Pinch Me

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Laura came to in the cabin and found herself lying on her side on the bunk. She heard the diesel engines running, smoothly throbbing under the deck.

Her head hurt like a son of a bitch where he’d hit her, and when she tried to move she realized her hands and feet were bound. And there was duct tape over her mouth. At least her hands were taped in front of her. She was still fully dressed, so he hadn’t raped her.

Yet.

She hoped the baby hadn’t been hurt when she hit the floor.

The cabin hatch was closed. From the way the boat rocked she knew they were moving. Too fast for the long no-wake channel leading to the mouth of the bay, and the swells felt too big, too long, for the shallow channel.

They were in open water.

She managed to shift herself around so she could look out a starboard port. The gunmetal grey sky threatened with dark, heavy clouds building. She tried to see behind them but couldn’t get a good enough vantage to see land.

Or else they were too far out.

With no sun, she couldn’t use shadows to guess which direction they were heading, either.

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.

She braced herself, holding the speargun ready. He wouldn’t see her at first, would have to come down the steps before he could turn around to see her, and she could nail him.

The cabin door opened. He paused for a moment. “Okay, Laura, where are you? Playing hide-and-seek, are we?”

As expected, he stepped down. She let out a war whoop, jabbing him with the powerhead as she lunged. He screamed as it caught him in the back of the right thigh. She nearly dropped the speargun from the shock of the concussion but managed to hold onto it in the dim, crowded cabin.

He continued screaming in agony and dropped the gun to the cabin floor.

It went off. She heard the report but didn’t know where the round hit. She realized she was still screaming, too—in rage. He fell on his back to the cabin floor, clutching his right thigh in his hands.

She fired the speargun for good measure. His screams turned into desperate, pained shrieks as the shaft pierced his abdomen.

“Go to hell, you son of a bitch!” The shaft end was still in the speargun and she yanked back, trying to free it, determined to hit him with the butt of the gun.

He wrapped his hands around the spear shaft, a gruesome tug of war going on between them. Every time she yanked the speargun, he writhed in agony, shrieking in pain. He was bleeding from his leg, and the wings on the shaft point pulled against his flesh as she yanked on it. She finally ripped the speargun free, the shaft still embedded in his gut, and he screamed again.

Kern was too busy with his own pain to fight back. Laura loaded and cocked a new shaft. The guns and shafts were normally securely stowed in the cabin’s overhead compartment. She’d stripped the other guns of their extra shafts and had the shafts propped in the galley corner behind her.

He’ll look like a goddamn porcupine when I’m finished with the son of a bitch.

An alarm went off in the cockpit, barely audible over Kern’s inhuman screeching and finally grabbing her attention.

The bilge. She looked down and realized while Kern was still squirming, he was now splashing as well. Apparently the bullet—the hollow-point doing its job well—had breached the hull somewhere below the waterline.

“Shit!” She grabbed the spare shafts and scrambled up the steps through the open hatch, snagging a life vest from where they were stowed as she passed them.

Then the engines died.

Down in the cabin, Kern still screamed.

“Shut up!” she yelled down at him. “Just fucking die already, asshole!”

Laura slammed the cabin hatch shut behind her. There was the padlock on the dash, her keys still hanging from it. She grabbed the keys and shoved them into her pocket, then padlocked the hatch.

The mic swung from the radio in time with the pitching of the boat, and just behind it she spied the EPIRB beacon. She ripped it from its holder and flipped it upside down, activating it. Then she dropped it to the dash and prayed the signal was activated. She put on her Mae West and tightened the strap before grabbing the mic.

The boat was noticeably listing now, the bilge pumps unable to keep up with the water. As she tried, and failed, to start the engines, Kern still screamed from inside the cabin.

She gave that up as she realized she wouldn’t be able to go up and cut the anchor loose in time, anyway. Laura knew from the rapid listing of the boat that she didn’t have enough time to start the GPS and wait for it to get a fix on her position.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday. Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach. This is the Lemon Dive One. I have activated my EPIRB. Rapidly taking on water.”

She hoped the operator could understand her between her fear and the background scream of the bilge alarm. She was trying to remember protocol, stay calm, and failing.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday, Ft. Myers Beach. Lemon Dive one. Thirty-foot, white cabin cruiser. We are rapidly taking on water through a hull breach. I have an active EPIRB beacon, and I cannot fix my location by GPS. Over.”

Laura closed her eyes and prayed and finally, through the static, she heard a woman’s voice. “Lemon Dive One, this is Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach. Please stand by while we fix your EPIRB signal location. All traffic clear this channel immediately. Over.”

Laura clutched the mic and sobbed with relief.

Then she let out a shriek when the cabin hatch vibrated. Kern was up and moving and pissed off and apparently not dead yet. Not if he still had enough life left in him to hit the door.

“Ft. Myers, please hurry. There’s two persons on board, but I’ve got him locked in the cabin. He’s trying to kill me!”

They heard her distress call. Steve grabbed the boat keys and bolted for the back door, Rob and Thomas on his heels. Thomas barked orders at the deputies as he ran.

