CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 27

You can do this, she told herself as she sped north, the city of Seattle towering on the hillside, skyscrapers knifing upward lighting the dark night. She couldn't put up with his intimidation a second longer. She couldn't spend the rest of her life jumping whenever the phone rang, or a motorcycle raced by, or her damned doorbell chimed. She couldn't continue with her family at risk.

You can do this. You can do this. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the determination and fear in her eyes. You have to.

"Give me strength," she whispered when the marina came into view, vessels shifting on the dark, ever-moving water, the rain sheeting down the windshield. The single, tall security lamp cast a bluish glow over the scattered vehicles and uneven pavement, rain swirling in its weak illumination.

Brooke threw herself out of the car and into a wall of cold rain. She ignored it. Propelled by determination and fury, she strode along the dock.

The Medusa, moored as it always was between other craft, rocked in the pitching water. A few vessels showed tiny spots of illumination visible through their portholes.

Gideon's boat was dark.

Fine.

If he wasn't here, she'd wait.

Before she walked up the gangway she turned and squinted into the rain, just to make sure. And yes, his motorcycle was parked in its usual spot, chrome handlebars and exhaust pipe glinting in the poor light.

Good.

She felt the hard weight of the gun in her pocket and, in the other, the lighter, malleable package.

It was time to turn the tables.

She stepped onto the decking, the rain pouring down, sliding down her jacket. The icy wind snatched her hood.

"Gideon!" she yelled, shielding her eyes against the rain.

The boat creaked as it moved with the tide rolling into the sound.

"Gideon!"

No response.

Damn it!

When he didn't answer Brooke slid her burner phone from the back pocket of her jeans and texted:

I'm here.

On your boat.

We need to talk.

Face-to-face.

That should do it.

Throw his own demands back at him.

Water dripped on the screen, but it remained dark.

The seconds ticked by.

Come on, damn you, answer!

Minutes passed.

No response.

She blinked against the rain.

Checked her watch.

Obviously he wasn't going to answer and she couldn't stand out here all night, bracing herself against the storm.

But his bike is here.

He must be somewhere.

Fine.

She eased around the deck, shouting his name, peering into the dark, shivering from the cold.

Where are you?

The surrounding boats undulated with the ripple of the water. Tall masts, spindly and skeletonlike, knifed upward to the roiling sky.

But all aboard the Medusa was quiet.

Circumnavigating the wet deck, she stepped carefully, bracing herself in case he was hiding, involved in a sick game, ready to pounce from some hiding place. Carefully, shoulders soaked, she made a full rotation.

Nothing.

Just the wind battering the boats, rain pattering the deck.

Was he in the dark cabin?

Asleep at this early hour?

Or lying in wait? The hairs on the back of her neck prickled upward, her pulse jumped, but she clamped down on her rising sense of panic. She hadn't come all this way for nothing. Now that her nerve was up she wanted to end it.

Setting her jaw, she started for the stairs to the dark cabin below.

One step.

The boat rocked.

Two.

She heard the mournful cry of some seabird and her skin crawled as she made her way lower, out of the wind and rain. With one hand in her pocket around the butt of the gun, she eased into the pitch-black cabin.

Her cell phone buzzed and she jumped.

Yanking it from her pocket, she saw Marilee's number:

Where are you?

Time was passing.

No time to respond. She hit the flashlight app, illuminating the small room with the weird gray light. She rotated slowly, running the beam over the familiar built-in couch, the galley. The boat creaking and rocking slightly, she tried to orient herself, her gaze piercing the nooks and crannies where he could be.

"Gideon," she called, her voice a whisper, every muscle in her body tense. "Gideon? Are you here?"

She waited.

Nothing.

She eased into the berth, shining her light, expecting him to lunge out of the darkness because that seemed to be the new kind of game he liked to play, to terrorize her.

"Gideon!" She yelled his name and saw a flash of light.

A small beam.

Pointed directly at her.

A dark figure barely silhouetted behind it.

Gasping, she ducked down, her heart in her throat. Nerves jangled, she cut the light on her phone. Fumbled in her coat pocket for the gun. Grabbed the pistol. Yanked it out.

