Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 07 - Kidnapped in Paradise (35 page)

The garage door made a whirring noise and slowly opened straight up. Fab stood in the opening.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she said as she disappeared into the space.

The inside compartment was full of the coolest water toys ever, a perk of being very rich. Jet skis, slides, canoes––the climbing wall made me laugh––and a wide assortment of inflatables. Fab would laugh at my choice of transportation––the water bike. I
’
d have to pedal my butt off, but I
’
d only ever been a passenger on a jet ski. Not to mention, I forgot to sign up for a hotwiring class.

Fab reappeared and side stepped the ledge. She held out her hand and I climbed up the stairs.

“You
’
re going to need these,” she said as she tossed me a pair of men
’
s flip flops. I looked at her feet and she had slipped on a pair, I almost laughed knowing that she hated cheap shoes.

“Help me pull this out.” She had singled out a wave runner that conveniently had the key in the ignition. “We
’
re not starting it until we
’
re ready to leave. According to Randy, the start of the engine will carry over the water and Bonnet will investigate.”

“
Stupid question, but
who in the hell is Randy?”

“Full-time deckhand. His job is to make sure everything is clean and in working order. Nice guy,”
she sighed.
“I felt bad giving him a black eye and tying him up. I told him not to be stupid and show his face before we left. Sent a message through Randy for Bonnet--we
’
re filing a kidnapping report.”

Poor Randy, getting his ass kicked by a girl. I hoped for his sake that Bonnet didn’t kill him.

“Put this on.” Fab retrieved a life jacket off the floor.

“Do you know where you
’
re going?” I asked.

The shrug of her shoulders wasn’t reassuring.

“I felt your scowl in the dark,” I said as we climbed onto the wave runner.

“Hold on tight.” She fired up the engine, jammed her foot on the gas pedal, and we flew across the water.

Chapter 42

When we realized that no lights were behind us and that there were no engine noises of someone rapidly approaching, Fab slowed to a less hair-raising speed. I relaxed enough to lift my head, where previously it had been scrunched in the middle of her back. I looked at the rapidly-approaching coastline over her shoulder as the ocean spray beat us in the face, completely saturating our already-wet clothes. Fab made a straight line to where the brightest concentration of lights dotted the shoreline.

As we approached the shore, she cut the engine and we coasted in, not wanting to attract attention. We ditched the wave runner, tying it alongside rental water equipment for a five-star resort down on the docks at the end of Duval Street. We were free of Bonnet for the moment, but not ready to savor the victory, since we were still one hundred miles from home.
      

Wandering the streets of Key West in the middle of the night, hungry, thirsty, no cell phone, no money––it blew big time. I didn’t want to complain out loud, but this place was definitely more fun with a credit card and some cash. Neither one of us had a local connection we could roust from bed.
      

Fab spotted the water fountain and, with so little water pressure, she had to shove her face down as close to the bubbler as she could get. When finished, she wiped her face with her stained and torn top and made a sweeping gesture.

“Drink slowly.” She patted my back. “
I
don’t want you to stand up and barf.”

When I finished, I grabbed the back of her shirt and wiped my face.

“You
’
re not funny,” she growled. She picked a long piece of seaweed off her pant leg and flung it in the gutter.

“You know that
’
s not true. What
’
s next, oh fearless leader?”

We headed down Duval Street in the direction of the Overseas; we had a couple of miles to figure out what was next. Walking home seemed improbable, since it would take days, not to mention it was illegal. The two-lane highway in each direction, stretching from the southernmost point of the US to Tarpon Cove, banned pedestrians.

Fab steered me to a clean and bird poop-free metal bench across from Hemingway
’
s bar. The bar boasted standing room only every night for live music, dancing, and drinking. Tonight
’
s crowd had dispersed, leaving behind the diehard drinkers. With so few people, we assumed that it must be nearly closing time. It shut its doors at four in the morning for a few hours, long enough to clean and re-open for the breakfast drinkers.

Fab, arms crossed, kicked her foot until I put my hand on her leg, which was more polite than kicking her to stop. At the sight of rapidly-approaching headlights, she jumped into the street and flagged down the lone cab. It barely slowed when she had the door open and slid into the front seat.

It was a brief conversation, and then the driver yelled, “Get out, or I
’
m calling the cops!”

Angry, she got out, turning to yell her regards to his ancestors as she flounced out of the street, throwing herself down next to me.

“That went well,” I said.

“I tried to convince him we were stranded and would pay triple if he
’
d drive us to Tarpon Cove. Do you know that he had the nerve to ask, ‘Where are a couple of homeless chicks going to get that kind of money?
’”

“Let me guess, in response you tried to carjack him, and that
’
s when he wanted you out?”

