Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (29 page)

"Is Melissa waiting at your boat?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but no. When you didn't cooperate, I went to plan B,
which doesn't include her."

"Then why am I here?"

"Because you went to Hatch's apartment."

"I didn't recognize you."

"I let you go to Michigan. You were safe, but you had to come back early. You had to tell
everyone we weren't getting married." He jabbed the gun into her ribs. "Do you think you're too
good for me, Claire?"

"Why did you tell people we were getting married?"

"You were part of the illusion, my reason to live." His mood shifted and once again they
were having an amiable conversation. "With just one body in the cabin, there was the risk my death
would be ruled a suicide. But does a man who's about to marry to the girl of his dreams kill himself?
Of course not." His voice dripped sarcasm.

"Why did you care?"

"Cowards commit suicide. I'm not a coward."

Claire thought of Annie Lewis and didn't trust herself to respond.

"There was another, more practical, concern. Melissa gets a good-bye gift from my life
insurance. The policy won't pay for a suicide."

"Does she know you're still alive?" They had left the pavement behind.

"Pay attention to your driving," he warned. "You want to make it safely to my boat."

She nodded as if she believed that safety lay ahead of her, and leaned forward, peering
through the windshield and carefully steering around the potholes and ridges. Frank's gun banged
against her side every time she hit a bump.

"I still don't understand how you fooled the police." She had to keep him distracted while
she looked for a reason to get out of the car. Otherwise, she had no chance. He could shoot faster
than she could climb out.

"Careful planning," he bragged. "A month ago, I took Lou to my dentist, paid to fix his rotten
teeth. Then I paid Hatch to switch our x-rays. He was a burglar before he became a chauffeur, and
it's like riding a bike. You never really forget how." Frank laughed at his own joke.

"When the big day came, I drove Lou down in my car and made sure he died happy. Hatch
came later. He dropped me at the Biloxi Airport and drove back to switch cars and burn the cabin.
My cabin, my car, a body with teeth that matched my dental records... I'm a dead man." He laughed
again. "It's a shame I had to miss my own funeral."

"Why do you want people to think you're dead?" They were on top of the old levee now;
she was running out of time.

"I told Hatch to drive straight back to New Orleans, no stops where someone might see
him." He slapped the dashboard. "He should have been on the highway when the bomb in my Jeep
went off. An accident, and that would have been the end of it. I'm dead. The man who killed me is
dead. Case closed."

"How do you know he didn't tell the police the whole story? He was in jail for a couple days.
You know they questioned him."

"He didn't know the whole story." He pointed to the marked trees. "Don't miss the
turn."

They'd left New Orleans under cloudy skies, but now the clouds were breaking up,
uncovering a bright moon. She stopped at the edge of the clearing. Moonlight illuminated the
skeleton of his cabin and turned the ash-covered ground white, ghostlike.

"I could get a flat tire driving through this debris," she said. "Can we park here and walk to
the dock?"

"Keep going. I don't feel like walking, and you've already caused me too much
trouble."

"Me?" She was indignant. "I was nothing but a pawn."

"You
are
nothing but a pawn, the least important piece on the board."

Had only nine days passed since she found the burned cabin? Had she really cried because
she thought that Frank Palmer--this monster--was dead?

They passed through the clearing and continued on the track leading to the dock. As they
approached the water, the ground became muddier, and water filled the low spots. Claire steered
into a puddle and, when she felt her tires lose traction, pressed the accelerator. The wheels spun,
digging holes in the muck.

"I've been waiting for you to try something," he said. Their eyes met and she realized Frank
was enjoying himself, playing with her confident that he controlled the outcome. Any pretense that
he'd let her go had ended.

"Why don't you just shoot me and get it over with?"

"Because I don't want to." He opened the door and eased out of the car. "Get out and start
walking. I'm right behind you."

They continued single file down the muddy path. If she tried to run, he'd shoot her before
she'd gone three steps. They passed through the last scattering of trees before the water's edge. She
stumbled on the step to the dock, and he yanked her to her feet.

