Skin Tight (36 page)

“You don't know that.”

“Yeah, you're right,” Stranahan said. “They're probably just collecting Toys for Tots. Now go.”

He stood up. In the lantern light, Christina saw that his arms were full: binoculars, a poplin Windbreaker, a pair of corduroys, an Orioles cap, a fishing knife, and a round spool of some kind.

She said, “It's not for the damn TV show that I want to stay. I'm scared for you. I don't know why—since you're being such a prick—but I'm worried about you, I admit it.”

When Stranahan spoke again, the acid was gone from his voice. “Look, if you stay . . . if you were to see something, they'd make you testify. Forget reporter's privilege and First Amendment—doesn't count for a damn thing in a situation like this. If you witness a crime, Chris, they put you under oath. You don't want that.”

“Neither do you.”

He smiled drily. She had him on that one. It was true: He didn't want any witnesses. “You've had enough excitement,” he told her. “Twice I've nearly gotten you killed. If I were you, I'd take that as a hint.”

Christina said, “What if you're wrong about them, Mick? What if they only want to ask more questions? Even if they're coming to arrest you, you can't just—”

“Go,” he said. Later he would explain that these cops were buddies of the late Judge Raleigh Goomer, and that what they wanted from Mick Stranahan was payback. Asking questions was not at all what they had in mind. “Take the path I showed you. Follow the shoreline about halfway down the island and you'll come to a clearing. You'll see some plastic milk crates, an empty oil drum, an old campfire hole. Wait there for me.”

Christina gave him a frozen look, but he didn't feel it. His mind was in overdrive, long gone.

“There's some fruit and candy bars in the Tupperware,” he said. “But don't feed the raccoons, they bite like hell.”

She was twenty yards down the path when she heard him call, “Hey, Chris, you forgot the bug spray.”

She shook her head and kept walking.

Fifteen minutes later, when Stranahan was sure she was gone, he carried his things down to Cartwright's dock. There he lit another lantern and hung it on a nail in one of the pilings. Then he pulled off his sneakers, kicked out of his jeans, and slid naked into the cool flowing tides.

 

 

FOR
Joe Salazar, it was a moment of quiet triumph at the helm. “By God, we did it.”

John Murdock made a snide chuckle. “Yeah, we found it,” he said. “The Atlantic fucking Ocean. A regular needle in a haystack, Joe. And all it took was three hours of dry humping these islands.”

Salazar didn't let the sarcasm dampen his newfound confidence. The passage through Sand Cut had been hairy; even at a slow speed, navigating the swift serpentine channel at night was an accomplishment worth savoring. Murdock knew it, too; not once had he tried to take the wheel.

“So this is the famous Elliott Key.” Murdock scratched his sunburned cheeks. The Aquasport idled half a mile offshore, rocking in a brisk chop. The beer was long gone, the ice melted. In the cool breeze Murdock had slipped into a tan leather jacket, the one he always wore to work; it looked ridiculous over his khaki shorts. Dismally he slapped at his pink shins, where a horsefly was eating supper.

Joe Salazar held the chart on his lap, a flashlight in his right hand. With the other hand he pointed: “Like I said, Johnny, from here it's a straight nine-mile run to Rhodes. Twelve feet of water the whole way.”

Murdock said, “So let's go, Señor Columbus. Maybe we can make it before Christmas.” He readjusted his shoulder holster for the umpteenth time.

Salazar hesitated. “Once we get there, what exactly is the plan?”

“Get that goddamn flashlight out of my face.” Murdock's eyelids were swollen and purple. Too much sun, too much beer. It worried Salazar; he wanted his partner to be sharp.

“The plan is simple,” Murdock said. “We arrive with bells on—sirens, lights, the works. We yell for Stranahan to come out with his hands up. Go ahead with the whole bit—serve the warrant, do the Miranda, all that shit. Then we shoot him like he was trying to get away.”

“Do we cuff him first?”

