An Appetite for Murder (21 page)

As I drove through Islamorada and onto Tea Table Key, a car with super-­bright lights pulled up behind me. I cocked my hand above my left eye to shield the glare from the side-­view mirror. In the rearview, I could barely make out grinning grillwork and halogen lamps riding my bumper way too close for comfort in this lousy weather. I
slowed down so the driver could easily pass. But the other car slowed right down with me. A game of chicken I had no interest in playing. I pressed on the accelerator. Maybe if I upped my speed I could shake them off. The sedan clung to my tail.

For the next ten miles, I tried everything—­faster, slower, weaving from my lane to the opposing and back again—­praying that a cop would be waiting in the bushes and pull one or both of us over. But not another soul was out in this teeming rain. My heart was pounding out of my chest. My hands sweated so heavily I could hardly hang on to the wheel. And my phone was buried in my purse, on the passenger side floor. I didn’t dare reach for it or take my eyes off the road.

As I drove over the Saddle Bunch Bridge, the car following me banged into the rear bumper of Eric’s car.

“Stop it!” I screamed, careening toward the concrete barrier. Just before crashing, I yanked the wheel, swerved back onto the road, and mashed on the gas. Eric’s engine roared in response.

The black sedan raced up behind me and slammed the bumper again. Who could this be?

I hydroplaned across the oncoming lane, and scraped along the left-­side barrier, fighting for control. But the Mustang spun, jumped the concrete barricade, and flipped over the palmetto bushes toward the water. An instant later, the car hit the ground, jerking my head so hard I thought my neck would snap. A bottle of Eric’s beer from the six-­pack in the backseat sailed over and smashed into the windshield. A piece of broken glass sliced my cheek.

Stunned, I hung upside down, suspended by the seat belt, my shoulder aching from the pressure—­my whole body aching—­and adrenaline pushing furiously. Blood ran into my eye from the gash.

Rosanne Cash finished singing “Take These Chains from My Heart” and swung into “I’m Movin’ On.” The engine was still whining and the headlights cut a swath through the brush. Did I smell gas? Panicked, I pictured the car catching fire, me trapped inside an inferno. I managed to wrestle the keys from the ignition and switch off the lights. The engine ticked and darkness closed around me like a coffin.

I strained to listen for the person who’d forced me off the road. But it was hard to hear over the gurgling of the ocean mixing with the still-­teeming rain outside the car. Had a car door slammed? Who was this? And why were they after me? If I stayed here, I could be picked off like the slowest goose in a winter’s V.

I forced myself to move. Feeling for the soft convertible top, I used my left hand to wedge my weight away from the roof. With some pressure off the seat belt, I was able to release the latch with my right hand.

I crashed to the ground, my neck snapped forward, and pain shot down my spine. I rolled off my back into a crouch, whimpering, then felt around for Eric’s window crank. Thank God this was an older-­model car. Not even letting myself think how sick he would be that I had trashed the Mustang, I rolled the window down and scrambled out into the brush. Into the cold rain to face whoever had run me down.

“Love is most dependable when it’s edible.”

—­Kim Adrian

Once I’d crawled into the shelter of the palmettos near the water, I lay curled into an aching ball for a few moments, trying to catch my breath. The rain pelted my face and I started to shiver, both from cold and fear. The long-­sleeved T-­shirt and jeans that had felt warm and comfortable when I put them on this afternoon were quickly soaked through. Up the embankment on the road, the halogen lights that had been following me for miles glared through the trees, the palmettos spiking like drawn swords in their path. Then I heard the sounds of someone crashing through the brush in my direction.

I desperately wished for my phone, but there was no time to return to the car and search. I pulled myself into a squat, wincing as pain sliced through my wrist and shoulder. Duck-­walking toward the water, I pushed
through the sharp leaves of the palmetto bushes that formed a thick hedge along the shore. One slingshotted back and slapped me across the cheek. I cried out before I could stop myself.

