Gone (22 page)

It was a relief to know the guard was responsible for blabbing about the diary pages, not Martha Calder-Shaun, but I realized that talking was Olivia’s way of not making a decision. Even so, I ignored the urge to shake some sense into her. That gentleness paid off when she finally returned to the subject of Meeks, saying, “He and the security guard, they like cigars—that’s how they met. Plus . . . he probably paid the guy to watch the house. With
my
money.”

In my most reasonable voice I said, “Olivia,
listen
. Don’t you see he’s feeding on you? Pretty soon, there won’t be enough left of yourself to fight back—that’s why we have to go now.”

The girl wanted to leave, no doubt about that. I watched her eyes move around the cabin, the prison that had become her world, then spoke to the ceiling as if arguing with herself. “This morning when he got back from my studio, he swore he’d kill you. Shoot you in the head. Something cruel like that. But it didn’t happen. He’s never made a threat that didn’t happen. That’s what’s so hard to believe.”

I said, “He has a gun?” There wasn’t one in Meeks’s dinghy, I’d checked.

Olivia ignored me by continuing, “Instead, you shot
him
. For the first time since I met that . . . that pig, he was wrong. I guess it should prove not everything he says comes true. And I did hear the gunshot.” The girl faced me. “Sorry I’m having trouble, it’s just that he takes up so much
space
in my head, thinking isn’t easy. Or to convince myself that someone like you could shoot a man who’s so . . . vicious”—a tentative smile appeared, eyes on my Navaho shirt—“even though you’re dressed for the part. Does any of this make sense?”

Maybe—but not in the Barbara Stanwyck way she meant, although I hoped I was wrong.

“Olivia,” I said, taking her by the arms again. “Does Ricky keep a gun in his jon boat—a little aluminum boat with a motor. Usually green.”

“A shotgun, of course,” she said as if everyone did. “That’s what he used on the man this morning. The one who came asking questions. But
he
said you already knew that he’d killed—”

In a rush, I asked, “Where’s the jon boat? The man he shot had to come by boat, too. Where did he hide them?”

I was frightening the girl, but it couldn’t be helped. Then it was me who was scared when Olivia explained there was a fisherman who had a camp just across the cut on the next island, about half a mile away. In exchange for borrowing the fisherman’s truck, when needed, Ricky left his boat there sometimes because it was faster than a net boat.

“Eugene Schneider,” I said.

Olivia nodded, then looked at her feet in a shamed way that told me the jon boat wasn’t the only thing Eugene used sometimes. “I don’t know his last name. He stays here and watches me when my . . . when the owner’s away. This morning, before I heard the gunshots, the man you mentioned, he didn’t have his own boat. He paid Eugene to bring him out to find . . .”

“Ricky,” I prompted. “No reason to be afraid to say his name.”

“Yes. He brought Ricky back from the mainland a little while ago. Then left, saying he’d come back later because we’re leaving for Key Largo tonight. And both of them wanted to have some fun with . . . with . . .”

“With me,” I said. The two planned to rape me before dumping another body in the mangroves, that was plain.

Now it was Olivia who couldn’t make eye contact. “That’s where the shotgun would be. In the boat with Eugene.” She paused, still embarrassed. “Hannah, I am . . . I’m so sorry this is happening to you. It’s my fault. All because of . . .”

The girl’s body shuddered, so I held her for a moment before saying, “We can stand here and cry, or we can prove we’re not fools. Personally, I’m tired of apologizing for things I can’t change.” The pocket Bible had caught my eye, so I pointed to it, adding, “Don’t let being scared make the decision for you. The Ninety-first Psalm is a good one for that.”

“You read the Bible?” she asked, the question important to her.

Not very often, but I attended church, which, under the circumstances, made it okay for me to reply,
“Yes I do.”
Then I left her to deal with it while I hurried to the cruiser’s starboard wall, slid open a window, and put an ear to the screen to listen. I heard insects . . . waves slapping the hull . . . but no whine of a distant outboard motor coming our way.

Or was there?

TWENTY-FOUR

I
WAS SEARCHING THE CABIN, LOOKING FOR SOME KIND OF
weapon, when Olivia appeared from the forward sleeping berth and told me, “They’re coming! I saw a spotlight. Ricky and the other guy need a light to find markers at low tide. We’ve only been here three days, so it could be both of them.”

The wind had kicked up, so I had yet to hear a motor, but I didn’t doubt the woman’s words. The church-minded heiress had not only changed clothes—jeans, running shoes, a plaid shirt—but her attitude had changed as well. She was still scared, so was I, but she’d gotten control of herself, and I was gaining confidence in Olivia’s unexpected steadiness. Maybe it was the voice of a Key West Coast Guard radioman who had just told us, “We’re scrambling a helicopter out of Saint Pete, plus local police, but my lieutenant advises that you leave the vessel immediately! Do you copy?”

