The Grace Painter (The Grace Series Book 1)

by Mark Romang

  During any other hostage scene, his normal approach would be to first gauge the kidnapper’s mindset and determine whether they could harm the hostage. Second, he would gently probe the kidnapper’s personality in an attempt to find common ground. An effective negotiator has to somehow forge a bond with the hostage taker if there is to be any hope of surrender.

  Unfortunately, standard operating procedures didn’t apply to the situation at hand. Deadly force was his only option.

  In a more perfect world an experienced SWAT team or FBI Hostage Rescue Team would storm the shack. For Rafter to rescue Gabby on his own would require nothing less than a miracle. But he wasn’t about to start doubting God now, especially after all he’d been through. Miracles were plentiful on this unforgettable night.

  The Smith & Wesson in his right hand came courtesy of what he felt a miracle, as was the mode of transportation he used to get to the shack. Recounting the past ten minutes only confirmed his belief he’d been receiving supernatural assistance.

  After washing ashore on a portion of the levee recently sandbagged by National Guardsmen, Rafter salvaged valuable items left behind by the sandbaggers. One of the items turned out to be a discarded lifejacket, which he cinched so tightly to his body that it became like a second skin. The other two usable items he found included a flare pistol and climbing rope. The Wave Runner he used to get to the shack he later absconded from an inattentive sentry, as well as the man’s pistol. He’d lost his Glock sometime earlier in the night, presumably when he fell overboard.

  He’d ridden the PWC directly up to the shack, confident the hurricane din would drown out his approach. He’d secured the Wave Runner next to another PWC moored to a small dock adjoining the shack. And that’s how he found himself clinging for dear life to the deck rail, his knuckles bone-white.

  Rafter turned his head and looked behind him. The storm surge barreled through the Basin like a tsunami. Its dimensions were enormous, even more so than the last time he saw it. He had at most thirty seconds to enter the shack, grab the little girl and get back to his idling Wave Runner.

  He took a deep breath and stepped for the door.

  Chapter 34

  As her vision improved, and as morning light seeped underneath the bedroom door, Annie saw what prevented the trap door from opening. Humidity and moisture had caused the trap door to expand. The edges of the plywood door rubbed against the dimensions of the hole, causing it to stick. Annie could only get the door to raise about six inches. Not nearly enough to allow passage.

  If she had a jigsaw she could make quick work of trimming off the swelled edges of the door. But she didn’t have such a luxury, or any other cutting tool for that matter. Heavy grit sandpaper would also do the trick. And she had a nail file in her purse. But who knew where her purse was at.

  Maybe if I had a lubricant I could grease the trap door.

  Annie gritted her teeth. She looked around the room for anything that might pass as a lubricant. Her eyes rested on a shabby bedside table. She ripped open the single drawer and looked inside, hoping to find a KY tube. But only a dead spider and mice droppings met her gaze. Once more she looked all around the room for anything that might help her, risking precious seconds, time she could never get back.

  The shack groaned under the intense wind shear. Every few seconds a nail shot out from the wall. She considered disregarding Blaine’s advice about rushing the door. But then she thought better of it. Odds remained better to escape through the floor.

  Spit! Saliva can act as a natural lubricant.

  Willing to try anything, she hacked up as much saliva as her dry mouth would allow. She then bent down until her lips nearly kissed the floor and spat, aiming her spittle at positions where chafing between the two surfaces was most prevalent. Annie worked her saliva into place by rapidly moving the trap door up and down as high as it would go.

  Please, God, make this work. I don’t know what else to do, she prayed. Throughout her life skepticism had cannibalized what little faith she had in God’s omnipotent powers. But circumstances had changed. I want to believe now, Annie thought as she gave the trap door a mighty tug, hoping her prayer and a little spit would make a difference. But the stubborn trapdoor refused to budge any higher.

  She tried again and again with the same cruddy results. Her arms throbbed from pulling at the door.

  So tired.

  Every muscle and bone in her body ached. She wanted nothing more than to roll up into a ball and close her eyes. But then she looked into Gabby Witherspoon’s big blue eyes and knew she could never stop trying.

