Perfect Victim, The (58 page)

The man cocked his bald head. "Little Bertram up front.
I was just coming out to check on her
.
What the hell were you thinking, man?"

"Guess I wasn't." Randall smelled alcohol on the man's breath. He must have just come from the
.
marina restaurant
.
His only thought was
that this drunken man would be easy to overpower. "Do you leave your boat out here all winter?" he asked.

"Till Christmas. Then the wife and I take her down to Hilton Head. Damn Lauderdale's full of hop heads. Miami's full of Cubans. Just can't win, you know?"

"What's the world coming to?" Randall fell in beside him, eyeing the boats they passed, watching the man's hands. "So she's fueled and ready to go?”

"We're leaving this weekend so long as the weather holds. She needs some minor engine work. Damn mechanic here at the marina's a real asshole. Rebuilt one of the engines—took him two months and then he tries to charge me three grand. I told him to stick it tip his ass
.
"

Anxious to get a look at the boat, Randall walked faster. "Thanks for the warning."

.
The bald man stopped in front of an old, sleek-looking Bertram. "There she is. All forty-four feet of her."

"Nice-look
i
ng boat
.
Got your keys with you?"

Alarm entered
the man's eyes. "Look, buddy, I don't want no trouble."

Randall eyed the Bertram, spotting the flotation key chain dangling from the ignition. Heart hammering, he swung around and punched the man in the jaw.

The man's head snapped back
.
He raised his hands to protect himself. "What the hell! Hey!"

Gritting his teeth in pain, Randall shoved him into the water
.
He'd already reached the deck of
The Pulpit
when the sound of the splash reached him. He darted to the control console and turned the first of two ignition keys, silently thanking God when the starboard engine roared to life
.
The port engine grumbled, coughed like a sick cow
and then
turned over. With the engines purring, he untied the moorings.

Randall didn't know much about the big vessels, but he'd been onboard plenty of smaller boats and was mechanically inclined enough to find the port and starboard throttles and clutches. Flipping on the lights, he checked the bilge and fuel alarms. Gripping the throttle with his right hand, he jammed it forward.

The boat quivered as the transmission jerked into gear. For an instant, the Bertram drifted. The engines whined. He checked the double tachometers. The stern bumped a nearby sailboat's taffrail. He spun the wheel. The big boat quivered, as if she'd been struck by a wave. With a recklessness he hadn't known existed inside him, he maneuvered the boat from its slip. Ignoring the No Wake sign, he pressed the throttle forward as far as it would go. The old Bertram jumped forward, its hull slicing through the black water with the grace of a racing boat.

The logical side of him knew better than to attempt to navigate the inland waters at such a high rate of speed. He didn't know depths or direction. He didn't have a nautical map. But the darker side of him scoffed at the notion of logic.

Finding the
Anastasia
would be nothing short of a miracle. The intracoastal waterway and the massive expanse of Chesapeake Bay were nearly as boundless as the ocean itself. The shores were chock full of undeveloped inlets, shipyards, marinas, and livers. It was too much territory for one man to cover. He needed help, but there was no one left to help him.

He'd broken too many laws to count in the last several hours to expect any help from the local police. The detective investigating the shooting back at the restaurant had expected him at the hospital hours ago. He'd threatened a paramedic. He'd broken into Clint's apartment and tampered with evidence. Christ, he'd stolen a boat at gunpoint.

They're taking Addison out to sea, Talbot.

Terror twisted inside him. He should have known better
than to take her out of the hotel
.
He should have been able to protect her
.
Guilt pounded at him.

Determined to stay in control, Randall closed his eyes and let the cold, heavy air wash over his face. It wouldn't do her any good for him to lose it now. All he could do was keep up the search and hope for a lucky break
.

He squinted into the
darkness
.
Ahead, the lights of the Francis Scott Key Bridge spanned the Patapsco River. The boat shifted slightly as it entered the river's current
.
Turning the wheel sharply
,
he headed out into the bay
.

On the horizon, two tiny specks of light shone like stars against the night sky
.
Too near to be land. Half expecting them to disappear like a mirage
,
Randall kept his eyes trained on the lights. As he drew closer, he realized they were the lights of a large vessel heading due south
.

He adjusted the wheel and set a direct course for what he prayed was the
Anastasia
.

