Thanatos surges swiftly forward. Any sound he makes is swallowed by the rumbling hum of engines, the windy clank and clatter of lifeboat ropes, the groans and creaks of the swaying ship. Thanatos moves with intent—wholly focused on Sorin, who still has his back to the promenade, and his Dracula collar turned up against the wet, salty wind.
Carter’s fear makes everything seem as though it’s happening in slow motion. As Thanatos moves, he takes a coil of wire from his pocket—Carter is sure it’s wire from the way it glints in the refracted light. Thanatos uncoils the wire and raises it high as he moves.
Panic slices Carter’s heart. Heknows—with a deep, primal gut comprehension—that a man’s life is about to be taken.
The little Satyr screams into the wind.
“Run, Sorin! Help! Stop!”
Thanatos whirls to face Carter in the shadows. Carter pees in his pants. His bowels turn to water. He shakes like a leaf as the silver facestares at him. At the same time Sorin the Magnificent swings around with a whirl of his thick, velvet cape. The bloodred lining flares.
Everything slows to syrup.
The mentalist’s mouth opens wide. His arm jerks upward, and his vape pen clatters onto the damp deck. The ship pitches. Carter falls. He scrambles to his hands and knees, gets up—but before he can run, the mentalist lunges toward him, grabs his backpack, and yanks Carter hard against his body.
“Don’t!” Sorin shouts. “Stop right there! Move one fucking muscle and the kid goes over!”
Thanatos scans the deck—quick, calculating.
As he does, the mentalist lifts Carter up by his backpack straps and forces the top half of his body over the railing. Carter’s head dangles above the sea.
Stories below—far, far, far below—the shiny black water heaves and sucks and surges. Waves veined with luminescent foam crash against the hull.
Carter’s Satyr mask catches the wind, flies off his face, and spins through the air like a silver disk sparking moonlight ... all the way down to the hungry waves.
His left shoulder begins to slide out of the backpack strap. He realizes Sorin’s grip on the pack is the only thing keeping him from plunging all the way down into the sea, like his mask.
Fear clamps a vise around his throat, so tight he can’t even scream. He hears the mesmerist yell.
“Stop right there! I swear, I’ll kill the kid!”
Carter feels himself being lowered—farther over the rail. His left shoulder slips free of the strap. He feels the other begin to slip loose.
Carter
Carter can barely think. He’s conscious only of the hungry sea sucking and reaching for him from stories below, and the wind hitting him—blasting at his ears, tearing at the roots of his hair, forcing moisture from his eyes. He can taste salt in his mouth.
His heart thumps.
He hears more yelling—snatches of the men’s voices, half words being torn by the wind and carried over the caldera toward the jagged black cliffs of Santorini.
“Dad,” Carter tries to say. He wants his dad. So bad. The need for his father’s strong, safe arms comes from a profoundly deep place in him.
Another shout sounds on the deck above, and then Carter feels himself being dropped even lower over the side of the ship.
He flails wildly, grasping for something—anything—to hold on to. There’s nothing. Nothing to stop his plunge if his other shoulder slips from the backpack strap.
Blood rushes to his head, pounds against his eardrums.
The magician suddenly screams—a sound so primal, so inhuman, so horrific it curdles his blood. Then a jolt.
Carter feels a sudden drop. His pack jerks—and his other arm slips free of the strap.
It’s Criminal:
The Mystery of theBlack Orchid
A Trinity Scott & Gio Rossi True Crime Production