  Finally, on her fifth monumental tug, the door sprang open with a splintering crack. Jubilation made her soul soar. But then just as quickly her heart sank when she peered into the cavity. Rising floodwater lapped ominously close to the floor joists.

  “Gabby, can you swim?”

  “Yep, I sure can. My daddy says I swim like a guppy.”

  “That’s good. How long can you hold your breath?”

  “Oh…I’d say twenty minutes.”

  Annie laughed despite herself. “If you can just hold it for twenty seconds that would be perfect.”

  “That will be easy,” Gabby said.

  “Yeah, easy,” Annie repeated. “Gabby, I want you to climb onto my back and wrap your arms around my neck. Pretend I’m giving you a piggyback ride.” She waited for the little girl to climb onto her back. A few seconds later the child clung to her back like a rucksack.

  “Okay, Gabby, take a really big breath and hold it.” Annie did the same. And then with only a moment’s hesitation, they entered the swirling water.

  Chapter 35

  Like a wounded gunfighter too stubborn to die, Rafter stood splay-legged at the door of the fishing shack. He held a gun in each hand. His left hand gripped a flare pistol. The fingers of his right hand wrapped around a Smith and Wesson Sigma .40 caliber semi-auto he’d confiscated only minutes earlier from the sentry at the levee.

  Exhaustion had beaten him down to a nub. Blood once again oozed from the hole in his chest. Intense pain seared his ribs whenever he inhaled. But he welcomed the pain. Feeling pain meant he was still alive.

  Now if he could only rescue Gabby he could finally slay the beast living inside his head. For the past eight years the monster had convinced him he was worthless, a coward, a misfit. No more. The beast died tonight.

  Rafter took a half step forward, prodded to action by the storm surge approaching from behind. He kicked open the door so savagely that the door nearly flew off its hinges.

  Reckoning had arrived for him and the Boudreauxs.

  He hesitated only long enough to appraise the living room and see that Gabby wasn’t among the three men playing cards at a small dining table. As he stepped across the threshold he shot the flare pistol, sending a blinding pink flare smoking through the shack and directly into the card playing trio.

  Outnumbered three to one, he needed an edge. And he got it. His adversaries scattered for cover, discombobulated by the hot flare zigzagging through their cramped living quarters.

  Rafter raised his side arm, aiming it at Jean-Paul’s midsection. He didn’t want to kill. He wanted to avoid, if possible, a bloodletting. He preferred to leave the life-taking to God, but would do whatever necessary to ensure Gabby’s safety. And if that meant killing, he was up to the unpleasant task.

  Rafter ignored the flare sizzling through the room. The signaling device had already set the living room curtains on fire during its brief foray into the shack. Bright orange flames lapped to the ceiling. Focused on only one thing, Rafter looked into Jean-Paul’s eyes. From his past police background of interviewing victims and perpetrators, he learned that the eyes nearly always betray one’s thoughts and intentions. In Jean-Paul’s troubled eyes he saw a man-child controlled by foolishness.

  Jean-Paul lunged for a hunting rifle leaning against a ratty sofa. Rafter had no choice but to fire, and his dark side couldn’t resist the temptation to aim a little lo
w. The pedophile screamed in agony as three .40 caliber slugs dramatically altered his genitalia.

  Not wasting any time, Rafter wheeled and turned his attention to one of the other remaining card players. He didn’t recognize this man, although he had physical characteristics that made him resemble a Boudreaux. The man held a side arm and aimed it at Rafter with deadly intentions.

  There wasn’t time to duck for cover. For that matter there wasn’t any furniture large enough to shield him. Rafter willed himself to stay calm, even as bullets whizzed by his head. He took deliberate aim, knowing that rushing his shots would insure his downfall.

  His concentration transported him into a kill zone so absorbing that he didn’t even realize he’d fired his gun until he saw the man crumple to the floor from a cavernous hole in his chest.

