Pocketing the flash, she crossed the dock to the ladder and climbed into the nearest boat, the one she’d tipped from below.
It was a mini-jet, the fiberglass hull emblazoned Sea Rayder. The craft wasn’t large, perhaps fourteen feet long, and it listed noticeably as she stepped aboard.
There was no radio installed in the cockpit console. Without an ignition key she couldn’t have used a built-in unit anyway. She checked the stowage compartments but didn’t find a hailer.
But in the bow she discovered the killer’s walkie-talkie, dropped near a grab handle, unbroken and still dry.
Eagerly she retrieved the radio, then studied it in the starlight.
Instant disappointment. Unlike police-issue transceivers, this unit was strictly short range, capable of operating only in the simplex mode. Its signal would never get past the encircling hillsides.
Even so, she clipped the walkie-talkie to her waistband, the volume dialed low. If any transmissions were sent out over the preset frequency on channel three, she could eavesdrop.
The second boat, moored astern, was something called a Celebrity FireStar, fifteen feet long. Again, no radio gear, but she did find a waterproof package of hiking supplies: first-aid kit, compass, granola bars, matches, and a map of the lake.
In the first-aid kit, a bottle of Advil caplets. She dry-swallowed twice the recommended dose. A serious headache was coming on.
Then she unfolded the laminated map and studied it in the flashlight’s glow.
The map showed the Kent estate at the lake’s south end, dense woods along most of the remaining perimeter. At the north shore, approximately four miles away, was a small park with a picnic area.
According to a notation on the map, the park closed at dusk and offered only minimal facilities, indicated by simple icons.
Boat launch.
Snack shop.
Rest rooms.
Pay phones.
It took a moment for the significance of the last item to register.
Phones.
If she could get there …
Walking would take too long; the shoreline of the many-fingered lake stretched for miles. One of the boats could make the trip in a few minutes, but each required an ignition key.
Too bad the Brownies hadn’t offered a Try-It patch for hotwiring an engine. In the movies, the procedure always looked easy, but she had not the faintest idea how to go about it in real life.
Of course, there had to be keys to these boats somewhere.
In the Kents’ house, no doubt.
All she had to do was sneak inside and …
Inside
Crazy. Even armed, she would be taking a suicidal risk.
She shook her head, suddenly overcome by fatigue. Nothing in her training, nothing in her life, had prepared her for what she’d been through tonight.
It was a miracle she’d survived this long. To press her luck was more than insane. It was ungrateful.
The smart thing, the sensible thing, was to melt into the woods and wait there until her unit’s absence was noted and backup was sent.
But the woman with the lisp had done an awfully credible job of imitating her voice. She could fool either of the night dispatchers, Lou or Thelma, at least for a while.
How long would it take the killers to finish their work Even now they might be preparing to leave-and before going, perhaps they would execute the hostages.
The Danforths, Mr. and Mrs. Kent … and Ally.
Trish thought of the girl’s eyes, wide and frightened and red with tears.
Marta’s eyes.
No. Wrong.
Marta was dead, and Ally was a different person entirely, and there was nothing Trish could do for her, no further action she could take.
She was wet and cold, shivering in the night breeze, hands manacled, knuckles and wrists badly abraded. Her head ached, her limbs were tender with bruises, her every muscle was sore with strain.
No medals for quitters.
Cut it out. That was ridiculous. Nobody-not even her Girl Scout leader, Mrs. Wilkes-absolutely nobody could blame her for quitting now.
Nobody except herself.
“Oh, hell,” she murmured, disgust and self-aware amusement in her voice.
She knew what she had to do, and she would do it. Because she was a cop-a patrol officer, as she’d told the gray-eyed man with her chin lifted. She had taken an oath to protect and serve. Now it was crunch time, when those words meant something, or ought to.
Or maybe she just wanted to prove she wasn’t a damn Mouseketeer.
It seemed as good a reason as any for getting herself killed.
If she was going to do this, really do it, then she needed weapons, tools, any advantage she could get. She returned to the beach. Kneeling, she inspected her captive’s gear more closely.
His belt carried a sheathed knife-full-tanged, the blade wickedly honed-and a holster for the pistol and a cartridge case for spare magazines.
She pulled the gun from her waistband. A Glock 17, made in Austria of polymer and steel, lightweight and durable.
After five shots, the sound suppressor was so badly degraded as to be useless. She unscrewed and discarded it, then removed a round from the chamber.
The bullet’s distinctive crushed-in nose identified it as a Winchester Black Talon, one of the more lethal 9mm Parabellum rounds. As it entered the body, metallic barbs folded back in a six-rayed starfish shape, expanding the diameter of the wound channel.
She had read what Black Talons could do to gelatin targets that had the approximate consistency of the human torso. Her abdomen clenched, and for a moment her resolve wavered.
She thought of Wald’s face, one eye staring, blood everywhere …
Don’t.
What happened to Wald was irrelevant. She was alive and she had a job to do, so she had better get on with it.
She removed the magazine, then assumed the Weaver stance and dry-fired the Glock. The pull was light, the trigger breaking at five pounds.
She tested the high-tech sighting system. Water hadn’t damaged it; the wiring was all internal, running apparently through the trigger guard into the grip, then to a battery behind the magazine well, where the Glock’s butt flared.
More orange than red, the laser was the so-called daylight type, brighter than older varieties with longer wavelengths. The beam covered not less than two hundred yards.
Quickly she inspected the rest of the killer’s ensemble. Black SWAT boots, heavy and padded, with steel shanks and thick rubber soles. Sweat pants and matching jacket of black nylon. Skin-tight leather gloves. A digital wristwatch, waterproof like the flashlight.
Every item was costly and carefully chosen. These people weren’t amateurs. But she’d already known that.
She unhooked the man’s belt and strapped it on, a difficult procedure with her hands cuffed. From the cartridge case she removed a spare magazine and heeled it into the Glock, then chambered the loose round to give herself an extra shot. The partially emptied mag went in the case alongside the one remaining spare.
She holstered the gun, then pocketed the compass. Tried to fasten the watch to her wrist, but the handcuffs
