MERCY TURNED IN AT THE DEAD END SIGN and steered the convertible slowly down Osprey Point Road. Streetlights were few and far between. It was getting late and growing dark, and the only lights out on the lake were the fireworks people were setting off from their docks and on their boats.
Osprey Point was one of the more secluded areas on the lake. The houses on the narrow gravel road sat down by the water, and most were surrounded by trees that obscured them from the street. Not many had house numbers, at least not that she could see.
Thank goodness the navigation system was still working out here. According to the GPS, Dr. Winters’s cottage was directly to her left. But she couldn’t see the house.
She parked along the street, just shy of the driveway she hoped led to the professor’s place.
“Come on, Elvis,” she said.
Together they walked quietly down the dirt driveway to a little white farmhouse that was so different from the professor’s Victorian that she thought for a minute that the GPS must have gotten it wrong. It seemed unlikely that the same woman could call such disparate places home.
They approached the unlit cottage carefully. It looked like no one was there, but Dr. Winters’s SUV was parked out front so Mercy knew she must be home. They stepped up onto the small porch that fronted the farmhouse. She knocked on the door; no angry gargoyle here, just this plain white door with a small square window in the middle.
No one answered. The house was silent. All she could hear was the crackle of sparklers and the happy chatter of Fourth of July revelers and the slap of the current against the boats as the sound carried across the lake.
Elvis whined and took off, tearing around the cottage porch. She jogged after him, whistling softly to call him back. But he ignored her and raced past the SUV. He bolted down the backyard toward a small wooden boathouse by the water.
A burst of white and gold fireworks lit up the scene at the lake. The handsome shepherd froze—his sleek profile stark against the bright flashes of light—but just for that brief, illuminated moment. Then the dog sprang to life again and flew down to the boathouse. Mercy scrambled down the lawn after him.
The door to the boathouse was closed, but that didn’t stop the determined shepherd. His triangular ears were perked, his stance military, his attitude can do. This was how he’d looked when he went outside the wire with Martinez, thought Mercy.
Elvis abandoned the boathouse. He barreled down to the shore of Lake Saint Catherine and plunged into the water. Stunned, Mercy watched as he swam over to the open end of the boathouse, the end that emptied into the lake. The dog disappeared inside.
She ran back up to the boathouse door and turned the knob. It was locked. She didn’t have the light or the time or the inclination to pick it, so she backed up, took a running leap, and crashed into the door with her shoulder. Nothing. She tried again. This time the jamb splintered and the door gave way and she lurched into the dark room.
Her eyes adjusted, and she could see that the boathouse was tiny, just big enough for one boat. Oars and paddleboards leaned against one wall, and a canoe hung from the ceiling.
There was a twelve-foot bass boat in the single bay. Fireworks blazed and boomed outside, and in the light Mercy could see Dr. Winters in the boat with Amy Walker. The professor held a hunting knife at Amy’s throat. A knife that looked very much like the Buck hunting knife that was sticking out of Rufus Flanigan, aka Adam Wolfe’s, chest. And the one that killed Donald Walker.
“Corporal Carr,” said Dr. Winters. “I see you’re back to army surplus.”
Amy’s hands were bound together with rope at her wrists, and her feet were bound together with rope at her ankles. Her mouth was gagged with duct tape. The girl’s eyes were bright with fear and tears. When she saw Mercy, those eyes widened with hope.
“Let Amy go.”
The baby was there in the boat, too, wrapped in a blanket and sleeping on a curl of rope.
“Why would I do that?” The professor’s huge eyes were wild with spite behind her thick black glasses.
Elvis swam into the boathouse and waded up to the dock. The water was shallow here, only a couple of feet deep. The shepherd leapt onto the dock.
“I loathe dogs,” said Dr. Winters.
Most people who didn’t like dogs were afraid of them. She didn’t want Elvis scaring the woman into doing something terrible. Winters had done terrible things before—and she would do them again if Mercy didn’t stop her.
“Come,” she said. He cocked his head, then shook the water from his thick coat and came to sit beside her.
More fireworks exploded outside the boathouse. The baby slept on. Babies and dogs could sleep anywhere. Mercy envied them that.
Elvis, dripping wet, scooted to the edge of the boathouse dock, as close to Helena as possible without falling into the water or the boat himself. He was alert and ready for Mercy’s next command. But she had no idea what to tell him to do next. She needed to try to talk the professor down.
“Why don’t you put the knife down and tell me all about Adam Wolfe.”
“She stole him from me.” Dr. Winters did not drop the knife. The young girl squirmed and the professor tightened her grip. “Sit still, harlot.”
“How did she do that?”
The professor ignored her and looked down at the sleeping child. “I wanted a baby. I begged him for a baby.” She kicked at the coil of rope, just missing the infant’s head.
Amy jerked toward Helena, and the knife nicked her throat slightly.
“Sit still, or you’ll never see your baby again.”
Mercy held her breath and watched as tiny drops of blood pooled at the cut on Amy’s pale neck.
“It was the art,” Dr. Winters said. “Always his precious art. He said it came first, that his art was his baby.” She glared at Helena.
Mercy wept inside. The infant slept on, innocent and good and yet the object of such hatred.
“And then he has this … this, bastard child.” She put out her foot again and jostled the coil of rope with the toe of her boot. “He left me for this abomination.”
Mercy edge forward, her eyes on that boot.
“Don’t move.” Dr. Winters’s voice was thick with rage.
Elvis growled, the low guttural warning that only a fool would ignore. Or a crazy woman. The baby stirred and began to whimper. Elvis snarled at the professor. The infant’s whimpers became wails. The dog barked furiously. Another blast of fireworks rang out like shots.
“I told you, I don’t like dogs.” Dr. Winters yelled over the din. “Or bastards.” She turned away and reached back with her free hand to turn on the motor. She held the button down for a second, then released it. The engine rumbled to life.
Mercy lunged for the knife. The professor let Amy go and slashed at Mercy, the blade shiny in the gleam of the fireworks. The weapon sliced Mercy’s left shoulder, and she punched Dr. Winters in the stomach with a hard right. The professor dropped the knife, which clattered to the bottom of the boat. She collapsed in on herself, gasping for air and grabbing for the throttle.
The boat pitched forward, slamming against the dock. Dr. Winters pulled the throttle back, and the boat shot backward.
Amy toppled over, bumping her head against the edge of the boat.
“Elvis, go!” Mercy clutched at her bleeding arm.
The aggressive shepherd launched himself toward the moving vessel and landed onboard in the stern. Dr. Winters fell back and tumbled on top of Amy. The young mother kicked her away and tried to curl her bound body around her screaming baby.
The professor scrambled to escape Amy’s jerking legs. She caught her breath and retrieved her knife and righted herself to attack again. But Elvis was faster. He chomped down on her wrist with his teeth and she dropped the knife.
Mercy ran after the boat as it plowed backward out of the boathouse. She leapt for the bow but missed by about six inches. She landed in about two feet of water and stumbled onto her knees into the silty muck of the lake bottom. Rising to her feet, she splashed through the boathouse.
Now the boat was moving forward once more. The professor must have pushed the throttle again. The water deepened, way over her head now. Mercy dove forward, swimming after the boat, desperate to catch up. But her aching shoulder was still bleeding and every stroke was an exercise in pain. The water was cold and her concussed head throbbed.
The lake was dark and choppy in the face of a light wind from the west. But by the staccato flash and thunder of the exploding fireworks overhead, she could spy Dr. Winters struggling with Elvis and trying to find the knife with her other hand. She watched Amy kick it away, and she swam harder. The sooner she got to the boat to help Amy, the better.
Mercy hoped that the baby was all right. She couldn’t hear the infant’s cries anymore. She couldn’t see anybody else close by; Lake St. Catherine was large and the other boats were scattered across it like dark jewels on black velvet. But she could hear people laughing and talking and singing along to a radio blaring “Red Solo Cup.”
Sound carried far across the lake, remembered Mercy. She started shouting for help as she pumped her arms and legs through the water, hoping a Good Samaritan would hear her.
The current was against her and the wake of the boat slowed her down. Mercy kept on swimming. Stroke after stroke, the lines from Shakespeare’s The Tempest pounded in her sore head:
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong
Hark! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell.
She saw Dr. Winters try to grab the tiller, and Elvis push his snout up to her face, barking furiously. His snarls echoed across the lake. The professor must have bumped the tiller to the side, because the unhinged boat was moving slowly in wide circles now, like a broken motorized toy in a child’s bath.
Ding-dong.
Mercy was getting very tired. Her limbs were heavy, her injured arm floated limply at her side while she flailed forward with her right arm. But she couldn’t give up. With the boat circling, she could close in on them now. She blinked the water out of her eyes as the fireworks intensified, lighting up the sky and filling the air with noise.
Elvis stayed on point, despite the sound and fury. She could see him straddling the professor, his teeth still clenched around her wrist. Good boy, she thought.
“Mercy! Mercy!” She heard Troy’s voice calling her name over and over again, and she practically cried with relief. She couldn’t see him, but hearing him was enough.
“Over here,” she yelled, peering across the dark night and treading water until the next round of fireworks allowed her to spot him.
She didn’t have to wait long. A torrent of red and blue and white sprays of light showered the night sky. A bellow and a splash, and she paddled round to see a black beast moving toward her with surprising speed. Susie Bear. Just the sight of the big shaggy dog, graceful as a seal in the water, gave her the strength to keep swimming.
