Pier Pressure (25 page)

“You're daring me to kill you, aren't you, Keely? You rat's ass? You hate me so much I think you'd actually die to know that I'd live to face the murder rap. Well, it'll never come down that way. Not tonight. I'm not nearly through toying with you yet. We'll play games together again another time, Keely, another time and another place. You can depend on it, you turd.”

Before Jude left my skiff, he gave me a flat hand slap to the face that sent me reeling to the bottom of the boat. My ribs hit the gunwale and hot arrows of pain shot throughout my body. Broken ribs? Broken jaw? I lay there vulnerable and unable to move. Jude ground at his starter switch, swearing and making several attempts to engage the motor before it spluttered, caught, and roared.

Unwanted memories flooded in through my pain. On my eighth birthday, I'd been out fishing with my mother. Before sunset she'd hauled in the anchor, untied it, and was preparing to head for home when she paused to consult a chart of the area. Childlike, I got tired of waiting and I entertained myself by tying the anchor line to the stern cleat as it had been when the anchor lay overboard.

When my mother finished studying the chart, she started the motor, put the boat on plane, and made a fast turn toward Key West. I can still see a wave catching that anchor line, jerking it over the gunwale, pulling the anchor after it. I screamed as the anchor slammed into the water then bounced back, hitting my mother's hand. Blood spurted everywhere, but even at age eight I knew where to find the first-aid kit. In spite of choking sobs, I opened the kit and followed my mother's directions for holding bandages and cutting tape to help her bind her broken fingers.

Once we reached the hospital emergency room, the doctors examined my mother's hand and gave us the terrible news. Her two middle fingers had to be amputated immediately. I'd never felt such guilt. I blamed myself for that horror. My mother tried to console me, telling me that accidents happen, that it wasn't my fault. She said the ricocheting anchor could have landed anywhere, anywhere at all, and of course she was right. The anchor accidentally happened to hit her hand. Gram agreed with everything Mom said. Nobody ever scolded me for what I'd done.

I've lived almost twenty years with the guilt of that accident buried deep in my heart. Nobody ever mentioned it to me again. Not my mother. Not Gram. Never again had I tied an anchor line to a stern cleat while a boat was to be in motion—never again until today. Today I acted in self defense. I hoped Jude would make a fast turn. I hoped the anchor would hit the water and ricochet. But it was wishful thinking on my part to dream the anchor would do Jude any real damage. Nobody could pinpoint what target a ricocheting anchor might hit. It could hit the hull, or the wheel, or the console. Or it could drop harmlessly back into the sea. In my heart, I hoped the anchor would target Jude.

The stench of gasoline floated toward me and I wondered if he'd try to ram my skiff just hard enough to jab a hole in the hull that would sink it or at least put it totally out of commission for the rest of this day. Even in the unlikely event that help might arrive, I hoped he'd leave
The Vitamin Sea
intact. Jude must have thought he'd damage his own boat in trying to sink mine because he shifted into reverse and jerked on the wheel until his bow pointed toward Key West.

Tears streamed down my face, but I forced myself upright and eased onto the passenger seat. To my relief, Jude revved his motor and put his boat on plane. He headed some distance toward Key West before he did what I'd guessed and feared he'd do. He circled, making a broad turn, then with throttle wide open, he sliced the sea as he sped back toward me.

As his motor roared in the late afternoon stillness, egrets roosting in the mangroves took flight like puffs of cotton floating toward the sky. I watched in fascinated horror, unable to move. The sand bank near shore dropped off into deeper water, but did Jude think he could smash my skiff at that speed without damaging his own craft and killing us both?

I sank back onto the bottom, covering my head with both arms in an effort to protect myself from the impending shock. Then at the last moment, I heard Jude pull his old trick, turning his boat seconds before it reached mine and then speeding away into the distance. I couldn't bear to watch. I lay on the boat bottom in exhaustion and pain. Jude could come back again and again if he decided to. I lay beyond caring.

