Florida Heatwave (34 page)

She didn’t say anything, just looked out into the distance for the red and green navigation lights of another boat. Emma’s father was a fishing boat charter captain. He’d told her about scenarios like this one—boats meeting in the night for drugs and arms deals. They picked a GPS coordinate and met there, did their business on the water and sped away from each other. The coast guard couldn’t watch every inch of shoreline all the time. Private boats were the way to get contraband into the US, Emma’s father had told her, hinting that maybe he knew something about it. There was no one back at the marinas checking who came in with what, no one to check the thousands of private docks.

Jake walked unsteadily to the bow of the boat, gripping the rails nervously. Then he stood, scanning the waters around them. The boat was rocking with some vigor. It was not a calm night at sea, probably a two-or three-foot chop. The sea air was cool and damp, the humidity cut by the steady breeze.

Then she saw them, at first not certain if it was just a trick of the moonlight on the water. But as the vessel grew closer, she saw the red and green lights in the distance. It was still too far to hear the engine. Jake was looking in the wrong direction, didn’t see the boat coming. She knew with clarity that if she did nothing, she was in the last minutes of her life.

The moment swelled and expanded, and then she was nothing but pure action. While his back was still to her, she moved quietly, quickly to Jake. She remembered he hadn’t been steady on the dock, that he didn’t seem comfortable on the water. She’d seen people who were afraid of the water before, people who couldn’t swim well. She suspected he was one of them. She hit him just right, just hard enough with her shoulder to his middle back that with the way he was standing he tipped right into the water, issuing a winded grunt. She stood a moment, and watched him surface and start to flail, reaching for the boat.

Then she raced back to the captain’s bench and started the engine. She heard him yelling, “I can’t swim! Maura! I’m going to drown. Don’t do this! You’re making a mistake.”

She blocked him out completely, though she could hear his horrible thrashing and gurgling, the panic in his voice as he begged her not to leave him, and brought the boat around toward the shore. She killed the navigation lights so the other boat wouldn’t see her.

Then she leaned on the throttle, and was racing back to land, unable to hear anything but the engine and the wake behind her. She didn’t look back, didn’t even think about how she’d left a man to drown in the Gulf of Mexico. She didn’t feel the slightest shade of regret. Inside, she was stone cold.

Obeying all the rules of the water on the way in, she easily docked the boat in its slip, tied it off with the lines still hanging from the hull, thinking he hadn’t even known enough to bring them in to the boat.

As she shouldered the heavy bag with effort and made her way back to the Prius, the dock rocking beneath her, there was still not a thought in her head. At her car, she dumped the bag in the trunk and climbed into the driver’s seat. Then, in the quiet, it all hit her. Before she closed the door, she vomited onto the black top. Once she was done, quaking at her core and safely locked in her vehicle, she sobbed. Great wracking coughs shook her body and the car itself. She sat there until she felt steady enough to drive, and then made her way home, not speeding, not driving too slowly. All she would need was a DUI stop, and she’d lose it completely.

She parked in the grocery store parking lot across the street from her mother’s condo building and sat for a minute. There were a few other cars in the lot, left overnight for whatever reason—all the shops and the supermarket, even the small smoky bar frequented by island residents, were long closed. When she got out and shut the door, the sound echoed in the quiet.

She decided to leave the money in the trunk. On the island, the likelihood of her car being randomly stolen or broken into was low. But what if someone had followed her home from the marina? Or what if Jake had survived and knew where she would go that night? He
had
known her name and she really didn’t remember giving it to him. If someone was watching her now, they’d see her leave the money in the car—maybe they’d just take it and leave her and her family alone. Or if someone came looking, they’d easily see the car parked under the light in a nearly empty lot. She was banking on the assumption that whoever came looking cared only about the money; they’d take it and get lost fast. She’d watch the car from the condo.

Before going upstairs, she opened the trunk and looked at the bag, then slowly opened the zipper. It was filled with cash. Somehow she thought it might be a trick, some real bills on top, the rest just newspaper or something. She had no idea how much was there. She’d never seen so much money in her life. But she did know one thing. This was her wild card.

