Chapter Twelve
Steve was quiet as the boat cut through the water. He had selected a battered old rowboat as Peterson's boat - partly because he figured security on it would be at a minimum, partly because he also figured it would go nice and slow and give him time to think of what to do next. He knew he was fast running out of options and that every pull of the oar brought him a little closer to a final showdown. Right now there was nothing to do but think. Oh, he had offered to help row, and, predictably, had been turned down. Miss Warm and Fuzzy seemed to think that he couldn't be trusted with an oar. A pretty safe bet.
He twitched his shoulders, trying to encourage circulation in his arms. He had stopped feeling his hands a while ago, but his arms still made their presence known with a dull, numb ache. His knee was pressing against the fabric of his jeans, straining at the seams as if trying to break free. So he had one good leg, no hands, and a head that felt like a samba band had taken up permanent residence. Not much hope of defending himself if things got ugly - and odds were that they would. If worse came to worst, then the best he could manage was to take her down with him. Sort of a murder/suicide. Not an image to exactly warm his heart. But he had to do something. He couldn't let her return to the cabin, or his life wouldn't be the only one forfeit. And who knew how many innocent hikers and campers could suffer as well? She seemed like an equal opportunity tormentor.
"Hey - " He felt an electric current of pain shiver through his swollen knee and jerked his head up, grinding his teeth softly against each other. "Don't go to sleep on me. I need you to tell me when we're close."
Steve tried to shift his stiffened leg away from the nudge of her boot heel. He'd had about enough of her and her unique methods of communication. "Didn't anybody ever teach you to use your words, not your fists?"
She smiled her bright, sassy smile. "Oh, they taught me all kinds of things. And I love to share. Are we almost there?"
Steve lifted his head with an effort and looked around. They were close to the middle of the lake. A light breeze skimmed across the surface and sun dappled the water. For a minute he couldn't help thinking that this was exactly what he had originally envisioned - time fishing on the bright expanse of water in the peace and quiet and open air. Except that he had expected to be with his father, not a homicidal sadist, and he had actually intended to fish for fish, not clues and faint hopes. It's true what they say, he thought wryly - the real thing never does live up to our fantasies. He gave himself a minute to take in the beautiful brightness of the day, the warm sun and the soft glimmer of the water, wondering if he was telling them good bye.
Something inside him tightened with resolve. Maybe. Maybe he was, but one thing was for sure - he wasn't going to go down easy. He scooped in a deep breath.
"Yeah," he agreed after a minute. "Yeah. I'd say we were."
*
Mark bent over to get a better look. Here the prints changed, became deep boot toe impressions, matched to another couple of deep wells in the mud which had to be knees. He eyed them keenly. "Where are his hands?" he asked after a minute.
"What?" Amanda knelt next to him, trying to see whatever it was that he was seeing. "Maybe he didn't need them."
Mark shook his head. "No. You use your hands to catch yourself. Look at the depth of the impressions - he fell to his knees, but never put out a hand to catch himself. The hands would leave impressions too."
"Maybe he just sort of dropped to his knees - like he was tired or something." Even as he finished saying it, Jesse realized that the picture he was painting wasn't pretty and pressed his lips together to keep himself from elaborating. The glare he received from Amanda confirmed his suspicions that he hadn't been helpful. He remained silent as Amanda helped Mark back to standing position.
"Well, we won't know anything until we find him," she pointed out soothingly, "so we might just as well keep going. And the good news about the limp is that he couldn't have gone very far very fast."
"Unless someone with transportation was meeting them." Mark's tone was grim.
"Well, if so, then we'll see tracks. But it would be hard to fit any kind of a vehicle in here, Mark - even a dirt bike. This trail is very narrow and barely marked."
Mark nodded without taking his eyes from the tracks, following them further into the trees. Suddenly the trees broke away to a clearing, and he stood blinking a second at the sudden change of scenery. The land rolled gently down before them, dotted with a few tall cedars. Between them he could just make out a glimmer of silver that might be a body of water of some kind. Mark frowned. It seemed like such an innocent, bucolic view. He moved forward, barely aware of Amanda behind him, grabbing Jesse's arm and following.
There were a number of small boats moored about the lake, bobbing gently in the water. One had struck out and was gliding slowly through the water. Fishing, probably. His heart smote him. Like he was supposed to be doing. With Steve. He started down the slope to the lake, watching its progress. These waters were supposed to be perfect for fishing - the weather was too. A light, cool breeze, but surprisingly hot if you stopped in the sun. He wondered how different things could have been if only he had left with Steve as they had planned. Would they be like that couple on the boat, out on the water, chatting casually or sitting in companionable silence? His heart ached to turn back the clock. He studied the small boat possessively.
It took him a minute to notice that there was something odd about the couple. The woman was rowing, for one thing, which seemed a little unusual - not out of the question, but odd. And the man was sitting in an awkward position. He squinted against the sun. There was something…that man. There was something so…
His heart bumped against his ribs and he picked up his pace. Even from this distance, even with the sun in his eyes, there was something unmistakably familiar about the man. He broke into a light jog.
The boat had stopped now - the woman threw what was probably an anchor of some kind over the side. The man had moved very little - his head hung low, as if it was too heavy to lift, and his arms were tucked behind him. It looked very uncomfortable. Mark strained to see more clearly, but the boat was too far away. He was almost to the water's edge now. The figures were just small silhouettes against the backdrop of the sky, but the man lifted his head, and that was all Mark needed to be sure. Even at this distance, there could be no mistaking him. His heart in his throat, he hurried to the edge of the water, shielding his eyes with his hand.
