Gone (21 page)

TWENTY-TWO

W
HEN
I
FIRED, THE GUNSHOT WAS SO THUNDEROUS,
I
WON
dered if the special pistol was loaded with custom ammunition as well. There was a nice, smooth recoil while the bullet chopped the legs from beneath Ricky Meeks and caused panic in the mangroves. Vultures, done feeding, battered the tree canopy with wings and caustic shrieks, finally exiting in a smoky spiral that reminded me of the flying monkeys in
The
Wizard of Oz
, or giant Asian bats I’d watched with Loretta on the Discovery Channel.

Even louder than the vultures, Ricky screamed, “You crazy bitch, you shot me!”

Yes I did.
One round, but was still willing to pull the trigger if necessary. The man knew it and wouldn’t bother me again—or so I believed.

“Jesus Christ Aw’mighty—I’m bleeding! Look what you done to me!” Ricky held up a bloody palm to prove it, his hand black, not red, in the swampy twilight.

Yes, bleeding, too
. Not as badly as he might have been, though. Meeks had been correct when he’d said my hands were shaking. Not much, but enough to let the barrel jump when I squeezed the trigger. I’d been aiming at the meaty part of Ricky’s thigh, not his groin, while my eyes had allowed my target to blur by concentrating on the sights, just as I had learned. But I’d shot high, and the slug had either taken the tip off his pelvis or a chunk of love handle Ricky had allowed to settle on his waist. No way to be certain, even though he’d ripped off his shirt in a panic after crabbing his way to the shell beach, then used his fingers to explore the damage. The whole while, calling me profanities and threatening acts so vile they could have hatched only in a brain that was diseased or naturally just as foul.

“Instead of cussing me, you stupid fool, tell me where you hid my radio so I can call the emergency medics.” I said it to interrupt his tirade, but somehow it came out sounding flustered, too eager to please. Later, of course, I would come up with a dozen replies more biting and clever. Wave the pistol at him and say,
You don’t understand the predicament you’re in, sugar . . .
No—tell him,
I don’t know when I’ve seen an uglier man, but even a cow wouldn’t leave you to bleed to death . . .

Not that Meeks was gushing blood, but he was bleeding steadily. From a safe distance, I had already tossed him the first-aid kit, which he was using—sterile pads and tape—so there was nothing else to do but offer to summon help. I was eager to explain my side of the story to authorities—
The man
threatened my life, he’d left me no choice, so I shot him
—something I didn’t want to ever happen again.

No, I didn’t.
That sensation of actually pulling the trigger, then my ears ringing from the thunderbolt, had shocked me numb at first, but now I was feeling better about what I had done. Good enough to want to rush to find Olivia, pack her things, and get going. One look at Ricky’s reaction, though, when I mentioned my radio, and I knew he’d rather patch his own bullet wound than risk attracting police. He was more worried about the body they would find than surviving a night in the mangroves, and maybe becoming a corpse himself.

There was no doubt in my mind as I watched Meeks struggle to his feet and limp toward his dinghy. I couldn’t allow that, of course, so I confiscated his oars, placing them on my skiff. While I did it, there was a glow of hatred in the man’s eyes that threatened me every step of the way. And the insults he yelled about my looks, my face and body, were so mean that even my anger couldn’t shield some words from their mark. Finally, I used the pistol to motion him back to the beach, hoping it would stop his poison.

Meeks’s leer returned for the first time since I’d pulled the trigger. “It’ll be dark soon,” he told me, meaning it as a threat. “Come morning, you’ll be slap-ass crazy with bugs and snakes, scared shitless. Couple big gators on this island, too.
That’s
when I’ll put you out of your misery.” He turned his back to me then, and headed for the slab of beach, not the shell ridge, walking hunched to one side, the gauze he’d taped over his wound a dark square beneath what remained of the gray shirt.

Meeks didn’t stop at the beach, which worried me at first, but then didn’t. He might be pretending to be hurt worse than he was, but there was nothing pretend about the blood soaking his slacks. Even so, he kept walking, slogging along the edge of the island toward the cut where I’d nearly run aground. I knew he was either headed for his missing jon boat, or taking the long but easier route back to the cruiser where Olivia, I suspected, was worried sick about the gunshot she’d heard.

Something else I couldn’t allow was the man to get to the girl or his fast boat. In the western sky, the last citrus streaks of twilight were fading; stars had appeared in the east. Meeks was twenty-five yards away, moving slow but steady, when I raised the pistol and squared the notch sight between his shoulders.

“Ricky, stop right there! You called my bluff once! Want to try it again?”

In reply, I heard more foul names, then a challenge to shoot him in the back, his words fuming with contempt.

“This is the last time I’m saying it—stop!”

From over the man’s shoulder
: “
Ugly stork! Go join a freak show!”

