[Deborah Jones 02.0] Dark Waters Read online

  That made them laugh some more, like a young couple on their first serious date.

  Deborah looked into Sam’s eyes. He smiled and reached out for her hand. On Collins, only yards away, was the typical hustle and bustle of South Beach‌—‌SUVs pumping out bass-heavy rap, tourists soaking up the vibes and the full moon shimmering on the inky waters of the Atlantic in the distance. Gulls were swooping low for scraps on the beach.

  ‘I had a dream last night,’ she said.

  ‘A good one, I hope.’

  ‘I was down on the beach, and I was trying to catch up with you and was trying to call you. But you were out of earshot. I kept on shouting but every time I got closer you just kept walking. Just out of reach.’

  Sam smiled. ‘I have a very practical suggestion,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s go back to your place, what do you say?’

  • • •

  Deborah sat still on the sofa, listening to Sam’s heavy breathing as he slept. She stroked his graying hair. A hint of his aftershave lingered in the air. She sighed, letting the late-night music wash over her. It was Bill Evans, the melancholy jazz pianist, recorded live at the legendary Village Vanguard. She had felt ready but Sam seemed quite content to just lie with her, holding her tight. Which was fine, in itself. But she longed for him to make the first move. Was she giving out the wrong signals? Perhaps she should have taken the lead, although she still felt horribly self-conscious about the scars on her back.

  It was just after one, and Deborah was not in the least bit tired. It was very out of character for Sam to have suggested coming over to her place. But he hadn’t taken the final step. Maybe he was afraid of something too?

  In the early days of the relationship he had tried to be more physical, but she had rejected his advances. Now she bitterly regretted it. But it had taken a long time to trust him, to feel convinced that he really did love her.

  It was nearly seven years since his wife had died of cancer. Sam rarely talked about her. He had stacked all the pictures of her in the attic. Occasionally, Deborah wondered how she compared. He must have thought about it too.

  She watched him for a while and experienced a great wave of tenderness. His tie was undone and there were shadows under his eyes. She was glad his hard-drinking days had stopped but she knew how tough it must be for him.

  At the Herald he worked himself and his team very hard. Newspapers had been his life for almost a quarter of a century, since he had graduated from the University of Miami. He’d helped transform Deborah from a shy, retiring feature writer, specializing in fluffy pieces about celebrities jetting in and out of the South Beach hot spots, into a highly respected investigative journalist.

  He’d backed her initial interest in William Craig, the elderly Scot on Florida’s death row, but nobody, least of all Deborah, could have foreseen where that case would lead. When Craig was released, it made her name and cemented her reputation as she unearthed exclusives revealing that Joe O’Neill‌—‌the son of ex-Senator Jack O’Neill‌—‌had been a serial rapist before Craig had killed him.

  Sam stirred and it looked for a moment as if he might wake up. He had taken off his shoes earlier and now lay stretched out on the sofa. Deborah fetched a blanket and draped it over him. Then she kissed him gently on the forehead.

  27

  Just after three A.M., unable to sleep, Deborah shut the lounge door and went into her bedroom and through to her spacious en-suite bathroom. She turned on the taps and tipped in a liberal dose of bath salts. Then she lit a few jasmine-and lime-scented candles and switched off the lights to achieve the Zenlike calm that she craved. She switched on the nearby radio and some sweeping orchestral work filled the bathroom.

  As Deborah immersed herself in the warm water she groaned and closed her eyes. The smell of eucalyptus salts mingled with the jasmine and lime that infused the steamy air. She felt her neck and shoulder muscles starting to relax.

  The music was spiriting her away to another world.

  She found herself thinking of idyllic childhood picnics at Bienville, splashing in the tannin waters, sitting on the homemade blanket. Then chicken club sandwiches, slices of apple pie, soda and laughter. Her mother handed out the food as Deborah and her brother squabbled over who was eating what. And all the while her father smiled at them, occasionally quoting from the Bible that he carried at all times.

