Mortal Pursuit

by Brian Harper

They’d locked her in the trunk of the squad car, and dumped the car-Jesus, they’d dumped the car …

  “In the lake,” she whispered.

  The words were squeezed past the strangling tightness in her throat.

  They would have wanted to conceal the cruiser. The lake Wald had mentioned was an obvious place to do it. And the water trickling in, cold and powdered with fine grit-it was lake water, thick with silt from the murky bottom.

  “Help me,” she moaned, speaking to nobody and nothing. “Help me, please help.”

  But help would not come. She was alone, more alone than ever before in her life, and if she wanted to have any chance, she would have to help herself.

  Yes. That was the bottom line, wasn’t it

  No medals for quitters. That was what Mrs. Wilkes used to say, Mrs. Wilkes who’d been her Girl Scout leader a million years ago.

  Good words. She tested them aloud. “No medals for quitters.” Again, more firmly: “No medals for quitters.”

  Her tortured breathing went on, as did the reckless pounding of her heart, but her thoughts calmed.

  It was a locked trunk. Perhaps it could be opened. If she could find the latch …

  To do anything she would need the use of her hands.

  She groped behind her, fumbling for her gun belt, where she kept her handcuff key.

  No belt. It was gone. They’d taken it from her, the sons of bitches, and she couldn’t get the cuffs off, couldn’t break out, and the water murmured louder, the level climbing.

  Irrationally she stamped her feet on the wall, as if she could punch a hole in the car, puncture welded steel like tissue paper. The banging of hard-soled shoes on metal reverberated in the trunk, a second heartbeat, grotesquely amplified.

  “No medals for quitters.” The motto was her mantra. “No medals for quitters, no medals for quitters …”

  Couldn’t shed the cuffs. But did she have to

  Even manacled, she could manipulate objects with reasonable dexterity-if her hands were in front of her, not behind her back.

  She worked out daily, alternating between upper body and lower body routines. Each session began and ended with stretching exercises. She was limber. She was young.

  Maybe she could do it. Maybe. God, please.

  She twisted sideways, head lifted to keep her mouth and nostrils above water, then arched her back and bent both legs under her.

  Her hands were level with her pelvis. To succeed, she had to get them past her buttocks and behind her thighs.

  It wasn’t going to be easy.

  Teeth clenched, she folded her legs at a still more acute angle, curving her spine to its full extension. Her knees banged the license-plate wall. Impossible to make any move in here without hitting something. It was like trying to do gymnastics in a bathtub.

  Pain speared her triceps and shoulders as she forced her hands lower. She separated her wrists as far as possible, drawing the chain taut. The cuffs rode her thumb joints, friction rubbing the skin raw.

  “Hell,” she gasped, “this really hurts.”

  Coughing seized her. Even with her chin lifted, she’d swallowed water. The level was higher.

  No medals for quitters. She had to do this. No medals for quitters. Do it or die.

  With a shout of agony she dragged the handcuff chain over the twin obstructions of her buttocks. Simultaneously she snapped forward at the waist, tucking her hands under her legs.

  Her hands sizzled where the steel bracelets had bitten deep. She was bleeding from the knuckles of both thumbs.

  Pain and blood didn’t matter. She’d done the hard part.

  Now she just had to step over the chain.

  Fighting to hold her head above water, she doubled up in a fetal pose. Quickly she passed her right elbow over her right knee, then pulled her right foot toward her and lifted the handcuff chain around her shoe.

  Next, the left leg.

  Same procedure, same result.

  Abruptly her hands were in front of her. In startled wonder she raised her arms fully and touched her own face.

  She’d gotten this far. At least she had a chance.

  Water filled half the trunk now. The height of the compartment was only about twenty inches, leaving her less than a foot of clearance above the waterline.

  She searched in the dark for the trunk latch, having no idea if it could be operated from inside. Her fingers read the grooves and contours and machine-stamped indentations on the lid as if they were inscriptions in Braille.

