Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 02 - Riptide (23 page)

She breathed. She smelled dust and a faint, familiar, almost medicinal smell, but no smoke. The heat was intense, but it wasn’t getting worse. She decided this place was not, after all, on fire.

The siren cut off. She could see nothing, hear nothing. No more footsteps. What was the smell, though? The very, very faint smell? She knew what it was, but her nose was full of dust. She rested her head against the wall and forgot about it.

Not much later, the siren began again. Loud, louder, loudest, and then fading away.

She wished it would come back. Frightening as the sound was, it meant help. An ambulance or fire truck carried help to those in need, and right now Isabel counted herself among the needy.

She heard footsteps again, briefly. When they stopped, there was only silence.

A long time passed. She didn’t sleep but lapsed into a suspended, semiconscious state. Dreamlike visions passed through her mind— Merriam twirled a baton and sang “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands”; on a Cuban balcony, John James Anders smelled a blossom on a flowering vine; Isabel herself ran down an endless staircase.

Isabel saw a pale gray line. She blinked, and it was still there. She kept her eyes fixed on the line to see what it would do.

Gradually, the line brightened, modulating from gray to pale yellow. She heard movement, shuffling, soft footsteps. She kept her eyes on the line.

She had forgotten the smell, but now it came back to her. The line had brightened enough so she could see a little. Wooden walls loomed around her, a small, familiar enclosure, and she thought,
Mothballs. Mothballs.
She was in the house, a captive in the closet in her old bedroom.

The sounds from the bedroom continued. Was it Harry out there? The thought that it might be Harry filled her with anguish.

Forget it. Harry cared only about protecting the treasure he’d found.

She felt helpless, and despised the feeling. She sat with her back against the wall, listening to the sounds in the room— her room.

Then the sounds stopped and footsteps moved toward the door. She waited, wondering whether the person out there had gone away.

He could have left, or he could be standing outside the door. She listened.

She was certain he would come back.

The line of light under the door had brightened until she could see the floorboards. She could see her feet in sandals, her ankles tied with nylon rope. She tested herself. Her fingers were too numb even to wiggle. She couldn’t begin to stand up. She could creep along on her butt, rocking from one side to another. She could turn her head. And if she could get the right balance, she was pretty sure she could kick, lying on her back and striking out with her feet.

It wouldn’t be stealthy. If her captor was in the house, he would hear. Yet she believed trying something was better than waiting to see what he had in mind for her.

She maneuvered herself into position. Her arms and hands, which she had thought were deadened by lack of circulation, proved able to register intense pain when she rocked back against them.

Her first attempt was pathetic. She had imagined a powerful thrust but had misjudged the distance, so her feet only grazed the door and slid to the floor with a feeble thud. Now, any listener was alerted. She moved closer and tried again.

Her feet were asleep, and she barely felt the impact at first, until the pins and needles started. Still, the door shivered in its frame. She was reasonably sure it wasn’t locked. Her closet door had never locked. She kicked out again, this time connecting solidly under the knob with the soles of her sandals.

She stopped to listen. No returning footsteps. She kicked again, gathering power, her breath exploding from her chest.

John James had built his house of the finest wood, all solid. When it was new, the floors must have been straight, the doors securely hung. But the years, wood worms, and moist air had done their work. Straight lines were warped, connections loosened. When she kicked again, she heard splintering. With the next kick, the door gave and opened an inch or so, and she saw it outlined with daylight.

It wouldn’t open wider. Further kicks were futile. Something was braced against it from the outside.

She wasn’t stopping now. She sat up, edged her body around, and pressed her face against the crack in the door.

He had put a board, one of the shelves where the artifacts had been, under the doorknob. Her efforts had knocked it askew.

She jiggled her body against the unfastened door, trying to set up a vibration and dislodge it. This took more energy than kicking and was at first less successful. The door would open a crack but no farther. The door rattled, the sound invading her head.

Nothing was happening. Nothing was happening.

Without warning, the board fell free.

The door swung open and she toppled out. She lay on the floor a few seconds, then struggled to sit up again.

The room was practically empty. The diving equipment was gone. So was the ice chest, the gasoline can, the tackle box, and the sleeping bag. The shelves had been dismantled. The cannonballs still lay in the middle of the floor, and few bottles of chemicals were pushed against the wall. The sounds she had heard must have been her captor packing.

