* * *
Becks had gone downstairs to change. She came back wearing a simple black one-piece whose high-cut waist flattered her. Her legs were long and lean and strong. She looked pretty good for a woman well into her forties. She looked pretty good period. At the mall, wherever, he sometimes caught guys his age checking her out. He could almost read their minds, How come my wife can’t keep it together like yours?
She stood behind him, wrapped her arms around him, rested her head against his shoulder. She still fit him nicely.
Don’t get mushy now, Bri.
“How much farther, Papa Smurf? Is it much farther?”
“Not far now.”
“We going anywhere in particular?”
He shook his head. “I just feel like being alone. Having the whole world to ourselves.”
“Just you and me and a bottle of Viagra.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She nuzzled his neck.
He felt himself stirring, pulled away. “I think it’s time for the you-know-what.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Watch the helm.” Not that there was much to do, cruising at this speed in open water.
He went downstairs, came back with a bottle of Dom Pérignon he’d hidden in the back of the fridge, waved her out onto the deck.
She raised her eyebrows, Really?
“Planning to sell another app?”
“Who knows when we’ll get to do something like this again. You say I don’t spend money, don’t know how to live…” She’d said this more than once during the lean years, when he’d complained about her spending.
“Just an excuse for all the junk I bought.”
He felt a little flash of something. Not guilt, but something. Funny that she’d finally admitted the truth. She never would have said that even a couple of years ago. Maybe Kira’s kidnapping had changed her more than he realized.
Too late now.
“Anyway, I wanted to go all out this week. Why not? We have good jobs, it’s not like your shop or mine is ever going to run out of cash, the almighty United States gummit—”
“Okay, okay. Open sesame.”
He twisted the cork, sent it flying into the sea. Took a swig, pure liquid joy, gold and cold and sharp. Handed her the bottle. She drank deep too.
“Oh, good stuff.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Lusty. “Shouldn’t we have glasses?”
“Why?”
“To toast.”
“Then toast. We don’t need glasses.”
“Amen.” She raised the bottle. “To our incredible children, Bri. And especially to Kira. Who got herself out of that rathole. All by herself.”
Maybe. “Nice toast. Let’s get intoxicated.”
“Big word for drunk.”
“Drunkish. Nobody’s getting seasick as long as I’m captain.”
She took another swig. “Would you still fuck me drunk?”
“I might get the spins.” He took the bottle. “Oh, if you’re drunk. If you ask nicely, maybe.” He raised it over his mouth, tilted it nearly sideways and let the liquid spill. Into his mouth and down his chin.
“Careful with that.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve got another.” Brian was enjoying himself now.
* * *
Brian’s plan: They’d finish this bottle, pop the second. He wouldn’t push too hard. He didn’t have to. He had seventy, eighty pounds on her. And Becks wasn’t much of a drinker. Rarely did she have more than a glass of wine at dinner. Even if they split the bottles evenly she’d be far drunker than he was. And he wasn’t planning to split them evenly. He’d just poured a lot of his second drink on the deck with a grin on his face. He probably wouldn’t even need the Xanax, but if he saw a chance he’d crush a couple of pills and get them into the second bottle near the end. Just to be sure. They were slightly bitter, but they were tiny too. The champagne would hide the taste. And she’d be good and lit by then. Even if she noticed she wouldn’t care.
So, good. They’d get drunk. They’d probably screw. One last roll, for old time’s sake. Should old acquaintance be forgot… He wasn’t going to force that either, but he didn’t think he’d have to. Ideally on the front deck, the sexy sun pad, under the stars, no one to see.
All this done by eight thirty. Maybe nine. Then he’d let her get sleepy for a few minutes. A postcoital cuddle. Then he’d get up, look around, make sure no boats or planes were close. And he’d pick her up and toss her overboard.
If the water had been a little cooler, he could simply have cruised off, let nature take its course. But the Caribbean was around eighty degrees, high enough that hypothermia wouldn’t kill Becks. She was in pretty good shape, too. She would last at least a day, maybe two, until exhaustion and thirst or an unlucky encounter with a shark took care of her. He couldn’t risk that, not with boats close enough for her to see them, swim for their lights.
A problem with an easy solution. He’d jump down after her, take care of business himself.
Becks had been a decent swimmer back in the day. But like most adults she hadn’t swum much since she was a kid. Not Brian. He’d been practicing the last month, going every day. Unfortunately the Planet Fitness didn’t have a pool, so he’d had to join a new gym. Maybe the cops would wonder about it if they bothered to look that hard. But they probably wouldn’t. And if they did he had a solid excuse, he’d known they were coming down here and wanted to practice swimming.
Anyway. In they’d go. He didn’t have to strangle her, didn’t have to hurt her. He just had to grab her shoulders and hold her down. She’d be drunk, confused, panicked. Begging for breath. Wondering why he wasn’t helping. It wouldn’t take long. Those stunts where magicians lasted five minutes underwater happened in perfect conditions. And the guys barely moved. Becks would be fighting, tearing through the oxygen in her lungs. After thirty seconds she would barely have any struggle left. After a minute she’d already be fading to black. He just needed to make sure he remembered to breathe himself.
