Spitting out creative expletives in two languages, he dialed the shower all the way to cold.
As soon as the rushing shower masked other sounds, Laura stepped into her swimsuit, shorts and secondhand boat shoes. She tiptoed from her bedroom and out the door.
The rising sun was dispersing most of the fog. Over the grass, only cotton balls of mist drifted here and there, but an amorphous swirl curtained the cooler lake surface. From the far shore floated a loon’s eerie tremolo.
All too aware of the risks of her solo outing, she headed for the boat shed. Having Cole under her roof, holding her when she was vulnerable enough to succumb, tempting her—held far more risk. Acknowledgment of her doomed love for him added exquisite torture to an already untenable situation.
Revealing the pregnancy and miscarriage would lead to more confessions. Including one that she might never be ready to broach.
Cole’s constant hovering was only dragging out the ordeal. If evading his presence invited the killer to try something, she had to take the chance. She desperately needed a break from being cooped up with him in that tiny cabin.
After all, the hour was so early that no self-respecting hit man would be up and about. No one knew she was out here, and the fog would conceal her.
She glanced around. The two ATSA men had to be around somewhere, but she saw only Burt mowing by the tennis courts.
The early-morning air felt cool against her bare arms, and the pungent smudge of the smoldering beach bonfire hung in the still air. Laura hurried along the path, alone.
There. She was out in the open. A target. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and her stomach clenched. Her steps hurried as she neared the docks. Shrouded with fog, they isolated her from view. She’d be fine.
The little sailing regatta between Passabec Lake and East Pond wouldn’t begin until nearly eleven, once the breeze came up. She didn’t need to prepare so early, but aside from everything else, setting up the markers with no one on the calm waters appealed to her.
The lake’s fog curtain muffled the only other sound—Burt’s mower and some too cheerful songbirds.
She should appreciate the solitude. Something she’d grown accustomed to during the past months, but had little of the last few days.
After sliding aside the door to the shed, she paused. Shadows lurked in every corner. She was as skittish as a child seeing bogeymen under the bed. Shaking her head, she marched in to get the marker buoys.
Afterward she climbed into her small outboard skiff. The low and steady putt-putt of the motor reassured her as she steered to a point fifty yards out. The sun’s rays were shredding the fog, parting the curtain as if to aid her in placing the buoys.
No need to be afraid. No harm could come to her with not even a fisherman on the lake.
She idled the motor as she placed the marker, one of three with an orange ball tethered to a weight that rested on the lake’s muddy bottom.
An errant thought had her peering at the shore. Was the fog thick enough to shield her from a sniper? In movies, there was always a telltale glint from the rifle’s barrel. She saw nothing out of the ordinary, but the fine hairs on her nape lifted. She hunched lower in the boat.
To give the young sailors a challenge, she motored farther down the lake, nearly half a mile, to place the next buoy in the triangle-shaped course. When she finished, she noticed she’d neglected to wear a life vest. Rummaging beneath the seat rewarded her with only a paint-smeared hand.
Puzzling over the wet paint, she realized her feet were wet. Several inches of water sloshed over her shoes.
Oh great, what now? She reached farther beneath the seat.
No bailer. Not even the sponge she normally kept there.
She began bailing with her hands, but water poured through a hole in the bottom faster than she could scoop. Anxiety tightened her mouth when she saw there was no hope. Water fountained in like a bathtub filling from the bottom.
Stupid, stupid, she berated herself.
No life vest. No bailer.
She was a strong swimmer, but through the wispy fog the shore loomed light-years from the middle of the lake. No help in sight, and she had one more marker buoy to set. It bobbed to the surface an unreachable distance away. A nervous giggle erupted at the absurdity of attempting to place it now.
With a loud glug, the heavy outboard motor pulled the stern down, and the boat tipped precariously.
As Laura splashed into the water, comprehension flooded her. Her stomach wound into a tight knot.
Someone had done this to her, with deliberation and premeditation.
