The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [94]
He had little capacity left for more pain, yet icy stilettos found what places remained and bore in. Behind him, Leonard Vincent crossed the footbridge and neared the bank. As deeply as he could manage, David sucked in air and dropped below the surface. He was twenty feet from shore, pushing himself along the muddy bottom. His clothes became leaden, at first helping him stay down, then threatening to hold him there. He broke once for air. Then again. Still he drove himself. The water stung his eyes and made it impossible to see. Its taste, acrid and repugnant despite years of waste- and pollution-control, filled his nose and mouth.
All at once his head struck something solid. Dazed and near blind, he explored the obstacle with his hands. It was a dock—a floating wooden T, laid on the river to tether some of the dozens of small sailboats that spent the warm months darting over reflections of the city.
For a minute, two, all was silent save for the spattering of rain on the dock and on the river. David crouched by the dock in four feet of water, rubbing at the silt in his eyes. His feet and legs were numb. Then he heard footsteps—careful, measured thumps. The killer was on the dock! David pressed the side of his face against the coarse slimy wood. The footsteps grew louder, closer. He slid his hand under the dock. Did it break water? Was there room enough to breathe? If he ducked under he might be trapped without air. If he didn’t …
He inhaled slowly, deeply, realizing the breath might be his last. Eyes closed tightly, he pulled himself beneath the dock. His head immediately hit wood. Terror shot through him. He was trapped, his lungs near empty. Pawing desperately overhead, his hands struck the side of a beam. An undersupport! He pushed to one side and instantly his face popped free of the water. There were four inches of air. A thin smile tightened across his lips, then vanished. The footsteps were directly over his face. Through the narrow slits between timbers he could have touched the bottoms of the man’s shoes, now inches from his eyes. The pacing stopped. David bent his neck back as far as he could and pressed his forehead against the bottom of the dock. Through pursed lips, he sucked in air slowly, soundlessly.
Above his face, the shoes scraped, first one way and then another, as Vincent scanned the river. Then, with agonizing slowness, the man headed toward the other arm of the T.
In the icy water David began to shake. He clenched down with all his strength to keep from chattering and wedged himself more tightly between the river bottom and the dock. All feeling from his neck down was gone. The footsteps receded further and further, then disappeared. The closed space began to exert its own ghastly terror. Is he just sitting up there? David wondered. Sitting and waiting? How long? How much longer can I stay like this?
He counted. To one hundred, then back to zero. He sang songs to himself—silly little songs from his childhood. Gradually, inexorably, he lost control over the soft staccato of his teeth. Still he did not move. “… This old man he played two, he played knick-knack on my shoe …” “… I knew a man with seven wives and seven cats and seven lives …” “… Red Sox, White Sox, Yankees, Dodgers, Phillies, Pirates …”
The chill reached deep inside him. He could no longer stop the shaking. How long had it been? His legs seemed paralyzed. Would they even move? “… Red Rover, Red Rover, come over, come over …” “… I’ll bet you can’t catch me, betcha can’t betcha can’t …”
“I’ll bet … I’ll bet … I’ll bet I’m going to die.”
CHAPTER XVIII
Joey Rosetti closed his eyes and breathed in the fragrance of Terry’s excitement. That scent, her taste, the way her dark nipples grew firm beneath his hand—even after twelve years the sensations were as fresh and arousing