The office was empty. “Where’s the private entrance? Quickly, Mrs. Mazer.”
“In the back wall.”
Sherlock pulled her SIG Sauer out in a flash, even as she yelled over her shoulder to Mrs. Mazer, “Call the police. Tell them your Senator Rothman has taken Dr. Campion. Hurry!”
It took Sherlock a moment to find the small button, built in nearly flat against the wall. She pressed, and the door silently eased back. She stepped into a dimly lit passage that was oak paneled, the floor carpeted with two small Turkish rugs. She paused, listening. She thought she heard something, movement, a man’s breathing.
She went forward slowly in the darkness. The corridor turned once, then ended. The whole thing wasn’t more than six feet long. She was facing a narrow elevator, its silver door barely visible in the dim light.
She heard the low hum of the elevator motor. He was taking Nick down. But Sherlock didn’t know where the elevator let out. She punched the button again, then a third time.
And while she punched, she pulled out her cell phone, dialed Dillon’s number. He answered immediately. “Hello?”
“Dillon, hurry. Rothman’s building. He’s got Nick. It isn’t Albia. Oh God, hurry-”
The elevator door opened silently and smoothly, and she jumped inside, punched the only button. Dillon was no longer connected on the cell phone. It didn’t work inside the elevator. No, it was all right, she’d said enough. Every available cop in Chicago would converge on the building within minutes.
The door opened and she stepped out slowly, fanning her SIG. She was in a dark area of the basement. There was the low hum of equipment all around her. She paused for a moment, listening. Where could he have gone? How big was this damned basement? How could he begin to hope he’d take Nick out of here without being seen? There were media nosing around.
Sherlock stood quietly for a few more seconds, but she simply couldn’t hear anything except the sounds of the equipment motors all around her.
When the gun barrel slammed down, she collapsed to the floor, her SIG hitting the concrete and skidding away from her.
Her first thought, when she opened her eyes, was that she had a bitch of a headache. She felt the pain slash through her head. Not a moment later, Nick remembered-Albia had struck her with the butt of her gun. She tried to raise her hand but couldn’t.
She heard the sound of an engine, loud, but that didn’t make any sense. She realized she was tied to a chair, arms and ankles, really tight. The pain in her head made her nauseous, and she swallowed repeatedly until she knew she wouldn’t vomit. Then she heard a moan, but it wasn’t from her.
She looked up. She was in a small room, lots of wood, cramped. She looked to her left. There was Sherlock, tied to another chair, her head slumped forward.
The room lurched. Moved. She realized they were on a boat and the boat was moving fast, the engine pushing hard. She smelled the water and the diesel, heard the powerful engine, felt the boat bounce and rock as it sliced through the waves.
Boat?
“Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock? Please, come out of it. You can do it.”
Silence, then, “Nick?”
“Yes, I’m all right, just a horrible headache. He got you, too. I’m so sorry.”
Sherlock got herself together, closed her eyes, tried to get her brain back in gear. “Nick, I’ll be okay, just give me a minute.”
The boat slammed down and Nick’s chair nearly toppled.
“We’re in a boat, going really fast,” she said.
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I can feel it. I’m very sorry I let him get me, Nick. At least I’d already called Dillon. Every cop in Chicago will be looking for us, count on it.”
“We’re on John’s boat. I’ve been out on it a couple of times. It’s good-sized, a sixty-three-foot Hatteras Fly- bridge yacht. It’s really fast, Sherlock. He used to brag that it could do twenty-one knots.”
“It feels like he’s nearly at maximum. The man’s nuts, Nick. I can’t understand how a United States senator could do something like this. I can’t imagine how he got both of us out of the building and here on his boat, all without being seen. He’s a very well-known man.”
“It isn’t John, Sherlock. You guys were right, it was Albia. The guy who’s driving the boat is Dwight, the man who tried to kill me three times.”
Sherlock digested that. “You know something? I don’t feel all that smart that we figured out Albia was behind it.”
“I wonder where Dwight is taking us?”
Sherlock didn’t say anything. She was afraid she knew. Dwight was going to take them to the middle of Lake Michigan, weigh them down, and toss them overboard.
It’s what she would have done if she were nuts and in a hurry.
“Crane Island,” Nick said suddenly. “Maybe he’s taking us to Crane Island. Albia said that John owns a house there, really private.”
Fat chance, Sherlock thought, unless he wanted to kill them and bury them there. She wasn’t about to say that to Nick. She got her breathing and her brain together, shook her head just very slightly so she wouldn’t be sick, and raised her head. “You’re right, there’s the boat logo over there. My cell phone, Nick, it’s in my pocket. We’ve got to get loose and use it. Nick, how tight are your wrists tied?”
Several moments passed before Nick said, “Real tight, but my ankles aren’t too bad.”
“Mine are tight, too. Okay, do you think you can move yourself closer to me?”
“Yes, Sherlock.”
Nick was nearly there when the boat hit a big wave and she toppled to the side. She hit her face against the thin carpet on the wood floor. She was winded, lay there a moment trying to get herself together.
“Nick, you all right?”
“Yes, but I don’t know if I can still get over to you, Sherlock.”
“I’ve been working on my ankles, they’re a bit looser, maybe. Let me see if I can’t get over to you.”
It took time, so much precious time, but finally Sherlock was right next to Nick. “Okay, no hope for it. I’m going to have to topple myself and hope that I’m close enough to reach your wrists.”
Sherlock’s chair went over. She looked over her shoulder. She was too far from Nick’s wrists. She wiggled, pushed, as did Nick. Finally, she could touch her hands. She was panting hard, pain shooting up her arms. “At last. Just a bit closer, Nick. Hurry. That’s good.”
Sherlock went to work. They were both aware of time, and too much of it was passing too fast. Dwight could stop the boat any minute, come down the wooden stairs, and shoot them. Oh God, it was all her fault. She’d been arrogant, so sure of herself-oh God, she felt low as a slug. She thought of Sean, of Dillon, and knew, knew to her soul that she simply couldn’t die. She wouldn’t.
She concentrated, focused. The knot was loosening, finally. “Nick, get the rope off your hands, quick. We don’t have much time.”
Nick pulled her hands free, got her ankles untied, then went to work on Sherlock’s wrists. She was panting, but not with fear now, with hope, urging herself to move quicker, quicker.
The boat was slowing down.
“Hurry, Nick!”
Done, her wrists were free. Both of them untied Sherlock’s ankles. They both pulled themselves to their feet. But they were uncoordinated, numb from being tied so long. “He took my cell phone,” Sherlock said, panting. “Blast it.”
The boat was coming to a stop.
Sherlock managed to get to the galley area, pulled out drawers until she found the knives. “Here, Nick,” and handed her a knife. “Can you move now? Damn, I’d rather have my SIG, well, no matter, at least it’s a steak knife, with a nice sharp serrated edge. The boat’s stopped. We’re not in the middle of the lake. We’re at a pier. I was sure he’d just shoot us and throw us overboard. Do you think we’re at this Crane Island?”
“Yes, we’re at Crane Island,” Dwight said, walking down the stairs. “Come to think of it, I wish I’d buried Cleo here. No hunters allowed, you know? Well, well, would you just look, both of you free. How very efficient of
