Thriller 2: Stories You Just Can't Put Down

by Clive Cussler

  “A brother?”

  “Not a common name,” the sheriff’s deputy said.

  “Do we know where—?”

  “I got my guys making some calls. Everyone knows everyone here. It shouldn’t be—”

  “Orange metal,” Boldt said, pulling one of the photos closer. “One piece is curved down, the other straight.”

  “That’s not Oak Harbor. Hang on a second…” The deputy went off the line. When he returned he said, “La Conner. That’s the bridge in La Conner.”

  Boldt and LaMoia were out the door to the shouts of deputies. Across the street to a vacant lot where the helicopter waited.

  “Have you there in three minutes!” shouted the pilot.

  The door was slid shut, the helicopter already lifting into a graying sky.

  Daphne contained her impatience. With the first knot untied, both ankles were free. But her upper legs remained bound, and her captor, perhaps sensing her intentions, pulled the harness up her calves, restricting her movement before loosening the rope that bound her legs.

  She needed a split second. Her legs were painful and weary from the stun stick. But she couldn’t allow him to slip the harness past her knees where it would immobilize her once again—clearly his plan.

  “It was your mother, wasn’t it?” she said.

  Her captor froze, his stunned expression exactly what she’d hoped for.

  She pulled her knees toward her chest, leaned to the right and kicked out like she was on a rowing machine. Her captor flew back and into the wall.

  She rocked and fell off the table, turning sideways, her hands and arms still bound, her left shoulder twisting toward dislocation. She kicked him again. And again.

  The third blow did damage: his head struck the wall.

  Metal, she knew from the sound of it. A boat!

  The loop of rope binding her wrists slipped off the head end of the table. Her wrists were connected by three feet of loose rope. She pulled the rope to her mouth and sank her teeth into the knot.

  Her captor leaned forward.

  Daphne kicked him again, this time in the groin, and he buckled forward.

  But his hand came up holding a fish knife, and he lashed out at her, catching her forearm.

  “Your mother is dead!” she shouted, assuming that to be the case and knowing this was the message that would unnerve him.

  She whipped the rope in front of her, catching him in the side of the face. He slashed with the knife, catching her knee.

  She screamed and kicked out, and in her effort to push him away the rope caught around his head and she had him by the neck now, his back to her, her knee on his spine and she pulled back with all her strength.

  Something came at her from the side—a gas canister. It caught her in the temple and she went down hard. She rolled beneath the table and the rope, still caught around his neck pulled him with her. She couldn’t get away from him now—they were tied by the rope around his neck.

  He punched the knife toward her. She dodged it and, in the process, looped another length of rope around his neck.

  He swung the knife upward. The rope cut.

  Her hands were free.

  She scurried under the table and rose to her feet while he unwrapped the rope and gasped for breath. He turned to face her.

  “My angel,” he said.

  “Not going to happen,” Daphne said.

  She reached out for anything—the nearest thing she could grab.

  She blasted an air horn that was so loud in the enclosed space they both went deaf.

  Then she saw it: the stun stick. He had it in his hand as he came around the table toward her. He’d made the right choice, driving her toward the bow and away from the only steps she saw.

  She fired off the air horn again: three short, three long, three short. SOS.

  “She’s dead,” Daphne repeated, hoping to incite his rage, to drive him to emotion and toward making mistakes as a result.

  “Did she jump to her death?” she said, guessing. “Did she leave you unfairly?”

  “You don’t deserve to be like her,” he said, brandishing the stun stick as he moved ever closer. “What are we going to do with you?”

  An explosion behind him, turned him around. It was not an explosion after all, but the door to the cabin disintegrating behind LaMoia’s efforts to kick it in. LaMoia took one step and fell into the cabin, and her captor lunged forward and hit him with the stun stick. LaMoia’s body spasmed and then fell limp—unconcious.

  But a stun stick took time to recycle its charge. Daphne rushed him and struck the back of his head with the air horn canister.

  Boldt slid down the stairs, landing on LaMoia, knocked the stun stick from the captor’s hand, took the man under the arms and threw him—threw him like he was a matter of a few pounds—across the narrow hold and into the metal hull. He followed around and pulled the man to him and struck the man in the face, blow after blow.

