You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (38 page)

He was in there now, bent over the toilet, breathing in that sickening air freshener. He couldn't stick his finger down his throat, so this was the only thing he could do. But it worked. He started to feel nauseous and then gagged. He kept gagging—until he finally threw up.

He hadn't thrown up since that night he'd killed his parents. He'd forgotten how horrible it felt—the churning pain from his groin up to his throat. He threw up a second time. After flushing the toilet with his chin, he closed the toilet seat lid the same way. A waft of the air freshener hit him, and he started to gag again, but held back.

Some of the drug was still in his system. Fighting light-headedness, he inched over to the sink and managed to straighten up. His legs felt wobbly. With his chin, he pried open the medicine chest. He stared at the bottle of NoDoz for a moment and then tried to grab it with his teeth. A container of eyedrops and a prescription bottle fell into the sink with a clatter. But Spencer finally caught the NoDoz bottle in his teeth and dropped it in the sink. Then he turned his back to the sink, squatted down, and retrieved the bottle with his hands. He started to feel dizzy, but fought it. His mouth tasted horrible. If he could have, he would have bent over the sink and tried to turn on the water for a drink. But there was no time. It seemed to take forever simply to unscrew the damn safety cap to the NoDoz, but he finally got the lid off. Then he tipped the vial over the edge of the sink. He heard the pills spilling out on the small counter. Turning around again, he bent down and gobbled up at least three pills—maybe more. He couldn't tell. He fought his gag impulse again.

Leaning against the sink cabinet, Spencer lowered himself to the floor. He crawled over the head's raised threshold. Then just past the doorway, he braced himself against the wall and managed to straighten up again. He hopped toward the front of the cabin, where they kept the tools in a drawer. He'd noticed a box cutter in there earlier. With every hop, he could feel the boat rocking a little—and he wondered if Garrett might notice it from wherever he'd taken Bonnie.

Just as he reached the galley, he stumbled and fell, banging his arm into the edge of the table as he went down. Flailing on the cabin floor, he started to cry—from the pain and frustration. Maybe the drug had something to do with it, too. The boat seemed to be spinning. He dragged himself the rest of the way to the front of the vessel, and then struggled to his feet. He turned around and pulled the drawer open.

He swiveled back again to see where the box cutter was—on the right side, near the drawer's edge. He turned and started feeling around for it.

“Come on, come on, come on,” he whispered. Tools clanked as he pushed them aside—until he finally located the box cutter. He had it in his grasp.

As he closed the drawer with his hip, Spencer heard the dock planks groaning. From all the footsteps, it sounded like three or four people—and they were getting closer.

“Shit,” Spencer muttered. He hopped back toward the sofa and collapsed on it. He kept the cutter tight in his fist and turned on his side so that Garrett couldn't see his hands.

The boat rocked, and he heard Garrett's voice: “First thing I want you to do once we're down below is call that cabdriver and tell him to get lost. You think I'm blind, bitch? I can see him parked on the other side of the marina . . .”

* * *

Frank Middleton woke up at six-fifteen every day—including weekends. This Sunday morning was no different—until he reached for his wristwatch on his dresser. He kept the watch in a pewter bowl—along with his change and keys. The watch, loose change, and house keys were all there. But he didn't see his keys to the boat.

He tried the top drawer, the one with the compartment dividers. It was where he kept his socks and extra keys, tie clasps, cufflinks, and junk. The boat keys weren't there either.

“Megan?” he said, glancing in the mirror above his dresser.

She was in bed, still sleeping.

“Honey?” he said, louder. “Have you seen the keys to the boat?”

She stirred. “Yeah, I have them right here under my pillow,” she groaned. “What do you think?”

Frank walked over to the bedroom window and glanced down at the driveway. The family SUV wasn't there. “Oh, shit,” he muttered. “Honey, wake up . . .”

He turned and ran out to the hallway. He didn't even knock on Bonnie's door. He flung it open. His daughter's bedroom was empty.

“Son of a bitch,” Frank whispered.

