Eleventh Hour

She looked up. She was in a small room, lots of wood, cramped. She looked to her left. There was Sherlock, tied to another chair, her head slumped forward.

The room lurched. Moved. She realized they were on a boat and the boat was moving fast, the engine pushing hard. She smelled the water and the diesel, heard the powerful engine, felt the boat bounce and rock as it sliced through the waves.

Boat?

“Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock? Please, come out of it. You can do it.”

Silence, then, “Nick?”

“Yes, I’m all right, just a horrible headache. He got you, too. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock got herself together, closed her eyes, tried to get her brain back in gear. “Nick, I’ll be okay, just give me a minute.”

The boat slammed down and Nick’s chair nearly toppled.

“We’re in a boat, going really fast,” she said.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I can feel it. I’m very sorry I let him get me, Nick. At least I’d already called Dillon. Every cop in Chicago will be looking for us, count on it.”

“We’re on John’s boat. I’ve been out on it a couple of times. It’s good-sized, a sixty-three-foot Hatteras Fly-bridge yacht. It’s really fast, Sherlock. He used to brag that it could do twenty-one knots.”

“It feels like he’s nearly at maximum. The man’s nuts, Nick. I can’t understand how a United States senator could do something like this. I can’t imagine how he got both of us out of the building and here on his boat, all without being seen. He’s a very well-known man.”

“It isn’t John, Sherlock. You guys were right, it was Albia. The guy who’s driving the boat is Dwight, the man who tried to kill me three times.”

Sherlock digested that. “You know something? I don’t feel all that smart that we figured out Albia was behind it.”

“I wonder where Dwight is taking us?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. She was afraid she knew. Dwight was going to take them to the middle of Lake Michigan, weigh them down, and toss them overboard.

It’s what she would have done if she were nuts and in a hurry.

“Crane Island,” Nick said suddenly. “Maybe he’s taking us to Crane Island. Albia said that John owns a house there, really private.”

Fat chance, Sherlock thought, unless he wanted to kill them and bury them there. She wasn’t about to say that to Nick. She got her breathing and her brain together, shook her head just very slightly so she wouldn’t be sick, and raised her head. “You’re right, there’s the boat logo over there. My cell phone, Nick, it’s in my pocket. We’ve got to get loose and use it. Nick, how tight are your wrists tied?”

Several moments passed before Nick said, “Real tight, but my ankles aren’t too bad.”

“Mine are tight, too. Okay, do you think you can move yourself closer to me?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

Nick was nearly there when the boat hit a big wave and she toppled to the side. She hit her face against the thin carpet on the wood floor. She was winded, lay there a moment trying to get herself together.

“Nick, you all right?”

“Yes, but I don’t know if I can still get over to you, Sherlock.”

“I’ve been working on my ankles, they’re a bit looser, maybe. Let me see if I can’t get over to you.”

It took time, so much precious time, but finally Sherlock was right next to Nick. “Okay, no hope for it. I’m going to have to topple myself and hope that I’m close enough to reach your wrists.”

Sherlock’s chair went over. She looked over her shoulder. She was too far from Nick’s wrists. She wiggled, pushed, as did Nick. Finally, she could touch her hands. She was panting hard, pain shooting up her arms. “At last. Just a bit closer, Nick. Hurry. That’s good.”

Sherlock went to work. They were both aware of time, and too much of it was passing too fast. Dwight could stop the boat any minute, come down the wooden stairs, and shoot them. Oh God, it was all her fault. She’d been arrogant, so sure of herself-oh God, she felt low as a slug. She thought of Sean, of Dillon, and knew, knew to her soul that she simply couldn’t die. She wouldn’t.

She concentrated, focused. The knot was loosening, finally. “Nick, get the rope off your hands, quick. We don’t have much time.”

Nick pulled her hands free, got her ankles untied, then went to work on Sherlock’s wrists. She was panting, but not with fear now, with hope, urging herself to move quicker, quicker.

