Michael Prescott - Deadly Pursuit

At a depth of thirty feet lay a grove of gently waving gorgonians, a miniature forest of bright yellow branches, threaded with the sleek, nimble forms of half a dozen bluehead wrasses. Steve perched on a coral ledge and examined the sea fans in the strong sunlight that filtered through the crystalline water like a luminescent mist. The blueheads scattered, seeds flung by an anxious hand, melting into shadows.

Jack alighted on the ledge also. Steve glanced at him, pointed to the gorgonians in lazy slow motion, then returned his gaze to the coral colonies, intrigued by their vivid colors, their languid undulating dance.

Steve himself would be dancing soon. A frenetic tarantella of muscle spasms and thrashing limbs.

Jack reached for the knife. Took a step closer…

Abruptly Steve turned. Tapped his throat once. Ascended, swimming swiftly toward the glitter of refracted light on the surface.

He needed to take a breath. Damn.

Jack felt a faint burning sensation in his own lungs. He rose also. His ears gurgled as the pressure eased. His sinuses opened again, and the dull pain above and below his eyes faded.

He broke water a few yards from Steve, removed his mouthpiece, and gulped air. The motorboat lay fifty feet away, wheeling slowly, tracing a large circle with the anchor line as its radius.

“Had enough?” Steve asked, treading water. His oversize mask, large enough to accommodate his eyeglasses, looked vaguely comical, an adult’s gear worn by a child.

Jack considered his reply. He could try to prolong the dive, hope for a second chance, but he didn’t think he’d get it.

The boat, then. He would have to do it on the boat.

“Yeah, I’m pretty beat,” he said, putting exhaustion in his voice. “Guess I’m not used to this Jacques Cousteau stuff anymore.”

“You’re not the only one.” Steve’s fatigue sounded genuine. He was out of shape; Jack could see that. No definition to the abdominal muscles. Flabby pecs. Bony shoulders.

He’d gone soft. Easy prey.

Jack replaced his mouthpiece, cleared his snorkel tube with a snort, and swam back to the motorboat. Before boarding, he and Steve removed fins, snorkels, and masks and put them inside the boat. Together they climbed over the gunwale.

Steve sat cross-legged in the stern. “Might as well stow your gear.”

Jack, squatting in the bow, handed over his equipment one item at a time. Steve put it in the vinyl case at his feet, then began packing his own gear, head lowered, the sunburnt nape of his neck exposed.

Jack felt his heart speed up. Felt the familiar tension in his body, the song of rushing blood in his ears, the electric tingle in his fingertips.

He could reach Steve in a single step. Lunge forward, plant the deadly blade between his shoulders.

The muscles of his calves and thighs tensed, coiled springs wound tighter, ever tighter. He knew how the lioness feels as she hunkers down on the windswept veldt, scenting antelope at a water hole. Like her, he was a predatory animal, preparing to pounce and claw.

His hand slipped under the waistband of his swimsuit and withdrew the knife. Slowly he extracted the spear blade. It gleamed like a viper’s fang.

Steve, preoccupied with stuffing his flippers into the crowded case, still had not looked up.

Jack pursed his lips. A last twitch of irresolution stirred in him, a final tick of conscience. He hardened himself against it.

This was for survival. And survival justified… anything.

Do it.

Goddammit, do it now.

He sprang upright. The boat rocked. A lurching step carried him forward, the knife poised to descend in a looping thrust, and with shocking abruptness Steve recoiled, his hands clearing the bag, left hand empty, the right gripping something small and shiny and blue-black.

A gun.

Jack froze, holding the knife awkwardly at chest height, the blade aimed downward, pointing like an arrow at the hull.

Steve lifted the pistol a little higher. The muzzle was a small black hole, an unwinking eye, staring coolly up at Jack from three feet away. Steve’s own eyes, gray and darkly thoughtful, hazy behind the sunstruck lenses of his glasses, did the same.

Jack took a long moment to speak. When he did, his voice was a hoarse rasp, sandpaper on old wood.

“Stevie…?”

Steve’s face showed no expression, no life. He might have been a mannequin, save for the jewel of sweat tracking slowly down his temple like a raindrop on a windowpane.

“Sorry, Jack,” he said softly, in the flat, pitiless voice of an executioner. “I’ve been one step ahead of you the whole time.”

Jack heard the words, understood their meaning, but could not make them real.

“Put down the knife,” Steve continued in the same unflinching hangman’s tone.

Jack had forgotten he was holding it. Fingers splayed, he let it drop to the floorboards. It made a soft, distant thump.

“Now sit.”

He retreated a step and seated himself on the sailing thwart. He waited.

“You goddamn asshole,” Steve said quietly.

There was pain in his voice now, pain that gave the lie to the emotionless expression he still wore.

Jack tried striking a light note. “Hey, Steve-o. I thought we were friends.”

“Is that why you were about to stab me?”

“Stab you? Hell, is that what you thought?” A sharp, forced laugh. “I saw some gulfweed tangled in the anchor line. Figured I’d cut it free.” He pointed. “Look for yourself.”

“Shut up, Jack.”

“I’m serious-”

“Shut up.”

Jack fell silent.

The boat bobbed slowly on the turquoise water. Pelican Key was a green smear in the distance. Jack smelled salt and moisture, felt the noon heat on his skin.

Sun and air. How much longer would he know these things? There was little daylight in a cell, and prison air stank of sweat and disinfectant. He could see what shape the rest of his life would take, a dismal, ugly prospect, hardly better than death.

Still, he might have a chance. Steve must have sensed the danger Jack posed, must have brought along the gun for that reason. But he couldn’t know the full story: the seven murders, the nationwide manhunt.

It might be possible to talk Steve into forgetting this incident in exchange for Jack’s immediate departure. Later the Gardners would hear the news and realize they’d let a multiple murderer escape-but by then he would be long gone.

His spirits rallied slightly. He had limitless confidence in his ability to manipulate and deceive. He’d built his life on it. And with it, he could save his life now. All he had to do “They’re after you,” Steve said, the words cutting like a razor into his thoughts. “Aren’t they?”

“Who?”

“The police.”

“After me? For what?”

“For killing all those women.”

All the breath went out of him, and with it, all hope. No possibility of a getaway now, no chance to stay on the run. Steve already knew… everything.

It took Jack a long moment to speak. When he did, the false levity was gone from his voice. “You told me you hadn’t turned on the radio or TV in two weeks. Hadn’t seen a newspaper in days.”

“I haven’t.”

That made no sense. Jack shook his head. His eyes asked an unvoiced question.

“There was plenty about it in the news before Kirstie and I came to Pelican Key. You’ve been making headlines for months.”

“Not me. It was all Mister Twister. Never Jack Dance.”

“But I knew it was you. At least”-Steve dropped his gaze-“I was pretty sure I did.”

“That’s impossible. You couldn’t.”

“They showed pictures of the victims, Jack. Some of them looked almost exactly like Meredith.”