  Scanning the room for the third card player, Rafter spotted Blaine Boudreaux cowering under the table, his hands interlocked around his head. The threat negated, Rafter strode to the bedroom. “Gabby? Where are you?” he called as he yanked open the bedroom door and stepped inside. Immediately he noticed the small bed shoved to one side, exposing a hole in the floor.

  His heart pounded as he rushed over to the hole and looked down into the cavity. Floodwater lapped mere inches from the floor. Surely she didn’t try to escape through that. Her chances of survival would be next to nothing.

  Rafter looked wildly around the room, searching every corner and shadow, including the closet. But the girl wasn’t in the room, and he felt himself being drawn back toward the trap door. He gazed into the square hole, into the black gullet of his worst fear and realized that Gabby was down there somewhere.

  He dropped to his knees and put his face close to the watery hole. He moved a hand toward the water, but jerked back when the water began to roil. Below the bubbling surface Rafter could hear a child screaming for help. His head spun as he listened intently. But then he realized the room spun like a carousel, and not his head. The bedroom door slammed open and shut. Open and shut.

  “Gabby?”

  He let out a gasp when two skeletal hands shot up from the water and latched onto his wrists. Even without flesh, he recognized the smallish hands. Samantha Delani was still haunting him eight years later, stripping away his sanity little by little.

  Rafter fought against an urge to vomit and lurched to his feet. He turned and staggered into the living room. Despite the dampness and leaking roof, flames engulfed the room.

  If he hurried he didn’t think he would catch fire. Rain dripped from his slicker, providing him at least some protection from the flames. Smoke inhalation posed his biggest threat now.

  Rafter dropped to the floor and crawled for the front door. He held his breath as he wiggled forward on knees and elbows. A thunderous explosion from a corner of the room shot flames over his head and ignited more surfaces. Rafter suspected the explosion came from chemicals to make meth. He’d seen the drug paraphernalia piled in the far corner when he first entered the shack.

  Every wall blazed with fire now. The intense heat from the spreading flames enveloped him. The rubber slicker he wore began to melt. Thick black smoke engulfed the room, stinging his eyes and burrowing up his nose. He could see nothing and hoped he headed in the right direction. Before the smoke obscured his vision he’d been only a few feet from the front door.

  A flaming stud fell across his back. It broke into two pieces and sizzled harmlessly to either side of him. Afraid of more falling debris, Rafter crawled faster. He tried not to breathe, tried not to cough, because every time he did the smoke drifted deeper into his lungs. He suddenly feared that if the storm surge didn’t get him the fire would. The expanding flames seemed to be chasing him. Dozens of flaming hands reached for him. The flames lapped at his sides like a dog lapping water. He could smell his singed hair.

  In a few seconds it would be over. The smoke would overtake him and he’d be cremated alive. He figured he’d pass out from the smoke long before the flame lit his body. At least that is what he hoped would happen. But then all at once he felt a tendril of cooler air blow onto his face and knew he’d eliminated at least one foe.

  Rafter staggered to his feet and flung himself toward the open door. As soon as he crossed the threshold he sucked in a great volume of clean air. His bewildered lungs recoiled, unsure of whether to purge inhaled smoke or draw in fresh air. Barking coughs fled his lips. Triple-digit wind velocity made his cheeks flutter and flap. It was as if he stood in a wind tunnel. “Gabby!” he cried in his loudest voice, dismayed at how quickly his shout dissipated in the howling wind.

  Rafter eyed the three-story wave headed his way. The killer wave would swallow up the shack in seconds. “Gabby!” he cried again with even more urgency as he peered into the dark, churning water. I’m too late. She’s already dead, he lamented bitterly. Why am I always too late to make a difference?

  “Jon! Over here! Hurry, I’m losing my grip!”

  Rafter whirled and ran toward the shout. Goosebumps made his scalp tingle. The voice sounded like Annie’s, and it sounded very close. He looked all around but didn’t see her. “Annie? Where are you?”

  “We’re right beneath you. We’re under the deck.”

  Rafter kicked hard at the weathered deck balusters, knocking several loose. He backhanded the balusters out of the way and hung his head over the side. He saw them right away.

