Читать книгу Deadline - Maggie K. Black - Страница 11

TWO

Screams filled Jack’s ears as Meg’s body disappeared. The man in the raincoat turned. Was he face-to-face with the Raincoat Killer? The thought hit Jack like a punch to the gut. His eyes searched the hooded form for some clue to his identity. But he barely had seconds to look before the killer took off running.

Jack gritted his teeth. How long would it take him to find a member of the crew and tell him to sound the overboard alarm? Minutes. He’d learned that from covering too many drownings. Then even more precious minutes would pass as they stopped the ferry, lowered the lifeboat and went back to search the foggy water for the woman now fighting for her life. How long would it take them to find her? Could she even hold on that long? Was he willing to risk it?

No.

His bag hit the deck. Jack tossed off his leather jacket, grabbed a life ring from the railing and clutched it to his chest. Dear Lord, please give me the strength to save her. He leapt overboard. Air rushed past him. Choppy water hit Jack’s body like a tidal wave, knocking the ring from his hands and throwing his sense of direction into chaos. The ring’s towrope unraveled in the water around him. Identical walls of gray filled his vision on all sides. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up swimming in circles until both he and Meg drowned. “Hey! Hello! Shout if you can hear me!”

No answer but the rumble of the ferry departing in the distance. For a fraction of a second he closed his eyes and focused on the fading sound of the engine. Then he tied the end of the towrope to his belt and took off swimming in the opposite direction, dragging the ring behind him. “Hang on! I’m coming!”

Oh, Lord, please let her still be alive. Help me reach her in time.

“Help!” Her frightened voice pierced the gloom. “I’m—” The sound was swallowed up by the gurgle of water filling her throat.

“Hold on! I’m here!” Please, Lord, please, help her hold on. “I’m coming for you.” His long limbs tore through the water. The fog parted and he saw her, breaking through the surface, thrashing against her bonds. Her eyes met his. Terrified. Exhausted. Water swept over her head again. She disappeared under the surface.

He dove for her. His eyes peered blind through the cold, dark depths. He found her, churning the water as she kicked frantically toward the surface. Her foot made contact with his knee. His leg went numb. He gasped and nearly swallowed a mouthful of water. If she didn’t calm down enough to let him save her, neither of them would make it out alive.

His left arm slid around her waist. He pulled her against him. His right hand grabbed her bound wrists and slid them over his head. To his relief, her body fell still against his chest. Now he just had to be strong enough to swim for both of them.

His lungs burned with the urge to breathe. His heart pounded through his skull. The cold seeped through his clothes as his legs battled against the weight of his boots. But the rope tied to his waist kept him tethered to the life ring above. They burst through to the surface. He spluttered, then gasped for breath. She coughed hard; her body shuddered against his. Her head fell onto his shoulder, and he impulsively turned his face toward it, feeling her forehead brush against his chin. Her legs started treading water. Thank God. Just. Thank. You. God.

He pulled the life ring over. “I need you to let go of me so I can untie your hands. Okay?”

She nodded as shallow gasps slipped between her lips. Carefully he slid her arms off his neck, pushed the life ring between them, and helped her lean her weight on it. They floated there for a moment, panting for breath, resting on opposite sides of the ring, their hands linked over the center. Tendrils of dark hair framed her face. Blue eyes looked up into his. Fragile and brave.

Questions poured through his brain. Was this some sick coincidence, or had he actually just saved this woman from the very serial killer that the Toronto police said didn’t exist? Was there a personal connection between her and either the killer or the most recent victim, as he’d theorized from the crime photos? Did she even know about the murder of three young women, miles away in Toronto?

But even as the thoughts filled his mind, he could feel the hard-bitten journalist inside him battling against the unexpected desire to simply to reach up and cup her cheek in his hand, to comfort and reassure her.

Instead he reached for the twisted and torn fabric that still tied her wrists together. Judging by the state of it, she hadn’t been about to give in without a fight.

“Thank you. You saved my life.”

A grin of relief broke over his face. “No problem. I’m just thankful you were able to keep afloat long enough for me to reach you.”

“I don’t...” She shivered. “I don’t know what just happened...or who that was...or why he’d... One moment I was standing on the deck. The next...” Her voice trailed off as her bound hands rose back toward the bruises now forming in the curve of her neck.

A seemingly random attack. By a man in an orange raincoat. This one right before his very eyes. And here he was, floating in the water, miles away from any way to make notes or to contact the police and his editor.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now. I promise.” He gently pulled her hands back toward him.

She glanced toward the sound of the departing ferry. He could read the question in her eyes. But what about everyone else still on the boat? He wished he had an answer.

“My name is Meg Duff, by the way. But I’m guessing you already knew that.”

So she’d suspected earlier that he’d sought her out specifically and that his questions for her weren’t going to be just a random survey of public opinion. Again, questions about the Raincoat Killer filled his mind, but the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her any more than she already was. “You’re a wedding planner, right? I saw a flyer of yours back in Toronto.”

“I gave out hundreds at a bridal show there just a few months ago. I’m guessing you already know all about the wedding this weekend.”

He kept his face carefully blank. No, he didn’t know. Weddings, parties and frilly dresses weren’t the kinds of thing he’d ever covered. Not unless they were covered in blood and surrounded by crime tape.

“I’d gone to the mainland today to meet the bride for a dress fitting,” she went on. “Then the rest of the wedding party arrived from Toronto. I was on the boat to escort them all to the island. But then I decided to step away onto the deck for a while to find some peace. They’re a bit much.”

He gently worked his fingers in between the strings and her wrists.

“It stretched,” she added.

“What?”

“The fabric. Cotton does that.” She breathed in deeply. “I thank God it was yarn, not silk, or I’d be dead by now.”

Huh. She’d been attacked, nearly drowned, was now floating in a lake and yet she still had the ability to find something to be thankful for. He separated the loosest loop and yanked with all his might. It snapped. Gently he eased the fabric away from her wrists. His heart ached to see the deep red welts standing out on her pale skin. Then he unbound her neck. “Are you going to be okay to swim for shore?”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the ferry to find us?”

He shook his head. “It’s not coming back, unless someone else saw something and notified the captain. I didn’t time have to alert the crew. It was either find help or save you. Last summer, a college kid jumped off a ferry like this and it took them almost fifteen minutes to reach him with a lifeboat, and that was with fifty witnesses pointing their phones at him.” He’d covered the story. The kid had very nearly drowned. “Average ferry rescue time on a good day is twelve minutes. I saw that your hands were tied, and knew you’d need help faster than that.”

Was that more information than she’d needed? He was overexplaining. A telltale sign he was nervous. How many years had it been since that had happened? But something about sharing a life ring in the cold gray water with this beautiful, frightened creature was setting his nerves on edge, and it wasn’t only the hunch he’d just confronted a serial killer.

Keep your emotions out of it, Jack. You know you can’t afford to get emotionally connected to anyone you intend to interview. Now even more than ever.

“Do you think anyone from the wedding party will come looking for you?”

“Not until after they land. I told them I’d meet up with them when we docked on the island. Were you traveling with anyone?”

He shook his head. “I’m up here alone. So chances are no one even knows we’ve gone overboard.”

“Except...” Her voice faltered.

“Except the criminal who did this to you.”

A light rain began to fall, cooling the air and lightening the fog. “I’m ready to start swimming if you are,” she said. “I have a pretty good guess of where we are, and it shouldn’t take too long.”

She swam with one hand, keeping the other braced on the life ring. He did likewise.

“Do you cover a lot of weddings?”

“No. Never. I’m a crime reporter.”

She frowned. The same uncertainty he’d seen in her face, when she’d brushed him off before, filled her eyes. She’d probably run from him again if she had anywhere to go.

“I’m sorry if I seemed rude earlier,” she said, “I thought you wanted to interview me about the wedding I’m organizing this weekend. But now I’m realizing that probably wasn’t it.”

He nearly laughed. “Is the couple rich or famous?”

Another pause, filled with nothing but the sound of their bodies cutting through the water.

“Not really,” she said. “Just young and immature. The bride’s grandmother owns a big chunk of the island, so the wedding is pretty lavish. The bride lost her parents when she was young and was raised by her grandmother. The bride and groom have both seen far more than their fair share of tragedy actually, which might be why they decided to get married so young. The groom’s parents died just last year, and his cousin was in a bad snowmobile accident years ago.” She glanced at him sideways. “In my experience, reporters like poking around in human misery.”

There was a bitter edge to her voice, as though she’d been hurt before and was still cradling the wound.

“Trust me, I’m not that kind of reporter.”

“So, what did you want to ask me about?”

The distant shoreline appeared and disappeared in a haze of rolling fog. The rain grew heavier. Lord, help me find the right words. It was hard to imagine a worse time for this conversation. But he also had no idea what was going to happen when they got to shore, and she deserved to hear it from him first, before they reported the attack to the police. He took a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of Krista Hooper, Eliza Penn or Shelly Day?”

