by G. M. Ford
“Up ahead on the left.”
The purple had faded from the horizon, leaving a charcoal sky. The air had begun to thicken with mist, turning the full moon to a hazy nickel.
She took another pull from her drink. “So how come you never got married?” she asked, out of the blue.
Corso pulled his gaze from the lake and looked her way. Her eyes looked tired, and her words carried just the hint of a slur.
“How do you know I’ve never been married?”
She laughed. “I’ve read your file, of course. You don’t think we let you in the courtroom without doing our homework, do you?”
“What about you?” Corso asked. “You’ve never managed it either.”
She made a tsk-tsk sound. “You’ve got a file on me too, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
She laughed again. “You ever notice how small talk suffers when you’re talking to somebody you’ve got a dossier on?”
Corso’s shoulders shook with laughter. It took him a moment before he was able to speak. “Especially when they don’t know.”
Renee Rogers threw her head back and laughed. Corso kept on.
“You already know everything you’d normally ask them at a time like that, so you’re five minutes into a conversation with a stranger, and if you’re not careful you’re asking them about that mole they had removed last year, a story that they can’t, for the life of them, remember having shared with you.”
“And they spend the rest of the night looking at you out of the corner of their eyes.”
They shared another laugh, before Corso asked. “So? How come you never managed it either?”
“I asked you first.”
He thought it over. “I was engaged once, but things didn’t work out,” he said, after a moment. “It’s not like I planned it that way or anything. Always seemed to me like I might be ready to settle down after the next assignment or after the next big story.” He shrugged. “It just kept getting pushed somewhere down the road until I was so used to being like I was”—he took one hand off the wheel—“that it stopped being an issue.”
She folded her arms and turned her eyes inward.
“You like living alone?” she said, after a short silence.
“I’m used to it. The longer I do it, the more it suits me.”
“You don’t get lonely?”
“You can be married with five kids and still be lonely.”
She gestured with her glass. “Your Honor. The witness is being unresponsive. Please direct him to answer the question.”
He chuckled. “Yeah…Sometimes, I guess—you know—sometimes it would be nice to have somebody to do things with.”
“I hate eating out alone,” Renee Rogers offered.
“Me too. That’s another reason why I cook.”
She finished her drink. “When I get home, I’m going to dust off all the cookbooks I’ve gotten as presents over the years and give it a try.” She held up two fingers, Boy Scout–style. “I hereby resolve to be more domestic.” The slur was stronger now. She seemed to notice and turned her face toward the windows.
Corso pulled back on the throttles, allowing the wind and the water to slow the boat’s momentum and ease Saltheart to a stop alongside the floating dock.
Renee Rogers pushed herself from the seat. “I’ll help,” she announced.
“No need,” Corso said. “I’ve got it. Docking’s easier,” he lied.
He moved quickly down the stairs and out onto the deck. First he went forward and threw the bowline down onto the dock, then grabbed a trio of fenders and spaced them along the rail as he made his way to the stern. By the time he’d finished getting the stairs in place, the wind had moved the boat six feet from the dock and he had to step inside and readjust the bow thruster. Renee Rogers was leaning back against the sink, rolling her icy glass across her forehead. Corso stepped back outside, climbed to the bottom step, and hopped down onto the dock.
Took him five minutes to moor the boat to his satisfaction and reconnect the electrical power and the phone line. When he stepped back into the galley, Renee Rogers was leaning over the counter, taking deep breaths through her open mouth.
“You okay?” he asked.
She gave a silent shake of the head and continued staring down into the sink as Corso stepped around her and turned off the engines.
“Anything I can do?” he asked.
She stood up straight and brought a hand to her throat. “I don’t know, I think maybe it’s the rocking of the boat. I feel dizzy.”
“Come on,” he said, offering a hand. She took it, and he led her down into the salon and sat her on the couch. “Relax.”
She leaned back on the couch, brought a hand up to her forehead, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths.
“This is so embarrassing,” she said.
“The water affects people differently.”
She massaged the back of her neck and nodded slightly.
