If Turner was in the system, his criminal history would show his arrests—by penal code number as well as the name of the crime—and whether each had resulted in conviction or dismissal. It would also list if he was currently incarcerated or had been, or if he was on parole or probation.
Hardware. Wasn’t that what Turner had said? That he was retired from the hardware business?
It only took a minute, and then the dispatcher was back.
“Got it. It’s pretty long.”
Charlie’s stomach dropped. He felt like he was on a roller coaster and just starting to fall. “Hit the highlights for me, would you?”
He remembered how Turner had told them about Scott’s speeding past him, described coming upon the accident and trying to find his pulse. Probably none of that was true. And the old guy had forgotten to mention the part where he bashed Scott in the head, snapping his jaw.
Charlie was going flat out now, car after car pulling over as traffic parted before him like water. He never stopped scanning for that one driver who would refuse to pay attention to the lights or the siren, for someone too befuddled or too stubborn to pull over.
For all his speed, the dot of Mia’s phone was still a couple of miles ahead of him, heading due west. Pretty soon it would reach Puget Sound and have to head north or south. He had goosed the car up to eighty-five and it didn’t seem nearly fast enough to close the distance.
The dispatcher was silent for a second as she searched the records for the most recent and most violent offenses to give Charlie a hint of what he was about to deal with. “He was released from Lompoc fifteen months ago. Served nineteen years for bank robbery. Past crimes—and there’s a lot of them—include hmm . . . extortion, kidnapping, and, um, murder.”
Charlie was an idiot. The patrol officer could be excused for not running Alvin Taylor’s name for what seemed to have been an uncomplicated accident. But once Charlie figured out it was a murder, he
should have looked at everyone. But no, he had trusted that white hair and those sagging blue eyes. But even criminals got old. And now Mia was going to die because of his mistake.
But why had Turner killed Scott? And what did he want with Mia? The only thing in Charlie’s favor was that Turner was alone with her. Once Charlie threw himself into the mix, he could shift the balance of power.
The dot seemed to have stopped. Charlie nearly clipped a pulled-over black Blazer as he risked squinting at the cell phone’s miniature map. Instead of turning north or south, it was at—he looked closer—Puget Marina. Puget Marina was just one of the dozen marinas bordering Seattle, a city that liked its water at least as much as it did its land.
A half mile away he cut his siren but left the lights on. Less than a minute later, Charlie barreled into the marina’s parking lot, tires squealing. It held only a few cars. This certainly wasn’t boating weather. As he hit the speed bumps fast enough that his teeth clacked together, he grabbed his phone. The dot was close. Maybe a couple of hundred yards away. He scanned the parking lot for the old blue Ford Eli had described.
There!
But when he ran over, gun drawn, it was empty. Charlie radioed dispatch to send in all available units but to have them come in without lights and sirens. After a second’s thought, he also asked dispatch to alert Harbor Patrol to send the closest unit.
Holding the phone in front of him, he began to run toward the dot of Mia’s phone. He loped down a flight of metal stairs so fast it was more of a controlled fall than a run. He scanned back and forth, looking for Mia on one of the boats, the pier juddering under his long strides.
According to the app he was very close, but still there was no one around. The only sounds were the soft lap of the waves and the crows and seagulls calling overhead.
His dot and Mia’s now overlapped. He was right where the phone showed her as being.
Or as having been. Because as he watched, the display changed to: “Old location. Currently unavailable.” He pushed the refresh button, but the words didn’t change. And his dot was right on top of her last location.
He was at the end of the pier, right next to an empty space. He squinted and looked out over the water.
A boat. Heading out into the sound.
Not just a boat. A yacht. White. Gleaming. Sleek. And fast.
Very fast.
V
in scooted closer to Mia, close enough that she could smell him, sweaty and sour.
“Get out. Slowly. Stay right by the car. Don’t try anything. I’ll have a gun on you the whole time. A bullet can outrun you.”
