Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 02 - Riptide Page 18

  Keeping low, he dodged between the cottages and the road. Everything was quiet.

  Finally, he got to his place— dark except for a light in the carport. Two cars there, Joy’s and another one. Buddy gritted his teeth against the tears that wanted to fill his eyes. There, in front of him, was his home. His wife, his little girl, his baby son. Keeping well out of the carport light, he circled toward the water side of the house and approached slowly, slowly. He could see the windows, dark with the blinds down, and the deck. There was something in the window of Kimmie Dee’s room.

  After a while, he drew close enough to see what it was— a sign, in red crayon on lined school paper, was taped to the window screen. The sign said, DANJUR.

  Buddy knew very well, as soon as he caught on that she meant danger, that the sign wasn’t some kiddie game. Kimmie Dee meant the sign for him, and the message was, Buddy Burke should haul ass out of here. But what was all his trouble for? What was it for if he didn’t even see Kimmie Dee?

  He tapped on Kimmie Dee’s screen with his fingernail. If she didn’t come right away, he’d leave. But it wasn’t fifteen seconds before the blinds bent and her eyes peered out.

  “Hey, honey,” Buddy whispered The tears did come then, just a couple of them, but he wiped them away while she was letting the blind up an inch or two.

  She whispered, “Hey, Daddy!”

  “Hey, Kimmie Dee. Kimmie Dee, listen—”

  “Daddy, didn’t you see my sign?”

  “I saw it, honey, but I wanted to—”

  “You better be careful. Mr. Stiles is going to shoot you.”

  Mr. Stiles. Mr. S. “Is that who Mr. S. is? In your letter?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Ted Stiles. He’s got a—”

  “Now, tell me something. Is he there now? Mr. Stiles?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Stiles was there, in the middle of the night, with Joy. It was all true, what he’d feared.

  After a minute, Kimmie Dee said, “Daddy, can I go away with you?”

  “No, honey. That wouldn’t work.”

  “Please.”

  Oh God. “I can’t take you with me, Kimmie Dee.” There was something else. “Kimmie Dee, you wrote to me about some boots—”

  She shook her head. “Never mind. Isabel got me a pair.” She waved a hand. “You better go.”

  Isabel? Who the hell was Isabel? Buddy was shaking from head to foot. Kimmie Dee was right. He had to get out of here. “I’ll see you, honey,” he said.

  He blew her a kiss and backed away from the house as the blind swung back into place. He couldn’t feel his feet on the ground.

  He had taken only a couple of steps when the tall man appeared underneath the carport. Buddy saw him clear as anything, a lean man with curly hair. A gun in his hand. Mr. Ted Stiles, Buddy was willing to bet.

  “Hold on, Buddy,” Ted Stiles said.

  Fury flooded Buddy’s gut. “Don’t tell me to hold on,” he said. He swung the shotgun up, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The wet son of a bitch did not fire.

  Buddy saw Ted Stiles raise his gun. Next thing, there was a boom. Something hit him hard and he was falling, his mouth making sounds that didn’t mean a thing.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Isabel yearned for light. It seemed that if she had light, the throbbing in her head would subside, and if the throbbing subsided, she would be cooler, and if—

  Round and round it went. Heat, darkness, pain.

  She had awakened only minutes ago, although she had a memory of being carried and a notion that she had been outside.

  Where was she now? In a hot, dark, painful place. She squeezed her eyes closed and opened them wide. Blackness. Had she really gone blind?

  She began to be aware of the position of her body. Her wrists and ankles were tied, her hands behind her. She was lying on her side on a wood floor. Her mouth was gagged.

  The atmosphere was airless.

  Her former unconsciousness now seemed like bliss. She closed her eyes and let herself spin downward, trying to return to it.

  She couldn’t. Her head ached with every beat of her pulse; her hands and shoulders threatened to cramp. She was straining against her bonds, which made it worse. She forced her muscles to relax.

  She lay without thinking. Who had done this to her, and why, seemed irrelevant. Nothing mattered except continuing, taking one searing breath after another.

