Hell's Bay (20 page)

Holland tore the lid off a blueberry muffin and crammed it in his mouth.

John reached under the bar and came up with a yellow walkie-talkie. Earlier in the fall when I'd shopped for equipment I'd noticed similar models on the shelves of marine-supply stores for about sixty bucks. Its runty aerial and cheap electronics gave it a range of about a mile—a half step up from a kid's toy. It wasn't on the Mothership's equipment list.

“It warbled,” Mona said. “Kept warbling, the call signal it makes.”

“I tracked it down.” Holland took his lens cap off. “It was on the shelf behind the TV, up there with the Audubon books.”

Milligan set it on the bar beside his drink.

“It's her,” he said. “She wants to make a deal.”

“The woman?” Rusty edged over to the bar. “You talked to her without giving me a heads-up. Is that what you're saying?”

“Uncle Johnny is pissed,” Holland said. “Mr. Big Shot's used to running the show, and you guys blew him off. He's royally pissed, aren't you, Uncle Johnny?”

Milligan touched the walkie-talkie with a fingertip. He glanced at his watch, a gaudy Rolex encrusted with tiny diamonds.

“A couple of minutes she's going to call back for our response.”

“What kind of deal?” I said.

“She wants to talk to you, Thorn.” Milligan picked up his drink and tossed it back.

“Then she lets us go,” Holland said, and snapped two quick shots of my reaction. “You two talk, whatever happens happens, then the party's over, we get a free pass home.”

Rusty stepped closer to Milligan.

“She thought my brother was Thorn. How did she learn different?”

Milligan's gaze was trained on his empty glass.

“Uncle Johnny spilled the frijoles. Blab, blab, blab.”

Holland snapped a shot of Rusty's stunned face.

“Okay, I slipped,” Milligan said. “She wanted to talk to Thorn. I spoke without thinking. I told her you weren't here. You were up on the roof.”

“You idiot.” Rusty cocked her fist and came for him, but I seized her arm and hauled her to a stop.

“I blew it,” Milligan said. “I had a couple of drinks, I wasn't thinking straight. But that's her deal.”

“Bullshit,” Rusty said. “No way in hell is that going to happen.”

“Sounds like a bargain,” Holland said. “Swap muy macho fishing guide for the rest of us. I call that a fucking steal.”

“Holland, you're a weasel.”

“Hey, Annette, write that down. Lesbo houseboat captain insults internationally esteemed photojournalist.”

“When this is over, kid,” I said to Holland. “When this trip is done . . .”

“Ooooh, my knees are quaking. I'm having palpitations.”

Rusty swung to me. “Like I said, Thorn. It's just beginning.”

She stepped over to the rear door and peered out toward the creek.

A second later the walkie-talkie trilled, then trilled again.

I picked it up and held it out to Rusty. She snapped it from my hand, gripped it while it made another electronic cheep. She held it to her mouth, but before she could utter a word, the shooter spoke.

“Who am I talking to?” Nothing pushy in her tone, almost deferential.

Rusty extended the walkie-talkie to arm's length and stared at it as if it were something poisonous. For a moment she seemed ready to fling it across the room. Then she swung around and thrust it toward me.

“Take it,” she said. “I can't do this.”

I took the unit and pressed the answer button.

“I'm here,” I said.

“Is this Daniel Oliver Thorn?”

I drew a slow breath.

“The name is Thorn.”

Holland was inching his lens closer to my face. Clicking, clicking.

“Get in one of the kayaks,” she said. “Paddle three hundred yards east of the houseboat and wait.”

Mona was staring at me from across the room, something flickering in her eyes, a squint that might have been recognition.

“No,” I said.

“Yes. Fifteen minutes. Paddle out and wait.”

“You want to talk, go ahead. I'm listening.”

I pointed at Mona and waved her over. She got up from the couch and was by my side as the woman spoke again. I tipped the walkie-talkie so she could hear the voice more clearly.

“You paddle out and meet me. Or the others go down, too.”

I mouthed the words to Mona, “You know her?”

She shook her head, paused, then shrugged. Not sure. Maybe.

“Why're you doing this?” I said. “What's this about?”

It took several seconds for her to reply.

