Gone (20 page)

I felt my breath catch, then fought the temptation to turn and run. Instead, I took quiet steps down the back of the ridge, mangroves so thick that light faded, like slipping into a cave . . . then kept changing angles until I confirmed what I was seeing. The blue canvas was a sun shade on the flybridge of a boat—a low flybridge built atop the boat’s cabin.
A Skipjack cruiser.
Ricky Meeks had found a pocket of deep water way back in the mangroves and that’s where he had hidden.

As I looked on, the boat floated still as a painting, no one visible above deck. The dinghy that Cordial Pallet had described was missing from its brackets, I noted, but there was no sign of a fast jon boat that Meeks no doubt would have tied to the stern—a huge relief.

My chance to find out if Olivia was aboard! To finally meet the girl face-to-face and urge her to return home with me. The temptation was to call the girl’s name. Better yet, climb aboard the Skipjack in case Meeks had left her tied up or locked in a cabin.

But I didn’t. There was something else I saw now that I was closer . . . the source of the strange noises. Deep in shadows separating me from the boat, a gaggle of vultures were battling two feral hogs to get at something that lay in the bushes. The area being so dense with mangroves, the vultures were getting the worst of it because their wings kept tangling in vines. And one of the hogs was bigger than me, probably two hundred pounds of muscle and tusks. When it grunted, the sound was so coarse that the shell ridge vibrated beneath my feet.

Why didn’t you bring the damn pistol?
That’s what I was thinking as I watched the animals squabble. My Great-great-aunt Hannah One had hunted hogs for meat and money, but I was more interested in self-defense. Boars didn’t often attack people on the islands, but it happened, and the prospect of being mauled by an animal that size was sickening. How would the hog react if I tried to detour around it to get to the boat? Or even heard my voice?

I don’t know why but into my head came the message from church that morning—the promise that guidance and protection belonged to those who had faith and behaved boldly. I’d been disgusted by my inability to control my shaking nerves and was sick to death of being scared. The bullying behavior of that boar hog, the mean way it strutted, was irksome, too. Maybe that’s why my attitude changed so abruptly. Whatever the reason, a mix of anger and cold calm settled into me, a change as solid as it was swift, and for the first time since leaving Fishermans Wharf I felt strong, not flighty and timid. Neither Ricky Meeks nor some damn feral pig was going to bully me!

Hands cupped to my mouth, I stood on my toes and yelled, “Olivia! Are you in there? I’m a friend!”

Startled, vultures squawked and thrashed their wings, trying to scatter, while the boar hog whirled to face me. The animal didn’t bother to drop what was in its mouth while sniffing the gloom for my scent—something long and thin, but rounded at one end. A piece of dead raccoon, possibly, or a bloated fish. I couldn’t be sure, and didn’t much care as long as the animal didn’t charge me.

“Olivia, don’t be scared! My name’s Hannah Smith and I want to talk!
Olivia . . . ?
” I took a few steps closer, straining to see. Was it my imagination or had the curtains inside the cabin moved? Hopeful it was true, I tried again. “Olivia! Please come out!”

This time the boar hog reacted by snorting and lunging stiff-leggedly in my direction, warning me to stay away. But the threat only sharpened my mood. In reply, I made myself bigger by waving my arms and yelling, “Shoo! I’ll fry you for breakfast! Scoot!” The pig backed away a step but was still glaring at me as its tusks cracked a bone inside the thing it was eating.

Now I was wondering whether I should get the pistol and shoot the boar or finish with my engine and approach the cruiser by water. But was it worth risking that shallow bay if Olivia wasn’t aboard? Had I really seen those curtains move? I needed a solid reason to keep me from heading straight home once my boat was started.

Squall clouds moving toward the island were still purple-pink with sunlight, but it was darkening in this swamp of tangled trees and sulfur. Dark enough that details of the cruiser and everything around me were becoming grainy. I remembered the powerful little LED flashlight in my pocket and used it, pointing the laser-sharp beam at the cabin.

“OLIVIAAAAA!” I yelled, loud as I could. Which was more than the hog could tolerate and caused the thing to trot toward me, crushing tree limbs with its weight. In a rush, I swung the light at the animal. Held the LED in both hands like a pistol, aiming at the boar’s eyes as it crashed through brush, closing the distance between us, coming faster, and growling . . . until its eyes strobed like flashbulbs when the light pierced them. Squealing, the hog flung what it was eating toward me, then spun away, taking the other hog with it into the bushes.

“That’ll teach you!” I hollered after it. Then, only mildly interested, I checked to see what had been in the animal’s mouth before I called for Olivia again. Several seconds later, though, I was only able to whisper,
“Dear God above . . .”