  “Lou!” she shouted, the man’s blood coming off Boldt’s knotted fist. Again she shouted his name.

  Boldt stopped and looked back at her, still holding the captor by his shirt.

  He averted his eyes.

  “You’ll kill him,” she said, her voice nothing but a faint whisper. She pulled a mackinaw around her. She staggered back and sat down.

  “SOS,” he said. “That was a nice touch.”

  “His mother,” she mumbled.

  Boldt let the man go. He hit the floor with a thud. Boldt came around toward her, but she recoiled and he raised his hands.

  “We’ll get you help,” he said.

  She nodded, a look of defiance in her eyes, her right hand still gripping the air horn.

  Boldt sat down on a folding patio chair next to her, a small drink table between them. Daphne wore extra makeup to cover a bruise on her face, a long sleeve T-shirt and blue jeans. The little girl for whom Daphne served as guardian played inside a childproofed area of the balcony. Boldt couldn’t see LaMoia setting up something like this; it had probably been Daphne.

  “Are you coming back?” he asked, within seconds of sitting down.

  “Two weeks paid leave,” she said. “More if I ask. I’m not an idiot.”

  She’d asked him over. He hadn’t been to LaMoia’s loft since Daphne had moved in. He wasn’t sure why that was, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to figure it out, either.

  She made him tea, with no offer of coffee. Milk and sugar. She drank chai, the cloves and cinnamon heavy in the air.

  “But that’s a yes,” he said.

  “It is,” she confirmed. “Are you kidding me? You think I’d quit?”

  “Not likely,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “But no one would blame you—”

  “Stuff it,” she said. “Don’t say another word.”

  “You invited me,” he reminded.

  “Not to discuss the case. His mother was on that Pacific West flight ten years ago. He was out there on the Sound when the bodies started to fall. I don’t pretend to know…There’s no fixing everyone. There’s no blame. The human mind…well, it’s why I want to get back to work.”

  “We come from such different places,” he said. “I blame them all the time. I have no means, no way to fix any of them. I just want them put away. I suppose I’m the dog catcher and you’re the person, the volunteer at the shelter. Something like that.”

  “Are you getting enough sleep?”

  “Maybe not.” He watched the girl playing. Then he realized how relaxed Daphne was with the child. He’d pictured her the stressed and worrying type—he should have known. She couldn’t have been more at ease. “This suits you.”

  “It does. Though it may not last. We’ve pretty much exhausted all the various channels. If we get to keep her it will be a miracle.”

  “Miracles happen,” Boldt said. “Liz tells me that all the time.”

  “How is she?”

  He didn’t feel right talking about his wife, his fa
mily with this woman. He thought he understood why, but marveled that that kind of discussion still made him feel restless.

  Daphne said, “We’re going to give it another chance. John and me.”

  Here then, was the reason she’d called. He wondered why she’d made such a deal out of it. Then he didn’t wonder at all.

  “Not a quitter,” he said.

  “I wanted to tell you. Like this. Here. You and me. Don’t ask me why.”

  But he wanted to ask her why. “Okay,” he said.

  “Is this awkward?”

  “With you?”

  “Okay. Thanks for that.”

  “You don’t owe me this,” he said.

  “Sure I do.”

  “Liz is good,” he said. “The kids are great. Seriously.”

  She smiled over at a building. Smiled for herself. Nodded. Gripped the arms of the folding chair a little tightly.

  “Listen,” he said. “Listen closely because I don’t know if I can get this out right even once.”

  She nodded, biting her lips so that they folded into her mouth.

  “Whatever this is, it has never gone away…I’m talking for me. Okay? Just for me. It runs like one of those tantric chords they talk about, this hum that operates out of the spectrum of human hearing—”

  “Always the musician. I love that about you—your music.”