I yelled,
“Ricky Meeks!”
dropping my index finger from aside the barrel to the custom hair trigger.

His answer: “Why don’t you move to Key West with the other carpet munchers!”

Once so balanced and light in my hands, the precision Devel pistol—pronounced
Devil
by my friend Nathan—was becoming barrel-heavy and refused to track straight. I couldn’t shoot the man in the back. Just
couldn’t
. But I had to do something. My Uncle Jake had told me warning shots were only for Hollywood actors or cops willing to risk their own funeral, but that’s what I was considering now. Skip a round in front of the man. Then say something clever for a change.

You won’t hear the next one!
Or:
Your pecker wasn’t much of a target, but . . . but . . .

My clever tongue had been blunted by events, so nothing good would form in my mind. I lowered the pistol to reset my feet, then sighted a few paces ahead of Meeks. Thirty yards, though, was a long shot with a pistol. If I attempted a near miss, there was a fair chance I would hit him accidentally. How would I explain that to a jury? Or when I did miss, Ricky would think I’d done it on purpose, which was further proof I’d lost my courage.

Wrong—
I hadn’t lost my courage. Some shaky moments, sure, but I no longer doubted myself. All I doubted was how long my good luck would hold. That, and my engine’s cooling system.

Licensed investigators obey the law,
I reminded myself.
Panic, and he wins.

I lowered the pistol, engaged the safety, then returned to my skiff in a hurry. My eyes and ears never leaving Meeks for long, I used bayonet needles to clear the exhaust tubes but didn’t risk a quick test of my engine. I didn’t want him to hear what I’d done. Meeks still hadn’t reached the bay’s entrance, barely visible in the fresh darkness, but soon would. Leaving a potential witness alone—me—meant he was convinced I’d ruined my water pump, and that he didn’t know about the spare ignition key hidden in my tackle box. Something else his behavior suggested: Meeks still intended to kill me—after killing Olivia most likely. I wasn’t the only one who knew about the body that lay in the mangroves.

I grabbed a second flashlight from my skiff, then jogged up the shell ridge to find Olivia. Ricky Meeks and I were racing again.

TWENTY-THREE

W
HAT
I
NEEDED FOR
J
AKE’S CUSTOMIZED PISTOL WAS A
holster, I decided. A book case was a waste on such a fine weapon, and I wouldn’t have to wedge the thing into my jeans to free my hands like I was doing now.

It was because of the rough country I was in: a tangle of mangroves, the cruiser visible through a cavern of mosquitoes and black leaves. The boat was only yards away, but getting to it required gymnastics. The use of tree limbs, grabbing one, then another, to monkey myself over roots to the water was the only way unless I had brought a machete.

So that’s what I did, after securing the pistol between the small of my back and my belt. Got both hands around a limb, swung my feet over a hooped blockade of mangrove roots, then repeated the process several times. By the time I got to the water’s edge, my shirt was soaked from the sulfuric heat that settles into a swamp at night. My jeans were torn, my shoes were ruined, and mosquitoes tickled my face, my hands, the canals of my ears, despite the spray I’d used.

No wonder Meeks had chosen the easier route. But there was no chance he had beaten me here. Even if he had
sprinted
around the island’s edge—impossible for any man, healthy or wounded—I still had a big chunk of time to use safely. Twenty minutes . . . half an hour. Plenty. Question was, would Olivia come with me?

A light was on in the cabin, but weak as a candle behind drawn curtains. The air conditioner was running, too, the generator a mild hum compared to the screaming hush of mangroves. Cicadas, frogs, growling cormorants . . . the baritone
Oomph-Oomph o
f an alligator, too—or a crocodile. Could be. There were saltwater crocs in the Ten Thousand Islands, although the only croc I’d ever seen was on Sanibel.

Just thinking the name
Sanibel
made me want to be gone from this dark place where, only a light beam away if I’d chosen to look, was a fetal mound of bones and human flesh—if any flesh remained.

No . . . I hadn’t looked and wouldn’t. So far, I had used the flashlight sparingly. Didn’t want to risk being seen.

Private investigators behave professionally. Panic, and Ricky wins.

I kept reminding myself of that. Stay strong, be bold—the combination had worked so far, and I wasn’t stopping now that I was almost close enough to touch the cruiser’s hull.

I grabbed another limb, swung my legs, then lowered myself until I was standing in water that flooded my jeans to the waist. The bottom was shell here, at least, not muck. After three strides, I was out of the water again and leaning my weight against the bow of the boat. I’d made it! Now all I had to do was convince Olivia to trust me.

