Eleventh Hour

“It feels like he’s nearly at maximum. The man’s nuts, Nick. I can’t understand how a United States senator could do something like this. I can’t imagine how he got both of us out of the building and here on his boat, all without being seen. He’s a very well-known man.”

“It isn’t John, Sherlock. You guys were right, it was Albia. The guy who’s driving the boat is Dwight, the man who tried to kill me three times.”

Sherlock digested that. “You know something? I don’t feel all that smart that we figured out Albia was behind it.”

“I wonder where Dwight is taking us?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. She was afraid she knew. Dwight was going to take them to the middle of Lake Michigan, weigh them down, and toss them overboard.

It’s what she would have done if she were nuts and in a hurry.

“Crane Island,” Nick said suddenly. “Maybe he’s taking us to Crane Island. Albia said that John owns a house there, really private.”

Fat chance, Sherlock thought, unless he wanted to kill them and bury them there. She wasn’t about to say that to Nick. She got her breathing and her brain together, shook her head just very slightly so she wouldn’t be sick, and raised her head. “You’re right, there’s the boat logo over there. My cell phone, Nick, it’s in my pocket. We’ve got to get loose and use it. Nick, how tight are your wrists tied?”

Several moments passed before Nick said, “Real tight, but my ankles aren’t too bad.”

“Mine are tight, too. Okay, do you think you can move yourself closer to me?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

Nick was nearly there when the boat hit a big wave and she toppled to the side. She hit her face against the thin carpet on the wood floor. She was winded, lay there a moment trying to get herself together.

“Nick, you all right?”

“Yes, but I don’t know if I can still get over to you, Sherlock.”

“I’ve been working on my ankles, they’re a bit looser, maybe. Let me see if I can’t get over to you.”

It took time, so much precious time, but finally Sherlock was right next to Nick. “Okay, no hope for it. I’m going to have to topple myself and hope that I’m close enough to reach your wrists.”

Sherlock’s chair went over. She looked over her shoulder. She was too far from Nick’s wrists. She wiggled, pushed, as did Nick. Finally, she could touch her hands. She was panting hard, pain shooting up her arms. “At last. Just a bit closer, Nick. Hurry. That’s good.”

Sherlock went to work. They were both aware of time, and too much of it was passing too fast. Dwight could stop the boat any minute, come down the wooden stairs, and shoot them. Oh God, it was all her fault. She’d been arrogant, so sure of herself—oh God, she felt low as a slug. She thought of Sean, of Dillon, and knew, knew to her soul that she simply couldn’t die. She wouldn’t.

She concentrated, focused. The knot was loosening, finally. “Nick, get the rope off your hands, quick. We don’t have much time.”

Nick pulled her hands free, got her ankles untied, then went to work on Sherlock’s wrists. She was panting, but not with fear now, with hope, urging herself to move quicker, quicker.

The boat was slowing down.

“Hurry, Nick!”

Done, her wrists were free. Both of them untied Sherlock’s ankles. They both pulled themselves to their feet. But they were uncoordinated, numb from being tied so long. “He took my cell phone,” Sherlock said, panting. “Blast it.”

The boat was coming to a stop.

Sherlock managed to get to the galley area, pulled out drawers until she found the knives. “Here, Nick,” and handed her a knife. “Can you move now? Damn, I’d rather have my SIG, well, no matter, at least it’s a steak knife, with a nice sharp serrated edge. The boat’s stopped. We’re not in the middle of the lake. We’re at a pier. I was sure he’d just shoot us and throw us overboard. Do you think we’re at this Crane Island?”

“Yes, we’re at Crane Island,” Dwight said, walking down the stairs. “Come to think of it, I wish I’d buried Cleo here. No hunters allowed, you know? Well, well, would you just look, both of you free. How very efficient of you, Agent Sherlock. Ladies, put those knives down. I want you to come up the stairs, slowly, your hands on your heads. Do it or I’ll shoot you right here. Oh yes, you’re going to die in a beautiful place. I’m going to bury you beneath some ancient pine trees at the back of Senator Rothman’s property.”