Staring upward, I watched the sky turn from blue to fiery red, to gray-black. I counted the stars appearing one by one until so many pricked the sky I could no longer keep track. Soon, true night shrouded me, black, quiet, frightening, and eerie night sounds reminded me of what a fool I had been to come here alone. Water lapped my boat hull and the shoreline, making an obscene sucking sound. A heron's cry wavered into the darkness. While leaves and fallen branches whispered threats, some unknown creature slunk nearby. Raccoon? Maybe. Wild dog? I hoped not.

I lay safe from critters as long as I stayed aboard the boat. When the onshore wind ceased, mosquitoes began zinging around my ears and a do-something-or-perish reality forced me to sit up, to ignore the pain that stabbed from my chest through to my back. How many ribs does a person have? I guessed all of mine were either broken or bruised.

Crawling along the boat bottom I found my sweatshirt, eased my arms into the sleeves, then pulled the soft cotton slowly and painfully over my head. Now moonlight silvered the sea and the incoming tide lifted the bow until it made slapping noises against the water, but the stern still lay deeply embedded in the sand. I started the motor, revved it, and tried to dislodge the boat and move it forward. No such luck. The stench of gasoline left me sickened as I wasted fuel and my own energy. At last I cut the motor and relaxed against the wheel, trying to relieve my pain.

The mosquitoes still came after me and their itchy bites stung my face, the backs of my hands, my ankles. West Nile Virus? I shuddered. Wishing I'd worn socks, I yanked my jeans down to the tops of my boat shoes and pulled the sweatshirt hood around my head until only my nose stuck out. The mosquitoes used my nose for their target and hordes of them swarmed around me like flying teeth.

In great pain, I raised the lid on the bow's storage bin and pulled out a canvas tarp and a life vest, dragging them to the starboard side of the console. Then I remembered my emergency flares. It meant another trip to the bow, but my pain had eased a little. Maybe the ribs weren't broken after all. Inch by inch I crawled to the bow and opened the storage bin. My fingers fumbled against life jackets and boat cushions before I touched the emergency kit and found three flares inside the box along with a waterproof canister of matches.

Closing the bin, I sat on the bow to catch my breath before I struck a match and lit the fuse on the first flare, holding it like a Roman candle and pointing it toward Key West. It sizzled for a few seconds and died. Damn! Trying to avoid inhaling the sulphur fumes, I pinched the fuse between my thumb and forefinger to be sure it was out before I lit another match and touched it to the fuse on the second flare. This time the fuse caught and sizzled and the flare exploded, leaving heavy smoke plus a red streak in its wake before it fanned out into a yellow-orange brightness.

I waited a few minutes, slapping at mosquitoes every second, then I released the third flare before I dropped down once more and managed to wrap myself in the tarp and rest my head on the life jacket. It promised to be a long night—a long frightening night, but at least the mosquitoes couldn't eat me alive now.

A fishy odor clung to the tarp and it, along with my painful ribs, made it impossible to sleep. I wondered if anyone would find me. I'd been crazy not to let Punt or Nikko come along with me. Maybe they'd miss me and come searching. Or maybe they'd call the Marine Patrol or the Coast Guard. Those officials might look for me, but most of their boats were too big to navigate in these shallow waters. My only hope in calling them earlier had been that they might lower a dinghy and rescue me in that. After dark, rescue by dinghy was highly unlikely.

Twenty-Four

I LAY WRAPPED in the tarp for over an hour before I heard the sound of a boat motor, first in the distance, then coming closer and closer. Jude? Stomach contents threatened to rise into my throat. I tasted bile. Was Jude returning to torment me again? I didn't dare look. If I didn't rise up and show myself, maybe he'd think I'd left the boat. Unlikely. Jude would know this sandbar offered nowhere to hide. I strained my ears listening, expecting any moment to hear him revving his motor and speeding toward me. Instead I heard the splash of an anchor and in the next instant I heard Punt shouting my name.

“Keely! Keely, are you there? Are you okay?” Even before he started splashing toward my boat, I ignored my pain, threw the tarp aside, and sat up so he could see me.

“Punt! Oh, Punt! Am I ever glad you're here.” My voice failed and in the next moment he boarded my boat and pulled me into his arms. I clung to him, forgetting my painful ribs. When his lips found mine, I welcomed their warmth, but after only seconds, hordes of mosquitoes intruded on our embrace and reluctantly I pushed him away. “How did you find me?”