He didn't have to guess where Bonnie was—and who was with her.

* * *

“I'm sorry,” she heard Bonnie murmur.

Her back straight, Andrea sat on the sofa bench. She felt Bonnie, behind her, pulling and knotting the rope around her wrists. Across from them on the other bench, Spencer had passed out, but obviously he was in the throes of a nightmare. He kept twitching and groaning.

“He's tripping,” Garrett said, slouched against the cabin steps. He tossed her purse on the galley counter. Andrea had watched him go through it. He'd found the prop revolver almost immediately and seemed to think it was real. At least, he'd pocketed it. But he still held on to his own gun.

He'd already patted her down, but hadn't found the pepper spray. He'd focused on her jacket—along with the waist and the cuffs of her jeans. He must have been looking for another gun or maybe a knife. Or perhaps he'd just gotten distracted, because while pressing the gun barrel under her chin, he'd fondled her breasts.

Andrea had said nothing and resisted the impulse to spit in his eye. She figured, for the time being, she'd just cooperate. She'd already sent the cabdriver away. Garrett had made her talk to him on the speaker phone, so he could hear the driver's responses and know she wasn't trying to use any kind of code with him.

She was biding her time, hoping to loosen the ropes around her wrists. Maybe then she could get to the pepper spray. Right now that was her only plan. She wished Spencer's friend hadn't tied the knot so tight. But the girl didn't have much of a choice. Garrett had said he would check her work. And her own hands had been tied behind her—up until just a few minutes ago.

Bonnie finished tying her up, and then put her hand on Andrea's shoulder. The rain seemed to be coming down heavier now. Andrea heard it pelting the boat deck—and the lake's surface. The vessel rocked slightly.

Across from them, Spencer let out another moan and shifted on the couch.

The clock on living room wall read 6:20. It would be light soon, and even with the rain, there would be a few people coming to the marina. She turned to Garrett. “Can I ask what you're planning to do?”

He studied her and smiled. “You know, sitting there right now with that expression on your face, you remind me of your older sister—right before we shot her.”

Andrea swallowed hard and said nothing.

Someone's phone rang. Andrea knew it wasn't hers, because it didn't chime out the Beatles tune.

Garrett snatched the phone off the galley counter and glanced at it. “
Middleton, Frank
—looks like Dad, wondering where his little girl is.”

“He's probably already figured out where I am,” Bonnie said.

“That's why you're going to get us out of here,” Garrett replied, tossing the phone back on the counter. The ringing stopped—the call had gone to voice mail. “You're taking us to Lopez Island.”

“Are you crazy?” Bonnie shook her head. “Just because my father owns a boat, it doesn't mean I'm this maritime whiz. I've never done any sailing on my own. And the rain out there is getting worse. I can't do it. I'd get us all lost—or drowned.”

“The Shulers' cabin on Lopez has its own dock,” Garrett explained. “We'll get the latitude and longitude off the computer. You'll take us there.”

Bonnie shook her head again. “No, I'm sorry, I can't. I won't risk it.”

“Then what good are you to me?” he asked. “What's to keep me from killing you and tossing you overboard right now?”

* * *

Cold rain and wind whipped across Bonnie's face as she stood at the helm. She wore a life preserver over her jacket, but she was still shivering. She held on to the wheel and maneuvered the Catalina 36 out of the mooring area. She'd never been at the controls before, not without her dad somewhere on deck.

Instead of her father's help, she had to contend with this creep watching her every move. He stood at the top of the cabin steps with the gun pointed at her. He kept glancing over his shoulder—down at his two captives belowdecks. The canopy above him flapped in the breeze as the boat started to pick up speed. Bonnie could see small whitecaps on the water, and knew it would be much worse once they sailed farther out.

Past the churning motor and the rain, Bonnie heard a siren in the distance.

Was there a chance her father had figured out where they were? He would have called the police. Was this them? From the pier, they might be able to see the
Bonnie Blue
heading out to Puget Sound. Maybe they'd contact the coast guard. She knew how to operate the control panel in the cabin and send an SOS from there. But she couldn't do it here on the bridge. The flare gun and cartridges were in a locked box on the port side of the boat. As long as Garrett was standing there, she couldn't get to it.