Yes.
Since I had reattached the antenna coupling, the boat’s VHF radio received and transmitted just fine. A helicopter and police boats that might arrive in an hour, though, didn’t solve our problem, as Olivia was aware. So I suspected the Bible verse I’d recommended had also played a role in her decision to leave Ricky Meeks behind.

Olivia was stowing the Bible in her pocket now as she exited the berth and asked, “Any luck?”

I shook my head,
Nope
.
I had taken a quick look at the engine hoping to discover how Meeks had disabled the ignition system. Get the cruiser running and we could ram the little aluminum boat as it approached, shotgun blazing away or not. No luck, though, which is why I’d searched for weapons while waiting for Olivia to change. And why my eyes had come to rest on the propane stove.

“Hannah, what are you staring at? They’re
coming
.”

I didn’t respond. Through the open window, I still couldn’t hear the sound of an outboard motor, so I remained focused on the stove and the propane cylinder beneath it. I was looking from the stove to a pair of miniature oil lamps, then back to the stove when Olivia broke into my thoughts, saying, “I know
exactly
how to do it. I’ve gone over it in my head too many times to count.”

“Do what?” I asked, more puzzled by her tone than what she said. Confession mixed with conspiracy, but with a razor’s edge. Like that.

“At first, commit suicide,” Olivia replied, not blinking as she looked into my eyes. “Kill Ricky and myself. Because I never had a way to escape—until tonight. Or a reason . . . not after what he’s done.” Her strength wavered. “And after the things I let him do, maybe I should’ve gone through with it.”

“That’s a question you should take to church,” I said, too impatient to debate. “Right now, I’m wondering if he’d smell the gas. And what if he’s not smoking a cigar? Wait—I should’ve checked. Does this stove use a pilot light?” I hurried to peer beneath the burners, but then tilted my head to listen. Had I heard a motor? I went to the starboard window to check. Yes, a boat was coming, but still a long way off. I slammed the window closed, then hurried to the stove.

“Get going, I’ll follow,” I said, motioning to the door. “Be careful you don’t twist an ankle or something when you drop off the railing. I’ll close up the cabin.”

I had no way to light a candle remotely or an oil lamp, but there was a chance that Ricky would be smoking when he came aboard—or Eugene if he had come to join in the fun. Open the stove’s valves before we left, close the door behind us, and the cabin would fill with combustible propane within minutes. That’s why Lawrence Seasons had replaced the galley in his yacht—gas was dangerous in a cabin boat. But whether I could actually do it—lay a trap that might kill two men—depended on the argument still going on in my mind. Was such a thing legal? Was it
right
?

Whatever I decided, I didn’t want Olivia Seasons to have a hand in it. She had more than enough guilt to deal with as it was. We had talked while she changed clothes, me explaining why I’d come here, then listening to her hints about Meeks’s drug use and cruelty.

Olivia heard what I’d said, but her attention had turned inward, the subject of why she hadn’t killed herself and Ricky still important enough to discuss. “The only thing that stopped me from doing it was I couldn’t find anything in here”—she tapped the book in her pocket—“that forgives suicide. Punishing him, though, both those men, I’ve got some of those passages highlighted to prove—”

“Olivia,”
I said, raising my voice. “Get out of here
now
. We’ve only got a few minutes!” I wasn’t exaggerating by much. Maybe five minutes, possibly less, judging from the distant buzz of a boat that was getting louder by the second.

“No,” the woman replied as if speaking to herself, but then said it again with more confidence. “No! You’re leaving first. I’m going to do it.” She nodded at the propane tank, which I was checking to confirm the valve was open. “Figuring it out will take you too long. You’re right: what if Ricky’s not smoking when he comes in? I’ve gone over this in my mind a thousand times, Hannah. I know how to work it. Go find your gun!”

I had been kneeling by the stove. Now I stood. Olivia didn’t sound calm, exactly, but there was a sureness in her attitude that I had to take seriously.

“The first thing he’ll do if he thinks I’m gone is open that”—she pointed at the little fridge—“to see if I robbed him. That’s where he hides valuables—that container I opened while you were on the radio? He bought it at some novelty shop. Thinks it’s too clever for me to understand.”

I had seen Olivia close the refrigerator door after retrieving a manila envelope, which was odd, but I was too busy with Key West Coast Guard to ask questions that could wait until later.

“I know it makes no sense to you, which is why I have to be the last one to leave this boat. Besides, I have the
right
—you don’t.” Once again, Olivia touched a hand to her back pocket.

It was true I didn’t understand how a refrigerator door could trigger an explosion, but she didn’t give me a chance to ask. Instead, she silenced me by pointing to the cabin’s only mirror. “You know why I covered that with a towel? Because I can’t bear to see what he’s done. Haven’t had the courage to look at myself since our so-called honeymoon—a cruise to Key West that was so . . .
disgusting
, I can’t believe it was me.” Eyes closed, she shook her head.