“Relax,” Corso said. “I’m going to do a few chores. I’ll be right back.”
It took him the better part of ten minutes to round up all the plates and glasses, rinse everything, and get it into the dishwasher. When he returned to the salon, Renee Rogers hadn’t moved. He sat down next to her on the sofa and jostled her arm. He tried three times before her eyes blinked open. “How ya doin’?” he asked.
“Not very well, I’m afraid. One minute I was feeling fine….”
“Listen,” Corso said. “I’ve got an idea. I’ve got a real nice forward berth with its own head. Why don’t you lie down there until you’re feeling better.”
She started to protest, but Corso kept talking.
“You wake up and feel better, we’ll call you a cab. You sleep till morning, and I’ll make you breakfast. Whatta you say?”
She tried to get to her feet. “I couldn’t, really.” Her hand slipped on the arm of the sofa, and she fell back onto the couch.
Corso held out his hand. “Come on,” he said.
He left his hand extended until finally she reached out and took it. Slowly, he pulled her to her feet and led her back through the galley to the four stairs leading down to the forward berth and the chain locker. She slipped slightly on the second step, but Corso was there to take her by the shoulders and ease her to the lower deck.
He slid open the door to the berth. “Here it is,” he said. “Take it easy for a while. See how you feel.”
“This is terrible,” she said. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said as he steered her into the room until the backs of her legs were against the bed. “Just make yourself comfortable.”
She pulled the coverlet back, sat, and swung her feet up onto the bed, then noticed her shoes. She used her right foot to pry off the opposite sneaker, then reversed the process. Corso grabbed the Nikes and set them on the floor next to the bed.
“Just till I’m feeling better,” she said.
“I’ll button things up for the night and then come back and see how you’re doing. We’ll figure out where to go from there.”
“Okay,” she said, closing her eyes.
She was snoring before he got the door closed. He reached over, drew the coverlet over her shoulder, and made his way up and forward. Turned off the dock lights and the heat and finally, almost as an afterthought, flipped on the carpet alarm. He started outside to pull up the stairs but stopped himself. Figured he better wait and see what was going on with Rogers. On his way through the salon, he cracked a couple of windows.
25
Saturday, October 21
1:34 a.m.
The cornstalks stood dry and broken among the furrows, their shattered shafts pale against the frozen brown earth. Here and there, snow had gathered along the windward edges of the rows, like lace along the neck of a dress.
The preacher had to ask the operator to shut down the backhoe so he could be heard above the wind. Then he started on about other lives
in other times, as the mourners stood hand in hand, waiting for him to speak his piece, so they could put the box in the ground and finally be free of everything but the memory. Or so they hoped.
As he read from the book, the sky darkened and the air was filled with the rush of wings. A flock of blackbirds filled the sky, soaring together, veering off at angles, and then, as if by signal, landing in the cornfield, where they began to pick among the stubble like refugees. And above the droning voice, above the whine of the wind and the rustle of the birds, the hollow metal sound began, metric and mechanical: bong… bong… bong…
Corso sat up in bed. The muted gong of the alarm system beat a rhythm in his ears. He checked the digital clock by his bedside. One thirty-five. Probably a dog, he thought. That big ugly shepherd they take out on the Catalina thirty-six.
He lay back and waited for the dog to wander off and the alarm to go silent. The wind had died. Saltheart floated lightly in the slip. The moment he felt the boat move, his heart began to pound in his chest. Somebody was coming up the stairs he had left in place. Nobody in the marina would come on board without permission. It just wasn’t done. You hailed from the dock. You hammered on the hull. You did whatever you had to, but you didn’t come aboard without permission. He sat back up and flipped the switch, turning off the alarm. Then the boat rocked again as a second person climbed the ladder to the deck, and he felt his mouth go dry.
He bumped himself down off the berth. Wearing only a pair of Kelly-green basketball trunks, he climbed the three stairs and poked his head up into the galley. Maybe Rogers was up and wandering around. It took a single glance to stop the breath in his chest and make his blood feel cold.
