Page 66 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
The two-way on Kateri’s shoulder vibrated, and she clicked it on to hear Bergen’s toneless voice report, “We lost him.”
Bertha slapped the bar. “Sonofabitch!”
Bergen continued, “On the dock. We had a civilian who decided to capture the criminal for the incompetent cops. That is, by the way, what he shouted as he jumped out of his yacht. ‘Incompetent cops.’”
“Yacht?”
“A Marquis Sport Bridge.”
“Big boat.”
“Right. Our hero tripped, made a face-plant onto the dock at John Terrance’s feet and when he lifted his head, Terrance had a pistol pointed right at his bloody nose. We ceased pursuit.”
Weston and Bertha were leaning toward the tiny speaker.
“Go on,” Kateri pressed.
“Terrance forced the civilian—tourist by the name of Henry H. Henning—back into the yacht, made him start it. The guy’s wife came up from the galley and screamed bloody murder. Terrance grabbed her, put the pistol to her head. Henry H. drove them out of the harbor. If I’d had a sniper rifle… but I didn’t.” Bergen had put in a stint with the Vegas police department. He didn’t talk about what he did, but Kateri knew he’d been on a sniper team—and returned to Virtue Falls hardened and weary. “The Coast Guard waited an appropriate amount of time, then gave pursuit. They found the Hennings floating without power close to the shore. Terrance had disabled the motor, took a scuba tank and mask, shot Henry H. in the hip and jumped into the water.”
Kateri filled in, “The Coast Guard stopped to render aid to the Hennings and secure the boat. No sign of Terrance in the water.”
“Are you giving this report or am I?” Bergen sounded humorous; he knew all too well her expertise acquired from years in the Coast Guard.
“Terrance doesn’t have a dive suit, right? That would have taken too much time and effort to put on. Right now, water temperature’s running about fifty-three degrees. Hypothermia in ten minutes plus. Rough currents out there.” Kateri thought about the area outside the harbor, the tides, the terrain. “He’ll probably make it to shore, but it’ll be rough on him.”
“Send armed deputies?”
“Yes. Flood the area. Extreme caution, blah, blah. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Turning to Sean Weston and Bertha, she said, “You can take care of this?”
“Go. Get. Him.” Bertha had an ugly twist to her face. “And for me—make him suffer.”
Kateri owed Bertha the truth. “He’s going to get away again. Too much terrain, too rugged, too much cover, he knows every inch of it, and night is falling fast.”
“Maybe not. I did shoot him in the ass.”
“Oh, yeah.” Kateri smiled.
Bertha put her hand on Lacey’s head. “Leave her here with me. And try your damnedest to get John Terrance.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The dining room at the Virtue Falls Resort matched the luxury of any world-class restaurant, but the table was not at all up to Benedict’s standards. It was small, set against the wall and close to the kitchen. He had to crane his neck to see the lavish view across the Pacific toward the setting sun. Even the maître d’ had apologized for their placement, but as he said, it was the tourist season and their late reservation had provided them with the last table in the house.
Benedict had come within inches of making it clear he would take the table against the windows, a table set up and waiting for another couple. He had power and he knew how to get what he wanted.
Yet Merida inclined her head with a smile. She chose the chair that put her back to the room, allowed the maître d’ to seat her, and signed, “Harold, this is perfect.”
Harold was apparently the maître d’s name; of course Merida had somehow figured it out and remembered. Harold’s smile blossomed and he awkwardly signed back, “Very good, madam.” An apt skill for a man who worked with the public, and one he had cultivated as part of his job as maître d’.
Merida’s smile stayed in place during cocktails and appetizers. As she signed, her every motion was graceful, and she showed no impatience when Benedict’s command of the language failed and she had to resort to her tablet. She was his hostess and clearly she had set out to make herself agreeable and put him at ease—which put his teeth on edge a bit, because it reminded him of her manner with Nauplius Brassard, and he did not like the association.
After they ordered their salads and entrees, she signed, “The table is perhaps not what I would have chosen, but the service, the presentation and the food are exemplary.”
“The wine list, also,” Benedict said. “If you will allow me to choose, this Sangiovese from Bella Terra is excellent and would go well with your salmon.”
She nodded and touched her chest over her heart.
“Excellent choice, sir,” the sommelier said warmly.