“Now, how would that look? No, we don't cuff him first. Jesus Christ.” Murdock spit into the water. He'd been spitting all afternoon. Salazar hoped this wasn't a new habit.

Murdock said, “See, Joe, we shoot him in the back. That way it looks like he's running away. Then we get on this boat radio, if one of us can figure out how to use the goddamn thing, and call for air rescue.”

“Which'll take forever to get here.”

“Exactly. But then we're covered, procedure-wise.”

It sounded like a solid plan, with only one serious variable. Joe Salazar decided to put the variable out of his mind. He stowed the flashlight, reclaimed his post at the wheel of the police boat and steered a true course for Old Rhodes Key.

A straight line through open seas. No sweat.

 

 

THE
channel that leads from the ocean to the cut of Old Rhodes Key is called Caesar Creek. It is deep and fairly broad, and well charted with visible markers. For this Joe Salazar was profoundly thankful. Having mastered the balky throttle, he guided the Aquasport in at half-speed, with John Murdock standing (or trying to) in the bow. Murdock cupped his hands around his eyes to block the peripheral light; he was peering at the island, searching for signs of Mick Stranahan. Two hundred yards from the mouth of the cut, Salazar killed the engine and joined his chubby partner on the front of the boat.

“There he is!” Murdock's breathing was raspy, excited.

Salazar squinted into the night. “Yeah, Johnny, sitting under that light on the dock.”

They could see the lantern and, in its white penumbra, the figure of a man with his legs hanging over the planks. The figure wore a baseball cap, a tan jacket, and long pants. From the angle of the cap, the man's head appeared to be down, chin resting on his chest.

“Dumb fuckwad's asleep.” Murdock's laugh was high and brittle. He already had his pistol out.

“Then I guess we better do it,” Salazar said.

“By all means.” Murdock dropped to a crouch.

They had tested the blue lights and siren on the way down, so Salazar knew where the switches were. He flipped them simultaneously, then turned the ignition key. As the Evinrude growled to life, Salazar put all his weight to the throttle.

Gun in hand, John Murdock clung awkwardly to the bow rail as the Aquasport planed off and raced toward the narrow inlet. The wind spiked Murdock's hair and flattened his cheeks. His teeth were bared in a wolfish expression that might have passed for a grin.

As the boat got closer, Joe Salazar expected Mick Stranahan to wake up at any moment and look in their direction—but the man didn't move.

A half mile away, sitting on a milk crate under some trees, Christina Marks heard the police siren. With a shiver she closed her eyes and waited for the sound of gunfire.

 

 

THEY
could have come one of several ways. The most likely was the oceanside route, following Caesar Creek into the slender fork between tiny Hurricane Key and Old Rhodes. This was the easiest way to Cartwright's dock.

But a westward approach, out of Biscayne Bay, would leave more options and offer more cover. They could come around Adams Key, or circle the Rubicons and sneak through the grassy flats behind Totten. But that would be a tricky and perilous passage, almost unthinkable for someone who had never made the trip.

Not at night, Stranahan decided, not these guys.

He had gambled that they would come by the ocean.

In the water he had carried only the knife and the spool. Four times he made the swim between Old Rhodes and Hurricane Key; not a long swim, but enervating against a strong current. After pulling himself up on Cartwright's dock for the last time, Stranahan had rubbed the cold ache from his legs and arms. It had taken a long time to catch his breath.

Then he pulled on some dry clothes, got the .38 that Luis Córdova had loaned him, and sat down to wait.

 

 

THE
spool in Stranahan's duffel had contained five hundred yards of a thin plastic monofilament. The line was calibrated to a tensile strength of one hundred twenty pounds, for it was designed to withstand the deep-water surges of giant marlin and bluefin tuna. It was the strongest fishing line manufactured in the world, tournament quality. For further advantage it was lightly tinted a charcoal gray, which made it practically invisible underwater.

Even out of the water, the line was sometimes impossible to see.

At night, for instance. Stretched across a mangrove creek.

Undoubtedly John Murdock never saw it.

