SHADOW OVER CEDAR KEY (24 page)

“Re-tying the line, giving it more slack.”

“Come, take this.” Brandy handed down the narrow glass. Water spattered her face. Forcing herself to be more careful, she loosened another strip with the other handle. She was getting the knack. “We have to move fast. He’ll be taking the houseboat farther out. Make it a lot harder for us.” She lifted the second pane down and started feverishly on the third. “Cara.” Brandy looked down at the slim face staring up at her, at the slight body. “You know what you’ve got to do. I could never get through this opening. I think maybe you could.”

Cara shrank back against the sink. “Go out in the storm? I couldn’t!”

Brandy climbed down and took her by the shoulders, wanting to shout at her, to shake her, to ask how else they could possibly get away. Her own heart was pounding, but she tried to think rationally. Their only hope was Cara. In a psych class Brandy once heard about overcoming phobias. The feared thing should be associated with someone or some object the person liked.

“Look, as a little girl you were horrified by a storm because you were deserted, alone, helpless. Now you’ve got me. I won’t leave you. Would you rather hang around for Moose’s party?”

Tears of horror filled Cara’s brown eyes. Time was passing. Where was Moose? Brandy slipped over to the glass panel in the pocket door, Cara behind her. The wheel house door swung open. Moose shambled back in and peered between strips of duct tape toward the shore. They could see his big lips move. Probably swearing. Then he pulled out a small drawer, picked up a handgun, stuck it in his belt, and lumbered outside again.

Cara’s fingers fastened around Brandy’s arm. “He’s carrying a gun!”

Brandy shook loose, rushed back into the bathroom, climbed up, and peered into the blowing rain. Moose had plodded below the empty window, head down, to the rear deck. Here with a wrench of his arm, he righted the dingy, carried it to the side, threw it over, and begun climbing down. “He’s going over the side,” Brandy reported.

Cara’s face glowed with relief. “My God, he’s leaving.”

“Probably won’t be gone long. He must’ve seen something. He’s rowing around the island to the right, toward shore. Come on! It gives us a little time.” Jumping down, Brandy turned to Cara. “It won’t be easy. I’ll boost you through the opening. A jail deputy once told me if your head fits, the rest of you will. You’ve got a hole, maybe fifteen inches wide.”

Cara pulled herself up on the lid and then began to cry. Brandy fought her frustration. “You’re brave. You went out into the forest alone at night. But I know this is hell for you.” When she thought of the ghoulish Moose, the connection clicked again, the story of a journey through hell.

“Ever hear of the
Divine Comedy
?” Cara looked down, puzzled. “In the
Inferno
Dante was afraid of hell, but he had a guide. That guide took him through all the circles of hell and never left him, no matter how awful things were. They saved themselves. Cara, we can be like that. I’m your guide.”

Cara nodded, turned back to the wall, and with an effort raised her arms, and with trembling fingers gripped the sill.

“Now listen carefully. The key is on a peg above the door. Get any keys you see. Maybe the swamp buggy’s still around. I’ll be getting ready. Let me out and we’ll make a break for the shore.”

When Cara had pulled herself part way up the wall, Brandy leaped up on the toilet lid and pushed her farther. “Does your head fit?” She could see the dark hair flying. “Twist your shoulders through the opening and sit on the sill.”

At last Cara inched her lean body through the slot and rested for a second on the window ledge. Through the opening her voice came back muffled. “Some kind of deck above me. Maybe I can grab the lowest rail.” She stretched above her head with one arm. “Got it!” Drawing her legs after her, she hung suspended for a second from the outside rail, then dropped to the lower deck.

Brandy’s heart hammered against her chest. Where was Moose? From the closet she snatched up the plastic slickers, rolled them tightly, stuffed them into two pairs of fishermen’s boots, crammed the boots into the big plastic bag, and zipped it. How to carry it? Quickly, she removed her belt, ran it through the handles of the bag, threaded it again through the belt loops, and buckled it. She would have to try to swim with the extra weight. They would need the boots to hike through the swamp along the river, and hurricane winds would hit in three hours. By then they wouldn’t be able to drive or walk.

Through the door panel she saw Cara sidle into the wheel house, saw her shaking fingers pull the keys out of the boat’s ignition, then dash to the door to lift down its key. When the pocket door slid back, Brandy slipped through and closed and locked it behind her. “When Moose gets back, maybe he’ll think we’re still here.”

