Why can't I move my hands?
A hard, cold rain pelted him, a million freezing needles. A rain so strong, it hissed in the air and pinged as it hit the deck.
He felt the boat ride to the top of a swell, then slide down the trough.
Great. Tied up, semiconscious, and I'm gonna be seasick, too.
A throbbing pain in his skull seemed to beat time with the engines. The boat was moving fast. Open water. Ocean, not the bay. He could tell that from the waves, even though he couldn't see anything.
His mouth felt dry. He licked his lips, tasted blood. He felt the spray hit his neck, the boat splashing down the side of a swell.
So why can't I see anything? Aha, my eyes are closed.
He tried to crank them open. A crowbar would have helped. Eyes swollen shut. He wanted to use a finger to push open an eye, but there was a problem. His hands seemed to be tied behind his back.
He concentrated on his right eye, tried to crank it open. It started to come up slowly, like a Venetian blind pulled by a piece of dental floss. He used his tongue to explore the inside of his mouth. He had bitten though his lip, and he spit out a chunk of tooth.
The rain came even harder, a solid wall of daggers. His teeth chattered. He had never been this cold in his life.
"How you feeling, Solomon?"
Kreeger's voice. The eye opened just enough to see his face, rain soaking his bare chest. The boat on autopilot, Steve figured. With any luck, maybe they'd hit an iceberg. If not, maybe run aground on Bimini.
"Where's Maria?"
"Warm and toasty in the master stateroom. She'll serve her purpose after I dispose of you."
"Bastard."
"That the best you can do, Solomon?"
Steve managed to get both eyes open a crack. "Ugly bastard."
"You don't look so good yourself."
Steve felt like he'd been hit in the face with a baseball bat. Now he saw it was a shovel. Kreeger was leaning on the garden spade Steve had seen in the storage compartment.
"You'd have two black eyes if you'd live long enough for the bruises to show," Kreeger said. "But as you've no doubt ascertained, this is your last boat trip."
Steve's vision cleared a bit, and he saw that Kreeger was wearing surfer's trunks and was shirtless and barefoot. He looked powerful, with wide shoulders and a deep chest. A dive knife was strapped to a sheath on one ankle.
My feet feel funny. I can't wiggle my toes. What's that all about?
Steve looked down. His feet were in one of the aluminum pails he'd seen earlier, his legs sunk up to his calves in cold mud.
No. Not mud. Wet cement.
"You've got to be kidding, Kreeger."
"We wouldn't want your head popping up on the Fifth Street beach, scaring the tourists, would we, Solomon?"
"You've been watching too much Sopranos."
Steve wriggled his feet, just enough to lift them off the bottom of the pail, but not enough for cracks to show on the surface. The cement was hardening fast.
"Maybe we can work this out, Kreeger."
"The shyster wants to settle the case. What's your offer, Counselor?"
"I get you help. Not guilty by reason of insanity."
Kreeger barked a laugh. "Got a better deal right here. Not guilty by reason of not being caught."
"The cops know I came after you. You'll be the only suspect."
"Suspect in what? There'll be no body, Solomon. They'll figure you either fled to South America to escape your legal problems or committed suicide." He shook his head, almost sadly. "This isn't the way I planned it. You were supposed to be safe and sound. How else to suffer the torment of watching your nephew go through hell?"
Steve focused on keeping his feet moving. A small crack appeared in the wet cement around each calf. The pouring rain was helping, too. If only he could keep the cement from setting around his feet, he would have a chance.
"I blame myself for your predicament," Kreeger continued. "I've never been so late leaving the dock."
"Because you had to go to the store to buy cement, that it? Run out after you killed that girl from the Redlands?"
"Always start with a new bag." Kreeger dabbed at the pail with the blade of the shovel. "Leave no evidence."
"Let Maria go. Like you said, I won't be around to be tormented. Why torture Bobby?"
"I'm afraid that ship has sailed. The girl can identify me. Or do you think that she'll so enjoy our forthcoming encounter that she'd never testify? Maybe start sneaking over to my house instead of yours?"
"Ugly, sick bastard."
Kreeger laughed again. Took the dive knife from its sheath, crouched, and stuck the blade into the pail, testing the cement. Steve kept his feet still a moment.
"Quick-dry," Kreeger said, sounding pleased, "even in this fucking downpour. Be ready in a couple minutes. Now, don't go anywhere, Counselor."
Kreeger scrambled up the ladder to the fly bridge, picked up his binoculars, and scanned the horizon in every direction. Not wanting a passing freighter to see him toss a man overboard, Steve supposed.
He wriggled harder now. The cement was firming up, the tops of his feet encased in a solid block. But he had kept it from hardening along the sides and underneath. If he was stuck to the pail, there would be nothing he could do. But if he could lift his feet out, he had a chance.
Steve tried working on a plan, but his subconscious interfered. The dead weight of guilt bore down on him, heavier than the cement. He'd let Maria down. But not just her.
I screwed up everything.
Foam spritzed over the gunwales and stung his face.
I let you all down.
Bobby would grow up without him. Victoria would move on to another man. Even his father would take it hard. Steve's throat clenched.
Jeez, am I crying?
He couldn't tell. Tears taste the same as the sea.
Moments later, the sky darkened even more as they rode through a squall. Gusts pushed the big boat sideways. On the bridge, Kreeger pulled back on the throttles. Steve felt them slowing down. In seconds, they were at idle speed. The boat was at the mercy of the waves now, sliding up one face, rocking down the other.
Kreeger slid down the ladder, facing the cockpit, nimble as a sailor hurrying to his battle station.
"There's a thick patch of sargasso weed just ahead," Kreeger told him. "Bet there are some fine sharks looking for lunch down there."
"Let's just get this over with."
"Whatever you say."
Kreeger bent down, dipped the knife into the drying cement. Steve studied the knife. Ridged handle, easy to grip. Titanium blade, maybe five inches long, serrated on one edge, sharp as a razor on the other. You could saw through bone with it.
Kreeger stood, looked down at Steve. "Time to say good-bye, Solomon." There was a tinge of regret in his voice, as if he were going to miss his old buddy.
Steve focused on his own quadriceps. They were the lifters. He didn't know how much weight the cement added to his feet. It didn't matter. He had strong quads and glutes, and an abundance of quick-twitch muscle fibers.
Kreeger looked down, sliding the dive knife into its sheath. As he did, Steve swung his legs up, high and hard. His feet came out of the bucket with astonishing speed. The bucket stayed on the deck. The jagged clump of cement on Steve's ankles caught Kreeger on the forehead. Steve heard the impact, saw Kreeger spin backwards and bounce off the deck. The knife skittered toward the stern.
Steve pushed himself up and tried hopping toward the knife, but he was like a man in a sack race, and with the boat pitching, he fell, then skidded across the slippery deck.