Furious, Jeffrey Higgins [phonics readers TXT] 📗

and traveled up my leg, as if it had burst into flames. I jammed my eyes shut and saw colors.

I rubbed the gauze inside the wound to clear away any debris, using circular motions to push contaminants away from the site. Blood flowed, and I irrigated the area, dousing it with saline.

The glass had cut a jagged laceration through my sole and left an uneven flap of skin, which would be difficult to stitch. I pulled the loose skin with my left hand and sliced it off with the scalpel, biting hard on the flashlight. Stars flashed in my vision.

I dropped the severed flesh on the gauze and took deep breaths. I used the surgical scissors to even the ends of the skin, and my foot throbbed as if I had slammed it in a car door.

I squished the edges of the wound together, and blood bubbled between my fingers. The compartment filled with the sweet, pungent odor of iron, as if I had prepared a roast for the oven. I grasped the pre-threaded needle and placed it against my skin at the distal end of the wound. I tensed and inserted the needle. My eyes teared, and I stifled a groan.

I angled the needle at ninety degrees, pierced my skin on the other side. The inflamed area bled and burned. I pinched the shaft on the opposite side of the wound and pulled it until the suture tightened. It hurt like hell but concentrating on my craft—my life’s calling—brought me peace.

I stuck the needle into my flesh near the first suture and did it again. And again. The laceration was four inches long, and it took twenty stitches to close. A thick sheen of sweat coated my body. My heart pounded and my respirations increased almost to the point of hyperventilation. I tried to take the pain without screaming or crying, but my tears flowed.

I poured Betadine over the closed wound to kill any remaining bacteria and patted it dry. I covered it with a thick trauma dressing, without unrolling it, to give myself added padding to help me walk. I wrapped the dressing in gauze and covered it with an Ace bandage.

Done.

I stretched out my leg, laid down on the deck, and closed my eyes. My breathing slowed and the burning pain reduced to a dull throb. I let myself fall asleep.

I awoke to a thumping noise. Brad. He ran through the yacht, hunting for me.

Ambient light filtered into the cabin and I reached for the flashlight. The bulb glowed orange, dim. I had left it on, and the battery was almost dead. I cursed myself for forgetting to turn it off. My foot ached, but no blood had seeped through the bandage, indicating the stitches and dressing had been effective.

It had been six or seven hours since I had hidden in the compartment and my bladder felt like it would explode. I wanted to sneak into the head, but if Brad found me, I would have nowhere to flee. That left one alternative.

I slid to the side of the compartment where the floor slanted toward the stern and moved forward until the roof was high enough to allow me to crouch. I squatted and urinated on the floor. The fluid hit the deck and echoed as if I peed inside a drum. I lowered myself closer to the floor to minimize the noise, and my urine ran between the machinery. The odor filled the room, but I did not care—the release was worth it. I only hoped the smell did not permeate the bulkhead.

I crawled to the center of the compartment and leaned against the generator, letting it warm my naked body. I was thirsty, hungry, and scared. I was out of ideas, but I could not stay there forever.

How could this get any worse?

The flashlight flickered, and the compartment plunged into darkness.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

My skin shriveled from dehydration, becoming aged and wrinkled, and salt stains ran down my arms like ant trails. The pain from stitching my foot had soaked me in sweat and drained my fluids. I wobbled in the dark, dizzy, and held my head in my hands. I had to drink something before I lost consciousness.

The wine cooler lay a few feet from the cabin door, but the refrigerator with the nonalcoholic drinks sat above the washing machine at the far end of the galley, adjacent to the stateroom. The last time I checked, it had contained a few cans of Diet Coke and a bottle of Perrier. The rest of the bottled drinks were in the hold beneath the floor. It would be too noisy to open the hold, but I might make it to the refrigerator without alerting Brad, assuming he was on deck or asleep.

A dehydration headache pounded in my temples. I had no choice.

I crawled through the blackened compartment and ran my fingertips across the wall unit I located the latch. I put my ear against the cool fireproofing lining the inside of the door and listened to the sounds of the yacht, but I could only hear the low hum of the generator and the beating of my heart. I slipped my finger around the latch, held my breath, and pushed it open.

The moon glowed through the cabin portholes, illuminating the engine compartment. I poked my head into the berth.

Empty.

I held the cabinet door and slipped into the cabin. Pain radiated through my foot, and I expelled a long stream of air to keep from screaming.

The cabin door lay shattered on the floor where Brad had broken it down. I peered through the doorway into the galley and enough moonlight filtered in to confirm it was unoccupied. Brad could be on deck or in the other berth or stateroom. I had no way to know. He could also be hiding in the salon, just out of view, waiting for me to show myself.

I shook my fear away.

I closed the cabinet behind me, and the clasp clicked