The best part, he knew she didn’t have a gun on her. She didn’t even have pepper spray. Why would she? She was completely defenseless.
Not such a bad way to die. After the panic passed the end would be painless. The urge to breathe would overcome her, she’d open her mouth, her lungs would fill with water. Down she’d go. He doubted she would even lay a bruise on him. If she did he had an excuse; he’d banged himself up jumping off the boat during the day. Who could tell? The open ocean was about the last camera-free place left. The Chris-Craft didn’t have any cameras, either. He’d checked.
* * *
She took another long drink from the bottle, handed it back.
“Let me go boil the lobsters, Captain.”
“Sure you can handle it?” All these years, she’d never learned to cook. Cooking was beneath her.
“Boiling water? And dumping in pathetic crustaceans with rubber bands around their claws?”
She disappeared downstairs.
* * *
Down she’d sink. Bye-bye, sweetheart. Back to the boat for him. He’d putter south-southwest for an hour or so. Stop again. Take a nap. A couple of hours.
When he woke up, after midnight, a little drunk, a little confused, Where’s Rebecca?
He’d search the boat. Rebecca! Becks!
They stopped here, they were drunk, decided to take a break before heading south for Antigua. Sex on the deck. He wanted to go inside. She wanted to lie under the stars. Maybe a night swim. He argued with her, No way, we’re wasted, let’s go to bed.
But once Becks has an idea in her head, well—
Oh God, she’s gone. Just gone.
He grabbed a life jacket and jumped off the boat to swim for her. But he couldn’t see anything, and he didn’t even know how long it’d been, he was asleep for hours…
Out went the distress call.
As long as he stuck to the story they couldn’t beat him. They could wonder, bu
t they couldn’t beat him. Her body might not turn up at all. Plenty of hungry sharks in these waters. And even if it did, what would the physical evidence show? That she drowned? Big shock. The nav system would back the story.
He’d be overcome with grief, blaming himself, he should have made sure Becks came downstairs. But he was too drunk, and he wanted to sleep, and he figured she’d come to bed. This was supposed to be the fun trip, the safe trip, make up for last year, the close call. We escaped, we thought we were free, now this—
Don’t lay it on too thick. Just thick enough.
Yeah, he can see it. Start to finish. Ending with him walking out of the interview room and into the subtropical sun. Guilt his only punishment.
But then guilt’s never been a problem for him.
* * *
The sun was already west, behind them. Five p.m. now. In four hours, less, he’d be free. A quarter-turn of the Earth. Not even one-one-thousandth of a year.
He could hardly wait.
From the kitchen he heard a curse, a yelp. Almost a scream.
“You okay, babe?”
“First-aid kit in the stateroom, right?”
“You don’t sound okay.”
A few minutes later she limped out, a big bandage around her thigh.
“I literally cannot even boil water.”
“Oh Becks.”
“Stupid lobsters.” She poked at the bandage, winced a little.
“Should we head back?” As soon as he said it he regretted the words. What if she said yes?
But she shook her head. “It’s fine. I put ointment on it. It’s big but not deep.”
“Long as you can still drink.”
She nodded.
“You are almost too good to be true.”
“You finally noticed.”
“Let me cook. Can you handle it up here? Maybe a half hour more this heading and then we can either turn south or just cut the engine and drift a bit, get ready for the sunset.”
“Of course.”
He stepped aside. “The helm is yours.”
“Bri?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“Love you too.”
40
Caribbean Sea
The boat was at rest.
The sky rich with stars, the whole galaxy unfolding.
Whatever happened tonight, she needed to remember just how unimportant she was. How unimportant her life was, in the grand scheme. As long as the kids were safe.
Not that she wanted to die. She didn’t. She had no intention of dying. But she knew she might. She wasn’t sure what Brian was planning. But she saw the position he had put her in. The slow, steady moves he’d made. Separating her from her gun. From witnesses. From police. Anyone who could help, anyone at all. Getting her drunk.
Though she wasn’t quite as drunk as she seemed. She’d had her share of the first bottle, but since he opened the second she’d only nursed a glass. She was afraid of getting dehydrated because of her leg, she told him. He joked a couple of times about her not keeping up, but he didn’t push.
He stopped the Chris-Craft in time for them to watch the sun disappear over the horizon, the sky above turning from blue to black. Somehow, without talking it over, they decided to stay out for the night. He finished making dinner, cracked the lobsters, tossed a salad. She set the table, poured them water and champagne. The low companionable work of marriage. Maybe if she’d been home for more dinners. Maybe they would have been stronger together, loved each other more. Maybe Brian wouldn’t have grown so lost.
Or maybe not. Maybe he was who he was. Maybe they would just have bored each other sooner. Nothing more useless than trying to guess how a mythical past might change an impossible future. Becks knew she wasn’t much of a romantic. Even before she joined the FBI, she’d never been a unicorns-and-flowers girl. Brian wasn’t particularly romantic either, though he could fake it.