Finger on the trigger, she aimed. Into darkness. The light disappeared. The flash no longer there.

Desperately, she twisted, looking into all the dark crevices, her gaze scraping every shadowy corner.

No sight of him.

No sound either.

No sign of the intruder.

Not the intruder;you're the intruder! You never should have come here!

Shit, shit, shit!

She'd seen a spark, like the flash from a gun's muzzle.

Why was there no blast? No sharp report or bullet whizzing past her head?

She trained the pistol toward the spot where she'd seen the figure.

Only then did she realize she'd caught sight of her own image, her own shadowy form holding not a gun but a phone, its flashlight app catching in the porthole and reflecting on the glass.

For the love of God, Brooke, you're jumping at shadows! Get an effin' grip! You're acting as if Gideon's out to do you physical harm when all he's done is threaten you psychologically. Yeah, he's been brutal with his mental torture, and there was that one fight that got physical, but remember,you came here. You boarded his boat. You brought a gun. Did it ever cross your mind that maybe you're playing right into his hands?

Still crouching, her nerves stretched tight as bowstrings, she rocked back on her heels and took several deep breaths. Her heart was pounding a desperate tattoo. Nervous sweat collected on her back.

She was freaking herself out. She'd been keyed up already and then the fight with Leah had hyped her up. But here, cowering on his sailboat in the middle of a storm, expecting him to leap out and what—slash her throat?—was crazy.

Pull yourself together.

And get the hell out. Coming here was a mistake.

She made her way up the stairs and to the deck, where the storm had abated, the wind dying, the rain a steady drizzle. What had she been thinking coming here—and bringing a gun? He was making her act like a lunatic, driving her crazy. She had to get a grip and just forget him, or if he kept ramping up the harassment, go to the police. Face the consequences.

Like a sane person.

She pocketed the stupid pistol, and her hand brushed against the surprise she'd brought Gideon, the dead rat she'd put in a Ziploc bag next to the bracelet, both of which she intended to—Thud!

He landed right in front of her.

Gasping, feet sliding on the wet deck, she scrambled backward as she stared at him, dressed in black—pants, jacket, gloves—still in a crouch, as if ready to spring.

"What the hell—?" She glanced upward and realized he'd been on the mast, hidden in the dark, and had probably been watching her the whole time.

He was a psycho.

"What're you doing here?" he demanded. His hair was plastered to his head, his skin shiny with rain.

Well, now she was in it. Time for the truth. "I came here to end it with you."

Even in the darkness she saw him cock a skeptical eyebrow.

"Really?" he mocked. "By coming to my home?"

"It was a mistake." She started for the gangway, but he blocked her path.

"Was it?"

"Yes. For God's sake, Gideon, it's over and you won't accept it. I found your damned cameras and the rat and the bracelet. For the love of God, I know you've been in my house, stalking me, okay?" she said, and rather than be intimidated she took a step toward him. "I'm tired of you playing your sick little games, all right? It's over. No more fake delivery guys and security guards, no more stealing my dog, no more leaving things in my house where you want me to find them!" She was angry, her pulse jumping.

"You love it."

"I hate it! And that's why I came here. To tell you to leave me and my family the hell alone. Texts and phone messages don't work," she said. "So I thought I'd do it face-to-face. Isn't that how you wanted it?"

"What I want," he said distinctly, "is you."

"Fuck that. What I want is for you to leave me alone."

"Liar," he accused, coming closer. Too close.

"It's over."

"It will never be over. You know that."

"Of course it will. Right here. Right now!"

"No," he countered. "One way or another, you and I, Brooke, we will be together. Forever. I will never let you go. Never."

"You're nuts!"

He actually smiled then, that crooked smile that once had seemed full of sexual promise and now was only evil. "You came here because you want me." Another step. "You're enjoying this."

