Deadly Waters (7 page)

Olivia frowned. “So why would he steal Jack's camera?”

Steven declared, “It doesn't make sense, that's for sure. But here's what I'm thinking. The camera's gone, and we're getting some pretty far-out theories being raised around here. So how about if we just quit worrying about it for tonight and enjoy our dinners.”

Jack tried to study the menu, but his brain was buzzing with everything he'd just heard. All of them were subdued when the food arrived, although Olivia and Steven made an attempt at pleasant conversation.

“I've got to get back to the room and do some work,” Olivia announced when she finished eating.

“I'll walk you back,” Steven told her, “and then I'm going to the one-hour photo lab up the street—it's open till nine. I want to develop the film I shot today.”

“I want dessert, please,” Ashley announced.

“Why am I not surprised? What about you two?” Olivia asked Bridger and Jack.

Bridger nodded, and Jack said, “Sounds good. Dad, I left a roll of film on the dresser in my room. Would you get it and have it developed with yours? Here's the room key.”

“Sure thing. You guys take your time and enjoy your dessert. I'll pay on the way out, so you can stay as long as you want.”

The last vestiges of the sunset had faded when the waitress brought Ashley's chocolate sundae, Bridger's apple pie à la mode, and Jack's key lime pie, which the waitress said was the specialty of the house.

Through the large windows, they looked out at the Everglades City dock. At the far end, a small tour boat was moored, but since it was almost nighttime, all the tours were over until the next day.

“You want to go back to the motel?” Jack asked when they finished their desserts.

“Not really,” Bridger answered.

“Me neither,” Ashley said.

Jack looked around the room. “There's lots of empty tables, so we're not taking up space, like if someone else was waiting for a table.”

Bridger nodded. “So?”

“So let's talk. Why did that guy take my camera?”

With the tip of his knife, Bridger drew circles on the tablecloth. “He liked your lens, and he didn't want to go buy one.”

“Lame,” Jack said.

“I know.”

“He's a mean psychopath and he hates kids,” Ashley ventured.

“That's a lame reason too, Ashley.”

“So, OK, genius, what do you think's the reason?”

Jack shrugged. “I don't have a clue.”

With her index finger, Ashley wiped chocolate sauce from the inside of her dish, then licked her finger.

“That's gross,” Jack told her.

“No one's watching. Besides, who are you anyway, the dessert police? We're not supposed to waste stuff, and chocolate is a natural resource.” A smile crinkled the edges of her lips as she took another fingerful and stuck it, dripping, into her mouth. “Mmmmm, look, Jack. Yummy. Want some?”

Jack gave his sister a withering glance.

Bridger must have thought Jack and Ashley were building up to a real fight—which they weren't—because he broke in with, “Are you getting your pictures developed 'cause you took one of Gordon and his boat?” Bridger asked Jack.

He shook his head. “Wish I had. I was just snapping birds.”

Bridger stretched out his long legs and sighed. He was wearing that faraway look again.

“What are you thinking about?” Jack asked him.

“Home in Montana. My dad in the hospital. Why I'm wasting time here with you.”

The words stung Jack, but he kept his voice Iguarded. “Wasting?”

“I didn't mean it that way. Guess here's as good as any place for now.”

Ashley, always the one to coax things out of people, didn't seem offended. Instead, she smiled and asked quietly, “Is it hard being with us—I mean, since we're almost strangers?”

“Not hard, exactly. It's”—Bridger rubbed his chin, as if trying to loosen the words from his mouth—“I reckon it's the way your family's different than mine. My dad would have told me that trying to protect something weaker, like the manatee and her baby, is always a good thing. My dad would have called me a man for trying.”

Jack couldn't think of any way to answer that, so he stayed silent. He did think about what a contradiction Bridger was. Only yesterday Bridger had stated that “people are people, critters are critters,” as if the critters didn't matter too much. And he'd teased Ashley about being afraid to hurt a fish's feelings. Yet he'd risked his life to try to save a manatee. Which was the real Bridger?

“Are you going to be a rodeo king like your father when you get older?” Ashley asked.