There was no place to go. Caught between Eric’s car, the ocean, and the approaching footsteps, I kicked off my sneakers and waded into the frigid shallows of the Atlantic Ocean. I dropped into the water, my breath catching at the shock of cold, and pushed off with a frog kick, trying not to think about alligators, spiky lionfish, Portuguese men-­of-­war—­whatever might be there. Not more than a week ago the
Citizen
had run an article about a stingray leaping up out of the water to pierce a woman’s lung, breaking several of her ribs. She only lived because she was a trained paramedic. Or was it her boyfriend? Either way, I was cooked.

Something slimy brushed my leg and I squeaked and splashed furiously to get away. A loud crack hammered out from the shore and splashed in the water just feet from me. A gunshot? I pictured a hunter in camo lurking in the mangroves, me in his sights. I pushed off from the murky bottom, dove down into the water, and swam as hard and deep as I could, back toward the Saddle Bunch Bridge, years of forced swimming lessons as a kid finally paying off. Under the protective concrete overhang, I might have the best chance of survival, assuming I could outlast whoever was after me. Or stay alive until daybreak—many long hours away.

As I dogpaddled silently under the bridge, fighting against the current that pushed me toward the open water again, I heard several more shots, even closer now, as
though the hunter was emptying all he had into the water sloshing under the highway. I frog-­kicked closer to the sloping concrete, holding just my nose clear of the water to reduce the size of my target.

And then, in the distance, I heard the welcome
whoo-­hoo
of an approaching siren. I paddled in place, listening as the man chasing me crashed back through the brush, got into his car, and screeched off down the highway, back over the bridge and away from Key West. The lights of an emergency vehicle strobed through the darkness, then two doors slammed. I swam over to the edge of the water and hoisted myself onto a stand of mangrove roots.

Flashlights probed into the bushes where Eric’s car lay balanced on its roof. Two officers stomped down the embankment and peered into the vehicle.

“There’s no one in it,” called one man to the other, “but it sure smells like a brewery. And the engine is still warm.”

“Hello?” hollered the second officer in a deep voice. “Anyone out here? It’s the police. Come out and show yourself.”

“Over here. Please don’t shoot. It’s Hayley Snow.” Trembling uncontrollably, I stabbed my hands in the air without being asked and scrambled back through the bushes. Their flashlights raked my face. “I haven’t been drinking, honest. Another car forced me off the road and a bottle of beer hit the windshield and exploded.”

“Who was in the other car?” asked the cop with the deep voice.

“I have no idea. I’ve just come from a restaurant in
Miami and—” I couldn’t help it; I started to shake even harder.

“She’s shivering,” said the other cop. “Soaking wet. Let’s get her into the cruiser.”

He patted me down, then took my elbow and helped me pick my way up the bank, then opened the back door of the cruiser, which idled at the side of the road. He popped the trunk and came back with a silver survival blanket and handed it to me. The baritone-­voiced cop slid into the driver’s seat, picked up the radio, and called for an ambulance.

“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” I said, teeth still chattering. “I swear I just need a ride home.”

“It’s standard procedure,” said the first policeman. “Besides that, you’re bleeding and you just came through a rollover.”

While we waited for the paramedics, they grilled me for more details of what had happened. I told them how I’d been to dinner in Miami Beach and that I had no idea who was in the black car and explained again about the chase and the gunshots.

“It’s a borrowed car,” I moaned. “My friend is going to kill me. It’s his vintage Mustang. Painted by Rick Worth. He’s that artist in Key West. At no small expense.” My head dropped to my hands and I swallowed a sob.

Fifteen minutes later, the ambulance arrived and two burly paramedics emerged. After a quick exam, they recommended a spinal X-­ray.

“You could very well have a fractured vertebra. It’s not worth the risk to ignore it.”

They rolled a gurney out of the back of the van, fastened a padded support around my neck, and loaded me onboard. The van bumped back onto the highway. Finally beginning to feel warm and safe again, I tried to puzzle out who could have been in that car. When had I picked up the tail? In the parking lot of Hola or somewhere along the Keys? Given the doggedness of the driver, it seemed impossible that the chase was random. Someone had wanted me dead. I started to shake again.

Ten minutes later, we pulled up in front of the Lower Keys Medical Center and I was wheeled into the emergency room. I checked my watch, which had somehow managed to survive the ocean dunk. It felt late, but it was barely ten. An orderly parked my stretcher in a hallway and I dozed off for a half hour, exhausted by the drive and the chase.

