Deadline. Maggie K. Black
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see the deep red welts standing out on her pale skin. Then he unbound her neck. “Are you going to be okay to swim for shore?”
“Shouldn’t we wait for the ferry to find us?”
He shook his head. “It’s not coming back, unless someone else saw something and notified the captain. I didn’t time have to alert the crew. It was either find help or save you. Last summer, a college kid jumped off a ferry like this and it took them almost fifteen minutes to reach him with a lifeboat, and that was with fifty witnesses pointing their phones at him.” He’d covered the story. The kid had very nearly drowned. “Average ferry rescue time on a good day is twelve minutes. I saw that your hands were tied, and knew you’d need help faster than that.”
Was that more information than she’d needed? He was overexplaining. A telltale sign he was nervous. How many years had it been since that had happened? But something about sharing a life ring in the cold gray water with this beautiful, frightened creature was setting his nerves on edge, and it wasn’t only the hunch he’d just confronted a serial killer.
Keep your emotions out of it, Jack. You know you can’t afford to get emotionally connected to anyone you intend to interview. Now even more than ever.
“Do you think anyone from the wedding party will come looking for you?”
“Not until after they land. I told them I’d meet up with them when we docked on the island. Were you traveling with anyone?”
He shook his head. “I’m up here alone. So chances are no one even knows we’ve gone overboard.”
“Except...” Her voice faltered.
“Except the criminal who did this to you.”
A light rain began to fall, cooling the air and lightening the fog. “I’m ready to start swimming if you are,” she said. “I have a pretty good guess of where we are, and it shouldn’t take too long.”
She swam with one hand, keeping the other braced on the life ring. He did likewise.
“Do you cover a lot of weddings?”
“No. Never. I’m a crime reporter.”
She frowned. The same uncertainty he’d seen in her face, when she’d brushed him off before, filled her eyes. She’d probably run from him again if she had anywhere to go.
“I’m sorry if I seemed rude earlier,” she said, “I thought you wanted to interview me about the wedding I’m organizing this weekend. But now I’m realizing that probably wasn’t it.”
He nearly laughed. “Is the couple rich or famous?”
Another pause, filled with nothing but the sound of their bodies cutting through the water.
“Not really,” she said. “Just young and immature. The bride’s grandmother owns a big chunk of the island, so the wedding is pretty lavish. The bride lost her parents when she was young and was raised by her grandmother. The bride and groom have both seen far more than their fair share of tragedy actually, which might be why they decided to get married so young. The groom’s parents died just last year, and his cousin was in a bad snowmobile accident years ago.” She glanced at him sideways. “In my experience, reporters like poking around in human misery.”
There was a bitter edge to her voice, as though she’d been hurt before and was still cradling the wound.
“Trust me, I’m not that kind of reporter.”
“So, what did you want to ask me about?”
The distant shoreline appeared and disappeared in a haze of rolling fog. The rain grew heavier. Lord, help me find the right words. It was hard to imagine a worse time for this conversation. But he also had no idea what was going to happen when they got to shore, and she deserved to hear it from him first, before they reported the attack to the police. He took a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of Krista Hooper, Eliza Penn or Shelly Day?”
“No. Are they brides?”
“They’re murder victims.”
Her face paled. “I don’t understand.”
He kept his voice steady, focusing on the facts, not theories. “All three died recently in Toronto. In each case, there is evidence suggesting that the killer was wearing an orange raincoat.”
She stopped swimming so abruptly he accidentally yanked the life ring from her hands. “You’re saying there’s a serial killer on the loose? Is he the one who tried to drown me?”
He pushed the floatation device toward her. She didn’t grab it. “I’m saying I honestly don’t know. A couple of days ago, my paper, Torchlight News, ran a full, front-page article by me that argued we were dealing with a serial killer. I thought it was solid. But the chief of police held a press conference yesterday and announced investigators are still confident they’re just three unrelated attacks.” Not to mention the chief had then denounced his article as fear mongering, almost destroying Jack’s career and reputation in a fatal blow.
Meg treaded water. “But three young women were murdered?”
“In a city of millions.” He could feel a bite slipping into his voice. Oh yes, he knew the arguments against his story far too well. “Three young women dying within the space of a three months is rare, but not unheard of.”
“But what about the orange raincoat?”
“It could have come from any hardware store. It could just be a coincidence that there happened to be a bystander wearing a similar raincoat in each case. Even if the killer really was wearing a raincoat, some are suggesting whoever killed Eliza Penn and Shelly Day might have seen my first news story on Krista Hooper, so he grabbed his own coat as a copycat disguise.” Yeah, as if it wasn’t bad enough he’d been called a shoddy journalist, he was actually being accused of giving criminals ideas on how to get away with murder. “Also, all three victims died in different ways. The first was hit over the head during a burglary gone bad. The second was struck by a car. And the third was stabbed. The final victim, Shelly, had a flyer for your wedding services in her apartment, and island ferry schedules turned up somewhere near each crime scene. So I’d just wanted to ask if you knew them.”
“Not as far as I know.” Meg reached for the life ring. “I’ll look up their names when I get home. One might have emailed about booking a wedding. But I give out thousands of flyers each year. You could have just called me.”
Right, except his editor wanted him out of the office until the storm died down, and every instinct in his gut was convinced the fact that the last island ferry schedule had this afternoon clearly circled was no coincidence.
“What do you call him?” she asked. “This killer?”
“In my article, I called him the Raincoat Killer. But again, the police will probably tell you something very different.”
“What if you’re right, though?” Her lips quivered. “What if we just left a serial killer on a ferry full of people? What if someone else was killed because you saved my life?”
He took her hands. “Listen. Don’t do this. I’ve met way too many victims who drive themselves crazy thinking that somehow their survival came at the expense of someone else’s. I was praying pretty hard when that monster threw you overboard—”
“Me too.”
He smiled. “Then trust God that this was how our prayers got answered, and don’t try to do the guesswork yourself.” That’s what he had to believe. Otherwise the lack of justice in the world would have destroyed him long ago.
They swam in silence for a few moments. He glanced at her face. Okay, he had to tell her something. Just enough to let her sleep at night. “If this even is the work of a serial killer, you should know that most serial killers have a type. In this case, he only goes after young, very beautiful, female targets and only when they are completely alone and isolated. He’s been very smart when it