At least she was alive.

Steve jumped into the other boat while Rob and Thomas untied the lines and cast off before jumping down to join him on the deck. It was two hours before dark and the seas were building. If they couldn’t find her, they would lose her as the weather deteriorated and search choppers were grounded.

Thomas ordered Steve to ignore the no-wake signs and they flew down the channel through the deepening gloom toward the mouth of the bay.

“Rob, get the jackets,” Steve ordered as he pointed with one hand at the cabin. “It’s going to be rough out there.” He opened the electronics compartment while steering with one hand and got the GPS started.

Rob dug three life vests out, taking the wheel for Steve while he donned his. The smaller boat didn’t have as large a cabin as the cruiser, and with a narrower beam it wouldn’t fair nearly as well in the rough seas.

But the twin outboards had at least three times the speed of the slow and steady diesels on the larger boat.

Over the radio, the Coast Guard operator broke in. “Security, security, security. Hello all stations. This is the United States Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach. We have a report of a vessel in immediate distress and taking on water with activated EPIRB beacon. The vessel is the Lemon Dive One, a thirty-foot white cabin cruiser, two persons on board. All vessels in the vicinity are asked to render assistance if possible…”

The message repeated, giving the lat-long coordinates again.

Rob scribbled them down and punched them into the GPS, swearing while it took its time refreshing.

Finally, he was able to plot the course. “Four miles out.”

Steve adjusted his heading and pushed the engines as hard as he dared in the deepening swells. They couldn’t help Laura if they cracked the hull.

Thomas got on his radio and called in the coordinates to the sheriff’s boat on stand-by. “And somebody call the Coast Guard and warn them about Kern. Tell them he’s armed and dangerous and to be apprehended and taken into custody on suspicion of multiple counts of murder, as well as assault and attempted murder.”

A man’s voice broke through on the radio. “Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers, this is the shrimper Pelican Bay. We are two miles north-northwest of that location, and proceeding to render assistance. Over.”

Laura heard the exchange on the radio and screamed as Kern banged into the cabin hatch again. She keyed the mic and, ignoring protocol, yelled into it.

“Please, hurry. He’s not dead yet. He’s got a gun and he’s trying to kill me!”

Despite her training she abandoned all attempts to remain calm. The deck was now awash. At this rate, with the seas as high as they were, they’d flounder in a few minutes. “You’ve got to hurry. Please.”

She dropped the mic and yanked the life ring free from its Velcro straps holding it to the outside of the cabin wall. Then she pulled herself to her feet and stuck one foot through the ring to keep it in place on the deck. The EPIRB beacon now rolled back and forth on the dash as the anchor dragged and the wind took the boat and pushed it crossways to the swell. She grabbed the beacon and stuffed it down the front of her shirt, hoping the life vest would keep it in place.

Rob’s voice came through the radio. “Laura, honey, we’re on our way. Stay calm. We’ve got the coordinates. We’re coming.”

The Coast Guard Operator broke in. “Vessel, clear this channel immediately.”

She grabbed the mic, beyond caring who heard her. “Sir, he’s got my gun. I shot him with a powerhead, but he’s got my gun. We’re swamping.”

“Vessel Lemon Dive One, this is Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach. Ma’am, stay calm. We have a rescue chopper en route and a commercial vessel is close by. Do you have a life jacket on? Over.”

“You bet your fucking ass I do, Ft. Myers!”

It wasn’t raining yet, but the wind was picking up and the temperature dropping, so it wouldn’t be long.

She turned around and in the distance, the compass showed northwest, she spied vessel lights. Hopefully the shrimper. It was hard to tell from the brief glimpses she got before the boat dropped hard into each trough.

Laura keyed the mic again. “I think I see the shrimper.”

She screamed at the loud bang. The cabin hatch exploded, a huge hole appearing in it. Kern stuck his arm through, blindly waving the gun. She dropped the mic and lunged with the speargun, impaling his wrist. She fired and yanked the speargun free from the shaft.

He dropped the gun and she reflexively grabbed it, tossing it overboard without thinking and mentally swearing at herself as it disappeared beneath the surface of the stormy Gulf.

Kern’s voice roared over the sound of the wind, inhuman. “I’m going to kill you, you fucking bitch!” He flailed against the door, his other hand appearing as he tried to free himself but the shaft was long and kept him from twisting his arm.

That’s when Laura felt the baby move. She slipped a hand under the life vest. Sure enough, she felt it again.

A sudden, unexpected calm descended over her. Laura dug another .223 round out of her pocket and fumbled it into the powerhead. She spun it down onto the shaft, arming it.

“No you’re not, you bastard.” She jabbed the speargun through the hole in the door and his scream nearly drowned out the sound of the report.

He stopped moving. She stepped back, trying not to stumble as the boat rolled again. She didn’t look, didn’t want to see. From the new angle of his arm through the door, he had to be dead. She must have caught him in the chest or head. Wherever it was, it was dead-on.