He didn't stop to think about the wisdom of what he was doing, he didn't stop to think at all - after hours of worry and tension and fear he acted purely on instinct. Waving his arm in greeting, he raised his voice and hollered out, "Steve!"
*
Steve's heart stopped dead in his chest. It was a sound he had been both dreading and hoping to hear, and now it couldn't have come at a worse moment. His companion had just finished anchoring the boat and straightened abruptly at the sound of a voice, magnified by the proximity of the water. Smoothly and swiftly as a snake striking she had her gun in hand, her eyes searching the shoreline. It was hard to miss the distant figure of his father, waving wildly. Steve winced as he noticed that she didn't even bother to take a second to measure for legitimate threat - her gun was raised and aimed and cocked. Well, all right. There were some things you could do with only one leg.
Leaning back on his bound hands, he kicked out with his good leg, caught her in mid calf. The gun flew into the air and fired, the sound reverberating over and over across the lake as it jumped from her grip and landed in the water with a plop.
Her face dark with rage, heedless of her precarious footing, she whirled on him. And slipped. And landed on top of him. The boat rocked wildly.
*
Mark ducked instinctively, even though part of his mind told him that the shooter was too far away to make an accurate shot with anything less than a rifle. More pressing and at the forefront of his mind was that the gunshot confirmed everything he had feared. Part of him had still hoped against hope that there was a logical, everyday explanation for Steve's absence - the gunshot shattered that last faint hope. Steve was in real trouble, and he had possibly just made it worse.
"Steve?" He hadn't meant to call out again, but somehow the sound tore out of him without his conscious volition. His eyes devoured the small boat so far out on the lake, now careening wildly from side to side. Whoever was in that boat with Steve had had a gun, and for all he knew, had other weapons - another gun, or a knife. And Steve was trapped out there with her, alone. Frantically, he looked around. He had no idea what he could do, but he had to try and reach him - to help. His eyes fell on one of the boats bobbing in the water and he broke into a run.
*
Steve felt her slight weight land on him in every bruise in his body. Her elbow dug into his chest, driving the air from his lungs. Her hands clutched at his collar and she shook him, banging his head against the gunwale. For a second everything greyed.
"Who is he? Who is that?" Her voice seemed to be coming from a long way away. "Damn it, I told you what I'd do if you - "
A sudden splash of icy water struck him, reviving him slightly, soaked into his left side. His equilibrium was off; he seemed to be tilted at an odd angle, balanced in some peculiar way on his side, suspended. The icy coldness crept up the length of his body, sucking at him. Suddenly her grip on him changed, became more grasping. Water splashed into his mouth and he spit it out, coughed, his battered brain finally taking in what was happening.
"Stop it!" he ordered. "You're going to - " There was a heavy pull of gravity, then a sudden weightlessness, then the daylight disappeared and the iciness closed over his head.
*
Mark stopped at the first boat he reached, a broad metal rowboat, and tugged frantically at the mooring rope. He felt a hand on his arm but shook it off impatiently, his focus intent.
"Mark! What are you doing?"
Mark recognized Amanda's voice but didn't look up. "That's Steve out there - " he gestured vaguely with his head. "I have to get to him."
"Out there? How do you…? Never mind - Jesse!" She turned her head to call over her shoulder.
Jesse ran up, out of breath and clutching a handful of what looked like cut fishing line. He shook it at Amanda. "Hey, I found - " he paused at the sight of Mark picking futilely at the mooring rope. "What's going on?"
Amanda was trying to gently move Mark, whose hands were shaking far too much to be useful, aside. "Mark says that's Steve out on the lake."
Jesse squinted at the water. "Out there? What was that gunshot I heard? Oh - " he saw the rowboat in the middle of the lake slew wildly and ducked instinctively, wincing. "Never mind. Here - let me - remember my cousin who owns a bait shop?" He pushed Mark aside without ceremony. "You guys get in. I'll cast off."
Amanda hopped into the stern, reaching out to help Mark into the bow. "Do you know how to row one of these things?"
"Hey, I work out on the rowing machine twice a week at the gym - how different could it be?" Jesse deftly loosed first one slipknot, then the other, then jumped in himself, reaching for one oar and bracing it against the dock to shove them out onto the open water. He fumbled to fit the oars into the oarlocks.
Amanda kept her eyes on the other boat, swinging from side to side in the distance. "Hurry, Jesse!"
Jesse gave a grunt. "I'm trying. Give me a minute. It's a little trickier than the rowing machine - you never have to steer one of those…"
Amanda leaned around him to where Mark was hunched in the bow, his eyes fixed on the water in front of them. She touched his arm lightly. "Don't worry, Mark. You know what an excellent swimmer Steve is."
"He can't swim, Amanda," answered Mark dully. "His hands - I couldn't see exactly, but they were restrained in some way."
Jesse remembered the cut cords he had found and pulled a little harder on the oars. "At least they're anchored. We'll catch up." He still didn't have any clear idea about what was going on, but he figured there'd be time enough for explanations later. He saw Mark's back stiffen and tried to look around him. "What's going on?"
The rowboat in the middle of the lake reared up onto its side, paused there for a minute, held in place by the weight of the water lapping over its length. Then the stern dipped lower, dragged down as more water rushed into it and filled it. Jesse could just about make out two figures, lying the length of the boat, locked in some sort of struggling embrace; then water seemed to fill the bow as well, pulling it under, and they both disappeared from sight. There was a brief, stunned silence.
"Oh, God," Mark whispered.
