Indefensible (33 page)

Tuesday, 2:05 p.m.

K
ate saw the truck with the muddied license plate on the end of the wharf and her heart shriveled.

As soon as Randall's cuffs had been removed by the bailiff, Ethan had intercepted them both. He'd apologized to Randall, but Randall had no time for it.

“Where are they?” Randall demanded.

“We've pinged his cell phone. He's gone to Prospect. Presumably to your mother's place.”

Randall ran a shaking hand through his hair. “And Nick?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Did Gainsford take Nick, too?”

“We don't know. The house is empty. We're assuming he's with them.”

“What about the Richardson sisters?” Kate interjected. “They were looking after Lucy—”

“Don't worry.” Ethan gave her a look she hadn't seen in a long time: tender and compassionate, although his voice was urgent. “They're okay. Just a bit shaken. Come on, I've got a car waiting. I can get you there faster. I'll
fill you in on the way.” His gaze urged her to get Randall to accept his offer.

Kate looked at Randall. His jaw was tight. She knew that if he'd had his car available he never would accept an offer of help from the man who'd accused him of a terrible crime and let the real killer abduct his children.

But, as he'd experienced in spades since his arrest on Friday, he had no choice.

And so Ethan drove them to Prospect like a man crazed—with remorse, Kate guessed. There'd been no sign of struggle at Penelope Barrett's house, he'd told Randall en route. Penelope, who sat in the backseat with Kate, closed her eyes with relief. Kate could just imagine how hard it must be to know that the home she'd left her grandson in was not the safe haven she believed it to be.

Ethan's cell rang as they were driving. After a brief conversation, Ethan relayed the news that one of the village residents had seen Nick on the road, shortly before a fishing boat was spotted heading out to sea.

Gainsford had obviously abandoned his truck, and Nick had disappeared around the same time. Had he confronted Gainsford on the wharf?

Had he been knocked into the water and drowned?

Or had Gainsford incapacitated Nick and taken him with him?

But why would Gainsford take Nick? He was a threat.

“Just in case, I'm going up to my house,” Penelope
said. “I'm going to check the rocks, see if there's any sign of him.” She hurried up the road toward her home.

Kate and Ethan strode toward the police team at the end of the wharf. They stood by Gainsford's truck. One door hung open. A detective peered inside, while another detective kneeled over the edge of the wharf and scanned the water, looking for Nick.

“Gainsford stole a boat,” the heavy-boned detective with a brown ponytail said, pointing to the ropes dangling from the edge of the wharf.

“Was Lucy with him?” Randall asked, his eyes skimming the passenger seat, under the truck, the side of the wharf.

No signs of blood, thank God,
Kate thought.

“We believe so,” the female detective said.

“What about Nick? Has anyone found him?”

The female detective exchanged glances with her partner. “No.”

“Why are you standing here? Why aren't you going after him?” Randall demanded. “What is wrong with you fucking people?”

“The Coast Guard is tracking the boat, Mr. Barrett.”

“So fucking what?” He spun around and jabbed his finger in Ethan's chest. “Those are my kids. We can't wait for the fucking Coast Guard.”

“We have no boat.”

“What about that one?” Randall shot back, jerking his head toward a small boat moored just beyond the wharf.

“That's just a—”

Randall ran past the homicide team and dived into the water.

Kate and Ethan ran to the edge and watched Randall's head break the surface.

Thank God he hadn't slammed headfirst into a rock.

He swam toward the dory, his head sleek as a seal's.

Don't go without me.

Thought and action were simultaneous as Kate kicked off her high heels, stepped onto the edge of the wharf and jumped.

“Kate—” she heard Ethan cry just as she hit the water.

She pushed up to the surface, gasping for air, the water so black, so cold her body ached with pain. Her dream of Craig Peters, pulling her under the ice, flashed behind her eyes. But it was Randall she saw ahead, Randall who plowed the water with a determined front crawl over to the boat that bobbed placidly at a mooring.

Her suit skirt glued to her legs as she marshaled a front crawl that had been last tested when she was ten years old. The water had been pretty cold in that out door pool, she'd complained bitterly to her parents, but not like this. This was the Atlantic Ocean. It could turn your toe blue in less than a second on a hot July day, depending which shore you were on.

Whatever shore this was, it was friggin' cold. All of Kate's muscles rebelled against moving, her body wanting to curl up against the cold invading every orifice.
But she remembered that dream. She remembered the urgency to fight.

Right now, she was fighting to save not herself, but two kids whose nightmare had just been cranked up to a whole new level.

Randall heaved himself over the side of the small boat they were about to steal, then turned around and reached his hand out for her. “Hurry!”

