The Hunt

by Jennifer Sturman

  We quickly decided to split up into pairs and canvass the boats, checking for signs of either Ben or Hilary and asking anyone we encountered if they’d seen people matching their description. Knowing that Ben was armed made this a scarier proposition than it would have been otherwise, but it was unlikely he’d risk shooting at us here in broad daylight, even if he had been desperate enough to transport Hilary without the cover of darkness. After we all promised each other we would proceed with caution, Abigail and Luisa started on the pier at the northern-most end and Peter and I started on the southern-most end, agreeing to work our way to the center.

  It was probably a good thing so few people were around, because I imagined most of the club members wouldn’t appreciate complete strangers jumping onto their boats, checking to see if anyone was on board, and then jumping off. Peter and I made it to the end of the first pier without spotting a single other person, much less signs of either of the individuals we were looking for, although I did catch a glimpse of Abigail and Luisa in the distance speaking to a man lounging on the deck of one of the larger boats in the marina. Judging by his gestures, he was urging them to join him for a drink and potentially a sunset cruise, and judging by his Hawaiian shirt and the daiquiri glass in his hand, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he had both a waterbed and a disco ball belowdecks.

  We advanced to the next pier, but this one also proved empty of humans except for an elderly couple guiding a modest craft into its slip. We lost several minutes convincing them that my fat lip was the result of an accident and not because I was unable to extricate myself from an abusive relationship with Peter. We then lost several more minutes helping them tie up, getting an entirely unwanted lesson in knot-making because Peter was too polite either not to help or to let on he already knew how to make the knots. Even so, we still managed to reach the remaining pier before Abigail and Luisa and began checking the boats there. I was growing increasingly worried we wouldn’t find anything at all, and if that were the case, I had no idea what we should do next.

  Then, halfway down the pier, Peter froze. He reached out an arm to keep me from moving forward. “That’s weird,” he said softly.

  “What’s weird?” I asked, matching his hushed tone.

  He pointed to a small white boat a few slips ahead. Everything I knew about sailing I’d learned in the last half hour, but even I could appreciate its graceful lines and gleaming brass-work. Delicate script on the hull spelled out The Good Sport, San Mateo, CA. The very name should have been enough to tip me off, but I was still surprised by what Peter said next.

  “That boat. It’s Caro’s. She must have changed marinas.”

  It figured that Caro would name her boat something like The Good Sport, but I could reflect further on that once we rescued Hilary. Instead, I flashed back to our locker-room conversation. “Caro told Ben she had a boat,” I said, keeping my voice low. “And she also told him she hardly ever uses it. But she probably didn’t tell him where she kept it, and that’s why he was calling around-to locate it.”

  “Why would he want to use her boat instead of renting one?” asked Peter.

  “This is better. In fact, it’s perfect. This way he doesn’t have to worry about leaving a record. It’s one thing to explain away why you rented a car; renting a boat is a different matter. I’ll bet you anything he’s got Hilary on there.”

  “No bets,” said Peter, but he took my arm, and we moved quietly up the pier.

  Nobody was on deck, and we couldn’t make out any sounds from the interior cabin, but this was preferable to hearing gunshots. Peter stepped aboard in one smooth motion, and the boat dipped slightly with his weight, but there was continued silence, and wordlessly he helped me up to join him. I followed as he moved with sure steps across the deck, trying not to think about how many times he and Caro must have gone sailing together on this very boat.

  The hatch above the steeply pitched stairs leading down to the cabin yawned open, and we paused as we approached, listening again for any sound from within. But there was only the creaking of the boat as it rocked gently in the water.

  Peter turned to me, miming that I should stay on deck and call for help if anything happened. I mimed back that I would. Then I waited thirty seconds for his sandy head to disappear inside before trailing him down the stairs.

  Here I found a small living space, no more than six feet wide and ten feet long, all paneled in shiny teak. The curtains were drawn, and the cabin was dark, but I could make out a compact dining table built into one wall next to an equally compact galley. Beyond the table, a short narrow hallway led to a partially open door which I guessed led to a bedroom, and that was where Peter was heading.

