Rough Draft (37 page)

“Because there are simply some things you can't forgive. I'm not a saint. I wish it was in me to pardon the man, to say it was all right that he simply disappeared and left his wife and child without a dime and with no idea where he went or what was in his mind. For a long time I believed he committed suicide. That when his money-laundering scheme was discovered, he couldn't bear the public shame and he went off somewhere and ended his life. That's the story I told myself. That's the way I learned to cope. And then this tape came in the mail. This terrible tape.”

Maude picked up a remote and aimed it at the TV set and punched a button. The VCR began to roll and the morning game show disappeared, replaced by the dreary image of J. J. Fielding in his hospital bed. It was a scene Hannah had already viewed. J. J. and his white-haired doctor in a blue surgical scrub.

“Your husband sent you this tape in August?”

“That's right. Five tapes in all, wrapped in Christmas paper.”

“And did you show the tapes to anyone?”

Maude drew her gaze from the screen. Her eyes were muddy. Maybe she hadn't forgiven her husband, but she hadn't hardened herself to him either. She looked at Hannah.

“They told me if I ever heard from J. J., I was to get in contact with them immediately. So I did. I'm a good citizen. I'm responsible and public-spirited. That's the way I've always been. I sent them a note and they came and got the tapes.”

“Who?”

Maude looked down at the last of her peanut butter sandwich. She brought it to her lips and popped it into her mouth.

”Why the FBI, of course. They sent a man by and he took the tapes away and then after I called and called, they brought the tapes back.”

“Those bastards.”

Maude set her sandwich on her lap.

“You haven't asked about the money.”

Hannah was looking at the tape of Fielding in his hospital bed.

“The money he stole, you mean?”

“Yes, yes. J. J. transferred the money to an account in my name. I got a letter in the mail after he died from a bank in the Bahamas. Four hundred million dollars, just sitting there waiting for me to collect. But I don't want it It's evil money. He only sent it to me as a payoff, so I would think kindly of him. That poor sad fool. He thought money mattered. He thought if he had enough, he would be immortal. But look at him. It didn't help. It didn't help one bit.”

Hannah sat for a while longer with Maude Fielding and together they watched her dying husband plead one more time for forgiveness.

“What's wrong with him? Why isn't he talking?”

“Because he's upset, you imbecile,” said the lady cop.

“Hey, there's no reason to get nasty,” Misty said. “I just asked you a simple goddamn question.”

Randall sat at the dining table staring into the aquarium that was filled with sand and little alligators dressed in pirate outfits. There were rubber dinosaurs in there too. The kid hadn't spoken a word since they left the marina. Just sat there with his zombie eyes. All the way across Biscayne Bay, nothing Misty could say or do got any response.

Gisela sat in one of the blue-and-white-striped galley chairs, patches of sweat darkening her orange shirt. Her ankles and wrists duct-taped.

The plan was simple. She'd take the kid and the lady cop out on the bay somewhere private, anchor, and wait. She'd leave her cell phone on and when Hal got back from his trip, sometime around noon, he'd call her and then Misty would make the call to Hannah Keller's cell phone. We'll give your kid back when you tell us where J. J. Fielding is. Simple as that. If the old man dies first, then the kid dies too. Say that and hang up. Nothing fancy.

The houseboat was anchored in a narrow canal on the edge of Key Biscayne. Skyscrapers visible just over the top of the bushes. The city seemed very close, though the boat was hidden so well, they might as well be in an Amazon river a thousand miles from city lights. Misty had rammed the houseboat so deep into the dense branches, they didn't even need the anchor.

Outside the tinted windows a dozen white birds were roosting in the high branches, their guano streaking the leaves below. In the distance Misty could hear motorboats speeding here and there, and a few feet away there was the squawk and flutter of the birds as they resettled on their perches.

She looked out the window, feeling groggy now that the adrenaline rush was over. Hal Bonner and Misty Fielding were pair-bonded now. She was helping Hal do his job, at the same time she was getting her chance to even the score with Hannah Keller. Two birds, one stone. Like maybe that was what love was all about. Two people using the same rock to kill what each of them needed to kill.

“There something wrong with Randall?” Misty said. “A mental problem I should know about?”

“You're the one with the mental problem,” Gisela said. “Kidnapping a police officer and an eleven-year-old boy.”

“Hey, I'm trying very hard to be courteous with you. But you keep insulting me.”

“Listen to me, young lady. You need to let the boy go immediately. He was badly traumatized once in his life already. For three months afterward he was nearly catatonic. There's no telling what harm this might be causing him.”

“Catatonic?”

“He didn't speak, he barely ate. It's a dangerous, life-threatening condition.”

“Bullshit,” Misty said. “Don't try to trick me. The kid's a little upset, so he's clamming up, that's all. Don't bullshit me. A person stops talking, that isn't going to kill them.”

“It's more than that,” Gisela said. “It's emotional shock. Like his system is shutting down.”

Misty eased into the chair beside Randall. She inched it close to his. She ran her hand through his blond hair and ruffled it. He didn't move. Didn't look her way, just kept staring into the glass case with the dinosaurs and pirates.

She tried to get some sugar in her voice.

“It's going to be fine, honey. I'm not going to hurt you. There's nothing to worry about, Randall. Not a single thing.
Your mother cooperates and gives us the information we want, you'll be home in no time. I promise.”

The boy just kept staring into the glass case.

“Would you like some ice cream, Randall? A candy bar maybe?”

Randall didn't move.

Misty looked over at Gisela.

“What're some of his favorite foods?”

Gisela shut her eyes and shook her head.

“Come on, goddamn it. Help me out here. I've got to do something to comfort the boy.”

“Let us go,” Gisela said. “That's the only way he's going to be all right.”

“Nobody's going to let anybody go, so you can get that idea out of your head.”

The lady cop was very still. Staring at Misty from across the cabin, giving her the thousand-watt evil eye.

“All right,” Gisela said. “I'll tell you how to comfort the boy, but first you've got to cut my ankles loose. My feet are numb.”

“Bullshit.”

“Hey, you've got the gun,” Gisela said. “And we're out here in the middle of nowhere. What're you worried about?”

Misty knew it was cop talk. Angling for every advantage. Always looking for a way to improve their situation, find an opportunity to make a break. But it didn't matter. She needed to get the kid talking, break the spooky silence. The way Randall was acting was making her start to doubt the whole plan. If she couldn't get him to open up pretty soon, how the hell was she going to get the kid to say something on the phone, let Hannah know they'd kidnapped him?

At the moment about the only real comfort Misty had was her derringers. One in each pocket of her overalls. The Legendary Model 1, .45-caliber Colt in her right pocket, the LM5 .32-caliber magnum in her left.

Misty walked over to the kitchenette, dug through a couple of drawers until she found a steak knife. She drew out the .32 derringer and kept it in her right hand while she went
over to Gisela and with a quick stroke, sawed through the tape on her ankles and waited while the woman bent forward and rubbed the life back into her feet.

“Make any kind of move to get out of that chair, you're dead. You got that?”

“Listen,” Gisela said. “I can guarantee you immunity from prosecution. You could just walk away from this now before you get in any deeper, no harm, no foul.”

Behind Gisela, out the dark-tinted window, one of those big white birds landed on the chrome rail and stared down into the water.

“Forget it,” said Misty. “I don't want any goddamn plea bargain.”

“The boy goes back to his mother, you walk away. We forget this whole stupid thing happened. Think about it, Misty. Weigh it for a second before you decide.”

Misty didn't answer. Outside the window, just beyond the white bird, there was a motorboat idling up the canal. Gray hull with large blue lettering on its side that said
MARINE PATROL
. At the wheel was a tall, serious-looking guy in a gray uniform. Short pants, short-sleeved shirt, a gun on his hip.

“Aw, shit.”

Misty watched as the boat circled around the houseboat, the guy craning around his console for a better look.

“All right, you stay quiet,” Misty said. “I'll take care of this.”

Gisela turned and looked out as the boat circled closer.

“Now look, Misty. You can turn yourself in to this marine patrol officer. Let him know what's going on, and the deal I offered you would still apply. You walk.”

Misty spun around and jammed the pistol to Gisela's temple and ground it hard against her flesh. She got her voice down to a harsh whisper.

“Goddamn it! You just sit here and be quiet while I'll get rid of this guy. You make a peep, everybody dies. Everybody.”

Misty gave her a last jab with the pistol then left the cabin.

She went out onto the deck and moved over to the chrome rail. She felt the calming weight of the two-shot derringers in both pockets of her blue overalls.

“Hey there, officer. How's it going?”

He idled his boat up closer. Blond hair cut in a flattop, dark aviator glasses. Curly blond hair on his hammy arms and his muscular legs. The guy's sidearm looked like a .45. Big fucking cannon he must've needed to bring down all those ocean-going rhino.

The guy slid up alongside the houseboat, and slung two white boat bumpers over the side, pressed his rail to the side of the houseboat, then lashed a thick line to one of the cleats that ran along the gunwale. His big Yamaha outboard was grumbling at idle.

“Could I see your boat registration, please, ma'am?”

“What's the problem, officer? I know I wasn't speeding.”

“Ma'am, are you aware of what kind of trees those are behind you?”

Misty turned and looked at the green bushes covered in guano.

“They're not palm trees,” Misty said. “I know that much. But I'm no big devotee of plants. I know the names of a few constellations. But bushes, no. Bushes aren't my strong suit.”

“Those are mangroves,” the man said. “They're a vital part of the aquatic ecosystem and they're protected under environmental law.”

“You got laws to protect bushes?”

“Ma'am, the way you've anchored your houseboat, you've done considerable damage to several of those mangroves. I'm afraid I'm going to have to write you a citation.”

Misty was looking at the bushes, shaking her head.

“What's so damn special about these bushes they need the police to look after them?”

The marine patrol guy pulled out a pad and a ballpoint pen from his pocket. He clicked it a couple of times, giving a closer look at the houseboat as if he were trying to find other infractions.

“I'm going to need to see your registration, ma'am.”

“So you can give me a ticket for bumping into some fucking bushes.”

The guy took off his sunglasses and folded them into his shirt pocket. His eyes were pale blue. He came closer to her and put a foot up on the side of the houseboat, setting his pad on his knee.

He was peering straight ahead through the tinted windows, trying to see into the cabin.

“Hey, look, officer. How about if I just pay my fine right here? Give you the twenty bucks or whatever it is, you pass it along to the appropriate parties, or whatever.”

The man was silent, leaning closer to the window.

Misty slid her left hand into the pocket of her shorts, felt the cool, heavy presence of the .32-caliber derringer. Her heart was knocking hard.

“To tell the truth, I've always considered myself a bush lover,” Misty said. “Just because I don't know all their names doesn't mean I don't love the little buggers.”

The man shot her a quick look, then brought his face even closer to the window, cupping his hands to shield his eyes from the glare.

Misty heard Gisela say something, her voice muffled by the glass.

“Don't mind her,” Misty said. “That's my mom. She's had one too many cocktails for breakfast and had to lie down. She's got a drinking problem.”

The marine patrol officer lowered his head and looked up at Misty again.

“Old Mom's had a hard life, lots of things she's trying to forget. You know how it is. All those husbands leaving her, boyfriends beating the hell out of her. Booze is about the only thing that's stuck by her. Booze and me.”

The marine patrol officer drew away from the window.

Misty's hand tightened around the .32 in her pocket.

He gave her a long, steady look, then said, “I'm going to need to go into the cabin, make sure your mother is all right.”

“I don't think so. This isn't a real good time for visitors.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's what I'm going to have to do.”

“Look out!” It was Gisela calling from the cabin. Her voice muffled and hoarse, but loud enough to be heard. “She's got a gun!”