She kicked even harder, feeling the seam in her skirt split. She forced her arms to slice through the water. One arm, then the next, no slacking, no time to waste. Her recently healed arm trembled, flopping awkwardly over her head as she pushed her front crawl to its limits. A minute later, her fingers touched the side of the boat.

Randall's hand grasped her wrist and yanked her upward. Kate threw herself over the gunwale, rolling into the bottom of the boat. It was just a small dory, only eight feet long with an outboard engine, designed to tootle around the islands of Prospect Bay. Not a boat to take out into open ocean.

Randall jerked the cord of the engine. It sputtered. “Come on,” he muttered. He jerked it again, viciously. It roared to life.

“Untie the mooring!” he yelled at Kate. She crawled to the bow, still gasping for breath, and unhooked the rope from the small cleat on the gunwale.

Randall pushed the engine tiller hard over. The bow tipped up, throwing Kate backward into the wooden plank that was the middle seat. Her spine hit the edge. Biting her tongue, she inched her butt up to the seat and hunched over, clasping her torn skirt around her for
warmth, holding on to the gunwales, as Randall opened the throttle.

The ocean, vast and empty, was carrying away his kids.

There was no time to lose.

Tuesday, 2:06 p.m.

L
ucy lay on the deck, protected by the overhang of the open-ended cabin. She was still deeply asleep…or unconscious. One hand curled by her cheek. The breeze lifted several strands of her hair, and they tangled playfully around her head.

Jamie's eyes skimmed the ocean stretching out to his right. He longed to take the boat out there, where he could avoid the shoals, but he'd be a sitting duck. He'd have to follow the coastline until he could find a private cove and end things the way he wanted to.

It seemed to be his path in life, to take the treacherous route. No matter how hard he had tried, he could never rid himself of his desire to bury himself in a body that was not quite woman but not entirely child, that was still so innocent, so tight. It excited him to be the one to defile that transcendent purity. To bring it down to its most primitive existence.

He glanced at the girl lying at his feet.

He had nothing to lose. He would die with this young girl by his side. Complete at last.

He opened his soul and, for the first time in his life, let it free.

Tuesday, 2:07 p.m.

N
ick's strength inched back into his muscles, spurred by excitement. He had a plan—an audacious plan. But if it worked, he and Lucy would be safe.

If it didn't…

He only had one chance. And so far, his record of success with only one chance was pathetic. He pushed Charlie out of his mind.

Not this time. Not when Lucy's life was at stake.

You can do it, Nick.

Just throw yourself at him and knock him overboard. He won't know what hit him. Then guide the boat into Rogue's Roost.
He hoped he remembered where that big rock was.

He grabbed the ladder rung above his head and pulled himself up. Wind buffeted him, fog unraveling threads of mist around his head. The threads were becoming denser by the minute.

Soon the fog would envelop them all. He needed to get rid of Jamie Gainsford before the fog made it
impossible for him to navigate the boat. Because once he threw Gainsford overboard, he didn't want to stick around.

Nick pulled himself up the ladder and crouched on the lip of the stern.

Ten feet away, Gainsford stood at the wheel, his back to Nick, his feet planted on the deck. Lucy lay by his feet.

Nick's heart pounded. She wasn't tied up. So why was she just lying there?

Please don't let her be dead.

Not her.

Not his little sister.

It was the sight of her lying at the feet of this sicko like some human sacrificial offering that pushed Nick's body into overdrive. He jumped onto the deck. The boat hit a swell and he stumbled.

Gainsford spun around.

Shit!

Do a running tackle. Hard. Now!

He hurtled himself against Gainsford. “You
fucker!
”

The boat hit another swell. Gainsford slammed backward into the edge of the cabin.

Nick lowered his head to tackle Gainsford again.

But Gainsford bounced to his feet like a blow-up punching doll. He slammed his fist into Nick's nose.

Nick keeled backward, pain and blood blinding him. He never saw Gainsford throw the next punch into his kidney. His back exploded into his abdomen. His legs lost all strength. He fell so hard and so fast that he couldn't put out his hand to break his fall. Hot knives
of pain paralyzed him. It hurt to breathe. He lay on the deck, gasping short animal grunts that he didn't even recognize.

Focus, Nick. Focus.

He'd never felt pain like this before.

Lucy needs you.

He needed the pain to lessen, just enough so he could get back on his feet. And quickly. Before Gainsford threw him overboard.

He'd really screwed this up.

He closed his eyes, willing his muscles to obey him, his cheek pressed against the deck. The water was getting choppy. Every time the boat slammed against a swell, he clenched his teeth from a fresh hit of pain.

