Deadly Pursuit (18 page)

He walked out of the room, chuckling. Steve lingered a moment, seemed to consider saying something more, then turned and departed in silence.

Kirstie was left alone in the sudden stillness, her only companions a ruined radio and, on the floor a yard from her feet, the motionless body of Anastasia, sprawled in a slowly widening red stain.

30

No-see-um’s Bar & Grill was perched like a ramshackle vulture on a wharf overlooking Tea Table Key Channel, southwest of Upper Matecumbe Key. Hot rods and pickup trucks cluttered the parking lot, their fenders nuzzling glittery rivulets of beer-bottle shards. A bored Dalmatian, leashed to a post outside the bar, scratched itself monotonously as Lovejoy and Moore walked past.

“No-see-um’s.” Moore studied the buzzing neon sign, gaudily pink against the ink-black sky. “What could that mean?”

“I believe it’s the name of a local pest. The no-see-um. Similar to a gnat, only somewhat smaller.” Lovejoy swatted something invisible that had darted too near his face. “In all probability, I just killed one.”

The bar was dimly lit, smoky, loud with conversation and country music. Two big men with pliers on their belts played pool in a corner of the room. Fishermen, probably, who wore the pliers to pry the fishhooks from their catches.

Lovejoy found himself liking No-see-um’s instantly. It lacked the slick, touristy feel of the tiki-bars and hotel restaurants in the area. This was a real place.

The aroma of cooked fish reached him from the kitchen. His stomach gurgled.

He glanced at his partner. “When was the last time we ate?”

“This morning. Breakfast on the plane.”

“Let’s grab dinner here.”

They took a table with a view of the water, placed orders with a waitress named Dorothy, and gave her a look at Jack Dance’s mug shot. She hadn’t seen him.

While waiting for the food, Moore used the pay phone to check in with the sheriff’s station, and Lovejoy showed Jack’s picture to the bartender and assorted patrons. The two pool players were happy to interrupt their game for a chat with a fellow from the FBI.

“What’s this bird done?” the nearest man asked, chalking his cue tip.

“We believe he’s guilty of multiple homicide.”

“Damn straight,” his friend said. “I saw it on the news. Mister Twister. He here?”

“I can’t answer that.”

A rough elbow nudged him. “Come on, you can tell Bud and me.”

“What I mean is, there’s simply no way, at present, to ascertain his whereabouts.”

“Aw, shoot. You must have some reason to be poking around in these parts.”

“The search isn’t confined to this vicinity. Law enforcement officers are engaged in an extensive manhunt operation throughout the United States.”

“Well”—the first man, Bud, lined up a shot—“if we eyeball him, we’ll give a holler.”

“Call the sheriff’s department or the state police.”

“Will do.” A flick of the cue, and Bud banked the six-ball off the cushion, into a corner pocket.

Lovejoy found Moore in the hallway near the phone, looking at a collection of salvaged junk from local shipwrecks. A gold coin, a musket, a large pitted sphere identified as a cannonball.

“New Jersey faxed us that police report,” she said. “Otherwise, nothing new.”

“No one here has seen Jack.”

“Any bars or restaurants left that we haven’t checked?”

“No. And no more motels, either.” Lovejoy pressed his fingertips against the glass surface of the display case. “Maybe we should have gone to Fort Myers, after all.”

“Too late now.”

He nodded, studying his reflection in the glass. “Too late.”

Shortly after they returned to their table, dinner arrived. Moore had ordered the grilled shrimp, Lovejoy the fried fish basket. The portions were huge.

“I can’t eat all this,” Moore said, astonished.

“Certainly you can. Consider it a last meal for the condemned.”

“What did you get, anyway?”

He hoisted a forkful. “Dolphin.”

“You’re eating Flipper?”

“Dolphin fish.”

He sampled it, then nodded. Delicious.

Lovejoy thought he could get to like the Keys. Tasty meals, fiery sunsets, no allergens to trigger sinusitis.

Perhaps I’ll relocate here after I quit the Bureau, he thought, then tried to decide whether or not he was being funny. He couldn’t tell.

He and Moore passed up Dorothy’s offer of key lime pie for dessert. Two new patrons had entered the bar separately in the last twenty minutes. To be thorough, Moore showed them Jack’s mug shot while Lovejoy paid the tab.

A woman with bleached-blond hair and an armadillo purse squinted at the photo for a long moment, then turned to Moore and quipped, “Looks like my ex.” A burst of raspy smoker’s laughter followed.

