Part 25 (2/2)
Jack lifted the cord over his head, held the suitcase against one hip, and snapped it open, all the while trying to think what he might do with the contents to get the edge on Brogan. He could throw a guava at the guy, but that would just make a mess and might get Gen shot. The curling iron was a better weapon. Gen had insisted on packing it, even with the cord cut off. To leave it, according to her, would have been littering.
If Jack was thinking of throwing something, he had to factor in his aim, which would be lousy considering Gen was wearing his gla.s.ses. He'd have to get close enough to jab Brogan in the eye, but that wasn't likely, and there was still the problem of Brogan firing the gun.
Every possible move Jack could make carried that danger. He could toss the beach towel over Brogan's head, but Brogan could still shoot Gen.
”Dump the d.a.m.ned suitcase, Farley!”
”There's a small bottle of water,” Jack said. ”It could get br-”
” Water? s.h.i.+t, leave the rest of it right there and bring the water. And don't try anything, or I'll shoot your girlfriend.”
”She's not my-”
”Bring me the rucking water!”
Jack pulled out the lotion bottle with water in it and dropped the suitcase to the sand. Then he started toward Gen and Brogan.
”Hold it.”
Jack stopped walking.
”This is d.a.m.ned inconvenient,” Brogan said. ”If I let go of Little Miss m.u.f.fet to drink the water, one of you is liable to get some stupid idea of escaping. But I have to have that water.” He sighed. ”Leave it right there and go take that ridiculous cord off the suitcase.”
Jack put the water down and started back to the suitcase.
”And make it snappy, or I'll just shoot Genevieve and reduce my problems by half.”
Jack ripped the cord out, making the holes in the suitcase even bigger. He hated to, but he completely believed that Brogan would shoot that gun without hesitation. According to what Jack had read on the subject, sociopaths didn't much care what happened to the people who got in their way. With the cord in his hand, he turned back to Gen and Brogan. ”Now what?”
”You're going to walk over here nice and easy, and hand the cord to our Playmate of the Month. Then you're going to lie down with your back to her while she ties you up. If you make even one suspicious move, she's history.”
Jack did as he was told. He tried to communicate some hope to Gen as he handed her the cord, but at this point he couldn't figure out how to get around the d.a.m.ned gun. Moving slowly, he lay down in the warm, gritty sand, his back to them.
Brogan directed the operation, instructing Gen to tie Jack's hands behind his back and then loop the cord around his right ankle, so he was trussed up like a calf in a rodeo. She did a good job, because Brogan had threatened to shoot her if she didn't. He felt the quiver of her hands each time she touched him. He wished this was a game they were playing, like last time. But this was no game. So much for catching Brogan off guard.
”Okay, now, sweet peach,” Brogan said when she was done. ”I want you to go get the water and bring it to me. I'll have the gun pointed at the back of your hero's head the whole time, so keep that in mind.”
His cheek resting on the sand, the barrel of the gun pressing against the base of his brain, Jack had a fuzzy view of Gen's legs as she walked to the water bottle, picked it up, and came back.
”Take the top off,” Brogan told her.
Jack was getting very thirsty himself, so when he heard Brogan gulping the water, he groaned softly.
”Don't drink it all!” Gen said. ”Then we-you disgusting nightcrawier! You drank every blessed drop!”
”Kiss my a.s.s,” Brogan said. ”Now go get the suitcase and dump it over here so I can see what else is in there.”
Once again Jack watched as Gen walked across the sand, hefted the suitcase, and walked back. When she dumped it, a guava rolled past his nose and lay three inches from his mouth.
”Guavas, huh?” Brogan said. ”How thoughtful. Let's see, in order to eat one, I'll need to have both of you tied up.” He paused. ”Genevieve, be a good little secretary and take off Farley's belt.”
Gen walked around in front of Jack and knelt down on the sand. ”You okay?” she murmured as she fumbled with his belt.
He thought of the last time she'd unbuckled that belt. ”Yeah. You?”
”Yeah. I-”
”Shut the h.e.l.l up!” Brogan said. ”And, by the way, how come there aren't any clothes in this suitcase?”
”We used them to make an X on top of the lava plateau,” Gen said.
”G.o.ddammit! You people are way too much trouble. Now I have to worry about going up there and taking that apart. AD I need is for some Coast Guard helicopter to spot that.” Brogan sounded frazzled.