Inside the pilot house, Garrison Tate marveled at the sheer beauty of the machinery hi
s
power afforded him
, t
he breadth and width of the power he possessed touched him with an intensity that was almost se
x
ual.

"How far are we from open ocean
?
" he asked, running his hand over the ergonomic instrument panel
.

Kyle looked away from the darkened windshield and met
his gaze. "Depending on the bridges and traffic, three or four hours."

"How
'
s the surf?"

"
Two to four feet
.
We picked a good night
.
"

Tate nodded and let his gaze travel beyond the glass
.
"You'll need to drop me in Annapolis."

The other man nodded and continued to stare out into the abyss spread out before them.

Tate checked the Rolex strapped to his wr
i
st and thought of the young woman belowdecks
.
Bringing her to the yacht had been a calculated risk
.
But he wasn't sorry
f
or it
.
He
'
d
enjoyed meeting her even more than he'd anticipated. A flicker of satisfaction settled over him. Yes, he thought, she was everything he'd expected. Beautiful. Intelligent. A compelling young woman with a lovely spirit and a sort of feminine cunning that shone bright behind the dark eyes she'd inherited from her mother.

But it was obvious Addison Fox was not the offspring of a dirt-poor high school dropout from Siloam Springs, Ohio. No, she'd definitely inherited his finer genes. She handled herself well in the face of adversity. Had the circumstances been different, he would have liked to know her better. As it was, he would be nothing but relieved once this nasty business was done.

He felt no real connection to her. The sight of her hadn't moved him or touched him in ways he'd imagined, in ways he'd feared. She was the only offspring he would ever produce. For reasons he wasn't quite sure he understood, or wanted to admit, he had become obsessed with meeting her in the last few days. Tonight; as he'd gazed into her eyes for the first time, he'd spent several desperate seconds searching for traces of himself.

A tiny, cruel part of him had wanted to see what he had spawned as a young man in the throes of a violent passion. Another, less familiar side of him had winced with regret.

Not because of his plans to murder an innocent young woman, but because, after her demise, he would never father another child.

Needing a drink, Tate turned away and started for the salon. "Would you like a cognac, Kyle—”

The yacht lurched. The sound of splitting fiberglass and the screeching of metal against metal shattered the stillness. Tate fell sideways, the throttle housing ramming into his shoulder as he went down.

His first thought was that Kyle had run them aground. Rage poured through him at the thought. With an unwilling guest onboard, how could the man be so negligent?

The
Anastasia
shuddered. The engines coughed and died.
A startling silence resounded through the cabin, punctuated by the sound of waves slapping against the hull. Tate dragged himself to his feet
.
Glancing out the windshield, he felt his blood run cold.

A vessel, stark and white against the black water of the bay, rocked in the choppy water
.
He blinked at the surreal scene, disbelief and rage pumping through him.

Only then did he realize he'd underestimated Randall Talbot
.

Chapter 29

The impact slammed Randall against the wheel. Pain ricocheted through his body. He groaned, felt his knees give. A curse flittered through his brain, but he didn't speak. Knowing he was dangerously close to blacking out, he clung to the chrome support next to the wheel and hauled himself to his feet.

Even in the darkness he spotted the other boat just off the bow. The
Anastasia
sat low in the water, rolling in two-foot swells. There were no lights, no engines, and no sign of a crew.

The Pulpit
listed sharply starboard. He knew instantly she was taking on water. Pulling the Beretta from his waistband, he checked the clip, wishing Clint had kept an extra on hand. He opened the pilot house door. Cold night air and ocean spray rushed over his face. He studied the position of the
Anastasia
, realizing with alarm that the two yachts were drifting apart. A kick of adrenaline had him ascending the ladder. He had to board the other vessel before it drifted too far away.

A bullet zinged past him as he reached the deck. The window behind him exploded, showering him with shards of Plexiglas
.
The flash had come from the other boat's pilot house. Blindly, he took aim, fired off six rounds.

Nine rounds left.
Hoping he'd gotten lucky and hit his target, he clambered onto the gunwale and leaped.

The impact had thrown Addison to the floor. Hands bound
,
she hadn't been able to break the fall and tumbled amid the flying debris and broken glass, landing hard against the opposite wall
.
She was back on her feet in an instant
,
listening to the quiet rush of water and the sound of the waves pounding the hull
.
All the while Tate's words echoed in her ears.