  After several desperate seconds she found what had to be the latch, a recessed boltlike mechanism engaged by a metal claw. For the lid to open, the bolt and claw had to be separated. Her scrabbling fingers, numb with cold, slipped on the smooth metal parts, finding no purchase.

  She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t open the lid from the inside.

  But maybe she could smash the latch. With a blunt instrument.

  She rolled onto her stomach. Folded back the floor mat to expose the rectangular cover of the spare-tire well. It was secured by a wing nut, the shape distinctive to her touch.

  Her shaking hands, joined at the wrists, turned the nut counterclockwise till it spun free.

  The air pocket was shrinking fast. Six inches, at most, separated the waterline from the underside of the trunk lid. She had to tilt her head sideways to breathe without inhaling water.

  It cost her valued seconds to wrest the cover off the tire well, then still more time to shove the unwieldy board into a corner, out of her way.

  Come on, come on.

  Beneath the spare tire her groping hands found the jack, fastened to the side of the well.

  God, the water was getting really high. Four inches of clearance left.

  Frantically she pried at the jack. Blocked by the tire, it refused to come loose. She couldn’t get it out-damn, why couldn’t anything be easy, even the simplest thing

  Another tool, smaller and more accessible, lay beside the jack. She felt a hexagonal socket at one end.

  The lug wrench.

  Gripping the wrench, she guided it out of the tire well.

  Two inches now. To breathe she turned on her back, her nose brushing the lid at its highest point. She swallowed a deep gulp of air, puffing up her cheeks to hold it in.

  Then she submerged, hunting again for the latch.

  The water was cold, the pressure like the gentle squeeze exerted on a swimmer at the bottom of a pool. Silt drifted everywhere. Her eyes closed instinctively in protection against the floating grit.

  There. The latch. She’d found it.

  The wrench lashed out, each impact clanking dully, the noises muted as if in a dream.

  Five blows. Six.

  The latch wouldn’t yield, and her lungs were draining fast. Better get another breath while she could.

  She arched her neck, not yet breaking the waterline, and cold metal kissed her mouth.

  The air was gone, the trunk completely flooded.

  Had to get the trunk open. Now, right now.

  Savagely she pounded the latch, blows chiming in her ears, discordant music.

  She wasn’t going to make it. She was going to die in here, and sometime tomorrow her body would be found, stiff and frozen, the useless wrench still gripped in her two hands …

  Something nicked her forehead-a sharp chink of metal floating free-part of the latch, broken off.

  The lid was ajar.

  Done it. Thank God, she’d done it.

  Out.

  Wriggling, squirming, she emerged from the trunk.

  Faint luminescence overhead, starlight on the surface of the lake. Nearer to her in the gloom, dark columnar shapes-the pilings of a dock or pier, rising into the light.

  Needed air. God, she needed air, and the surface was still so far away.

  Her pant leg snagged on a corner of the trunk lid. She kicked wildly until she pulled free. Then she was swimming clear of the car, legs bicycling as she arrowed her body upward.

  Her
unclipped hair coiled around her like tendrils of kelp, wrapping her face in wet strands. Through the waving net she caught a glimpse of the Caprice, abandoned and forlorn, its blue-and-white markings rendered a dull monochrome in the chancy light.

  A moment later the dim ghostly shape was obscured by clouds of silt stirred up by her beating legs. She frog-kicked for the surface.

  Her eyes bulged. Fire seared her chest. At any moment she would yield to instinct and take the fatal breath her body demanded.

  Her lips parted …

  And she burst through the roof of the lake, water shattering like glass, and drew air in a great shuddering whoop.

  She’d made it. She was alive.

  No medals for quitters. She wanted to shout the words. No medals—

  Something plopped in the water a yard away, raising a splash.

  She looked toward shore, and her exhilaration died.

  Yards away, a dark-clad figure. Sentry on patrol. One of them.

  It wasn’t fair, it was too cruel, but she had no time to lodge her protest with the universe.

  A second shot landed, closer than the first, and Trish dived back into the dark.