  She thought of a sun-kissed beach where she and Sam would stroll, lie in the sun and make love. She was ready. At last. She imagined calypso music and the sound of children laughing in the distance. The gentle roar as the surf ran up the shallow-shelving beach. Out on the ocean a few gaily-painted small fishing boats bobbed around, waiting to bring in their nets.

  Deborah suddenly opened her eyes and gasped. Standing above her, wearing a black mask across the top of his face, was a man. He was smiling, his lips curling grimly, as the music reached a crescendo.

  Reaching down, he grabbed her by the throat, lifting her clean out of the bath and slamming her against the tiled wall. She struggled to breathe. The man’s dark eyes glared at her through the eyeholes of the mask. She had rehearsed what she would do if ever a man attacked her but now she was frozen by fear, her legs shaking, tears spilling down her face.

  ‘One sound and you die,’ he said.

  Deborah thought she was going to pass out.

  ‘Take this as a warning. Forget about Hudson, or someone is gonna suffer like they’ve never suffered before. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ Deborah croaked.

  The man loosened his grip and she fell to the floor on her knees, clutching her neck.

  ‘You will tell no one about what I’ve said. No one. And you must not go to the police. If you do, your brother and his pretty young wife are going to regret they were born. You remember what those two boys did to you back in San Francisco? Imagine what I will do to your sister-in-law. And trust me, I have a thing for colored women.’

  The man looked down at Deborah, his pupils like black pinpricks as she cowered on the floor, terror flooding her veins. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam.

  Please help me.

  Sam launched himself at the masked intruder, slamming him down onto the hardwood floor. For a few seconds they grappled and traded punches, trying to get the upper hand as Deborah watched, paralyzed with fear. But, quick as a flash, the man grabbed Sam’s throat with a huge hand. Then he pressed his fingers tight into Sam’s windpipe, attempting to choke him. Sam’s face went purple.

  Deborah felt an incredible surge of adrenalin. And she flew at the masked man, clawing at his eyes. He swore as she drew blood. Then he released Sam who collapsed in a heap. Half blinded, the masked, bloodied intruder lashed out, catching Deborah on the side of the face.

  She was knocked backwards into the bath, her head under the water. For a few moments, disorientated and petrified, she realized she was partially submerged in the warm soapy water. Then she surfaced, gasping for air.

  The man stood looking down at her, grinning.

  Deborah grabbed a candle and thrust it upwards into the side of his mask. She could smell the wool burn and then his skin. Clutching at his face, he staggered and fell to the floor

  Wet and naked, Deborah jumped out of the bath and tried to pull a semi-conscious Sam to safety, blood rushing to her head in blind panic. He was like a dead weight. But anger and fear came to her aid. She was moving him, inch by slippery inch, into the bedroom.

  A sharp kick from the intruder caught the back of her calf and her legs gave way. Deborah yelped at the pain and twisted awkwardly on the floor.

  The man was back on his feet, his teeth clenched. His bloodied eyes, glistening with rage, were inches from her face, and his nostrils were dripping with blood. He reached down and tightened his grip on her throat. She felt the life draining from her.

  Noticing in her peripheral vision that Sam was trying to move, Deborah summoned up all her reserves of strength and kneed
the masked man hard in the groin. He grunted and momentarily released his grip.

  Frantic, Deborah spotted on the floor a cosmetics bag which had been knocked over in the struggle. A metal nail file stuck out of the side. She grabbed hold of it, reached up and plunged it deep into the man’s thigh.

  ‘Bastard!’ she cried.

  Blood spurted onto the hardwood floor.

  Undeterred, the man yanked out the nail file and tossed it aside. Deborah tried to scramble away but he was too quick. He kicked her in the ribs. She went sprawling against the bedroom wall.

  Then he kicked her square on the jaw. She lay motionless in acute pain, still conscious.

  With one hand the masked man picked up Sam by the neck and smashed him face down onto the floor.

  The man turned and smiled before bending to yank Deborah up by the hair. ‘You’ve had it easy this time,’ he said. ‘No further warnings will be given.’

  Then everything went black.

