Page 57 of Nothing to Fear

He tightened his grip on the tools and slipped out of the car. “I won’t be long.”

Zipping his jacket to hide his blood-soaked shirt, he stuffed the tools in his back pocket. He tipped his cap down and strode past manicured front lawns, up the driveway to the back of the vacant palatial house.

A large, white cruiser sat docked. Sabre model, forty-footer with a housed, raised cockpit, deck, and outdoor seating. The small motor yacht looked made for entertaining. Pay dirt. Assuming he could get her started.

He scanned the open row of sprawling backyards, left and right. Empty, and the water was calm. He strode down the dock, head up as if he belonged there, and hopped onto the boat. Bypassing an outdoor dining set, he headed for the double glass doors leading to the cockpit.

Locked.

No deadbolt. A simple mortise latch. He wouldn’t have to break the glass.

He jimmied the screwdriver between the doors, angling toward the latch. Two taps with the hammer, and he was in.

Hotwiring a boat for a long trip was dicey, always the chance of getting stranded on the water. And they weren’t in a position to radio for help. He’d risk hotwiring it if he had to, but the owner already demonstrated a gross lack of caution. No alarm. Advertising that they’d left the house vacant by not stopping the newspapers. No deadbolt on the boat.

High odds in their favor the keys were somewhere onboard.

He waltzed inside past an L-shaped settee and bolted-down table to check the ignition first. No luck. The owner was a moron but not brain-dead. He glanced around the captain’s chair and spotted the cockpit locker. Unlocked. He thumbed it open.

A smile edged his lips. Inside were maps, boat manuals, a fire extinguisher, one life jacket, safety certificate. Keys. Ding, ding. His grin widened.

He peeked at the certificate. “Thanks, Matt Trumball. Will try not to damage her.”

Ducking a few steps into the lower part of the cabin, he crossed a tiny galley with its compact fridge and two-burner stove. To the right, a rudimentary bathroom had a shower. He poked his head in the bedroom straight ahead. Tight quarters, but a full-size bed and closet.

The forty-footer was more than adequate. Plenty of room to stretch his legs between the cabin and the deck, and Willow would be able to rest on the bed.

Since they had the means to cook, he wouldn’t need the tabletop butane stove he’d purchased. He fired up the boat to ensure no engine problems and noted a full gas tank. Gideon liked this Matt Trumball more and more.

He strode back to the car to find Willow fiddling with her pearls. The world must be moving at a breakneck pace for her. Everything that transpired in the last eight hours would’ve left any normal person in need of a Xanax, Valium—something prescription-strength for sure.

The grind and hustle and blood were his norm. For him, it was the downtime, the mundanities of everyday life where others thrived but he struggled.

He opened her door. Startled, she jumped, gaping up at him.

She’d been through so much, he’d do whatever possible to make it easier from here.

Squatting beside her, he rested his hand on her jiggling knee until she settled. “We should go.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles.

She nodded, and a resigned calm fell over her.

He gathered the bags from the backseat. The slight weight made his side throb. Willow closed the door and took a couple from his hands. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have let her carry anything, but today broke all the rules.

Speckled blood stained the front of her shirt. Her right cheek and throat were pink from the ordeal. Once they were underway, she’d be able to clean up.

Ushering Willow with his arm, they hurried to the boat. As they cut across the backyard, headed for the dock, a neighbor playing with her ivory toy poodle spotted them. The middle-aged woman narrowed her eyes and picked up the small fluffy furball, which began barking at them. Clutching the dog to her chest like it was a baby she was trying to soothe, her laser-like scrutiny intensified.

Gideon scooted Willow to his right side, keeping his arm low over the hole in his jacket, and waved with his left.

“Hi. I’m John.” He plastered on his perfected quarterback smile. Sometimes charm and flashing his pearly whites were the best weapons for a situation. “Matt was kind enough to let us take her out for a couple of days while he’s away.”

“Oh, okay.” The woman returned the smile and waved. “Have fun. The weather is supposed to be gorgeous this weekend.”

“Thanks. Enjoy your evening.”

The older woman set the dog on the grass and tossed her pooch a toy. Gideon let out a tense breath. Good thing that hadn’t blown up in their faces.

They hustled onto the boat. He pulled away from the dock and steered down the Occoquan River. Immaculate yards and tricked-out patios with huge decks and outdoor kitchens stretched along the bank.