The Haunted (Sarah Roberts 12) (19 page)

“Oh, really. How’s that?” He stepped closer, then dropped down the first step as he slipped a hand behind his back. “You’ve been in a drugged sleep. How could you possibly know so much?”

Instead of explaining her deductions and how she came to them, she offered him the crazy answer.

“I’m psychic.” She rolled her eyes and tilted her head, staring at his face. “You have nice skin.” She stared the way a lunatic might when thinking about skinning the human head before consumption. Then she righted her gaze, narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Psychic. That’s how I know shit.”

He pulled her Glock from behind his back and aimed it at her. “Get back downstairs. We’re not there yet.”

“Hey, that’s my gun. I want it back.” She held out both cuffed hands. “Give it here.”

“Shut up. Man, are you ever infuriating. Get downstairs.”

“It’s probably not even loaded like last time.” She smiled wide, showing teeth. When she did, she remembered the backhand at the cottage and rubbed the bottom of her teeth with her tongue. Two felt loose. The mouth movement seemed to mesmerize Frank’s eyes.

“What’s going on here?” Roland stepped into view.

Frank twisted toward him. “She woke up. Caught her on the stairs. Just taking her back down for her picture.”

“There a problem?” Roland asked.

“None.”

“Good.” Roland moved away and disappeared from sight.

“Do that again,” Frank said. “That thing with your tongue.”

“What? This?” Sarah rolled her tongue out and around seductively as she watched a transformation come over Frank. It was like hers was the first female tongue he’d seen since spending years in prison or something. His face reddened as he leaned on the railing, lowering the Glock’s aim.

“Hey, Frank?” Sarah whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Come join me down here. I might need your help.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” he said. “I’m not stupid. Get in there and lie down on that bed. I have to take your picture.”

“Picture? What for?”

“Just move.”

He started down the stairs, Glock first. Sarah stepped back until she bumped the door. After fumbling with the handle, she opened it and entered the cabin. At the bed, she sat on the edge.

“Why the picture?” she asked in an attempt to draw the process out.

Vivian, could use some magic here.

“Lie down,” he ordered.

“You’re not going to tell me what the pic is for?”

“No. I’m tired of talking to you.”

He seemed gruff now, put out. Like something wasn’t going his way.

She eased back and spread out on the thin mattress. Without delay, he lowered the gun, brought the camera up and took a picture. Then he checked the camera’s window.

“Looks good,” he said.

“I know what it’s for. You’re going to Instagram that shit. Tell all your friends you bed me down.” She leaned up on an elbow. “You’re going to put it on Facebook, too, aren’t you?”

He frowned and blew air out of his mouth. “No. You’re so stupid. This is to add to our collection. And, it’s how we get paid.” He started for the door. “Stay down here. We’ll come looking for you when we need you. It won’t be long now.”

“I need your help,” she called before he got too far.

He stopped at the door. “What help?”

“I have to pee.”

“You’ll pee all you want in about fifteen minutes.”

“No, I have to pee now.” She crossed her legs and drew her hips back as if she was trying to hold it in. “I feel it coming out.”

“Okay, so pee. The toilet’s right there.”

“I just need your help pulling my pants down.” She lowered her head and tried to appear shy, the whole time thinking it wouldn’t work. But he slowly turned to face her and then took a step back. “Please, Frank. Come and take my pants off.”

“You can undo your pants the way your hands are.”

“There’s undoing my pants, then my panties, and how do I use the toilet paper and pull them back up on my own?” She regarded him with sad eyes. “Just help me pee and then you can head back up and I’ll wait down here like a good girl.” She offered a half smile. “You think I like being here? Like this? At least help me use the restroom.”

Frank looked over his shoulder then back at her. “A quick pee. That’s all this is? No tricks?”

She swayed her head back and forth. “That’s all this is.”

Frank set the camera on the table and slipped the gun in the back of his pants. “I’m warning you. Try anything and I’ll lose it on you.”

“No tricks.” She moved her hands to the side to allow him access to the clasp on her jeans. “Please hurry. Undo my pants, Frank.”

He remained cautious, eyes roving her for any sudden movement as he stepped inside her personal space and placed his hands on the clasp. She sucked her stomach in a little to give him better access. After a fumbled attempt, he tried again and the tightness around her waist lessened.

“Thank you,” she said as he stepped back.

Acting, as if it was hard to push the jeans over her hips with cuffed hands, she looked up at him, eyes pleading.

“A little help?” She rolled her shoulders inward to appear non-threatening, shy.

Once again, Frank moved closer and eased her jeans down. She stepped out of them, using her feet to stamp the pants down and off her ankles.

“Now my panties.” She positioned herself in front of the toilet room. “Once you ease them down, I’ll go and then pass me some paper. Will you do that for me, Frank?”

He stole a glance back at the door. “Okay, but hurry.”

“Get down in front of me and pull my panties off. I’m not modest about my body. You’ve seen me before out by the cabin when I changed into these clothes. I’m sure you’ve seen lots of girls before. Just help before I pee all over the only panties I’ve got.” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Hurry, get down on your knees in front of me and yank my panties down.”

She couldn’t believe it when she saw him do it. Frank dropped in front of her, mesmerized by the beautiful woman standing in front of him in her panties, asking him to ease them off. He did exactly as he was told, as any man should, but this time his actions came with a price.