"Bullshit!" She retrieved the bracelet and held it over the rail. "Don't you ever come near me or my family, even my damned dog, again!" She let the bobble dangle for a second before releasing it into the water. "No more!" She reached into her pocket and took out the nest of tiny cameras, some with wires still attached. "No more spying! No more fake pizza drivers and security guards." She shot her arm over the rail and dropped the spy equipment into the water. "Got it? And for God's sake, no more damned dead rats!" She reached into her pocket and withdrew the Ziploc bag. Inside the plastic was the lifeless rodent, tail wrapped around its curled body. "No more anything!" She dropped the rat in its plastic shroud over the side of the boat.

A gust of wind snatched at her hood, pulling it off. "I won't be terrorized by you, Gideon," she warned him and swept her burner cell from her pocket. "We. Are. Done." Her eyes scorched him in her fury. "You got it?" She warned, "If you don't, if you make one more call, step onto my porch, contact me in any way, I'm going to the police."

He actually laughed. "Don't think so." He'd moved closer now and she reached into her pocket one final time, her finger surrounding the butt of Neal's gun.

"And why not?" she asked, taking the bait.

He seemed smug. "Because, Brooke, I have evidence."

"Evidence?" What the hell was he talking about?

"That you've been stalking me."

"That I've been stalking you? No way. No one would believe that. Not after what you've done."

"What proof do you have?" he asked, and she glanced overboard where the rat, the cameras, and the bracelet were now presumably at the bottom of the bay.

When she didn't answer he said, "Yeah, too bad, eh?" and followed her gaze to the water.

Her heart turned to stone. She thought of Marilee in the shower, or her underwear, or naked in her room. Or of her and Neal making love. "You bastard."

His eyes sparked as he stepped closer. "Oh, more than what you're thinking," and the smugness of his expression was a warning.

"You don't know what I'm thinking."

"Don't I?" He was close now. "You're a fake, Brooke! You and your precious little postcard-perfect family," he mocked. "The perfect husband who never strayed; the teenager who's kept up her grades and athletics and never dabbled in alcohol, pot, and boys. The loving wife who's never so much as looked at another man, much less warmed his bed and begged for him to fuck her?"

She slapped him. Hard. The smack against his wet skin resounded in her ears.

"That's right, Brooke. Attack. Hit and kick and bite. Like before. You're such a hot little bitch." She reached back again, but he caught her wrist in his gloved hand and drew her close. "That's your problem, isn't it?" he said, almost in a snarl. "Good thing I've got pictures of our last fight. Of your attack. How you coldcocked me and drew blood."

"What?"

"Not only did I catch it all on camera, but I've got a witness. My neighbor on the next boat." He hitched his chin to the little sailboat where she'd seen the balding man with the pail of fish.

"No one would believe you!" she spat and tried to pull her hand from his.

His fingers were a manacle. Kept her bound.

"And just now, while you were snooping around the cabin of my boat, prowling around and trespassing. And with a weapon? A gun?" He made little tsking noises and she wilted inside. "I've got pictures of that too. A video. Amazing what technology can do these days." He yanked her even closer. "So don't be so sure of yourself. The police aren't going to buy it."

How diabolical was he? How depraved?

"I don't think you'd want to risk going to jail. What would Neal think? Does he know? And what about pretty little Marilee? How would she feel if her mother were behind bars? A second offense."

"What?" she whispered.

"Old records could come to light."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied, but fear grew within. As little as she knew about him, he seemed privy to everything about her. She glanced to the docks, hoping to see someone, anyone, out, but the vessels moored to their berths were, for the most part, dark. No one had ventured out in the storm.

"You haven't talked to Keith Turnquist lately?"

No! Oh no! Immediately, he had her full attention again. He didn't have to say anymore. She was shaking her head in disbelief. "That's old history and sealed and—"

"And the truth, Brooke." To prove his point, he pulled her so close his breath was warm against her face. Startled, she felt his hand on her waist. What?

His free hand snaked into her pocket.

She tried to tear herself away.

Too late!

He came up with the gun.

"You should know better than to play with firearms."

He held the Beretta—Neal's Beretta—to her chest. Would he really shoot her? Risk wounding himself? Dear Jesus, she had no idea.

