Wreckage: An Addictive Psychological Thriller Packed with Twists, page 30
I slide my butt back toward the middle of the bathroom floor and press the “on” button on the burner phone. Time to power up.
Choke slides his chair away from the table.
I stare at the burner, willing it to boot up faster. It is taking its sweet time. I’m not familiar with this model—even though the volume is turned off, it might make an electronic jingle of some kind when it boots. If it does, I’m toast.
Choke’s heels clack in my direction. He’s about fifteen feet away.
The phone shows only black screen with logo, black screen with logo, black screen with logo. Come on, turn on, you piece of junk. Come on, come on!
Finally, the phone lights up, in blessed silence, and is running again, with its small reserve of battery power. Choke stops at the bathroom door.
I frantically navigate to the Recent Calls list and redial the earlier number—Enzo’s—then slip the phone back into my left pocket, mic facing outward, just as Choke opens the door.
He enters, wielding his stun gun. My hand is still in my pocket. I ease it out, hoping the glow of the phone screen doesn’t show through the fabric of my pants. Choke orders me to stand up and jerks me out into the dining room. Jeannie is still waiting there.
Outside the yacht’s massive windows, the sun has set, and darkness is rapidly descending. The decks are tastefully lighted for nighttime.
To Jeannie’s surprise and mine, Choke hands us both back our confiscated phones. He also returns my wallet to me. Why, I can’t guess. He then gives me a knowing grin, reaches over and pulls open the top of my left pants pocket—the one with the burner in it.
My heart sinks.
He stares at me for a long moment, waiting for me to surrender the burner voluntarily.
I start to say, “Take it,” but then he reaches into his own shirt and pulls out an item: a folded-up piece of paper in a sealed Ziploc sandwich bag. Odd.
He slips it into my pants pocket. As his fingers slide down into my chinos, I’m sure they’re going to touch the burner, but they miss it by a hair’s breadth. He pulls his hand away.
“Leave that there,” he says, referring to the ziplocked paper in my pocket, then gives Jeannie and me a shove and tells us to get moving. To where, who knows?
As we march along, my regular phone—the one Choke just returned to my hand—pings a text-sent signal. Jeannie’s phone pings a text-received tone. I look down at my phone screen and see a Sent text from me to Jeannie. Ah, so Leah has taken control of our phones again. The text from “me” reads, I just wanted to say I’m sorry... I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said... And, of course, you’re right.
A few seconds later, another text exchange pings. This time it’s Jeannie’s hijacked phone replying to mine. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you, texts phantom Jeannie. The real Jeannie hasn’t touched her phone’s screen. Jeannie and I exchange WTF looks.
Choke marches us down a set of stairs to a lower deck, and we head toward the stern. If there’s going to be an opportunity to use the knife in my pocket, it will have to happen soon.
My phone pings Jeannie’s phone again: I know. I get it. I was thinking with my ‘little head’... I know we can’t have a life together... And I know that doesn’t mean you don’t love me.
Jeannie’s phone to mine: Glad you see it that way. Sorry.
My phone to hers: I’ll be heading out on the ferry in the morning, if it’s running... But hey, before I go, want to see something amazing?
Jeannie’s phone to mine: Not if it’s an anatomical feature! Haha. What?
Choke leads us down a final staircase to an exterior deck at the stern, a few feet above water level. It’s an open area where people can sunbathe and around which small craft can moor.
Tied to the rear of this lower deck is a yellow inflatable boat with an outboard motor—mine, the one I left in Jeannie's shed. Moored beside it is a motorized skiff with a squared-off bow and stern—probably the same one that carried me to this yacht. Both boats are accessible by a single short ladder.
My phone sends another text to Jeannie’s: Turns out our shipwreck didn’t go far out to sea... Clever, Leah is, bringing The Shipwreck into this text exchange, knowing it had special meaning to Jeannie and me. It’s 50 yds offshore, underwater... And it’s doing something incredible...
Jeannie’s phone: Doing? What do u mean?