On the galley counter she swept up some packages of cheese and crackers, dumped the extra roll of film out of the plastic pouch in her bag, replaced it with the crackers and her watch, and re-locked the pouch. Cara’s face was ashen. Her teeth chattered. God, Brandy thought, don’t go into shock. The worst hasn’t even begun. “We’ve got to let ourselves down with my line, get across the island, and swim to shore.” She took Cara’s cold hand. “The channel isn’t wide. Maybe twenty yards. It’s protected.”

They crept down the narrow walkway facing the river to the stern. Still no dinghy in sight. The only sound was the pounding of the waves against the hull, the whistling of the wind. In the fading light, Brandy looked toward the knotted wall of trees beyond the island, Wildlife Refuge for bobcats, alligators, snakes. Maybe they could find refuge, too.

She led Cara to the line slung from the railing, and obediently Cara slipped over the side, held on, and dropped into the coffee-colored water, Brandy close behind. Working her fingers furiously, she untied the wet line, and thrust it into a pocket. They might need it. Then she led the way to the left, around the edge of the island, past dripping spines of saw palmettos, through clumps of wax myrtle, her bag catching on low branches of pond cypress and river birch, until they halted before the strait that separated them from the mainland. And then, near the houseboat, they heard a loud crackling. As one, they turned. A giant yellow shape came blundering after them. Cara gave a little shriek.

Moose had beached his dinghy near the houseboat, had heard them or seen their tracks. Brandy was moving again, even as she called to Cara, “Into the water—fast! If you don’t see me on shore, run!”

When she hit the water, she gasped with the sudden cold, with the strength of the current. She struck out in a modified crawl, trying to glance behind her on every third breath. Soon all she could do was struggle forward, dragged down by the plastic bag and her own tennis shoes. Even in this sheltered backwater, waves dashed against her face, filled her mouth, blurred her eyes. If she could stay afloat, the current should wash her ashore, maybe several yards upriver.

She hoped the splashing near her was Cara. Her friend would reach land more quickly, and by now the afternoon’s large alligator should have found its hole. Even the thought of the ridged back she had seen earlier made her feel faint. She forced herself to think of Moose instead. Would he swim after them? Surely not. He’d go for the dinghy. Above her head she heard a zinging noise and something hard hit the water to her left. A bullet? He did have the gun. But she didn’t dare duck under water. She might not be able to surface again. She’d decided to jettison the bag, when, through the filter of rain, she saw trunks looming ahead, gnarled roots.

She stepped down and her foot plunged into the pulpy river bottom. She breathed in the acrid smell of riverbank mud. Before her, Cara was crawling forward among a nest of blunt cypress knees. Brandy staggered up beside her, looked back, saw Moose crouched like a demon monster in the dinghy, yelling, his words lost in the wind. Once again Brandy grabbed Cara by the hand, found an overgrown trail, maybe an animal’s, ducked and scrambled up the marshy riverbank. She looked back from the partial shelter of a bald cypress trunk. Moose was ashore now, his gun drawn. Again they hurled themselves down the dim track.

The keys from the boat ignition—she had fingered three keys on the ring. Maybe one went to the swamp buggy. Another shot. Wide. It slammed high into a tree behind them. Moose had not yet floundered up to level ground. Through the rain Brandy could see a square bulky shape like a Jeep in a clearing ahead.

At that moment her wet fingers slipped from Cara’s hand, she heard a loud crunch, and Cara screamed. Brandy’s first thought was, Cara’s been shot! But as she whipped around, she saw Cara’s arms flailing, her mouth stretched in terror, one leg plunged to the knee in a pile of sticks and branches. She managed to cry out, “Oh, God, Brandy! A ‘gator hole!”

In an instant Brandy recognized the tell-tale depression, the tangle of leaves and stems. Time shifted to slow motion. She reached out as Cara’s leg sank lower. Eyes wild, Cara babbled, “Something moved!” Even as Brandy grasped both Cara’s hands and tugged, she remembered the full brute length of the afternoon’s alligator. Cara, white face frozen, slid upward. A split second passed like a hour. Then she scrambled to her feet, and they bolted toward the Jeep.

Over her shoulder Brandy heard a thrashing noise, turned and saw the huge snout protrude, the rutted moss green back heave upward, tail lashing, jaws open, saw the long shining teeth. She had read that for short distances a person couldn’t outrun an alligator—certainly not as burdened as she was. Even as the beast lunged forward, hissing, on powerful legs, the yellow rain slicker surged up from the river bank. A bullet hit a cypress trunk behind them.

