And Mom was the real disciplinarian. If you didn’t jump when she said jump—look out.”
She smiled, remembering some of the mischief the Rafferty boys had gotten into. “Do you mean the time you two chained the bumper of a police car to a post at the end of the dock? Or when you dumped the half ton of aging fish in the mayor’s cellar?”
Jack grinned. “I’m innocent. George made me do it.”
“I’m sure. I don’t think either of you ever grew up, not really.” She applied sunblock to her knees and calves. Curiosity made her ask, “What were you doing in New York, anyway? I wouldn’t think the fishing business would take you to the city. You always said you hated cities.”
“I did, but they have their uses.”
“You still haven’t told me why you went. Is it a secret?”
“Yes.”
She sat up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s a terrible habit of mine. I—”
“It’s all right, Lizzy. I can trust you.” He hesitated a few seconds. “I had some business to conduct, but I also went to see George.”
She glanced at him. “Your brother? I thought he was in Smyrna prison.”
Jack took her hand, turned it over, and rubbed her palm with his thumb. “George won’t be coming home. He’s gone into the witness protection program. I haven’t even told Mom and Pop yet.”
“He what?” Liz’s eyes widened in surprise. “Isn’t that only for—”
“Gangsters? I suppose, but it’s mostly for people who are willing to testify about what they’ve seen other people do. Sometimes knowing too much can get you killed.”
“Is this about drugs?”
“It’s about money.”
Unease made her suddenly chilled. She stood and picked up her towel. “I think I’ve had enough sun.” Jack steadied her as she made her way back to the main deck. “I won’t say anything, of course,” she said. “But does this mean he can’t come home? Not ever? Your parents—”
“George didn’t want them to know until it was a done deal. Something bad happened up in Smyrna. Luckily, George had a buddy to help him out. But he couldn’t count on that a second time. Next time, he might end up dead.”
“Where are they sending him? No, don’t tell me. That was a stupid question.” She pulled a shirt on over her bathing suit. “I don’
t want to know.”
“Good, because I don’t know either.” His eyes narrowed. “It’s for the best. If he did get out early, he’d be right back in the business again. This way, he has a chance.”
“Tough for your parents.”
He nodded. “In a way, but not so hard as burying him, or knowing that he’s rotting inside that concrete cage. The sound of those steel doors shutting—it gets to you. If they’d given me twenty years . . .” He took a deep breath and went up the steps to the bridge. “I’m not cut out for life in a box.”
“But George won’t be in prison now, will he? He’ll be protected, set up in a new life someplace else?”
“So he told me. They want him to testify against some nasty people. That’s why he’s in a safe house in New York City for a while. He told the feds he wouldn’t agree to it if we couldn’t spend some time together first.”
“I’m sorry, Jack. I always liked George. But he was crazy, even as a kid.” She folded her arms. “Not in a bad way, but he scared me. So did you.”
“You had reason to be scared. Maybe you still do.” He started the engine. “I’d best get you home. I’ll tell Mom and Pop tonight. It’s not something I’m looking forward to, but the sooner, the better.”
“Thanks for sharing it with me. I won’t let you down.”
“In a few months, it will be common knowledge. Word gets around in prison. Hopefully, by then George will be a few thousand miles away with a new name and a new identity.” He gestured to her. “Come on up here.”
She joined him, and he stepped back to let her take the wheel. “It handles like a dream,” she said after they’d gone about half a mile.
“George wants you to have his boat. He told me to run it up and tie it at your dock. I thought I’d better tell you, instead of letting you come out and find it—after the last boat you found there.”
At Risk Page 23