"As long as there's a breath of life in my body, I will never let you go," he vowed.

"Please, Gideon, if you ever loved me, please, just let me and my family be."

"Love?" he repeated and his eyes, dark with obsession, bored into hers. "Is that what you think this is?"

No, she knew better now! This was obsession. Power. Love had nothing to do with it.

She had to get away.

Now!

She had to get off this boat and—

She threw herself backward, her feet slipping on the deck. Still he held on. They slammed against the wet rail, pain jarring through her body. "Help!" she yelled, no longer worried about the consequences as they banged into the rail again. He was crazy. Maybe willing to kill them both. "Help!"

"Shut up!" he yelled, his face twisted in rage. His visage demonic in the light from the security lamp. Still unsteady, he hauled back with the gun, intent on striking her. "Shut the fuck—"

She kicked. Hard. Connected with his shin. He yowled. Pain ricocheted up her leg. She tried again and he moved quickly, too quickly.

"If I can't have you," he growled, his face a mask of determination, "no one can!"

She didn't think, just threw herself backward.

Over the rail.

He didn't let go.

Struggling, they splashed into the frigid water of the bay.

As they hit the water, his grip loosened.

Desperately, she kicked. Away. Hard. Fast. Deeper into the cold, cold depths, twisting and flailing.

But he was right there. She saw his menacing form, silhouetted by the thin light of the security lamp. She started to swim away and then she caught a glimpse of it.

Falling between them.

The gun!

Sinking fast.

Bubbles swirled around them, but she saw the dark glint and swam for it. Closer to him. Deeper.

Where, where, where was it?

Still sinking.

Frantic, she propelled herself downward.

Touched the barrel as it sank.

Felt the swirl of water nearby.

Gideon!

He was so close.

Again, she dove deep, her lungs beginning to burn. She saw the Beretta as it reached the bottom. Made a swing for it. Juggled it as it slipped through her fingers. She pirouetted through a cascade of bubbles. Where was it? Where?

From the corner of her eye she saw Gideon reach for her.

Diving closer.

She kicked back, felt his hand graze her shoulder.

Find it! Find the damned gun!

She saw a glint in the surrounding detritus.

Shot forward, lungs on fire.

Come on!

Gideon clamped a hand on her arm.

She grasped frantically for the weapon with her free hand, scraping the muck.

The gun rotated, spiraled upward with a plume of silt.

She grabbed for it, fingers scraping metal, just as a strong hand grasped hers, grappling for the weapon. Bubbles released as her lungs began to scream for air, but she wouldn't let go, wouldn't let him win.

They struggled, the water churning around them, legs striking legs as they swirled together in this macabre water dance, the Beretta clasped between them.

Heart pumping, lungs ready to explode, she felt his fingers peeling hers away from the gun.

God, no!

She kicked as hard as she could and felt something rend within her, a tearing, as she held tight to the Beretta, her index finger slipping through the trigger guard.

His finger tightened over hers as they fought.

The gun fired.

Her body jerked.

The gun sank.

Gideon lost his grip.

His fingers fell away.

His face turned ashen, a ghastly mask.

Drifting backward, he stared at her, his eyes round and disbelieving.

Blood clouded the water between them.

Brooke didn't wait.

Through the pain and horror, she kicked like hell, shooting upward, her lungs about to burst.

Swim!

Kick!

Get the hell out of here!

She focused on the security lamp, an orb growing brighter as she swam upward.

She broke the surface.

Gulped air frantically.

Gasping, choking, searching the black water.

Where was he? Where?

She spun, searching the darkness. Expecting to see him rise to the surface near her and drag her down.

Don't wait. Just get the hell out of here!Now!

Still dragging in precious air, she began to swim to the shore, toward the boat ramp near the parking lot. As she dragged herself onto the sloped asphalt of the ramp, she took one last look back to the black, undulating water.

No sign of another person in the depths.

She closed her eyes, felt tears mingle with the rain running down her face, then pushed herself to her feet.

She didn't know if he was dead or alive.

Either way she prayed she would never see him again.

Never.