Ahead Brandy could make out the mammoth wheels, the open metal body of the swamp buggy. Again she glanced back. Another shot. The beast careened around in the path, its tail sweeping a giant arc, and raised its massive head to the new menace. Brandy vaulted onto the running board and into the driver’s seat. Behind her Cara clamored into the back seat, then tumbled over into the front. Brandy’s hand shook so hard she was afraid she could not switch on the ignition. Even if Moose didn’t hit them, he could puncture the stubby engine or the monster tires.

Willing her fingers to work, she tried one key. Wouldn’t fit. Maybe it was the one to the houseboat. The next slid into the slot, turned. The engine barked to life. Behind them down the trail, Moose had halted, retreated a few paces, and fired again at the alligator. Brandy jammed down the clutch and the gas, shifted, and whirled the wheel. The buggy jerked backward, then leapt down a slick, two track road. Rain pounded the steel chassis; limbs swung overhead.

“A timber road. It must go to the pavement,” Brandy called. The buggy twisted around hammocks, under live oak branches, the heavy wheels grinding deep into sandy ruts. A clump of Spanish moss blew across the windshield. Brandy slowed, and Cara climbed over the gear shift, swept the hood clear.

“My money’s on Moose, not the ‘gator,” Brandy said above the roar of engine, wind, and rain. “He has the gun. He’ll go back to his boat, call his friend. They’ll cut us off.”

She rounded another hairpin curve, through the gathering dark saw a trough in the road, tried to swerve around it, and mired the front wheels. She gunned the buggy backward and tried to rock out. Sand and debris flew up, but the wheels spun deeper.

“Just as well,” Brandy said. “We can’t stay on the road. They’d find us in a minute. Buggy probably doesn’t go more than thirty miles an hour.” She opened the soaked bag and drew out the boots. “Put on the rain gear—it’ll be some protection—and the boots. We’ll hike north, toward the road that connects the main highway to the town of Suwannee. Before it’s completely dark, maybe we can turn toward town. It’s our best chance for help.” With our luck, she thought, we’ll probably stumble on the Shell Mount ghost instead.

The sky was a seething, charcoal mass, lit by a sulfurous yellow. Here the flat-topped cypress had thinned and they tramped, heads lowered, through stands of slash pine, cabbage palms, and red maples. Rain stung their faces, leaves and twigs fell in showers around them. Wind pushed against them from the west. Their boots squished, left huge sandy tracks that Brandy hoped the rain would wash away. When she stepped on a small pine limb, she picked it up.

“This’ll do to poke under shrubbery when we stop.” Cara’s eyes widened. She knew why. To scare away rattlesnakes. Ahead to the left through the growing darkness and rain, Brandy saw two lights moving steadily closer, away from the Gulf. Soon she heard the drone of a car engine. They must be near the paved road to the town of Suwannee. Quickly she pulled Cara beside her, thrust the stick into a thicket of palmettos, then drew Cara closer. Water spattered up from the asphalt as the car neared.

“We can’t take a chance. Might be Moose’s friend.” They squatted and watched the car vanish through the rain. At least they knew roughly where they were. “We’ll push a little farther, parallel to the road. On the map it’s straight. But we’ve got to find a safe place to stop, get ready for the big blow.” Brandy had lost all track of time, but there was no way to look at her watch, even if it had survived in the plastic pouch.

“I’m thinking of rattlers,” Cara said through her teeth. “How about climbing up in a live oak?”

“Can’t risk it.” Brandy raised her voice above the wail of the wind. “First things to go down in a hurricane. We need a low spot, someplace to flatten out.” She’d never heard of lightning during a hurricane, but she didn’t want to be near tall trees. They came upon an open field, then one reforested with slash pines, and finally reached a slight rise where a clump of young cabbage palms bent forward in the gale.

“Here,” Brandy called. “Behind this little hill.” She couldn’t walk any farther. Shuddering, she prodded the grasses and tall weeds around the palms with her stick. Then they dropped, gasping, onto the sodden grass. As blackness descended, they huddled together in the pocket of earth, engulfed in the sharp smell of wet soil. Brandy could scarcely make out the swaying white trunks above them. Somewhere near, a pine snapped in two, its top crashing to the ground. Brandy opened the dripping bag and rooted in the bottom for the plastic pouch. So far Cara had borne up well, driven by terrors even greater than her fear of the storm. But until it passed, she had to take care of them both. One step at a time.