Breach Of Promise

Amazingly, the key remained in the ignition of Matt’s boat. Fighting lances of pain in her arm, Nina turned the key and took hold of the wheel.

Nothing happened. The Andreadore had died without even offering up its usual nose-thumbing, the smell in the air of gasoline. Matt’s boat began to drift east, following the route of the kayak, going out to the big lake beyond.

But maybe it was okay, Nina thought. Maybe Genevieve would forget about hurting any of them, dock on land near Vikingsholm, and climb to the highway. Maybe she had a car stashed up there. She could be in L.A. by evening, gone from their lives forever, buried in its anonymous millions.

But even while she told herself this story with a happy ending, Nina didn’t believe it. Genevieve had come too far. She had listened in on the jury. She had already killed. Now she would collect her pay.

The same thought must have occurred to Genevieve because she turned the boat back toward the island.

Paul saw Nina reach the boat and heard voices, but he had no further attention to spare on Nina’s troubles. The cove was tiny, but once he reached the deeper waters beyond where he had seen Winston, he had to concentrate on locating the head that had resurfaced once already. Stroke, stroke, steady.

Out of breath, and so cold he had to remove himself mentally from his body to go on, he finally reached him.

Grabbing first by the hair, then by the shirt Winston still wore, Paul began to tow the other man. “Winston,” he said, gasping for air. “Can you help me at all?”

A gurgle, then a strangled voice. “My hands are literally tied, man!”

Genevieve had removed the ropes around Winston’s ankles but she had left the ropes Paul had tied around his wrists. Paul tried but could not remove them. He had done a very good job tying them. “I’m just going to have to drag you in,” he said.

“Get these ropes off!” Winston pleaded, frenzied. “I’m drowning! Get them off!”

“Hang on,” Paul said. He had no energy left, not enough to argue, and certainly not enough to lug a football player across this melted continent to safety. He began to kick his feet, trying to paddle with one arm.

“You’re going to kill me!” Winston sputtered, as his head dipped into the churning lake.

They had gone no more than fifty feet before Paul heard it: the motorboat returning.

Well, dark or not, Genevieve could see them easily. The moon had risen, and above the silvery water and raindrops he imagined his head as the light side of the moon, to Winston’s dark.

“We’re going down,” he said, “out of sight.”

Winston struggled violently until he was out of Paul’s grasp. Held aloft by sheer will, unable even to paddle, he faced the boat that was coming at them. “Augh! Augh! Genevieve stop!” he shouted. “No!”

Rushing at them like a locomotive, big as an ocean liner, the immensity of death obliterated their small horizon.

Nina watched in horror as Genevieve plowed straight into Paul and Winston. So immersed in emotion she felt she, too, had been hit by Genevieve’s boat, she twisted the starter on Matt’s boat like a crazy person who had only one obsessive task to attempt and never complete. After inspecting the water for the reemergence of Paul and Winston, Genevieve brought the boat around swiftly and started back for Nina. She pla

“Start, damn you!” Nina jammed the key into the ignition once again and twisted, but the boat did not start.

What had Matt said on their last trip out, while she squawked and complained and swore she would never get it? The boat will start. What starts the boat is not technique, it is confidence. Here’s confidence right here, see it? The black lever to the right of the wheel. Now take that confidence and mess with it. Give it a sip of gas. Move it here… She moved it, swiveling the key back and forth with her other hand. Nothing. Put it here, more toward the middle of the slot…

Genevieve was so close, Nina could see into her eyes. What she saw there moved through Nina’s body, making her tremble. She saw total concentration, pure violence coming at her. Why, those merciless eyes practically glittered with it…

The engine caught.

Swinging the wheel wildly to the left, Nina thought she could feel Genevieve’s cold breath as she passed, missing the Andreadore by inches.

With a few seconds’ grace, Nina turned to look at the cove. There, on the far edge, she saw two heads popping up with a huge splash. Paul and Winston. They had somehow managed to duck under the boat. They were still alive.

Crying out in pain, she swung the boat around, pitching in the wind and tipping way to the right, so close to going over she could count the foam bubbles forming around the raindrops on the surface of the water. She would get there first. She would save them all somehow.

Behind her, Genevieve advanced.

“It’s Nina!” Paul cried out. “She’s coming this way.”

“Nina?” Winston coughed. “She’s after us, too?”

“No!” Paul said. “She’s trying to lure Genevieve away from us.” The muscles of his arms were wired so tight to keep him and Winston aloft, he thought they might snap. “Genevieve’s not taking the bait. We’re finished,” Paul said. “Jesus Christ, kick your feet, Winston. Help me!”

But Winston, who had taken in a good gallon of water during their most recent underwater struggle, was far too busy trying to expel it to answer.

“We gotta go down again!” Paul said quickly. “Ready?”

“I can’t!” Winston spat. “No!” and in his panic he managed to extricate himself from Paul long enough to sink from sight.

Down under he went.

Genevieve bore down on them.

Paul floundered around hopelessly for the other man’s shirt, found it, and aimed for shore, flapping like a fish already dying on the hook. He pushed, he shoved, he tried his best to keep Winston above water and breathing, but all his awareness was in fact acutely focused on the sound of motors getting louder and louder…

The Andreadore passed, giving them wide berth. He saw Nina, intent at the wheel, her long hair tangled and flying out behind her, a flag of faith. But Genevieve wanted them dead. She would mow them down first, and then go after Nina. She was close, so damn close…

He touched an underwater rock with his toe. Hurling Winston violently to one side, he fixed his last hope on the rock jutting around the left end of the cove. He sprinted for it and lifted the dormant, waterlogged body of Winston behind him.

Genevieve’s boat cut so close it whistled by, sloshing a great whale fluke of water to douse them. Then, robotlike, as if totally undeterred by the minor setback of failing to kill them yet again, it swung back in line to renew its inhumanly unemotional pursuit of Nina.

Genevieve knew they were safely trapped on the island. Paul watched helplessly as Nina headed for the beach by Vikingsholm. She had a hundred yard lead on Genevieve by now. She could get in close, jump out, and hide somewhere in the woods or climb the hill up to the road. She could go for help…

But as he watched, the Andreadore pulled up short and swung around, heading back to the island.

What was Nina doing? She couldn’t rescue them, could she? he thought, confused. Why come back?

She was heading for these rocks, he thought. Had the rain blinded her to the rocks and shallow water here?

She would die! He tightened his grip on Winston. Should he wave her off?

Maybe she would turn away at the last minute. But then he saw Genevieve’s boat cut the same wide arc. Without Paul and Winston in the water to distract her, Genevieve quickly narrowed the space that separated the two boats.

Thirty, twenty, ten yards from the rocks, Nina closed the distance between her and the rocky peninsula of the islet where Paul and Winston lay, the Andreadore chugging steadily along.