She dropped the speargun and grabbed the mic with one hand, the life ring with the other.

Her momentary calm quickly dispersed. “Ft. Myers Beach, this is Lemon Dive One. I’m swamping. I don’t have much time. I’ve got the EPIRB beacon on me. Repeat, I have the EPIRB beacon on my person. Over.”

“Lemon Dive One, this is Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach. Roger. We have vessels and a rescue chopper en route to your location. Over.”

“Roger, Ft. Myers. I have to go up to the bow. I won’t be able to transmit. I’m sending up flares. Over.” She turned up the volume on the radio and dropped the mic.

The water sloshing around in the stern had reached her ankles. The batteries, in a dry compartment in the dash, wouldn’t last much longer. She didn’t have a life raft on board, but the flare kit was stowed in the dash. She grabbed it and jammed it into her shirt, too. It was a tight fit between the life vest and the EPIRB beacon, but it was her only choice. With the life ring over one shoulder, she kicked off her sandals and carefully climbed onto the slippery gunwale, working her way up the pitching boat to the bow, gripping the wet handrails with all her strength. The cabin was higher, would keep her out of the water a few minutes longer.

There were definitely lights coming from the northwest, and now from the east, too. She pulled out the flare kit, trying to calm herself and not drop them or let them get wet. Her hands trembled from the shock and the stress and the cold. She was wet, soaked through from the spray.

Forcing herself to wait another minute to give them a chance to close in, she figured the wind direction and finally lifted her arms, closing her eyes as she fired the flare gun. Then she grabbed the cabin rail when the boat rolled again, barely keeping herself from sliding off the bow.

The flare swooped into the sky, exploding before finally fizzling out.

A moment later the radio came to life. “Laura? Honey? We saw it. We’re coming. Hang tight, honey—”

“Coast Guard Ft. Myers Beach, this is the Pelican Bay, we saw a flare. We’re about a half mile from last reported location. Over.”

Laura’s teeth chattered. She couldn’t tell what were tears and what was sea spray on her face. She forced herself to wait another twenty seconds, counting Mississippis as she did, before she sent up another flare.

The shrimper’s lights were closing in, but her entire stern was submerged. The radio and bilge alarm died as the batteries went under. She had maybe a minute left before the boat sank.

The wind picked up, howling, and then the rain. She quickly fired her last two flares, including the test flare from the kit, and dropped the gun. All the while she prayed she didn’t lose the EPIRB beacon, knowing if she did she’d die in the storm.

The deck pitched beneath her as a large wave finished the boat. It capsized, throwing her into the water. She nearly lost the life ring but managed to hold on to it somehow. With the hull still visible she swam for the boat while each swell tried to push her farther away.

She sobbed and took in a mouthful of salt water. Coughing, she flipped onto her back, clutching the life ring, and tried to control herself.

I can do this.

She had flotation, she had a life vest, she had the EPIRB, the water was relatively warm.

I am trained. Just float. Cough, swallow. Float and wait. Cough, swallow.

The baby kicked again.

What little calm she’d salvaged evaporated. Her baby! She had to stay with the boat!

She struggled to kick as another wave broke over her. She felt dizzy, coughing, struggling to breathe, and had just enough strength to flip onto her back again when she saw a bright, white light sweep over her.

No! She didn’t want to die. Not like this, please!

She lost consciousness.

Rob and Thomas held on for dear life, both soaked from spray. Steve’s face grim, he pushed the boat as fast as he dared through the rough seas. In the distance they saw the shrimper light up, all its work lights blazing in the deepening gloom, its search spot sweeping the water.

They were less than a mile from the location when they heard the radio.

“Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach, this is the Pelican Bay. We’ve recovered one person from the water, they are unresponsive. Administering CPR now. Request instructions, over.”

“No!” Rob pounded his fist on the dash. “No, goddammit, no!”

“Rob, we don’t know if it’s her,” Thomas tried to reassure him when the Coast Guard came back on and gave instructions. Proceed on their course heading to meet with the rescue chopper. When the radio traffic paused, Steve grabbed the mic.

“Pelican Bay, this is Lemon Dive Two. We have visual contact and are proceeding to your location. We’re less than a mile off your port bow. Did you recover a man or a woman? Over.”

There was a pause during which Rob thought for sure his heart would stop.

“Lemon Dive Two, this is Pelican Bay. I see you. We recovered a woman. Over.”

Rob sobbed as his knees gave out and he collapsed to the deck.

Steve left him to Thomas. Between the boat and the radio and his own emotions, he had his hands full. “Roger, Pelican Bay. Please be advised she’s four months pregnant. I have her husband with me, he’s a paramedic. Over.”

“Lemon Dive Two, roger that. Approach from my starboard aft, he can board from there, but it’ll be rough. Standing by channel one-six. Over.”

Steve looked to the north and saw the rescue chopper in the distance, racing in from Clearwater. They would drop a basket and a rescue swimmer. He nudged the throttles up, pushing the engines a little harder, trying to reach the shrimper first and silently praying.