“How long can you hold your breath, Daniel Oliver Thorn?”

Annette slammed her notebook onto the coffee table and stalked over to my side. Without a word, she snatched the radio from me.

“Listen, whoever you are,” Annette said. “This isn't funny. This game you're playing, it's not going to work. You don't know who you're dealing with. There are important people on this boat. I happen to write for a national magazine with a circulation of over two million. Lots of people know exactly where I am. So you stop this prank. Do you hear me? Right now.”

“Give me back to Thorn.” Her tone was impassive, almost bored.

Annette held the radio to her mouth again, about to resume her lecture, then thought better of it and thrust it back at me.

“I'm here,” I said.

“Fifteen minutes to get that kayak into the water. Paddle due east three hundred yards and wait.”

“I'll give it some thought,” I said. “Get back to you later.”

Before she could reply, I switched the walkie-talkie to off and dropped the unit into my pocket.

“Think about it?” Holland said. “You're going to think about it?”

I took two quick steps and shoved Holland against the dining table. He reached out to stiffarm me, but I waded in closer and got chest to chest with him, breathing in his face.

Annette may have screamed. Milligan may have made some stern remark. There was such swelling in my ears I wasn't sure. I unlooped the camera strap from Holland's neck, swatted his hands away, and went to the rear doorway, pushed it open, and started to lob the bulky camera out into the bay.

Holland yelled at me to stop.

I turned around, shut the door behind me, still holding the camera.

“Holland, let's get this clear. Next time your asshole alter ego opens his mouth, this thing goes in the drink. Got it?”

“All right, all right. I got it, I got it.”

“Not even a joke. Not even a lighthearted jest. Clear?”

He nodded morosely.

I held up his camera to examine it. “You have other lenses for this thing?”

“What? I'm a professional. You think I have only one lens?”

“What about a telephoto?”

“What're you talking about?”

“You heard me.”

“I got one, yeah. In my case.”

“Put it on. Stand right here at the salon door and keep looking through the telephoto at that creek mouth over to the southeast. You see it?”

Holland came over and looked.

“Where those birds are in the branches?”

“Just to the left of the egrets, yeah. Twenty, thirty yards left.”

“Why?”

I turned back to the group.

“Teeter's dead,” I said. “The woman out there shot him in the back when he was swimming away, trying to escape.”

Mona groaned and closed her eyes.

Even Holland shut his mouth. He cradled his camera with both hands as though he might drop it otherwise.

“What's going on here?” Annette said. “What the hell is this about?”

“All we know for sure,” I said, “is that the woman's got a rifle, probably with a telescopic sight. She's a good shot. She's got a handgun, too. But she doesn't know what weapons we have. That's why she's being cautious.”

Annette was standing up now, an uncertain smile playing on her lips.

“What weapons
do
we have?” Milligan said.

“What you see on the coffee table. Some flares, a saw. The tools.”

“You're shitting me,” Holland said. “A saw?”

“So there it is,” Milligan said to the others. “She can do anything she wants. She could sit out there and plink away, fill the houseboat full of lead, cut us down one by one.”

“Not if we play this right,” I said. “She's been careful so far. We can use that to our advantage.”

“Use it how?” Holland said.

“If we don't give her a clear target, we might steal enough time to get the motors up and running.”

“And what then?” Milligan said. “Outrun her in this barge?”

“When we get closer to land, our cell phones should work.”

Milligan snorted. “That's it? That's the plan?”

No one would look at me. Not even Rusty.

“Hell, if that's all you've got,” Milligan said, “I'll have to fix this myself.”

“And your fix is what, John?”

Milligan stood his ground behind the bar, staring at me with a look he must have acquired from Abigail, a mingling of disgust and triumph—the human race once again confirming his low opinion. The luster in his eyes was dulled by the booze, and his tone had taken on a bleak, stony edge. Through the starboard windows the harsh sunlight illuminated his face and the dark sweep of hair, revealing every enlarged pore in his cheek, the glossy welts of scar tissue on the bridge of his nose and another seam at the edge of his eye probably from a hard right hand he hadn't seen coming. The slant of light also exposed the reddish shimmer of dye he used to darken his roots.