And she knew how.
The water felt warmer than the morning air, but it would soon chill her. She had to get out. She lunged for the marker buoy that had plopped out along with her. It would help support her until she could decide which way to swim.
Something stopped her short of the orange buoy. A steel grip held her right ankle fast. Fear coursed a torrent of adrenaline through her. Her heart hammered.
No!
She refused to panic. She’d beaten death twice before. She’d fought too hard to let drowning be her fate.
She kicked and splashed. No give.
She yelled for help, but had no breath for volume.
Anger fueling her muscles, she jackknifed down to look.
Her captor wasn’t a hired killer. It wasn’t even human. The painter, the mooring line, was looped around her ankle. Eel grass and the frayed line had interwoven. The tangle imprisoned her as surely as a leg iron.
With the boat as anchor, she was a balloon on a string.
Blood roared in her ears. She peeled off her water-filled boat shoes, then heaved and pulled to free herself. The grip refused to yield.
She was going under with the sinking boat.
As soon as Cole left the bathroom, he knew Laura had gone. Yawning, he strode into the kitchen. And there wasn’t even any coffee.
Where the hell was she? Did the woman have no care for her safety? He knew better. What was she up to then? As he stomped into his Tevas, he peered out the front window.
Damned fog. And the trees. He could see nothing. He fitted his 9mm and holster at his back and stuffed his shirt into his waistband. He hit the door.
She’d thrashed through the night like him. And this morning probably needed to get out or to get away from him. He figured she’d gone to the boat shed. The other officers were out there, but their job was to spot the killer.
Laura was Cole’s responsibility.
Whether she liked it or not.
At the docks he saw that the shed door stood open. When he noticed her outboard missing, he squinted across the lake.
What he saw cleared his head and raced his heart faster than a vat of caffeine.
Stopping for nothing, he pounded along the dock toward another outboard bobbing beside her empty spot. He jumped in the boat and yanked on the engine cord as he loosed the painter. The little engine roared to life. As he zoomed away, he was vaguely aware of other people yelling and running along the dock behind him.
Too bad if he’d taken someone’s skiff. He had no damn time for that now. Thank God the fool had left the key in it.
Even as he searched the water’s surface for any sign of her, recriminations writhed inside Cole like hissing vipers. How could he have been careless enough to let her out of his sight? Was he going to have to handcuff her to the bed to keep her safe? Where the hell was she?
When he’d first spotted her, she’d been splashing wildly, fighting something—or someone—in the water. Then as he took off, he saw only her pale head at water level.
Now, nothing but ripples. And the orange markers.
He willed the boat to go faster, but Full was as far as he could shove the throttle. The spot he’d last seen her was so far away. The engine seemed to take him nowhere. The boat slogged through mud.
At last he reached the buoy. He cut the engine.
Just as Laura popped to the surface.
; Thank God! His heart could start again. “Laura, what the hell?” He reached for her.
She sucked in air and coughed as she flailed at the boat. “Boat…sank…. Leg…caught.”
Cole clasped one hand as she gripped the life preserver he extended with the other. “Hang on. I’ll get it.”
He stripped off his shirt and shoes. Leaving his 9mm with the clothing on the seat, he opened his multi-tool to the serrated blade. He slipped over the side.
Following her leg downward, he found the fouled line. In a moment, the sharp blade freed her. She kicked upward. He helped her into the outboard and heaved himself in after her. “You have no idea how scared I was, seeing you go under like that. You used up another of old Murphy’s lives.”
She sat in the bow seat, facing him, her hair plastered to her shoulders and dripping around her pale face. It was one of the rare times he’d seen her disheveled. She was no less beautiful, no less perfect.
Shivering, she managed a soggy smile. “I should’ve known you’d understand why I used the stable cat’s name.”
He was about to head back to the dock, but Laura insisted on placing the third buoy for the race. She’d only have to come out again later, she told him haltingly as she recovered her breath.