The other new customer was a large, leathery man in his sixties, cutting into a turtle steak at the far end of the bar. He shook his head after a silent perusal of the mug shot. “Afraid not. Who is he?”

“Suspect in a homicide case.”

“I might have guessed. Lord, what’s this world coming to?”

Moore found him familiar. She searched her memory, then found the visual match she was seeking. Mr. Brundle. Of course. Wonderful old Mr. Brundle, who had managed the grocery store in her Oakland neighborhood for decades, giving away candy bars and comic books to the kids, until one summer night an angel-dusted punk had put three jacketed hollowpoints in his head.

Like Mr. Brundle, this man was big and mellow and tough, with the same salt-and-pepper hair, the same slightly paunchy, lived-in body, the same wise, knowing eyes.

He noticed that she was staring at him. Taking no offense, he extended his hand. “Chester Pice.”

“Tamara Moore, FBL”

His smile was slightly sad. “When I was your age, a black woman couldn’t sit in the front of a bus or eat at a lunch counter south of the Mason-Dixon. Now here you are—Miss Tamara Moore, a special agent of the FBI.”

“Sometimes I almost wish I weren’t.”

“Like tonight?”

“Like tonight.”

He traced his finger over the mug shot. “This fellow the reason?”

“Yes.”

“Evil-looking man, all right. It’s the eyes that give his soul away. Shark’s eyes, flat and dead. What’s his name?”

“Jack Dance.”

Pice took another bite of turtle steak, then frowned. “Jack Dance. Funny.”

“What?”

“I could swear I’ve heard that name somewhere.”

“He’s been in all the papers.”

“I don’t read ’em.”

“And all over the TV.”

“Don’t own one. No radio, either, except for my communications gear.”

“Then ... how?”

“I can’t say.” He pondered the problem, then shrugged. “Conversation, maybe. Someone might’ve mentioned this news story to me. Sure. That must have been it.”

“But you’re not certain?”

“I’d like to be. But no.” He glanced at the photo again. “Anyhow, I’m positive I’ve never met him.”

“Well, if you think of anything that might help us, anything at all ...”

“I’ll get the sheriff’s people on the horn. You bet I will, ma’am.” Pice wagged his fork at her in a gentle warning. “In the meanwhile, you be careful hunting this fellow. He’s a bad one.”

Moore nodded. “That he is.”

The night was still hot, the lonely Dalmatian still tied to the post, when she and Lovejoy emerged from No-see-um’s. They leaned against a salt-silvered railing and watched a motorboat cruise through the channel, leaving a wake of white foam.

“Jack’s not here,” Lovejoy whispered. “He never was.”

Moore was inclined to agree. “So what do we do now?”

“We keep looking.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“Do you have any superior alternatives to propose?”

“None at all.”

The water slopped lazily against the pilings, a strangely soothing sound. Moore looked out to sea. Near the eastern horizon sparkled a solitary light, motionless and faint.

“Boat?” she asked, pointing.

“House, I imagine. On some small island.”

“Wish I were there.”

“Me, too.” Lovejoy shut his eyes and savored the fantasy. “Alone with the parrots and the palm trees, cut off from everything.”

“Sounds like paradise.”

“My estimation also. I envy them—whoever’s on that island. They don’t have to deal with any of this.” He sighed. “They don’t have a worry in the world.”

31

Jack shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and looked across the living room at the high-backed chair where Steve sat rigid, the Beretta held stiffly in his hand.

The blued barrel gleamed in the lamplight. The room blazed, every bulb burning. Steve had insisted on that. He wished, apparently, to banish all shadows. He had not yet learned that some kinds of darkness could not be dispelled.

“You planning to stay up all night?” Jack asked, then instantly regretted it. The question was too obvious.

Steve smiled briefly. “Yes, Jack. I am.”

“We’ll need to be fresh in the morning.”

“You sleep, then.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Neither am I.”

“We’ve got to trust each other, Stevie.”

A soft, derisive snort. “Oh, sure. You’re a real trustworthy individual.”

Another interval of silence stretched between them. Outside, a boat purred past, one of many that had slipped through the night during the last three hours, reminders that Pelican Key was less isolated than it seemed.

When the boat was gone, there was nothing to hear but the crickets’ monotonous chirping and, from the woods, rare spurts of birdsong. Though Jack was no naturalist, he had spent enough summer days on the island to recognize the peppery trills of a yellow-breasted chat and, farther off, the long, rising glissando of a parula.

He had always liked bird calls. It had taken him years to understand that the shrill, warbling cries reminded him of screams.

Reaching over to the end table, he took a last sip of his Coke, which had long ago gone flat. It was the third can he had drained.