Mia did as she was told, but as she put her feet to the ground, she tried to position herself to slide around to the far side of the door. Maybe she could slam it closed on him. But Vin was as close as her shadow, his breath hot on the back of her neck. “I told you not to try anything.”
Mia didn’t bother denying her half-formed plan. She was already trying to figure out what she could do next.
“Okay, we’re going to take a little walk. And if we meet anyone, you’re not going to say anything. Or both you and them will die.” Vin grabbed her arm with iron fingers and pressed the gun into her side. If she managed to live through this day, her body would be pockmarked with bruises.
“You’re taking me to Gabe?”
“Not if you keep asking questions. Not if you don’t do exactly what I say.”
Vin might be marching her forward, but he couldn’t stop her head from turning. Couldn’t stop her eyes from searching. Surely there had to be someone here who could help her. Or maybe not help her, but at least call the police. But there was no one. The only sign of life was the birds crying overhead.
They walked down a ramp, past boat after boat. All of them, on this blustery afternoon, empty. She kept wondering when he would tell her to stop. Was he planning on marching her into the ocean? Then they reached the last yacht.
And there was Oleg Popov. Not Kenny Zhong. Oleg. Mia tried to recalculate.
“Come aboard, my dear,” he said.
“Where’s Gabe?” she demanded as she climbed aboard. “I need to see my son. Now.” Was he tied up below? There was nothing on the deck but a stack of concrete blocks.
He gestured. “Come down below.”
They went down into the yacht’s living quarters. Vin shadowed Mia’s footsteps, his gun still inches away from her. Everything was compact and immovable. The highly polished table was bolted to the floor. For seating there were leather banquettes and two fixed swiveling chairs. Even the art on the walls was screwed down, reminding Mia of the mental hospital where they had talked to Manny.
“I’m afraid your son is not here,” Oleg said.
“What?” Mia put her hand on her chest. What was he saying? Had something even worse happened to Gabe?
“I knew you wouldn’t go with me unless you thought it would help one of your kids,” Vin said.
Mia’s knees sagged. “They’re safe, then?”
Vin shrugged. “I don’t believe in visiting the sins of the fathers on the children. Or the wives. But you—you gave us no choice.”
Oleg put out his hand. “Please give me your purse.”
Mia tried to think of something to do with it—could she swing it at him?—but in the end, she simply lifted the strap over her head
and shoulder and handed it to him. After rummaging through it, he found her phone and turned it off, then set it down on a banquette. He also found the ring box, looked at her for a long moment, then slipped it into his pocket. He walked over to the helm and, after flipping a few switches, started the engine.
“What are you going to do to me?” She had to raise her voice. Vin watched her. He held the gun easily, as if it were a tool he used daily.
“It is a sad story really, Mia,” Oleg said. “You killed yourself. Drowned yourself in the Sound.” The yacht began to move forward.
He was speaking as if it had already happened. As if she were already dead. Mia held herself very still. She would not let them see how afraid she was. “Anyone who knows me will know I would never leave my children.”
“Ah, but you’ve only recently discovered that your husband had a mistress. In fact, you tracked her down over the weekend and killed her.”
They were outside of the harbor wall now. Bile flooded her mouth. How deep was Puget Sound? Surely hundreds of feet.
“Vin is going to go back and move your car next to the water. On the seat, they’ll find your purse and your keys. On top will be the gun you used to kill the poor girl. Her name was Elizabeth Eastman.”
She didn’t have time to think about the girl being dead. “Everyone knows I hate the water.”
He smiled, and her blood turned to slush. “What better way to punish yourself for what you have done? However, I am afraid we are going to have to tie you to those cement blocks outside. I am sorry, but it must be done.”
“How are you going to explain away the cement blocks? That certainly won’t look like a suicide.”
“We will not need to. The blocks will ensure that they will never find your body.”
Her heartbeat was slamming in her ears. “Don’t do this. If you have a soul, don’t do this.”
“You forced my hand. You would not stop asking questions. You would not let the dead bury the dead.” He made some adjustments to the instruments, and the sound of the engine changed. Mia could feel the yacht slow and then stop. The engines idled.
