No doubt about it—he was trapped but good.
Ben clambered up the ladder, moving so quickly he banged his head on a metal panel. The pain made his vision blur, but he ignored it. He had to figure some way out of this. Somewhere to go, something to do …
“I’m coming after you, Kincaid!” He heard the voice below him and it chilled his blood. “There’s nowhere you can go.”
Ben threw open the door to the main cabin and ran inside.
“Christina!”
She wasn’t there, damn it. The two candles were still burning bright on the tabletop. A half-empty champagne flute indicated where she’d been.
“Christina!” He had to let her know what they were up against. Besides, she was the smart one in the team. Surely she could think of some way out.
“Christina!”
She was gone. Worse, his shouting would lead Matthews straight to him. There were few enough hiding places on this boat without him helping the killer locate him. He started back toward the door—
Just in time to see Matthews coming at him, barely five feet away. Ben tried to slam the metal door shut, but Matthews got his shoe wedged into it.
“Give it up, Ben,” Matthews said, just outside the door. “There’s nowhere you can go.”
Ben strained with all his might, but he couldn’t close the door. Desperate, he reached over to the table and grabbed one of the candles, still lit, and shoved it through.
“Ow!” Matthews’s foot withdrew. His hand shot out, knocking the candle out of Ben’s hand. Ben shoved the door closed, then tried to turn the friction handles to seal it. Before he could turn them, though, he felt the pressure on the other side remounting.
Matthews was slamming himself against the door.
Ben glanced over his shoulder. The candle had landed on the table. The tablecloth was burning.
“It’s no use!” Matthews bellowed. “Give it up!”
“The cabin’s on fire!” Ben cried back. “If you don’t stop, your yacht will go up in flames!”
“I want those bonds!”
“If you don’t put away the knife, I’ll toss them into the fire!”
Matthews’s only response was to pound against the metal door all the harder. Ben clenched his teeth and tried to hold firm, but he knew he couldn’t keep this up forever. Eventually, Matthews would break through.
The fire was spreading. Ben wanted to put it out while there was still time, but he couldn’t let up on the door.
An idea came to him. It was inevitable that Matthews would get in. Maybe he should bow to the inevitable—at least for a moment.
Ben gave it up. He released the pressure on his side of the door.
The door began to open. Ben waited until he saw Matthews’s hand cautiously slip through the opening …
Then slammed the door shut, hard. Right on Matthews’s hand.
Matthews screamed like a banshee. Which was fine with Ben. Besides the fact that it meant Matthews was in pain, which was good, Christina would surely hear it and know something was amiss.
“You’ll pay for this, Kincaid!” On the other side, Ben heard the clanging of heavy footsteps on the metal floor.
Ben braced himself, waiting for the reprisal. But nothing came. The pressure on the other side of the door was gone.
What was the son of a bitch up to now?
After a long moment, he cracked the door open. Matthews was gone, both he and the knife. Why?
The answer hit him like an atom bomb.
He was going after Christina.
Where was she? He peered through the glass ceiling to the deck above. He couldn’t see it all, but what he did see did not contain Christina.
He left the cabin and raced down the ladder. Most likely Christina had retreated to one of the private bedrooms. Maybe she had a headache, needed to lie down. He raced across the scaffold, opening every door and peering inside.
No Christina. And no Matthews, either.
Panic was setting in. He felt his heart pounding, practically beating its way out of his chest. What had he done? What had he done to Christina?
He smelled smoke; the fire in the main cabin must be spreading. Damn! As if they didn’t have enough problems already.
He spotted the ladder that led to the upper deck. Maybe Christina was up there; maybe she wanted to stargaze or commune with her inner self or some such.
He clambered up the ladder, checking behind him with every other step. Still no sign of Matthews. But Ben knew he couldn’t be far away.
He reached the top of the ladder and threw himself on top of the deck.
“Hello, Ben. Glad to see you.”
It was Matthews. He was ahead of him. Just as he’d been all along.
He was holding Christina tight, one arm pinned behind her back.
And the knife pressed against her throat.
Mike pounded on the door. “Wake up! Police!”
Fred stood nervously behind him. “Maybe there’s no one in there.”
“There is someone in there,” Mike growled. “He just doesn’t want to come to the door.”
“That might have something to do with the fact that it’s the middle of the night.”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s the middle of Armageddon.” Mike pounded again, so hard the door almost splintered. “Wake up!”
A few moments later, an elderly man in a bathrobe hobbled to the door. “Yes?”
Mike didn’t hold back an instant. “Are you in charge of this dock?”
The man’s eyes, barely open to begin with, narrowed. “We’re not open. Come back at eight.”
“I can’t wait till eight.”
“We’re not open!”
Mike whipped out his badge. “If I say you’re open, you’re open.”
The man bristled. “What’s this about? If this is about that goddamned Sam Bullfinch and his fishing license—”
“It isn’t. Have you got a yacht owned by a man named Jack Matthews?”
“He docks here, yeah.”
“Where’s the boat? Show me.”
“Can’t. He took it out tonight.”
Mike’s head felt so tight he thought it might explode at any moment. “Where? Where did he go?”
“How the hell should I know? I’m just a dockmaster. They don’t have to file a flight plan before they take off.”
Mike laid his hand firmly on the man’s shoulder. “Listen to me, sir. This is very important. I need to know where that boat is.”
The man put his hands on his hips. “And I’m telling you, mister, I don’t know where it is. And all the badges in the world ain’t gonna change—” He paused, glancing over Mike’s shoulder. “Well, hell, mister. Isn’t that her?”
Mike whirled around. “What? Where?”
The man pointed past him, toward the ocean. “Over there. "Bout a thousand yards out or so. See her?”
Mike squinted. The fog obscured his vision, but when he strained, he could see something in the moonlight. Some kind of ship. A big one.
“How do I get out there?”
“Well, I’m no expert,” the old man said dryly. “But I think you probably need a boat.”
“Where do I get a boat?”
“Beats me. The boat store?”
Mike leaned in to the man so close he had no room to hide, barely enough to breathe. “Listen to me, old man. This may be amusing the hell out of you, but I’m not laughing. I’m not laughing because my friends are on that boat and they’re in danger. And so help me, you will get me out there, if I have to strap oars to your sides and row you like a boat!”
The old man drew his head back. “Well, jeez Louise,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you just say so?”