Meeks had nosed the cruiser into the mangroves, then used heavy lines to secure it. Before I could scale the railing, though, I needed to create room by pushing the hull back from the awning of tree limbs. As I did it, someone inside noticed the movement. I could feel the thump of footsteps through the fiberglass. Soon, I heard the cabin door open and a voice call, “Is that you? I was worried . . .
sugar
.”

I felt a sick feeling in my stomach. Not because I associated the word with Ricky, but because it was Olivia Seasons speaking. Her voice had the parroting eagerness of a girl who was desperate to please after being beaten into submission.

“Down here, Olivia!” I responded, not loud but in a way I hoped sounded harmless, friendly. “Don’t be afraid. I’m coming aboard, okay?”

After a shocked silence, I heard: “Who are you—don’t come near me!”

“Please listen! Just give me a chance. I’ve got a boat on the other side of the island. It’s safe now, I can take you home.” Fearing she would slam the cabin door and lock it, I spoke fast while positioning myself under the bowsprit. “Olivia, I’m coming aboard. Don’t be scared.”

With fingers wrapped around the railing, I used my legs to spring high enough to get a foot hooked over the bowsprit. I hung there for several seconds, wrestling with the anchor windlass and a rotted tree limb that finally splashed into the water below. Then I scooted across mooring chocks so fast that my bottom plopped into a doughnut of anchor line as if it were a bucket. As I sat there resting, I heard the hush of bare feet moving along the safety rail, so I looked up. It was Olivia: long skinny legs in a white robe, facial features indistinguishable in the darkness, her hands squeezing the robe tight around her neck, a girl too scared to come any closer.

Mentioning Lawrence Seasons, I had already decided, might cause trouble, so I got to my feet, telling her, “My name’s Hannah Smith. If you want out of here, I’ll help—and he won’t bother you again.”

Olivia was shaking her head. “I can’t talk to you! To
anyone
—not unless he says it’s okay. So you have to leave. Leave right now!” She was speaking for Ricky’s benefit, I realized, in case he was with me or hiding somewhere nearby. No other reason for her to talk so loud.

So I shocked her by replying, “I shot him. I shot Ricky Meeks, and that’s how I know he won’t stop us.”

“What?”

I said it again, adding, “That was the gunshot you heard.”

“You
can’t
be telling the truth.”

My hands were checking my pockets to confirm I hadn’t lost the flashlights while climbing over the railing . . . then patted the small of my back where the pistol should have been.
Damn!
The pistol was gone.

“Is it true?” Olivia whispered. “Someone our age—a
woman
couldn’t do that. Is he really dead?”

My heart was pounding. I felt a first tremor that signaled my body was starting to shake. My hands were checking and rechecking my jeans, refusing to accept the fact I had lost the pistol. Then, trying not to be obvious, I checked the deck near my feet, then stepped over the anchor line to check the bowsprit. The pistol wasn’t there. I took a deep breath to control myself before turning. If the girl sensed what I was feeling, she would never trust me enough to leave.

“I hit him below the ribs,” I told her. “He’s wounded, bleeding bad, but we have to hurry. Get your things! You need to wear pants. Boots and a heavy shirt if you have them.” My mind was working on the safest way to proceed now that I’d lost the gun.

“We’ve got five, maybe ten minutes,” I added, which was half the time I believed we had, but I wanted to get the girl moving.

“You’re not a policeman—you’re lying.”

“You heard the shot. He’s hurt too bad to cut through the island, but he’s still hobbling. That’s why we’ve got to leave now.” I reached for Olivia’s shoulder, but she backed a step.

“You’ve got to be sure! He’ll kill you . . . maybe kill me, too! This morning, he”—the girl looked at the wall of mangroves behind me where the corpse lay—“Today, he did something . . . really awful. Is that why you’re here?”

Some distant part of my brain was aware that Olivia had yet to say Ricky’s name—as if no other man in the world existed. In a way, that was more troubling than her reluctance.

“If I wasn’t sure I shot the man,” I told her, “I’d be headed home alone, not helping you. Can I come in the cabin? Mosquitoes are eating me alive.”

The best hope I could come up with was use the cruiser’s VHF to call an emergency Mayday, then run for my skiff. A vessel this size would have a powerful radio—why Olivia hadn’t used it already to call for help, I didn’t
want
to understand. Not now, I didn’t. Then I would spend a little time, not much, searching beneath the bowsprit for the pistol. I’d heard a couple of limbs hit the water, but maybe I’d actually heard the pistol fall.

A minute later, we were in the cabin, which was a sewer of odors and pornographic photos tacked everywhere. Even in the galley, which consisted of a propane stove and a small fridge, there were pictures so graphic, they belonged in a textbook, not a space designed for eating. It didn’t matter. I was finally alone with a woman whose face, whose thoughts and fears, I had been living with for what seemed like weeks, not days.

