We hadn’t known it wasn’t a rental facility, so what he said wasn’t strictly true. Still, there was something about the way the man’s nostrils flared when he spoke to us that made me worry I smelled as bad as I looked, regardless of my recent shower. When he yielded no further information we went back out to the parking lot.

“Ben wouldn’t just leave his car-he has to be around somewhere,” I said.

“If he didn’t ask to rent a boat, he must have known he couldn’t rent one before he even got here. Was he planning on hijacking somebody else’s boat?” asked Luisa.

“If he managed to hijack Hilary, I wouldn’t put it past him to hijack a boat,” said Peter, who seemed to have given up on trying to be reassuring.

We quickly decided to split up into pairs and canvass the boats, checking for signs of either Ben or Hilary and asking anyone we encountered if they’d seen people matching their description. Knowing that Ben was armed made this a scarier proposition than it would have been otherwise, but it was unlikely he’d risk shooting at us here in broad daylight, even if he had been desperate enough to transport Hilary without the cover of darkness. After we all promised each other we would proceed with caution, Abigail and Luisa started on the pier at the northern-most end and Peter and I started on the southern-most end, agreeing to work our way to the center.

It was probably a good thing so few people were around, because I imagined most of the club members wouldn’t appreciate complete strangers jumping onto their boats, checking to see if anyone was on board, and then jumping off. Peter and I made it to the end of the first pier without spotting a single other person, much less signs of either of the individuals we were looking for, although I did catch a glimpse of Abigail and Luisa in the distance speaking to a man lounging on the deck of one of the larger boats in the marina. Judging by his gestures, he was urging them to join him for a drink and potentially a sunset cruise, and judging by his Hawaiian shirt and the daiquiri glass in his hand, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he had both a waterbed and a disco ball belowdecks.

We advanced to the next pier, but this one also proved empty of humans except for an elderly couple guiding a modest craft into its slip. We lost several minutes convincing them that my fat lip was the result of an accident and not because I was unable to extricate myself from an abusive relationship with Peter. We then lost several more minutes helping them tie up, getting an entirely unwanted lesson in knot-making because Peter was too polite either not to help or to let on he already knew how to make the knots. Even so, we still managed to reach the remaining pier before Abigail and Luisa and began checking the boats there. I was growing increasingly worried we wouldn’t find anything at all, and if that were the case, I had no idea what we should do next.

Then, halfway down the pier, Peter froze. He reached out an arm to keep me from moving forward. “That’s weird,” he said softly.

“What’s weird?” I asked, matching his hushed tone.

He pointed to a small white boat a few slips ahead. Everything I knew about sailing I’d learned in the last half hour, but even I could appreciate its graceful lines and gleaming brass-work. Delicate script on the hull spelled out The Good Sport, San Mateo, CA. The very name should have been enough to tip me off, but I was still surprised by what Peter said next.

“That boat. It’s Caro’s. She must have changed marinas.”

It figured that Caro would name her boat something like The Good Sport, but I could reflect further on that once we rescued Hilary. Instead, I flashed back to our locker-room conversation. “Caro told Ben she had a boat,” I said, keeping my voice low. “And she also told him she hardly ever uses it. But she probably didn’t tell him where she kept it, and that’s why he was calling around-to locate it.”

“Why would he want to use her boat instead of renting one?” asked Peter.

“This is better. In fact, it’s perfect. This way he doesn’t have to worry about leaving a record. It’s one thing to explain away why you rented a car; renting a boat is a different matter. I’ll bet you anything he’s got Hilary on there.”

“No bets,” said Peter, but he took my arm, and we moved quietly up the pier.

Nobody was on deck, and we couldn’t make out any sounds from the interior cabin, but this was preferable to hearing gunshots. Peter stepped aboard in one smooth motion, and the boat dipped slightly with his weight, but there was continued silence, and wordlessly he helped me up to join him. I followed as he moved with sure steps across the deck, trying not to think about how many times he and Caro must have gone sailing together on this very boat.

The hatch above the steeply pitched stairs leading down to the cabin yawned open, and we paused as we approached, listening again for any sound from within. But there was only the creaking of the boat as it rocked gently in the water.

Peter turned to me, miming that I should stay on deck and call for help if anything happened. I mimed back that I would. Then I waited thirty seconds for his sandy head to disappear inside before trailing him down the stairs.

Here I found a small living space, no more than six feet wide and ten feet long, all paneled in shiny teak. The curtains were drawn, and the cabin was dark, but I could make out a compact dining table built into one wall next to an equally compact galley. Beyond the table, a short narrow hallway led to a partially open door which I guessed led to a bedroom, and that was where Peter was heading.

What happened next happened quickly.

Just as Peter started to move into the bedroom, a pocket door in the wall slid noiselessly open behind him, and Ben walked into the hallway. His head was down, but something metallic glinted in his hand, and he was so close to Peter he could practically reach out and touch him, which was entirely too close for my comfort.

There wasn’t time to ask questions, much less to think, so I did neither.

Instead, I grabbed the first thing I saw, a heavy cast-iron skillet resting on the single-burner stove. I raised the skillet high, just as Caro had raised her racket on the tennis court, and charged across the small room.

Ben never even saw me coming. The skillet made a whooshing noise as I brought my arm down, and it connected with his head with a strangely gratifying thwack.

He crumpled first to his knees, then pitched facedown onto the floorboards.

26

Peter spun around. “What-” he started to ask, but then he saw Ben sprawled behind him.

Who knew I’d be so much more accurate with a skillet than a racket? It wasn’t as if I cooked any better than I played tennis, but Ben was out cold. Or nearly cold. He moaned softly, and the metal object clattered from his hand, but otherwise he looked unconscious.

I rushed to pick up what Ben had dropped, eager to move the gun out of his reach before he came to. But it wasn’t a gun he’d been holding. It was a pair of scissors, and while scissors could be dangerous, this particular pair didn’t look especially sharp or lethal. In fact, they were really nothing more than glorified nail clippers-I’d only mistaken them for a gun because it had been so dark, and because I was predisposed to think that’s what Ben must have in his hand. Had he been planning on giving Hilary a manicure before he killed her?

That odd thought barely had time to register before we heard a muffled thump from the bedroom. I stepped over Ben as Peter switched on an overhead light and pushed the door open.

We found Hilary curled on the narrow bunk, uncharacteristically quiet and still, but that was because a swath of electrical tape was plastered across her mouth and around her head, and a makeshift bungee-cord harness ran from her wrists to her ankles, immobilizing her. Above the tape, however, her green eyes were flashing with a look of such ferocity it almost seemed safer to keep her tied up.