Lisa Jackson - Malice

For Bentz.

For the baby.

Montoya stood on the brakes and the Mustang screeched to a stop at the marina, the frame shuddering. Before the car completely stopped Bentz was out, hitting the ground running, his leg aching, reminding him that he’d already abused it.

He didn’t care. Across the pavement, down the boardwalk, and aboard the sleek Coast Guard cutter, Montoya right behind him. Within seconds, the skipper set sail, easing out of the marina, heading toward open water, moving much too slowly.

Hurry, damn it! Hurry.

He was worried, his eyes trained on the vast, dark Pacific. God, how could they possibly find her? He swallowed back his fear, told himself that there was time, but he was sweating, his heart beating with dread.

As soon as they were away from shore, the captain hit the gas, and the boat roared to life.

Behind them, the lights along the shore were brilliant and festive, reflecting in the water and thankfully receding as they headed out to sea. The cutter knifed through the water, salt spray and wind pushing against Bentz’s face as he searched the darkness, silently praying that his wife was alive. Safe. That there was still time.

Montoya and Hayes were talking over the thrum of the engines and the swish of water.

Strategizing.

But Bentz could only think of Olivia and what she was going through. He felt impotent and weak. All his training, all his years working as a cop, and he couldn’t save her.

His hands curled over the railing. Hang in there, he thought. Oh, Livvie, hang in there.

With each sound from above, a footstep, a chair being scraped against the decking, a rattle of chains, Olivia jumped. “Focus, Olivia,” she told herself. “Focus.”

But things had changed, something with the engines…a different noise…Then she saw it. Water seeping across the floor, soaking the pages of the album…still just a little but…“Please, please…no.” Spit rose in her mouth as she thought of drowning.

Where was it coming from? Could she stop it? Plug the leak? Oh, God, where was the source? In a frenzy, she spun around, staring at every inch of the flooring, but saw no gaping hole in the hull, no split in the seams of the vessel. There was nothing she could do to stop the inevitable. Whatever the psycho had planned was already happening. Olivia had no choice but to hope beyond hope her plan would thwart the killer’s deadly intentions. She just had to stay the course.

Setting her jaw, she yanked the last pages from the album and dragged each, along with the leather bindings, into the cage with her, where she pulled the plastic from each thick cardboard page. Then, with bloody pictures of Bentz and his family falling onto the wet floor, she rolled one piece of cardboard into a small bat, leaned far through the iron bars again and started whacking at the camera. It took several swipes in midair before she actually connected.

Bam!

The camera didn’t budge.

“Damn it!”

Again!

Nothing.

The camera remained unscathed. Standing. The red light a small malicious and mocking eye staring at her, recording her futile movements. “You son of a bitch,” she said and took another swipe.

Another hit.

Still the camera stood.

“Bastard!”

Now, there was more water. Sloshing over the floor, wet and cold under her feet. She swallowed hard. How long for a boat of this size to sink?

An hour?

Two?

Or less?

She took in a long, calming breath.

Concentrated.

Gave the camera another shot.

Whack! A solid blow, but the camera barely shimmied. Maybe she was going at this all wrong…she eyed the tripod and took stock. Come on Olivia, you can do better than this. Hurry up! You’re running out of time.

The legs of the tripod were bolted into the floor, yes, but they telescoped and, she thought, might be weak at the joints.

Only one way to tell.

Rolling up and using page after page of the album, she beat at the tripod’s closest leg, shaking the contraption, making it wobble as the water and her panic rose. “Die, you bastard,” she muttered, then grabbed the plastic-bound cover. It was stronger, the frame beneath the smooth simulated oxblood leather either plastic or metal or wood.

It didn’t matter which.

She only stopped to listen once, trying to discern where her jailer was, but she couldn’t get a bead on the woman, heard only the groan of the boat as it began to list slightly and the horrifying slosh of water as it rose, splashing her calves.

The boat was going down.

Fight, Olivia! You can do this!

Terrified, she started swinging like crazy, smashing the cover into the tripod’s legs, swinging with all her strength, her fingers clenched over her makeshift weapon.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

All sounds above stopped.

No footsteps. No scrapes of metal on metal. Nothing but the spookiness of the empty, rapidly-filling hull. Olivia’s teeth were already chattering, her fingers numb, her fear at the quietude complete.

Give me strength, she silently prayed. Please.

Then the sound of footsteps. Fast and furious.

Olivia froze, the album cover raised for a final assault, cold water sloshing around her knees. Her pulse was pounding in her brain, her senses heightened as she strained to listen. More footsteps. Her gaze turned to the stairs as the door above opened.

“What the hell?” the woman yelled. “What’s that banging? What’s going on down there?”

Damn!

Suddenly the footsteps were ringing down the steps.

No!

Olivia wasn’t ready.

She threw another blow at the tripod, hitting hard as her attacker descended. Wearing a wet suit, she dropped to the floor of the hold, splashing water.

The camera teetered.

Olivia gave the tripod a final whack!

The legs gave way and the camera flopped off its base and fell into the water.

“Noooo! What the hell is this?” her attacker demanded, an expression of sheer horror on her face. “You miserable bitch, stop it!” She was sloshing through the salt water, trying to reach the camera as it sank.

Olivia fell to her knees, her hands scrabbling outside the cage, trying to reach the camera, water splashing around her face. She held her breath. Scrabbled frantically. Her finger grazed the side of the camera. It floated off. She tried again, sweeping it with a paddling motion toward the bars.

“Hey!” the woman screeched. “No! Stop! What do you think you’re doing?” She lunged through the water to the cage.

Olivia’s fingers curved over the handle and she pulled. The camera hit the bars and she nearly dropped it.

Her attacker sprang forward.

Gulping salt water, Olivia adjusted the camera so that it slipped through the bars to the inside of the cage.

Freezing, she was coughing and choking on the briny seawater, but she didn’t care as she turned the lens on the woman who’d abducted her, the woman glaring at her and standing knee-deep in water.

“Give it back.”

Olivia, seeing the red light was still glowing, kept filming.

“I said, give it back to me right now, you little bitch!”

“Come and get it.” Even if she pulled out a gun, or the Taser again, Olivia wouldn’t give up her prize.

The woman was freaking. “I said…” Her gaze swept the interior of the cage where her pictures were floating in the water. “What? You tore up my album!” Her eyes rounded in pure horror. “No! You couldn’t.” As pages reached the edge of the cage, she reached through, plucking them up. “No…no, this isn’t right! This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.” She picked up each page and held it high overhead, shaking them off. “Oh God, what’s wrong with you? You can’t…” She spied more of the pages inside the cage, far from her, the pictures scattered, the bloody plastic sheaths cast aside.