Garrett must have heard the sirens, too. He glanced toward the pier. “Quit dawdling,” he barked. “Let's pick up some speed . . .”

She glanced back and saw three squad cars pulling into the marina lot, their red and blue lights flashing. But the promising show of police force only got farther and farther away as the boat motored north.

“Put up the sails, for Christ's sake,” he said. “Let's get this mother moving . . .”

“I told you, I'm not very experienced at this!” she shot back. She'd only worked with the sails a couple of times—and that was with her father walking her through every move. “Let me get to the Sound, and then I'll crank the sail up . . .”

As she navigated the boat through the Fremont Cut, Bonnie kept thinking she'd capsize the boat. It was already tilting too far portside. The ride got rougher past the Cut. If she, Spencer, and his aunt weren't murdered by this maniac, then they'd all end up dead at the bottom of Puget Sound.

Garrett peeked back inside the cabin, and turned toward her. He smiled.

The boat started rocking in the choppy water. Waves splashed against the bow. The spray mixed with the rain pelting her.

“Your boyfriend is still tripping down there,” he yelled—over the sound of the flapping canopy. “So, have you two fucked yet?”

Bonnie ignored the crude question. She was trying to stay balanced on the rocky boat. With one hand still clutching the wheel, she grabbed hold of the cord handrail on the starboard side. The wheel was fighting her.

“Are you one of those chicks who are into serial killers?” Garrett asked, continuing to taunt her. “Did the idea that he'd killed both his parents turn you on? Is that it?”

“I knew he must have been forced into doing it,” she answered loudly, still struggling to keep the wheel steady. “I—I read up on the case. You know, Spencer's finger might have been on the trigger, but you were the one in control. You were wrong earlier. You got what you deserved. Spencer—he's the one who was screwed. Then again, that seems to happen to anyone who becomes your friend.”

He laughed. “Oh, you're so sure, huh? You read a few articles online, and suddenly it's like you were there, and you know every little detail about what happened. . .”

She glanced at him for a moment and then focused again on the treacherous horizon. “Just one minute with Spencer, and I knew he couldn't intentionally hurt anybody,” she shouted defiantly—over the howling wind gusts. “The same way in that after just one minute with you, I knew you were a cold-blooded, murdering bastard.”

“Feisty,” he said, cackling. He swayed with the unsteady boat. “You're a brave girl.”

“No, I'm not,” she yelled, clutching the wheel. “I'm scared shitless right now.”

Bonnie looked over her shoulder again. She could barely see the lights on the shore. In front of them was the whitecapped, turbulent water. It seemed endless.

* * *

“Spencer, wake up!” Andrea said.

He felt his aunt kick the sofa bench.

“Please, wake up, for God's sake!”

“I'm awake,” he said, opening his eyes. “I—I'm okay . . .”

That wasn't quite true. He was dizzy and light-headed—partly from that awful drug concoction, but also from seasickness. His hands were covered in blood from the countless times he'd nicked himself with the box cutter blade over the last half hour. Every time he twitched and groaned, he'd been hacking away at the rope—or slicing into his own skin. But he'd managed to cut the ropes.

“I—I just got my hands free,” he said. “I grabbed a box cutter earlier . . .”

“Thank God,” Andrea murmured.

He glanced at Garrett, whose back was to them. He was standing on the top step of the companionway. With the wind gusts, the boat's motor churning, and the waves crashing against the bow, Spencer couldn't make out what Garrett was saying to Bonnie. He figured it was safe for Aunt Dee and him to whisper to each other.

“I'll get to you in a second,” he said under his breath. “I just need to free up my feet . . .”

He bent over to work on the rope around his ankles. He heard Andrea gasp—probably at the sight of his bloody hands. With the cutter, he furiously hacked away at the thick rope. But then he saw Garrett take a step down the companionway.