Soon, she saw the moonlit river through a break in the trees ahead.
“Almost there,” Jack said.
“I’ll be glad when we’re rid of the canoe.”
“We can go to my place, and I’ll drive you over to the bridge.”
“Okay.”
That’s the one good thing about all this, she thought. Being with Jack. If only the rest hadn’t happened…
We’ll be together a lot from now on, she told herself, and squeezed his hand.
He looked at her. She wished she could see his face.
They waded forward. As they neared the mouth of the creek, the view of the river widened.
And Vicki saw the canoe.
On the river.
Twenty or thirty feet out.
Drifting away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Oh no,” Vicki muttered.
“How the hell…?”
She let go of Jack and lurched forward. He grabbed her arm. “No. Wait here. I’ll get it.” He backed away, held up a hand signaling her to stay put, then swung around and hit the creek in a low dive. Water exploded up. Vicki trudged after him, watching him swim through the last of the narrow channel and into the river.
Wait here?
I don’t think so.
She glanced at the slope where they had left the canoe. Saw no one. But somebody had been there. The canoe hadn’t just slipped into the river. Someone had pushed it. And might be nearby.
Goosebumps swarmed over her skin as she searched the darkness of the slope.
She looked at Jack. He was halfway to the canoe.
She threw herself forward, hit the water flat, knifed through it, glided up to the surface and began to swim. Lifting her head, she snatched a breath. She spotted Jack. “Slow down,” she called.
He stopped swimming. She saw only his head while he waited for her to catch up.
“I would’ve come back for you,” he said.
“I know,” she told him, treading water. “I just didn’t want to stay there alone. Somebody did this, you know.”
“The possibility occurred to me.”
She saw that the canoe was drifting farther away. “We’d better get a move on,” she said.
They swam for it.
Jack reached the canoe first. He ducked beneath it. Vicki realized he intended to hold the other side of the vessel to keep it steady while she boarded. “Okay,” he said. “Climb on in.”
Stretching out an arm, she grabbed the gunnel. She pulled herself forward, lifted herself high enough to seek Jack’s fingers curled over the aluminum gunnel, and glimpsed something large and dark lying in the bottom of the canoe.
A man?
“Jaaaaack?” Her voice came out tight and rising.
“What’s…?” His head came up. “Holy Jesus,” he muttered. “Is it Charlie?”
“I don’t know. I can’t…”
The thing in the bottom of the boat sat up fast and smashed a forearm across Jack’s face. Jack flew backward. The canoe rocked toward Vicki as she heard a hard splash. She tried to thrust herself away. A hand grabbed her hair. Yanked her up. For a moment that seemed to last a long time, she hung there, the canoe skidding on its side about to capsize, her scalp burning with pain, her waist against the gunnel, water rushing around her legs as the canoe slid, her gaze on the black moonlit face that couldn’t belong to Charlie.
Charred. Cracked. Holes where his eyes should he. No hair. One side of the head gaping open as if his skull had caved in. And in the lasting moment, she thought, It’s Charlie. Has to be. Alive!
She felt no elation. Just pain and shock and terror.
What’s he doing alive with that kind of head trauma?
Why’d he hit Jack? Why’s he doing this?
Jack might drown!
She swung a fist up to strike at the outstretched arm, but he twisted away and she felt herself rise up and drop forward. The shift in weight made the canoe drop from its wild tilt. It rocked from side to side, the gunnel pressing into her thighs, raising and lowering them. She felt air on her kicking legs, then water, than air again. Her face rested on something that felt cool and wet and crusted. She knew it was Charlie’s burned leg.
With a gurgling sound that might have been a laugh, Charlie shoved her hip. Her legs scooted along the gunnel. She twisted and squirmed, trying to get away from him. He pushed her, turned her as she struggled. At the moment Vicki’s legs dropped into the canoe, he threw her onto her back.
She fell sprawling on top of him.