She waited until he kneeled directly in front of her, his arms extended, hands raised to reach her hips. The moment he gripped the sides of her panties and was about to lower them, Sarah drove her right knee into the front of Frank’s mouth, driving upward into the base of Frank’s nose. A crack accompanied the wet mushy sound as bone met cartilage violently. Frank’s head snapped back, but Sarah was already stepping into him again, her right foot rising and dropping, heel first into his face. On the second kick she almost lost her balance.

Blood smeared across his face. He moaned and rolled to the side, his hand coming around to the gun at the back of his pants. Breathing rapidly now, Sarah collected herself, got into position, lifted her foot above his throat and dropped it so fast, she hopped up and off the other foot.

Things broke inside Frank’s neck. His eyes widened and his head jerked back, his body wracked with a fit of seizures now. Sarah was horrified with what she was seeing, but understood it as necessary. Either she made it to the bottom of the ocean or they did.

It always had to be them.

His breathing came in fits and starts. Blood slipped from the corners of his mouth and nostrils. His hands fidgeted with convulsions. Then his feet kicked out and his body stilled, eyes closed.

She heard the last breath as it oozed from his mouth or nose, she couldn’t tell. It lasted twice as long as a normal exhale.

“Left with no choice,” she said to the corpse, “sorry, but it was you or me. No tricks. This wasn’t a trick. This was a treat.” She kicked the body. “A picture for your collection? How many girls have you two killed, asshole?”

“Too many,” Roland said from the doorway.

By the time Sarah looked up, surprised at the voice, a gun fired in the small room. Wood chunks splintered by her head as she ducked out of reflex. The gun went off again. More wood chunks.

Sarah dove over Frank’s body. When she hit the carpet, she slipped her hands into the back of his jeans, retrieved her Glock and made to turn toward the door when Roland’s gun fired again.

The distinctive sound of a bullet entering flesh, the wet plunk, made her sick. She knew she wouldn’t feel it for a few minutes but then it would hurt like a bitch. Maybe even incapacitate her.

The Glock was aimed. Roland backed up in an attempt to slam the door.

Sarah fired anyway.

The bullet took a chunk out of the door frame beside his face before he could clear the area. Wood shattered and became airborne.

Roland yelled in pain. The door slammed.

Sarah frantically felt the length of her body for the bullet hole. Confused for only a brief second, she realized that the fleshy sound of a bullet making contact was Frank’s body getting hit and not hers.

She flipped him over and searched his pockets for the keys to the cuffs as the boat leaned to and fro, riding the waves slowly, the engine in idle.

Wherever Roland was topside, he wasn’t steering the boat anymore. Clipped to the back of Frank’s belt, Sarah found a small container. She pulled on the clasp and opened it to find two handcuff keys. A moment later, freed from the restraints, she slipped back into her pants, checked the Glock to see that it was ready, and moved toward the door.

She put her ear to the edge and listened. She hadn’t heard Roland running anywhere after the door closed. Maybe he just sat in the stairwell, gun ready, waiting for her to open the door. The few windows down here were too small to exit through. It was the door or nothing.

After putting her hand on the doorknob, she eased sideways to get out of the way of a bullet, then shook the knob violently.

Nothing.

Remaining out of the way on the side, Sarah turned the knob until it wouldn’t turn anymore, then yanked the door open. It banged against the wall on the other side, then stilled.

Roland wasn’t in the stairwell. But there was a little spray of blood. A quick estimate of the location of the blood revealed it probably came from Roland’s facial area.

She snuck back to Frank’s body, ripped the small container off his belt and moved back to the open door. She eased up the first step, waited a moment, then tossed the container to the top stair to draw Roland’s fire if he was waiting for her.

Nothing happened.

She couldn’t sit down here and wait for him, but she couldn’t stick her head up and get shot either.

She eased up another step. Either Roland wasn’t watching the top of the steps or he was incredibly cool and calm to not have shot at the small container she had just thrown up.

Another step higher. The boat listed from the influence of a wave, then tilted back level.

Sarah thrust her hand above the edge of the stairs.

Nothing happened.

Maybe he wasn’t watching the stairs after all.

She placed both feet on the next stair, careful to keep her head below the edge.

Anything Vivian?

She waited a moment, but nothing came.

No news is good news.

Sarah leapt, diving over the last four steps and out into the open. She landed hard on her shoulder, rolled and pushed herself toward the large steering wheel. No bullets rang out to chase her.

What happened to Roland?

She thrust her Glock out in front of her and frantically searched for a target, but none came into her sights. The topside of the yacht appeared empty.

“Roland,” she shouted as she scrambled to her feet and took cover behind the large wooden wheel. “Where are you? Come on out and talk.”

Waiting him out would save her life, but she didn’t have a lot of patience. Not knowing where he was pissed her off. They were the only two people on one boat. How good could he hide?

She rose to her feet and scanned the top of the cabin. If she didn’t know Roland was on the boat she would assume she was alone. There wasn’t another boat in sight, nor land. Only water as far as she could see. But Roland was on the boat. Somewhere. And she couldn’t start back toward land until he was dead.

The gun fit snugly at the back of her pants as she started along the side walkway that would take her to the back of the boat, holding tight with both hands to avoid falling into the ocean. As she sidestepped along, her stomach wouldn’t let up with the growling reminders of how empty it was. When she was done with Roland, she had to get something to eat.

Holding onto the railing, she traversed the side of the boat, her knees passing the small windows that looked in on Franks’ body below. Near the end of the walkway, she slowed, attention riveted on the wide opening at the back where it appeared the owners would enjoy cocktail parties and a barbecue.