Forty-Five

I was used to water. I’d spent all my life around it. I’d been a lifeguard in high school, and a sailor for longer than that. It was my second favorite element next to air, and yet I had never contemplated drowning until now.

Drowning was a cold, dark, lonely business. The mere thought infuriated me, causing me to fight against the weight of the anchor as it pulled me toward the bottom. But it was a useless fight. My arms and legs were bound, and although I’d tried to cut the zip tie around my wrists, I hadn’t made it all the way through before Finn threw me overboard. As I sunk helplessly, I thought about my friends—about Jack and Tate, and Tay and Giff, and poor dear Hannah—but mostly my parents. How would they feel knowing I’d never be able to hug them again?

It would rip them in two. It would destroy them. And that was exactly what that freakin’ crazy Irishman had wanted. Well, not on my watch, mister. Not if I could help it!

I waited until the anchor hit bottom. It was a deep bay, and my lungs burned. But I needed to act. There was no time to wait until someone found me. I doubted I’d even last that long. The thought was terrifying. I tried to relax and focus. I needed to focus. If I was ever to get that Irish dirtbag, I needed to get free. I exhaled slowly, relieving some of the pressure building up in my lungs. Then, using the best dolphin kick I could muster, I worked my way to the bottom, running my bound hands along the rope until I reached the anchor. I hooked my wrists around one of the sharp flukes and began to finish what I’d started: cutting the zip tie.

As I frantically fought against my bindings, I cursed the fact that my lung capacity wasn’t what it used to be. I should have hit the lap pool daily. I should have run more and drunk less. Oh, who was I kidding? None of that mattered now.

I worked on the zip tie until the pain in my lungs was unbearable. My diaphragm was stricken with spasms. I was going to pass out, but I fought it. If I passed out it would be game over, and the Irish creepo would win. And I was not about to let that happen. I had an orchard and an inn to think about, not to mention my burning desire to avenging my friend Hannah. With that thought pumping through me like pure adrenaline, I pulled against the anchor fluke with all the strength I had left. My wrists burned with pain, but suddenly my hands came free. I quickly untied my legs, releasing another small string of bubbles as I did so. I could see them rise to the surface because this time there was light—just a small shaft reaching down through the murky blackness. Light! Someone was there. Someone had come to find me. It was a comforting thought. I didn’t feel so alone anymore. With my last ounce of remaining strength, I kicked toward the light and the surface.

A strong hand grabbed mine, pulling me upward. The moment the cold air hit my face, I gasped and hungrily began filling my burning lungs.

The light on the surface was blinding. It came from the police boat, and right next to me was the canoe with Jack and MacDuff peering over the side.

“Whitney! Whitney, are you all right?”

I looked beside me and saw Tate. I realized he still had a strong grip on me and was treading water for the both of us. I’d never been more grateful to see him. Tate was the strongest swimmer I knew. Still gulping air, I nodded. “Finn,” I uttered. “My God, don’t let that dirtbag get away!

∞

I was sitting beside Hannah in the police boat, wrapped in a blanket, with a cup of hot coffee in my hands and a warm dog at my feet, wondering why they’d let Finn get away.

“Why?” Jack cried, anger and frustration blazing across his face. “Because we saw that bastard throw an anchor into the water with you following after it! My God, it was the most gut-wrenching thing I’ve ever witnessed. I’m sorry, Whitney, but it was either you or Finn, and I’m not going to have another murder on my hands.”

“Besides,” Tate added, wrapped in a blanket of his own, “we like you a whole lot better.”

“True,” Jack concurred, then frowned. “But I explicitly told you to stay in the canoe!”

“I tried. But I thought you needed backup.”

“Backup?” he seethed. “Stamper and Jensen are backup. You and Hannah were supposed to stay in the boat, and don’t blame this one on Hannah.”

“What?” Hannah, holding an ice pack to her head, sat up and looked at Jack. She squinted, grimaced, and slumped back against my shoulder.

“We need to get this one to a doctor,” I whispered. “Finn gave her a good whack on the head.”

