The Perfect Victim

by Linda Castillo

  Christ, he was losing her to hypothermia.

  Remembering his pocket knife, he fished it out of his pocket with numb fingers. Setting the blade against the nylon cord of the handcuffs, he sawed back and forth. "I want you to swim, honey." The cord gave, freeing her arms. Kicking furiously, he rubbed her arms briskly.

  "Randall. Oh, God, Randall."

  The sound of her voice crushed him. He closed his eyes, felt the weight of the world settle onto his shoulders. "That's right, honey. It's me. We're going to swim. I want you to kick your feet."

  When she didn't respond, he shook her gently. Taking her hands between his he rubbed them vigorously. "Help me, dammit." Panic edged his voice. "I need your help. Kick your feet. You've got to swim."

  She moved feebly beside him, but he knew it was useless. She didn't have the strength.

  Randall rolled her onto her back and tied her vest to his, binding them together. He wasn't going to let her go. Dammit, he wasn't going to let her die. Not after everything they'd been through.

  Determined to save the life of the, woman he loved, he swam in the general direction of The Pulpit. He couldn't see the boat through the darkness and swells, but he trusted his sense of direction. With Addison in tow, he used the last of his strength stroking and kicking. He put everything he had into that swim, cursing every wave, every moment when that little voice inside his head told him they weren't going to make it.

  When his arms and legs threatened to give out, he swam on adrenaline alone. When it became painful even to draw a breath, he thought of Addison, of everything that would be lost if he gave up now. When he thought he could go on no more, he used his own fury to fuel him.

  Blinded by water, deafened by the wind. he drove himself mercilessly. His broken ribs took him beyond pain. Exhaustion hammered through him and the cold zapped his strength. The waves pummeled him. He cursed with one breath, prayed with the next.

  Treading water, he tried to get his bearings. Next to him, Addison was silent and still. However much he longed to comfort her, to give her his warmth, he hadn't the strength left. He couldn't swim much farther. He couldn't take much more cold.

  A bolt of adrenaline ripped through him when he saw the silhouette of the Bertram twenty yards to his right. A hologram against the horizon. Fading in and out of his vision like a mirage.

  Hope burgeoned in his chest. Praying his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, he began to swim. "Hang on, Addison."

  They approached The Pulpit from the stem. With weighted arms, he reached for the dive ladder and pulled himself out of the water.

  The wind cut through his wet clothes, stunning him with cold. He murmured her name as he bent and lifted her out of the water. "Hold on, honey. We're safe. We made it."

  A foot of water sloshed from side to side on the deck. Another hour and the boat would be at the bottom of the bay. Randall took her to the pilot house. Once inside, he closed the door, fell to his knees, and lowered her to the floor.

  She spilled from his arms in a wet heap, cold, motionless, seemingly lifeless. There wasn't enough light for him to see her face so he couldn't tell how bad her coloring was. He checked her pulse at her throat, finding it weak and slow.

  Acting on instinct, he quickly removed her boots and wet clothing, too frightened to notice the beauty of her flesh beneath.

  "Addison, honey, we made it." His voice was thick with emotion, uncertainty, and the remnants of his own physical strain. "You're going to be all right."

  She coughed, her arms stirring. .

  Tearing himself away from her, Randall searched the small pilot house for something with which to cover her. She needed warmth. On a bench next to the door, he spotted a stack of neatly folded beach towels. He reached for them, snapped them open one by one, and placed them over her until she was covered from head to toe.

  Brushing aside a shock of wet hair, he knelt and touched her face. "Addison. I need you to wake up, honey. Come on." His voice broke. He closed his eyes against the choking emotion. "Can you hear me? Can you move for me, honey?"

  He grasped one of her hands and held it between his, hoping to warm it, knowing his own were too cold to make a difference. "I've got to use the radio. I'm going to have to leave you for a moment. I don't want you to wake up and be afraid, because I'm right here."

  "Randall ... I thought you were dead."

  "I'm right here. Everything's going to be fine."

  "He was going to kill me."

  "Shhh. It's over. You're safe."

  "Where's Tate?"

  He'd known she would ask. The last thing he wanted to tell her was that by some insane twist of fate, Garrison Tate was still alive. "I shot him, but he got away."

  "Oh, God, no—"

  "He won't get far. He's hurt. He's insane. The only thing that matters is that we're going to be all right."

  Raising her hand, she touched his face. "You saved my life."

  "You owe me big time, now."

  Her smile devastated him. "Maybe we could work something out in trade."

  "I bet we'll be able to come up with something," he said and pressed a kiss to her lips.

  Chapter 31

  The snow was coming down in earnest as Addison sank into the chair and put her elbows on the bistro table.

  She frowned at Gretchen and made a futile attempt to ignore the butterflies wreaking havoc in her stomach.

  "He should have been here by now," she grumbled.

