The temperature was holding nicely at seventy-five degrees or so, but the clouds had thickened and lowered. It didn't feel exactly like thunderstorm weather—that quiet heaviness—but the stiffening breeze blew straight onshore from the sea, and I noticed a distinct chop coming up on the water beyond the marina. The salty wind smelled cool and metallic, like water in a new tin cup.
I strolled down B dock counting the slips until I came to number 21 on the left. The boat's bridge was the same as I'd memorized while watching pug-nosed guy. The boat, about a twenty-seven-footer, was named the Lady Valiant, which I approved of. Beverly Austin was not on deck.
I took a good look at the vessel, a cabin cruiser with some deep-water fishing features—a bait well, rod holders, fold-up outriggers, a gaff hook clipped to the starboard gunwale, and a socket in the cockpit that I guessed you'd set your fighting chair into. There were built-in lockers under bench seats for your tackle, life jackets and the like, topped with blue vinyl cushions. The Lady Valiant was fairly tidy, her white fiberglass skin clean and unpitted.
I glanced up into the shade of the covered bridge, a step up from the deck. It was a hut-like space just big enough for the skipper to sit in the padded seat and run the boat and use the radio. The chrome steering wheel gleamed in the shade. The ignition key, attached to a tiny yellow float, was inserted into the console.
As I say, Beverly Austin was not on deck, but she was below, behind the closed cabin door; I heard her voice spilling up through the open ports, angry and fast. I listened closely but couldn't make out her words. No one was answering her; however, so she must be on a cell phone, or just ranting to herself.
I thought it prudent to take possession of that ignition key. Very quietly, I leaned forward and grasped the railing. I stretched my left foot out from the dock, set the sole of my Chuck Taylor on the gunwale, and gradually put weight on it. The boat very slightly rocked in response, until I was balancing on that foot. I lifted the other one and brought it up. I crouched on the gunwale.
A couple of gulls skirmished on the nearest piling, squawking their atavistic song of hate, or love. Two gray mantle feathers floated down, then away in the breeze. I couldn't tell whether that was a good omen or a bad one. My blouse was clammy with sweat, even though the wind had strengthened even more.
Beverly stopped ranting. The gulls settled down. The world was quiet but for the rushing of wind.
I eased into the cockpit with catlike precision, just as Calico Jones would do. I wished I had a honking .45-caliber semiautomatic strapped to my hip, but people in hell wish they had ice water, don't they?
I'd have made it to the bridge, except that in my concentration on the key I didn't see a piece of crinkly clear plastic—a wrapper from food or bait—until the wind skittered it in front of me and I stepped on it.
Keeruncha! said the plastic.
I heard a bumping from the cabin. The door burst open, and Beverly Austin stood shading her eyes against the noon sun.
"Hello," I said genially.
"Oh, my God," she said. "Oh, my God."
----
She was a textbook cutie, as you know. The pixie face—little cleft in her chin, did I mention that?—the bouncy hair, the pleasantly swelling chest and hips, you know all about it. But the thing was, at that instant she was not cute at all.
Seeing her standing there in the cabin doorway, the color draining out of her face, I saw that she was what she had always been: a schemer. A casual destroyer of other people for the sake of money. Someone who felt entitled to what someone else had if she could merely figure out a way to take it. The taking of the thing entities her to it: That is the philosophy of such a person.
I blurted, "Audrey, I love you!"
The cockpit was a large one for a fishing boat, but only about seven feet by seven at that. Ours was to be a close-order encounter.
I watched her brain sort frantically through possibilities. I saw her tell herself not to panic. Her head snapped around, looking up and down the dock, sweeping around the neighboring boats.
"I'm alone," I said.
She tucked her chin, relaxed her neck, and swallowed. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was barely steady.
I smiled desperately. "I had to tell you that I love you no matter what you've done. I almost hate myself for it, but I love you and I can't change that."
"How did you—"
"I love you, I love you, I love you!"