“What the hell happened?” he said as they motored to the third point in the racecourse. “Was that an accident?”
“I think the boat sinking was deliberate. I’ll know for sure when we get back to the boat shed. But no one could have rigged the painter to get fouled in grass.”
“Thank God it didn’t sink in deeper water.” He shuddered at the thought. She’d had just enough leeway to reach the surface. She might have drowned anyway if exhaustion or hypothermia had overtaken her before help arrived. “But if the boat was sabotaged, that was a damned inept attempt at murder. If you hadn’t gotten tangled, you could’ve swum to shore.”
By the time they reached the dock, the sun had burned away the last remnants of fog and mist. A small group of anxious spectators clustered.
As they pulled up to the dock, Burt Elwell snatched the painter. “Laura, are you okay? I saw what was happening and ran to my boat here, but Stratton beat me to it.”
“Your boat, is it? Thanks, then. You helped after all.” Calm and collected as if she hadn’t nearly drowned, Laura bestowed a beatific smile on the fawning jerk.
Cole nearly pushed her back in the water. The kid, too.
“Easy, buddy. Don’t forget your clothes.” A grinning Kent Isaacs, in his groundskeeper’s green work duds, handed Cole his shirt, with the gun concealed in its folds.
“Thanks.” Cole slipped the sidearm into his shorts pocket and yanked on the shirt. He tamped down his anger—and the green-eyed beast, if he was truthful. He had no damn reason to be jealous of that fool Burt, but every time Cole saw how the guy looked at Laura, his testosterone spiked.
He’d check later with the ATSA officer to learn what he might’ve seen. For now he hurried to catch up with Laura and the kid, who were hurrying to the boat shed.
Laura barely heard Burt squawking like a seagull behind her. Her heart sprinted with trepidation. She needed to see the damaged skiff, to know if what she suspected was true.
“Me and one of the new guys cleaned this place up yesterday while you was gone,” Burt said. “See, everything’s organized. I threw away the old junk.”
From the sliding door, she wove through the equipment directly to the overturned skiff. A paint rag lay loosely draped over the gouged hole.
“What do you think, Laura?” he said, eager as a puppy.
With a sure grasp, she jerked away the cloth.
No hole.
“What do I think?” She turned to see Cole and the ATSA gardener named Isaacs enter the shed. “I think that this is my skiff. Someone switched boats so I got stuck out in the middle of the lake in a skiff with a badly patched hole. And whoever did it made sure I had no bailer or life vest. I bet mine is still tucked under the seat of this one.”
“What do you know about this, Burt?” Cole asked. His eyes had that cold, assessing wolf look as he prowled around the shed examining everything.
Sure enough, the shed was neat. Gear was organized, more hooks hung on the walls, a cleared aisle for walking.
A puzzled frown on his forehead, Burt scratched his chin. “Geezum, I dunno. Me ’n Isaacs spent a couple hours in here, but we didn’t touch the skiff.”
“We didn’t have time for repairs,” Isaacs added. “We were in here together.”
Laura understood. He was telling Cole that Burt didn’t have the opportunity to switch skiffs. And why would he? Someone wanted her dead, but Burt couldn’t be involved. He was no Ph.D., maybe not even a G.E.D., but he meant well.
“After that we were working on the other side of the lake, by the campground. Anybody could’ve come in here and carried out the skiff,” the young handyman added.
“He’s right,” Laura said with a sigh. “The shed’s never locked.”
Knowing the how didn’t deflate her anxiety, but only ballooned it. Knowing the who was the important issue. Who was the hired killer, this Janus? What kind of monster could take money to kill people, innocent people?
To kill her?
How foolhardy she’d been. Unwittingly she’d waved the red flag—herself—at the bull, but all the bull had to do was wait. Rather than avoiding her killer, she’d literally fallen into his trap.
Her pulse stammered, and her breathing turned shallow. She curled a hand into a fist and put it to her mouth as she willed the panic to subside.