Isabel became aware of her raging thirst. She had never been so tortured by the need for water. Her lips felt swollen against the cloth of her gag, and her mouth and throat were burning. Thirst dragged at her, making it difficult to think what to do next.

But she had to think. Her captor might be returning right now. He might be approaching, in sight of the house.

The thought sent her lurching to the nearest window. It was open, the tattered shade pulled down. She edged the shade aside with her head. Through the bowed-out rusty screen, she could see the trailer. And on the concrete-block front step of the trailer sat the small, disconsolate-looking figure of Kimmie Dee Burke.

Buddy Burke was straining to wake up, but his eyes wouldn’t open. He knew he was in a hospital, and he had the spooky feeling that maybe his eyes had been sewn shut. A doctor could sew your eyes closed if he took a notion. He could sew your eyes closed to punish you, and Buddy reckoned he was going to be punished six ways from Sunday.

Buddy moved his head back and forth. His neck hurt— he hurt all over the place, not even to mention the shoulder he was shot in, but right now the eye situation bothered him the worst. He was trembling on the verge of a yell by the time he screwed his face up and one of his eyes finally popped open. The other eye was crusted shut. Buddy must have done some crying in the night. He thought he probably had.

With both eyes open at last, he studied his hospital room. It was too damn bright. Light bounced off the white walls and shone from a neon coil in the ceiling. Buddy let his gaze drift toward the door, where a burly young man in a County Sheriff’s Department uniform was sitting in a chair reading a
Reader’s Digest
. Buddy watched him wet a finger and turn a page. Buddy cleared his throat and said, “Hey, bro.”

The deputy looked up. “Mr. Burke.”

“I got to pee.”

The deputy didn’t reply. Keeping his finger in his place, he stood up and put his head outside the door for a short chat with somebody. After a minute or two, a nurse, a cute freckled thing, came in with a contraption kind of like a pitcher that she seemed to think Buddy would be willing to pee into.

Buddy squirmed. “Can’t I use the toilet?”

“You’re not supposed to be out of bed.”

He nodded at the deputy. “Make him leave, anyway.”

The deputy, standing by the door, didn’t move. The nurse said, “He has to stay. Come on now.”

Buddy closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at the nurse or the deputy. He was going to be punished six ways from Sunday. This was only the beginning.

After that, they sponged his face and gave him breakfast. As the memory of the previous night returned in detail, Buddy felt more and more downcast.

The deputy stayed in the chair, reading, while the nurses came and went. Buddy kept his eye on the door, trying to see what might be going on in the hall, and when the nurse pushed out with a cart, he got a glimpse of somebody. He got a glimpse of a tall rat bastard with curly hair, the same rat bastard who had stood under Buddy’s carport last night and shot him in the shoulder.

Buddy started violently and yelled, “Yo!”

The deputy dropped his
Reader’s Digest
. “What is it?”

Gesturing wildly with his good arm, Buddy roared, “What is that son of a bitch doing here!”

The deputy glanced around. “Who?”

“The one who shot me! Out there! By God—”

Buddy was trying to climb out of bed, but the deputy got to him and held him down, and the nurse and a couple of other people, including Sheriff Turl, rushed into the room when the deputy yelled.

“Goddamn it, Buddy,” Sheriff Turl said.

“He’s out there, Mr. Turl!”

“Shut up. I’ve had enough aggravation from you.”

“He’s out there!”

“So is your mama. Now shut up.”

At the mention of his mother, Buddy shut up. He lay back and felt the deputy let him go. “Get the son of a bitch away from me,” he said weakly.

The sheriff said, “To tell the truth, he wants to talk to you.”

This is a nightmare, Buddy thought. A man screws my wife, he shoots me, and then he wants to talk to me. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

“I think maybe you should, Buddy.”

Buddy heard something in the sheriff’s tone. “He shot me,” he said.

“Well, hell. You were fixing to shoot him, weren’t you?”

Buddy didn’t answer. Maybe this was a good time to ask for a lawyer, but he didn’t have the energy. He turned his face away.

“He seems to think he can help you,” the sheriff said.

Buddy gave a soft, derisive hoot. When the sheriff didn’t continue, he said, “Help me how?”