  “What I’m talking about, it’s not music, exactly. It pulsates. Quavers. But it never stops. Never ceases. It’s just there. Now, then, just there.” He swallowed dryly. “For a long time I let it, let you, haunt me. Own me. Then I realized it was more a tone than a handcuff. So I harmonize with it. I vamp off it. I’ve learned…to love it—” she went tight with that word “—without actually ever hearing it. It’s just…there. Like air. Water. Elemental. I don’t allow it to get in my way, to stop my life. I just let it hum down there, wherever it is. Hum and resonate and sing to me.”

  She squinted her eyes tightly. He felt he should leave without another word.

  “Are you okay?” he finally asked.

  “Trying to lock that in. To memorize it. Store it, so that I can recall it whenever I want. Whenever I need, which is more often than it should be.”

  “I ramble when I’m nervous.”

  “But you’re never nervous,” she said, opening her eyes again. “I wish you’d be nervous more often.”

  “I’m glad for you and John,” he said.

  “Shut up, Lou. Shut up and let me hear it, too.”

  They sat there in silence for another fifteen minutes. The girl made squeaks, asked her mommy for some juice. Daphne got up to fetch it, and Boldt stood with her.

  He made for the door. Turned back. She had the box of juice out of the refrigerator. Was punching a straw through the top.

  She wore a smile of satisfaction as she headed back to the balcony.

  Boldt turned the handle, and let himself out.

  Humming as he went.

  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES

  Kathleen Antrim is a columnist for the San Francisco Examiner newspaper, author of the political thriller Capital Offense, a correspondent for NewsMax magazine, and a political commentator appearing on radio and television. She has won numerous awards for her writing, including the prestigious Rupert Hughes Award. Her short story “Torn” was included in Pronto! Writings from Rome, an anthology of work by such authors as Dorothy Allison, John Saul, Elizabeth Engstrom and Terry Brooks. She divides her time between working in California and on Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C. Her Web site is www.kathleenantrim.com.

  Gary Braver is the bestselling author of seven critically acclaimed thrillers including Elixir, Gray Matter and Flashback, which Publishers Weekly called “an exceptional medical thriller.” An award-winning professor of English at Northeastern University, he has taught fiction-writing workshops across the United States and Europe for over twenty years and authored five popular nonfiction books on writing. His seventh novel, Skin Deep, a medical thriller centered on cosmetic surgery, was published in July 2008 to rave reviews. He lives with his family in Arlington, MA. Visit his Web site at www.garybraver.com.

  Formerly a private investigator in Chicago and New Orleans, Sean Chercover has written for film, television and print. He’s held a motley assortment of other jobs over the years, including video editor, scuba diver, nightclub magician, encyclopedia salesman, waiter, car-jockey, truck driver. His debut Big City, Bad Blood was one of the most acclaimed novels of the year, appearing on numerous top-ten lists. Sean, his wife and their son live with a clever dog and an unusual cat. They reside in Chicago and Toronto and several undisclosed locations. You can learn more at www.chercover.com.

  Blake Crouch is the author of Desert Places and Locked Doors. He currently lives in Durango, Colorado. Blake has additional short fiction forthcoming in 2009 from Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and Uncaged, an anthology of crime fiction from Bleak House Books. His next novel, Abandon, which takes place in a ghost town high in the mountains of Colorado, will be published by St. Martin’s Press, also in 2009. For more information, please visit his Web site at www.blakecrouch.com.

  A former journalist, folksinger and attorney, Jeffery Deaver has appeared on bestseller lists around the world. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into 25 languages. The author of twenty-three novels and two collections of short stories, he’s been awarded the Steel Dagger and Short Story Dagger from the British Crime Writers’ Association, is a three-time recipient of the Ellery Queen Reader’s Award for Best Short Story of the Year and is a winner of the British Thumping Good Read Award. He’s been nominated for six Edgar Awards from the Mystery Writers of America, an Anthony Award and a Gumshoe Award. Deaver is presently alternating his series featuring Kathryn Dance, who will make her appearance in odd-number years, and Lincoln Rhyme, who will appear in even years. To learn more go to www.jefferydeaver.com.