What I saw was a human hand, fingers missing, attached to what remained of a forearm. Even from the distance of several yards, I couldn’t deny what the hog had been eating. I felt eerily calm while, slowly, the flashlight revealed bloody details I didn’t want to see, or remember. No . . . I was in shock, but didn’t realize it. The same chilly calm stayed with me while I stood my ground and used the light to search the mangroves below until I had found the body.

Yes . . . a human body. Vultures had returned and were now competing with crabs for what had, until recently, been a person, judging from the freshness of what I saw. Man or woman, though, I couldn’t be sure because a frenzy of wings and crawling shadows obstructed my view. If I descended the ridge, the vultures would scatter, but my feet wouldn’t allow me to move. So I used the flashlight to probe. The victim was an adult, from the size . . . an adult who had sought safety by balling into a fetal position, then was left to die.

My eyes moved from the corpse to the Skipjack cruiser, to the corpse, then swept the area nearby. Hanging from a bush was a raspberry-colored garment that looked feminine enough to have been a woman’s blouse. A length of denim cloth covered a portion of the dead person’s thigh
: blue jeans
. Now my eyes moved from my own legs to the corpse to the cruiser as I put the details together.

Somewhere deep in my brain, a detached observer was amazed by my analytical behavior and also approved of the rage gathering inside me.

“Olivia? Oh . . . Olivia!”
I whispered the girl’s name, giving it different meanings, while the detached observer advised me,
You can’t let that son of a bitch get away with this.

“I won’t,” I promised the shadows. “I swear to God, he’ll pay.”

Slowly, slowly, then, I began backing away, which is when two things happened at once—something confusing, the other startling:

In the lifeless cruiser, a light blinked on, then the cabin door opened. Out stepped a tall, frail girl, mousy hair tangled, her expression, when she turned my direction, that of a child who feared punishment if caught looking at the sky.

Maybe Olivia saw me, maybe not. I couldn’t be sure because at the same instant, from the other side of the ridge, I heard a man’s voice calling. A voice with a sarcastic edge, ordering, “Hey, you! Hannah Smith! Get your ass down here . . . darling!”

Olivia heard the man, too, and fled instantly to the cabin. A girl so scared would be no help, and I couldn’t rescue her by hiding in the mangroves. I took a last look at the corpse, thinking,
It’s the private investigator,
then had to decide whether to escape to the cruiser, or return to my skiff and get the gun.

My body didn’t want to do it, but I finally turned in the direction I knew I had to go, my conscience urging,
Protection is promised to those who behave boldly.

TWENTY-ONE

I
HAD HEARD
R
ICKY
M
EEKS’S VOICE ONLY ONCE, BUT IT
had a taunting slickness I would never forget. It was him waiting for me, which I’d known before I topped the shell ridge. Ricky still wore the gray dress shirt, the tight slacks, and he was grinning because he’d surprised me, arriving in the cruiser’s dinghy, which he paddled quietly as a canoe. Rather than hike through swamp after hearing me bang aground, he’d apparently decided to observe from a distance . . . or was showing off, feeding his ego by humiliating me once again.

Trying to,
I reminded myself.

“My God, it’s a cowgirl!” Meeks hollered with a Texas twang, close enough to my skiff now to fold the oars and drift. “From the look of it, you’re better suited to rank horses than fine boats. Need some help?”

The ridiculous spit curl dangled between his eyes, which he brushed back in a showy fashion that suggested practice in front of a mirror. Same with the way he yawned and stretched, flexing his big hands as if tired by rowing, and then said in a scolding way, “I warned you, you wouldn’t listen. I’m surprised you made it this far without Injuns scalping you.”

Meeks expected me to respond. I didn’t. So his tone took a sharper edge, taunting, “Didn’t your mamma teach you a boat’s no place for a woman? Particularly a cowgirl that dresses like Belle Starr—and who don’t know the difference between bottom and deep water.” The man gave it a beat before adding the punch line: “Unless the girl’s on her back, of course.”

Ricky was in a game-playing mood now that he had me alone. Having too much fun with my grounded skiff and Barbara Stanwyck clothes to comment on the bayonet needles I was clipping off with my pliers and storing point down in the scabbard. He had been watching me for a while, I realized, which gave me a dirty sort of chill. Meeks had seen me leave
Sybarite
, no doubt about it now. Or someone had told him. The man had beaten me to Drake Keys with just enough spare time to ditch his blazer and probably warn Olivia to keep her mouth shut. Now here he was. But why the interest in me? And why return to a cruiser that was anchored within throwing distance of a dead body?

One guess was that Meeks planned to blame someone else for the murder and wanted me to witness how surprised he was when he saw the body. It was not the behavior of a sane man, which made it even more likely. Eugene Schneider came to mind as the one to accuse.