He was squatting toadlike on the front of the boat, training his .357 at the figure on the dock as they made their approach. Under Joe Salazar's hand, the Aquasport was moving at exactly forty-two miles per hour.

Mick Stranahan had strung three taut vectors between the islands. The lines were fastened to the trunks of trees and crossed the water at varying heights. The lowest of the lines was snapped immediately by the bow of the speeding police boat. The other two garroted John Murdock in the belly and the neck, respectively.

Joe Salazar, in the bewildering final millisecond of his life, watched his partner thrown backward, bug-eyed and gurgling, smashed to the deck by unseen hands. Then the same spectral claw seized Salazar by the throat, chopped him off his feet, bounced his overripe skull off the howling Evinrude and twanged him directly into the creek.

The noise made by the fishing line when it snapped on Joe Salazar's neck was very much like that of a gunshot.

Christina Marks ran all the way back to Cartwright's dock. Along the way she dropped the Coleman lantern, hissing, on some rocks. But she kept running. When she got there, Caesar Creek was black and calm. She saw no boat, no sign of intruders.

On the dock, the familiar figure of a man in a baseball cap slouched beneath another lantern, this one glowing brightly.

“Mick, what happened?”

Then Christina realized that it wasn't a man at all, but a scarecrow wearing Stranahan's poplin jacket and long corduroys. The body of the scarecrow was stuffed with palm leaves and dried seaweed. The head was a green coconut. The baseball cap fit like a charm.

THE
Aquasport wedged itself deep in the mangroves on Totten Key. The engine was dead, but the prop was still twirling when Mick Stranahan got there. Barefoot, he monkeyed through the slick rubbery branches until he could see over the side of the battered boat. In his right hand he held Luis Córdova's .38.

He didn't need it. Detective John Murdock wasn't dead, but he would be soon. He lay motionless on the deck, his knees drawn up in pain. Blackish blood oozed from his nose. Only one eye was open, rhythmically illuminated by the strobing blue police light. Cracked but still flashing, the light dangled from a nest of loose wires on the console. It looked like a fancy electric Christmas ornament.

Stranahan felt his stomach shrink to a knot. He put the pistol in his jeans and swung his legs over the gunwale. “John?”

Murdock's eye blinked, and he grunted weakly.

Stranahan said, “Try to take it easy.” Like the guy had a choice. “One quick question, I've got to ask. You fellows were going to kill me, weren't you?”

“Damn right,” rasped the dying detective.

“Yeah, that's what I thought. I can't believe you're still sore about Judge Goomer.”

Murdock managed a bloody grin and said, “You dumb fuckwad.”

Stranahan leaned forward and brushed a horsefly off Murdock's forehead. “But if it wasn't revenge for the judge, then why pull something like this?” Silence gave him the answer. “Don't tell me somebody paid you.”

Murdock nodded, or tried. His neck wasn't working so well; it looked about twice as long as it was supposed to be.

Stranahan said, “You took money for this? From who?”

“Eat me,” Murdock replied.

“It was probably the doctor,” Stranahan speculated. “Or a go-between. That would make more sense.”

Murdock's reply came out as a dank rattle. Mick Stranahan sighed. Queasiness at the sight of Murdock had given way to emotional exhaustion.

“John, it's some kind of city, isn't it? All I wanted out here was some peace and solitude. I was through with all this crap.”

Murdock gave a hateful moan, but Stranahan needed to talk. “Here I'm minding my own business, feeding the fish, not bothering a soul, when some guy shows up to murder me. At my very own house, John, in the middle of the bay! All because some goddamn doctor thinks I'm going to break open a case that's so old it's mildewed.”

The dying Murdock seemed hypnotized by the flashing blue light. It was ticking much faster than his own heart. One of the detective's hands began to crawl like an addled blue crab, tracking circles on the blood-slickened deck.

Stranahan said, “I know it hurts, John, but there's nothing I can do.”

In a slack voice Murdock said, “Fuck you, shithead.” Then his eye closed for the last time.