“That bastard wanted a blow job in exchange for one hamburger. Said I
’
d have to share it with you. I unleashed a string of profanity. I may have mentioned his minuscule manhood, and that
’
s when he got mad.”

I bent over, putting my face on my knees, and started laughing. “Did you even try to negotiate for two hamburgers?”

She frowned, looking shocked, and we both started laughing.

I shook my finger at her. “So, your beautiful, sexy self is a bit scruffed up. Worn-looking or not, get up off this bench and use your man skills.”

“Look at me!”
she shrieked.

A young drunk couple staggered by, took one look at us, and hustled down the street.

I pulled on a strand of her slightly matted hair and made a sad face. “If it makes you feel better, I bet I look worse.”

“Plan C, or is it D now? After giving a brief thought to boosting a car, I remembered how much I hate jail. Besides, it
’
s been a while since of either of us has been arrested, locked up, or contemplated a jail break, and it needs to stay that way.”

Fab
’
s whining comforted me in an odd way.

“We could go to the police station and tell them we know the chief in Miami, but I doubt they
’
d believe us. What are the chances they
’
d call and get him out of bed?”

“
Big zero.
” Fab scanned the street; with the exception of the occasional drunk straggler, the famous street was deserted.

“Maybe there
’
s a pay phone around.” Although I knew that, in this cell phone age, finding a pay phone might be like an archaeological mission.

“
No money,
” Fab reminded. “Hitching a ride at night is a terrible idea, and not even a good one during the day. We could sleep on the beach and wait until morning.”

“We could call collect,” I said.

“
You can’t
do that anymore. As soon as the person on the other end of the line hears collect call, they
’
ll hang up.”

“Jail calls are collect,” I said excitedly. “You can hear the person
’
s voice on the other end, so you know who it is, and you
’
re under no obligation unless you press ‘
one.’
If you took a jail call once in a while, you
’
d know these things. We would have to choose someone with a landline.”

A police cruiser came around the corner and cruised slowly down the street. The back seat empty, he pulled alongside the curb.

Before he got the passenger side window down, Fab whispered. “
I
don’t think telling him our sad story is a good idea.”

“
You can’t
loiter on the bench all night,” he eyed us evenly. “Against the law.”

I looked to see where he pointed and figured it was the street sign I couldn’t read. With only the street lights for illumination, I could barely make out what the officer looked like inside the darkened car. My guess, if we were dressed up, we could sit on this bench as long as we wanted to, but you can’t upset the tourists with homeless milling around. I knew they had a large population living somewhere. I guessed the Main Street was off limits.

Since I did friendly better than Fab with the legal types, I asked, “Could you direct us to a pay phone?”

I wanted to beg him to call Mother, but that didn’t seem like a good idea. He might ask questions I couldn’t answer truthfully.

He looked surprised. “About a mile up, in front of the Conch Motel.” He must have noticed our look of surprise that there were none closer. “There are only two on the entire island; the other is under the bridge at the beginning of the Overseas, in front of Kay
’
s Cafe.”

I thanked him. Fab poked me and motioned me to get a move on. The officer waited while we shuffled off in the direction he suggested. A patient man, he continued his vigil until we were two blocks up the street.

I glanced over my shoulder. “I guess he wants to make sure we don’t double back and warm that bench. How long is this walk going to take?” I groaned. “My feet are falling off.”

“A long damn time if you don’t speed it up.” She tugged on my arm. “We
’
ve got another problem––who are we going to call at this hour?”

“Since
I
don’t know what time it is, Jake
’
s is probably closed and no one will answer again until mid-morning. Mac keeps bankers' hours.”

Fab snapped her fingers. “The funeral home answers 24/7. You know Dickie and Raul would pick us up, dead or alive.”

“Since we
’
re alive, hopefully they won’t bring the hearse,” I said. “Does it feel like no one is looking for us? What about Bonnet? He
’
s a vindictive bastard. Why didn’t he follow us? We didn’t get this far to end up dead.”

“I figured Spoon or Creole or someone would have kept a watchful eye on that island, and might intercept us once they saw the Jet Ski blasting across the waves in the dark. Would it be too much to ask that someone meet us at the docks where we tied up? It
’
s a no-brainer, since it
’
s the most logical place to come ashore, and the closest.”

“What plan letter are you on? Got one for when we get back to the Cove? I vote we sneak into the house, take turns standing guard, take showers, get clean clothes, and shoot uninvited guests.”

The Conch Motel sign flashed in the distance. We finally trudged up to the white run-down motel. It hadn’t seen any TLC in a long time, and the sign boasted No Vacancy. Exhausted and with our adrenaline rushes running low, we glared at the damaged concrete where the phone stand had been, the pole sheared off.