  Annie clung to a support beam just beneath the deck floor. Gabby rode her back. The child appeared frightened out of her wits, but unhurt.

  Rafter exchanged an anxious glance with Annie, and then reached down his arms. “Grab my hands, Gabby! We have to hurry! A big wave is about to wash us away.”

  The little girl extended her tiny hands. Rafter grabbed them and yanked Gabby up and over the edge of the deck floor. “Stay right here, Gabby! Don’t move!” Rafter commanded. He leaned over the edge once again and took one of Annie’s hands. Fortunately the FBI agent had a petite build. And despite his poor lifting position and lack of leverage, he hauled Annie up from the water with only slightly more difficulty than he had with Gabby.

  He didn’t take time to explain to Annie his intentions. The hurricane simply wouldn’t allow it. The approaching storm surge rumbled like a freight train in his ears. Rafter hoisted Gabby up over his shoulder and grabbed Annie’s hand. He then took off in a dead run for the moored Wave Runners. It took less than five seconds to get to the first machine, which rolled and pitched on the floodwater swells like a floundering ship, but still idled just the way he’d left it.

  Rafter plopped Gabby on the front edge of the seat. Reading his mind, Annie settled in right behind her. Rafter untied the PWC and was about to climb on himself when another Wave Runner roared into view from behind the shack. They watched the rider skim by them at high speed, a large duffel bag tied to the seat behind him. Rafter had never been introduced to Sebastian Boudreaux, but suspected he’d just met him.

  “We have to go after him, Jon!” Annie shouted over the clamor.

  Rafter pushed the Wave Runner away from the dock. He shook his head adamantly. “I’ll go after him on the other Wave Runner. You get the girl to safety,” he shouted as he gave the throttle a strong twist, sending the PWC off with a throaty roar.

  He turned to the other Wave Runner and frantically unwound the rope from the dock cleat and jumped onto the machine. Lucky for him the key had been left in the ignition. Please start, he prayed.

  The Yamaha obediently coughed to life, and with the approaching storm surge reminding him to hurry, Rafter manhandled the PWC away from the dock. He twisted the throttle all the way back to its stop and the Wave Runner rocketed away from the dock. He peeked over his shoulder just long enough to see the storm surge bowl over the fishing shack. The flaming structure, with its morbid history and trapped men inside, collapsed into the water with a sizzling splat.

  Right away, he could tell he wasn’t alone. An overshadowing presence made the hair on his neck stand up. As he sped across the roiling water
he turned his head and looked up.

  He wished he hadn’t.

  His heart galloped in his chest. To his dismay he discovered he traveled inside an enormous freshwater wave. Rafter fought off an urge to veer sharply away from the wave’s circular cavity. The killer wave’s turbulent front side could easily drive him down several feet. His lifejacket would eventually bring him back to the surface, but it couldn’t prevent him from bashing his head against a rock or tree hiding in the silted depths.

  His predicament seemed as improbable as the nonsensical dreams he sometimes experienced if he ate pizza too close to bedtime. But this wasn’t a pizza-induced nightmare. He truly skimmed along inside Hurricane Vera’s gullet.

  Unlike outside the wave where the hurricane bluster reached deafening decibels, the wave’s interior was hushed like a public library. This isn’t so bad I guess. I always wanted to be a beach bum and surf Mondo waves. So here’s my chance.

  He didn’t want to dwell on his plight, so he directed his thoughts toward Annie and Gabby. He wondered if they escaped in time to avoid the storm surge. He also thought about Samson. He wasn’t sure how he would cope if his beloved dog were to die. More than just a companion, the canine had become a lifeline to him.

  It was about then he noticed something different about the wave’s ceiling. It had dropped sharply. He scrunched his head down, but still felt spray from the ever-shrinking dome wet his scalp. It was as if he was in the wave’s mouth, and the mouth was closing and trying to eat him alive. The wave’s pipeline had also undergone changes. Its surface was no longer glass-smooth as it had been only moments earlier. Rafter struggled to keep the Wave Runner from drifting outside the wave cavity and into the more dangerous whitewater running parallel to the wave.