  What happened next happened quickly.

  Just as Peter started to move into the bedroom, a pocket door in the wall slid noiselessly open behind him, and Ben walked into the hallway. His head was down, but something metallic glinted in his hand, and he was so close to Peter he could practically reach out and touch him, which was entirely too close for my comfort.

  There wasn’t time to ask questions, much less to think, so I did neither.

  Instead, I grabbed the first thing I saw, a heavy cast-iron skillet resting on the single-burner stove. I raised the skillet high, just as Caro had raised her racket on the tennis court, and charged across the small room.

  Ben never even saw me coming. The skillet made a whooshing noise as I brought my arm down, and it connected with his head with a strangely gratifying thwack.

  He crumpled first to his knees, then pitched facedown onto the floorboards.

  26

  Peter spun around. “What-” he started to ask, but then he saw Ben sprawled behind him.

  Who knew I’d be so much more accurate with a skillet than a racket? It wasn’t as if I cooked any better than I played tennis, but Ben was out cold. Or nearly cold. He moaned softly, and the metal object clattered from his hand, but otherwise he looked unconscious.

  I rushed to pick up what Ben had dropped, eager to move the gun out of his reach before he came to. But it wasn’t a gun he’d been holding. It was a pair of scissors, and while scissors could be dangerous, this particular pair didn’t look especially sharp or lethal. In fact, they were really nothing more than glorified nail clippers-I’d only mistaken them for a gun because it had been so dark, and because I was predisposed to think that’s what Ben must have in his hand. Had he been planning on giving Hilary a manicure before he killed her?

  That odd thought barely had time to register before we heard a muffled thump from the bedroom. I stepped over Ben as Peter switched on an overhead light and pushed the door open.

  We found Hilary curled on the narrow bunk, uncharacteristically quiet and still, but that was because a swath of electrical tape was plastered across her mouth and around her head, and a makeshift bungee-cord harness ran from her wrists to her ankles, immobilizing her. Above the tape, however, her green eyes were flashing with a look of such ferocity it almost seemed safer to keep her tied up.

  “Don’t worry,” Peter told her. “We’ll have you out of this in no time.” He started working on the knotted cords while I began picking at the edge of the tape. Yet again, my nails proved insufficient to the task, so I put the scissors I’d taken from Ben to use. I cut an opening into the tape and then managed to peel it off without taking too much of Hilary’s hair or skin with it, but when she opened her mouth to speak, only a rasp came out, and we realized her throat must be too dry for words.

  As Peter continued his work on the knots, I ran to the galley and found a bottle of spring water, carefully skirting where Ben lay. I tipped the bottle to Hilary’s lips, and she drank half of it down as I waited, looking forward to everything she would tell us. It would be nice to be thanked for snatching her from the jaws of death and then to hear her version of events.

  But the first thing she said was neither appreciative nor illuminating. “You look like hell, Rach,” she croaked. “What did you do to yourself?”

&
nbsp; I managed to restrain myself from putting the tape back on, but that was partly because Peter had just managed to liberate her wrists and she would have only peeled it off again herself.

  “That’s not important,” I said. “Are you all right? Did Ben hurt you?”

  “Of course Ben didn’t hurt me,” she said, stretching her arms and legs with relief. “But what did you do to him? It sounded like a gong being struck from in here. We should call a doctor or something if he doesn’t wake up soon.”

  I hadn’t realized two days was enough to develop Stockholm syndrome; it had taken several weeks, maybe even months, to transform Patty Hearst from an heiress to a bank robber. Still, Hilary had been through a lot, and I reminded myself to be patient. Or to at least use my patient voice. “It was either get Ben or let him get Peter,” I said. “Or you. He was going to kill you.”

  “Ben wasn’t going to kill me. He was trying to rescue me.”

  “Rescue you? From who?”

  “I think it should be from whom.”

  I clenched my jaw. “From whom, then?”

  “From Iggie, obviously.”

