Ken Douglas - Gecko

“ Are you almost finished?” It was the policewoman.

“ Almost.” She hated to leave the shower, but Jim was waiting for her. She quickly poured some conditioner in her hand and ran it through her hair. She wanted to look her best for him. She rubbed it in, massaging her scalp and running her fingers through her long hair. She continued massaging as she rinsed it out.

“ Hurry up honey,” the policewoman said, “everybody is waiting.”

She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. There was a warm towel hanging on the rack. She wrapped it around herself and sighed as it soaked up the water. It was so soft. She was so lucky. Dry, she put on the robe and opened the door.

“ This way.” The policewoman had been waiting. She led Donna down the hallway. “Everybody is waiting in the salon.”

“ Go on, honey,” the policewoman said when they’d reached the end of the corridor. “Just a little more and it will all be over.” She opened the door for Donna.

“ Thank you so much.” Donna stepped into the salon.

Something wasn’t right.

“ Come in, we’ve been waiting,” the hairless doctor said. His voice and accent frightened her. She froze. The two men with the doctor were no policemen. They were dressed in the same black sweaters and seaman’s caps she had seen through the window of the Park Side Motel.

The only furniture in the salon was a double bed in the direct center of the room. Its clean white sheets glowed, reflecting the rays of an overhead light. There were two video cameras mounted on tripods, one on each side of the bed. This wasn’t right. Something was wrong-very, very wrong.

“ Get on the bed, bitch,” The policewoman smacked her on the back. Donna stumbled and the woman pushed her again, guiding her, so that she fell onto the bed.

The water chilled him to the bone. The salt in it sent pain stabbing from his damaged wrist up his arm. He fought the urge to scream out. He pushed off toward the boat, conscious of the unnatural weight of the revolver tucked into his belly and the awkward weight of the cast on his right forearm. He decided on the breast stroke, took a deep gulp of air, careful not to lose the knife, shivering as he made his way toward the Reptil Rache.

He estimated he had to cover about twenty-five yards at a stroke a yard, five strokes per breath, five breaths and he would be there.

Three strokes, four strokes, five, first breath. He broke the surface, sucking air around the knife. Water seeped under the cast and the jeans he had taken from the dead seaman were heavy and uncomfortable to swim in. Eight strokes, nine, it felt like his lungs were going to burst, one more stroke before the precious air, ten. He took another breath.

Eleven strokes, twelve, he needed air now. He was freezing. His fingers were numb. He felt the cold steel in his mouth and tasted the polluted water as it seeped between his lips to wrap itself around the tip of his tongue as it stuck out and rested below the sharp blade. Thirteen strokes, fourteen, he was light headed, he couldn’t make the last stroke, not without blacking out. Yes, yes he could, only one more, the thought raced through him. A short, quick stroke, but a stroke, fifteen.

Suck air.

Sixteen strokes, seventeen, well over halfway. He felt something big glide by. Shark was his first thought. It came within inches. Maybe a dolphin, but he discarded that thought, too close to shore. Polluted harbor, there would be no dolphins here. Eighteen strokes, nineteen, it came by again. This time it bumped him as it swam by. He forced his eyes open and got a quick look at it as it broke the surface. It was no shark. Twenty. He took the scaling knife out of his mouth, gulped air and waited for the Gecko’s return.

He held the knife in his right hand, concealed by the cast, as he hung limp in the water, playing the decoy, hoping the reptile would think him dead. He sensed rather than felt its approach, closer, coming closer, but it whizzed on by, forcing him to continue his charade. He wanted to open his eyes, but he knew it would be pointless in the murky water. He would have only one chance at the beast and he would have to rely on instinct.

He tucked the knife to his chest and waited, every nerve tingling with anticipation and cold. He was fully relaxed, allowing himself to become one with the water. He had no need for another breath. He sensed the thing coming for him and he resisted the temptation to lash out prematurely.

He knew he couldn’t kill it, but he’d learned that he could slow it down. Something inside him wailed. “Do it now.” A new voice, not Donna’s. An urgent voice, a commanding voice, his own voice. He obeyed and shoved his right arm forward, like it was spring loaded, slamming the sharp steel into the thing’s flesh. He kept a firm grip on the knife, drawing it along the underbelly of the beast. Then he twisted it, slicing back along the direction of his original incision as the thing bucked into his side, bellowing out foul air as it swam away.

Jim kicked toward the surface. The rise up seemed an eternity. Pumping adrenaline had used up his oxygen supply. He didn’t know how deep he was and he didn’t think he would make it, but he held on, breaking the surface cleanly, taking great gulps of air. He was within an arm’s reach of the dive ladder. He didn’t know what awaited him above, but he knew if he didn’t get out of the water quickly, the gecko would be back.

He slid the scaling knife back between his teeth and grabbed out for the ladder. He was exhausted, but he calmed his rate of breathing and silently pulled his way on up.

Donna was stunned, but she wasn’t submissive. She screamed as she fell forward onto the mattress, started her roll even before she landed on the soft surface, pushed off with her left hand and clawed the fake policewoman’s face with her right. The imposter screamed, stumbling backward, her face covered in blood.

Donna struggled to get up, but four strong arms pulled her down and flipped her onto her back.

“ No,” she shouted, as they tied her arms and legs to the four corners of the bed. She was trussed up, spread eagled, and there was nothing she could do about it, but scream her rage at her betrayal. After a few seconds she stopped screaming.

She glared swords at the two big men. She was in trouble. “If you’re coming, Jim Monday, come now. Please come now,” she thought desperately, but he didn’t answer. The connection had been broken.

“ Okay, start the equipment and get out of here.” The doctor with the Death’s Head said and Donna watched without struggling as the big men fiddled with the cameras, then the men and the fake policewomen left the salon, going up through the galley and onto the deck.

“ It’s just you and me now.” The doctor’s laughter was a guttural rasping, like a mean dog’s growl. “I’ve waited a long time for this. Generations.” He looked at her with glassed over eyes. “We should get to know each other better.” He grabbed her robe by the left lapel, balled it into his fist and ripped it off, leaving her naked before him-defenseless.

Her bound hands started to shake as he kicked off his shoes.

“ First I’m going to use you,” he said through a Nazi killer’s smile. “I’m going to have to do it fast, because it’s almost midnight.” He reached down and pulled his socks off. Then opened his coat, took it off and she saw the shoulder holster.

“ Big eyes, I see the gun frightens you.” He pulled off the holster, took the gun out of it. “It’s a Beretta Cougar. The most beautiful thing I have ever owned.” He held the gun up, stroked the barrel. “You want a closer look?”

She shook her head.

“ Yes you do.” He pointed the barrel between her eyes, touched it to her forehead. “Nine millimeter, fifteen rounds in the magazine, double action, a point and shoot weapon. But not with the safety on.” He laughed, then with the gun still on her forehead, still between her eyes, he clicked it off.