The deck is hard. The deck is wet. The deck is cold.
He focused on the wood under his bare cheek, anything to distract him from the pain that radiated in fiery waves through his back.

The deck is
—

He heard it before Jamie Gainsford.

The whisper of a glacier-carved rock scraping the keel of the boat. His breath stopped in his throat. They were going over a shoal.

By his calculations, it was a shoal off Roost Island.

He'd failed dismally at plan A.

But now he knew he had one more chance. One more.

Don't fuck it up, Nick.

Don't.

He used his legs to inch forward, not daring to lift his face from the wood for fear Gainsford would see him
move. A splinter slid into his cheek, hot pain jammed the muscles of his back.

But Gainsford hadn't noticed him.

He reached out with both hands and grabbed Gainsford's ankle.

Gainsford glanced down, a look of surprise on his face, and shook his leg angrily, viciously. But Nick held on, dragging himself up to his knees, his teeth clenched with pain. He needed leverage for what he was going to do.

Gainsford spat, “Get the fuck off, you little bast—”

With only that one whisper of warning in Nick's ear, the
Glory Anne
crashed at full speed onto the shoal. As the fishing boat impaled itself with an almost human screech of protest, Nick heaved his shoulder into Gainsford's legs, screaming, “You FUCKER!”

The combined forces sent Gainsford flying over the side of the boat.

Nick crashed backward onto the deck.

Water rushed over him, filling the cabin and the bilges below. Nick gasped for breath. The sea rolled directly under him. The boat had lost a chunk of its hull.

With another shudder, the
Glory Anne
listed heavily starboard and Nick slid straight toward the breaking water. His fingers scrabbled over the deck. Something hard and angular jabbed his back. A cleat. He twisted around, grabbing the metal fitting.

Where was Lucy? The cabin was still above water, the bow pointing upward as the ocean sucked down the stern.

He saw her lying by the inside edge of the cabin wall.

“Lucy! Wake up!”

He scrambled toward her.

The water, stinging and cold, washed over her face.

The boat listed.

And Lucy, still unconscious, toppled into the waves.

Tuesday, 2:18 p.m.

T
he little dory wasn't the most maneuverable of boats, but Randall put it through its paces, with the result that it thudded over the water, pounding awkwardly into swells.

Kate pointed out the navigational buoys, unsure of what they even meant, but Randall didn't hesitate.

“There're shoals everywhere,” he yelled over the engine noise, pointing to a cluster of black, irregular rocks to their left. White foam from crashing waves flew in the air around the rocks. A seagull cruised overhead. “Keep watch.”

The fog gusted closer. How it could move so fast, Kate didn't know. One minute there was an open stretch of ocean between them and the fog bank, the next minute just ten feet.

Kate shivered. She was freezing. She was terrified. How would they ever find Jamie Gainsford? They didn't even know which direction he'd gone. Their swim to the motorboat had ruined their cell phones, so Kate couldn't
call Ethan to see if there was any word from the Coast Guard. It was just her and Randall, going full throttle between shoals with only hope at its most blind guiding them.

 

Nick hurtled himself across the deck and jumped into the water.

He sensed the lack of water beneath him just as he smashed into one of the shoal's rocks lurking under the water. Pain exploded in his leg. He gasped, inhaling the ocean.

He was drowning.

He thrashed his arms, thrusting off from the submerged shoal with his uninjured leg. A wave caught him as he broke the surface and he knew he was going to be thrown against the rocks again.

Oh, God. He was going to die. And so was his sister. I'm sorry, Lucy—

He crashed against ten-thousand-year-old rock. His breath slammed out of his chest.

But that was all.

He gasped for air, not quite believing he wasn't dead. Somehow, the wave had buffeted him. Just enough so he hadn't cracked his head. He wrapped his arms around the edge of one of the rocks, digging his fingers into a crevice and wedging his good leg between another rock.

But the other leg…that was useless. It was worse than useless. Every time a wave pulled at it, he almost blacked out form the pain. His initial euphoria of surviving was chased away by the realization that Lucy was somewhere close by. Unconscious.

And probably being thrown against the shoal right now.

“Lucy!” he called.

But he couldn't even hear his voice over the waves.

Blackness swam at the edge of his vision. Not the blackness of the sea.

It was the blackness of unconsciousness.

 

The sea was getting rougher. The dory slammed against the swells, water slapping Randall's arms, his cheeks, his chest.

“Put on the life jacket, Kate!” Her thin blouse was soaking wet—as was the rest of her—and the silky fabric clung to her shoulders, her breasts, her spine. “It will keep you warmer.”

That wasn't the only reason he suggested it. He wouldn't admit it to her, but he wasn't sure the small boat could handle this sea. If it tipped over, she'd have some protection.