A frazzled bad guy could be a good thing or a bad thing, in Jack's estimation. He might get careless, but he might get an itchy trigger finger. It could go either way.
Gen pulled his belt free of the loops. She didn't seem quite as shaky, so he was hoping maybe she wasn't so scared. Well, the gun was pressed against his head now, not hers. He'd rather have it that way, although if Brogan killed him, there would be no one to watch out for Gen.
She stood, her toes not far from his face. Such nice toes. Everything about Gen was nice. The idea that something bad could happen to her made him sick to his stomach all over again.
”Come around here and loop the belt between his crossed hands,” Brogan said.
Gen and her nice toes walked away. Then Jack felt the belt slide over the spot where his wrists were bound with the curling iron cord.
”That's right,” Brogan said. ”Now put the belt through the buckle. Okay, now put both your hands through the loop.”
The warmth of Gen's wrists touched his. Then came a sharp yank, and the belt tightened, pinning their wrists together. The belt leather snapped a couple more times, and Jack figured out that Brogan was weaving it in and out of the binding so it wouldn't pull loose.
”Okay,” he said at last. The pressure of the gun barrel against Jack's head eased and then was gone. ”Now I can eat one of the d.a.m.n guavas. But any funny moves from either of you, and I'll just shoot you both. I could almost do it with one bullet, you being trussed up and cozy.”
Jack got to listen to Brogan slurping eagerly while the other guava remained almost within reach of his tongue. Gen was being forced to listen to Brogan eat, too, and she had to be just as hungry and thirsty as he was. Jack hated to admit it, but as her knight in s.h.i.+ning armor, he sucked.
After they left Kauai bearing northwest, Matt took the helm. Lincoln's inner radar was guiding them toward the Leewards, a string of islets, shoals, and reefs that were very tricky to navigate and could catch an experienced sailor unaware, let alone beginners like Annabelle or Lincoln. Matt's gut was in a big old knot.
The optimist in him had wanted Lincoln's radar to beam them to some lavish resort in Kauai where Nick and Genevieve were kicking back, drinking mai-tais. In this scenario the two lovers had convinced Jackson to be a pal and go along with their little game of hooky. Nick had bribed somebody at the airport to say the Rainbow Systems plane hadn't landed there.
Although Matt would have been furious to discover all of that was true, he'd rather uncover that kind of hanky-panky than to be headed toward the most remote part of the island chain. Any plane that went down out there was in very serious trouble. Except for a couple of wildlife stations, the area was uninhabited until you got to Midway. Matt was no pilot, but he couldn't believe there would be viable places to land until Midway, either. And that would put Nick more than a thousand miles in the wrong direction. Not possible.
This boat didn't have that kind of range. Matt hadn't said so, but he'd decided privately that they'd go as far as a small piece of land about three hours away, a place so small it barely qualified as an island. By then the light would be starting to fade, anyway. They could anchor there for the night, but then they were heading back. Enough was enough.
If Matt had been worried before, he felt dry-mouthed with terror now. He was afraid to ask either Annabelle or Lincoln if they still ”knew” that Genevieve was alive. Even if she'd survived some kind of crash landing, she and the others would be stuck with no food, no water, no shelter of any kind. They could be injured and have no way to tend their injuries. The more Matt thought about it, the more scared he got.
Lincoln was still in the c.o.c.kpit with his earphones on, doggedly listening to Harry Connick Jr. Annabelle had gone below to make them an early dinner that Matt couldn't imagine being able to eat. While they'd taken on fuel in Kauai he'd treated them all to fast-food hamburgers while he'd tried to talk them into going back to Honolulu.
He'd had no luck selling that program. Lincoln had insisted they had to keep going this way. The kid had said it with such urgency that Matt finally had agreed, for the time being. If the plane was out here somewhere, time would be of the essence. Yet he couldn't imagine how they'd ever find it, despite Lincoln's radar.
Before Annabelle appeared in the c.o.c.kpit, Matt could smell the coffee she was bringing him. He could fall in love with her because of her coffee alone. Theresa made bad coffee, partly because she didn't drink it herself, so she didn't know good from bad. Matt should have taken over the job, but he'd accepted the bad coffee the way he'd accepted all the other disappointments in his marriage.
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