  Peter went to find Luisa and Abigail while Hilary visited the head and I searched for something to put on the lump that was already rising beneath Ben’s close-cropped hair. Judging by the increasing frequency of his moans, he’d be coming around shortly, and I hoped I hadn’t done any permanent damage. For once my lack of upper-body strength might prove to be an asset. I located an instant cold pack inside a first-aid kit, and with Hilary’s help I rolled Ben over and wedged it between the lump and a needlepoint pillow we placed on the floor. Now that we’d turned on the lights, it was even more obvious the boat belonged to Caro. The decor was sporty but feminine, and the blue-checked fabric of the curtains matched the cushions on the bench next to the dining table.

  “So what exactly happened?” I was asking Hilary when Peter returned with Luisa and Abigail in tow.

  “The bastard Tasered me,” she said.

  “He whatted you?” asked Luisa.

  “A Taser’s a type of stun gun,” Peter told her.

  “Iggie with a stun gun. Can you believe it?” said Hilary.

  Abigail didn’t, apparently. “It’s hard to picture,” she said. “Are you absolutely sure it was Iggie?”

  “Of course it was Iggie,” Hilary replied, biting into an energy bar. We’d found the galley well stocked with the sort of healthy snacks favored by people who preferred not to let the need to eat interrupt their exercise. “He said he’d give me an interview, but he insisted on going to his house, so he drove me to the hotel and waited while I ran up to the room for my notebook and computer. But as soon as I got back into the car he shocked me. The next thing I knew, I was locked in his stupid Lamborghini in a deserted parking garage by myself.”

  She took another bite, and we waited impatiently for her to chew and swallow. “Then what?” I asked.

  “The doors were jammed, and I couldn’t get them to open-he must have some way to override the interior controls. My purse wasn’t there, so I didn’t have my own cell phone, but I saw another phone on the floor right in front of the driver’s seat. I guess it had slipped out of his pocket and he didn’t notice. I used it to dial nine-one-one, but there was no reception since I was underground, so then I tried to send texts. I hoped that once the car reached somewhere with better reception the messages would go through.”

  “They did. But why didn’t you tell us what had happened in the texts?” Luisa asked.

  “I had just started the first message to you when I heard footsteps. I didn’t have much time, and I wanted to get more than one SOS out, so I had to keep it short. I knew you’d figure out it was Iggie because people saw us leave the party together, so I sent the texts as fast as I could and dropped the phone back on the floor. Then I pretended I was still out of it. Which didn’t make any difference, because the jerk Tasered me again as soon as he was back in the car. I woke up here, and I’ve been here since. Mostly I’m amazed he was able to carry me. Do you think he’s been working out?”

  “This might sound like a strange question, but are you positive it was Iggie in the car with you?” I asked. We gave her the abridged version of what we’d learned since she disappeared, explaining about the second Lamborghini and Abigail’s certainty that Iggie had been telling the truth, at least about not knowing where she was.

  Hilary looked up from ripping open a bag of granola and considered my question. “Well, I did have to duck my head down when I was getting into the car at the hotel. And then my eyes were closed when he came back to the car in the parking garage. But it had to be Iggie. He knew I’d heard the rumors that he murdered his partner, Leo, and he must have thought I was going to write about that, along with all of the other problems at Igobe, because I’d been asking him about Leo at the party. That’s why he had to make me disappear. It just never occurred to me until he Tasered me that the rumors were more than rumors and that he could be violent. I mean, it’s Iggie, for Chrissakes. I thought he was too much of a nerd to be dangerous. Guess I was wrong.”

  “How did you know about Leo?” asked Abigail.

  “When I was researching Igobe, I came across a computer hacker who calls himself Petite Fleur, of all things. We e-mailed a few times, and then we met in person. He’s the one who told me that the technology could be hacked, and he also told me about Leo and how he died.”

  “This is the guy you met at Chez Bechet on Friday?” I asked.

  “You managed to figure that out, but it took you two whole days to find me? What were you people doing all this time?”

