Goddammit, what the fuck?
She started to struggle her way off the bunk and then realized her memory had fully returned.
All of it.
She knew.
Two days before the attack, she had signed up for the Classfriends site and filled out a profile. A message from the site arrived that very night from Don Kern.
She politely replied before deleting it.
And several more arrived the next day, until she finally set him to ignore.
And deleted all his messages, which explained why she hadn’t seen them when she looked in the account.
Kern showed up at her apartment Friday night. She’d been aggravated by the knock on her door, and it was so stupid of her to open it in the first place when she spotted him through the peephole. She was going to tell him to leave or she’d call the police, but when she opened the door he shoved it, knocking her off balance as he rushed in and attacked her.
He kicked the door shut behind him and went after her. She’d screamed, clawed at him, ripping a few nails down to the quick in the process.
“I just want to talk to you, Laura,” he’d said in a creepy voice, sounding very calm. “But you’re such a bitch, you won’t let me. So I won’t let you talk to anyone else, either.”
He’d hit her, beat her, and still she fought. She tried to get to the kitchen, where there was a knife on the counter from preparing dinner, and he slammed her into the wall. She knew she surprised him with the ferocity of her resistance. He wanted to tie her up and rape her before strangling her, he told her that. Then when she wouldn’t stop fighting, he kept hitting her, finally getting the rope around her neck and strangling her…
Laura folded against the bunk.
How could I have been so fucking blind?
He’d wanted to get together with her and she’d politely declined, feeling a little creeped out by his enthusiasm and insistence. She’d made the mistake of putting the shop’s website in her profile.
That’s how he must have tracked her down.
Dammit!
MedicineMan.
She silently groaned, feeling terminally stupid. He’d baited her that day at lunch, told her what he did for a living and knew he was safe when she didn’t react at all.
Shit. Of course, that’s how he knew she was pregnant. He’d been at the doctor’s office the day she found out. Probably overheard the receptionist asking her about Lamaze class information.
Now she wondered if he’d really just “happened” to drop by. The receptionist had said she hadn’t been expecting him.
He’d likely followed her.
Wincing, she peeled the duct tape off her mouth, trying to stay quiet. And now her fear took over. He was going to kill her. He’d lied at lunch, knowing her memory was gone.
He had asked her out in college, and she’d refused him because she was dating someone else. The psych prof. Yes, that part was true.
She’d turned him down again after joining the Classfriends site when he asked her to go out through the private messages. She’d meant to tell Rob about it and kept forgetting, not thinking anything of it, used to turning down harmless FetLife creeps without a second thought.
In college, she’d paid little attention to Kern, too caught up in her relationship to even notice him, really.
Scanning the cabin, she spied a filet knife stowed in its scabbard, tucked into a cubby next to the small galley sink. Working with the rolling of the boat she made her way to it and managed to free it without stabbing herself.
Then she heard footsteps on the deck. She flopped back onto the bunk, turning her face away from the hatch, the knife clutched in her hands, and lay still.
She heard the cabin hatch open, then close again. He was likely checking to see if she was still out.
She wasn’t sure he was gone until she heard his steps on the deck again. Sitting up, she held the knife handle between her knees and sawed through the tape. Once her feet were free she looked around for a weapon. She couldn’t bring a knife to a gun fight—he’d simply shoot her.
She needed distance.
Unfortunately, the knife was her best—her only weapon. Then she had to grab the counter as the boat hit a hard swell and pounded into a deep trough, nearly throwing her off her feet.
Dumbass obviously doesn’t know how to pilot a boat.
But a metallic rattle overhead drew her attention and she looked up.
Of course!
Rob arrived at the shop and walked around back. “Laur?”
He went inside and found her cell phone on the counter. “Honey?” He stuck his head into the office, no sign of her. Then he realized what was wrong.
He ran to the back door and looked out again.
The cruiser was gone. “Shit.”
He called 911 first, then Steve. Thomas showed up twenty minutes later while he was giving his statement to the responding deputies.
“How do you know something’s wrong?” Thomas asked.
“She would never take the boat out in weather like this, for starters. And she was waiting for me. Plus there’s a strange car in the parking lot.”
Steve ran in. “What’s wrong?”
Rob gave him the short version. “He’s right,” Steve said. “She wouldn’t do that. Not willingly.” He went behind the counter to the VHF radio, turned it on, and grabbed the mic.
“Lemon Dive One, Lemon Dive One, this is Lemon Dive Base, over.” He let up on the button and they waited.
Laura heard Steve on the radio from inside the cabin. Kern must have turned it on. There was a moment of silence before Steve repeated the hail.
“Lemon Dive One, Lemon Dive One, this is Lemon Dive Base. Laura, you out there? Over.”
A relieved breath escaped her.
Thank god, at least they know I’m missing.
She heard the engines throttle back, idling. Kern thought she was still passed out, obviously. Then came the sound of him walking up to the bow, followed by the sound of him opening the front bow locker hatch and the rattle of anchor chain against the deck as he removed it.
Apparently he didn’t know what the windlass was for. That was the spare anchor he’d tossed, the small one. In seas like this, it wouldn’t hold, it would drag. It was mostly for back-up. They’d end up crossways to the waves with the wind blowing across it.
She shut down those thoughts as she made her hands race faster.
“Lemon Dive One, this is Base. Laura, if you don’t answer, I’m calling Ft. Myers Beach. Over.”
She knew he meant the Coast Guard station.
She heard the anchor hit the water and hurried her preparations, knowing she would only have one shot to do this. The speargun had a powerhead holder shaft affixed to the side. Fortunately, Steve kept a stash of .223 blanks in the cabin. Her hands trembled as she loaded the round into the powerhead and twisted it down, not yet arming it.
She examined the bands on the gun. One was a little dried out and cracked, but the other looked nearly new. She checked the spear and found it was secure.
She was out of practice, and it was harder to do on a pitching boat and with a baby belly, but she propped the gun butt against her thigh and managed to cock the band before she thumbed off the safety.
Then she armed the powerhead and backed into the alcove, wedged between the tiny galley on her right and the entry on her left, and waited.
Kern stumbled on his way back from the bow. She prayed for a splash but no such luck. He regained his footing and she followed his progress, heard him jump down from the gunwale to the deck. He paused long enough for her to wonder what he was doing before she heard him approach the hatchway.