Pier Pressure (24 page)

Drat those pelicans. I stepped over the gunwale into my boat, grabbed a bucket, and lowered it into the sea. Before I began scrubbing, I opened the package of squid and set it in a sunny spot on the bow to thaw and then filled my bait tank with sea water and splashed the shrimp into it.

White droppings covered the area around the motors and I spent several minutes applying the scrub brush before the fiberglass gleamed again. As I gave the stern a final rinse, I saw Shandy approaching on another walkway, her lips moving as she counted the boats between the dock and her skiff. She didn't wave, but I started my motor and eased from my slip in case she might suggest we go out together. Such worries about invasion of privacy were probably groundless. Shandy seldom sought company. Maybe she hated to reveal her secret fishing holes as much as I hated revealing mine. Fishermen are like that.

Taking care to leave no wake, I steered slowly toward a deep-water channel, and a few minutes later my bow cut a V-shaped wedge into the sea as I throttled the boat on plane, and headed west. Sea spray dampened my arms, and I tasted a salty mist on my lips. Hello Paradise.

I waited until Key West harbor lay in the distance before I changed course, speeding into backcountry waters that I knew well. A few minutes later I slowed down, heading into a small bight surrounded on three sides by the sandy shores of an islet I had nicknamed Osprey Key—a mere flyspeck on area charts. This spot rated tops as one of my favorite fishing holes and I suppose other fishermen knew of it, too, but I'd never seen anyone else here.

I cast anchor, watching line snake over the gunwale until the orange mushroom settled in the gray-green turtle grass. Securing the line to the stern cleat, I sat for a few moments enjoying the sunny day, the billowing clouds, the undulating sea. With the sun almost directly overhead, I could see into the water. A stingray glided beneath the boat. To the left a five-foot barracuda nosed slowly toward me, but when I moved, it saw me and darted toward the horizon.

Sitting statue still, I listened and watched the surface for bonefish. Sometimes a school of bones raised clouds of mud as they nosed the bottom for food. Bonefish on a feeding frenzy could be noisy. I scanned the surface for tails fanning the air, but saw none, heard none. At last I reached into the bait well, caught a shrimp, and threaded it onto my hook. Yuck! I started to wipe my hands on my jeans, then I remembered to use the old towel hanging near the wheel. No point in wiping shrimp aroma on my jeans. Sometimes I wished for the good old days when Gram took me fishing, baited my hooks, gill-threaded my catch onto a stringer. Forget that, Keely. You're a big girl now.

I stepped lightly onto the bow with rod in hand. It helped to be able to look down into the water. Still. Still. Quiet. Quiet. Once a fish spotted unusual movement overhead it'd take off like an arrow. Adjusting my stance to the motion of the boat, I watched a white sandy spot on the sea bottom surrounded by turtle grass that lay about twenty feet ahead of me. A small nurse shark swam lazily across the area, but I didn't cast. In no mood to fight a shark today.

Then I saw it—a permit. My mind and body tensed. The fish's silvery body flashed in the water and I made my cast. Missed target. Rotten aim. The shrimp still wiggled on my hook while I waited again. Where I saw one permit, I frequently saw others. My legs ached from standing still for so long, then another fish headed toward me. Good cast this time.

Line shrieked from the reel as the fish took the bait. Permit? Bonefish? Shark? I wasn't sure, but I played out line until the fish stopped running, then I forced the rod tip up and reeled in line until the fish took off again. We played that game for about fifteen minutes before I brought my catch to boatside. A 'cuda. Barracudas put up a good fight, but I'd hoped for bonefish—or permit.

Now I had to deal with the critter. I'm not a meat-on-the-table fisherman and 'cuda aren't good eating fish. I'm a strong believer in catch-and-release. No point in killing a fish you neither want nor need. I reached for the pliers on my console before I knelt at the gunwale and eased the fish up until I could reach its head. The hook was only slightly embedded in the 'cuda's lower lip, and a quick twist with the pliers released it. For a moment it lay dazed near the surface. I leaned farther over the gunwale and grabbed its tail, pulling it back and forth to send water flowing through its gills. After a few moments it regained strength and pulled from my grip, heading for the horizon. I always wondered if a fish once caught would be dumb enough to bite on another lure—to let itself get caught again. Scientists may know the answer; they tag and release lots of fish.