He didn't have to say it twice. She pulled the life vest out from under the seat and zipped it up, then resumed her perch in the bow. The next minute she yelped in surprise. “Turn right, turn right,” she screamed, frantically pointing off the starboard side at two o'clock.

“Do you see something?” Randall craned his head in the direction she pointed, but he could see nothing.

“I think I see a boat!” Kate's arm trembled as she pointed.

Randall peered through the fog. Was that the hulking outline of Roost Island? He couldn't tell. The veil of gray obscured everything. It was disorienting, the
fog.
Just you, the boat, the water below you. Nothing ahead, nothing behind.

Somewhere off to their left, a buoy warned of danger, its discordant clanging the only indication of existence beyond their little dory.

There was a shoal by Roost Island. And they were very close. He slowed the engine, listening. What side of the buoy were they on? The ocean side? Or the shoal side?

He couldn't tell. Without a visual reference, the clanging could be coming from anywhere.

“Do you see that?” Kate called. She pointed. A shape surged against the waves. “I think it's a boat!”

His heart lifted, sank, pounded crazily. If it was a boat, it must be on the shoal. But if it was a boat, it was probably the one that carried his children. If Nick and Lucy were in the water, they'd be freezing.

If they were alive.

He forced the thought out of his head.

“Look for them in the water!” he called to Kate. But she was already scanning the waves.

“It's hard to see anything with the fog,” she yelled. He could hear her frustration, sense her fear. “Go slower. You might run over them.”

She was right. He adjusted the throttle, wanting to go even faster and yet knowing he daren't.

But what if one of his kids was drowning thirty feet away and he was going too slowly to reach them in time?

All they could hear was the low, heavy rumble of their engine. The wind, in their ears. The bell of the
buoy clanging. For the rest of his life, Randall's stomach would clench when he heard a buoy.

“Nick!” he shouted. “Lucy!”

Kate joined in. “Nick! Lucy! We're over here!”

Their eyes strained toward the shape and it slowly revealed its jagged angles. It was the
Glory Anne
. Not much was left of it. Just its bow, the port side of its cabin and a section of the port deck.

The rest was submerged or had already sunk. This area was known for its high-energy shipwrecks, and the
Glory Anne
had now added itself to that number.

Waves thrashed against the wreck, flinging against the rocks, spume flying into fog.

Where were his ki—

Light against dark.
He saw something.

“Nick!” he screamed. “Nick!”

His son huddled on the shoal, clutching a rock, his shaved head in stark contrast to the black rocks.

Randall stared in amazement. How the hell was Nick holding on? His heart raced as he eased the dory toward the shoal. Nick looked as if he could barely grasp the rocks, and the waves were breaking around him—

“Randall, I see them!” Kate yelled.

She pointed behind the dory and off to the right. Two blond heads bobbed in the water.

“It's Lucy!” Kate shouted. “She's with Gainsford!”

And from what they could see, Gainsford had a very tight hold on her. Would he drown her if he saw their boat?

Fear gripped Randall's gut.

If Nick could hold on just a few minutes more… He looked back at his son.

And his heart froze. Nick was slipping down into the water.

 

Kate leaped to her feet. The boat rocked wildly. “Get Nick!” she cried as she jumped overboard.

She heard Randall cry her name.

Cold hit her. Her flesh numbed almost instantly. The life jacket prevented her from going too deep and she fought to keep her face above the waves.

“Kate!” Randall looked back at her over the stern of the dory. He'd already begun moving toward the shoal. His eyes shouted,
Be careful. Don't let him hurt her
.

She waved once.
Go
. Then she began to swim toward the two heads that bobbed thirty feet away.

After ten seconds, she realized she could not swim forward with the life jacket on. She wrapped the belt around one hand, then unzipped the jacket, her fingers numb, her gaze fixed on the two heads that appeared and disappeared as the fog blew over the water.

Surely Gainsford must have seen them. Or at least heard them. Yet he didn't move.

She gripped the life jacket in both hands, using it as a flutter board, and kicked furiously toward them.

Twenty feet away now.

She could see them both.

The back of Lucy's head leaned against Jamie Gainsford's shoulder.

He was holding her in the classic lifesaving position, her back on his chest, his arm around her torso. He must
have seen Kate by now. Why didn't he try to escape with her?

Was he playing possum? He was incredibly devious. Was he waiting for Kate to approach and then planning to kill Lucy in front of her eyes?

She kicked harder, face down in the water to gain speed. When she came up for air she was ten feet away.

She whipped her head back, blinking the water out of her eyes.

Was Gainsford sinking?

