The Perfect Victim

"Addison!"

 

It was December and the water in the bay couldn't be much over fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Randall knew how quickly hypothermia set in. Christ, how long could she tread water with her hands bound?

 

Panic hammered at him. Screaming her name, knowing there was no more time, he tightened his grip on the vests and hurled himself over the edge.

 

*

 

 

 

Addison wasn’t sure how long she’d been in the water. It seemed like hours, but it could have been minutes, even seconds. Cold numbed her body. She no longer felt her hands or feet. The muscles in her legs throbbed with the effort of keeping her head above water. Her clothes and boots felt like dead weight.

 

Oh, dear God, where was Randall?

 

Despair stabbed through her. She couldn't stay afloat much longer. The cold was zapping her strength with frightening speed. She couldn't see the boat; she couldn't remember which direction it was in.

 

A wave washed over her. Choking, she rolled onto her back and kicked. An eerie calm descended over her. She felt as if she'd been drugged. Detached. She closed her eyes. The darkness enticed with a warm embrace and a murky promise to end the pain. To end the struggle.

 

Her face slipped below the surface. She sucked in water, felt it burn her lungs. Raw adrenaline speared through her. She surfaced again, coughing. "Randall! Help me!" she choked. "Oh, God, help me, please!"

 

A wave crashed over her, pushing her down. She kicked violently, using the last of her strength to break the surface.

 

One more time, she thought wildly, one more breath. One more minute of life. She took in a mouthful of acrid water. She coughed, shuddered with the effort, and felt herself slipping under.

 

She barely felt the hands lift her, forcing something solid beneath her arms. "Addison! Honey, it's me."

 

Randall. Beside her. Touching her.

 

“Talk to me, dammit!" Without finesse, he slapped her cheek with an open palm, shaking her gently. ''Wake up! Honey, we've got to swim back to the boat."

 

She was aware of him struggling, the breath rushing between his teeth, the hardness of his body bumping against hers as he stroked through the turbulent water.

 

She tried to speak, but her mouth couldn't form the words. She felt warmer now. Slipping away to a place that wasn't so cold.

 

*

 

 

 

Randall couldn’t believe he’d found her. Now that his arms were wrapped around her, he swore he'd never let her go. But she was cold. So cold it frightened him.

 

They were less than ten feet from the boat when he heard the low rumble of an engine. He stopped stroking and cocked his head to listen. The smell of exhaust reached him through the rain and wind. Terror ripped through him, shaking him to his very foundation as he watched the Anastasia pull away.

 

Tate was alive. And he was leaving them to drown.

 

Randall bellowed a curse. He slammed his fist against the water in outrage. Lying against him, barely conscious, Addison stirred.

 

Fighting panic, he shook her. ''We're going to swim for the other boat. I need for you to kick your feet, Addison. Right now. Come on! Kick for me."

 

Even in the darkness, he saw the distance in her eyes.

 

When she tried to speak, her words were slurred, unintelligible.

 

Christ, he was losing her to hypothermia.

 

Remembering his pocket knife, he fished it out of his pocket with numb fingers. Setting the blade against the nylon cord of the handcuffs, he sawed back and forth. "I want you to swim, honey." The cord gave, freeing her arms. Kicking furiously, he rubbed her arms briskly.

 

"Randall. Oh, God, Randall."

 

The sound of her voice crushed him. He closed his eyes, felt the weight of the world settle onto his shoulders. "That's right, honey. It's me. We're going to swim. I want you to kick your feet."

 

When she didn't respond, he shook her gently. Taking her hands between his he rubbed them vigorously. "Help me, dammit." Panic edged his voice. "I need your help. Kick your feet. You've got to swim."

 

She moved feebly beside him, but he knew it was useless. She didn't have the strength.

 

Randall rolled her onto her back and tied her vest to his, binding them together. He wasn't going to let her go. Dammit, he wasn't going to let her die. Not after everything they'd been through.

 

Determined to save the life of the, woman he loved, he swam in the general direction of The Pulpit. He couldn't see the boat through the darkness and swells, but he trusted his sense of direction. With Addison in tow, he used the last of his strength stroking and kicking. He put everything he had into that swim, cursing every wave, every moment when that little voice inside his head told him they weren't going to make it.

 

Linda Castillo's books