My phone: I can’t explain. You have to see it... Can you meet me at the dock in, like, 15? We'll take my inflatable.
Jeannie’s: K bye.
Ah. I’m starting to piece together what’s going on here. A chain of evidence is being established whereby I’m inviting Jeannie to my boat and we’re going to take a ride on the still-choppy waters. I have a feeling we’re going to have an “accident at sea.”
Miles cannot seriously be in on this.
No sooner does this thought occur than the man himself appears on the deck above us in the lambent lighting. He’s talking with Trooper Danielle and Leah and looking out at the water.
“Miles, you’ve got to be kidding me!” I shout up at him. His face looks ten years older than it did two hours ago. “I know what you’re planning to do here. Murder Jeannie and me. Are you out of your mind?” He flinches as my words hit him, but he refuses to look at me.
“Seriously, Miles? Seriously? Murder?”
Miles nods to Choke: time to get things moving. I’ve never seen such a miserable, drained expression on my friend’s face. The stress of this decision must have stripped something elemental from his soul.
“All right, you two, into the boat,” Chokehold orders Jeannie and me.
“Snap out of it, Miles!” I shout at the upper deck. “If you do this, it can never be undone. You think what happened with that scotch bottle was bad, try living with murder on your conscience. For the rest of your life!”
Miles is staring at his phone to avoid making eye contact with me. He’s trying to appear focused and in-command.
Suddenly a voice rings out from the interior of the upper deck. “What the hell is going on here, will someone please tell me?” It’s Beth, in her bathrobe, trotting out to see what the commotion is. Thank God. Beth and I have never been besties, but she won’t condone this.
“Beth!” I shout up at her. “Miles has lost it! He’s trying to have us killed!
“Miles, what are you doing?” she demands, eyes popping with disbelief.
“Beth, go back inside!” shouts Miles.
“Miles, answer me!” she says.
“Go back inside, Beth! I am handling this.”
Beth trots down the stairs to the lower rear deck where Jeannie and I and Chokehold are standing. She inserts herself between Choke and me, arms folded, awaiting my explanation.
“They’re going to take us out on the water and kill us,” I tell her. “They planted fake texts on our phones to make it look like I’m the one who’s orchestrating it.”
Beth grabs my phone from my hand and studies the recent text exchange. “Did you write this?” she shouts up at Miles, incredulous.
“The three of us did,” says Miles defensively, indicating Leah and Trooper D. “It’s what needs to be done, Beth. Stay out of it!”
“I’m in shock,” she responds, staring up at him with her head cocked back. “It’s actually pretty good.” She wipes her prints off the phone and places it back in my hand.
“Let me know when it’s over,” she says to her husband and starts back up the stairs.
43
“Beth, no!” I yell after her, my voice going high with panic. “You’re the only sane one here. I need your help. As a friend.”
“Friend?” She freezes on the stairs and spins her head toward me. “Is that what you said?” She turns and walks back down a couple of steps. “You’re not my friend, Finnian Carroll, don’t you know that? I hate you. Ever since that night in the car, I’ve wished you were dead.”
“I didn’t throw that bottle, Beth. All I did was—”
“I’m not talking about the bottle, jagoff. That was an accident. I’m talking about before. When Miles had his meltdown. When he was thrashing on the ground and saying he was jealous of you and what you had with her.” She points to Jeannie with her head. “Do you remember what you said to him? I do. ‘You don’t love Beth,’ you said. ‘And if you marry her, you will be profoundly unhappy for the rest of your life.’ Well, those words crawled under his skin and laid eggs. And those eggs hatched in our home and our bedroom. And now every night it’s like you’re lying between the sheets with us. You and your judgments about me.
“Who does he call whenever he’s having doubts about our marriage? Who does he visit whenever he needs time away from the ol’ ball and chain? Who does he claim to visit whenever he slips away for a Hilton Weekend Special with the intern of the month? Finn Carroll, his blood brother in Beth hatred. Help you? Help you? I can’t wait till fish are eating your dead eyes.”
