Mistress(20)

I tear off my T-shirt just before I hit the dock and pound out the last one, two, three, four, five steps, just as I did when I was a kid, count out the five steps and leap, arcing up first to look across the water at the lights of Anna Cabana, and then down to the water, tucking my head between my arms in a tight streamline to get as much distance from the dock as possible.

I slice into the water and keep it deep and flutter-kick like mad. I’ve got to make it to the neighbor’s dock without coming up for air.

I wait until I just start to slow down, then I start the pull-kick-glide of the underwater breaststroke, just as Matt Damon did at the end of The Bourne Ultimatum, when it looked like he was dead in the water, like he’d been hit by a bullet before he jumped off the building, but then he started swimming and the music kicked in and we were all relieved that he’d survived.

When Nicholas Cage jumped off that building into the ocean while escaping from prison in Face/Off, they just presumed he was dead and didn’t search for him. That seemed like a stretch to me, but I guess when you’re watching a movie premised on the idea that someone could have surgery done overnight to transplant another person’s face onto his without any scarring or recovery time, then you’re already on board with the suspension-of-disbelief thing.

Pull. Kick. Glide. I need oxygen. Johnnie Shaw from the tri training club could make it fifty meters in one breath. That’s just crazy, though. Thank God the dock isn’t that far. I hope.

My lungs are already begging for air. I let small puffs of air out through my nose with each stroke to help stop the spasms of panic from my lungs.

Was your mother breathing when you found her, Ben?

My son won’t be answering any questions, Detective.

My son won’t be answering any questions.

I open my eyes underwater, but it makes no difference. I can’t see a thing. Utter blackness. There’s no horizon to reference, no way to know if I’m swimming in a straight line. All I know is that I was pointed toward the dock when I jumped. Every part of my body is on fire. My legs, arms, back—everything screams for air. All that time training for triathlons, training to get away from my father, I never did a workout with sprints first and swimming after. Hundreds and hundreds of brick workouts over the years, jumping off the bike after a fast ride and then running, to get used to the transition. But why would I need to transition from sprinting to swimming? So I never did. Until now.

Pull. Kick. Glide.

Pull. Kick. Glide. I don’t think I can make it much farther. My fingers and toes are buzzing and my chest is throbbing, struggling for a great racking sob of inhalation. I must be getting close. I hope I’m getting close.

The police are going to try to blame you, Ben.

Don’t ever talk to them, son. They can’t make you.

Pull. Kick. Glide. I can feel my feet brush the surface of the water. Oh, I’ve never wanted anything so much as the sweet night air just inches above. But bullets travel remarkably well through water, no matter what the movies say.

I fight every instinct to breach the surface. I pull back down, away from precious oxygen, and I want to die.

Did your mother ever talk about wanting to die, Ben?

My son won’t be answering any questions.

Pull. Kick. Glide.

My arm brushes something solid. I reach out and feel it. All the mermaids in the sea never sang a song as beautiful as my heart sings to the solid wooden pylon of the dock. I scramble up the post and my head breaks the surface of the water. The air sears into my lungs and I gasp delicious, choking breaths of oxygen while trying to avoid too much rainfall in my mouth. I’m alive. I’m still alive.

But whoever was chasing me can’t be far behind.





Chapter 22



After a minute or two of panting like a desperate animal while I regain full consciousness, I pull myself onto the dock and lie flat. The rain’s lightened up a little, but it’s still coming down strong. I listen and hear nothing, but then again, the rain might be drowning it out.

I slither along the dock toward the boathouse and silently thank Steve for not having the light on. Maybe he’s not even at the lake right now.

Steve Sykes used to let me escape to his house whenever I could get away. I would assure Father I was training again, on a nice century ride somewhere—a hundred miles can take hours—and I’d sneak over and watch old movies for the afternoon. Steve would always leave the side door unlocked. But it’s been years. With any luck, old habits die hard.

I try the handle. It’s locked. It’s a glass-panel door, so I grab the canoe oar engraved with SYKES from over the top of the door and break out the windowpane by the door handle.