"Keep moving."

She pressed her hand against her chest and drew a ragged breath. "I'm having a panic
attack," she gasped, "I can't breathe. I can hardly walk." If he thought she was falling apart and
unable to resist, he might let his guard down. Just for a moment. That's all she needed.

"You want something to be scared of?" He waved his gun toward a root sticking out of the
water. "See that moccasin, over there on that cypress knee?"

The coiled snake was the same dark gray as the gun in Frank's hand.

"Predators come out at night," he said. "There's an old bull gator hangs out here. I don't see
him, but you can be sure he's watching us. If you stick your toe in the water, he'll know it. He's big
enough to take your leg in one bite."

She searched the water for the half-submerged log that was really an alligator, for ripples
that could really be snakes. Moonlight shimmering on the black surface obscured whatever lay
below. If a big alligator got hold of her, he'd roll her until she drowned. It would be horrible but
over quickly and better than whatever Frank had planned for her.

"Get on the boat." Frank shoved her forward.

She went with the push and kept going, across the dock and off into the water, arms
wrapped around knees held tight to her chest. She found bottom, tried to stand and banged her
head on the bottom of the boat. The water was shallower than she'd expected. She crept forward,
feeling her way until she reached an edge. Slowly, she straightened up until her head was above
water. Metal blades scraped her shoulders. She was wedged between the propellers. She could
breathe, and Frank couldn't see her, but this shelter was only temporary. She'd be cut to ribbons
when he turned the engines on.

A thump told her Frank had jumped onto the boat. His footsteps thudded along the outside
railing, he moved to the other side, and a glow appeared in the water. He was shining a spotlight
under the dock. She swam to the far side of the boat and looked for refuge.

A bulkhead lined this side of the channel. It and the floating dock were both a good two feet
above the water's surface. Climbing onto either would attract Frank's attention. Her only hope lay
in the marshes on the other side where she could hide in the tall grass. She'd have to swim across
the channel. Thirty or forty feet--she could do that underwater.

She heard a splash and tensed, alert for movement that could be an approaching alligator.
Then, she took a deep breath, dropped beneath the surface and swam for the other side, staying
deep, reaching with her arms and scissoring her legs until her lungs burned and her muscles
screamed for oxygen. She kicked upward, broke the surface gasping for air, and was horrified by the
distance that remained. She'd been swimming against the current.

A gunshot cracked, and furious thrashing roiled the water behind her. She dropped back
down. Strength born of terror propelled her forward until the bottom began rising up to meet her,
the shallows on the other side. She clawed at the mud, pulling herself along, afraid to kick for fear
that her foot would break the surface and make a splash that would reveal her location.

When her fingers touched the first hummocks, she tucked her legs under her body, sprang
into the shelter of the marsh grass and lay there, catching her breath. The alligator's bellowing had
obscured the sound of her exit, but if it pursued her, even on land, she was doomed. Another
gunshot and the noise stopped. The silence was so absolute that she could hear her heart beating.
Then the insects and frogs resumed their songs. A nutria screamed.

"Claire, you better listen. I just saved your life. That gator was after you. I got him, but his
blood's going to draw others. They'll tear you apart. Show yourself, and I'll pick you up."

She inched away from the water's edge. Swarming mosquitoes formed black swatches as
they attacked her exposed flesh. She slathered mud on her arms, face and neck, ankles and feet. The
mosquitoes found vulnerable spots around her eyes and mouth, in her ears and nose. They were
driving her crazy.

Two more gunshots punched holes in the swamp sounds. One bullet hit the ground near
her leg and sent shards of oyster shell into her thigh. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. The
mosquitoes dispersed for a moment, but her blood drew them back, and a black cloud descended on
her wound. When she batted them away, they attacked her hands. She wanted to scream.

