TailSpin - Catherine Coulter [1]
TAILSPIN
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2008 by Catherine Coulter.
All rights reserved.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-10856-7
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To my crackerjack spouse, Anton.
You are beloved.
C.C.
To my nephew, David Steffens, M.D., MHS,
Professor of Psychiatry and Medicine at
Duke University Medical Center.
Thank you for the compelling suggestion.
I hope I dealt well with it.
ONE
Black Rock Lake
Oranack, Maryland
Friday night
She thought she swallowed because her throat burned hot, as if splashed with sharp acid, but she wasn’t sure because she couldn’t think clearly. Her mind felt dark, as heavy and thick as chains, and she knew to her soul there was violence just beyond it. She smelled something rancid, oil with a layer of rot and decay. What was that smell? What did it mean? Her brain wasn’t clear enough yet to figure it out. But she knew she had to, had to fight it or—what? I’ll die, that’s what. I’ve got to get myself together, I’ve got to wake up, or I’ll die.
The smell grew stronger, and she wanted to vomit. She knew she had to be awake or she’d choke to death. She had to move, to wake up.
She swallowed again, nearly heaved when the acid in her throat mixed with that rancid smell. She tried to breathe lightly, concentrated all her energy on opening her eyes, on feeling her body, on tearing herself out of the black shroud where she was unable to move or speak. Her head felt heavy, her throat burned, and her mind—where was her mind? There, gnawing at the edges of her brain, were sharp hits of pain and fear, sweeping away the confusion, coming closer, breaking through the numbness.
She heard voices. Mr. Cullifer’s voice? She didn’t think so; his voice was very distinctive, like wet gravel underfoot. But she couldn’t make out who they were or what they were saying, if they were male or female. But she knew that what the voices were saying was bad. For her.
The smell was so strong it burned her eyes and her nose. Suck it in, suck it in, get yourself together. She breathed in deeply, ignored the nausea, and at last she felt her brain jitter, felt edges of consciousness spear up, tear through the black.
It was dead fish she smelled, overwhelming now, and the smell of boats, of diesel fumes overlaying wet.
They were picking her up—who were they?—carrying her, her feet, her arms, and she breathed in the fetid odor. Keep breathing, keep breathing. She heard wooden planks creak, heard night sounds—crickets, an owl, the lapping of water.
Her eyes flew open when she went airborne. She hit the water hard on her back. The slap of pain snapped her back into her brain and her body. Instinct made her draw in a big breath before the water splashed over her face, closed over her head, before she was slowly dragged to the bottom. Move, move. But she couldn’t. Though her hands weren’t tied, a rope was wrapped around her chest to hold her arms at her sides. Her feet were tied and tethered to something heavy—a block