“Come on, Susie Bear,” she shouted, and powered against the current toward the bass boat. She looked over her shoulder to make sure the Newfie mutt was following her. There, silhouetted against the exploding sky, was a canoe manned by Troy Warner, who wielded his paddle like a sword and sliced through the water like a warrior on his way to war.
Ding-dong, bell.
Mercy was in reach of the bass boat now. She lunged for starboard as it careened past her, caught the side, and held on tight. She was exhausted, the adrenaline that had fueled her fading fast. She tried to heave herself onto the boat. Failed.
“I’m going to kill you and your dog,” said Dr. Winters. Elvis was holding her down against her seat, his paws on her chest, his mouth still clamped around her wrist. Whenever she tried to strike him with her free arm, he clenched harder—and she pulled back her arm, moaning with pain.
“One more word and I’ll order him to break your other wrist.” Mercy breathed heavily, trying to prepare herself for another try at climbing aboard. She looked at the baby, who was sleeping again, still curled up on the coil of rope.
Amy maneuvered away from the professor, scooting across the boat on her butt to help Mercy. Her hands and feet were still tied together, and her mouth was still gagged. She shifted her feet and lifted herself to a standing position.
“No,” Mercy said. “You’ll fall.”
Dr. Winters kicked at the rope where the baby lay. Helena whimpered. Amy turned to confront the professor. Elvis growled.
The boat tipped suddenly in the wake of a speedboat passing just far enough away not to notice the trouble they were in or Mercy screaming for help.
Amy lost her fragile footing and pitched backward, falling out into the water on the port side. The wrong side.
“Man overboard,” Mercy yelled, hoping Troy at least would hear her.
With her hands and feet tied together, Amy would drown quickly. Mercy let go of the boat, hoping Elvis could forgive her for leaving him alone with a lunatic. She swam to Amy, who was kicking wildly with her legs but going down anyway.
Mercy was on the verge of going down herself. She needed to grab Amy under the arms from behind and help her float on her back, with the back of her head leaning against her own. But Amy’s arms were tied together behind her back.
“Stay still.” To her credit, Amy stopped kicking, and Mercy grabbed her by the shoulders as she went under, pulling her back up. “Stay still.” She pulled the gag out of her mouth. Amy gasped for air and spit up water. “I’m going to turn you around. When I do, lie your head back against my chest, close your eyes, and float.”
Amy moaned.
“Float,” she ordered. “Float.” Mercy’s strength was fading, her cut arm and her concussion getting the better of her. She couldn’t hold up Amy or herself much longer.
Where was Troy? She looked around but couldn’t see anything. The dark sky was quiet now. Dr. Winters’s boat lumbered on, circling them in the deep gloom. She could hear it, but she couldn’t see it. She tried to untie the girl’s hands, but she couldn’t do it and keep them both afloat at the same time. She needed help. And nearly laughed out loud when she realized that Troy was right. She had to wait for backup.
She felt the big dog before she saw her. A cold nose, a wet shag rug she could hold on to for dear life.
“Good girl,” she said.
Amy opened her eyes. “Big dog.”
“Susie Bear,” she said. “Search-and-rescue dog. We’re going to be fine.”
* * *
AMY CLOSED HER eyes. The fireworks started up again, and Mercy watched Troy’s canoe reach Dr. Winters’s boat. He climbed aboard and switched off the motor. Then he handcuffed Dr. Winters’s free wrist and admonished Elvis to release her other one so he could handcuff that one, too. But Elvis was apparently reluctant to do so. She heard Troy say, “Drop it,” two more times before the dog would relinquish his hold. But even once he’d let go of the professor, the shepherd continued to stand guard over his prisoner.
Mercy held on to Amy with one hand and Susie Bear’s plumed tail with the other as the big dog swam toward the canoe. She smiled as Troy cradled little Helena and laid her carefully into the canoe. He tied the boat to the canoe and paddled over to them. Elvis kept an eye on Dr. Winters in the bass boat.
Without a word Troy helped Mercy get Amy into the canoe first. He untied her feet and wrists, then stripped off his uniform shirt and wrapped it around the young mother, who was shivering with shock.
“She killed Adam,” stammered Amy. “She was going to kill us.”
“You’re safe now.”
He pulled Mercy in next. “You’re hurt.”
Mercy had forgotten all about her injury. “Get Susie Bear up here first.”
“We could, but it looks like she’d rather hang out with Elvis.” Troy pointed behind the canoe, where Susie Bear was swimming alongside the boat, as close as possible to Elvis as he guarded the professor.
Troy paddled them quickly and expertly back to shore. As soon as they hit water shallow enough for Susie Bear to stand up in, she leaped onto the boat to join Elvis. The professor did not look pleased at the thought of two dogs guarding her now, the second even bigger than the first.
The dogs barked.
The professor cursed.
And the baby, happy again in her mother’s arms, laughed.