Chelsea Cain - Heartsick

“Fuck,” said Archie as they stood in front of the empty slip.

“What does that mean?” Claire asked.

“It means they’ve gone sailing,” said Archie.

“Boating,” Henry said. “It’s a powerboat. You say boating.”

“Fuck,” Archie said again.

Archie was standingon the deck of a twenty-eight-foot twin-screw hardtop cabin cruiser. He didn’t like boats. But he knew what kind of boat this one was because one of the River Patrol deputies had told him. The county River Patrol Unit wore green uniforms, painted their boats emerald, and called themselves “the Green Hornets.” Their winter staff consisted of one lieutenant, one sergeant, eight deputies, and a full-time mechanic. Within a half hour of Archie’s call, every one of them had reported for duty.

Within forty-five minutes, five Green Hornet boats were in the water, and two police helicopters and a Coast Guard helicopter were in the air looking for the Chris-Craft. “It’s a boat,” one of the pilots had told Archie confidently. “It’s on a river. We’ll find it.” And they did. An hour later, one of the pilots had radioed to say that he had spotted a Chris-Craft anchored just off the channel on the Columbia side of Sauvie Island.

Archie relayed the location to SWAT. Reston would have noticed the 10,000-megawatt police helicopter searchlight as it slid past. He’d either anchor up and try to flee, in which case the helicopter would track him, or he’d hunker down. It was a hostage situation, and Archie didn’t want to take any chances. But it would take SWAT time to get there, and the Green Hornet cabin cruiser wasn’t far, and, after all, didn’t they need to confirm that it was the right Chris-Craft? Didn’t want to send a SWAT team to burst into the wrong boat and ruin a family fishing holiday. So Archie instructed the three deputies on the Hornet boat with Henry, Claire, Anne, and him to circle around the island and see if they could get close.

And there she was. The running lights were off, but her cabin lights were on. Rick, a deputy about Archie’s age, with short-cropped hair and a salt-and-pepper beard, aimed a searchlight mounted on the deck of the cruiser at the Chris-Craft. The helicopter circled in the black sky above.

“That’s your girl,” he hollered over the engine.

“I’ve got SWAT and a hostage negotiator on the way,” Archie hollered back.

“There’s not a lot of time,” Anne cautioned Archie. Her braids were whipping in her face and she held them back with one leather-gloved hand. “He’s going to want to end this.”

“How close can you get to him?” Archie asked Rick.

“Close enough to board.”

“Do it.”

Henry, Claire, and Archie had their guns drawn as the Hornets slowed the engine to a crawl and they made their way next to the Chris-Craft. Two of the men secured lines around the patrol cruiser’s cleats and stood at the starboard side of the boat. When the cruiser got close, Rick shut off her engines, and they drifted the last few feet to the Chris-Craft. When they were close enough, the two other deputies grabbed her railing and secured their lines to her cleats.

The two boats bobbed and knocked together. No one spoke. It was cold on the water and Archie brought his cupped hands to his mouth, blew warm air on them and then flexed them a few times to keep the blood flowing. His cheeks burned from the wind that blew over the river. There was no movement on the Chris-Craft. Archie scanned the river. No other lights on the water.

“I’m going aboard,” he announced.

He handed his gun to Henry, butt-first.

Henry wrapped his fist around the gun but placed his other hand firmly over Archie’s so the gun was locked between them. He leaned forward, his big face pinched. “You going in there because you think it’s the smart thing to do,” he whispered to Archie, “or because you’ve been feeling sorry for yourself?”

Archie looked his friend in the eye. You can’t save me , Archie thought. “Don’t come in unless you hear a shot. I’ll try to signal you if I think SWAT needs to take him out.”

“Take a vest,” Henry said.

The vest. Archie had taken it off when they first got on the boat. It seemed counterintuitive to wear something heavy when you were supposed to be wearing something buoyant. He pulled his hand away, leaving his gun in Henry’s fist. “Hurts my ribs,” he said, and he turned and heaved himself over the railing of the cruiser and onto the old Chris-Craft before anyone could stop him. The rubber soles of his shoes stuck to the fiberglass deck of the boat and he managed to scurry, knees bent, hunched, a few yards to the door of the cabin.

“ Reston!” he shouted. “It’s Detective Archie Sheridan. I’m going to open the hatch so we can talk, okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer. What was he going to do if Reston said no? Just keep moving. Keep talking. Keep him off guard. Archie fumbled with the latch; it was unlocked. He swung the square wooden hatch open. A sign on the doorjamb warned: WATCH YOUR STEP.

Archie could make out part of the interior of the wooden cabin-a small corner galley and a dinette. But no Reston. No Susan. No Addy Jackson. “I’m unarmed. I’m going to come in so we can talk, okay?” He waited that time. Nothing. That was a bad sign. Maybe they were all already dead. He took a deep breath, bracing himself for any coming scenes of carnage. He wasn’t sure he could take that. “I’m coming in.”

He squeezed in through the hatch and lowered himself down the four steps that led straight into the main cabin.

He squinted in the light. It was what passed aboard a boat for a living room. A small floral sofa and a rattan chair with a matching floral cushion sat in front of a small round rattan coffee table that was painted white and topped with glass. The carpet was the color of AstroTurf. The ceilings were low and the space was cramped, but the walls appeared to be paneled with teak and the wood shone warmly in the yellow interior light. A large wood and brass barometer hung decoratively above the sofa. Just beyond the sitting area lay the small dinette and corner galley he had seen from above.

Reston stood next to the sofa, in front of an entryway that led deeper under the hull. He was wearing khakis and a T-shirt. His eyes were black holes. He had one arm firmly around Susan Ward’s waist and he held a gun underneath her left jaw. A brown leather belt hung loosely around her neck. Archie had no doubt that it would match the ligature marks around the dead girls’ necks. Susan’s forearms and ankles were bound with duct tape. But she was alive. And awake. And, judging by her drained but withering expression, pissed.

“Ahoy,” Archie said.

“Addy’s in the back-” Susan managed to spit out before Reston snatched the end of the belt and wrenched it tight, choking her. He kept the gun flush against her head as she fell to her knees.

“Shhhh,” he said ferociously. “Why did you have to do that? Why won’t you be nice to me?”

Susan flailed at the belt with her bound hands but couldn’t get her fingers behind it to loosen the noose. Her face was distorted, blotchy, her eyes frozen wide, mouth wider, sputtering. Archie had about two minutes.

It was all he could do to stop himself from rushing Reston. He had a gun to Susan’s head. If Archie lunged at him, he might shoot her. Her weight was on the floor, so Reston probably wasn’t going to break her neck. A successful strangulation was harder than it looked. It wasn’t the lack of air alone that killed you; it was the compression of the vascular structures of the neck. If Archie did nothing, she was going to die. But that would take a few minutes. And a few minutes was a long time. That gave Archie a chance.