The Hostage. Сьюзен Виггс

as she could go. Cold mist, churned up by the propellers, showered her, nearly blinding her as she climbed into the dinghy. Wrestling with the knots, she managed to untether the small craft.

      Within seconds, she was adrift on the gale-swept lake as the trawler steamed northward. She could scarcely believe it. She had escaped.

      Cold waves slapped up and over the sides of the small wooden craft. Water sloshed in the hull. Letting loose with a laugh of elation, she fitted the oars into the oarlocks and began to row. The wild man had made it look easy, but the water felt as heavy as mud.

      Still, her escape might have worked had she not made one critical error. She should have brought the dog.

      The little beast put its forepaws on the side of the trawler and yapped piercingly into the night. She hoped the noise of the steamer would drown out the barking. She held her breath, praying the kidnapers would ignore the racket. But she saw the trawler circle back, chugging like the Loch Ness monster toward her.

      On deck, a large figure rose with a grappling hook in hand.

      Damp and fog shrouded the boat and the lake surrounding it. The cramped quarters where Deborah awakened had a very small portal, and a narrow louvered vent for fresh air. It wasn’t a proper stateroom and could not even be called quarters, but a storage room with a pile of blankets. She groped in the half light, finding coils of rope, a box of tools whose use she couldn’t fathom, a moldering shirt and two things that puzzled her—a child’s shoe and a copy of Les Misérables in the original French. She encountered an empty bottle, an illustrated Farmers’ Almanac, a jar of shiny, opaque green stones and a chamberpot.

      Moving slowly and painfully, she availed herself of the primitive facilities, then put on her dress. At some point, which she could not remember, she had peeled it off to collapse in exhaustion. Her fingers worked clumsily over the buttons, but she managed to do herself up. She found her way on deck with difficulty. Where was she? She looked out at the lake. Nothing but fog. Chicago—indeed the shore—was nowhere in sight.

      She ached in every joint and limb. She felt seasick, but there was nothing in her stomach to surrender. The little dog she had dubbed Smokey cavorted in friendly fashion around her feet, but she could not even summon the strength to pat his head. Traitor, she thought.

      Tom Silver stood in the wheelhouse, steering the trawler through the impenetrable fog, ignoring her. Lightning Jack emerged from the galley holding a thick china mug. “Tea,” he said, holding it out. “It’s medicinal. Helps with the mal de mer.”

      She felt too defeated to argue, and so she took the mug, wrapping her chilly fingers around its warmth.

      “How does he know where to go in this fog?” she asked. Her voice rang hollow in the thick, hazy air.

      “He follows my instructions,” Lightning Jack explained. “This is my boat.” He jerked his silver-streaked head toward the surface of the water. “The way is posted by buoys and channel markers. Fear not. You are safe aboard the Suzette.”

      Safe. She did not even know the meaning of the word anymore.

      The water appeared considerably calmer and flatter than it had been…when?

      “What time is it?” she asked.

      “You mean what day? You’ve slept for two days.”

      She nearly choked on her tea. Dizzy, she lowered herself onto the bench. She forced her eyes to focus on something, anything, to keep from fainting. She stared at her shoes, scuffed and worn from her ordeal. For two days she had slept in her shoes.

      How strange it now seemed that Kathleen used to take her foot between her knees to do up Deborah’s shoes with the button hook. She shut her eyes in despair.

      There must have been some powerful drug in the tea, for everything swirled behind her closed eyelids, and then she knew nothing. With a vague, dreamlike awareness, she felt the mug taken from her hand. Powerful arms lifted her. The sensation startled her awake with a cry. Panic hammered in her chest, and she screamed.

      “Shut up,” said Tom Silver through gritted teeth. “I’m taking you back to your bunk.”

      “Put me down,” she yelled, horrified at his nearness, the lake-and-leather scent of him, the way he held her in his tree trunk arms.

      “Fine.” He practically dumped her down the hatch. “Just don’t fall asleep in the pilothouse again.”

      She was shaking when she returned to the cramped quarters, pressing herself back against the door. Different, she told herself, trying to still the crazed beating of her heart. This was different. This man, this Tom Silver, hated her. His hatred was supposed to keep him from touching her. She didn’t want anyone to touch her, ever again.

      Deborah awoke again hours—or days?—later to the rattle and churn of the trawler’s engine and the murmur of masculine utterances. She lay perfectly still, trying to pretend this was not real. She refused to open her eyes. So long as she kept them closed she could pretend she was back at Miss Boylan’s, in her own bed of pressed Irish linens. In a few minutes, Kathleen would come with tea and milk on a tray, and they would discuss Deborah’s plans for the day.

      But inevitably, the damp fishy smell of the boat and Smokey’s doggy odor chased away the fantasy. Once again, she struggled to the galley, finding Lightning Jack poring over a chart.

      He offered her tea again.

      “Just water, please. Your tea makes me suspicious.”

      “You should be grateful for the sleep. This is a long and boring voyage.”

      “And what is our destination?”

      “That is up to your father. If he surrenders to our demands, we’ll put you on a train in Milwaukee.”

      She felt a spark of eagerness. “Have you already sent a message?”

      “We’ll wire from Milwaukee,” he said.

      “Why are you and Tom Silver making demands from my father?” she asked. “What do you want from him?”

      “Justice,” Lightning Jack said simply.

      “I don’t understand. Justice for what?”

      He stared out the window, pocked with spray. “For murder.”

      An incredulous laugh escaped her. “You think my father murdered someone?”

      “I know he did.” Lightning Jack rose from the bench.

      “You know nothing of the sort,” she retorted. “My father has never harmed a soul. He’s a good man—”

      “He is fortunate to have a daughter who believes in him. But that does not alter the truth.”

      “Then tell me your version of the truth.”

      “Last summer—”

      “That’ll do, Jack.” A large and ominous shadow filled the doorway, obliterating the light. Tom Silver ducked his head and stepped into the galley. “Best check on the piston drivers. Weren’t you going to do that today?”

      Lightning Jack nodded. He looked at Deborah briefly. “Find something to eat. You’ll need your strength.”

      “But you—what—” Before Deborah could get the words out, he was gone. She glared at Tom Silver. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”

      “I heard.”

      “You had no right to interrupt.”

      “You have no rights, period.”

      She shot up from the table. Her vision swam, and for a horrible moment she feared she might swoon. She grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself. “I have every right to know why you took me against my will. I have every right to know why you forced me aboard this smelly boat and why you’re taking me far from home. I have every right—”