The day’s heat had not let up, and the humidity had actually increased with the approach of midnight. A warm paste of sweat bonded his shirt to his chest and back. Now and then a stray droplet rolled out of his hair and trickled down his neck like a tickling finger.

Through the patio doorway, a hot, sticky breeze carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine into the room, a breath of perfume, exotic and enticing. Jack thought of the woman he had killed in San Diego; she had worn a fragrance like that.

A good kill, San Diego, but not as good as what was waiting for him in the radio room, if only he could find some opportunity to make his move.

So far there had been no opportunities. Hell, he didn’t even have his Swiss Army knife anymore. Steve had compelled him to stow it in a kitchen drawer. The blade had still been wet with Anastasia’s blood.

Killing the dog had been a mistake, he decided. Or maybe his real error had been to get carried away when he’d slapped Kirstie around.

For one reason or another, Steve looked at him differently now. And he never stopped looking, never showed the slightest inclination to drop his guard. That cold gray gaze remained fixed on him, as did the muzzle of the gun.

Should have been a hypnotist, Jack thought moodily. Then I could have put the bastard in a trance, lulled him to sleep. A smooth patter, soothing words—that’s all it takes if you know the technique. Like those New Age relaxation tapes Sheila uses. Better than sleeping pills, she always says ...

Sleeping pills.

Jesus, how could he have forgotten about that?

Steve had given him six pills. He’d fed one to Kirstie, who had spat it out.

The others ...

Lightly, inconspicuously, he touched his pants pocket.

The others had gone in there.

Five capsules. More than twice the maximum dose. Easily enough medicine to put Steve under.

Jack sat silently for a few minutes longer, working out the details of his plan.

Then he rose and stretched. “Captain, the first mate requests permission to use the head.”

Steve got up. “I'm coming with you.”

“Oh, fuck, Stevie. Not when I'm taking a crap.” He showed a sheepish smile. “I don’t even know if I can do it with somebody watching.”

Steve hesitated, then yielded. “You can go in alone. But I’ll be right outside.”

“Great. My bodyguard.”

They didn’t speak again until they arrived at the bathroom. Jack reached for the door.

“Wait.” Steve switched on the lights and went in first. Briskly he checked the drawers, the medicine cabinet, the storage area under the sink. “Okay.”

“You afraid I stashed an Uzi behind the commode or something?”

“Just being careful.”

“Paranoid, you mean.”

“Around you, a little paranoia may be justified.”

Alone, with the door shut, Jack felt safe and secretive. The bathroom was a private place, a refuge, where he could work his mischief unobserved.

Quickly he checked the medicine cabinet, hoping to find the rest of the sleeping pills. There were none. No surprise. Steve had said his insomnia was a secret; he’d kept the pills hidden from his wife. Well, five would be sufficient.

Jack took apart the capsules, pouring their contents into an unfolded Kleenex. A small heap of white powder formed. The tissue, neatly folded, went into his pocket, along with the empty gelatin casings. He would need those.

He removed the paper shade from a light fixture over the sink, then wrapped the bulb in bathroom tissue, being careful to wind the wrapping loosely so it would not ignite too soon.

He replaced the shade. In a carrying case on the counter he found an assortment of Kirstie’s toiletries. He dug out a jar of nail-polish remover, then brushed the liquid liberally over the wall near the lamp, painting a diagonal trail that snaked down to a wastebasket. More toilet paper went into the basket, doused with the remaining alcohol in the jar.

A flush of the toilet for realism, and he stepped out into the hall. “Nothing like a successful dump to make Jack Dance a new man.”

“You’ll never be a new man, Jack. You’re stuck with yourself.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They left together. Steve, still wary of shadows, did not turn off the bathroom lights.

In the living room, Jack shook his empty Coke can. “I’m up for another. How about you?”

“All right.”

Steve watched as Jack retrieved two more cans from the fridge and popped the tabs. They resumed sitting, Jack on the sofa, Steve in the armchair, a precise recreation of the original tableau. The only variation in detail was Steve’s nylon jacket, which he had finally shed and draped over the back of the chair. His short-sleeve shirt was as limp and sweat-soaked as Jack’s own.

A fly buzzed erratically around the room, alighting on the mantel, the globe, the arched window framing the garden. Its wings glittered.

Jack wondered how things were progressing in the bathroom. The toilet paper wrapped around the hot bulb must be smoldering nicely by now. How long would it take to flare up? How quickly would the flames spread, first to the lamp’s paper shade, then to the trail of flammable liquid on the wall?