"Shut up! How did you—"
I reached toward her with a cupped hand. "I can't bear to be apart from you," I said tenderly. "I don't have much to give, but—"
"Please shut up. How did you find me?"
"After a kiss."
She dropped her arms and I did it. So help me, I gathered her and pressed my pelvis into hers and kissed her as passionately as I could, and the first time we'd kissed came flooding back to me, so sweet and exciting. I made sure to close my eyes, knowing she'd keep hers open to check my sincerity. Her lips were warm but tense.
I released her and flung myself onto one of the cushioned locker tops.
Beverly sat on the short bench at the transom, facing the bow, sideways to me. Our legs stretched into the cockpit at right angles. She looked at me, waiting.
I said, "It's irrelevant how I found you."
"Did you—did you talk to—"
"All right. Truth be told, I didn't find you! I never lost you—because I followed you!"
"You what!"
"I never left town that morning." I kept smiling.
"You—you—"
"You're not that hard to keep track of, you know. Hey, sunshine, relax! Got anything to drink around here?"
"Then who—"
"I've been enjoying just making sure you're safe. I love to watch you, you know? Everything you do is exciting. Oh, it's definitely been a voyeuristic thrill, Audrey. It definitely has."
She was totally, thoroughly flummoxed, and it was a great thing to see. She decided to go with the flow, which of course was my flow. I saw her relax a fraction; it was evident I was alone and unarmed, and she had time to deal with me. Perhaps she could make use of me.
I saw all this in her eyes.
She glanced casually at the boat's controls, then leaned back on the cushioned bench and stretched her arms along the transom. "Lillian, what made you decide to let me be alone in the house?"
"Just a feeling I had. I'm very good at getting feelings about things. Audrey, I know you're freaked out, me showing up here like a stalker or something." I touched her cheek softly with the back of my fingers. "Don't be," I whispered.
The breeze whipped at our hair, and the strength of it felt good to me. The planet carries on its business regardless.
"I have to say," I went on, "I was hurt—disappointed, frankly. I mean, Audrey, you did behave badly. You can admit that, can't you?" I wanted to lunge for that ignition key, but she was watching me like a lizard.
"Well," she said, "I'm sorry you felt—"
"But I blame myself."
"Uh—"
"If only I hadn't drawn you into that situation. If only I'd just kept my mouth shut about what Drooly Rick found in that wall—if I'd just tried to handle Porrocks's avarice and dishonesty on my own, if I hadn't put all that temptation right in front of you. Hell …" I looked at her. "But then, you wouldn't be so flush as you are now."
She sought a new handle on me. "So you want—"
"I don't want a penny." I moved to the end of the bench seat and took her hand. Our knees touched. I held her hand in both of mine as I'd held her sister's.
She wouldn't look up.
"Audrey, please meet my eyes."
She lifted her head. Her eyes showed controlled fear.
Now I could ask it. "Please, tell me what you ever felt for me."
After what seemed like an hour, she said, "It wasn't you. I've never loved anyone."
"Not even your sister?"
She made a sound in her throat but turned it into a cough.
She knew then I'd come for justice.
I think I was in a bit of denial about the situation I'd created because when she said, "Let's go fishing!" I thought it'd be a nice way to have a quiet talk about everything, the way I did with my Uncle Guff. Everything out in the open.
A second later I realized what a bad idea it would be.
But Beverly Austin had me.
She quickly flipped off the stern line and took her place at the controls. She pressed switches and turned knobs. "Cast off that bow line, will you?" It was her turn to smile.
I hesitated. If I jumped off the boat and let her go, well, she would be gone, God knew where. I could dash to the public phone and call the police, but the time it would take me to explain the situation, them to reach Stonehauser and confirm it, then to get a pursuit boat or helicopter or plane on the job—all but hopeless. I didn't even know whether she could skipper a boat, but she appeared to know what she was doing. Well, if you spend time in Florida now and then, get a boyfriend with a boat to do some intermittent money-laundering for you, you can see how you might gain some skills yourself.