  22

  Cain was in a hurry, no time for diversions, but he’d enjoyed making the Kent girl cry.

  Maybe he could have her do one more little thing for him.

  “This is a nice necklace.” He plucked a bauble from the table. “Same one you wore last Saturday night”

  She sniffed. “Yes.”

  “Put it on.”

  The heavy swallowing motion of her throat was good to see.

  “Why” she breathed.

  “Because I said so.”

  “I … I don’t …”

  “Put it on.”

  With shaking hands she hooked the string of pearls around her slender neck.

  “Sweet,” Cain whispered, and both of them stiffened abruptly, catching the note of desire in his voice.

  Quickly she took off the necklace and returned it to the pile.

  Cain watched as she rummaged in the back of the safe for its last holdings. When he spoke again, his question and tone were safely neutral.

  “How old are you, Ally”

  She removed a wad of travelers’ checks. “Fifteen.”

  “Going into the ninth grade”

  “Tenth. I … I skipped ahead.”

  “Smart girl. I never made it past the ninth grade, myself. Kept getting busted-for stuff I didn’t do.”

  This time she dared a glance in his direction, and with the glance an arched eyebrow. “Right.”

  And suddenly Cain knew he had to have her. It was the lifted brow that did it, and the reckless courage and adult sophistication it implied.

  She was a child in some respects, a woman in others-baby fat and pert breasts, freckled nose and lipsticked mouth.

  “Okay, you got me.” He holstered his gun, leaving both hands free to use the handcuffs in his pocket. “Stuff I did do. I did all of it and lots more besides they never found out about.”

  “Big surprise.” She started pulling leather concertina files from the safe’s bottom shelf.

  “Leave those. They probably are stock certificates.”

  “And if you can’t steal it,” she said with cold irony, “you don’t want it.”

  “Stealing’s not stealing if you don’t get caught. Most times I don’t. It’s funny how much you can get away with, if you try. Like, say, if I touched you … here.” A gloved hand slipped under her scalloped neckline with the oily quickness of a snake and closed over the left cup of her bra. “You wouldn’t tell, would you”

  No arched eyebrow this time, no sly remarks, only fear, whole and pure and beautiful to see. “Don’t.”

  “No, you wouldn’t tell.” He massaged the bra cup gently. “Nobody would ever have to know. Your parents wouldn’t even want to know. It would only hurt them to know.”

  “Don’t. Please.”

  He rubbed harder. It was a strange kind of sexual contact, a glove against a bra, black leather against nylon lace. But he could feel the shape of her breast inside the cup, could picture it, white and firm, kneaded in his grasp.

  Ally stared up at him, wide brown eyes shiny like pennies in the lamplight, freckles dusting her wet cheeks.

  “You know you want it, Ally,” he breathed.

  “Leave me alone!”

  She pulled away, the neckline tearing, a button popping free. Cain trapped her against a wall of bookshelves and pressed his body to hers.

  Distantly he told himself that it was dangerous to go any further. This never had been part of the plan.

  But hell, no harm in taking a little bonus.

  The girl was ripe for deflowering. The job would take only a minute, and she would be grateful for the rest of her life.

  “Please don’t,” she whispered over and over. “Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t.”

  “Well, gosh.” He used his best disappointed tone. “If that’s the way you really feel …”

  He moved back slightly. Ally had a moment to believe he was honestly releasing her-one last moment of naive innocence-and then he grabbed her arms, pinning them behind her with one hand, while with the other he reached for the hem of her dress.

  “No!” She struggled, trying desperately to knee him, but unable to maneuver in such close quarters.

  Cain laughed. “Hey, relax, freckle-face. I won’t hurt you. I’m giving you something that feels good all over.”

  His hand slid between her squeezed thighs, ripped open her panties. She squirmed, arms jerking helplessly. He tugged down his sweat pants.

  This would be easy. He wouldn’t even need the handcuffs. He could bang her standing up, quick and dirty, her party dress hitched above her hips in a cheesecake pose.