“If you believe I planted those doubts in his head, Beth,” I say, “you are delusional to a degree even I didn’t imagine. If Miles really loved you, you wouldn’t have to—”
“Enough!” shouts Miles. “Don’t say another word. It’s time for you to go. Get on the damn boat.”
“Are we really going to do this, Miles?”
“Get on the boooooat.” He looks as if he’s about to cry.
Choke steps closer to Jeannie and me, nudging us toward my yellow inflatable.
A seed of a strategy is germinating in my mind. I eye-signal Jeannie to go first, then, with a tiny gesture of my hand, mime the act of starting the boat motor. I hope she reads me. Jeannie knows her way around boats, big and small.
My plan won’t help me, but it might help her.
She descends the short ladder leading down to the tied-up inflatable.
I start down the ladder after her. The moment my lower half is out of view from above, I slip the knife out of my pocket.
I grab the rope that’s mooring my boat and whisper to Jeannie, “Start the engine.” I slice the rope with a brisk swipe of the blade. The engine starts on the first pull. I give the boat a big kick-shove away from the yacht’s stern. Then I turn and take a step back up the ladder.
“Go! Go! Go!” I shout behind me at Jeannie in the small boat.
The reason I didn’t climb into the boat with her? Because I know my rubber inflatable can’t outrun a skiff. But if I can buy Jeannie enough time to escape alone, she might be able to make it to shore—it’s only a few hundred yards away. I stand on the ladder, prepared to defend it against all comers.
“I’m not leaving you here, Finn!” Jeannie shouts.
“Go! No time to argue!”
“Jump on board,” Jeannie pleads, refusing to go without me.
“No! You have a daughter, don’t screw around!”
Those words get through to her. She shifts the prop into forward and gives the small engine some gas.
Chokehold steps toward the ladder I’m standing on, stun gun in hand. For that weapon to work, it will need to make good contact with me. I don’t plan to let that happen. Before Choke can reach the ladder, I lash out with the knife, swiping the blade from side to side.
I don’t intend to let him get close enough to stun me or climb down into the skiff.
“This doesn’t mean I’m leaving you!” shouts Jeannie as she aims my boat toward land, maxing the throttle. She’s saying she’ll be back with help. The truth is, I was hoping help would have arrived by now. But I guess my little burner phone ploy didn’t work. It was a long shot anyway.
The good news is that, for the first time in days, the waters are reasonably safe for small craft. Jeannie ought to be able to make it to land in decent time if I can buy her a head start. I swing the knife back and forth, allowing her to progress toward shore in the rubber boat.
Suddenly I’m blinded by a light from an upper deck, and an unfamiliar voice shouts, “Drop the knife!” The light-beam shifts its angle to show me that the holder of the high-intensity flashlight has a pistol in his other hand. Then the light strikes my face again. A second beam of white light hits Jeannie, as another unknown voice shouts at her, “Freeze! Stop the boat!”
Jeannie hasn’t traveled far enough to be safely out of pistol range. She stops the boat and lifts her hands in surrender. I drop the knife and do the same.
It never occurred to me that Simon Fischer might have armed bodyguards. But of course, why wouldn’t he? Troop and company are mission specialists; they’re not around him 24/7. A guy like Fischer would naturally have round-the-clock protection.
“Bring that boat back, NOW!” shouts one of the upper-deck guards. Jeannie circles back toward the yacht.
.....
I stand on the rear deck with Chokehold and the pair of armed bodyguards, my hands held aloft. Jeannie waits in my boat at the bottom of the ladder, a gun trained on her.
Miles descends the stairs from above, carrying himself with an erect, shoulders-back posture meant to look commanding, presidential even. He sells it pretty convincingly, if you don’t know him too well. As he approaches me, he and I can’t avoid brief eye contact. He casts a glance up at the second deck for my benefit.
I look up to see Simon Fischer and Beth, side by side, leaning on the upper rail and looking down on all of us like the Lannisters watching a deathmatch.
Guess I’m supposed to forgive Miles for his actions because he’ll be in hot water with the in-laws if he backs down. Get a grip, Miles.
