Chapter 48
“I NEVER THOUGHT WE’d actually make it here,” Ben said as he gazed out the main viewport of Professor Matthews’s magnificent yacht. “It still seems unreal.”
“The yacht,” Matthews asked, “or the fact that you’re in it?”
“Both.” He meant it, too. He was still amazed that he’d managed to bring the Elkins case to a positive conclusion. Ben had delivered the check to his clients—Blaylock’s first payment on the structured ten-year settlement payout. Although Ben’s share wasn’t enough to pay off all his creditors, he was at least able to appease the most insistent ones and give everyone something. More important, the money, combined with the media release of the “blue report,” had given each of the parents the satisfaction of knowing that their child had not died in vain.
Christina popped through the door into the main cabin. “Well, I’ve seen the bedrooms, the sundeck, and the boiler room. I assume there’s also a parlor and conservatory somewhere on this monstrosity.”
Matthews laughed. “That’ll be in the next model. This one’s only thirty-five feet.”
“Oh, is that all,” Christina said, winking. The main cabin, where they were presently, combined the “bridge”—with all the steering and navigational equipment—with a larger dining area. Up above, visible through a glass ceiling, was a spacious deck, ready-made for sunbathing and stargazing. Down below were the sleeping quarters and the boiler room, with the engine and most of the other mechanical equipment. It was all connected by wide metal decks and ladders. It was a boat of which the Onassis family could be proud.
“I don’t even want to think about what this set you back,” Ben said. “Obviously, Dean Kronfield is paying you a great deal more than he’s paying me.”
Matthews laughed. “I couldn’t afford this in a million years. I told you already—I inherited it.”
“Couldn’t you dock it somewhere closer to home?”
“I could. But this is an oceangoing vessel. It seems a shame to waste it on Lake Tenkiller or some such. Here on the Gulf, all of the Atlantic Ocean is at our disposal.”
“We’re not going too far from shore, are we?” Ben asked. “I’m a lousy swimmer.”
Matthews laughed again. “It won’t matter, unless you decide to jump over the rail and go skinny-dipping.”
Christina arched an eyebrow. “I think I can pretty well guarantee that’s not going to happen.”
Matthews cut the engine. “At any rate, this is far enough.” He pointed toward the windshield. “We can still see home. And we can get there lickety-split, if we need to. Probably won’t, but the weather advisory did say there was a possibility of a storm.”
“Storm?” Ben said. “As in, gale-force winds? Big waves?”
“I doubt that will happen. But if it does, we’ll return to dock lickety-split.” He checked the gauge on the metal gas tank, just to the left of the wheel. “We’ve got plenty of fuel. We’re perfectly safe.” He opened the cabinet to his right. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to start dinner.”
“What can I do to help?” Ben asked.
“Zip,” Matthews answered. “Nada. You’ve been under the gun for months. Tonight you just relax.”
“I’ll feel guilty letting you serve me.”
“I’ll feel guilty if you have a heart attack. I want you to live long enough to bring me some more cases.” He lit two tall candles and placed them on the tablecloth in the center of the dining table. Then he popped open a bottle of Cordon Negro and started pouring it into champagne flutes.
“Well, if you insist on doing everything—mind if I take a look around the boat?” Ben asked.
“Of course not. But be back in about twenty minutes.”
“Deal. Any place I can get a drink of water?”
He pointed. “There’s bottled water in the cooler.”
“What, you mean you don’t have a faucet on this barge?”
Matthews gave him a pointed look. “Are you kidding? After this case, I’ll never drink tap water again in my life.”
Mike knew something was wrong before he’d even stopped his car. The lights in the cabin were out, but the front door was wide open. And he had that nasty tingling at the base of his spine, the one that never presaged anything good.…
He jumped out, brandishing his Sig Sauer, ready for the worst. He should’ve known better than to leave Fred alone, even for a few minutes. But the message said there’d been another murder—he couldn’t ignore that. Plus, if there’d been another murder, that meant the killer was up in Oklahoma, not anywhere around here—
Unless he’d been bluffed. Unless the killer had his cell phone number, which wouldn’t be that hard to get. Unless he’d been lured away … leaving Fred at the killer’s mercy.
He wanted to slap himself up the side of the head, but both hands were busy clutching his gun tightly. Where was he, damn it? One thing was certain—Mike was not going to let him get away again. He was not going to let him take another victim. Mike couldn’t live with that.
He meant that both figuratively and literally—since it was a dead cert the murderer would not leave him alive again.
Slowly Mike crept toward the front of the cabin. He passed through the door, which was blowing back and forth in the wind. He reached inside and turned on the light …
The cabin had been wrecked. Furniture was strewn all over the floor, most of it broken. Some kind of struggle had taken place here, some titanic contest of wills. But no trace of the players remained now.
Well, there was one trace. A pool of wet sticky blood on the floor.
Mike bent down and touched the blood. Fresh. Whatever happened had not happened that long ago.
Mike ran through the whole cabin, making sure no one was hiding or lying unconscious or dead. It didn’t take long. No one was here.
Were they outside? What had happened? What was going on? He passed through the door again and stepped outside.…
He fell on top of Mike like a concrete slab, knocking him to the ground. Mike was dazed, but he knew that if he let unconsciousness take him, he was a dead man. He forced himself to stay awake, forced himself to stay alert.
He couldn’t see his assailant. He tried to roll around, but the weight on top of him was too heavy. His arms were pinned beneath him and his gun had been knocked out of his hand.
And the concrete slab on top of him had started punching him in the gut.
Mike gritted his teeth and tried to rock his assailant off. No use. The next blow hit him on the side of the head. He felt blood trickling down his face, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was pinned like a bug in a science experiment.
“I’m not going to let you kill me like you did the others,” his assailant muttered, followed by another sharp blow to the gut.
“Fred?” Mike pushed upward with all his might. “Fred, is that you?”
“You know it is, you sick son of a bitch!”
“Fred, you fool, it’s Lieutenant Morelli!”
The blows stopped. Hesitant at first, Fred pulled away, unpinning Mike from the ground.
Mike rolled around, wiping blood from his face. “You stupid idiot. Why don’t you look before you punch? I’m not your killer.”
“He was here,” Fred said. His voice was small and scared. “He found me.”
“And you’re still alive?”
Fred seemed as surprised as Mike was. “We fought. Hell of a fight. You probably saw the mess inside. I did everything I could to defend myself—but I knew I was no match for him. He was toying with me, like a cat playing with a trapped mouse before eating it. He was just killing time.”
“How did you get away?”
“I—I’m not sure I understand it, even now.” His eyes seemed to drift as he tried to recall. “I got in a lucky shot, knocked him off his feet. I used that as my chance to blow past him, run to the door and escape into the forest. I shouted as I ran. I shouted, "The bonds are in the ice chest. Take them." And the strangest thing happened.”