  After a long time, she thought she might try to sit up. A powerful part of her argued against it. She was hurting, at the mercy of whatever force had visited this on her. Sitting up would be a waste of energy, an exercise in futility.

  Except that sitting up was what human beings did. Lying here aching, choked on dust and heat, was for times when you couldn’t do better. If you had an inkling that you might be able to sit up, you sat.

  Pulling herself upright was hellishly difficult, because she couldn’t separate her ankles to lever herself. The attempt became, in its way, diverting as she tried to figure out which muscle groups were available to her.

  The way to do it, she found, was to roll over on her back. She could do this by pulling with her top knee, which dragged the other leg up. Once on her back, she rocked upright and was rewarded with dizziness and nausea. She leaned forward and rested her forehead on her bent knees, willing it to pass. Her head seemed to be cracking open. The random thought came to her that she might die.

  When the worst passed, she was bathed in sweat. She turned her head, rested her cheek on her knees, and tried to breathe evenly. It took all the courage she could muster to raise her head again.

  This time, the reaction wasn’t as bad. When the wooziness subsided, she began inching herself backward on her buttocks. Before long, her bound hands came in contact with something— a wall. Although most of the feeling was gone from her fingers, she could tell it was a wooden wall. She managed, awkwardly, to lean back against it.

  Wood floor, wood wall. She wondered—

  She heard footsteps. The sound was muffled. The steps were closed off from her, but somebody was there, nearby. Her heart drummed, but whether from hope or dread, she didn’t know. She listened hard, put all her strength into listening.

  The steps stopped, and just then she heard another sound. Far off, a siren was wailing. A fire truck or an ambulance. She hadn’t heard a siren, not one, since she’d arrived at Cape St. Elmo. She used to hear them all the time in New York. For a moment, she entertained the crazed notion that her captor had somehow transported her to New York.

  The siren continued. Even in the enclosed space where she was, it grew fairly loud. Something was happening nearby. Could it be a fire? Was she— had she been left in a place that was on fire? She felt her lips push against the cloth of her gag as she tried to scream, but the incipient groans died in her throat and she thought, Breathe. Breathe. Do you smell smoke?

  She breathed. She smelled dust and a faint, familiar, almost medicinal smell, but no smoke. The heat was intense, but it wasn’t getting worse. She decided this place was not, after all, on fire.

  The siren cut off. She could see nothing, hear nothing. No more footsteps. What was the smell, though? The very, very faint smell? She knew what it was, but her nose was full of dust. She rested her head against the wall and forgot about it.

  Not much later, the siren began again. Loud, louder, loudest, and then fading away.

  She wished it would come back. Frightening as the sound was, it meant help. An ambulance or fire truck carried help to those in need, and right now Isabel counted herself among the needy.

  She heard footsteps again, briefly. When they stopped, there was only silence.

  A long time passed. She didn’t sleep but lapsed into a suspended, semiconscious state. Dreamlike visions passed through her mind— Merriam twirled a baton and sang “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands”; on a Cuban balcony, John James Anders smelled a blossom on a flowering vine; Isabel herself ran down an endless staircase.

  Isabel saw a pale
gray line. She blinked, and it was still there. She kept her eyes fixed on the line to see what it would do.

  Gradually, the line brightened, modulating from gray to pale yellow. She heard movement, shuffling, soft footsteps. She kept her eyes on the line.

  She had forgotten the smell, but now it came back to her. The line had brightened enough so she could see a little. Wooden walls loomed around her, a small, familiar enclosure, and she thought, Mothballs. Mothballs. She was in the house, a captive in the closet in her old bedroom.

  The sounds from the bedroom continued. Was it Harry out there? The thought that it might be Harry filled her with anguish.

  Forget it. Harry cared only about protecting the treasure he’d found.

  She felt helpless, and despised the feeling. She sat with her back against the wall, listening to the sounds in the room— her room.

  Then the sounds stopped and footsteps moved toward the door. She waited, wondering whether the person out there had gone away.