I reached for the half-frozen squid, cut off a piece, and prepared to bait up again when I heard another boat approaching. Strange. I'd never encountered others in this bight. I straightened up and stood on the bow so the interloper could see me easily and have the courtesy to leave. One person per fishing hole makes a crowd. This interloper didn't leave and he showed no sign of intending to leave. Jumping from the bow, I eased back toward the console and grabbed the wheel for support.

What was this idiot doing? The sun now slanting in from the west blinded me, but I saw his boat on a direct course toward me. As the distance between our crafts shortened, I made out the black and silver of Jude's speedboat. Did he intend to wreck us both? My boat lay at his mercy. Maybe I could pull anchor, start the motor, escape. But no. Impossible. My skiff pitched so badly I struggled to keep my footing. No way could I grab the anchor line. Paralyzed with terror I braced myself for impact.

Jude sped directly toward me, but at the last moment he jerked his wheel and turned. Our boats missed colliding by a few inches—less than a foot. I gasped for breath as I struggled to keep upright, then I breathed easier when I saw the stern of his speedboat as he headed away from me.

Reaching for my radio, I planned to call the Marine Patrol for help. Jude Cardell wasn't going to get by with this. I fumbled with the radio dials, but before I could turn it on and get it working, I saw Jude's boat heading for me again. A cloud passed over the sun and this time I saw his shaded face clearly. He made a large semicircle in front of my boat, then he cut toward me again, turning at the last possible instant and heading away. I continued to grip my wheel for support, expecting him to return for another go at me. But no. Not this time.

At last I forced myself to relax, to radio for help. No such luck. The radio refused to come to life. I grabbed the cell phone from my sweatshirt pocket and keyed in the Marine Patrol's emergency number. The phone rang six times. No answer. I tried the Coast Guard number and a faint voice responded.

“Need help,” I shouted into the phone.

“Where are you?” a voice asked.

I gave my location.

“Sorry, can't hear you. Repeat location again, please.”

I gave my location again, but that time I received no response. I broke that connection and tried again. No response. Maybe they were too far away. I tried the Marine Patrol number once more. Again, no response. I started to key in Nikko's number, but the battery went dead. Damn phone! I shoved it back into my pocket, wishing for the spare phone I kept in my desk drawer.

Did I dare return to Key West? Maybe Jude lay hiding in one of these out-of-the-way coves, waiting for me to make a run for help. Maybe he'd strike again in deep water. I didn't want to take the risk of leaving. It's hard to know that someone hates you as much as Jude hates me.

It'd be sundown before too long. I disliked boating after dark, but I had running lights and a compass. I knew my way around these waters. I'd have a good chance of sneaking past Jude without him seeing me if I waited. I'd lost the mood for more fishing, and I sat behind the wheel waiting. Waiting. That's where I was when I saw Jude approaching again. This time his slow approach scared me more than his great speed.

“Scared to go home?” he taunted.

I didn't reply.

“Maybe you want some company. Maybe I should come aboard and show you a little fun.”

Now I found my voice. “Don't come near me,” I shouted, but my voice sounded ragged and afraid. Somehow I managed to turn on the boat motor. Maybe I could gun it, swerve to one side of him and then shoot straight ahead. Yet I knew that wouldn't work. Jude's speedboat had much more power than my skiff.

His bow nudged mine and he let his motor idle as he moved forward and started to step onto the bow. From there it would be only a short jump from his boat to mine. I threw my boat into reverse and increased the distance between us. Jude pulled forward and tried to board again. Again I reversed, avoiding his approach. It was a cat and mouse game until my last reverse maneuver.

The stern of my boat hit a sandbar. I'd been too scared to look behind me, and I hadn't realized that danger. Now Jude'd have no problem boarding my boat.
I'll see you dead.
His threat screamed through my mind, and in desperation I jerked my boat knife from its sheath. Anger and fear all but choked me as Jude stood on his bow laughing.

“Have fun tonight, you bitch. I'm leaving you here. There's no way you're going to pull from that sand during low tide.” He stood there laughing at me. “Oh, one more thing, bitch. Toss me your cell phone.”

“Damn you, no!”

“Then I'll come aboard and get it.”