But no . . . Ricky was the killer—a killer who realized he wasn’t done yet. It was in his voice when, fussing with his hair again, he asked, “What you find up there, partner? Anything real
interesting
? Might as well tell the truth ’cause I’ll find out one way or the other.” To convince me, he picked up a chunk of axe handle and whapped the palm of his hand a couple of times.

As I slipped the fisherman’s tool into its scabbard, I was gauging the distance to my skiff, still deciding the best way to get my hands on that shiny customized silver pistol. Ricky had only a few yards to cover if he tried to intercept me, but he was still in the dinghy, and I had the advantage of running downhill.

“Don’t you go try anything stupid,” Meeks warned, some animal sense in him smelling trouble . . . or aware I was picking up speed while descending the ridge. Then when I began to sprint, he yelled, “Stupid slut!” and it was a race to see if he could bail from the dinghy and slog through water before I made it to my skiff.

This time I won. But just barely, skidding to a stop on the starboard side of the boat while Ricky charged from the port side, moving catlike for a man his size. For some reason, though, arriving too late didn’t seem to worry him.

When I saw what he had done, I understood. My lockers were open, gear was scattered, and there were muddy footprints everywhere. Calling my name from the dinghy, pretending he’d just arrived, was Ricky’s idea of being clever. Or he’d wanted time to search for something before I returned.

“My Lord, who could have made such a mess? Poor little cowgirl. Are we having ourselves a bad day?” The man tapped the axe handle against my boat to remind me who was in charge. Then the threat took added meaning when he patted the sleeping bag he’d found in a locker, pointed toward the island, and said, “There’s a shady little spot of sand over there. Why don’t you and me corral ourselves a little nap first? I brought us some bug juice.”

I was thinking about my bawdy aunt, Hannah Three, how she’d handle herself in such a spot. Her on one side of a skiff, knee-deep in water, a man threatening to rape her on the other. Aunt Hannah would want to slow things down, get the upper hand, while her eyes searched the plundered deck for the pistol that was no longer on the passenger seat where I’d left it. What had Meeks done with the thing?

“That’s something to think about,” I replied without much emotion. “Right now, the only pisser hole I’m interested in is on my engine. I fried my water pump, and need to drop the lower unit—but I didn’t expect this.” I was leaning into the boat, moving items he had scattered as if looking for tools. My VHF radio was missing, too—along with the keys to my boat, but I had a spare ignition key.

“
Pisser
hole,” Meeks said, making it sound like a dirty word. He used one hand to hitch up his pants, the axe handle in the other. “That’s the least of your worries, girl, with a bad impeller. You don’t know jack shit about motors either! What you need is a marina if you’re sure it’s fried.” His tone told me he hoped it was true.

I didn’t stop what I was doing. “If you’re such an expert, maybe you could start by finding my ratchet set in all this mess you made.”

Ricky smiled. He
liked
saucy women. “You got more fire than the last time I saw you—about shit your panties when I came through that door. But you don’t seem to understand you’re in a predicament, sugar.
My
pisser hole was first in line, so unbutton your shirt while you march your ass to that beach. Hear?”

The man’s stupid jokes and strutting manner reminded me of the boar hog. He’d trashed my boat, I didn’t see the book containing the gun, which all made me too furious to speak. When I didn’t instantly respond, Meeks shouted, “Get your damn clothes off now!” and clubbed the gunnel of my skiff so hard it chipped the Gel Coat.

“Stop that!” I hollered.

After flicking his hair back, Meeks did it again.
WHAP!

The book . . . where was the fake book I’d left on the seat? While my eyes darted back and forth, Meeks began circling the boat, which floated the transom toward me. That’s when I saw it, the title
Negotiators
gleaming from beneath a life jacket. The book was within reach, but had Meeks tricked me again? Had he opened the cover, saw what was inside, and taken the gun?

“Ricky,” I said, leaning to move the life jacket, “I worked hard to pay for this skiff. If you want to have some private fun, something rough and naughty, we can discuss it. But put one more scratch on my skiff, all you’re going to get from me is lies and disappointment.”

Meeks leaned his hand on the bow. “
What
did you say? Rough and naughty, huh?” The man grinned.

In any other situation, I would have called the change that came over Ricky amusing. Not looking up, I said, “You heard me. I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”

He laughed, hesitated, then said, “You’re lying,” and started toward me again. “How dumb you think I am?”

Now I had the book in my hands, knowing from the weight that the pistol was inside. “Not dumb enough to force a girl who’s willing,” I said into the man’s black eyes. Then, with a smile that Hannah Three might have offered, I placed the book on the gunnel and began unbuttoning my Navaho shirt, hoping Ricky would stop to watch.