By midnight, the police had taken a complete report on the car incident and I signed off on it. A tired-­looking physician checked me over, read the spinal X-­ray, and diagnosed a sprained wrist and wrenched shoulder. He determined that the cut on my cheek could be managed with a butterfly bandage, no stitches. All of which I could have told him without lingering three hours in the ER. A brisk nurse wrapped my wrist and instructed me to ice it the next day and take copious milligrams of ibuprofen.

I was dying to get home to bed. My muscles ached, my clothes were clammy and salty, and my head pounded. The towing company the police had phoned promised to tow Eric’s damaged car to a body shop on White Street by morning and to deliver my purse to the police station. I didn’t dare call Eric for a ride home. I knew Connie
wouldn’t be available—­she and Ray were visiting friends in Marathon overnight. I had the definite feeling they’d made those plans because they needed some space. From me and my infinite drama.

But I had no money for a cab. That left Richard Kane, my underimpressive lawyer, or Chad’s secretary, Deena, who had barely agreed to talk to me in broad daylight and certainly didn’t owe me any late-­night favors.

I approached the attractive black receptionist at the information desk and asked to use her phone. She pushed it across the desk and watched as I dialed Kane. He answered on the fourth ring, sounding sleepy and possibly a little drunk. I explained what had happened and where I was, already beginning to wish I hadn’t called.

“I guess I’m wondering if you could help me out and maybe send someone over to pick me up.”

There was a long pause. “Miss Snow, I would suggest that A, you call a cab. I’m certain the hospital can provide you with a list of phone numbers. And B, phone my office on Monday morning and schedule an appointment to come in. With this kind of behavior, you are not helping your case.” And then he hung up.

Stunned and furious, I slammed the phone down. I was a fool to have thought he’d help. The receptionist, watching all this with great interest, pushed a list of taxicab companies across the surface of her desk.

“They’ll all charge you about the same thing, but the West Sider will probably get here the quickest.”

I thanked her and made the call. The dispatcher assured me that a cabbie would pick me up in a half hour.
I sank into the seat next to the receptionist’s desk. “I don’t even have any cash to pay for the ride.”

“They’ll wait while you run into your house. I heard you say your purse is MIA—­these guys are used to having people pay them when they get home. You aren’t the first passenger without a red cent,” she said, smoothing a lock of hair back into its bun. She adjusted reading glasses with brightly colored rims on the bridge of her nose. “Your lawyer sounds like a piece of work. I couldn’t help overhear. I’m Esmine.” She reached over the desk to shake my hand. “I’d give you a ride home myself, but I’m not off work until seven.”

“That would feel like a long wait.” I thanked her for her kindness, suddenly thinking she might be able to help me locate Miss Gloria.

“Listen, Esmine, my neighbor was brought in here yesterday with a head injury,” I told her. “I’m so worried about her. Would you happen to have any information on a Gloria Peterson?”

Esmine clattered a few lines into her computer and read off a room number on the second floor. “She’s listed as stable. Of course, it’s way too late for visiting hours now.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at me over the top lip of her glasses.

“Of course,” I said, with a bright smile. “And my cab will be here any minute. Can you tell me which way to the ladies’ room?” I limped off in the direction she pointed and then ducked into the stairwell and up to the second floor. Miss Gloria’s room was two down from the stairs. I’d poke my head in to make sure she was okay.

Tucked into her hospital bed, my neighbor looked
like a child, her face floating pale and delicate in the wide expanse of white sheets, bed rails hemming her in on both sides. Her thin wrist was tethered to an IV. A second old woman snored in the bed near the window. Miss Gloria’s eyes flickered open and she recognized me right away.

“Hayley.” She reached out with the free hand, her voice tremulous but clear. “I’m so glad to see you. Could I possibly trouble you to check on Sparky? I’ve been so worried about him. I couldn’t remember your number or I would have called.”

“He’s fine,” I said, squeezing her hand gently and perching on the chair beside her bed. “We brought him down to our boat after you were taken to the hospital. And he’s settled in so well.” I didn’t mention how Evinrude had gone missing—­I’d start weeping and she’d worry herself sicker. “Tell me how you’re feeling. How long are they keeping you here?”