Chapter 39

Saturday, July 10, 1:53 p.m.

Sam, crouched in the back of the van with camera at the ready, quickly became alarmed when Madeleine did not emerge from the lobby on schedule. It wasn't like her to play fast and loose with instructions. All week long, she had behaved in precisely the manner that he had asked, on every occasion. Picking up his hated cellular phone, he called her room. When there was no response, he called the manager.

"Marsh, is Madeleine Deneau in the lobby?"

After a quick look, Marshall Craig replied in the negative.

"Goddamn it! Something's wrong," Sam said. "Call the Sheriff. Tell him to send anybody and everybody down here, SAP!" Sam cut the connection and jumped out of the minivan.

Running through the lobby and out the other side, he saw what he had feared: Phelps' yacht was out of the slip and pulling away into the channel toward the open river.

"Marsh!" Sam shouted back into the lobby. "Has the hotel got a boat? Where's a boat I can use? I think Madeleine's out there with him on that thing!"

The manager responded that the hotel had no boat, but Marshall Craig raced out of the lobby and led Sam down the marina platform, searching for occupied boats in the marina. Far down the platform, he found a middle-aged man, wearing denim cutoffs and nothing else, asleep on the afterdeck of a small 24-footer.

"Harry!" Marshall Craig shouted, leaping into the boat. "Harry, wake up and start this thing! C'mon! C'mon! Police emergency!"

Harry was confused but awake when Sam came running and jumped into the boat. "Get off, Marsh! Call the Sheriff and tell him what's happening! And call the drawbridge operator and try to get him not to open the bridge!"

Harry's craft wasn't as big or as new as that of Christopher Louis Phelps, and it required a bit of fumbling to get it underway. By the time Harry had done so, Phelps' boat was more than 200 yards distant. To Sam's dismay, he saw the drawbridge opening, right on schedule, to allow Phelps' boat to pass through.

"That's O.K., we don't need no fuckin' drawbridge for this critter," Sam's impromptu pilot told him. "I kin get under that ol' bridge without it -- but you gotta duck down when we go through!" By now, Harry was wide awake and adequately informed as to the object of the exercise. Better yet, he was an enthusiastic participant in the chase.

What Harry's boat lacked in size, it made up for in speed and maneuverability, and Phelps' yacht was no more than a quarter mile outside the drawbridge when it became clear that Harry would be able to close the distance. Fearful as he was for Madeleine's safety, Sam could see that Phelps' strategy could not work. To abduct an unprotected woman and sneak away by boat would have been one thing, but to make a successful escape with the police (and soon, the Coast Guard) in full chase was clearly an impossibility. Phelps' capture was assured.

But Madeleine's safety was not.

Sam's mind raced, now concentrating on intercepting Phelps; now consumed with unproductive guilt and regret for the stupid mistakes that had led them into this emergency.

Phelps, too, controlling the yacht from the afterdeck, could see that escape by water would be an impossibility. The little boat behind him was closing the distance, and the two men on board were intent on overtaking him. Phelps had his engine wide open and it wasn't enough to shake his pursuer. He reentered the cabin and, removing the second of the belts, dragged the still-bound Madeleine up on deck.

Cutting his speed in half, he turned the boat in a wide arc so that it angled back toward the shoreline opposite the channel bordering the Hilton. Harry's boat steered directly for him and was making a close approach when Phelps, making certain his pursuers could see, grasped Madeleine's hair in his left hand and pointed his pistol directly at her head.

Sam got the picture and shouted to Harry to slow down. As the smaller boat's engine noise subsided, inertia continued to help close the distance. Phelps' boat was less than 100 feet away when Sam heard his shout.

"That's close enough!" Phelps bellowed. His voice didn't waiver. Sam noticed how deadly calm Madeleine's captor seemed. He didn't like it.

"That's close enough!" Phelps repeated. "I want you to turn about and make some distance toward that point." Phelps gestured behind them at the tiny city park, jutting into the junction of the two rivers that girdled the town. The park was far across the river, on the Old Town side of the drawbridge, well away from the shoreline toward which Phelps' own craft was slowly progressing.

"Do it now!" Phelps shouted, still displaying that chilling air of calm. "Do it, or she dies right here."

Sam relented. With a gesture to Harry, he caused the small boat to turn sharply away and quickly to open the distance between Phelps' boat and theirs. They were retreating across the wide channel parallel to the drawbridge, and giving Phelps a margin for escape. Phelps own boat ran aground, as he evidently knew it would, some fifty feet or more from the riverbank, near the eastern entrance to the bridge.