With his eyes hard on mine, he said, “What the hell are you staring at?”

My uncle stepped away from the glare of sunlight, and picked up his glass and swigged the remains.

Mona said, “When we were coming back across the bay, I heard at least a dozen shots. Is that the sign of a good marks-man?”

A valid point, though I had no answer. I'd seen no evidence of gunfire anywhere on the houseboat. And Teeter had only the single wound.

“Holland,” I said. “Put on your telephoto, keep it working across those mangroves. First move you see, sing out. John and Annette can take the west and north windows. Head on a swivel. You see any sign of her, yell.”

“Teeter's not dead,” Annette said. “You're kidding us. This is all staged, a big production for my benefit. The crocodile gag, all that stuff. The woman taking our boats, she's an actor. It's a practical joke so I'll write up this fantastic, exciting story, and people will be flocking to go out with you guys.”

I looked over at Rusty. Her tanned face had gone pale.

“Tell the truth,” Annette said. “Teeter's not dead.”

“Annette.” There was an ache in Rusty's voice. “You and Holland come with me, have a look at my brother. Just so you know.”

Annette flattened her lips and gave her head a bratty shake.

“It's true,” Holland said. “We're all going to fucking die out here.”

“Not if we're smart,” I said.

“We got a fucking saw, a bunch of fucking flares.”

Annette was staring out the salon windows into the bleak distances of the bay. In less than a day, she'd lost the poise of the seasoned traveler. The brash city girl's eyes were dis-solving into haze.

“Rusty,” I said. “I'm going to the wheelhouse, see what I can do with those ignition wires. You okay with that?”

She nodded.

“Let's go, you two.” Rusty's voice was hoarse with stifled fury. “Pay your respects to Teeter, then you're pulling some guard duty.”

“And you.” I pointed to Mona. “You come with me.”

 

 

 

 

Sugarman parked his Accord along the shoulder of Highway 70 a mile upstream from the pullout ramp, then cut through the woods to the Peace River. With the map Dr. Dillard pro-vided, he backtracked one mile along the riverbank between the spot where Abigail's body washed up and where she was last seen alive by Carla Featherstone, the woman kayaker.

The shoreline was mostly open, but there were spots where he had to squirm through vines and thick stands of palmetto, and a couple of barbed-wire fences to cross.

He walked slowly and paid attention, looking down at the ground, surveying the river and the surrounding brush, but not expecting much.

He came across a pair of ancient sunglasses in some tall grass halfway along his hike. Aviators. He found a single white athletic sock, five soda cans, and a kid's red plastic pail half buried in the mud beside a cow pasture.

He paced alongside three gentle curves in the river, find-ing nothing along the shore. At the first hard-angled turn he came to, he halted. It was a narrow spot about half a mile downstream from where the kayaker passed Abigail Bates. He climbed atop one of the boulders that loomed over the turn, then he worked his gaze foot by foot along the bank and shoreline, seeing nothing but mud and grass and a nar-row sandy edge.

He changed his angle, shaded his eyes, and caught sight of a piece of black cloth peeking from the riverbank mud. He climbed down the boulder, stooped over, and tugged the cloth out of the glop. It was the brim of a cap.

After rinsing the grime off in the river, he held it up. Mar-lins baseball hat.

He climbed back onto the large smooth rock that seemed to watch over that narrowed crook in the river. It was early afternoon, sky free of clouds, a warm day for January in cen-tral Florida. He tipped the hat toward the sun and squinted at it. There was a long hair snagged in the metal clasp. It was dark, either brown or black. Hard to tell. His eyes weren't as sharp as they'd been a few years earlier. But it was a long hair, which meant it was probably a woman's.

The drowning had occurred six months earlier, but hu-man hair degraded at different rates depending on exposure to the elements and its own structure, depending on whether the person it came from was healthy or sick, a smoker or ane-mic, a drunk or a teetotaler, or any number of other factors. Sugarman had logged a weekend forensics refresher course a couple of years earlier at Baptist Hospital in Miami. From what he could recall, hair cuticle scale pattern survived even if the internal structure collapsed. Which meant that even in degraded condition, certain microscopic and DNA analysis was still possible.