If I stayed aboard, she would try to kill me. Therefore, if I stayed aboard I would have to figure out a way to neutralize her. Not kill her, of course—just get her to let me tie her up or something. Oh, Christ.
I went up to the bow line and cast it off.
Beverly Austin piloted the Lady Valiant out of the marina in a few minutes, then throttled it up until we'd rounded the barrier island, then she pushed the throttle even harder and pointed the nose due east, out to sea. The blotty gray sky was huge. The heaving water was huge. Everything was huge except for our boat and little old us. I give her credit for bothering to smile as she did all this, in a transparent effort to charm me back into the cluelessness I'd left behind in Detroit. She kept one eye on the water and one eye on me the whole time.
But never mind cluelessness: It was all I could do to hold on as the hull smacked the mounting waves. Wak-cha! Wak-cha! Wak-aka-cha! Salt spray stung my face as I clung to the port railing. Small craft were headed in, their skippers glancing over at us as we rushed out with the tide.
Soon we were out of sight of other boats, and the Florida coast was only a dark ruff on the horizon, the tall hotels of Fort Lauderdale and Miami Beach mere serrations.
I thought about the fishing equipment and tackle. In movies you see people fighting on boats with the most imaginative weapons. One thing I did know was that when you go hunting for big fish you take along a billy club, to make sure the fish is dead before boating it. Therefore practically every boat in the world has a billy club handy because every fisherman believes he'll haul in a record-buster sooner or later.
I thought that if I could knock Beverly overboard, I could throw her a life jacket and a line and tow her safely in, radioing ahead to the authorities.
Yes, that was a plan.
She cut the engine and turned toward me. I'd hoped she'd try one last seduction—you know? I'm ashamed to tell you that.
The boat's momentum slowed abruptly, and Beverly Austin wasted no time. I saw her hand flash into a compartment next to the radio and thought, Lord, she's got a gun, but it wasn't a gun she came up with. It was a knife, a sheathed filleting knife. I can't say the sight of it made me much happier.
Chapter 30
I judged the blade to be about seven inches long. She threw away the sheath as I picked up a blue vinyl seat cushion and braced myself. She leaped at me, her eyes as cold and empty as caves. I thrust the cushion to meet the blade, hoping to knock it out of her hand. At the same time I aimed a stomp at her instep, but missed as the Lady Valiant lurched in the waves.
The knife more or less glanced off the firm cushion.
I saw she was surprised at the force of my counterstrike.
"I had a feeling you might do that," I managed to grunt.
The thing to remember during a dirty hand-to-hand fight—I tell you this just in case!—is that to surprise your opponent you must do more than one thing at once. That is, you must not only parry a blow, you must deliver one at the same time, or nearly instantly. You must punch with a hand and kick with a knee, all the while screaming curses at the top of your lungs. You must become a frenzy of unstoppable violence. I'm not saying I'm great at it, but I know that much.
Beverly shrieked wordlessly and came at me again. Again I lunged at her knife hand with the cushion, which she grabbed with her free hand. My heart hammered in my ears.
Was she stronger, or was I?
My reach was certainly longer, but she outweighed me. Moreover, she was a killer.
This time the knife pierced straight through the cushion, its tip popping out right in front of my nose. I yanked the cushion hard sideways and threw my elbow at her head. But she retained her grip on the slim knife handle, withdrew it, and struck again.
I felt something hit my upper left arm and thought she had punched me, but then I saw the knife handle still in her fist. The blade was stuck in my biceps, such as they were. I smacked her in the face with my right fist as hard as I could, hoping to break her nose, and I think I did, because I felt something give and heard a satisfying crunk! She screamed and fell back, stunned. Blood poured from her nose.
I grasped the knife and pulled it from my arm. I didn't feel the wound.