She crawled deeper into the marsh. The tall grass sheltered her, but it also prevented her
from seeing more than a couple feet in any direction. Half-buried oyster shells shredded her slacks
and scraped the skin from her hands and knees. Sharp blades of grass sliced her arms. Each cut
drew blood and sent the mosquitoes into a fresh frenzy.

A bright light moved toward her. Frank had turned his spotlight on the marsh. She crawled
faster, moving away from his light as quickly as she could. Her right hand slid forward onto nothing,
and she somersaulted down a bank into waist deep water, a creek running through the marsh. The
light swung in the direction of her splash. She huddled against the creek bank until the light moved
on.

Half-swimming half-walking against the current and staying as low as possible, she
followed the winding stream until it curved around a bend and spread into wide shallows.
Moonlight glittered on a wide expanse of open water, a lake too large to swim across that offered
neither haven nor help.

She let the incoming tide carry her back around the bend. The little creek was safer. If she
knelt on the bottom, the water came to her neck. Tenting her blouse over her head sheltered her
face from the mosquitoes. She could stay here until Frank gave up and left. When daylight came, she
could look for a way back to her car that didn't involve swimming across that channel.

When Claire was a little girl, she'd made deals with God, promising to be good if He would
just talk her mother into letting her stay up late to watch a favorite television show or help her pass
the math test. Things like that. She hadn't asked for favors in years, and after Tom died, she'd
stopped believing that God cared what happened to her.

Tonight, kneeling in the creek, she prayed for her life.

As if he'd intercepted her prayers, Frank called, "Are you listening, Claire? The next sound
you hear will be me pulling wires out of your car."

A few minutes later, she heard a splash.

"That was your distributor cap. You're going nowhere."

Frank cursed his impatience. He had seen movement in the water and fired too quickly.
Instead of hitting Claire, he'd taken out the alligator that was going for her. If he weren't furious,
he'd appreciate the irony. He wanted her dead, and the gator would have done the job for him. Now,
she was unfinished business. He couldn't leave her here alive--not even with her car disabled. There
was an off chance someone would find her while she could still talk, and she knew too much.

The forty-five that had kept Claire obedient and killed the gator wasn't accurate at
distance, but he had other options. No one went unarmed in the Gulf. Too many smugglers were
looking for a new boat. His armory included an AK-47 that would slice through the marsh grass like
a hot knife through butter and cut Claire in half. The thought tempted, but sound travels across
water, and volleys from a machine gun would raise a big red flag. He selected a shotgun, more than
enough firepower to take care of an unarmed woman. Claire had screwed up his careful plans for
the last time.

He'd put together an exit strategy after that sniveling hypocrite, Andrew Walsh, accused
him of molesting girls from The Home. Molesting, what a laugh, those girls were ready, willing and
able. Their pretending to be reluctant made it more fun for everyone. Andrew had demanded he
stay away from the girls and asked for a million dollar donation, what he called an act of contrition
and anyone else would call blackmail.

Paying was never an option. Andrew's noble justifications were bullshit. Some of the
money would stick to his fingers. There'd be another demand and then another. He'd considered a
fatal accident for Andrew, but the bloodsucker had thought of that too. He warned that certain
pictures would surface if anything happened to him. More pictures--Andrew and Annalisa--his
photography hobby was his Achilles heel.

Then he'd had an inspiration.

He feigned remorse, said it had never happened before and would never happen again. He
asked for ninety days to get the money together, knowing he could do it in sixty. Promising to make
the donation at the awards ceremony had been a stroke of genius. One of his few regrets was not
being there to see Andrew's face when he realized his meal ticket had expired.

He was ready to move on. He'd had enough of crooked inspectors and lazy subcontractors,
of Bobby's bank demanding money back, with interest, while he did all the real work. He was tired
of the same people saying the same things at the same parties and was getting tired of Melissa. Still,
he resented the attempted blackmail that had catalyzed his discontent. The slate wouldn't be clean
until Andrew Walsh suffered his fatal accident, but it could wait. Tonight was Claire's turn, and she
was going to regret crossing him.