  “Here it comes, Ally.” His phallus sprang erect. “Say hello to love.”

  She felt his hardness brush her thigh. With a scream of terror she twisted sideways, wrenching free, and her hands, quick as startled birds, flew at his eyes.

  Instinctively Cain ducked, pulling away, and her clutching fingers hooked onto his ski mask.

  The mask turned inside out and came loose, his face uncovered.

  In the wash of light from the banker’s lamp, he stared at her and she stared back, both of them frozen for some timeless moment.

  Cain moved first. His arm swung up. “Bitch.”

  He smacked her.

  Again.

  Again.

  She slumped against the shelves, her chin bearded in red, a bruise swelling the corner of her mouth.

  Breathing hard, Cain got control of himself. His erection was gone. He tucked himself in and pulled up his sweats. No loving tonight.

  No loving for poor Ally-ever.

  “You’re in trouble now,” he whispered as the girl’s shoulders shook with silent sobs. “Oh, yes, pretty baby. You are in some world-class trouble now.”

  23

  Blair Sharkey pulled a Tekna flashlight from his hip pocket and fanned its beam across the shallow waters of the lake.

  He had to admit he’d thought it was a waste of time to patrol the shore. Cain wanted both the front and rear access points covered, sure, a standard precaution, but who the hell would be out here

  Well, someone was-and he knew who. That little rookie had gotten out of the trunk.

  He couldn’t begin to guess how she’d pulled off that stunt, but it didn’t matter. As soon as she came up for air, he would wax her.

  Blair was good with a gun, especially this laser-sighted Glock. Wouldn’t have missed her the first two times, except he could hardly believe she was actually there. Surfacing in the starlight, she’d been a vision as unreal as a mermaid.

  He wouldn’t miss again.

  “Come on up, Robinson,” Blair whispered to the night. “Come up and die.”

  Trish hadn’t had time for a deep breath before submerging. She couldn’t stay under for long.

  Pale light shifted on the
water overhead, a flashlight beam restlessly skimming the surface.

  She had survived one death trap only to blunder into another. Terror blended with furious, irrational indignation at a world that could toy with her so cruelly.

  Roughly she pushed those distractions aside. She needed cover. Was there any place the beam couldn’t touch

  The dock. Huddled alongside it, she would be screened from sight.

  Staying well below the surface, she swam toward the nearest piling, her cuffed hands pawing water in a clumsy approximation of a butterfly stroke.

  She didn’t think he could see her. If she was wrong, she would find out when the next bullet stopped her heart.

  A darting shadow.

  Robinson. Swimming for the dock.

  Blair lifted his gun-too late. The streak of motion had already passed behind the farthest pilings.

  From the beach he had no decent angle of fire. He broke into a run, boots raising white geysers of sand.

  Stealth was unnecessary. The cop was unarmed, defenseless.

  For all practical purposes, she was dead already.

  Mossy wood brushed Trish’s hands. She gripped the piling and lifted her head to breathe, and then she heard it, felt it.

  Rattle and shiver. Rapid footfalls on the planks.

  He’d guessed her strategy. He was coming.

  She kicked away from the piling, took refuge beneath the dock. The lake was shallower here, only six or seven feet deep. She waited, treading water, while green floating plants, some species of waterwort, swirled lazily around her.

  The footsteps passed overhead, then stopped. The flashlight probed the water near the post where she had hidden moments earlier.

  There was something unreal about all this. For most of her twenty-four years she’d led a monotonously ordinary life. Now here she was, handcuffed, bobbing in dark waters, while a man with a flashlight and a silenced pistol hunted her with the cold intent to kill.

  He doesn’t even know me, she thought, aware that there was no possible relevance to this fact, stupidly astonished by it nevertheless.

  Blair was enjoying himself. There was an intense, almost sexual thrill in stalking human prey. It could be addictive.

  He really should have radioed Cain by now. That was the drill: In case of trouble, get on channel three and report.