“Yeah, that's my dream. I want to start riding in the bronc-busting events right now, but Dad says I have to wait till I'm 16.”

Ashley's questions seemed to have mellowed Bridger, pulling him out of his somber mood. Jack joined in and began to quiz him about the rodeo. Bridger answered easily enough, telling where the horses and bulls came from, who were the youngest riders on the circuit, who'd won the most championships in the different events.

Full from his dinner and the key lime pie, Jack leaned back in his chair and listened. The sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen ebbed and flowed with the opening and shutting of the kitchen doors, a backdrop to Bridger's soft, steady rhythm. The weight of the day pressed on him, and Jack felt his own thoughts slow to a crawl. Even though it was only eight o'clock, he was ready to head back to the room and go to bed.

For the last few minutes of their rodeo talk, Ashley had been staring through the window, her forehead pressed against the glass. Now she said, her voice hushed, “Jack, Jack! Look out there.”

“What?” The tone of Ashley's voice snapped him to attention.

“At the wooden pier. See that? One, two, three, four slips down?” Wide-eyed, she turned to stare at him. “It's the boat!”

“What boat?”

“Gordon's boat. It looks just like it.”

S
taring though the glass, Jack followed the direction of Ashley's finger. A boat, expensive and sleek, swayed gently in the sable waters. Instantly he recognized the craft. It belonged to the man who stole his camera.

“That's it for sure!” Jack cried. He was halfway to his feet when Bridger grabbed him and pulled him back into his chair. “Don't go getting all twisted into a knot. We've got to do this right,” he hissed. “The man could be in here, right now, watching us. You look behind me, and I'll check out the tables behind you. But don't make it seem like you're looking.”

Bridger was right, Jack knew, so with half-closed eyelids, he made a sweep of the few patrons still occupying the near-empty restaurant. An older couple held hands in the back corner, deep in conversation; a busboy with fuzzy blond hair stacked dirty dishes into a tub; and behind him, to the rear of the restaurant, two women lost in conversation stabbed at their salads. No man with a beard was anywhere Jack could see. Or without a beard, if Ashley was right about that.

“Clear in my direction,” Bridger said. “How's it lookin' your way?”

“No sign of him. Look, my camera might still be in that powerboat. I want to get it back!”

“Then call the police,” Ashley insisted.

“No.” Bridger shook his head. “That boat could be gone before the cops made their way over here. Jack's right. Him and me'll check it out.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” Ashley flared.

Standing slowly, Bridger bent his tall frame across the table. Leaning on his knuckles and leaning on every word, he told her, “You—stay—right—here. Got it? No telling what'll happen out there, Ashley, but one thing

I do know is it's no place for a girl. I'd appreciate it if you'd sit here and be a lookout.”

“I don't want to be a lookout—don't you remember what Dad said about the shark?” Ashley almost squeaked out the last word. “He told you that you shouldn't be stupid about doing dangerous stuff. This is dangerous. And stupid!” She turned to Jack, her eyes pleading, but Jack was too pumped to respond. The boat was there, less than 50 yards away. This might be his only chance to get his camera back. There was a time for words and a time for action.

Quickly he rose and stood next to Bridger. “Sorry, Ashley, but I gotta do this. We'll be back,” Jack said. And they marched out of The Captain's Table and into the night.

Directly in front of them was a small parking lot, guarded by a streetlight in one corner that illuminated the few cars parked there and lit a part of the pier at the water's edge. To their right, steps led to the pier; it was flanked by wooden pillars spaced every ten feet. A pelican balanced one leg on the nearest piling, its yellow eyes watching Jack's every move. As they approached, the bird spread huge wings as if to warn them off, but Jack hardly paid attention. The boat was only a few yards away.

“Do you think the guy's around here somewhere?” Jack asked, his heart picking up speed. “What are we going to do if he sees us?”

Bridger answered without hesitation. “Hope he does. I'd like to come up against that thief.”

They passed a small canopied rig, then a boat hardly bigger than a canoe. Next came a sailboat with a 12-foot mast, one that gently wafted up and down in time to the water slapping the pilings. The next boat was the powerboat. After that came an empty slip where no boat was tied up.

