Forced to Kill

“On my way.”

Ten seconds later, Harv pounded down the stairs. “Upstairs is clear. Took me a while. There are six bedrooms. Each with its own private bathroom and walk-in closet.”

Nathan looked at the closed door. “We need something long enough to sweep above its sill. See if you can find something in the kitchen.” He got down on all fours and sniffed. He detected tobacco odor, probably from cigars. It didn’t smell like cigarettes. No light came from within the room.

Harv returned with a kebab skewer

“That’s perfect.” Using a light grip-just strong enough to keep it from slipping out of his fingers-he inserted the skewer under the door and slowly worked it across the sill at a slight upward angle. “I don’t feel anything.” He handed Harv the skewer. “I’m going to crack the door. Check the entire jamb, head to toe.”

He turned the knob, listening for anything other than the telltale click of the privacy latch disengaging. “Okay, I’m going to crack it half an inch.” Extremely slowly, he pushed the door inward and stopped. He placed his foot at the base of the door and kept pressure against it.

Following his lead, Harv carefully ran the skewer down the jamb from top to bottom. “Nothing,” Harv said. “I didn’t feel anything. I think we’re okay.”

“I’m going to open it half an inch at a time. If anything’s attached, it’s probably looped around the handle, or door stopper.”

When the door was open eighteen inches or so, Harv stuck his head through. “I can’t see anything, it’s too dark.”

“Do you see a light switch on the wall?”

“Affirm.”

“Let’s risk it.”

Harv reached in to his left and flipped the switch. “Oh, man.…”

A bloody tableau greeted them.

Like Bullfrog Bay.

In the middle of the room, atop painter’s plastic, sat a leather office chair soaked with fresh blood. Crimson footprints surrounded the grisly seat. The desk held the instruments of Duane Dalton’s torment. A bloody hunting knife. A stun gun. Pliers. A carpenter’s hammer. And several dozen bamboo skewers with bloodstains halfway down their lengths. Montez had used them as punji sticks, probably driven in with the hammer.

Montez, you piece of shit.

“You okay, Nate?”

“No, I’m not okay. Why would I be okay?”

“Easy…”

“He’s been three steps ahead of us the entire time. No matter what we do, he slips through our fingers.” He grabbed a Tiffany table lamp and hurled it across the room. It pulled free from its plug and shattered on the far wall. “Son of a bitch!”

“Nate.”

“What?”

“Stay focused here. This isn’t over.”

“Isn’t over? Isn’t over? Take a look around. He’s long gone and so are Dalton and his daughters. He’ll be disposing of the bodies within the hour. We’ll never find him in time. It’s over. We lost. The girls are as good as dead. Let’s just face it. We lost!”

Harv grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to make eye contact. “It’s not over. Do you hear me? It’s not over until I say it’s over.”

Nathan’s voice lowered. “Harv, pull your head out and look around. He’s gone.”

Harv touched the side of Nathan’s head, making him resume eye contact. “That’s bullshit. You’re no quitter. This is not over. Now, why don’t you use that finely honed intuition of yours and tell me where the hell he went.”

Nathan looked away again. “I can’t. I’m too angry.”

“Just breathe. Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Do it. Now!”

He unclenched his jaw and closed his eyes. Harv was right. This meltdown served no useful purpose. Relax. Let the hatred go.

“Keep going,” Harv whispered. “Deeper.”

He tilted his head back, inhaled deeply, and felt it-a growing calmness-like being immersed in warm water. His hatred drifted away like smoke on the wind.

He heard Harv’s voice. Distant, then edging closer, smooth as silk.

“Look around. Absorb the scene. Every detail. Where did Montez go?”

As he looked around the room, images from his mind’s eye began appearing like a slideshow. He closed his eyes and let them flow, starting at the beginning. Glen Canyon Dam. Lake Powell. Bullfrog Bay. The marina. Stiegler’s houseboat. Chain-link fencing to weigh Kramer down through a live drowning. Kramer’s underwater terror.…

What was the connection? What did they all have in common? It’s got to be here.… Come on, what’s the connection?

Water.

Water!

He opened his eyes and scanned the room. There, on the far wall, an enlarged photograph of a huge motor yacht. He pointed at it.

Harv focused where he pointed.

He looked at his friend and knew they both felt it. Electric and vivid.

Harv raced around the desk and began tearing through the file drawers. One of the drawers was locked. He grabbed the hammer and used the bloodied claw end to force it past its locking mechanism. It flew open and banged against the stops. Harv rifled through the files.

“Nothing about it in here.”

“Are you sure? Check the M’s for marina and the Y’s for yacht.” He looked on top of Dalton’s desk. “Harv, there’s a file on the desk.”

Harv grabbed it. “This is it. Lady of the Waves. She’s moored at… the Bahia Hotel’s marina.”

“Let’s go.”

Three minutes later and breathing heavily from their all-out sprint, Nathan and Harv piled into the Mercedes.

“How long ago did Montez leave?”

“I’d say no more than fifteen minutes. If Montez believes no one knows where he’s going-which is likely-he won’t risk getting pulled over for speeding. Something we need to think about ourselves. Let’s get this face paint off too.”

“We definitely don’t want to get pulled over. Use your best judgment. You know where the Bahia’s marina is?”

Harv started the engine. “It’s right across the street from Belmont Park.”

“Damn, I didn’t take a close look at the photo.”

“I did. I’ll know the yacht when I see it. There can’t be too many seventy-footers down there. The marina’s not that big. We’ll find it, no problem. ”

They drove in silence for a few moments. “Nate, you need to know something.”

He waited.

“The file on the desk. The owner of the yacht is Senator Alan Kallstrom. I saw the registration.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”