Adrenaline chased away the numbness and she plowed through the water. Eight feet, seven feet, six feet.

She could almost touch them with the life jacket. She wanted to throw it to them. Gainsford was struggling to stay afloat.

But it was too risky. Gainsford could snatch the jacket—and leave them to drown.

She hugged it to her chest and swam closer.

He still had his arm wrapped around Lucy.

She was limp.

Oh, God. Was she dead?

Was Gainsford luring Kate to his side with Lucy's body as bait?

Fear hit her hard in the stomach.

And then Jamie Gainsford went under.

With Lucy in his arms.

Kate let go of the life jacket and dived under the water. She forced her eyes open. The water was black. Dense. Vast. She couldn't see anything.

Anyone.

Panic seized her. Where was Lucy?

Dear God, was she already too far gone that Kate couldn't reach her?

Kate propelled herself deeper into the water, her eyes searching through the black for the whiteness of flesh.

Blond hair, swirling upward.

Lucy's ponytail.

Kate reached for it, kicking and straining, water stinging her eyes, her lungs burning.

The ends of Lucy's hair brushed Kate's fingers. And something else.

It was Jamie Gainsford's cheek.

He turned his head toward her as her fingers scrabbled for Lucy's ponytail.

His hand reached out—

A hand clamped on her shoulder. Craig Peters pulled her down into the icy black depths of the lake.

Kate's breath choked in her throat. Her lungs begged for air. She frantically wrapped Lucy's ponytail around her hand, trying to yank Lucy out of Jamie's grasp.

His eyes met hers.

Then he pushed Lucy toward her, wincing from the movement. His other arm hung by his side.

Dear God. He wasn't trying to kill Lucy. He was
drowning.

He looked at her and she knew he could tell she was deciding whether to save him.

Or not.

He kicked away from her.

Her lungs couldn't take another minute without oxygen.

She spun around as a flurry of bubbles shot out from Jamie Gainsford's mouth.

He sank away. She kicked upward. Lucy was a dead weight. It had only taken seconds, those moments under the ocean, but were they too many? Had Lucy drowned?

She broke through the surface, gasping for air, dragging Lucy's head above the water. She pressed her ear to the girl's nose.

“Kate!”

Randall steered the boat toward her with one hand, while leaning an oar over the side. “Grab the oar!”

Relief shone from his eyes. “I saw the life jacket…”

She grabbed the handle, and gasped, “Quick. Take Lucy! She's not breathing.”

Randall's face paled. He shoved the engine into Neutral and pulled Lucy into the dory. Kate hung on to the side of the boat, her head resting on her arm, her ears straining.

After what seemed like an eternity, she heard Randall exclaim, “Thank God!” followed with Lucy sputtering water out of her lungs.

Then Randall grasped Kate's arms and hoisted her into the dory. She lay on her stomach, draped over the seat, while Randall steered the boat.

Nick? Where was Nick?

She raised her head. Nick huddled in the bow, his leg extended awkwardly. Lucy lay by his thigh. They both shivered.

The wind skimmed ice along her numb flesh. Her hands were blue. So were her legs. Which, she discov
ered, were bare. Her skirt had been lost somewhere in the water.

There was no room for Kate on the floor of the boat, so she hunkered down on the seat, hunching her shoulders against the wind, and hugged her arms.

A hand pulled on her shoulder.

She started, but Randall merely gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Come on. You're freezing.”

They huddled together on the small seat by the engine. Kate's thigh, bare and goose-bumped, was jammed against Randall's. He rubbed her legs briskly, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her tightly against him. They were both wet and freezing. But sitting together helped block the wind. “Thank you.”

The words were husky. Kate could hear the tears in his voice. She kept her eyes fixed on the water and said, “You don't need to thank me.”

“You saved her life.”

She swallowed. “I let Jamie Gainsford die, Randall.”

His body tensed.

“How? Did he try to hurt you?”

She shook her head. “He was injured. I think…” She hesitated. She didn't want to portray Jamie Gainsford as a savior. She wasn't ready to redeem him. She wasn't sure if she'd ever be. But the truth needed to be told. Judgment of it could come later. “I think he tried to keep Lucy from drowning.”

“But why?”

“I don't know.”

And she had a feeling she probably never would. Had
Jamie Gainsford regretted his actions? Was he trying to atone for the evil he had done?

But could he ever atone? Was saving Lucy's life atonement enough?

She couldn't think about it right now.

She was too exhausted.

After a few minutes, Kate realized that Randall was steering the boat in a small circle. “I can't see through the fog,” he said. “We haven't hit any rocks in this radius, so I'm going to keep doing it until the Coast Guard arrives.”