  The older woman shoved a tall vanilla latte in front of her. "You're just nervous."

  “Am not. I'm bitchy."

  "Same thing." After wiping her hands on the ever-present apron at her waist, Gretchen gave the younger woman's shoulders a quick squeeze. "He'll be here. Trust me."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "Call it wisdom. Call it age or whatever you like. But, honey, I know people. And just between you and me, I know men. Randall Talbot isn't going to let a little thing like a snowstorm get in the way of seeing you."

  Addison watched her friend slip behind the bar and busy herself polishing the new espresso machine. How things stayed the same, she thought. How quickly things changed, a little voice chimed in.

  Around her the Coffee Cup virtually hummed with customers. The sounds of muted conversation and cups clinking against saucers combined with Sinatra's silky voice and melded into the most comforting symphony she could imagine. Addison was delighted to be back, right in the center of it all. The Coffee Cup was where she belonged, where she felt at home.

  Six weeks had passed since that fateful night onboard the Anastasia. Christmas had come and gone. Jack had been released from the hospital and would soon begin physical therapy. The Coffee Cup had reopened in time for the new year. Her insurance company had even supplied her with a new espresso machine.

  Just because she hadn't seen Randall in a month wasn't any reason to fall to pieces. Was it?

  He'd been tied up in D.C., the subject of a much-too-thorough grand jury inquiry. He'd been distant when he'd told her over the phone that he'd moved back into his old town house. He'd been vague when she'd asked about his next trip to Denver. She hated it that he'd been so upbeat about his new desk job with the NTSB.

  Addison knew a brush-off when she heard it.

  The Wall Street Journal had done an expose on the late Garrison Tate, starting with the rape of Agnes Beckett twenty-seven years ago and ending with the final, violent hours he'd spent with Addison onboard the Anastasia. Sheriff Delbert McEvoy had been indicted on bribery charges. It seemed Tate had sent the good sheriff and his wife to London twice and paid for a Caribbean cruise and a trip to Ireland in the last ten years. More serious charges ranging from arson to murder were expected to be filed in the coming weeks.

  From her hospital bed the morning after that terrible night, Addison had found out that Tate had committed suicide onboard the Anastasia. Strangely, she'd felt nothing more than a sense of closure. For herself. For her parents. For Agnes Beckett.

  Her
search had finally come to an end. She knew as much as she would ever know about her birthparents. As much as she ever wanted to know. She would ponder her roots no more.

  Larry and Patty Fox were her parents. A childless couple who had given an unwanted baby a chance for a good life. They'd given her their love, instilled in her their morals, their sense of right and wrong, and built her into the person she was today. She could never ask for more, and she would forever cherish them as her only parents.

  Addison glanced at her watch, wondering for the hundredth time how Randall would take the news. Aside from the time he'd spent with Jack, and the single weekend he'd come home, Addison hadn't seen him for four very long weeks.

  It seemed like a lifetime.

  She chastised herself for thinking that today would be any different from any other. She was at her shop. Customers were piling in to buy Sumatra coffee and Earl Grey tea. The china teapots were moving well. She should be overjoyed. To have her life back. To be alive. Instead, she felt as though she was coming apart at the seams.

  She'd heard the news just that morning, as shocking as a blast of frigid air on a hundred-degree day. During a follow up visit to her doctor, she'd mentioned that her period hadn't come, believing it was due to the physical strain of the hypothermia she'd suffered six weeks earlier. Two hours later, the doctor had called her at the shop and reported that she was pregnant.

  Since then, Addison had been riding the emotional rollercoaster from end to end, up and down, over and over again. She went from elated to uncertain to frightened, then back again.

  More than anything she wanted a family. A center to her life. Someone to love. It was something she'd always imagined for herself. A child. A husband.

  So why was the idea of having a baby terrifying her so?

  Sternly, she reminded herself that she didn't need Randall Talbot to be happy. Nor did she need him to have the baby. They would get along fine without him. Telling him was merely a courtesy.

  Not sure if her nausea was from nerves or the tiny life growing inside her, Addison shoved the latte away, dropped her head into her hands, and groaned,

  "Headache?"

  Her head whipped up at the sound of his voice. Her face heated with an unexpected blush. She wanted to be angry with him. For keeping her waiting. For making her feel so damned uncertain. For making her love him so much her chest ached with it.

  "I hate it when you sneak up on me," she said nastily.

  Thick dark eyebrows shot up. Innocently, he looked behind him as if to make certain the words had been directed at him.

  "He came through the front door like all your other customers." Gretchen approached the table with a tray. "How was your flight, Randy?" she asked, her tone dripping with honey.

  "Too long," he said, gazing steadily at Addison.

