Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

control, striking me when I leaned too close. The wind slipped off the torn edge and slowed the yacht and decreased the angle of heel.

The hole in the sail reached a tipping point, and when the wind tugged at it, the weight of the fabric ripped on its own. I clipped the knife onto my shirt and swung the boson’s chair forward, away from the snapping fabric. The wind completed my work and tore the edge of the mainsail all the way to the boom.

The sail billowed across the deck, causing the yacht to flounder and rock side to side. I had slowed our momentum to one or two knots, and from a distance, our damaged sail would be visible. If the other boat came within sight, they would know we were in trouble, but if they abandoned the pursuit, I had destroyed my best option for navigating to port.

Exhausted, I leaned against the mast and waited. Movement caught my eye. A dorsal fin appeared fifty yards of the port side. The shark had returned, if it had ever left. It swam around the boat in a lazy circle, then submerged into the depths.

Minutes turned into hours and the day slipped away. I dreamed about water, not the ocean, but large glasses of cold beverages—lemonade, apple juice, iced coffee—anything to hydrate. My lips cracked and bled in the sun. I licked them and my mouth filled with the taste of iron. My skin burned wherever it was not covered by the tee shirt. I wanted to vomit, a sign of heat exhaustion.

Brad waited below. He did not move out of the sun. He did not go to the bathroom. He sat and watched. Every few minutes he growled and pounded his hands on the deck. Once, he flopped around like he was having a seizure. Even from atop the mast I could see his skin had burned and blistered, but he did not appear to care. His sole focus was me. He wanted to catch me, hurt me . . . murder me. He was an animal on the hunt.

I hoped he would die soon.

What would I do with Brad when he passed away? His rabies-riddled body posed a biohazard, and heat would hasten his decomposition. It was a morbid thought, but I had been around enough cadavers to know what would happen. His body would bloat, burst, and liquefy. The smell would become unbearable and it would turn the yacht into an unlivable environment in two days. I would have to drag him over the side, but if he died below deck, I would not have the strength to carry him upstairs. If I got him into the water, the great white would eat him and draw more predators to the yacht. Would I be able to feed the body of my deceased husband to the sharks?

I shuddered. How would I explain that to the police? To his parents?

The waiting drove me to madness.

“What’s happening to me?” Brad said.

I twisted in my seat and looked at him. Was he speaking to me? Those were the first coherent words he had uttered in days.

“Brad?”

“What is this?” he said.

“Brad, do you understand me?”

 “Stay away from me, Dags. I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

I could not believe he was talking again. Was he beating the rabies?

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Aargh,” he yelled, and snapped his teeth at me.

Eric had said some patients experienced periods of lucidity near the end. What an evil virus. Brad must be in hell. I averted my eyes.

The sun beat on my face.

I stopped myself from staring at the other sailboat and trying to estimate when it would arrive. I checked hourly to see if my salvation drew near or if it had changed course and abandoned me for dead. My stomach tightened before I would look and then I would see it—larger, closer, coming to save me. By nightfall, I estimated it was two or three miles away. It would reach us before dawn.

What would happen when it did? The sailboat was coming to help because the crew had seen the distress flare, and I had a duty to warn them about Brad. He was violent and highly contagious, and if he bit someone, he would infect them. They would never hear me yelling over the wind and waves, so how could I signal the boat to tell them I had a rabid lunatic onboard? I could flap my arms and point—like a horrific game of charades—a game where the losers died.

I inspected the lights on the masthead. I could use them to signal, but the only Morse code I knew was SOS. It had been in the sailing book I had read on the plane. Dot, dot, dot—dash, dash, dash—dot, dot, dot. Simple enough to remember.

I held my hand over the red light for two seconds then removed it. I covered it two more times, followed by three long exposures, then three short ones. I repeated the sequence again and again. If anyone was watching, they should recognize the international distress code.

I held onto the mast and rested. Even the slightest physical exertion tired me. I untied the sheet from the gun case and used it to lash myself to the mast to avoid falling to my death hours before help arrived. I balanced the flare gun in my lap. I needed to get fuel into my body soon. I imagined a large plate of spaghetti Bolognese, the tomato sauce dripping over angel hair pasta, shredded parmesan cheese melted on top, and a piece of buttered garlic bread beside it. A hunger pang tweaked my gut.

I closed my eyes, leaned against the pole, and dreamed about food.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

The bed sheet tugged at my wrist where I had tied it to the mast, and I jarred awake, not knowing where I was or what was happening. Lack of nutrients, dehydration, and physical exertion had exhausted me, and I must have passed out. I