Michael Prescott - Deadly Pursuit

“Hell.” Jack hadn’t thought of that. He was doubly annoyed-at himself for this lapse, at little Stevie for outthinking him.

“Besides,” Steve added, “if the boat has been reported stolen, Pice might even recognize it and radio the police.”

“It’s got to be moved.”

“Back to the cove?”

“No, that’s not necessary. I can hide it in the brush on the beach. Cover it with fronds and sedges.”

“You’re not doing it alone. We’ll go together.”

“What are you, my freaking shadow?”

“No, Jack. I’m your partner. Partners do everything together.” Steve paused, sniffing the air. “What the hell?”

“Something wrong?”

Steve stood. “I think I smell…” He took a step toward the loggia, then froze. “Oh, fuck. What did you do? What the hell did you do?”

Looking past him, Jack could see a flickering reddish glow at the far end of the hall.

“Don’t move!” Steve bolted for the kitchen, returned a moment later with a small fire extinguisher. “Don’t you fucking move!"

Then he was racing down the hall, his footsteps banging like a drum roll, diminishing fast. A moment later, an angry dragon hiss: spray from the canister.

Jack unfolded the Kleenex and poured the granules into his own can of Coke.

The empty casings he scattered like seeds around Steve’s armchair. Crouching down, he made a show of frantically collecting them

“Christ.” Steve’s voice, breathless and fluttery. “So you’re an arsonist now. Is that it?”

Jack palmed the last casings and held them in a tight fist. He got to his feet as Steve approached.

“Hey, Stevie, don’t get all bent out of shape. Just a minor practical joke to liven up a dull evening.”

“What were you doing on the floor?”

“Killing a bug. One of those big Palmetto mothers.”

The gun lifted ominously. “Another lie, and you’re dead. What’s in your hand?”

With feigned reluctance Jack spread his fingers.

Steve frowned, momentarily bewildered. Then he understood.

“You had some left,” he whispered.

“Five.”

“Enough to knock me out for hours. You son of a bitch.”

“I wouldn’t have hurt you, Stevie.”

“Shut up. How did you think you’d get away with it, anyway? Didn’t it occur to you that I’d know you set the fire as a diversion?”

Jack let his gaze slide away from Steve’s face. “I intended to let you find me in the kitchen. You would have thought all I was after was my knife.” He met Steve’s eyes in a good imitation of childish defiance. “Would’ve worked, too-except after I put the stuff in your soda, I dropped the empties. Couldn’t pick them all up in time.”

“You just can’t stop thinking about her, can you? You can’t control these impulses of yours?”

“It’s not like that.”

“You’re so fucking sick, Jack. And so fucking dangerous.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt her.” He lifted his shoulders in a jerky, helpless shrug. “Really. You’ve been making me nervous with that gun. That’s all.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Jack. You’re making me a little nervous, too.” He waved the gun at the armchair. “Sit.”

Jack sat.

“Now… drink it.”

He looked at the soda. “Oh, hell, Stevie.”

“Go on.”

“You’re going to need me alert tomorrow.”

“The effects will wear off by then. In fact, a few hours’ sleep will do you good. Aren’t you the one who said we need to be fresh in the morning?”

Jack closed his hand over the soda can. “Shit,” he muttered in angry acquiescence, and took a sip.

“All of it. Gulp it down.”

Jack obeyed.

“Good boy.” Steve sat on the sofa and lifted Jack’s soda can. “You took your medicine. Daddy’s very proud.”

He drank Jack’s Coca-Cola. Jack watched, keeping his face expressionless. He did not quite relax until Steve had drained the can.

“All right.” Steve rose from the couch. “Let’s move the runabout.”

“We could wait awhile.”

“No way. In an hour you’ll be out cold. Then I’d have to go by myself. And to be honest, I don’t trust you enough to leave you alone with my wife even if you’re unconscious.”

“Nice. Real friendly attitude.”

“We stopped being friends awhile ago, Jack. I thought you would have figured that out by now.”

Yeah, buddy boy, Jack thought as Steve marched him into the foyer, then out the door. I figured it out. Now here’s something for you to figure out.

One hour from now, I’ll be the one with the gun.

And you and your lovely wife will be dead.

The pain in Kirstie’s shoulders had become a spread of tingling heat, draping her like a skin-tight shawl. Tendrils of agony shot down her arms, electrifying her elbows and wrists, as she went on raising and lowering her hands behind her with mechanical monotony.

Occasionally a string of whispered words punctuated her labor. The same words, always.

“God damn you, Steve.”

Oddly, she felt no desire to curse Jack. Jack was hopeless, irredeemable. Curses would be wasted on him.

But for her husband to stand by and allow that smirking psychopath to tie her to this chair with electrical wires-for him to simply watch, his gun as useless as a toy, while his wife was reduced to helplessness-for him to have permitted that violation of her person was a betrayal so deep it could never be forgiven.

For a long time after she’d been left alone, she had given in to alternating paroxysms of grief and terror. Finally the tears had dried to salty tracks. And a new emotion, equally intense and far more healthy, had risen to her surface.

Rage.

How dare they do this to her? Steve, especially. How dare he?

She was a modern woman, college-educated, career-oriented. She worked for PBS, for Christ’s sake. She wasn’t some peasant prostitute in a snuff movie. She could not be treated this way.

Fury had revived her, made her strong. She’d begun to consider means of escape.

Craning her neck, she’d scrutinized the radio console behind her. The transmitter and receiver components were housed in metal cases with clever edges and sharp corners. If she could maneuver her chair a little closer to the table, then rub her wrists against the radio till the insulated wire had been sawed through…

That was her plan. For some immeasurable stretch of time-hours now-she’d been struggling to carry it out. By gently rocking her chair, she had inched within reach of the table; by repeatedly shrugging and dropping her shoulders, she had dragged the binding on her wrists vertically along the nearest edge of the receiver.

There was no way to gauge how quickly the wire was being worn. She thought she sensed a little more give in it, but that impression might be only her imagination.

One thing was certain: the muscles in her arms and shoulders were rapidly reaching a point beyond soreness, a point of total exhaustion that would make any subsequent movement impossible.

She had no idea what Steve and Jack were up to. For a long time there had been silence. Then a frantic clatter of activity-Steve yelling, rapid footsteps. She had thought the men were having a fight.

Good, she’d told herself. Maybe Steve will shoot the son of a bitch.

But she’d heard no gunshots. Only silence again.

And now… footsteps.

The two men walking through the living room, into the foyer. The front door opening. Then closing a moment later.

No further sounds.

They’d left together, via the front door. Why?

To sit on the porch, maybe. The house was hot. Outside, it might be cooler.

Whatever they were doing, at least they were gone for the moment. And the wires definitely did seem looser now.