Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

Chapman looked down and examined her bare feet. She said, “It isn’t right that they just kill three people and win like that.”

“No. But the police will investigate.”

She looked up at me. “I don’t think so, Keeler.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Only that we were already in touch with the police. They were not interested. I believe that whoever killed Jane and the guys is a professional killer, and that the police will find nothing useful to investigate. Except …” She paused.

I said, “Except what?”

Chapman said, “Except maybe you and me.”

Which was pretty much what I had been thinking. Smart girl.

I said, “What was the plan, before this. What were you going to do next?”

She said, “Seeing as you were supposed to be on the plane. We knew how vulnerable we were to the men harassing us. The plan was to fly under the radar if possible. George has an apartment in town. We haven’t been able to get in because we don’t have the key and it’s owned by an absentee landlord. So, the plan was to try and break in, see if there’s anything there that can help, like his phone or his computer or something.”

“The police haven’t looked there yet?”

She shook her head. “Like I said, they weren’t interested in our problem. Maybe now that Jane’s dead they will be.”

I said, “So maybe we want to get there first.”

“Now?”

I nodded. “Now. But first we need to do something about this boat.”

Chapman said, “What do you mean?”

“Best case scenario, we simply have nothing to do with what happened at Beaver Falls. No connection at all. You weren’t there. I wasn’t there. Which means that this boat needs to be gone.”

“Which means what, exactly?”

I said, “Couple of things, first of which is a question: can you swim?”

“Sure. I was on the swim team in high school.”

Sometimes you get lucky.

I had Chapman pull the anchor. We cruised away from the island and swung south and east. I cut the engine when we were a quarter mile from town, across the channel and above Carolina Island. I stripped two wires from the outboard battery and cleaned up the exposed parts. Then I detached a spare gas can and poured a little pool of it into the engine well.

Chapman was watching me. She was concerned, but she hadn’t asked any questions. I turned to her.

I said, “We’re going to get wet. That includes our clothes, but since you’re a swimmer you can appreciate that it’s best if we aren’t wearing them and swimming at the same time.”

She looked at me for a few moments then she nodded. I showed her the way. I got my boots off first and then the socks. Then the pants and the underwear and the t-shirt. Socks, underwear and valuables like my wallet and my knife went into zipped jacket pockets. So did my t-shirt. The jacket got rolled into a fat tube, tied around my waist by the arms. I tied the boots onto the jacket tube with the laces. I got it pretty secure. Chapman followed my lead and pulled the sweatshirt over her head. She was only wearing the sweatshirt, over panties and a t-shirt. No pants, no shoes, no socks. The t-shirt went into a sweatshirt sleeve and that went around her waist. Made her look like one of those Japanese pearl divers, except blonde.

I said, “Good to go?”

She said, “Yup.”

The girl was a trooper.

One of the stripped wires got tucked around each terminal, then I crossed them above a little pool of fuel. The spark set the gas on fire. By the time the boat exploded in full force and fury, we were a hundred yards away, treading water. Hadn’t done much of that since pararescue induction. I figured Amber Chapman never had. I looked at her. In the hot light of the burning boat, Chapman was grinning broadly. She glanced at me and I caught sight of a kind of crazed pleasure at being in harsh circumstances that only people like me are supposed to feel. So, maybe she was someone like me.

Closer to shore we lay on our backs in the water. The swim had been tough. I wanted to clear my head. Up in the sky there were stars. Bright and sharp, with no moon yet.

Time to take it to the next level.

Thirteen

We came out of the water on the far side of Lake Road. Where the creek begins, but away from the footbridges and tourist spots. The place was rocky and the waves were pretty strong, which made it hard to get a foothold. I had to help Chapman out of the water. She was having trouble with her balance initially. I told her to sit down and get her equilibrium back. Look at the horizon. Her skin was pale against the dark water. Small breasts, and a long, spare body. But this was no waif, she was athletic and strong and had the figure of a high jumper.

At first we both lay there against the rocks, spent. But it was cold, and we had things to do, places to be. There was not much to say just then. We unwound the clothes from around our waists and did the best we could to squeeze the sea water out of them. Our best was not very good, but it would have to be good enough. Chapman was in bare feet and I had my boots. It would be tough going for her, but I figured we might find a pair of shoes in her boyfriend’s apartment.

We scaled the rocky shore and got up onto the road. Then started walking. Each of my steps was a noisy squelch, hers a soft, almost noiseless pad. That part of town was deserted. It was Port Morris, Alaska. There would be action in a few bars and restaurants, but behind the closed curtains of residential houses, only the flicker of television screens betrayed the existence