She bucked and writhed. He held her down.
“Charlie!” she gasped. “Charlie, it’s me! It’s Vicki! Let go! What are you doing?”
He yanked her T-shirt up until it was stopped by her armpits.
Vicki grabbed the gunnels with both hands and tried to pull herself up.
Charlie tore at her bra. The clasp between the cups gave way. She felt his crisp hands close on the bare skin of her breasts.
“No!” she cried out. “Charlie.”
He answered with a gurgle.
She grabbed one of the fondling hands and pulled it away. Just for an instant. Then, there was a damp crumbling sound, and a husk of burned flesh slid off in her hands. With a squeal, she flung it away. Charlie’s hand clasped her breast again. Now, it felt warm and slick and she knew it was blood and tendon and muscle caressing her.
His other hand went to her belly and moved down. It pushed beneath the waistband of her shorts.
“NO!” She grabbed it.
Teeth clamped down on her shoulder.
She shrieked.
The canoe lurched, tipped onto its port side, and Vicki threw herself that way. The canoe flopped, spilling her into the river with Charlie on her back. His hands stayed where they were. His teeth kept their painful grip on her shoulder.
His weight pressed her downward as if he had no buoyancy at all.
Vicki, with only an instant to react before the water shut over her, had only managed to snatch a little air. Her lungs ached to inflate.
She kicked and flapped her arms, struggling to stop her descent. But Charlie kept sinking her.
His teeth ground into her shoulder.
His one hand slid to her breast and crawled over it like a huge, scabby spider.
The other, inside her shorts, moved to her hip. Fingertips scraped her skin. She felt a quick tug. The thin elastic band of her panties broke.
She grabbed Charlie’s wrist with both hands. She jerked it hard, forcing the hand upward. It didn’t let go of her panties. The crotch dug into her, but she kept pulling. The fabric split. Charlie’s hand came out from inside her shorts and up against her belly. She twisted his wrist, turned his arm away.
Something more than Charlie’s weight thrust her down. Slimy weed licked her skin.
She suddenly felt his head jerk. His teeth ripped her shoulder and let go. His clenching hand was torn away from her breast. Shoving his other arm away, she rolled from under him, tumbled through the clinging fronds, started to rise and kicked madly for the surface.
A hand grabbed the back of her right thigh.
NO!
But instead of dragging her downward, it shoved her up and went away.
Her head broke the surface. She filled her burning lungs with air, saw that she was facing the shore, whirled around and spotted the overturned canoe and swam for it as fast as she could. Moments later, hearing a splash behind her, she slipped onto her side and looked back.
“Go!” Jack yelled. He began swimming after her.
She wanted to wait, but she pictured Charlie coming up out of the depths, reaching for her feet. So she raced for the canoe. She slowed down only long enough to grab a floating paddle. Pressing it against her body, she side-stroked using her free arm until she reached the canoe. She held the prow and looked back.
Jack was moving fast.
She swept her eyes over the rippling surface of the river all around him. No sign of Charlie.
Aga
in, she imagined his black, charred body coming at her from below. She fought an urge to scramble onto the canoe’s upturned hull.
Jack flung his arms around the other end of the canoe. “Let’s…flip her,” he gasped. “Count of three.”
Vicki let the paddle float beside her. She slipped her hands beneath the submerged point of the prow.
“Ready?”
“Yes!”
“One, two, three!”
She hurled the canoe upward, turning it and sinking herself. Under water, she heard a metallic smacking sound. She bobbed up. Her shoulder bumped the canoe and she winced as pain exploded from the bite. She eased away and looked. The canoe was riding a little low, but upright. She swam to the paddle, made her way back to the canoe, and tossed it inside. It splashed.
“Get in,” Jack said. He held the other side. Just like before.
Vicki peered over the gunnel. The bottom of the canoe was awash with water, but Charlie wasn’t there. She flung herself over the side, landing on her back with a splash. When she got to her knees, she saw Jack a distance away.
