Michael Prescott: Riptide

“Four or five minutes.”

“Will he make it that long?”

“That long? Yes.” The unspoken addendum was, But not much longer .

“I’m going to check on Sandra.”

“You may not like what you find.”

“I know.’

She retraced her steps, wending through the crowd. She still didn’t know if Parkinson had been about to enter the C.A.S.T. office or had just left. The difference was slight enough, but it was the difference between life and death for Sandra Price.

She arrived at the door, still open. She reassured herself that he hadn’t had time to do to Sandra what he’d done in Maura’s condo.

Whatever lay inside, it wouldn’t be as bad as that.

“Sandra?” she called, entering.

From the rear of the building, a soft metallic creak.

She moved in the direction of the noise, navigating a narrow hall.

“It’s Jennifer. Are you okay?”

“Go away.” Sandra’s voice, weak and low, coming from the open door at the end of the corridor.

“Is everything all right?” Jennifer asked.

“Just…go away. Please.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jennifer said, and she stepped through the doorway and found Sandra Price seated at a small metal desk, her hands resting on a careworn blotter, a knife held against her throat.

“She told you to go away,” Richard said. “But you never would listen to anybody.”

He stood behind Sandra, his eyes staring with unfocused hostility. Eyes that hated the whole world.

Jennifer stopped inside the doorway. She spent a long moment studying those eyes. “What’s going on?”

“You tell her, Sandra. You tell my big sister what’s going on.”

Sandra shifted in her seat, and the swivel chair creaked. That was the noise Jennifer had heard. “He came in a half hour ago. Found me back here. Since then, we’ve been getting to know each other.”

“Has he…hurt you?”

“No. We’ve been having a little chat, is all. He’s quite the raconteur.” She tried to smile, couldn’t pull it off.

“What are you doing here, Richard?”

His lip curled in a sneer. “ You know. If anyone knows, you do.”

She took a step closer. “Tell me.”

“You sent them after me. This bitch-and the other one.”

“What other one?”

“The one who was spying on me. Following me. He was in the library today. So were you. That’s when I knew for sure that you were in it together.”

“I had nothing to do with that man. Neither did Sandra.”

He barked a sharp laugh. “You’re so full of shit.” The knife trembled in his grasp, its blade gleaming in the glow of the desk lamp. “She put up those posters with my face on them. And you talked to her. And now you’re here.”

“I’m here because I thought Sandra was in trouble.”

“You were right. I’m going to cut her. Cut you, too.”

“Sandra and I weren’t following you. The man who did that is in police custody now. He won’t bother you again.”

“You’re lying. You always lie. You’re in league with this bitch and that other one. All three of you, in your little conspiracy. You think you had me fooled. But I know .”

His hand jerked, and Sandra winced as a thread of blood appeared on her throat.

“You’re all working against me. Just admit it, and I’ll let her go.”

She would not admit to anything. It would only reinforce his paranoia.

“You’re imagining things,” she said.

Sandra spoke in a dry whisper. “Honey, that is not what the man wants to hear.”

“No more bullshit.” His red-rimmed eyes glared at her. “You want to destroy me. You want me dead. Just say it!”

“That’s what you want to hear me say?” Jennifer asked. “That I’m your enemy?”

“Yes, God damn it!”

“I would never hurt you, Richard.”

Sandra inhaled sharply, scared by this answer.

His face was wild. “You want me to cut her throat? Is that what you want?”

Jennifer didn’t reply. She was rolling up the sleeve on her left arm. She stepped closer, letting him see the scar. “Remember this? Remember how you saved me?”

He stared at her arm, transfixed by the scar. His voice was quieter when he said, “That was a long time ago.”

“But I haven’t forgotten. Have you?”

“No.”

“I’ll always remember hearing your voice. You were calling for me, and I thought it was a dream, so I didn’t answer. You found me anyway. I never asked you how you knew I was in the utility room.”

“It was the blood.” His eyes were far away. “Spots of blood on the floor.”

She took another step, and now she was three feet from the desk.

“You picked me up and carried me to a car. I didn’t even know whose car it was. You didn’t have a license. You were only fourteen.”

“It was Jim Hobarth’s car. I borrowed it.”

“And drove three hundred fifty miles to San Francisco. You’d talked the operator into tracing the call to the pay phone in the shopping center.”

“She didn’t want to do it. I said it was life-and-death. She got her supervisor to approve….”

“You made it to the shopping center and got inside somehow.”

“Through a back window.”

“And you found me and drove me to the hospital, and later when I’d had a transfusion, I woke up and found you in the room with me. You know what you said? Remember the words?”

He shook his head.

“You said, ‘I knew you were in bad shape. You needed me.’ That’s all.”

She closed the gap with the desk, and now he was within her reach.

“I was-everything was different then.” His face hardened. “ You were different. You weren’t after my money. You weren’t trying to put me away.”

“There’s hardly any money left, Richard. You’ve spent almost all of it.”

“You’re hiding it from me. You want it for yourself.”

“It’s nearly gone. And our house-it’s gone, too.”

His lower lip quivered. “You’re a lying whore.”

“It burned tonight. It’s all gone, and the family papers are gone, and soon the money will be gone. And you know what? I’m glad.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“I don’t want anything holding on to us anymore. I want a fresh start. Remember how we used to play miniature golf, and you’d give me a do-over if I hit a bad shot? That’s what I want. A do-over.”

“We don’t get do-overs.”

“Sometimes we do. We just have to ask. How about you? Would you like a new start?”

He reared back, and Sandra shut her eyes. “I’m going to cut this bitch’s throat, and then I’m going to cut yours.”

Jennifer held his gaze from a yard away. “No, you’re not.”

“Who says?”

“You’re not a killer, Richard. I thought you were, but I was wrong. You’re not going to hurt Sandra or me.” She extended her hand, her left hand, so he could follow the seam of the scar down her arm. “Are you?”

Her fingertips brushed his chest. He stared at them, at the pale vulnerability of her offered hand.

“Everyone’s against me,” he said, the words so soft they almost went unheard.

“I’m not.”

Doubt flickered on his face. “Then why’d you come after me? Why’d you hunt me down? Why wouldn’t you leave me alone ?”

“I knew you were in bad shape,” she said. “You needed me.”

He heard the words, and their echo from years ago.

Slowly he handed over the knife, dropping it into her upraised palm.

Sandra exhaled.

Jennifer withdrew her hand. “Thank you, Richard.”

“You’d better not be fucking with me,” he muttered.