Sybarite.
I had been right, but took no pleasure in it now.

As if it were accidental, I had moved between Olivia and the mirror, afraid she would pull the towel away. Her appearance was better now, wearing clothes that reminded me of certain bird-watchers I’d met. The tall ones who prefer tartan plaids and move with the gawky grace of wading birds. But Olivia might be upset by her face, and this was no time for emotions or arguing. I had just made a decision of my own.

“Neither one of us is going to booby-trap this boat,” I said in a tone that refused questioning. “If Ricky’s going to burn in Hell, let someone else be the judge. We’re getting out of here right now!” I put my hands on the girl’s shoulders, gave a reassuring squeeze, then steered her toward the door.

Olivia balked for an instant but didn’t argue, which was a relief. What I didn’t notice, though, was that she left behind a little beach bag she’d packed with mosquito spray, her purse, the manila envelope, and her sketchbook. Of all those items, as she’d already told me, her drawings were most important.

Later, that detail would prove Olivia Seasons still knew her own mind. She had left the bag on purpose.

—

W
E WENT OUT
onto the stern, where mosquitoes were waiting beneath a sky blacker for all the stars. To the east, heat lightning sparked over the Everglades; to the north, my eyes struggled until I had matched the whine of an outboard motor with a gray shape that was gliding toward us fast, now only two or three hundred yards away. Closer than I’d expected due to a southeast wind that was blowing the sound away from my ears.

“My Lord,” I said, “we cut this too close. Get going!” I urged Olivia toward the front of the boat, now wondering if I should risk even a minute or two feeling around in the water for the pistol. That the gun had belonged to my Uncle Jake made it more of a loss but didn’t compare with the sudden panic I felt. I was desperate for a shield. Anything that would keep two hard men at a distance, whether my engine started or not. The thought of Ricky’s hands on me again, or Schneider’s rough features, was too loathsome for my imagination to allow. Yes—a small amount of time was worth risking even though the chances of me finding the pistol were slim. Nothing hides a small object so well as a few feet of black water, especially when it’s near a boat that is shifting on its lines like the cruiser was doing now.

“Do you see them?” Olivia had some speed in her legs and was already on the front of the boat, me right behind her. To get a better look, she stepped up onto the hatch that opened to the v-berth below, then said, “There they are!”

“Don’t use your flashlight,” I warned, crossing to the rail. “That engine’s so loud, they won’t hear us once we’re in the water. But if they see a light, they’ll know it’s us and might—” I caught myself before making it worse.
Start shooting,
is what I’d intended to say. Instead, I told her, “You get over the rail first. Then me.”

“Aren’t you going to look for your gun?” Olivia asked the question without turning. She appeared inches taller than me because the hatch was elevated, a lean exclamation point against the mangrove darkness.

“Not until we’re in the water,” I said, irritated because I was waiting, one leg over the safety rail. “Which is where you should be right now.”

“I’m
coming
! But someone should keep watch while you’re looking.” Then Olivia’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, saying, “Shit, it’s Eugene
and
him!” The familiar profanity seemed an endearment when she added, “Don’t panic. There’s a bar too shallow to cross, so they’ll have to wind through the channel.” She turned and made a shooing motion with her hand. “Go! I’ll be right there—promise!”

It did pop into my mind that, later, I didn’t want to have to explain to Lawrence Seasons why I’d allowed myself to be separated from his niece. On the other hand, we needed that pistol. Olivia had meant what she said, and I believed her. So I lowered myself down the railing, then used a branch to balance myself in the tangle of roots. The outboard seemed louder for some reason, now I was near the water. It pierced my ears like the whine of a dentist’s drill, boring deeper into my head as the boat flew closer.

I pulled off my shoes, as I knew I must, and waded along the edge of the cruiser, searching the bottom with my feet. The bottom was hard shell and marl, the water warm to my waist. Off to my right, from the shadows, boomed the baritone
Woof
of the alligator or croc I’d heard earlier. It was close now, somewhere at the edge of the mangroves. The croc I’d seen on Sanibel was over twelve feet long, four hundred pounds, but there wasn’t enough room in my head for more fear. So I ignored it. Funneled all my concentration into my toes and continued searching. I’d been at it for less than a minute when a spotlight torched the mangroves to my right and caused me to duck. That’s when Olivia’s face appeared over the railing and she called, “I forgot my bag! Keep looking, Hannah.”

If I could have reached up and snatched the girl into the water, I would have. “No!”

“Or . . . I’ll meet you on the ridge, if you think that’s safer.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“But I have to!” Olivia was already turning. Then, over her shoulder, she had to say it again.

“I promise!”