the oar awkwardly from one side of the boat to the other as he cringed, waiting for a bullet to hit him.
You never hear the shot that kills you.
At least there was that mercy.
Ben did fire several more times, but either he missed by quite a distance or else the wind and waves were too loud for Jeff to hear how close the bullets came. Looking back, he saw another couple of faint muzzle flashes through the mist, but the sound of the gun was all but lost beneath the howling wind.
“I just might make it … I just might make it,” he kept saying as he strained on the oar.
He could no longer feel hands, and his neck and shoulders felt as though cold iron rods had pierced them. His teeth chattered loudly no matter how hard he tried to clench his jaw to stop them.
A surge of panic filled him when he realized how much water had collected in the bottom of the boat. It was now halfway up to his knees and rising fast.
There must be a serious leak. Maybe a bullet hole was taking in water. Again, a surge of panic filled him. He had no idea how close he was to the shore. The wall of dense, luminous gray fog surrounded him. The only thing keeping him oriented was the water churning around his feet. If it weren’t for that, he would have free floating in a dimensionless, eternal darkness.
It was easy to imagine he was already dead. He could no longer feel any part of his body. He only kept paddling because his body was functioning on automatic. He realized he was crying. Tears streamed from his eyes, burning his face as the cold wind whipped his breath away. Exhaustion wrung out every fiber of his being.
But I made it, he told himself. I got away!
He may not know where he was, but he was heading for the mainland. He suddenly panicked, thinking he may have lost his car keys and cell phone. He was only slightly reassured when he slapped his upper thigh and felt—or thought he felt—the bulge of the keys and phone in his pants pocket. He reached into his jacket pocket for the bottle of run and smiled grimly when he clutched the cold glass but then was crest-fallen to realize the bottle had broken. Rum as well as rainwater soaked him. The jeans and socks he’d stashed under his jacket had fallen out at some point, but still, all he could think was—I did it … I’m gonna make it, goddamn it.
He tried to imagine what Ben would do next. As far as he knew, Ben was trapped on the island and would have to stay there until the cops arrived in the morning.
How’s he going to explain those three bodies?
How’s he going to explain it when—and if—Evan’s body washes ashore with a bullet in it that matches Ben’s pistol?
It’s all over … and I won!
All he had to do was get to the shore and find his way back to his car. He doubted his cell phone would work after getting soaked, but he would drive to the nearest town with the car heater on full blast to thaw himself out.
And then he’d get some food. He couldn’t imagine how incredible a cup of coffee and hot bowl of soup was going to taste. He smacked his lips, luxuriating in anticipation of the sensations real food would give him.
And clean clothes … clean, dry clothes …
What would it feel like to put on something clean and dry after this?
He imagined the soft caress of clean cotton against his skin. Moaning softly, he raised his hand and caressed his cheek, thinking it was as soft as silk.
An icy tremor made his body shudder as he pictured all the comforts he would experience soon … soon … but before he could sink any further in his delirium, the boat lurched to an abrupt stop. A harsh, grinding sound filled the night, rattling Jeff’s teeth as the sudden halt threw him forward. The oar fell from his hand into the water and drifted away out of sight as he pitched forward. He didn’t know he was falling until his head slammed against the side of the boat—hard. White stars sprayed across his vision as he dropped face-first into the water on the floor of the boat and lost consciousness.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Helping Hands
The hull of the boat buckled and boomed like thunder as