  He could have left, or he could be standing outside the door. She listened.

  She was certain he would come back.

  The line of light under the door had brightened until she could see the floorboards. She could see her feet in sandals, her ankles tied with nylon rope. She tested herself. Her fingers were too numb even to wiggle. She couldn’t begin to stand up. She could creep along on her butt, rocking from one side to another. She could turn her head. And if she could get the right balance, she was pretty sure she could kick, lying on her back and striking out with her feet.

  It wouldn’t be stealthy. If her captor was in the house, he would hear. Yet she believed trying something was better than waiting to see what he had in mind for her.

  She maneuvered herself into position. Her arms and hands, which she had thought were deadened by lack of circulation, proved able to register intense pain when she rocked back against them.

  Her first attempt was pathetic. She had imagined a powerful thrust but had misjudged the distance, so her feet only grazed the door and slid to the floor with a feeble thud. Now, any listener was alerted. She moved closer and tried again.

  Her feet were asleep, and she barely felt the impact at first, until the pins and needles started. Still, the door shivered in its frame. She was reasonably sure it wasn’t locked. Her closet door had never locked. She kicked out again, this time connecting solidly under the knob with the soles of her sandals.

  She stopped to listen. No returning footsteps. She kicked again, gathering power, her breath exploding from her chest.

  John James had built his house of the finest wood, all solid. When it was new, the floors must have been straight, the doors securely hung. But the years, wood worms, and moist air had done their work. Straight lines were warped, connections loosened. When she kicked again, she heard splintering. With the next kick, the door gave and opened an inch or so, and she saw it outlined with daylight.

  It wouldn’t open wider. Further kicks were futile. Something was braced against it from the outside.

  She wasn’t stopping now. She sat up, edged her body around, and pressed her face against the crack in the door.

  He had put a board, one of the shelves where the artifacts had been, under the doorknob. Her efforts had knocked it askew.

  She jiggled her body against the unfastened door, trying to set up a vibration and dislodge it. This took more energy than kicking and was at first less successful. The door would open a crack but no farther. The door rattled, the sound invading her head.

  Nothing was happening. Nothing was happening.

  Without warning, the board fell free.

  The door swung open and she toppled out. She lay on the floor a few seconds, then struggled to sit up again.

  The room was practically empty. The diving equipment was gone. So was the ice chest, the gasoline can, the tackle box, and the sleeping bag. The shelves had been dismantled. The cannonballs still lay in the middle of the floor, and few bottles of chemicals were pushed against the wall. The sounds she had heard must have been her captor packing.

  Isabel became aware of her raging thirst. She had never been so tortured by the need for water. Her lips felt swollen against the cloth of her gag, and her mouth and throat were burning. Thirst dragged at her, making it difficult to think what to do next.

  But she had to think. Her captor might be returning right now. He might be approaching, in sight of the house.

  The thought sent her lurching to the nearest window. It was open, the tattered shade pulled down. She edged the shade aside with her head. Through the bowed-out rusty screen, she could see the trailer. And on the concrete-block front step of the trailer sat the small, disconsolate-looking figure of Kimmie Dee Burke.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Buddy Burke was straining to wake up, but his eyes wouldn’t open. He knew he was in a hospital, and he had the spooky feeling that maybe his eyes had been sewn shut. A doctor could sew your eyes closed if he took a notion. He could sew your eyes closed to punish you, and Buddy reckoned he was going to be punished six ways from Sunday.

  Buddy moved his head back and forth. His neck hurt— he hurt all over the place, not even to mention the shoulder he was shot in, but right now the eye situation bothered him the worst. He was trembling on the verge of a yell by the time he screwed his face up and one of his eyes finally popped open. The other eye was crusted shut. Buddy must have done some crying in the night. He thought he probably had.

  With both eyes open at last, he studied his hospital room. It was too damn bright. Light bounced off the white walls and shone from a neon coil in the ceiling. Buddy let his gaze drift toward the door, where a burly young man in a County Sheriff’s Department uniform was sitting in a chair reading a Reader’s Digest. Buddy watched him wet a finger and turn a page. Buddy cleared his throat and said, “Hey, bro.”