  Robert Ferrigno burst onto the crime scene in 1990 with The Horse Latitudes, which Time Magazine called “The most memorable fiction debut of the season.” Almost two decades later, Ferrigno still makes critics gush and readers lose sleep. His breakthrough thriller Prayers for the Assassin began a trilogy of international bestsellers that took current events from the war on terror and twisted them into an alternate reality that was provocative, compelling and unnervingly plausible. Contemporaries such as Robert Crais, Michael Connelly and Carl Hiaasen are among his many fans. His Web site is www.robertferrigno.com.

  Joe Hartlaub has been an entertainment attorney specializing in the areas of musical and literary intellectual property rights, a book and music reviewer and critic, and most recently an author and actor. Joe will make his acting debut in the film LA-308, to be released in 2009. He lives with his wife, Lisa, and four children in central Ohio.

  Award-winning journalist and former columnist for the Times in London, David Hewson is the author of more than thirteen novels. His series set in Rome featuring detective Nic Costa have made Hewson an international bestseller. Hewson’s novels have been translated into a wide range of languages, from Italian to Japanese, and his debut work, Semana Santa, set in Holy Week Spain, was filmed with Mira Sorvino. Dante’s Numbers is his thirteenth published novel. David lives close to Wye, Kent. His Web site is www.davidhewson.com.

  Harry Hunsicker claims to have been raised by wolves in the rain forests of central Dallas, near the headwaters of Turtle Creek. He is an active member of the International Thriller Writers, the Mystery Writers of America, the Private Eye Writers of America and the Writers League of Texas. Still River, his debut novel featuring investigator Lee Henry Oswald, was nominated for a Shamus Award for Best First Novel. The series about the Dallas P.I. continues with The Next Time You Die and Crosshairs. For more information visit www.harryhunsicker.com.

  One of the most prolific and admired writers working today, Lisa Jackson writes contemporary romantic suspense novels and medieval romantic suspense novels that regularly place high on the New York Times, USA TODAY and Publis
hers Weekly bestseller lists, with her recent novel, Fatal Burn, climbing to number one on the New York Times list. Born and raised in Oregon, Lisa calls the Northwest home and continues her love affair off the coast and the Columbia River region. Surrounded by family, including sister and writer Nancy Bush, she spends most of her time writing, babysitting dogs of various and sundry breeds and walking through the surf. Her books Wicked Game, written with Nancy Bush, Malice and Chosen To Die will all be published in 2009. Lisa may be reached via www.lisajackson.com.

  Joan Johnston’s books have appeared on the New York Times, USA TODAY and Publishers Weekly bestseller lists. The award-winning author of forty-six novels, she was formerly an attorney in Virginia and Florida. She also worked as a newspaper editor and drama critic in San Antonio, Texas, as a director of theatre in Southwest Texas, and as a college professor, most recently at the University of Miami. Joan loves to travel and visited England and Scotland to do research for her Captive Hearts series, and toured the legendary King Ranch in South Texas for her Bitter Creek series. Joan is a member of the Authors Guild, Novelists, Inc., Romance Writers of America and Florida Romance Writers. She divides her time between homes in Colorado and Florida. She has over 10 million books in print worldwide. Her Web site is www.joanjohnston.com.

  Recently hailed as “the greatest thriller writer alive today” by Bookviews, screenwriter and novelist Jon Land is the author of 26 books, fifteen of which have been national bestsellers. Jon is published in over fifty countries and six different languages, including German and Japanese. There are currently almost 7 million copies of his books in print. Jon’s book The Last Prophecy appeared on over 30 national, local and regional bestseller lists. His novel The Seven Sins is the first in a new series. Visit Jon at www.geocities.com/Athens/Acropolis/7015.

  Lawrence Light, a finance editor at the Wall Street Journal and previously the Wall Street editor of Forbes magazine, is the author of the Karen Glick mystery series. He is a member of the Mystery Writers of America and of the Thriller Writers of America. In 1993 he published a humor book with his talented and beautiful wife, Meredith Anthony, called 101 Reasons Why We’re Doomed. He and his wife live on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where they give great parties. He has no children, dogs or cats, although the occasional rabbit is welcome in his home. His Web site is www.lawrencelight.com.