“I can’t say. But the situation you’re in, I think if a lawman wants to help you, you should listen to him.”

Maybe he hadn’t heard right. Buddy turned toward the sheriff. “What do you mean, a lawman?”

“He’s Marine Patrol.”

Buddy worked at keeping his face a blank while his mind went clicking over. The rat bastard was Marine Patrol. “Want me to tell him to come in?” the sheriff asked.

In a minute, everybody except the deputy had left and Ted Stiles was standing within a couple of feet of Buddy’s bed. He pulled out an ID and wagged it in front of Buddy’s face.

Buddy looked at the ID. Theodore Stiles.
I don’t like Mr. S.
“Remember me?” Stiles said.

“You shot me, you son of a bitch.”

Stiles pursed his lips. He said, “Reckon they don’t allow smoking in here.”

“Go ahead and smoke. I don’t care.” Buddy studied Stiles. He must be fifty at least, broken veins alongside his nose, leathery wrinkles, limp gray-blond curls. Buddy pictured him with Joy.

Stiles looked around and said, “No ashtray.” There was a jug of water and some glasses on Buddy’s bedside table. Stiles poured himself a drink and said, “Does the name Darryl Kelly mean anything to you? Patrolman Darryl Kelly?”

Buddy rolled his eyes up. Now he had a hint of what this was about. “Sure it does. He’s the one who arrested me last time.”

Stiles nodded. “Caught you hauling marijuana in your boat. Right?”

“I reckon you know that’s right.”

“Have you heard what happened to Darryl not long after that?”

Buddy chewed his lip, staring at the starched sheet that covered his body. “I heard he went missing.”

“Got eaten by a shark.”

Buddy nodded. “I didn’t have nothing to do with it. I was in jail by that time.”

Hands in his pockets, Stiles bounced on his toes. “I know you were in jail by that time. But I’m not sure you had nothing to do with it. Is there any little thing you could tell me about what went on between you and Darryl Kelly?”

Buddy hated Ted Stiles. He hated Ted Stiles more than anybody he’d ever hated, except maybe Joy. “No, there isn’t.”

“Give it some thought. Maybe you’ll change your mind,” Stiles said.

Buddy didn’t have to lie here and let this rat bastard jerk him around. “I haven’t changed my mind about shooting your dick off when I get a chance.”

Ted Stiles actually laughed. “You ought to talk to me,” Stiles said. “The situation is different now. You see that, Buddy.” He fumbled in his breast pocket and brought out a cigarette. He placed it between his lips but didn’t light it. “Before, you could look forward to getting out pretty soon,” he said. The cigarette bobbled with every syllable.

Buddy closed his eyes.

“Now, with this stunt you’ve pulled, your situation isn’t as favorable as it was. You escaped from jail, assaulted a man, stole a boat, tried to shoot me. A lot of folks are mad with you, Buddy.”

Buddy had also stolen a motorcycle, but he decided not to mention it. When he opened his eyes, Stiles was looking at his watch, a fancy digital job. “Don’t let me hold you up,” Buddy said.

Stiles smiled. “I’m saying it plain. You help me out, I’ll try to help you out.”

Buddy smelled a food smell, as if somewhere in the hospital they had started to serve lunch. He thought,
Why did the day come when I had to deal with this?
“You screwed my wife,” he said.

Stiles shook his head, but Buddy couldn’t tell if he meant to deny it. Stiles said, “I was trying to find out whether you’d told her anything. Looking for leads on Darryl Kelly. Unofficially.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Stiles took the cigarette out of his mouth and studied it. “Believe what you want to. It doesn’t make any difference to the fix you’re in now.”

It did make a difference, though. It made a big difference to Buddy.

“Think about it,” Stiles said.

Buddy sneered, “Go to hell,” but unfortunately, he knew he would have to think about it.

Ted Stiles walked away, a cigarette lighter in his hand. On his way out the door, he said, “I’ll be close around if you want to talk.” Then he left and Buddy’s mama came in.

The sun shone brightly on Kimmie Dee’s blond head. Her back was bent, her chin resting on her hands. If Isabel, at the window, could cry out, she could tell Kimmie Dee to run and get help. She so much longed to scream at Kimmie Dee that she felt the tendons in her neck straining, but the gag stayed in place.