  The deputy looked up. “Mr. Burke.”

  “I got to pee.”

  The deputy didn’t reply. Keeping his finger in his place, he stood up and put his head outside the door for a short chat with somebody. After a minute or two, a nurse, a cute freckled thing, came in with a contraption kind of like a pitcher that she seemed to think Buddy would be willing to pee into.

  Buddy squirmed. “Can’t I use the toilet?”

  “You’re not supposed to be out of bed.”

  He nodded at the deputy. “Make him leave, anyway.”

  The deputy, standing by the door, didn’t move. The nurse said, “He has to stay. Come on now.”

  Buddy closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at the nurse or the deputy. He was going to be punished six ways from Sunday. This was only the beginning.

  After that, they sponged his face and gave him breakfast. As the memory of the previous night returned in detail, Buddy felt more and more downcast.

  The deputy stayed in the chair, reading, while the nurses came and went. Buddy kept his eye on the door, trying to see what might be going on in the hall, and when the nurse pushed out with a cart, he got a glimpse of somebody. He got a glimpse of a tall rat bastard with curly hair, the same rat bastard who had stood under Buddy’s carport last night and shot him in the shoulder.

  Buddy started violently and yelled, “Yo!”

  The deputy dropped his Reader’s Digest. “What is it?”

  Gesturing wildly with his good arm, Buddy roared, “What is that son of a bitch doing here!”

  The deputy glanced around. “Who?”

  “The one who shot me! Out there! By God—”

  Buddy was trying to climb out of bed, but the deputy got to him and held him down, and the nurse and a couple of other people, including Sheriff Turl, rushed into the room when the deputy yelled.

  “Goddamn it, Buddy,” Sheriff Turl said.

  “He’s out there, Mr. Turl!”

  “Shut up. I’ve had enough aggravation from you.”

  “He’s out there!”

  “So is your mama. Now shut up.”

  At the mention of his mother
, Buddy shut up. He lay back and felt the deputy let him go. “Get the son of a bitch away from me,” he said weakly.

  The sheriff said, “To tell the truth, he wants to talk to you.”

  This is a nightmare, Buddy thought. A man screws my wife, he shoots me, and then he wants to talk to me. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “I think maybe you should, Buddy.”

  Buddy heard something in the sheriff’s tone. “He shot me,” he said.

  “Well, hell. You were fixing to shoot him, weren’t you?”

  Buddy didn’t answer. Maybe this was a good time to ask for a lawyer, but he didn’t have the energy. He turned his face away.

  “He seems to think he can help you,” the sheriff said.

  Buddy gave a soft, derisive hoot. When the sheriff didn’t continue, he said, “Help me how?”

  “I can’t say. But the situation you’re in, I think if a lawman wants to help you, you should listen to him.”

  Maybe he hadn’t heard right. Buddy turned toward the sheriff. “What do you mean, a lawman?”

  “He’s Marine Patrol.”

  Buddy worked at keeping his face a blank while his mind went clicking over. The rat bastard was Marine Patrol. “Want me to tell him to come in?” the sheriff asked.

  In a minute, everybody except the deputy had left and Ted Stiles was standing within a couple of feet of Buddy’s bed. He pulled out an ID and wagged it in front of Buddy’s face.

  Buddy looked at the ID. Theodore Stiles. I don’t like Mr. S. “Remember me?” Stiles said.

  “You shot me, you son of a bitch.”

  Stiles pursed his lips. He said, “Reckon they don’t allow smoking in here.”

  “Go ahead and smoke. I don’t care.” Buddy studied Stiles. He must be fifty at least, broken veins alongside his nose, leathery wrinkles, limp gray-blond curls. Buddy pictured him with Joy.

  Stiles looked around and said, “No ashtray.” There was a jug of water and some glasses on Buddy’s bedside table. Stiles poured himself a drink and said, “Does the name Darryl Kelly mean anything to you? Patrolman Darryl Kelly?”