Not much longer, he figured. Another minute at most.

“Something occurred to me while you were in the bathroom.” Steven sipped his soda. “Your boat. The little inflatable.”

“What about it?”

“When Kirstie came in from the reef, she left it at the dock, alongside the motorboat. Pice will see it when he shows up tomorrow. He’ll know there’s someone on the island besides Kirstie and me. We’ll lose the element of surprise.”

“Hell.” Jack hadn’t thought of that. He was doubly annoyed—at himself for this lapse, at little Stevie for outthinking him.

“Besides,” Steve added, “if the boat has been reported stolen, Pice might even recognize it and radio the police.”

“It’s got to be moved.”

“Back to the cove?”

“No, that’s not necessary. I can hide it in the brush on the beach. Cover it with fronds and sedges.”

“You’re not doing it alone. We’ll go together.”

“What are you, my freaking shadow?”

“No, Jack. I’m your partner. Partners do everything together.” Steve paused, sniffing the air. “What the hell?”

“Something wrong?”

Steve stood. “I think I smell ...” He took a step toward the loggia, then froze. “Oh, fuck. What did you do? What the hell did you
do
?”

Looking past him, Jack could see a flickering reddish glow at the far end of the hall.

“Don’t move!” Steve bolted for the kitchen, returned a moment later with a small fire extinguisher. “Don’t you fucking move!"

Then he was racing down the hall, his footsteps banging like a drum roll, diminishing fast. A moment later, an angry dragon hiss: spray from the canister.

Jack unfolded the Kleenex and poured the granules into his own can of Coke.

The empty casings he scattered like seeds around Steve’s armchair. Crouching down, he made a show of frantically collecting them

“Christ.” Steve’s voice, breathless and fluttery. “So you’re an arsonist now. Is that it?”

Jack palmed the last casings and held them in a tight fist. He got to his feet as Steve approached.

“Hey, Stevie, don’t get all bent out of shape. Just a minor practical joke to liven up a dull evening.”

“What were you doing on the floor?”

“Killing a bug. One of those big Palmetto mothers.”

The gun lifted ominously. “Another lie, and you’re dead. What’s in your hand?”

With feigned reluctance Jack spread his fingers.

Steve frowned, momentarily bewildered. Then he understood.

“You had some left,” he whispered.

“Five.”

“Enough to knock me out for hours. You son of a bitch.”

“I wouldn’t have hurt you, Stevie.”

“Shut up. How did you think you’d get away with it, anyway? Didn’t it occur to you that I’d know you set the fire as a diversion?”

Jack let his gaze slide away from Steve’s face. “I intended to let you find me in the kitchen. You would have thought all I was after was my knife.” He met Steve’s eyes in a good imitation of childish defiance. “Would’ve worked, too—except after I put the stuff in your soda, I dropped the empties. Couldn’t pick them all up in time.”

“You just can’t stop thinking about her, can you? You can’t control these impulses of yours?”

“It’s not like that.”

“You’re so fucking sick, Jack. And so fucking dangerous.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt her.” He lifted his shoulders in a jerky, helpless shrug. “Really. You’ve been making me nervous with that gun. That’s all.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Jack. You’re making me a little nervous, too.” He waved the gun at the armchair. “Sit.”

Jack sat.

“Now ... drink it.”

He looked at the soda. “Oh, hell, Stevie.”

“Go on.”

“You’re going to need me alert tomorrow.”

“The effects will wear off by then. In fact, a few hours’ sleep will do you good. Aren’t you the one who said we need to be fresh in the morning?”

Jack closed his hand over the soda can. “Shit,” he muttered in angry acquiescence, and took a sip.

“All of it. Gulp it down.”

Jack obeyed.

“Good boy.” Steve sat on the sofa and lifted Jack’s soda can. “You took your medicine. Daddy’s very proud.”

He drank Jack’s Coca-Cola. Jack watched, keeping his face expressionless. He did not quite relax until Steve had drained the can.

“All right.” Steve rose from the couch. “Let’s move the runabout.”

“We could wait awhile.”

“No way. In an hour you’ll be out cold. Then I’d have to go by myself. And to be honest, I don’t trust you enough to leave you alone with my wife even if you’re unconscious.”

“Nice. Real friendly attitude.”

“We stopped being friends awhile ago, Jack. I thought you would have figured that out by now.”

Yeah, buddy boy, Jack thought as Steve marched him into the foyer, then out the door. I figured it out. Now here’s something for you to figure out.

One hour from now, I’ll be the one with the gun.

And you and your lovely wife will be dead.