Coldwater Revenge by James Ross (best e reader for android .txt) 📕

Hassad pressed the pistol to his cheek. “North!” he screamed.

Tom looked away and let the wheel drift to port. The speedometer read twelve knots and climbing. Hassad screamed again as the boat held steady at north north west. Oblivious to the gun beneath his eye, Tom turned and looked over his shoulder. The impact felt like being struck in the back by a falling tree.

A hundred yards north north west of Pocket Island, the propellers of the twin Sea Witch engines caught the underwater ledge known to local boaters as Sunken Island. The transom of the patrol boat shot clear of the water and fell back with a spine-fusing jolt. Hassad flew the length of the deck and through the door of the cuddy. The Dobermans barked in panic and at each other. The outboard propellers ground the underwater obstruction, screaming metallic agony. Hassad struggled to pull himself upright. When the props regained clear water, Tom leapt over the side.

* * *

His body sank.

Icy water paralyzed limb and thought. He tried to turn his torso toward light, but his limbs would not respond. His body felt like a pillar encased in wraps. He did not try to hold his breath or struggle not to breathe. Those mechanisms were locked and frozen. What senses still functioned told him that he was drifting. Thoughts came at widely spaced intervals.

Hassad shut off the engine and flipped a toggle above the symbol of an anchor on the panel behind the wheel. A splash and the sound of scrapping chain followed. The boat began to swing at the bow and then steadied. The dogs were already in the water.

Tom felt the thud of anchor hitting rock and heard the grind of chain against hull. Seconds into the icy water, his brain had gone someplace else, but he could feel it returning. No light… only wet and cold. He could not see his body.

Then boots scrapped something firm and his legs extended to feel bottom. Opposite would be up and air. Boots found muck, pushed hard, rose inches and then settled again.

Longer than he could have believed or imagined, his head breached the surface. Lungs hauled air and then froze in mid-bellows. Wheezing gasps triggered answering growls. He could not stop choking. He might just as well have rung a dinner bell. The Doberman was on him in seconds.

Pointed teeth skewered his frozen shoulder. Hardened claws raked his torso. A mangled hand found the canine’s collar, but the dog’s grip was a lock. Tom felt the grind of canine teeth on human bone. Then they began to sink. Holding tight to the dog’s collar, he twisted, but otherwise ceased to struggle. His only advantage now was his awareness of mortality and a determined attachment to it. Somewhere along the endless descent, the canine released its grip, but Tom continued to twist.

Toes entered muck. He began to count: one thousand one, one thousand two. He twisted the studded collar hard. The canine raked his claws the length of Tom’s torso. Frenzied jaws snapped empty water. Tom held tight, and with all his remaining strength, twisted. One thousand nineteen… one thousand twenty.

Claws and teeth turned away.

One thousand thirty. Tom released the leather strap, felt for bottom and pushed hard.

Up and air was impossibly far this time. He could not lie to his lungs now. They knew the truth. But he told them that they had no choice but to hold or to fill with life ending water. Waving arms and scissoring legs, he tried to banish thought. When air came, it was like an awakening from a long, cold sleep.

Hassad heard the splash and turned the patrol boat spotlight toward the sound. The second Doberman answered with a frenzied bark. Tom filled his lungs and treaded water. When the dog lunged, he surrendered his body and took the canine’s studded collar.

* * *

Joe tied the Dooley’s jon boat to the trunk of a massive beech tree, its smooth, gray bark scarred with hearts and initials as high as young passion could reach. There was no hope of finding a path through the overgrown woods. He scrambled blind through thickets of laurel and blow-down pine, then followed the ridge at the top of the hill to a stark glass and concrete octagon at the edge of the bluff.

Holding the riot gun in his outstretched hands, he approached the rear of the house. Inside, Susan Pearce lay sprawled beside the hearth of a double fireplace, cold to the touch. Flags of severed duct tape hung from the arms of a wooden chair that faced the row of windows overlooking the lake. There was no sign of Tommy.

Blood-streaked footprints painted a grisly path through the snow leading to the cove. The sound of waves drifted up from below. From somewhere beyond came the menacing bark of an angry dog. Joe dropped to his haunches and cocked an ear to the sound. There were no boat noises or any human sound. But the howl of frenzied predator closing on its prey was clear and close. Joe sprinted back through the pitch black woods to where he had left the Dooley’s boat.

* * *

Tom’s head breached the surface. Hassad swung the spotlight toward the splash. The struggle with the dogs had carried Tom far astern of the crippled police boat. Sunken Island was somewhere close, but he could not tell where. His left arm was stiff and useless where the dogs had mauled it. He had no feeling below the knees. Little strength remained to swim or even to stay afloat.

A sharp whistle skimmed across the water, followed by a harsh, guttural shout. “You can die without my further help, Mr. Morgan!”

The spotlight on the patrol boat stuttered like a broken metronome. Tom paddled beyond its reach and listened to an anchor winch groan. He leaned into the waves and kicked feebly.

“It shouldn’t be much longer,” Hassad shouted. The scream of battered outboards