The second paddle floated several yards ahead of him.
“Don’t bother!” Vicki yelled. “Get back here!”
He kept swimming toward it.
At least he’s going in that direction, she thought. Toward the middle of the river. Away from the place where they’d left Charlie.
Vicki picked up her paddle. She swung her head around, first scanning the area near the canoe, then searching the river between her and the shore.
She almost wished she would spot Charlie.
Better to see him, even nearby and swimming closer, than not to know where he was.
Vicki hobbled astern on her knees. She leaned forward, slipping her paddle into the water, and drew it back.
Half expecting Charlie to grab it.
But he didn’t.
The canoe moved sluggishly forward, turning.
Jack, she saw, already had the other paddle and was coming toward her. She stroked again. The prow swung farther and pointed at him.
“Hurry!” she shouted.
The distance closed.
Still no sign of Charlie.
Jack hurled the paddle into the canoe and flung himself in after it. He scurried to his knees. He jabbed the paddle down into the river and swept it back.
Vicki turned the canoe southward.
Soon, they were rushing over the river. The water inside the canoe slopped this way and that, splashing up Vicki’s thighs, sweeping away, coming at her again like a small tide, rolling from side to side.
She paddled as hard as she could. She huffed for air. Every muscle from her neck to her calves felt stiff and heavy. The narrow slats of the floorboards punished her knees. The bite on her shoulder burned. But she dug the paddle deep and jerked it back and stretched forward and rammed it in again. Again. Again.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t look to see if Charlie was near. She stared at Jack’s bent back and blinked sweat out of her eyes and kept on paddling.
At last, they rounded the end of the pier. Vicki steered toward the beach. The canoe sped alongside the pier. The instant it hit the beach, Jack leaped out. He dragged it a few feet up the sand. Vicki jumped over the side. She lifted her end. They ran the canoe to the place where they had found it. When they overturned it, the trapped water slopped out. They tossed the paddles under the canoe.
Vicki in the lead, they dashed across back yards. The water in her shoes made squeeshing sounds, and she was surprised to realize that she still had them on. All that swimming, and she’d been wearing sneakers. Could’ve gone so much faster without them. But she was glad to have them, now.
Finally, she rushed into the river and rounded the fence at the border of the public beach. She splashed her way ashore.
Safe on the beach, she hitched up her sagging wet shorts, then bent over and held her knees and tried to catch her breath.
Jack flopped onto his back.
“Get up,” she gasped. “You’ll tighten up. Gotta keep moving.”
With a moan, he pushed himself off the sand.
Heeding her own advice, Vicki straightened up. She walked in circles, back arched, head thrown back, hands on hips. Jack staggered backward, watching her. She was suddenly aware of her broken bra hanging loose from her shoulders. She felt one cup like a wadded hanky above her left breast. The other was crumpled beneath her armpit. The way her sodden T-shirt clung to her skin, she probably looked almost naked. She realized that she didn’t care.
She only cared that she was away from Charlie. She was safe. Jack was safe.
“What’s that on your shoulder?” Jack asked.
She glanced down at her shoulder. The T-shirt there was dark. “He bit me,” she said.
“Jesus.”
“Are you all right?”
“My head hurts,” he said.
She went to Jack. She rested her hands on his sides. “I was afraid you might drown.”
“I was never out cold,” he said. “But the boat…it was pretty far off when I came up for air. I had a hard time catching up to it.” He moved closer to Vicki. His arms went around her and he eased her against him. She felt the rise and fall of his chest, the thumping of his heart.
“Thank God you’re all right,” she whispered.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Not so much. Just the bite.” She squeezed Jack hard. “It was so horrible. He tore my clothes. He…pawed me.”
“Was it Charlie?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t get it. Why would Charlie…?”
“He acted crazy. I don’t know. Did you see him?”
“Not really. Just a glimpse.”