Grasping Madeleine's left arm, he threw her backwards into the shallow river, jumped in after her and, forcing her alongside, waded to shore.

Across the highway, on the riverbank just opposite the Hilton, a smaller hotel occupied the eastern shoreline. Phelps forced Madeleine into a slow trot across the road and into the hotel's parking area.

A young woman was loading baggage into the rear compartment of a sleek-looking Volvo station wagon as they approached. Noticing their disheveled condition, she stopped to gaze at them in fascination. Momentarily, the woman showed no alarm.

Phelps, still holding the gun, walked directly to the woman. Her eyes grew wide with the realization that something was terribly wrong. He barked out clear and concise orders: "Close the hatch. Now open the passenger door. Now give me your keys. All right. Do you want to live? All right. Walk! Walk that way. Go!"

The woman, terrorized now, nevertheless kept her wits and did as she was told. Phelps shoved Madeleine into the front passenger seat, opened the front and rear windows, and then, before Madeleine could react, struck her heavily across the face with the pistol. She slumped forward, unconscious.

Phelps ripped off his own leather belt and looped it between Madeleine's wrists where the web belt still bound them. He extended his belt through the back seat window of the wagon, wrapping it around the support pillar that divided the front and rear windows of the car.

Madeleine's upper arms were bound securely to the interior surface of the pillar.

He then scurried around to the driver's side and started the engine. The rear wheels slid violently as Phelps steered the wagon out of the lot, onto the eastbound highway and away from Twin Rivers.

Far across the wide river, Sam saw Phelps drag Madeleine through the shallow water and onto the opposite bank. "Harry, run me in close to the boat dock in the park, quick, quick!"

Harry complied. As his boat approached the public dock, Sam leaped out onto the platform and ran toward the street. He was on the western, Old Town side of the river. Only the drawbridge, something more than a quarter-mile wide, separated him from Phelps and Madeleine.

A scrawny young man with a pointed goatee and an underdeveloped moustache was fishing near the dock. "Police!" Sam shouted. "You got a car?"

"Yeah," the young man replied tentatively. "Over there."

"Let's go!" Sam said. "You've just been deputized."

Unfortunately, the young man's car was an aged, undersized Honda Civic, powered by an aged, undersized engine. Sam hesitated, but decided there was no time to be selective. "Give me your keys," he said preemptively. "And get on the phone. Call the Sheriff, tell 'em Sam's got your car."

"I ain't got thirty cents for no phone," the young man whined.

"Here," Sam said, throwing a handful of coins at the skinny youth. "Call 'em -- right now!"

Sam sped out of the park and onto the bridge. The traffic was considerable. As he approached the far side, he heard sirens behind him, but noted to his dismay that the drawbridge just behind him once again was rising.

Sam had almost cleared the bridge when he saw the Volvo wagon scream out onto the highway ahead of him, raising a huge cloud of dust. The big car swerved dangerously, and cars ahead of Sam came to a sudden stop to avoid colliding with it. Sam was temporarily blocked from the pursuit, but was grateful that Phelps had advertised his departure in so pronounced a fashion.

As soon as the Honda cleared the narrow bridge, the road opened up to four lanes and Sam began passing slower moving traffic. He was not, however, gaining on the Volvo. He was having difficulty even keeping it in sight.

The wagon ran a red light in the commercial area just east of town, again causing consternation among motorists in the immediate vicinity. Honking the Honda's timid little horn, Sam ran the same light just as it was turning back to green. The Volvo was well ahead and increasing its lead.

Sam's foot was on the floor.

The second of two traffic lights on the way out of the town was green for the wagon, but red for Sam. A long lumber truck was pulling out of the side street when Sam came barreling through the intersection against the signal. The tiny car careened dangerously as Sam steered around the giant truck and continued his pursuit.

Now there was open road all the way to Irwinsville, some fifteen miles away. The little town promised congested streets and (for what they were worth) more traffic lights. If Sam could stay in contact with the wagon, he'd have a chance.

He continued to lose ground, but, happily, the road was broad and straight. He maintained at least visual contact with Phelps' car, far ahead. Sam's right foot was threatening to plunge through the floorboard and into the tiny car's engine compartment. These little Hondas, he knew, were sprightly and speedy vehicles. This one, however, had seen its best days during Clinton's first term.

Fifteen miles was too far, and Sam was losing touch with the wagon. But at last, he got a break. Up ahead, at least three miles outside the Irwinsville town limits, a railroad track crossed the highway. Miraculously, Sam could see, far ahead, that the wagon had been stopped by a passing train.