“Into the boat,” Miles orders me, his voice cracking slightly.
I have no choice but to obey. I climb down into the inflatable craft, eyeing Miles every step of the way. He evades my glance.
“You two,” Miles says to Chokehold and one of the bodyguards, “into the skiff.” Choke and Bodyguard clamber down into the larger of the two small craft.
I know Miles so well I can watch his thoughts play out on his face. He’s still thinking he can delegate this whole operation. But then he looks up at Simon Fischer, and awareness dawns. Miles realizes this is a test. Of his mettle. Of his hands-on leadership and decision-making. Delegating won’t do.
He climbs down into the rectangular skiff and takes the wheel, a general with his two lieutenants. He orders Choke out of the skiff and into the rubber boat with Jeannie and me. Damn, I was hoping he’d leave Jeannie and me in our own vessel.
It’s tight quarters on the inflatable with Choke aboard. He’s a sizable dude.
Jeannie is left to helm the tiller while Choke watches over both of us.
“Go,” Miles orders, pointing eastward.
We strike off toward the black horizon. The full dark of night is upon us now, and the moon is only a high sliver in an oddly starless sky. The island lies to our starboard side. In a few minutes we’ll be clear of land and heading into the depths of the open Atlantic.
Miles follows us in the skiff without any lights. I can hear his motor but can barely see his boat, so dark is the night.
Why are we going east? The way the fake texts were written, I thought we were supposed to have our “accident” near Table Rock, on the northwestern edge of the island. Guess he wants us farther out to sea, where our screams can’t reach any ears.
The only bits of light we can see are from the scattered homes on the northern side of the island. Soon the last of the lighted world will be behind us.
I am heading into blackness, never to return, it seems. How strange. A mere nine days ago, I was living a marginal existence in my parents’ decaying home, wallowing in melancholy and despair, failing to savor the life that was mine for the grabbing. Then I was given the gift of attempted murder. Yes, gift, because it made me hunger for life again. The past several days have been terrifying, exhausting, and more stressful than anything I’ve ever endured, but they’ve been electrifying too. I’ve tasted true love again and had my heart flayed to the core. I’ve made love as only the angels can. I’ve pushed my mind and body to new levels. And I’ve discovered that when my back is against the wall, I’m not a coward. These are life-changing revelations.
Alas, there is little life left for the changing. It will all be over soon. My crazy hope was that, even if I couldn’t figure out a way to escape this mess, help would arrive. That’s why I called Enzo on the burner phone and let the line stay open all through dinner and beyond. I was hoping he would listen in on what was happening and send in the troops. Maybe fetch our policeman from Monhegan or figure something else out.
But no. Maybe my call didn’t really go through, maybe Enzo wasn’t listening, maybe he couldn’t make out what was being said, or maybe he just didn’t give a crap.
I still can’t believe Miles, my best friend, intends for Jeannie and me to die out here, but that seems the course he’s committed to.
Ahead on the right lies the green boat signal at Mussel Cove. That’s the last light we’ll pass on the eastern end of the island. Then it’s nothing but blackness till Ballyconneely Bay in County Galway, my ancestral home.
I look behind me at the western horizon. It’s still showing some faint luminescence from the recently set sun. If any rescuers were following us in the distance, even with their lights off, I’d see their silhouettes. But I don’t. We’re all alone out here.
If I’m going to die on the black ocean, though, I refuse to die in servitude to Miles’s lies. I refuse to make this easy for him. I still have a few things that need saying. And I want to ensure that on the off-chance Enzo is still listening and my burner phone still has power, there is a record of what is about to go down. But the hitch is, if we go much farther, we’ll lose cellphone reception. That means I need to stop this boat somehow. Force the endgame to happen close to shore. Make it harder for Miles to pull off his crime unwitnessed.
Time is running out.
“I wonder how much gas this thing has,” I say to Jeannie, lading my words with meaning I hope she will unpack: Can you make the engine quit somehow?
“Shut up,” orders Chokehold. Silver-tongued rogue.