“The truth is, Whitney, we’d never have found you if it wasn’t for MacDuff.” Although Jack still looked frustrated, the anger had left his voice as he spoke. “We were in the camp. We’d just found Erik. The kid was in one of the tents, lying on a cot and stoned out of his mind. Then MacDuff started barking. I came out of the tent in time to see him take off through the woods, heading for the canoe. He wouldn’t have done that if something wasn’t up, so we ran after him. Halfway down the trail we find Hannah, stumbling around like a drunken sailor and mumbling something about a Sasquatch abduction. Then an outboard motor fired up and we heard you scream. Tate picked up Hannah and we ran to the canoe, paddling after you like we’ve never paddled before. We broke through the reeds in time to see you being tossed into the lake by a shaggy manlike creature. Thank God Stamper and Jensen had the spotlight trained on you, marking the exact spot you went in.”

Sergeant Stamper came over then. “The moment we heard you scream,” he began, “we turned on the spotlights and cranked up the motor. It was an odd sight until we realized the guy was wearing a ghillie suite.”

“Looking like that helped him sneak around without anyone noticing him,” I said.

Jack nodded. He’d already guessed as much.

“Then you went in,” Sergeant Stamper continued, “and Finn sped away.”

“And you let him go because of me.” I sighed.

Sergeant Stamper smiled. “You’re far more important to us, Miss Bloom. But I don’t think our ghillie-suited perp will get away so easily. A chopper’s on its way, and the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen back there fired up the cabin cruiser the moment Finn went barreling past them. They’ll run him to ground for what he did.”

Sergeant Stamper had been correct. As the police boat swung in an arc, ready to head back to Finn’s camp to retrieve an unconscious Erik Larson, Tate suddenly got to his feet.

“Oh my God!” he cried, pointing across the water. “They’re going to … ”

A loud bang rang out, followed by a column of fire shooting up from the darkness.

“Oh fer cripes sake!” Jensen exclaimed, and changed course once again.

∞

The moment we came abreast of the accident, we were met with a gruesome sight. Apparently Dad and his League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, as Stamper had called them, had caught up with Finn. It was a dark night. Carleton had been driving the cruiser because Dad, after seeing me plunge into the lake tied to the business end of an anchor, had been beside himself with anguish and grief. It had been a smart move on Carleton’s part to take the wheel. Anger had taken hold of him as well, and he was on a mission. He took off after Finn like a demon possessed, determined to drive the Irish psycho into the shore.

Finn had refused to comply.

Dad’s boat was bigger and faster. Finn’s stolen boat was easier to maneuver, and he was desperate—we now knew who he was and what he’d done, and we’d found the place where he’d been hiding. As Carleton explained it later, Finn made a sharp cut across the bow of the cruiser after realizing he was heading straight for a rocky outcrop. He almost made it, too. But the cabin cruiser was going full-out, and it slammed into the back quarter of the little fishing boat. The boat exploded on impact, and Finn, still in his ghillie suit, went flying headlong into the lake. By the time we arrived, all that was left of Tate’s stolen boat was a scattering of burning carnage.

“Where is he?” Jack cried, desperate to get his hands on the man. He’d crossed into Dad’s cruiser the moment we’d pulled alongside. I stood up as well and cried out to my dad. The look of tortured joy on his face when he saw me nearly broke my heart. He clearly thought I’d drowned.

The moment Dad was in the police boat, he gave me a hug that surely would have cleared all the water in my lungs, had there been any.

Not long after our little reunion, the police chopper arrived. It hovered over the site of the crash, scanning the black waves with its powerful searchlight. There was still no sign of Finn. It was assumed he had drowned. After all, he was wearing a cumbersome ghillie suit. All the faux leaves and moss dangling from every inch of the fabric would have swelled like a thirsty sponge, making the suit heavy and impossible to swim in. It would act like an anchor. Having literally been tied to an anchor myself, I felt there was some real poetic justice in such an end for Finn Connelly. Still, after Stamper ordered the divers to commence a search, I found myself hoping the guy was still alive. Yes, he was a ruthless killer, and he’d totally wreaked havoc on our cherry orchard. Nonetheless, standing on the deck of the police boat as I stared at the flaming carnage, I couldn’t help from being haunted by his parting remark: You’ll be after finding my motive, I suspect, but ye never will have it.

His words were oddly prophetic, and the longer the police searched for his body, the more likely it became that Finn Connelly had indeed taken his secret to the grave. It was his final senseless slap in the face, and it stung me nearly as deeply as being tied to an anchor and left to drown.