The naked edge

38

Racing after him, Cavanaugh saw Carl sprinting toward the river. He stretched his legs to their limit and sped closer, but not enough. There wasn't sufficient time to close the gap. As Carl vaulted the fence, Cavanaugh didn't have time to stop and try to control his exertion-trembling body enough to aim. In a blur, Carl dove past a paddle wheeler into the river. Three seconds later, Cavanaugh vaulted the fence. Afraid of being weighed down, he dropped his gun and the knife on his belt. He threw off his jacket, tugged his claw knife from its neck sheath, gripped it securely, and dove.

The river was cold. Gritty. Greasy. Submerged in the weight of the muddy water, he heard the muffled vibrations of engines. The water was so murky that when he opened his eyes, he couldn't see. All he could do was keep kicking with his heavy shoes, blindly sweeping his arms, following the course that Carl had taken into the water. As he thrust with his hands, he gripped his claw knife, slicing, hoping to wound Carl's legs. Already short of breath from running, he felt pressure in his chest, his lungs demanding air. He kept thrusting, his clothes weighing him down.

Caught in the current, no longer hopeful that he was on Carl's trajectory, he thrust again with the knife. The engine vibrations were louder. Then he realized that what he heard was the pounding of his heart. Lungs feeling as if they'd explode, he kicked upward, pawed through the water, broke the surface, and gaped at a tugboat looming toward him. It was so close that he had to shove his feet against its hull, thrusting his body away before he was struck. Nonetheless, the suction of the current pushed him back against the hull. The propeller, he thought.

A row of tires hung from the tug's side, buffers that kept it from banging against a dock. Stretching up, Cavanaugh snagged a hand into one of the tires and felt an agonizing strain in his shoulder as the tug carried him along. Staring back, he saw Jamie standing at the side of the river, helplessly watching his struggle.

In the distance, a black cloud rose.

Farther over, so did another.

Suddenly understanding Carl's plan, he prayed that Jamie would realize what she needed to do. As a third black cloud rose, he raised his free hand, the one with the knife, waving insistently that he was all right, urging her to go. She returned his wave, and with a frightened look behind her toward the isolated black clouds, she broke into a run. PART EIGHT: