He's A Magic Man (The Children of Merlin) (5 page)

Jane chewed her lip, thinking what to say. At last she settled on, “Name of guy?”

“I … I don’t know.” Drew held up a hand to forestall objections. “But the name of his boat is
The Purgatory
and it docks in Key West. I should be able to find him from that.”

“Did you actually listen to that explanation?” Jane’s voice was, as ever, calm and quiet.

Drew sighed and plopped down on her bed. “I know. I know. I’m probably having some kind of a breakdown. But I did see me in the Miami airport.”

“In a birdbath in the middle of the night when you were really upset about Roger.”

“But I wasn’t upset about Roger. I was upset at how ... attracted I was to a guy I saw for maybe thirty seconds on TV.”

Jane just raised her brows again.

Drew took a big breath. “You’re right. I have a bad track record. But, Jane, I’ve got to give it shot. What if he
is
my destiny, and I let the opportunity to grab the brass ring pass me by? I’ll regret it the rest of my life. I’ll end up a cranky old maid.”

Jane gave her a wry smile. “Not a pretty picture.”

Drew knew she’d won. “Definitely not pretty.”

“What do you need me to do?”

Drew got up and started packing again. Boat shoes and a windbreaker. A red shirt she could tie up under her breasts. She’d heard Florida was muggy. “Well, I … I need some money. Cash. I can take a couple thousand from my account without causing suspicion. But I’ll have to pay cash for the plane ticket and all expenses or Kemble will be able to track me. I’ll pay you back, with interest, of course.”

“Done. I can get you maybe six. Will that do?”

Drew leaned over and hugged her. “You’re the best friend a girl could have.”

“Be back in a week, though. I’m not lying to your family,” Jane warned.

“They won’t ask. And it won’t take me that long anyway, especially if you’re right. I’ll be back in a couple of days to join you at the Ritz-Carlton, where I will drown my sorrows in massages and peach
Bellinis
.”

Jane frowned. “You aren’t worried that the same people who attacked Tristram and Maggie will find you? I don’t want you in danger, Drew.”

“No one will even know I’m gone,” Drew laughed. “Including those creeps. I’m leaving my cellphone with you, so anyone will think that’s where I am. I wouldn’t put it past Kemble to check up on me in spite of my deal with Mother,” she said darkly as she put her makeup bag into the suitcase. “I’ll give the hotel my credit card number for charges to the room. You buy drinks and dinners, get massages and golf lessons and shop at those expensive little shops in the basement. The security guys will just think I’m sticking to the room.”

“Do you have plane reservations?” Jane asked.

“Kemble would trace that. I’ll pay cash at the counter for the first available flight.”

CHAPTER THREE

Drew was very conscious as she walked out under the baggage claim signs in the Miami airport that this was the exact view of herself she’d had in the birdbath. But had she just re-created what she saw to make it look like she’d been seeing the future? She had chosen to wear the linen suit, and carry her Coach bag. Maybe it was all hoo-ha, as Lanyon would say. She wished she’d taken time to go back out to the birdbath and try to see something more useful. If she could see the future, did it only work in birdbaths, or that particular birdbath? Maybe the birdbath was magic, not Drew.

On the long flight, she’d tipped from thinking the whole thing was utter nonsense, over to being sure that this beautiful guy on the boat was her destiny and back again. And she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Her linen suit was wet in places it shouldn’t be.

Muggy doesn’t begin to describe how hot and humid it is. Who lives in places like this? Old people who are cold all the time?
The terminal was better than the jet bridge, but still.

She couldn’t rent a car
without  using
a credit card, so she took a taxi to a used car lot and paid thirty-five hundred cash for a plain beige 1997 Toyota Corolla. Bless Jane. She felt rather like some terribly sophisticated European spy. But now it was almost nine, and she hadn’t had dinner.
She was exhausted by her frantic packing and flight, and all that mental agitation
. She had no idea where to stay on the Keys, even after the three-hour drive down there.

Nothing for it.
She had to wait until morning.

*****

The old woman opened her eyes. Jason was a blur at the end of the bed. Her eyesight was failing now. It wouldn’t be long. A week? Not much longer.

“The guy needs a picture of it to find it,” Jason said, after he got off the phone.

“Hardwick,” she muttered.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll see what he can find in that dusty old library.” She saw his silhouette punch at his cell. “Hardwick, here’s what I need.”

“Make him prove he’s a Finder before he gets the picture,” she croaked. She couldn’t see Jason’s expression. She didn’t have to. It would be sly. He knew she was getting weaker.

He finished his instructions and pocketed the phone.

“Be careful, Jason,” she said in a clearer voice than she had managed before.

There was a pause. He’d be thinking about how much she knew, and how strong she might still be. “I will,” he said finally.

It occurred to her that all he might really have to do was wait.

*****

Needless to say, Drew didn’t get a whole lot of sleep in the little motel she found next to a T.G.I. Friday’s. She woke up groggy and threw herself together, dressing down in leggings and some
drapey
, layered light knits and strappy sandals with a fairly low spike heel. Then it was out of the city and down the highway to the Keys, with a Diet Coke and a fast-food yogurt parfait in the cup holders.

She might be on a wild goose chase. Probably was. But somewhere in a marina on Key West was a boat called
The Purgatory.
The guy she was looking for worked on it, or worked for this Brandon St. Claire, who was taking it out treasure hunting pretty soon. She could find that boat and the guy she’d seen. How many marinas could there be on Key West?

Driving over the long bridged highway between the Keys should have been a fun, new experience but Drew hardly registered the translucent aquamarine of the water or the mangrove swamps that lined the shores of the little islands. She could almost feel the pull of something drawing her on. When finally she reached the last stretch of Highway 1 as it slid down off the bridge into Key West she could see that the whole island was ringed with marinas. A rush of panic filled her. What if she couldn’t find
The Purgatory?

But there had been a TV production crew here two days ago. Surely the locals would remember where it had been filming. She just had to stop and ask. As she drove onto the island proper, she headed, without hesitation, past the first marina she came to. That marina wasn’t what she was looking for. She might as well get close before she asked. And there was a strange feeling of inevitability coming over her. She drove out to the end of the island. There were boat docks at the end of every street. Bigger marinas sprouted on the side closest to the Caribbean. That made sense. That would be a good place to ask. A boat that was going treasure hunting in Caribbean waters would be docked there, wouldn’t it?

But as she reached the last street before the water, the car just wanted to turn left. Or she did. It was like playing with the Ouija board when they were kids. Did they move it or did it move itself, and what did it matter in the end? So she followed her nose. Her nose was taking her back, out of Key West. Stupid.
Very, very stupid.
But she couldn’t help herself. She passed all the banks and strip malls and shopping centers and the big fancy marinas. This was just dandy. She felt almost compelled to drive back over the bridge.

There it was. The exit sign said Stock Island. She knew this was the way she was meant to go. She took McDonald Avenue and then just turned where it seemed right, driving slowly down the tiny frontage road called Shrimp Avenue as the marinas petered out. At first there were boat supply houses on her right, a gas station, a coffee shop, but as she continued the places got seedier and the people in the streets, mostly men, tougher looking. Asphalt gave way to gravel that crunched under her tires. The feeling in her gut had gotten almost like pain. Had she worked herself into an ulcer?

A rough-looking bar was the last building on the street facing the water, the kind with no windows and guys in sleeveless jean jackets and heavy leather boots lounging around the open door. The painted sign just said O’Toole’s. For some reason Drew just couldn’t tear her eyes away from the dark maw of that door. She slowed the Toyota to a crawl. Why was a place like this so fascinating?

She shook her head, trying to clear it. A dilapidated board pier caught her attention about a hundred yards ahead, across a tangle of low mangroves with their feet in the lapping water. It jutted into a tiny cove dug out of the shoreline. A few small, shabby boats were moored
there
, and one larger one. Then some broken pilings jutted like jack-o’-lantern teeth from the mangrove bushes before they gave way to open water. This wasn’t the shiny marina she’d seen on TV. No idyllic rocking of expensive boats, their teak and brass reeking of money.

Her mouth was dry. It didn’t matter. The larger boat moored out at the end of the dock would be
The Purgatory
. She just knew it.

She pulled the old Toyota into a little dirt parking lot in front of the dock. Before she could park, an engine roared behind her and a red Corvette skidded around the Toyota into the lot and screeched to a stop. She recognized the driver instantly. It was Brandon St. Claire from the
Treasure Hunter
show, looking just as clean cut and blunt jawed as he had on TV. Only now he was one angry dude. Now she knew she was in the right place.

St. Claire opened the door of the Corvette and practically threw himself out of the car. “Now, honey,” the woman in the passenger seat soothed, “don’t do anything stupid.” She was a real looker. Her strawberry blond hair was artfully wind tossed, even though there wasn’t a breeze in sight. Her pristine skin was fair and her cheekbones belonged on a model. She was expensive candy and she knew it.

“That fucker stood me up,” St. Claire bellowed.

Was he talking about her guy? Drew had thought the place was deserted, but an old guy popped up from where he’d been sanding wood on a little sailboat.

“Honey.” Now the girl’s voice had an edge to it. “You know we can’t do a TV show. Our friend wouldn’t approve.”

“I don’t care. That publicity would have been dynamite for my business. Nobody crosses me like that. You there,” St. Claire shouted to the old man. “Where’s Dowser?”

The guy was balding and grizzled. He wore an old gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out and some ratty sweatpants. His deck shoes had definitely seen better days. “Can’t say, for sure,” the old guy said. Drew saw the way his eyes narrowed as St. Claire strode up to him.

“You tell him I’m going to ruin him. I waited all morning.”

The expensive candy sighed and got out of the car. She had legs that went on forever, up to a teeny knit skirt in bright orange. She was wearing Manolos. But they were last year’s. Looked a little out of place in a dirt parking lot.

“Hey, mister,” the old man protested. “Get a grip.”

“Where… is… he?”

The woman slid an arm under St. Claire’s. He was practically shaking, he was so mad.

“Don’t know where he is,” the old man said, jaw jutting. St. Claire started ahead, as if to pry Dowser out of
The Purgatory
. The old man held up a hand. “Hasn’t been here all morning.”

“He’s probably drunk somewhere,” the eye candy said, pouting. “Can’t do a thing drunk.” Drew expected her to have a southern accent, but she didn’t.
Kinda
nondescript, as though she’d lived all over. She sure knew how to simper though. She tugged on St. Claire’s elbow a little. “Besides, he said we gotta have a picture of it. And we don’t. Not yet,”

St. Claire seemed to come to
himself
. He took a breath. “Okay.” He looked down at the strawberry blond. “Okay,” he said again. Then he turned back to the old man. “You tell him, Thursday morning. Nine sharp. We’ll bring a picture. And he better deliver the goods, after all the trouble he’s been.”

“I’ll give him the message if I see him,” the old man said, his voice disapproving.

St. Claire and the woman backtracked to the Corvette. She folded her long legs into the seat and St. Claire spun the car around. As St. Claire hit the accelerator the Corvette shot past Drew and her Toyota. They didn’t even notice her.

Drew pulled into the parking lot and hurried across the sandy lot to the worn boards of the dock. Maybe she’d have better luck looking for her guy than St. Claire had had looking for this Dowser person. The old man was heading back to his boat, shaking his head.