  “Did Iggie come back ever?” asked Peter. “After he brought you here?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said through a mouthful of granola. “Around midnight last night. He untied me so I could use the bathroom and have a drink of water, but he threatened to Taser me again if I made any noise. I was still blindfolded, so all I could see was a little sliver if I looked straight down, but I caught a glimpse of his watch, and that’s how I knew what time it was.”

  “And it was definitely Iggie?” Abigail asked. “Did you recognize his voice?”

  “He was whispering, so it was hard to tell, but who else could it have been?”

  “Could you see any of what he was wearing?” she pressed.

  “Just bits and pieces. Khakis and running shoes. And maybe a fleece? I didn’t get a good look, but I did manage to kick him pretty hard, right in the kneecap. Of course, then he did Taser me again, but it was worth it.”

  Abigail and I exchanged a glance. “So you never actually saw him when you got into the car at the hotel, or in the parking lot,” I confirmed.

  “And when he came back here, it was after midnight, and he was wearing khakis, running shoes and a fleece,” said Abigail.

  “Right,” said Hilary.

  “Then it couldn’t have been Iggie,” she said. “Not past his bedtime on a Sunday night. And not in those clothes. He doesn’t own khakis. He doesn’t own anything anymore that’s not purple.”

  From the floor, Ben gave another moan, his loudest yet. “It wasn’t Iggie,” he said. “God, my head hurts.”

  We all turned, startled. Nobody had noticed him even stirring. “That’s my fault,” I said lamely. “Sorry.”

  “But if wasn’t Iggie, who was it?” asked Hilary.

  Personally, I’d been thinking all over again about a certain someone who probably had a closet full of khakis, not to mention a sore kneecap. And while that someone also had an alibi, as I looked around the cabin I felt another epiphany taking shape.

  “It has to be Alex Cutler,” Ben said. “I got the names this morning of owners of Lamborghinis registered in California, and he’s not on the list, but the same set of letters from the vanity plate is: ACVLLC.” He struggled into a sitting position, wincing with pain. “Then I checked with hotel security again, and this time they let me look at the videos from outside the entrances, too. It turns out they’ll let you look at pretty
much anything if you give them enough cash. The guy with the second Lamborghini talking to Iggie outside the main entrance was the same guy I saw getting off on our floor, and that’s whose car Hilary got into. Then I checked the tape from the other entrance, and I saw him go in and then come back out of that entrance fifteen minutes later, which is when he went to our room. He must have wanted to make sure Hil hadn’t left any of her notes behind. And then, just to be sure, I found a picture of Cutler on his firm’s Web site. It’s definitely him.”

  “What gave you the idea to look for Hilary here?” I asked.

  “I was talking to Caro about sailing when Alex joined us. He mentioned that he’d been out on Caro’s boat, and I figured that if I were in his shoes and had to quickly come up with an out-of-the-way place to hide somebody a few hours later, the boat would come to mind. Caro hadn’t told me where she docked, but I got a list of marinas from the Yellow Pages, and then I called around, pretending I was supposed to deliver a new jib and was double-checking the address. That’s how I figured out where to go.”

  “But it can’t be Alex. Alex has an alibi,” Peter reminded us. “He was with Caro.”

  I was about to tread over some very dangerous ground, and I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. “You know, I’ve been thinking. It’s possible, if you look at it in a certain light, and this is just a theory, and you never really know-”

  “Spit it out already, Rach,” said Hilary.

  “Maybe Alex didn’t have an alibi. Maybe he had an accomplice instead.”

  Peter looked at me. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Well, Iggie probably knew Alex was up to something. He probably told Alex about Hilary’s suspicions, and that’s how Alex knew to follow him to the Four Seasons. But I think somebody besides Iggie was aiding and abetting.”

  “Who?” asked Luisa.

  “Caro,” I said. “What if she was in cahoots?”

  “Caro wasn’t in cahoots,” said Peter without skipping a beat. There was a note of warning in his voice, one I couldn’t remember ever hearing before. But somehow it made me want to say more, not less.