Seemed he could fake almost anything.
* * *
She was standing near the front of the Chris-Craft now, looking into the blackness, the boat rocking on the chop of the waves. She didn’t have to be an oceanographer to know that they’d headed into open, rougher water. Maybe it wasn’t the Atlantic, exactly, but it wasn’t the Caribbean either.
Brian was still in the kitchen, washing the last dishes.
Only he wasn’t. He was behind her. His hands on her shoulders. “Gorgeous, huh?”
“Gorgeous.”
“I’d forgotten what it’s like to be so far from anything.”
“It feels good.”
“Becks. You ever wonder what our life would have been like if we’d had kids later? If we’d traveled more?”
“Not really. No do-overs, right? Only one ride on the coaster. Anyway, soon Tony will be in college and we can start again. Have all those things.”
“Yeah.” He sounded unconvinced.
She turned to him, looked into those blue eyes of his. Thought of the first time they’d said I love you, how she’d wanted the world to stop forever in that moment.
But the world didn’t stop, did it? It whirled like a centrifuge until it revealed every truth. Back then she’d thought his eyes were perfect. Flawless. Now they just looked cold.
If it’s going to happen it’s going to be now.
Still she had to be sure. She would rather die than not be sure.
He kissed her.
“Can you play through the pain?”
“I’m sorry, Bri. But—”
She dropped to her knees.
* * *
The sad truth: Kira had given her the idea when she’d told Rebecca about what had happened with Rodrigo. I knew the best way to distract him was putting his cock in my mouth. Works every time. Men, right?
Jesus, Kira.
Yeah, that’s pretty much what he said. She’d laughed, a cold laugh that reminded Rebecca of no one so much as Brian. But then Kira was half Brian, wasn’t she? She’d make a great FBI agent. Or a great criminal.
* * *
Brian responded immediately. And vigorously. And he didn’t need long.
“Oh God. That was. Wow.”
She wiped her mouth, looked up at him. “Where’s the champagne.”
He handed over the bottle.
She took a pull. Felt it hit her right away.
He looked her over. A gleam in his eyes. Hard. Unsettling.
Her leg itched.
Wait. Wait.
She handed him the bottle.
Tried to, anyway. But he didn’t take it.
He picked her up and threw her over the side.
She rolled through the air, landed hard, stung her shoulder and head against the water. The water was warmer than she expected, none of the shock of diving into the Atlantic. She found her bearings, lifted her head, took a breath. Had a moment to wonder whether he would run for the helm, speed off—but no—
He jumped down. Grabbed her shoulders. Pushed her under.
So he planned to finish the job himself.
* * *
She closed her eyes against the blackness. The water churning over her, clammy, enveloping, pushing at her from every side like it wanted to take her in. Which, of course, it did. Brian’s hands helping, heavy and firm, squeezing her shoulders. Pushing her down.
She let him. She didn’t fight. She didn’t panic. All those years as an FBI agent had drained the panic out of her. She’d been working on her swimming too. Every day. As soon as Brian brought up the trip. She knew just how much time she had. Ninety seconds at least, if she didn’t thrash around. Probably two minutes.
Everything had brought her here.
Now she knew who he was. What he was.
Now she knew.
She knew, and she could act. He was stronger, he was bigger, but she had one great edge, the one that beat all the others.
She reached down. The bandage had already come off. She’d used tape that wasn’t waterproof.
Underneath
, her leg was unburned.
And a single spring-loaded syringe was taped tightly to her thigh, halfway down.
The trickiest part. But she’d practiced this too. Practiced in the dark. Practiced wearing goggles and weights. She wished she could have practiced with someone attacking her, but that would have raised too many questions.
Two hands now. No mistakes. She’d decided not to wear two syringes, she was worried about hiding two. Which meant she had one chance. If she dropped it, if it slipped from her hands into the deep, she’d die. She could already feel the pressure building in her lungs.
She peeled off the tape with her left hand, took the syringe in her right. Made sure she had a firm grip.
The syringe was medium-gauge, surgical grade, spring-loaded.
Inside, five milliliters of 50 mg/ml epinephrine solution. Two hundred fifty milligrams of epinephrine.
She could feel his legs brushing her ribs. He was hardly moving. He might be wondering why she wasn’t fighting. Maybe he thought she was too stunned to struggle, that she was saving her breath hoping to last as long as he could.
She’d never know. No matter. As long as he didn’t start thrashing himself.
He was pushing straight down on her shoulders. So her arms were free, a full range of motion forward and back. Measure twice, cut once. She made sure she could feel his leg.
She jabbed her arm up, putting the needle into the meat of his left thigh. Felt the spring release.
Felt the syringe surge into him.
Epinephrine is adrenaline. A typical adult dose, an EpiPen dose, runs one-third of a milligram. A lethal dose is eight milligrams. This shot was thirty times that.
The Power Couple Page 36
