transoms.
“We can’t just take it,” Martin said.
She got in and began to feel around the motor. “Does it need a key?”
“N-n-no. It’s got a p-pull cord.”
Martin stood frozen for a moment. “What are you doing? That’s private property.”
“Untie it, goddamn it,” Rachel snapped.
“This is crazy.”
“Then stay here.”
Martin looked at them for a moment, then removed the rope from the dock cleat. Rachel found the cord, hoping to get away before somebody discovered them. At the moment, nobody was around, and the nearest cabin was a hundred yards away.
But in the distance, she heard a car approach.
“Hurry.”
Brendan pumped the fuel bulb on the line a few times then pulled the cord. The engine started up instantly. And Rachel whispered a prayer of thanks and sat beside Brendan at the throttle arm.
From her bag she found her small penlight and gave it to Martin to guide them through to open water. He no longer protested and kept the flash low, as Brendan pulled them away from the dock.
They were maybe a hundred feet into the water, when the headlights of a car flickered through the trees to the dock. Suddenly its lights went out.
Martin killed the flash, though the sound of the motor filled the air. Brendan cut the motor.
But Rachel said, “No,” and took the throttle, pulling them into the black water, guided by the dim yellow light on the island and the pulse of her own heart.
57
They were soaked and cold by the time they reached the island.
Rachel throttled down to a low putter as they rounded the thick eastern flank. Through the growth, they could see lights from a small dock at the water’s edge. Roped alongside of it was the long white powerboat they had seen earlier at the camp dock. In the shadows beyond sat a twin-engine floatplane.
Rachel killed the motor as Brendan and Martin paddled to the dock.
Set back on a rise under a canopy of trees was a large two-story building, the interior lights burning. Every instinct told her that her son was here.
They tied up to the dock then got out. Except for the wind in the trees, the only other sound was the water slurping under the dock like some demon beast licking its chops.
Slowly they moved to the house—a dark sprawling structure that was probably an old fishing lodge. A deep porch wrapped around the front with chairs and tables; a set of stairs led to the front entrance. In the open yard to the right was a small playground area with a set of swings, climbing structures, and a sandbox. Nearby sat what looked like a length of a child’s slide against a pile of cinder blocks.
As they approached the front stairs, twin spotlights snapped on from above, catching them in full glare.
“That’s far enough.”
A man stood in the shadows.
Because of the blinding lights, he appeared a clotted shadow. But as he got closer, Rachel could see he was tall. “This is private property.” He held a shotgun on them.
“We’re looking for Lucius Malenko,” Rachel said, hoping that the man would recognize the name and let them in. But he said nothing, nor did he move.
“He has our son.”
Still no response. And the only sound was the high wind and the rain pelting the building.
“Do you understand me?” she said. “Dr. Malenko knows us. We’re here to get our son.”
The man leaned the shotgun against a tree, then removed a pistol from his hip holster. He came up to Martin and poked the gun at him. “Turn around,” he said and snapped open a pair of handcuffs.
“Look, this isn’t necessary,” Martin protested. “Just tell the doctor that we’re here. The name’s Whitman. Martin Whitman.”
“Turn around.”
“Please, we’re friends,” Martin pleaded. “I was with him just an hour ago.”
“If I tell you again, I’m going to hurt you.”
Martin looked at Rachel and slowly turned around.
“Please, we didn’t mean to intrude,” Rachel said. “We’re just here for our son.”
But the man disregarded her and began to fix a cuff onto Martin’s wrist.
Suddenly there was the sound of movement, then a dull
Rachel turned in disbelief. From out of shadows, someone had sprung on the guy and whacked him across the base of the skull with an oar.
Officer Greg Zakarian.
Martin pushed the guy off him. And Zakarian came down on the man’s back with his knee and snapped the cuffs on him. The man groaned half-consciously.
“Is Malenko here?” Zakarian asked.
“Yes. And he has our son.”
Zakarian removed the pistol from the guard’s grip then found some shotgun cartridges in his vest and stuffed them into his own pocket. He then rolled the guy over and found a set of keys in another pocket as well as a long metal tube.
“What’s that?” Rachel asked.
He sniffed it, then looked through the hole at the end. “A silencer.”
Brendan helped Zakarian drag the man to the swing set. With one of the keys, they recuffed him to one of the steel support poles. When he was finished, Zakarian took the shotgun from Martin. He opened the chamber to see if it was loaded. It was.
“Why do they have your son?”
“They’re going to do a brain operation.”
Zakarian nodded without surprise.
“Why did you follow me?” Rachel asked.
“Because I think this Malenko can tell us about some missing children.”
A shudder passed through Rachel. She wasn’t sure what he knew, but she said a silent prayer of thanks that he was here.
Zakarian pulled out his cell phone from a hip case and punched 911. But out here on an island surrounded by water and woods, he had difficulty making a connection. Several times he repeated his message, identifying himself as a Massachusetts police officer in an emergency situation. He gave their location—an island in Lake Tarabec offshore from the camp—and asked for backup. When he got off, he shook his head. “I don’t think I got through.” He cocked the shotgun. “I’m going to go in. The rest of you stay here.”
“Sure,” Martin said.
“Like hell,” Rachel said. Zakarian began to tuck the gunman’s pistol into his belt. “Let me have that.”
“I can’t do that, ma’am,” Zakarian said.
But she yanked it out of his belt. “My son is in there.” She held the gun with the barrel aimed at him.
He studied her face for a moment. “Have you ever fired a pistol before?”