Bridger craned his neck to see behind him. “We're OK. Everything's clear.”

“Look.” Jack pointed to the registration number on the bow. FL 10397 NK. “Like Ashley remembered.”

The weathered boards of the pier creaked as they turned down the smaller finger pier dividing that slip from the one next to it. Gordon's boat bobbed beneath them, empty and lifeless.

“OK. I'll check it out,” Bridger told Jack.

“No!” Jack said, surprised at how fierce his own voice sounded. “It's my camera. You stand guard.”

Bridger didn't answer, but instead gave a sharp nod. Reaching down, he grabbed the line that tethered the boat to the pier and yanked hard; the boat sidled against the finger pier, bumping the wood with a soft thud.

After a final glance around, Jack jumped into the boat, arms spread-eagled until he steadied himself. The inside of this craft was different from Frankie's, smaller and more compact. Its fiberglass bow had a sharper point. At midship, a waist-high console held the steering wheel; behind it was a white vinyl pilot's seat. Everything seemed clean and polished, down to the stainless steel rail around the bow; it caught the faraway light like a strip of mirror.

“Find anything?” Bridger asked softly.

“No. But something's tied down over here. I'm gonna check it out.”

“Hurry,” Bridger warned.

A large white cooler had been pushed against one side. When Jack tried to open it, he couldn't get the lid to budge. On closer inspection he realized the clasp had been fastened with a small padlock. As he examined the lock, a slight odor drifted from the cooler, damp and a bit fishy; maybe the guy had gone fishing after all. Anyway, no one would stash a camera with a bunch of fish. He'd have to keep looking.

Slowly, Jack made his way toward the front of the craft, his hands skimming the sides as if they were etched in Braille. Now he was midship, where the padded white chair gleamed like a moon. Nothing was there, not on the console, not on the seat. No wrappers, no cans of soda, no navigation charts, nothing.

He was about to give up when his eyes caught a shadow within a shadow underneath the pilot's seat. Squatting low, Jack reached blindly into the darkness.

His fingers touched something smooth and cool, then wrapped around a thin leather strap. His camera! He brought it up to his face, his heart pounding. There was just enough light to make out his special lens, a glass orb staring back at him.

“Bridger, I got it!” he cried.

Bridger was now hardly more than a dark silhouette on the finger pier. He pumped the sky with his fist. “All right!”

“Hey—the back of the camera's hanging open. He must have taken the film out. That was a fresh roll I put in.”

“Forget the film. There's a couple of people walking past the parking lot. Come on!” Bridger's voice was soft but compelling.

With his camera in one hand, Jack climbed onto the finger pier, flush with triumph. Gordon hadn't won. Whoever he was, he'd thought he'd bested Jack, but now Jack had done him one better and had beaten him at his own game. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine the man returning to his boat; he'd reach for the camera and find empty air. Jack wished he could see the expression on Gordon's face when that happened. Checkmate!

“Now we know for sure this boat belongs to the guy who robbed me,” he told Bridger. “We need to call the police.”

“Bet they arrest him.” Breaking into a sudden smile, Bridger gave a high five, so hard Jack's skin stung. “You did it!” he said, his voice warm with admiration.

“Yeah,” Jack agreed. “I did.”

The night sky lightened as another streetlamp blinked on, this one at the farthest end of the dock. Golden light made a zigzag design in the marina waters, like lightning on black satin, and Jack almost laughed at the beauty of it. Now he could take a picture. First thing he'd do would be to get another roll of film, and then he'd be out trying to capture the Everglades night. He asked Bridger, “Do you think I can still make it to the photo shop for—”

But Bridger wasn't paying attention. “Wait. Shhh.” He held his fingers to his lips, signaling Jack to be quiet. A scuffling sound, coming from the edge of the pier nearest the parking lot, broke the evening stillness. Footsteps. Bridger and Jack were still on the finger pier when a figure approached from the pier side, closing the gap between them before Jack and Bridger could escape. Jack stood, frozen, his eyes trying to make sense of the shadows. Maybe the man would walk past. There were a few other boats tied to the pier and a restaurant close by. He watched, his whole body on alert.