Shadows, two of them: one tall, one short. Short had come on board first. He was halfway to the stern when he stuck his fingers into the window crack and slid the window all the way open. Then the curtains were eased back. The cops maybe?
Tall came in head first. With the grace of a gymnast, he used his hands to cushion his roll down onto the couch, came up lightly on his feet, then reached back out the window. When the hand reappeared, it held a silenced automatic. Corso felt his insides contract. So much for the cops. Tall set the automatic off to the side on the settee and put both hands out the window. The sight of a pump shotgun in his hands got Corso moving.
He swallowed a mouthful of air and backed down the stairs. Once at the bottom, he quietly closed and locked the companionway door. He knew the puny barrel bolt wouldn’t stop a determined child; he just hoped to slow them down. A movement beneath his feet announced the second man’s arrival in the salon. Corso crawled down under the stairs.
His fingers trembled as he unlatched the brass dogs holding the engine-room hatch, but his brain was starting to work again. He knew what he had to do. They were only expecting one person on board. If they went forward, they’d find Rogers in the bunk, kill her, and then come looking for him. He had to draw them toward himself and then make his way through the engine room to Rogers in the bow, hoping like hell they didn’t know anything about boats, didn’t immediately realize that all they had to do was go up to the main deck and they could stroll wherever they wanted.
He pulled open the three storage drawers that were built into the bulkhead. Open, they prevented the door from swinging inward. He banged his hand hard on the door and ducked down under the stairs. They came his way. He heard the door handle rattle and the wood groan. Somebody walked back to the salon and then returned.
An instant later a deep muffled boom shattered the air, and the companionway door was reduced to splinters. The air was filled with floating pieces of fabric and fiber. They’d used a couch cushion to muffle the shotgun’s roar. A second smothered blast, and the opened drawers were history. The splintered remains were still in the air, as Corso crawled into the engine room and snapped the four inside dogs closed.
He reached to his right, switched on the light, and moved as quickly and quietly as possible toward the bow. He duckwalked his way between the twin Lehman diesels, picked his way carefully over the exhaust manifolds and electrical lines. Through the forward storage area to the forward watertight door, where he sat on his haunches and took a deep breath. If they’d figured it out and were waiting, he was dead.
The first dog took him three tries. After that, he was cool. He pulled the door toward himself. He winced as he stuck his head out and peered up at the bottom of the stairs. Nothing, so he crawled out into the hall and stood up. Ran the same door-locking strategy with the barrel bolt and the open doors and then slid open the berth door.
Renee Rogers was sitting up in bed. She wore an expensive-looking gray bra-and-panty set and a serious frown. He clamped a hand over her mouth. She grabbed his wrist and tried to pull the hand away. “Shhhhh,” Corso hissed. She began to struggle, digging her nails into his wrist. Corso reached for her free hand but missed. Her fingers were hooked into a claw, on their way to remove his eyes, when the shotgun roared out in the hall and the air was suddenly full of gunsmoke and debris. Her nails stopped an inch from his face. When he removed his hand, her mouth hung open.
Corso got to his knees and opened the overhead hatch. He fought his fingers as he twisted the knob on the restraining arm, until it finally came off in his hand, allowing the hatch to flop all the way open. The shotgun roared again. Corso could hear them kicking out the remaining splinters of the door. He pointed up at the hatch.
Didn’t have to tell her twice; she scrambled up and out in an instant. Corso wiggled his shoulders through the narrow opening and then used his arms to lever himself on deck. He took her by the hand. To port was the dock, to starboard, Lake Union. He pulled her toward the lake.
“Over the side,” he whispered. “It’s our only chance.”
She nodded and put one leg over the rail.
“Stay close to me,” he said.
“I can’t swim,” she said. Her lower lip quivered.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said.
They stepped off together. Her eyes were wide. Her instincts pulled her knees to her chest, as they hovered for a moment before plummeting down into the black water.