  28

  Nathan Stone was seething. He pulled off his blood-soaked mask as he stood over the naked body of Deborah Jones. There was more that he would have liked to do, but that wasn’t his remit. Perhaps the next time…

  Taking out his cellphone, he snapped several photos which he then e-mailed to his laptop at his motel and to his handler. He took a couple more of Sam Goldberg, whose blood was congealing around his nose.

  Stone knelt down beside Deborah’s body and rolled her over. He saw the scars on her back that she’d received from the men who had attacked her years earlier at Berkeley. He allowed himself the pleasure of feeling the grooves they’d carved into her skin.

  Then he reached for his cellphone again.

  29

  It took Deborah several moments to gather her thoughts as she came to. She was lying naked and cold on the bare wooden floor. Her head was throbbing. She tried to sit up, and nearly fell back in shock as she saw the body sprawled in the bedroom.

  Deborah crawled over to Sam and felt a faint pulse. ‘Sam, wake up, please,’ she said. ‘Sam Goldberg, wake up! Right now! It’s Deborah!’

  Sam didn’t move.

  Deborah tried hard not to panic. ‘Sam!’ she shouted. ‘Wake up‌—‌come on, now. This is Deborah. Do you hear me? I said, do you hear me?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Sam, open your eyes.’ Her voice caught slightly, breaking with emotion. ‘Please!’

  He stirred slightly, his eyes flickering open for a moment. But then they closed again.

  ‘Just relax, Sam,’ she said, holding his hand, and stroking his bloodied hair. ‘It’s gonna be okay. Stay with me.’

  But Sam said nothing. Deborah called 911 from her bedside phone.

  • • •

  A minute or so later armed cops were swarming all over the house. Then paramedics.

  The short journey from South Beach in the back of an ambulance with a uniformed policewoman seemed to take a lifetime. Sam’s head was encased in a hard plastic support and he was wearing an oxygen mask. Deborah gripped his hand as the siren wailed and the ambulance cut through light traffic on the MacArthur Causeway. But Sam’s eyes remained tight shut.

  30

  After giving a lengthy statement to police Deborah spent an age waiting in the hospital corridor. Eventually an ashen-faced young trauma doctor called Orieto emerged from the emergency room where they were working on Sam. He escorted Deborah to his office and sat her down.

  ‘There’s not an easy way to tell you this,’ he said. ‘Mr Goldberg is not responding the way we would have liked.’

  All Deborah could do was nod.

  ‘Technically he is now classified as in a coma. The next twenty-four hours are going to be crucial. They always are. Perhaps we will see some kind of response, may be to a voice. But at the moment…’

  ‘What are his chances, honestly, doctor?’

  ‘The CT scans and MRI came back clear‌—‌no swelling on the brain, which is obviously good.’

  ‘Is he going to survive or not?’

  ‘He is fighting for his life as we speak.’

  ‘You need to get him better. Do you hear me?’

  ‘We are doing everything we can. You can come and see him now.’

  Sam’s eyes were shut and a respirator tube was taped to his mouth. The Trauma Intensive Care Unit nurse who was checking a monitor said, ‘Just sit down, stroke his hand, talk to him.’

  Deborah took his left hand. ‘Hi, Sam, it’s only me.’ She pressed the nail of her thumb into the palm of his hand. Nothing.

  ‘Now listen hard, Sam, we are going to get you through this. I will not accept anything else, do you hear me?’

  The nurse gave a weak smile and left the room.

  ‘Sam, are you listening? You’re alive, and you’re in the best goddamn hospital in Florida. Don’t leave me now. We’ve got the best years of our life ahead of us, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend them alone.’

  Throughout the night, Deborah sat holding Sam’s hand, while the respirator hummed in the background. She stayed there until the pale orange sun shone through the blinds.

  31

  Harry Donovan had spent all night sitting awake in his car outside Rebecca’s condo. By first light he was physically and mentally exhausted. Now he felt sick as Deborah told him about the attack.

  Would he be next? he wondered.