Olivia’s appearance, though, bore little resemblance to recent photos I had seen. Ricky had done more than just bruise the girl’s busted lips, her jaundiced left eye. The skin on her parchment arms was poxed with bruises from the man’s fingers. The intelligent brown eyes I remembered from her childhood photos had the glaze of an elderly woman who, exhausted from suffering, had already abandoned her body. No wonder she had hung a towel over the only mirror in the cabin. My guess was, she had done the same in the sleeping quarters, which appeared as a black opening forward of the bulkhead.

I expected these symptoms and signs of abuse but not the sudden emotion that rolled through me. What I was feeling only got worse when, after I’d rushed to the boat’s VHF, Olivia told me, “Don’t bother. He disables it somehow when he leaves. I checked the wiring, the fuses. Once he was gone three days, I still couldn’t get it working. Same with the engine, after he thought I’d found a key. The air-conditioning, too—usually.”

I nodded, struggling to control myself, thinking,
The antenna.
Meeks had probably disconnected the VHF coupling at the flybridge—not many would think of that.

“You don’t want to be here,” I said without turning. “If he’s hurt you, you should leave.”

There was a shrug in the girl’s voice. “It’s too late for me. And why should you care, anyway?”

“Not yet, it isn’t,” I started to say, but Olivia interrupted by telling me something else I didn’t expect.

“I married him. Last week . . . ten days ago. Everything’s a blur. I know he only did it for money—money I don’t even have yet. If he caught us and doesn’t kill me, that’s the only reason. But I said yes, so I’ve got no one to blame but myself.”

I shook my head to refute Olivia’s words while thinking,
No wonder she won’t sign the papers,
then of the postmistress in Caxambas. “Ricky would’ve had to apply for the license more than a month ago,” I argued, remembering Florida law and all the paperwork I’d done because Delbert Fowler was not a man for details. “I don’t believe it was legal, Olivia. Besides, no court would hold you to such a marriage.”

“But I said yes—and you don’t know him! He’ll never stop looking until he gets his husband’s share. I’m talking about more money than you’d believe—
that’s
what you don’t understand. Or what he’ll do if I run. He’s never wrong when it comes to promises like that. If anything, he’ll hurt me worse.”

I glanced at the girl’s face, then looked away. Her misshapen lips, the swollen eye, gave me a choking sensation, and I had to clear my throat while she said, “I do such stupid things sometimes. I bring it on myself. So he has no choice—from his point of view, I mean. Only a . . . an insane woman would beg to go with a man and then whine. That’s something I’ve heard every day since—”

I couldn’t listen to any more. “Stop that right now! I know more about you than you think, Olivia Seasons. You’re not crazy. And that’s not a fair way to speak of yourself . . . or let yourself be treated . . .” My voice faltered, then I lost the words, even after clearing my throat again.

Olivia was sitting at the galley settee, where a notebook lay open next to a pocket Bible, the sketch of what might have been an osprey recently started. I heard the girl stand, then felt a hand on my shoulder. “Are you crying?”

“I am not!” I snapped. Then as an excuse to clear my eyes, I scratched my forehead and pulled my hair back. “You made me mad, being so stubborn. That’s all.”

Olivia was trying to put it together but too scared to think clearly. “Did he hurt you, too?
That’s
why you shot him. I still can’t believe you did it. How did you find the nerve?”

“For one thing, he knocked a chunk of Gel Coat off my new skiff,” I replied. “That’s reason enough. I just wish I was a better shot.”

I felt a tug at my shoulder, trying to get me to turn. “Did he hurt you? You can tell me the truth. He hurts women—brags about it. Someone like him has had a lot of girlfriends. I won’t be jealous if you tell me the truth.”

Jealous?
Her suspicion was so misguided it proved Meeks had branded yet another scar on Olivia’s brain. I had been near tears, feeling so sorry for the girl and fearful for both of us, that it was exactly the jolt I needed to get my mind back on what had to be done.

I spun around and took the girl gently by the arms, just as my Uncle Jake had done to me sometimes when I was confused. “Get your clothes changed. If you’ve got any mosquito spray, soak yourself. I’m going to fix the radio, but we’re not waiting on the Coast Guard. Then I want you to help me do something.”

I meant hold a flashlight while I searched for the pistol. Instead of questioning me, though, Olivia said in an odd way, “You’re . . . you’re the one my family sent. I just realized—
Hannah
, right? He was talking about you.”

Meaning Ricky, of course. I had already told Olivia my name, but a change in her expression hinted that she might be awakening from this nightmare. Still in a daze, though, which I knew when she started to ramble.

“Yesterday, he went crazy. Drinking before sunrise, then the security guard left a message about you searching my studio. That you found something in the trash, so he had to drive all the way to Naples to check. Now you’re actually here—it’s hard to believe.”