Satisfied that no one was there, she took her hand out of her coat and turned around. The woman was standing in the bedroom window, staring out at the river, and slowly running a hand through her hair. The expression on her face was unsettling. It was flat. Blank. How could someone go from zero to ninety and back to zero that quickly? Where was Matthew? Bernadette didn’t like it and once again reached inside her trench coat. Her fingers landed on the butt of her gun, but she never had a chance to unsnap her holster or even look behind her.
WINDING UP LIKE a batter, he brought the paddle around and slammed it against her back. The splash her body made as it hit the river gave him some satisfaction, but he was disappointed she hadn’t uttered a word. A scream would have been rewarding. Standing on the edge of the deck with the paddle still locked in his hands, he looked into the water with hopeful anticipation. If she resurfaced, he would push her back down. If it got real ugly, he might have to drop his weapon and use his hands to hold her under. Perhaps he’d have to go in himself. The water would be cold, but it would be worth it to get rid of her. She was going to ruin everything.
The rumble of a car pulling into the yacht club’s parking lot made him glance nervously over his shoulder. He gave a last look to the smooth, black surface and told himself she was gone for good. Taking the paddle with him, he shuffled off the Good Enuf and went to the end of the dock. He cranked his arm back and flung his weapon into the water. The thing would be far downriver in no time. With any luck, so would her body.
Chapter 27
IT SEEMED TO take forever to fight her way to the surface. When Bernadette finally bobbed up, she was gasping and coughing up putrid water. She didn’t holler for help; it took every bit of energy to stay afloat. Her back and her lungs ached. Splashing madly with her arms, she made no progress in any direction; all she did was tread the cold water. Her limbs were starting to lose sensation, and she forced herself to stop thrashing around. Kicking her legs like a frog, she did a sloppy breaststroke to the edge of the small houseboat. Panting and shivering, she hung on to the wood trim of the Good Enuf while trying to throw her right leg up onto the deck.
“Hell,” she wheezed, her leg slipping off the edge and falling back into the water. Spasms of pain radiated across her back. Low to the river while she was standing on top of it, the deck now seemed insurmountably high. She felt as if she were trying to clamber up the sheer sides of a cruise ship. Something beneath the surface of the water brushed past her body, and she tried not to think about what it could be.
When she got to the deck on the other end of the boat, her fingers bumped up against a narrow horizontal bar. She locked her fist over it and brought her other hand around to pull her body in front of the ladder. It took every ounce of her remaining energy to set her feet on the ladder and climb up one rung and then another. Her numb foot slipped on the third rung, and she nearly fell backward into the river. Slowly, she returned her foot to the third rung and stepped hard, propelling herself up and out of the water. The impact of her body against the boards sent another ripple of pain across her back.
Dripping and cold, she stayed facedown on the Good Enuf. A wind blew across the deck, and she groaned into the wood. Shivering uncontrollably, she got on her knees and crawled to the patio doors of the houseboat. She reached up with one hand and pulled on the handle. Locked. She used the handle to pull herself to her feet. While she rested her forehead against the glass door, she thought about the walk back across the bridge. Between her sore back and her wet clothes, she’d never make it. She dipped her trembling hand into her soggy coat pocket and felt nothing. Her cell had been lost during her tumble into the water. It wouldn’t have worked anyway.
Another gust whipped across the deck of the boat, and she twined her arms around her shivering body. She wondered if she should peel off some of the wet clothing, then told herself that was a bad idea. She remembered something from a survival class taught at Quantico. Paradoxical undressing. That’s what they called it when hypothermia victims removed clothing even as they were freezing to death. She’d be damned if they were going to find her dead and naked.
Lifting her face off the patio door, she looked to the lighted windows of Matthew’s boat. She couldn’t go there for help. He was most likely the one who’d batted her into the river. What had he used to hit her? It felt like a concrete block.
She scanned the water’s edge for safer options. On the other side of the Good Enuf was a medium-size craft with two levels, both of them lit. Beyond that were two smaller boats that looked dark and vacant.
Hugging herself, she hobbled across the deck of the Good Enuf and stepped onto the dock. With the greatest of effort, she put one foot in front of the other and made it over to the double-decker houseboat, the Three-Hour Tour. Lighted plastic pumpkins stood sentry, one on each side of the entrance, and the door itself was plastered with cardboard cutouts of tarantulas. As she raised her fist to knock, she remembered her nightmare about spiders crawling over her while she beat against the door of a houseboat. Did that mean this was the wrong place to go for sanctuary? Screw the dream, she thought, and brought her fist down on the wood. She knocked again and yelled, “Hello? Is anyone home?” She heard a deadbolt being turned on the other side.
The door opened a crack. Long bangs and a big nose peeked out at her from the other side of a security chain. Gilligan’s double. “Holy crap,” he sputtered, taking in her wet figure.
“I f-fell in,” she chattered.
He took down the security chain and opened the door wide. “Get inside.”
“Thank you.” As she stepped over his threshold, she glanced down at her feet and realized that her shoes were gone.
He closed the door after her and ran over to his couch. He snatched a purple Minnesota Vikings throw off the cushions and draped it over her shoulders. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”
She shook her head. “No. I just gotta get out of these c-clothes.”
Taking a couple of steps back from her, he ran a hand through his dark mop. “Maybe I should call the cops.”
“No,” she said, and felt herself start to totter.
“What’s your name?” he asked, crossing his arms as if he were the one who was cold. “What’re you doing out here at night?”
“Is it the pizza?” a young woman yelled from another room.
“No!” he yelled back, nervously tucking his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “She fell in. Someone fell in. Get in here, Lor.”
A petite brunette dressed in yellow pajama bottoms and a Sponge-Bob T-shirt thumped into the room. She took one look at the visitor huddled near the door, a throw hanging from her shoulders, and blurted, “Holy crap. Who’re you?”
“I’m … I fell in,” Bernadette said, holding the throw tight around her body.
The woman went over to Bernadette and put an arm around her. “You look ready to pass out.”
The guy seemed relieved to have the woman on the scene. “Get her outta those clothes, Lor.”
Lor started steering Bernadette to a door at the side of the living room. “Bathroom’s this way. You can take this stuff off while I get you some sweats.”
“What happened? How’d you fall in?” the man asked her.
“I … had this really bad blind date.”