Sauntering, hands jammed into his jacket pockets, his jaw working as though he were chewing gum, the man slowed as he got closer to where Jack and Bridger stood. He stopped at the point where the finger pier jutted off the main pier, next to the empty slip. “Hey, kids. What's up?” he asked, cocking his head to one side.

Jack's stomach clamped. If this was the owner of the boat, they'd made a mistake, because he looked different from the guy named Gordon. He was clean-shaven, with white-blond hair combed off angular features.

“You want something?” the man asked again. “What are y'all doin' here?”

It didn't matter how altered his appearance was, Jack now recognized the voice. It was the man who'd stolen his camera.
Gordon
.

Coolly, Bridger said, “We were just checking out your boat. Looks fast.”

“Faster than any of these other tubs. So why don't you get in, and I'll give you boys a ride.”

“No thanks,” Jack told him.

“What's your hurry? I'm thinking teenagers like you'd love a night ride.”

Bridger shook his head. “Our folks are in the restaurant, waiting for us. They're watching us right now, from the window.”

“Really?” Gordon made a clucking sound with his teeth. “I was just in there—had a drink at the bar. Place looked empty. So I guess they left you all alone.” Gordon took a step closer. “Which is a good thing, 'cause now you can take a ride with me. No worries, right?”

Jack felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. To his right was an empty slip, to his left, the powerboat. Behind him, more glassy water stretching into a tiny bay edged with palm trees. He looked to the restaurant for help, but from this vantage point he could see nothing except ceiling lights. The pier was empty. There was no one.

“You've got my camera, don't you.” Gordon didn't ask it, he stated it.

“It's mine.
You
stole it from
me!
”

Gordon drawled, “That's quite an accusation. The way I see it, you got on my boat and took my property. Y'all are nothing but a couple of punk thieves. I have a right to take you to the sheriff. So get in the boat.”

“Why are you doing this?” Jack demanded.

“I think you know. If you don't—my mistake. In that case, you're just innocent casualties. But my guess is you know more than you're saying, and since in my business it's important to be”—he paused to choose his word carefully—“
discreet
, that means we're all going to take a nice ride together. Now let's get on with it.”

“I'm not getting in there. No way,” Jack declared.

“Oh, but I say you are.” Pulling his hand from his pocket, Gordon produced a small black pistol. He held it close to his body, pressed against his hip. Jack knew Bridger had seen it too; he also knew that no one else in the parking lot, if anyone were there at all, would notice the drama unfolding on the pier.

“Back up, and get in the boat,” Gordon said again. Every bit of civility had melted out of his tone; there was nothing left but menace, the slapping of the water, and the gun.

“Don't do it, Jack,” Bridger said through tight teeth. “He can't shoot us out here, not on the pier.”

“But I might. Do you really want to find out?”

Bridger's fists locked, hard-knuckled. “If I have to.”

Though Jack's mind was working fast, every possibility came up flawed. If he jumped into the water of the empty slip next to where they were standing, Gordon could move out onto the finger pier and shoot him directly, like a target in an arcade. But he also knew that if he did what Gordon ordered and got into the boat, he'd be at the man's mercy. No way out! The phrase flashed though his brain, again and again, like a neon sign. “Move it,” Gordon barked, starting to step onto the finger pier.

In the deep, quiet darkness, Jack thought he saw movement. A tiny flick of a motion, and then stillness, appearing and then disappearing like a firefly. Had somebody figured out what was happening? Had Ashley called for help?

“Did you hear me, boy?”

“Well, yeah, I guess I do, but…” Jack stalled, trying to buy time. Suddenly a shadow broke free from the other shadows and cannonballed toward them. Before Gordon could even turn around, his arms shot into the air and whipped wildly. For a split second he tottered back and forth, clawing air with the hand that didn't hold the gun, until gravity got the better of him and he plunged sideways into the empty slip. The water churned as he surfaced, sputtering.

Where Gordon had stood, a small figure hung poised, hands still upraised from the act of pushing a man twice her size. Ashley.

“
Run!
” Bridger yelled.