“He was…all burned. Third degree burns.” A tremor passed through her. “Jack, his skin was…incinerated. And he didn’t have any eyes. And his head…one side was completely caved in. I mean, he should’ve been dead. Nobody could survive that kind of head injury.”
“Apparently, Charlie did.”
“What’ll we do?”
“About what?” Jack asked.
“About him.”
Jack was silent for a while. His hands slowly rubbed her back. “I’m in no mood to tell the search team, that’s for sure. He could’ve killed us both. He hurt you. The hell with him. He’s probably drowned by now, anyway. Or died of his injuries. Either way, good riddance. Let the bastard wash ashore. Or disappear forever. I don’t care. I know he was supposed to be your friend, but…”
“That was Charlie, but it wasn’t my friend. I told him who I was. He went ahead, anyway, and…he would’ve raped me, Jack. That’s what he wanted to do. That burned-up…he wanted to rape me.”
Shuddering, she pressed her face to the side of Jack’s neck. He held her tight for a long time. Slowly, the tremors passed. Vicki’s strength seemed to seep out of her. Only Jack’s stout body kept her from slumping to the sand.
“Do you think you can walk as far as my house?” he asked.
“I’d rather go home. To Ace’s. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”
“You bet.”
“Good,” she said. She kept her arms around him. “In a while?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Would you like a drink, or something?” Vicki asked as she turned on a lamp in the living room.
“That can wait until you’ve taken care of yourself,” Jack said.
“I’ll hurry.”
“Do you have an old towel for me to sit on?” he asked, plucking at a leg of his damp shorts.
Nodding, she headed for the hallway. She thought how odd it was that Jack had ended up here in the house tonight, after all. She felt a small stir of excitement, but it was blunted by the weariness of her body and the leaden weight in her mind left by the encounter with Charlie.
When she reached the linen closet, she took down her beach towel. She carried it back into the living room, where Jack waited. She gave it to him. “You might want to get out of your shorts,”
she said. “You can wear this, if you want. We haven’t got a robe or anything large enough for you. I can put your stuff in the drier a little later.”
“I’m fine,” he told her. “Go ahead and don’t worry about it.”
“Back in a while,” she said.
In her bedroom, Vicki took her robe out of the closet. She found a nightgown in a drawer. Then, she shambled back down the hallway to the bathroom and shut herself inside.
Rump against the door, she bent down. She pulled off her shoes and socks. The shoes had sand in them. Sighing, she staggered to the waste basket and dumped the sand.
She remembered the car accident during her sophomore year at college. Tim was driving.
One of the guys I didn’t marry, she thought.
They were on their way back to campus on a stormy night when a car ran a red light and broadsided them. They’d both walked away from the crash with nothing more than a few bruises. But this is how she’d felt afterward, waiting in the rain for the police to arrive. Her muscles like warm liquid. Her mind dim and out of focus. Exhausted, dazed, hardly able to stand on her feet.
Hands braced on the sink, she leaned forward and peered at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. Her damp hair hung in ropes around her face. Her eyes looked vacant. Her skin seemed pallid in spite of the tan. She had a dark smudge on the right side of her face, and wondered vaguely where that had come from.
Stepping back, she glimpsed the way her T-shirt looked. Wet and dirty. Clinging. She had taken a moment, before leaving the park, to reach inside and arrange her bra. Otherwise, Jack would’ve had an eyeful. Which would’ve been all right, she supposed. She really didn’t care much, one way or the other. Too messed up to care.
She only glanced at the shirt’s torn, filthy, blood-spotted shoulder. Then she pulled it up over her head, wincing as the fabric came unstuck from her wounds, feeling the loose cups of the bra fall aside once the shirt was no longer there to hold them. She slipped the straps off her arm, and looked “Uh!”
She flinched rigid. Her hands flew up and stopped, inches from her blackened breasts.
She understood, now, how she got the dirty face and shirt.
She stared down at herself, moaning.