The icy water raked his skin like nails, froze the air in his lungs, and gave him an instant headache. He surfaced, shaking the water from his eyes. To his left, Rogers was making gasping sounds and thrashing the water to foam, in a frenzied attempt to stay afloat. He reached over, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her to him. Her face was white with terror. She locked her arms and legs around him in a death grip, sending them both below the surface. Corso held his breath and pried her loose, spun her in the water, and threw his arm around her chest in the classic lifeguard manner.
She came up gasping, whimpering. Her body shuddered uncontrollably as Corso began to stroke his way toward the stern. His “Shhhh” failed to stop her gasps. The effort made his legs ache. A cramp tore at his right calf.
From inside the boat, two more muffled shotgun blasts. They’d be on deck in a minute. At the stern, Corso grabbed the swim step with one hand. With the other, he spun Renee Rogers in the water. He slipped his knee between her legs and used it to keep her afloat. “Listen to me.” Her lips were turning blue, but she nodded slightly. “You and I are going down under the swim step. There’s room under there to breathe. Ready?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, just put his arm around her waist and pulled her underwater. He managed a pair of scissor kicks before she struggled loose from his grasp and shot to the surface, banging her head on the underside of the swim step.
Corso came up facing her. The space between the underside of the swim step and the surface water was just big enough to keep their heads out of the water. Corso brought his finger to his lips. She was shaking so violently, he couldn’t tell if she’d understood. Her face was the color of oatmeal. She was gasping for air.
The swim step was a lattice of teak, designed to keep water from collecting on its surface. She had her hands thrust up through a couple of the spaces, holding on for dear
life. Unfortunately, anyone looking down from the stern would surely see her fingers and then they’d both be dead.
Corso pointed to her hands and shook his head. “Let go.”
“No,” she breathed.
Corso swam to the rear of the step, put his back against the hull, and grabbed hold of the support bracket. He gestured for her to come. She refused to move. “Theeey’re gonnnnna seeee your fiiiiingers,” he stuttered out. She looked up at her hands, over at Corso, and began to cry. He extended a hand. His legs were going numb from the cold. He could barely keep them moving. “Come on,” he said.
She came his way hand over hand, exchanging one grip for another until she was locked against his side. “Hang on to me,” he whispered. She tried to speak but couldn’t get her jaw muscles to cooperate. She was shivering and clinging to him like a barnacle when he began to feel movement in the hull. They were coming toward the stern. He brought a finger to his lips, but she was too far gone to notice.
He heard the hinged section of rail swing up and the gate swing open. Ten seconds passed before the visitor stepped down onto the swim step. All Corso could see were parts of the bottoms of his shoes as he moved tentatively around the platform. Someone whispered in Spanish and the feet disappeared. Half a minute later, a slight roll of the hull told him at least one of them was on the dock.
He couldn’t be sure, but above the gentle lapping of the waves and the chattering of his own teeth he thought maybe he heard the sounds of shoes on the dock.
He waited. What if it was a decoy? What if one of them was still on board? She was sobbing silently now. He held her tight and waited. Seemed like he waited for an hour. Until finally he knew that if he waited any longer, he’d die there in the water. Drown six feet from safety because his muscles wouldn’t carry him the distance.
He pushed off the hull with his aching legs, propelling them out from under the step. His left arm was wrapped around Rogers. He threw his right arm up onto the wood and pressed her back against the edge. “You gotta help out here,” he whispered in her ear. “We’re almost there.” She shivered harder but opened her eyes. “Just roll up onto the step.” In slow motion, she loosened her left arm and grabbed a piece of the step. Her teeth chattered like castanets. He felt her grip loosen, lowered his body in the water, and grabbed her around the hips. “Ready? One…two…three!” He managed to force one leg and one hip up onto the surface. Then he got his shoulder under her and kept pushing until the rest of her torso and the other leg followed suit. She flopped over onto her stomach and began to vomit. Corso gathered his strength and forced a knee over the edge but couldn’t muster the power to pull himself aboard. Then he felt her hands, pulling at him, and he tried again, finally flopping up next to her on his belly, breathing like a locomotive.