The boat, engine idling, propeller disengaged, lurched randomly in the whitecaps. It was impossible to anticipate the movement of the deck; our fight must have looked like a drunken one to the gulls.
"You're not gonna kill me, you psycho bitch!" I hollered. "God damn you! Stay back!" I neither wanted an explanation nor thought I'd get it, but I said, "That money wasn't yours."
"Finders keepers," she grunted.
"You killed Rick."
"I'll kill you."
"You killed Vic Toretti with heroin, and you ran over your sister and Porrocks."
"Go to hell!"
"Not by myself!"
Beverly came at me again, hurling her whole body in an attempt to knock me down, and she did. I couldn't believe she'd run right into me like that while I was holding the knife. That was my key failure. She was astride me in a microsecond. She grabbed my right wrist with both hands and slammed my hand on the deck, once, twice, bam! I watched the knife fly out of my grasp. Then, as the boat heaved, it slithered away, trailing my blood, into a scupper and out of sight. Blood dripped from Beverly's nose into my eyes.
"No!" I screamed. "Let go!" I rolled onto her knee, and she grabbed my hair and tried to bang my head on the deck. I levered my leg against her hip and managed to flip her off me, losing a fistful of hair in the process, but gaining a second of action time.
She scrambled to a locker and snatched it open. I leaped to my feet and grabbed the gaff hook and tried to roundhouse it on her, but the arc took way too long; she sidestepped and pointed a short red tube at me. It was a flare, but I had enough time, seeing it sizzle to life, to duck. The fiery clump of phosphor shrieked past my head.
"Hah!" I said, blinking.
Next she came up with the billy club—what did I tell you? This one appeared to be a foot-and-a-half piece of hickory, its handle wrapped in black tape. She rushed me. I ducked, but a lurch of the boat threw my head into the path of her club.
The rock-hard wood split my scalp—I felt that—but she hadn't generated enough force to addle me or knock me down.
"Shit!" she hissed, scrambling to face me again.
I thought, Well, it's worth a try, and swiftly took my Case knife from my back jeans pocket. I snapped open the humble three-inch blade, which she disregarded. She sprang, and I thrust it into her upper abdomen as she reached me. At the same time I blocked the club with my left hand. It would not make a fist.
"Huff!" she said, and wavered, staring into my face. She dropped the club.
I held my little knife into her, and her body sagged forward. Her warm blood flowed over my hand. Her eyes clawed my face. I felt the twitchings of her insides, transmitted by the handle of the
knife.
I dared hope it was over, but with a surge of energy she leaped backward off the knife. My hand was slippery with her blood, but I was ready and held on to my trusty knife.
Beverly lunged sideways for the club just as I thought to kick it away. She came up empty and much slower, but determined to attack me with her bare hands.
I had plenty of time to meet her with my jackknife, driving it in roughly the same place, this time angling it upward. I felt the hinge give slightly, but it was in up to the hilt, and stayed in.
My bloody pixie lover collapsed onto me, her mouth wide, screaming airlessly, her eyes rolling back now. I stepped aside and let her fall to the deck.
Chapter 31
Before I would go to sleep that night, I would clean my hands and wrap a towel from the boat's galley around my punctured arm and tie it off using my teeth. I would take a sleeping bag from one of the berths and spread it over Beverly Austin's corpse. The wind would whip it half away and I would use a tackle box and a small ice chest to hold it mostly down, in lieu of dragging the body below.
I would search the Lady Valiant and find sixty-four banded packets of hundred-dollar bills equaling $320,000 in a storage compartment in the prow.
I would put the boat in gear and figure out how to work the radio and tell the Coast Guard what happened, and I would let them know I was following the compass due west, back to shore. The storm would finally break, and rain would lash down until I would make out the running lights of the Coast Guard cutter, all blurry at first.
I would receive medical attention and explain everything to the police, then wait in the crappy motel reading newspapers until they would tell me to board the Greyhound for Detroit. Porrocks would wire me $200.
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