The boat was slowing down.

“Hurry, Nick!”

Done, her wrists were free. Both of them untied Sherlock’s ankles. They both pulled themselves to their feet. But they were uncoordinated, numb from being tied so long. “He took my cell phone,” Sherlock said, panting. “Blast it.”

The boat was coming to a stop.

Sherlock managed to get to the galley area, pulled out drawers until she found the knives. “Here, Nick,” and handed her a knife. “Can you move now? Damn, I’d rather have my SIG, well, no matter, at least it’s a steak knife, with a nice sharp serrated edge. The boat’s stopped. We’re not in the middle of the lake. We’re at a pier. I was sure he’d just shoot us and throw us overboard. Do you think we’re at this Crane Island?”

“Yes, we’re at Crane Island,” Dwight said, walking down the stairs. “Come to think of it, I wish I’d buried Cleo here. No hunters allowed, you know? Well, well, would you just look, both of you free. How very efficient of you, Agent Sherlock. Ladies, put those knives down. I want you to come up the stairs, slowly, your hands on your heads. Do it or I’ll shoot you right here. Oh yes, you’re going to die in a beautiful place. I’m going to bury you beneath some ancient pine trees at the back of Senator Rothman’s property.”

Nick dropped the steak knife. She put her face in her hands and started crying, low, ugly sobs.

Dwight laughed. He’d taken off his leather jacket. He was wearing a black T-shirt, khaki pants held up with a silver belt with a big turquoise buckle, and sneakers. He laughed, watching her fall apart. “I knew once you realized that you weren’t long for this earth, you’d break. I expect more from an FBI agent. I bet she won’t shed a tear.

“Pull yourself together, Nicola. I’m not going to kill you right away. Think of all the trouble you’ve caused me and poor Albia. I’ve got to punish you for that. I promised Albia I would. I’m going to let the two of you wonder about the end I’ve got pla

“What plans?” Sherlock asked.

“You’ll see,” he said. “I want you to go up the stairs first, Agent.”

Sherlock nodded to Nick, turned, and began climbing those nine wooden steps up to the deck.

Nick just nodded, and sobbed some more. She felt his hand pushing against her back, and trailed after Sherlock. Once on deck, she kept her head down, kept the choking sobs coming from her mouth. She saw they were docked at a long stretch of wooden planking. There was a narrow strip of beach, tossed with driftwood. The land looked wild, all thick pine forests as far as she could see.

“Welcome to Crane Island. Albia assures me there won’t be any interruptions. It’s a perfect place, just what I needed. Come along, Nicola, don’t hang back like that. Pull yourself together. I expected more from you. Even Cleo didn’t carry on the way you are.”

But Nick was crying harder now, completely out of control. She dropped to her knees and crawled to Dwight. She clutched at his feet, his ankles, sobbing, “Please, Dwight, let us go. I swear I’ll never say a word. I’ll run and never come back. Don’t kill me.”

“God, you’re pathetic. Get up!”

But she didn’t, just kept pleading, trying to grab his knees.

He leaned down to grab her and pull her upright when Nick suddenly wrapped her arms around his knees and jerked him forward. He yelled, off-balance, and tried to hit her with the gun. Sherlock, who had been waiting, straightened and turned, smoothly sending her foot hard into his left kidney. He went stiff in agony, then yelled. He turned the gun on her, but Nick was hitting his knees, trying to jerk him down again. He struck Nick’s cheek with his fist, then whirled on Sherlock. He tried to back up, but her leg was up and she kicked him in the ribs. He didn’t dive away, ran straight at her and managed to grab a fistful of her hair. He twisted, pulled. Sherlock yelled in pain and rage, and first slammed her fist into his gut, then her foot into his crotch. He yelled, bent over, his finger pulling the trigger of his gun. Two shots went wild. Nick threw herself at his knees, shoved him backward with all her strength. As he fell, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and twisted it hard. He dropped the gun to the deck and fell on his face. Sherlock scooped it up.