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The sound of gunshots told her the ruse had worked. Shradick was too busy firing at her jacket to see that she was swimming away from the cover of the pier. She surfaced for another breath, dove, and kept swimming an underwater course parallel to shore, surfacing, diving again. She could hear Shradick still shooting. Sooner or later, though, he'd realize he was aiming at an empty jacket and he'd turn to scan the open water; she had only a few precious seconds to put as much distance as possible between her and the warehouse pier.
She surfaced a fifth time and saw that she'd pulled even with the next pier, where the trawler was moored. She turned toward shore and began to stroke for all she was worth, aiming for the trawler.
The gunshots had ceased. She came up for air and glanced in Shradick's direction. He was pacing the pier now, his gaze sca
A gunshot rang out, ricocheted off the trawler's hull. He had spotted her!
Soaked, exhausted, she could barely pull herself up onto the next rung. So little time-already, Shradick was dashing back up the warehouse pier, toward shore. Another few seconds and he'd be on the next pier, cutting off her escape. She reached for the next rung, and the next. Water streamed off her clothes. The wind kept banging the ladder against the hull, bruising her fingers. She grabbed the edge of the gunwale and hauled herself up and over.
She tumbled, gasping, onto the deck. No time, no time! She struggled to her feet and dashed to the starboard side, ready to leap off onto the pier.
Too late. Shradick was already ru
She scrambled to the ship's pilot house, yanked at the door. It was locked. What now? Back in the water?
She ran back to the stern and gazed down at the roiling waves, preparing herself for another dive. But she knew she didn't have the strength to swim any longer. Her whole body was shaking from the cold. Another ten minutes in the sea would finish her.
She looked toward shore: Shradick was on the pier now, and coming her way.
Her gaze shifted back to the stern, and two words stenciled in red on a deck locker caught her eye: Emergency Supplies.
She threw open the lid. Inside were life jackets, blankets, tools.
And a flare gun.
She reached for it. With trembling hands, she slipped a flare in the barrel, cocked the gun. One shot-that was the only chance she'd have.
Shradick's footsteps thudded closer across the pier.
M. J. swiveled, ducked around to the port side of the pilot house. There she crouched, waiting, listening. She heard his footsteps come to a stop on the pier somewhere along the starboard side. Then she heard the soft metallic thump as he stepped aboard.
Which way was he coming? Fore or aft?
She took a gamble-maybe the last she'd ever take-and moved toward the bow. There she crouched at the edge of the pilot house. Not a sound reached her. Not a footstep, nothing. There was only the roar of her own blood through her ears.
Then, suddenly, there he was. He stepped around the corner of the pilothouse, right in front of her. There was no pity in his gaze, no expression at all. He raised the pistol.
She brought the flare gun up and fired.
His shriek was like a wild animal's, cutting through the roar of the wind. He staggered backward, his chest hissing with phosphorescent sparks. His gun clattered to the deck. M. J. scrambled forward and grabbed it. Shradick fell on his back and lay jerking in agony, screaming, tearing at his clothes. M. J. clutched the pistol and stood over him, the barrel pointed at his head. I could pull this trigger, she thought. I could blow you away. I want to blow you away.
But she only stood there, watching him twitch. The terror, the exhaustion, had drained her of the ability to move. She was afraid to turn her back on him, even for an instant, afraid he'd suddenly rise up like a monster from the grave. So she kept the gun pointed at him, even as the sound of sirens wailed closer, even as the wind shrieked in her ears. She heard car doors slam, heard footsteps pounding up the pier. Only when they'd twice yelled the command: "Drop it!" did she finally look up.
Two cops stood on the pier, their guns pointed at her.
"Drop it or we shoot!" one of them shouted.
She dropped the gun and kicked it away, where Shradick wouldn't reach it, even if he could. Then, slowly, she turned to the cops and staggered toward them.
"Help me," she said. She stretched her hands to them, and her voice dissolved into a moan of grief. "Help me…"
He still had a pulse. Crouching beside him in the darkness of the warehouse, M. J. felt the faint throb of Adam's carotid artery. "He's alive!" she cried.
The cop shone his flashlight, and the beam came down on Adam's blood-soaked shirt. "Jesus," he muttered, and turned to yell at his partner. "Get the ambulance crew in here first!"
"Adam," whispered M. J. She brushed back his hair, cradled his face in her lap. "Adam, you have to live. Do you hear me? Damn you, you have to live!"
He didn't answer. All she heard was the sound of his breathing. It came in short, unsteady gasps, but at least his lungs were working.
She was still holding him in her arms when the EMTs arrived. They swept in with their stretcher, their IV bottles, their bag of tricks. As she stood by uselessly, they bundled him up and away, into the ambulance. She was left standing in the buffeting wind as the wail of sirens faded into the distance.
"You have to live," she whispered. "Because I love you."
Footsteps creaked across the pier. Dazed, she turned to see Lou Beamis, holding out a blanket. "Blue lips aren't very becoming," he said, and slipped the blanket over her shoulders. "You okay, Novak?"
"Just… cold," She shuddered, and the tears suddenly flooded her eyes. "He saved my life."
"I know."
"And I didn't believe in him. I was afraid to believe in him…"
"Maybe it's time you did."
She looked up at Beamis's gleaming black face. Leave it to a homicide cop, she thought. An old hand at death dishing out advice to the living.
She turned to his car. "Take me to the hospital."
"Right now?"
"Right now," she said, and climbed into the car. "When he wakes up, I want to be there."
She was there when he came out of surgery. She stayed at his bedside as he slept all night. Other visitors came and went, but she remained. He slept most of the next morning as well, kept under by narcotics. The bullet had passed through his left lung, nicked his pericardium, and missed his ventricle by a fraction of an inch. He'd lost massive amounts of blood, his lung was collapsed, and he had plastic tubes gurgling out of his chest, but he was a lucky man.
At 10:00 A.M., Beamis appeared to fill her in on the latest. Shradick had massive phosphorus burns on his chest, but he would be okay-certainly well enough to stand trial for murder times three. Ed Novak was telling the press he'd long had suspicions about Ben Fuller's death, and only his tireless efforts had broken the case. The jerk was going to come out smelling like a rose, but M. J. didn't care. She figured that if the voters of Albion chose to elect Ed Novak and Mayor Sampson, then mediocrity was exactly what they deserved.