At a nod from Oleg, Vin prodded her with the gun. “We’re going back up now.”
Oleg nodded. “My advice would be not to fight this. Vin will shoot you if he has to. I do not want him to—it will make a hell of a mess.”
Mia’s tongue was a piece of leather in her mouth. “It would be faster for me, though.”
Vin laughed without mirth. “There’re plenty of places to shoot you that will only leave you disabled and in a lot of pain. But all you have to do when you go into the water is take a nice deep breath and it will all be over.”
Mia looked around for something she could use to fight back, but there was nothing extraneous, nothing loose, nothing that could tip over or come loose during a storm. When Vin poked her again with the gun, she climbed the stairs and went out onto the aft deck. The ocean was all she could see, stretching all the way to the horizon on every side. So many of her nightmares had been just like this.
Oleg took a piece of wire and began to thread it through a block. Wire. Not rope. Nothing that she could hope would stretch once it was wet. If anything, it would cut into her skin.
Mia did the only thing she could think to do.
She leaped over the side and into the water.
A
s Mia leaped off the yacht, time slowed down. While still in midair, she uttered the oldest prayer of all. “Help.”
The shock of the icy water stole all the breath from her body. She sank through the gloom. Her lungs demanded air, but she denied them until they turned hollow, until they felt as if they were turning inside out. She heard the muffled sounds of bullets stitching the water.
Her eyes were open, but it made no difference. She was no longer sure what was up or what was down. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t focus. She was going to die here in the dark, and then drift slowly down, down, down until the pressure crushed her bones.
No!
Mia began to thrash blindly, her arms and legs flailing at the water. Finally her head breached the surface. She drew in a ragged breath that was a painful mix of air and water. Salt water burned her nose and throat. The light was bleeding from the sky.
Where was the yacht? She dog-paddled in a frantic circle. There it was, about forty yards away. As fast as she could, she swam away from it. A spot between her shoulder blades itched. Any moment
she expected a bullet to punch through her. Did she need to dive down again, to avoid being shot? Or was it more important to gain distance? She chose distance.
When she snatched a glance over her shoulder, the yacht was about a hundred yards away, and Vin and Oleg were turned away from her, looking into the distance. Were they worried that the sound of their guns had carried? Or maybe they had decided that there was no point in trying to kill her if the water would take care of things soon enough.
No matter what the answer was, they had stopped shooting at her. She thought it likely she was now out of range. And Mia was already tired. So tired. She arched her back and tried to float. But water sheeted across her face, filling her mouth with the ocean’s briny, bitter taste. Coughing, spitting, and snorting, she instinctively jerked up as if she could somehow sit up, sit up on top of the ocean. Instead, she began to sink again.
The panic surged back. She fought the water that burned her nose and throat. And suddenly she was vomiting into the ocean, vomiting ocean water and her lunch and, it felt like, even her breakfast and last night’s dinner. Her arms and legs were churning, keeping her afloat, but she was moving too fast. There was nothing to hold on to. The only way she had managed to learn to swim as an adult was by reminding herself that the water was contained with a pool, that the pool was finite, that she could always make her way to a point where she could stand up, or to a ladder she could climb up, or to a lip she could cling to. Even then, she had always picked an outside lane for practice. Now there was nothing for miles. Nothing but water.
She knew the sea couldn’t be sucking her down, but it felt like it was. And soon it would win.
No!
Mia told herself. She could not afford to panic. She could not afford to lose her strength. She continued to move her arms and legs like eggbeaters, but she deliberately slowed down, trying not to waste energy.
Last year Mia had seen part of a special on drowning. She caught it as she was flipping through channels and then watched the rest, horrified. In one home movie, shot by someone unaware that he was also filming a death, children played in the waves, splashing and frolicking while a man just a few feet behind them drowned.
It wasn’t like it was in cartoons, when the victim called out or waved for help before going down for a third time. The man’s head had been low in the water, unmoving. Even so, his mouth was open, a small dark dot. His hair hung over his eyes. One hand appeared for a second, then the other.