Twenty-Three

HOW DO YOU prepare yourself to die on the spur of the moment? Pray? I could only think of now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep and that didn't seem to fit this situation. My whole life didn't flash before my eyes as I've heard happens to others at times like these. No. I lived totally in the horrifying present, my body like a coiled spring ready to fly into action, yet tense with fear. Only strong determination kept me from begging Jude for mercy. I clamped my jaws shut until my teeth ached, determined that my days of begging Jude for anything were behind me, gone forever.

Jude killed his motor, and using a yellow emergency paddle, he silently poled his boat a few feet forward until its bow nudged the bow of
The Vitamin Sea.
No use retreating aft. My only hope aft would be to jump from the stern onto the sandbar and then splash to land. On shore, mangrove roots arched above the sand like dark snakes, ready to trip me. I'd be no match for Jude in a foot race on the island.

Clutching my fillet knife so hard my nails bit into my palm, I eased forward. Maybe I could defend myself. Maybe I could throw Jude off guard momentarily by shoving him into the water. Or, more likely, maybe he'd kill me with my own knife. That possibility loomed large in my thinking. Yet would he kill me if he were the one trying to lay a murder rap on my doorstep? He'd want me alive and suffering from righteous anger in a prison cell, wouldn't he?

With a thud that reverberated through the soles of my shoes, Jude leaped easily to the bow of my boat. Then he jumped to the boat bottom, stiffened his knees, and paused only long enough to regain his balance. Grabbing my radio from the console, he smashed it against the floor, kicked it to the stern, then retrieved it and threw it overboard. When he spoke, his breathing clogged his throat and his voice came in angry spurts. I dodged around the console and leaped onto the bow.

“Where's your cell?” He stood behind the wheel and began searching, tossing pliers, compass, pens aside. While he searched, I leaped from the bow of my boat onto his, flailing my arms and bending my knees to keep my balance. Now I stood on the operable boat, and Jude's search for my cell phone intensified. The cell would do him no good with a dead battery, but he didn't know that and I wasn't about to tell.

Unfortunately, in my terror I'd left the phone in my sweatshirt pocket. He'd know all too soon that it wouldn't work, but I'd tucked the sweatshirt under the passenger seat storage bin and Jude stooped, searching in the deep box under the driver's seat.

Escape! I had to make a fast start out of here! Jude's boat key dangled from the ignition, but my fear-numbed fingers could barely activate it. There! The key turned, and as I tried to start the motor, Jude heard the grinding.

“Stop that, you bitch! I'll make you sorry!”

I tried the starter again and again. No luck. The motor refused to catch. Jude could leap aboard his speedboat in a matter of moments ready to make good his threat once he found my phone. Panic rose in my chest like a hot air balloon expanding until it threatened to choke me. In desperation I looked toward the stern. When I saw Jude's anchor and the coil of line beside it, I saw my only slim chance of evening the score. Quickly, I tied the anchor line to a stern cleat.

“Damn you! Where's that cell?” Jude's face flushed and his eyes stabbed me as he shouted. “Tell me or you're a dead bitch.”

I knew I'd be crazy to try to bargain with him, but I saw bargaining as a small avenue of hope. I eased back to the bow of his boat, hoping to draw his attention away from the anchor.

“If I give you the cell, will you go away and leave me alone?”

“You've got it, you slut. Give me that phone and I'll leave you to rot out here on this devil-forsaken sandbar with the mosquitoes. It'll serve you right to spend a night here alone. Do you good.”

“The cell's in my sweatshirt pocket.”

Jude looked at me as if to make sure I wasn't wearing the sweatshirt. “Okay, bitch, where's the shirt?”

“Under the passenger seat. Take it and go.”

“You dumb butt!”

His voice became muffled as he bent to open the storage bin, and in moments he held the phone, raising it high in a gesture of triumph before he spit on it and threw it overboard. Would he go? Or had I been a fool to expect him to keep his word? Again, I held my knife at the ready as I leaped back into my own boat.

Jude eyed me, then he eyed the knife, and with a swift and vicious chop to my wrist, he knocked it from my hand. It fell into the boat, clattering against the passenger seat before it hit the bottom, landing easily within his reach. But he didn't go for it. For a second we both stared at it lying there. Then our eyes met.