Lizzie was waiting up, the television on. It was four thirty AM. Maura entered the room and sat in the chair across from where her mother lay on the couch made up for Maura. She felt utterly drained, as though all her limbs were filled with sand.

“You’re late,” said Lizzie.

“Sorry, Mom. Something came up. A girl at work had an emergency. I had to help her.” An easy lie; it rang true even to her.

“It’s not like you not to call. I was real worried, Maura. Your cell was off.”

“Battery died.” Not a lie. It had died before her shift. She forgot to charge it.

“Well,” said Lizzie. She lifted herself heavily from the chair. She must have been tired, too; there was no trace of anger or judgment. Just worry, like she’d said. “Next time give an old woman a call so she can get some sleep.”

“I will. I promise.” Then, “I’m going to check on Emma.”

Lizzie smiled. “She missed you tonight. She wanted her mama. She woke up after midnight, called out for you.”

“I missed her, too.” She helped her mom off the couch and walked her to her bedroom. “A lot.”

She sat for a minute after her mother left and looked around the room. Pictures of her and Emma sat on every surface. She picked up the photo sitting on the end table beside her. Maura must have been four in the shot. She was sleeping on her father’s shoulder; he was wearing khakis and a white undershirt, his hair was a mess. He had his head back on the chair, was giving the camera a peaceful, happy smile. She missed her father. She wished he were here now, that she could talk to him and tell him what had happened to her. He’d know what to do.

At her mother’s door, she said, “You know, Mom, I think I’m going to quit that job, look for something else.”

Her mother looked surprised, face brightening. “I need someone at the shop.”

That wasn’t exactly what she had in mind. But Lizzie looked so happy and hopeful, that Maura just smiled.

“Okay,” she said. “Can we talk about things tomorrow?”

“Sure. Of course.” Another tight hug from Lizzie, two in one day. They had a
lot
to talk about tomorrow if the money were still there. But even if it wasn’t, she was going to do better with her life, make better choices for herself and for Emma. Instead of going to the couch, she crawled into the twin bed where Emma slept.

“Mommy,” Emma breathed. She tucked herself into Maura’s body, and Maura wrapped her arms around her child, felt her grow heavy as she instantly felt back asleep. She knew at some point, someone was going to discover Bill’s body. The cleaning crew never went into his office, as per his direction. So it wouldn’t be in the early morning, probably. Since Bill would be the one to count the money and go over her paperwork, no one would notice that the cash drawer wasn’t back or that they money had been stolen until about eleven when the next shift came on to start setting up for lunch. Whenever it happened, the police were going to come looking for Maura. She was just going to say she did what she should have done—left the till by the bar and gone home. She didn’t know for sure, but she thought Lizzie would cover for her, if it came down to that. If not for Maura, then for Emma.

And if there were cameras she didn’t know about? In the bar, in the parking lot? Well, she didn’t know. It would be too late then. Maybe she’d tell them that she’d been kidnapped, which she had. But that she’d gotten away from him, which was also true. That she’d been in shock, too terrified to call the police. She thought she had to keep quiet to survive. All of this was somewhat true. She didn’t have to say that she should have tried harder to get away right in the beginning. Or that she’d stolen his money. She was convincing when she had to be. She thought she might be able to pull it off.

From where she lay, she could see the little car in the empty lot under the yellow glow of the lamplight. With a hundred thoughts turning in her mind, she watched it until the rising sun lightened the sky, then she drifted off to sleep.

The sun was streaming in hot through the gauzy drapes. Maura was sweating, the sheets damp with it. Her mother never kept the air cool enough.

Emma was gone from the bed. Maura heard the television. With a rush it all came back; she sat up quickly and looked out the window. The car was still there, not visibly tampered with—windows intact, trunk closed. She breathed through a wave of relief, a little tingle of excitement.

She left the room and headed toward the living room. “Good morning,” she called.

“Maura? Can you come here, please?” There was something odd about Lizzie’s voice, something taut and unfamiliar, lacking its usual authority.

The first thing she saw was Emma sitting on the floor, happily eating Froot Loops from the box inches from the television. There was some type of crazy cartoon blaring on the screen, the type of thing Emma was never allowed to watch. Other things Lizzie would never allow: a bowl of sugary cereal. And there was no eating in front of the television—ever. But there was Lizzie sitting stiffly on the couch. For a moment, Maura wondered if she was ill. Maybe she was having a stroke or something.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Mommy,” said Emma, not taking her eyes from the set. “Your friend’s here.”