  After clicking off his cellphone he headed straight to the second floor of the Ryder Trauma Center, adjacent to the hospital’s Emergency Care Center, where the twenty-bed intensive care unit was located.

  He stayed for nearly an hour with Deborah at Sam’s bedside. Afterwards, the hospital’s antiseptic smell still in his nostrils, he headed into the office and locked his door.

  For ten long minutes he sat in silent contemplation, trying to work out what the hell to do. The first thing he did was call an emergency meeting of the senior executives in the conference room, ahead of the morning news meeting. He put Metro editor Ricky Garcia in charge of putting out the following day’s Herald. Then he left them to it and returned to the sanctuary of his office, telling his PA he didn’t want to be disturbed.

  Harry then called Juan.

  ‘What’re his chances?’

  ‘Not good. Deborah’s hanging in, though.’

  ‘Put her on indefinite compassionate leave. She needs to be with Sam, not to worry about goddamn investigations. Look, keep me informed if there’s any change in Sam’s condition. I’m on my way back. I’ll inform the board myself. And try and keep this quiet. The networks and all the press will go apeshit.’

  • • •

  Harry punched in the only number stored in his cellphone that he had never called before. Only in an emergency, he’d been told. Well, this was an emergency. He was disappointed to be diverted to voicemail.

  Over the next hour he tried several more times but without success. He went back to the hospital just after lunch but there was no sign of improvement in Sam’s condition. Deborah was being comforted by two rather burly female friends who played in the same soccer team.

  Afterwards, Harry returned to the office where he fielded tearful calls from Sam’s two sisters and had a brief meeting with Ricky who was clearly feeling the strain.

  ‘You need to tell the rest of the staff, Harry,’ he said. ‘The rumor mill is in full flow.’

  The newsroom was hushed as Harry spoke. Apart from the sound of his voice there was only the occasional fax machine whirring or phone ringing unanswered to be heard. His message was brief and to the point.

  Whatever happened, Sam was a newspaperman first and foremost. The rest of them had to do their jobs. He would expect nothing less.

  Back in his office, Harry tried the number again. This time there was an answer.

  ‘Sorry to call,’ he said. ‘It’s Harry Donovan of the Miami Herald. Look, I have a problem. We need to talk.’

  There was a slight hesitation. ‘I’m out of the country…can’t this wait?’

  ‘Someone kno
ws about Andrew. How is that possible? You told me no one would ever—’

  ‘Hold on, Harry. What are you talking about?’

  ‘I want to keep my personal life private. I thought that was part of the deal.’ Harry explained the situation.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll put in some calls. If it’s someone at my end, then they are in deep shit. I’ll get to the bottom of this. We value you, Harry.’

  ‘I hope you do. Because if I don’t get some answers and reassurances I will be going straight to the feds about this. Do you understand me? Deal or no deal.’

  ‘Don’t do anything rash, Harry. That would not be a good idea. I’ll get back to you by the end of the day.’

  Harry called back just before six. But this time the tone of the man at the other end wasn’t conciliatory. ‘This is far more complicated than I thought at first,’ he said.

  ‘So what’s the bottom line?’

  ‘Harry, I say this as a friend,’ the man replied, clearing his throat, ‘but there are powers at work here over which we have no control. I cannot protect you anymore. I’m sorry. You need to do what is right for your family’

  ‘So that’s it, then? You’re cutting me loose?’

  ‘Don’t call this number again. I can’t help you. You’re on your own.’

  32

  The dark sky outside the hospital window was beginning to lighten. Slowly, miraculously, Sam began to open his eyes, as if he was afraid of what he’d see.

  Deborah gazed at him for several moments. Then she smiled and kissed the back of his hand.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘You’re back. And you’re safe.’

  Sam stared at her. Then gave a small nod.

  Deborah leaned close and kissed his unshaven cheek. ‘I knew you wouldn’t leave me, Sam.’

  There was a flicker of his distinctive world-weary smile.

  Deborah immediately rang the buzzer beside the monitor. A few moments later there was a flurry of activity as the medical team checked his chart, the monitors and the ventilator and decided on a new set of assessments.