“No. Are they brides?”

“They’re murder victims.”

Her face paled. “I don’t understand.”

He kept his voice steady, focusing on the facts, not theories. “All three died recently in Toronto. In each case, there is evidence suggesting that the killer was wearing an orange raincoat.”

She stopped swimming so abruptly he accidentally yanked the life ring from her hands. “You’re saying there’s a serial killer on the loose? Is he the one who tried to drown me?”

He pushed the floatation device toward her. She didn’t grab it. “I’m saying I honestly don’t know. A couple of days ago, my paper, Torchlight News, ran a full, front-page article by me that argued we were dealing with a serial killer. I thought it was solid. But the chief of police held a press conference yesterday and announced investigators are still confident they’re just three unrelated attacks.” Not to mention the chief had then denounced his article as fear mongering, almost destroying Jack’s career and reputation in a fatal blow.

Meg treaded water. “But three young women were murdered?”

“In a city of millions.” He could feel a bite slipping into his voice. Oh yes, he knew the arguments against his story far too well. “Three young women dying within the space of a three months is rare, but not unheard of.”

“But what about the orange raincoat?”

“It could have come from any hardware store. It could just be a coincidence that there happened to be a bystander wearing a similar raincoat in each case. Even if the killer really was wearing a raincoat, some are suggesting whoever killed Eliza Penn and Shelly Day might have seen my first news story on Krista Hooper, so he grabbed his own coat as a copycat disguise.” Yeah, as if it wasn’t bad enough he’d been called a shoddy journalist, he was actually being accused of giving criminals ideas on how to get away with murder. “Also, all three victims died in different ways. The first was hit over the head during a burglary gone bad. The second was struck by a car. And the third was stabbed. The final victim, Shelly, had a flyer for your wedding services in her apartment, and island ferry schedules turned up somewhere near each crime scene. So I’d just wanted to ask if you knew them.”

“Not as far as I know.” Meg reached for the life ring. “I’ll look up their names when I get home. One might have emailed about booking a wedding. But I give out thousands of flyers each year. You could have just called me.”

Right, except his editor wanted him out of the office until the storm died down, and every instinct in his gut was convinced the fact that the last island ferry schedule had this afternoon clearly circled was no coincidence.

“What do you call him?” she asked. “This killer?”

“In my article, I called him the Raincoat Killer. But again, the police will probably tell you something very different.”

“What if you’re right, though?” Her lips quivered. “What if we just left a serial killer on a ferry full of people? What if someone else was killed because you saved my life?”

He took her hands. “Listen. Don’t do this. I’ve met way too many victims who drive themselves crazy thinking that somehow their survival came at the expense of someone else’s. I was praying pretty hard when that monster threw you overboard—”

“Me too.”

He smiled. “Then trust God that this was how our prayers got answered, and don’t try to do the guesswork yourself.” That’s what he had to believe. Otherwise the lack of justice in the world would have destroyed him long ago.

They swam in silence for a few moments. He glanced at her face. Okay, he had to tell her something. Just enough to let her sleep at night. “If this even is the work of a serial killer, you should know that most serial killers have a type. In this case, he only goes after young, very beautiful, female targets and only when they are completely alone and isolated. He’s been very smart when it comes to avoiding any potential witnesses.”

Considering how close he himself had come to not venturing out on deck, the killer had almost pulled off the perfect crime yet again. Jack was stunned by the strength and determination it must have taken Meg to fight for her life long enough for him to reach her.

“Now,” he said, “there are over six hundred people on that ferry right now. All of whom are probably crammed into the interior cabins like sardines waiting for the ferry to dock any minute now. So, even if I am right, the chance of him finding another attractive, solitary, female victim in that crowd, and then killing her without anyone seeing anything, is so close to unlikely that it’s borderline impossible. And why would he be looking for anyone else? If he came on the ferry to commit a murder, then he probably thinks he succeeded. For all he knows, we’re both dead.”

It was likely the killer had slipped his disguise back into his bag and was now mingling with an unsuspecting public. Was the killer now standing, sullen in a corner, watching the crowd? Lurking in a hallway? Blending in with the crew? Or was he still on deck, staring back toward where he’d just thrown Meg’s bound and helpless body?

It didn’t matter what the chief of police, Jack’s boss or the naysayers believed. Everything in his gut told him the gentle fingers now brushing against his had just fought back against a ruthless, relentless serial killer.

If only he’d been wrong.