He did. Stood facing me, half a boat length away, and said, “Bullshit!” before his ego reminded him that he was irresistible. “On the other hand . . .” He paused to give it some thought. “Hey—I get it! You read all the sweet things Olive Oyl wrote about me in her diary—good sex scenes, I’ll bet. Real . . .
naughty
, like you say. That’s what decided you you need a dose of Big Rick, huh?”

No . . . it wasn’t the grinning man’s ego talking, it was his sly brain setting a trap. Someone had told him I’d found Olivia’s missing pages—entries that could prove she had been raped and robbed.
That’s
why he’d searched my boat. Probably why he’d driven all the way to Fishermans Wharf. Only two suspects flashed into my mind—Martha Calder-Shaun one of them—but I wasn’t going to admit anything by asking for names. Instead, I undid another button, touching my free hand to the book for balance, and played the role of a silly girl. “You keep talking about other women, I might tend to my water pump first. Who’s Olive Oyl?”

Ricky Meeks had two grins. The one he’d practiced in the mirror and another that revealed who he really was. It was a vicious, pit bull leer that turned him into the painting I’d seen, a faceless head with horns. He spooked me with that grin now, taking another easy step, as he said, “You lying slut, you know exactly the girl I mean. Olivia’s so goddamn bony, she’s bruised me
almost
as bad as the bruises I put on her.”

It was a brag, not a slip of the tongue, and Ricky was disappointed that, instead of cringing, I picked up the book as if bored.

“What the hell you going to do with that?” he demanded, pointing the axe handle. “Plan to read me a bedtime story after I take some skin off your back?” Then, staring at my blouse, smiled, “Not bad, sugar . . . not bad at all.”

I had undone a third button, enough for him to see me spilling out of Mrs. Whitney’s 34D Chantelle bra, which held his bug-eyed attention while I opened the book and swung the pistol clear.

“No, Ricky,” I said, pointing the gun at him, “what I plan to do is shoot you in the chest—if you don’t drop that club and start walking backward.
Now.
” My uncle’s customized Devel was a double-action pistol, so I didn’t have to thumb the hammer back. But I did, making a
click-click
sound that replaced Ricky’s leer with a dazed, dumb look.

My favorite part in Hannah Three’s journals is where she describes getting her abusive husband so drunk that he wakes up naked, a baited fishing line knotted around his male privates, while hundred-pound tarpon school beneath her boat.

I had memorized what Aunt Hannah said to her soon-to-be-ex:
I don’t have a damn bit of use for that thing anymore, so it’s up to you. Do you want to discuss a divorce? Or you want to fish?

The look on Ricky’s face had to be similar, but he only gave me a moment to enjoy it before recovering from his shock. “Go ahead, Annie Oakley,” he said, squaring himself. “The bull dykes in prison are gonna love you.” His knuckles were white on the axe handle, I noticed. He was breaking a shoe free of the muck, ready to move.

“Drop that club, start walking backward,” I replied, buttoning my shirt. “I won’t tell you again.” The calm in my voice gave me strength, but inside my head doubts were forming. I’d never fired this pistol, did it still work? How many years had the cartridges been stacked in the aging magazine? Misfire once, a man like Meeks would crush my head open and leave me for the feral pigs.

“Why, sugar, ’pears to me your hands are shaking. A woman acts tough, what she’s really doing is begging a man to take charge. Doesn’t mean I’ll have to slap you around too much—not if you hand ol’ Ricky that gun right now and be sweet.”

The oily tone, his vulgar grin, were infuriating. They suggested a growing confidence that threatened to drain mine.
He can smell weakness,
Mrs. Whitney had warned.
It’s like an animal thing.
Soon, within seconds, Meeks would charge or hurl the axe handle to distract me. His swaggering contempt, the memory of his hands on my breasts when he’d shoved me, only made me madder. The temptation was to step back and create space. Instead, I broke a foot free of the bottom, took a long step forward, and made it obvious I had selected a new target.

“I won’t miss at this range,” I said, settling into combat stance. “You’ve got five seconds!
One . . .”

Involuntarily, Ricky’s free hand rushed to cover his genitals. Then his bully’s ego made him pull it away, while also changing his grip on the club. “You’re flat crazy, you know that? Let’s talk about this. Wait . . . stop counting!”

“Two,”
I said.

Which caused Ricky to shout,
“You don’t have the balls, you ugly cow!”
but he also took a step backward, the club still in his hand.

Or had he?

It didn’t matter. Ricky had chosen the wrong thing to say to a person who had comforted a sobbing Mrs. Whitney, and who remembered her words about victims and forgiveness.

“Five,”
I said, changing my target because I’d skipped a few numbers. Then I squeezed the trigger, both eyes focused and wide, just as my Uncle Jake had taught me to shoot.