That’s when she saw him. He sat easily in the chair in the far corner of the room by the window.

He was wearing the same clothes he had been when she pushed him into the water. And she could smell the salt water on him; the briny scent filled the room. He looked unwell—pale, with dark circles under his eyes. His hand rested inside his jacket. Lizzie stared at him with unmasked malice. Maura’s mouth felt like it was full of gauze; she could hardly breathe through it.

“I thought you couldn’t swim.” It came out sounding petulant and incredulous.

“Why can’t he swim?” Emma asked. “Swimming is so easy.”

“Because some people just aren’t that smart, kiddo,” he said. His tone was light and easy, an old friend making a joke. But Emma wasn’t fooled. Maura watched her brow crease with worry.

“How did you find me?”

“Your file in Bill’s office,” he said. She remembered then that she’d been living with Lizzie when she got her job at the Rockin’ Iguana. “You’re new at this, aren’t you?”

He was all sharp edges now—mean eyes, a sneering mouth. She saw him, who he really was, and it made her stomach clench.

“Where is it?” he said.

Maura felt Lizzie’s eyes on her, but she didn’t dare look at her mother.

“It’s in the car. I’ll give you my keys. You can have that, too. Just get out of here.” Her voice sounded so cool and level; she felt like someone else was talking. All she could hear was the manic soundtrack of the cartoons on the television.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Emma asked. Her voice had taken on a pitch of worry.

“I have a better idea,” he said. “You go get it and bring it back. I’ll stay here with Emma and your mom. And don’t dilly-dally.”

She could smell it then, his desperation. There was sweat on his brow, his breathing thicker than it should have been. She walked over to the window and saw a black Eldorado parked downstairs, close to the exit of the lot. It had dark tinted windows and flashy rims.

“Mom, take Emma into the other room.”

“You’re not giving orders—,” he started. He moved to stop them then fell back, let out a moan of pain.

“Mom!” she yelled. “Do it.”

Lizzie got up more quickly than Maura would have thought she was able. She grabbed Emma, who started crying.

“Mommymommymommymommy,” she wailed as Lizzie carried her down the hall.

Jake hadn’t moved again from where he sat, hadn’t drawn the weapon she thought he had under his jacket.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

He let out an agonized groan. “Just go get the fucking bag, Maura. Christ.”

“When you give them that money, they’re going to kill you. They’re going to kill all of us.”

“News flash genius, they’re going to kill us all anyway. If I don’t go back down there soon, they’re going to come up here and tear this dump apart looking. The only reason you’re alive at all is I told them I could get the money from you, that you didn’t know anything about them.”

“Why would you do that?” she asked. “I left you to drown in the Gulf of Mexico.”

He looked up at the ceiling and then back at her. “I can’t really blame you for that. Look, just give me the keys. I’ll go.”

Something passed between them, a kind of recognition of each other. He was in way over his head. “Really?” she said.

“Really.”

She was about to toss him the keys, kiss the money goodbye and just pray they all made it out of here alive, when she heard Lizzie behind her.

“You’re not going anywhere, son.” She had a gun in her hand. Maura recognized it as her dad’s old revolver, something Lizzie always hated having in the house. “The police are coming.”

As she said it, Jake started drawing the gun from his coat. And as everything blurred and warped, Maura moved to stop him, to put herself between him and her mother. Two clear shots rang out, filling the apartment, Maura’s head with a deafening concussion. She saw Jake double over and fall to the floor, his gun landing beside him. He looked like a doll stuffed with rags, the way he fell, arms flailing. She watched him there, for a moment disbelieving it all. Then she turned to look at Lizzie who was frozen, the gun still in her hand. Over the terrible ringing, she heard Emma screaming in the bedroom and ran to her, the floor feeling like quicksand beneath her feet. She felt it, rather than heard that screaming because the whole world was absolutely silent, and then she was holding her little girl in her arms, feeling her hot body. And Emma’s wail was a song that brought her back to reality. Then it mingled with the keen of sirens as the police cars approached.