  Randall pulled out one of the bistro chairs as Gretchen set a foamy latte and a plate of fresh-baked scones in front of him. "If you haven't already noticed—" she winked at Randall—"our queen for the day is in a bad mood." With a sly, grandmotherly smile, she turned on her heel and left them alone.

  Randall reached for his latte.

  Addison felt him watching her from across the table. Dropping her eyes to the plate of scones, she reached for one out of sheer determination not to be nervous.

  "What seems to be the problem?" Bringing the coffee to his lips, he slurped as only a male can slurp and get away with it. "Is everything all right?"

  "Everything's just peachy." She sent him a disagreeable smile, took half the scone in a single bite, and let the crumbs .fall into her lap.

  "If the media's bothering you—"

  "I've been media-free for almost two weeks now."

  He studied her, looking too handsome and far too in control as he sat across from her. She tried to remember the exact moment when she'd fallen in love with him, realizing it had probably been that fateful day at his seedy little office two blocks away. She just hadn't realized it at the time.

  God, she hated it when life just up and pulled out the rug.

  "How's Jack?" she asked.

  "He starts physical therapy on Monday."

  "That's great."

  "He doesn't think so."

  "He will in time."

  Silence pressed into the moment between them. Addison used it to retrieve her latte, despite the fact that she had no desire for coffee. "When are you going back?" She tried to make the question sound nonchalant, but both of them knew it wasn't.

  "The investigation is over. I've been cleared of all charges."

  She nearly dropped her cup. "You're cleared?"

  He smiled crookedly. "Yeah."

  "I'm glad for you."

  He reached into an inside pocket of his parka and pulled out a sealed brown envelope. He placed it on the table between them. "I thought you'd want to see this."

  Addison's heart began to hammer. She reached for the envelope, opened the clasp, and poured its contents onto the table. A heart-shaped locket, its faux gold chain tarnished with age, lay in a heap in front of her. She reached for it with trembling hands, touching the chain, her fingers finally resting on the locket itself.

  ''The clasp is broken," Randall said.

  "Where did you get this?" she asked, unable to tear her eyes away from the tiny heart she held between her fingers.

  "It was found in Agnes Beckett's mobile home."

  Somehow, Addison had already known. She clicked open the locket and stared at the yellowed photo of a newborn infant with dark hair and a tiny, wrinkled face. "It's me."

  "She loved you, Addison. That's why she gave you away. So you could have a life with all the chances she didn't have."

  A dull, lingering ache wrenched at her heart. Tears filled her eyes, spilling down her cheeks unacknowledged. She raised her eyes to his. "It hurts to know she suffered so much for so many years. For me. I didn't even know it."

  "It made her happy to know she gave you the opportunity for the kind of life she never had."

  Addison closed the locket and gripped it tightly in her hand, struggling to control the flood of tears waiting at the gate. ''Thank you." She slid the locket back into the envelope.

  His gaze narrowed at a point across the room. "Why is Gretchen giving you hand signals from behind the espresso machine?"

  “What?" Addison started, caught the puzzled look from him, and shifted in her chair to frown at Gretchen. Chagrined, the older woman resumed polishing the already gleaming brass of the espresso machine.

  "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea." She started to rise.

  He stopped her by touching her arm. "Whoa. What wasn't such a good idea?"

  ''This ..." Exasperated with herself for acting so foolishly, she motioned dumbly at the table between them.

  "You asked me to meet you here," he said. "I'm here. Now sit down and spill it."

  She took a deep breath, reminding herself once again that she didn't need him to have the baby. Yes, he could hurt her. She'd relinquished that power to him long ago.

  Knowing she couldn't put this off any longer, she sank into the chair. "I'm going to have a baby.

  * * *

  Randall’s world shifted. His chest swelled with love for the woman sitting across from him. He couldn't believe she didn't know how he felt about her. After everything they'd been through. For the second time since he'd known her, she'd surprised the hell out of him.

  How could she possibly believe he wouldn't want their child? That he wouldn't be elated by the news? How could she not know that he was head-over-heels crazy in love with her?

  She gazed into his eyes, searching for something that seemed to elude her. "You've been in D.C. for the last month."

  "Not of my own free will."

  "You haven't given me a clue as to how you feel."

  "I love you, Addison. I've told you that."

  "So you have."

  "Those are big words for me."

  "Like they're not for me?"

  Indignant, he
raised his voice. "Dammit, I follow through." When the two students sitting next to them turned to listen, Randall sent them a glare and lowered his voice. "How in the hell could you possibly believe I wouldn't want this baby?"

  "You've never mentioned wanting a family. You've never even spoken of long-term commitment."

  ''That doesn't mean I don't want either of those things." He ran a hand through his hair, studying her from across the small expanse of table. "Until I met you ..." His words trailed off. How could he explain his feelings to her when he barely understood them himself? How could he put into words feelings and emotions so strong they frightened him? Could that gut-wrenching kind of love even be described?