Читать книгу Andrew Gross 3-Book Thriller Collection 2: 15 Seconds, Killing Hour, The Blue Zone - Andrew Gross, Andrew Gross - Страница 44

Stroke …

Kate reached forward, powering her legs into the drive.

Stroke … Every five beats. In perfectly timed rhythm. Her muscles straining.

Then glide …

The Peinert X25 racing shell sped gracefully through the waters of the Harlem River. The early-morning sun glinted off the apartment buildings along the shore. Kate feathered the blades, sliding forward, shifting into her recovery. Her stroke was fluid and compact.

Drive …

She was taking it out on the river: All her anger. Her doubt. She rowed twice a week like clockwork, before work. In the cold and the rain. Under the railroad trestles, past Baker Field to the Hudson River. Two miles. She needed to do it—to fight off her diabetes. But today she just needed it for her peace of mind.

Stroke …

Kate focused on her rhythm. Zen-like, two breaths to every stroke. Her heart rate climbing to 130. The spray kicked in her face. Her neoprene top clung to her. She trained her gaze on her wake, like perfectly carved ski edges in the snow.

Stroke …

She didn’t believe them. The WITSEC agents. How could she? They couldn’t even prove if her father was dead or alive.

She had grown up with him. He had given her his love—whatever he’d done. He always came out to watch her row. He always rooted her on. He helped her come through her illness. He taught her to fight.

She had to believe someone, right?

The WITSEC people were protecting something. Basically they had used her—to get to him. “You don’t know what’s at stake in this case.”

The pain started to intensify in her chest. Yes I do.

Kate got as far as the cliffs across from Baker Field, a little over a mile. Then she turned around and picked up her pace against the current.

Every four beats now.

Her mother, Kate thought, she knew something, too. “There are some things I’ve been holding back for a long time now that you need to know …”

What? What was it she was trying to say?

It wasn’t fair that Kate had to be separated from them. Sharon and Justin and Em. It wasn’t fair that they had to go through this without her.

Two Columbia University eights were on the river practicing, too. The Peter Jay Sharp Boathouse, where she stored her shell, was only a short distance ahead.

Kate leaned into the last couple hundred meters.

She picked up her stroke, the one she had in college, her thighs pushing into the drive, her body sliding forward in the shell. Then the craft cut the surface on a perfectly even keel.

Faster.

She increased to every three beats. Her legs driving in perfect unison with her arms. Kate felt the muscles in her back straining, her heart rate escalating. The fire burning in her lungs.

The final fifty meters, she stepped it up to an all-out sprint. Kate glanced behind her—the boathouse pier was just ahead of her now. Stroke, stroke … Kate grimaced, her lungs exploding with the burn.

Finally she released … the sleek craft gliding through the imaginary finish line. Kate dropped her oars and brought her knees up to her chest, wincing in pain. She pushed her Oakleys high on her forehead, dropping her head on her arms.

What kind of animal do they think he is?

She let her mind drift back to the image of those horrible crime-scene photos. The sight of that poor woman beaten and murdered. What could she possibly have known that he would have done that for? What reason would he have? It made no sense—regardless of the facts.

Suddenly it scared her. Her whole life scared her.

Kate pulled in her oars and let the shell drift on its own toward the boathouse pier. The voice was back—the one inside her that had defended him so strongly just a day before.

Except this time it was saying something different. A doubt she couldn’t put away.

Who the hell are you, Daddy?

Who?

The watcher stood high on the shore. He sat on the hood of his car, his binoculars trained on the river. He focused on the girl.

He had followed her many times—had seen her take out her striped blue craft in the early-morning mist. Always the same time. Seven A.M., Wednesdays and Saturdays. The same route. Llueva o truene. Rain or shine.

Not so smart, chica. He chewed on a wad of tobacco leaf in his cheek. The river can be dangerous.

Bad things can happen out there to a pretty girl like you.

She was strong, the watcher thought, impressed. In a way he admired her. She always pushed herself very hard. He liked how she always took it home in the final meters like a champion. She put her heart into it. The watcher chuckled to himself. She could lick most guys.

He watched her pull up to the pier and stow her oars and hoist the sleek craft up onto the landing. She shook the sweat and the salt of the river from her hair.

Es bonita. In a way he hoped he would never have to do anything to her or cause her harm. He liked watching her. He tossed the binoculars on the seat of the Escalade, next to the TEC-9.

But if he had to, qué lástima.… He tucked a large gold cross and chain into his shirt.

She should know better than anybody. The river is a dangerous place.