“Tell you later. Right now you need to get into my boat and let me tow your boat in.”

“That'll take forever, Punt. Let's take my ignition key and leave
The Vitamin Sea
here. I can hire Ace Towing to bring it in tomorrow.”

“Guess that'd get us home quicker. Your boat'll be safe. Nobody's likely to be poking around back here after dark.”

Nobody but Jude, I thought, but at this point I wanted to believe that even Jude wouldn't return again tonight.

Punt helped me overboard and the cold water chilled me as it flooded my deck shoes and soaked my jeans. To look at the shallows in the backcountry, one might think boarding a boat from the water would be easy. Not. The sea bottom where we stood was like quicksand. The more we struggled for leverage to hoist our bodies up, over the gunwale, and into Punt's boat, the deeper the muck sucked us down.

Water that had been ankle deep when we entered it soon measured waist deep, and then chest deep—at least on me. At last Punt released my hand, and with great effort he managed to hoist himself onto the motor prop, the motor itself, and from there onto the stern. Turning, he offered me his hand, and I splashed and struggled until I stood aboard with him, dripping muck and water all over his carpeted boat bottom. We collapsed onto the boat seat until we caught our breath and rested for a few moments.

“I thought we might not make it,” I admitted at last.

“The sea has serious ways of showing us humans who's boss.” Punt sat on the stern still catching his breath. “Want to tell me what happened out here?”

I sat on the bottom protected from a slight breeze as I began talking. “Jude trailed me here. I'd no idea anyone was near—hadn't heard a sound. He must have followed at a very safe distance.”

“Probably not the first time he's followed you. I'm guessing that he spent lots of time spying on you before letting you know he'd discovered your special cove. Did he hurt you?” Punt leaned toward me and the boat tilted then righted again. “If he touched you…”

“No, he didn't hurt me, not physically. He smashed my radio and threw it overboard. He wanted my cell phone so I couldn't call for help.”

“Did he find it?”

I hesitated, leaving out the part about boarding Jude's boat and being unable to start it and escape. “I finally told him where I'd hidden the cell, told him to take it—with the agreement that he'd go away, leave me alone. I didn't tell him about the dead battery.”

“Bargain with the devil. Since Jude's nowhere in sight now, I suppose he did leave.”

“Right.” Then I told Punt about Jude's showing up a second time, threatening to smash my boat. “I'm guessing he wants me alive to face the police. I really think he murdered Margaux.”

“I agree.” Punt pulled the anchor and turned the boat, pointing it toward Key West harbor. “It's going to be hard to prove that. Jude's slick as spit. You said you saw him near Margaux's house on Sunday morning. I believe you, but we can't prove that. Nor can we prove he dropped his sweatshirt at the Georgia Street fire. We have no proof he's breaking the restraining order by stalking you here and tormenting you. It'd be your word against his. But enough of Jude for now. We need to get home.”

I breathed a sigh of relief when the motor came to life. Engine roar made talking impossible and we rode without speaking until we could see the lights of Key West in the distance. When we reached the marina and he slowed to “no wake” speed, I moved to sit on the bow.

“How did you find me, Punt? I didn't think anyone knew about that cove. After tonight I'll always believe in miracles.”

“I hated seeing you go fishing alone this afternoon. I worried about you from the start. When I stopped at the marina a little before dusk and saw your boat slip empty, I smelled trouble.”

“Glad you checked on me.” What if he hadn't checked? I refused to imagine spending the night wrapped in that smelly tarp with mosquitoes at the ready, waiting to eat me alive if I poked my head out.

“I knew you were too smart to stay out after dark. I tried to radio you. No go. I tried to call you on your cell. Thought you must have had it turned off. So I waited a while, thinking you might come in soon. When you didn't, I saw no use going out and searching aimlessly. You could have been anywhere. A long time passed before I saw a flare and then another.”

“Lucky for me that you saw them. I've never had much confidence in flares—until tonight.”

“I pointed the
Sea Deuced
in the general direction of the flares…and finally, I found you.”

“I can never thank you enough.”

“Oh, I can think of a few ways.” Punt grinned.