When Cole’s arm came around her, she leaned into him, accepting his strength and protection. In spite of her fears about their relationship, she needed him. She knew that now.
No, not him.
She wouldn’t let herself need him. Just his protection. His hard-eyed federal officer competence.
Not him.
“Prob’ly some kids fooling around,” Burt said. “Got the two boats mixed up. Who would want to hurt you, Laura?”
“Who indeed?” Cole said as he ushered Laura out.
Chapter 9
Later that morning, Cole and the East Pond Camp sailing instructor carried the fourth sailing dinghy down the boat ramp and slipped it into Passabec Lake.
“That’s the last of them. Thanks for your help.” The instructor, a shaven-headed teenager in baggy shorts, shook Cole’s hand.
He held the dark-blue boat for one of his students, who paddled it to the dock where the other East Pond boats danced on the light chop, bobbing and weaving as if warming up for the regatta.
“Glad to help.” Cole was telling the plain truth. The physical exercise of unloading the boats and equipment worked off some of the frustration pumping through his veins.
Mopping his forehead with the paper towel he carried as a handkerchief, he went to lounge on the lakeshore in the shade of a leafy shrub. From there, he had a clear view of the beach, the lake and the sailing groups. Laden with binoculars and picnic baskets, families of the young sailors cluttered the sand beach. More potential spectators putted and paddled around the racecourse.
Among them were two ATSA, in case Janus had more plans for the race. His gut knotted at the possibility the killer would endanger children to hit his intended victim.
After leaving the boat shed earlier, every nerve ending he possessed had twitched to quiz Laura about her solo defection. But she’d insisted Stan should be told about the sunken skiff. At the inn, Joyce Hart had clucked over her and wrapped her in towels and a terry cloth robe.
Cole assured them his team would investigate, but Stan insisted that the owner should investigate a boating accident on his property. He relished the task like a starring role. Cole expected to see him skulking about in a deerstalker hat.
Bea, bearing a pot of chicken soup, and Vanessa met them at the cabin. Once the solicitous friends had departed, he raged at Laura like a wounded buffalo in the middle of the living room. Chin up and eyes calm, she
listened to his rant. Then surprisingly, she apologized, admitting her move had been foolish. She’d promised not to do it again before going to shower. He’d gaped at her as he watched her retreating back.
He angled his body toward the clusters of chattering kids, Laura in their midst. She’d clamped the golden silk with a prim barrette. In her designer polo with the collar turned up and her pressed khaki shorts, she was the ice princess—except for her overt and genuine warmth with the kids.
Who would guess the deadly danger she’d faced earlier?
She and the gangly East Pond leader were conducting some kind of icebreaker with the youngsters, so they got to know each other. Damn, but she was good with them. Her eight loved her, hugging her in relief she was safe and begging for the story of her adventure.
Right now Cole didn’t want to hug her. He wanted to strangle her. She’d give him gray hair. An ulcer. A heart attack. Janus and anyone else that slime Markos hired to kill her would have to get in line.
When she’d left the cabin, the foreboding had begun. Then when she’d dipped beneath the water’s surface, a giant fist had clutched his chest. At her reappearance, his heart had lurched into overdrive.
Damn thing had barely downshifted since.
At the knowledge that someone had sabotaged her, fear had pinched her soft mouth, but fury had sparked her eyes. Laura refused to be a victim. She’d charged into the boat shed, demanding answers. But that admirable courage had placed her in unnecessary danger.
If she’d let him accompany her, he’d have freed her ankle and they could’ve swum to safety together. Instead, a tangle of weeds and rope nearly became her shroud.
He swiped at his brow, new sweat not from exertion. In the boat shed, he’d seen the aftermath catch up to her, the pastiness and hitched breathing that meant panic attack. The drive to protect her grew to a living flame in his chest, but his arm around her hadn’t seemed enough of a shield.
Guarding Laura Page 11
