Theresa Weir - Iguana Bay

by Iguana Bay [SIM-339] (lit)

  "Just in case we run into any of your buddies," he explained.

  After boarding the boat, he untied it from the moorings and pushed off from the dock. But when he reached to turn the ignition key, it was gone. He immediately swung around to Elise, his dark eyebrows drawn together in accusation.

  Elise had forgotten she'd taken the keys. It seemed so foolish now. What had she hoped to accomplish? Had she hoped that by forcing him to remain on the island, she could force him to care?

  Yes.

  She had gotten close to him once. He had begun to open up to her, and she had hoped that if she told him everything, explained it all, then he would understand. But most of all she had needed to erase the memory of the last time she'd seen him, erase the memory of the scorn on his face when she'd left him beaten and bloody to go with Sebastian.

  But she hadn't taken into account the depth of his love for Melissa. He still loved her, and Elise couldn't begin to compete with a dead person.

  Don't ever love anybody.

  The pain in Dylan's voice when he'd spoken those words had cut Elise to the marrow-because she'd known he had been talking about loving someone else.

  No, it had been foolish of her to come to Iguana Bay. She had only succeeded in widening the gulf between them.

  Now she edged past Dylan, opened the bench seat and retrieved the missing keys. Without a word he took them from her and turned away.

  A few minutes later they were underway, heading north, in the direction of the Florida Coast.

  Elise's hair whipped around her head, stinging her face, but she hardly felt it. She was thinking about the last time she and Dylan had come this way together. She had carried a silent hope deep within her heart.

  Now she felt incredibly hollow.

  God, how she wished she'd never come to Florida. How she wished she had stayed in Wisconsin. She could have been busy with summer school right now. So simple. So uncomplicated.

  She looked over to where Dylan stood silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, staring straight ahead, his hands on the wheel, dark hair tangling in the wind.

  Remote. So remote.

  She felt a pain that was all too familiar. She'd felt this way once before, not so very long ago-the morning she'd gotten up to find that Grandma Max had died quietly in her sleep. Grief... and an overwhelming sense of loss.

  Dylan.

  He never glanced in her direction. He was probably thinking of someone else. Someone with long blond hair and full red lips. Someone beautiful and glamorous. Someone Elise could never be ...

  So she closed her eyes and tried not to think at all.

  Dylan heard the helicopter before he saw it. Ordinarily he would have reacted immediately. The instinct to survive was second nature to him. But his mind was too full of Elise, of what had almost happened back there, what he'd almost done to her.

  He'd been drunk, but being drunk was no excuse for forcing yourself on someone.

  Right now he was fighting the emotions churning inside him, fighting the overwhelming urge to turn the boat around and take Elise back with him to Iguana Bay.

  Crazy.

  She was driving him crazy.

  How could he still want her? It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense.

  The sound of the helicopter finally registered in his conscious mind. He cast a glance skyward, spotting an aircraft to the northwest, heading their way. He kept an eye on it, watched as it came gradually closer... until it was close enough for him to recognize the unique body style.

  It was a fancy version of the helicopters used by the Miami police. A deluxe model, made for private industry. There weren't many of them around. In fact, the only person he knew who owned one was Adrian Sebastian.

  Dylan felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach.

  One hand on the wheel, he grabbed Elise's arm with the other to get her attention. When she looked at him, he shouted, the wind tearing his words away, "Does Sebastian know you're with me?"

  She shook her head. "No!"

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes!"

  Apparently Sebastian had decided to even old scores and get Dylan out of his hair for good.

  And Dylan knew with chilling certainty that if Elise got in the way, she would be killed, too.

  Just like Melissa.

  The helicopter's top speed was roughly 155 knots. He wasn't sure what his boat could do-he'd never topped .it out, but there was no way it could be driven wide open over rough water, not without wiping out or breaking up.

  He cut back on the throttle and jammed the gearshift into neutral. The drag of the water against the hull caused the boat to slow, then settle into the water.

  Dylan scrambled to the bench seat, tore open the lid and dug through the life jackets until he pulled out a bulletproof vest.

  "Put this on!" he shouted over the roar of the wind and the ocean, pressing the jacket in Elise's hands.

  She stood there, gripping the heavy, metal-lined jacket, staring up at him as if he'd lost his mind.

  He grabbed the jacket from her and shoved her arms into it, one at a time. Fastening the front, he explained, "The helicopter-it's Sebastian!"

  The color drained from her face, and her panic-filled eyes shot back to him, taking in his open shirt, his un-protected chest.

  "What about you?" she cried. "It's you he wants!"

  "It doesn't matter! If you're in the way, he won't care!"

  He touched her cheek, suddenly wishing for more time, wishing they hadn't left Iguana Bay, wishing he had believed her, truth or not.

  But there was no time.

  "Get down!" He pushed her to the floor, between the instrument panel and passenger seat. "No matter what happens, stay there!"

  He took the wheel, engaged the gears and rammed the throttle forward, putting the boat in a wide turn so they were heading into the wind, away from the chopper.

  They didn't have a prayer. He knew they didn't have a prayer, but he sure as hell wasn't going to make it any easier for Sebastian. A moving target was much harder to hit than a stationary one.

  The boat's speed steadily increased, the bow smacking the surface of the water so hard that the slanted deck shuddered underfoot and water came slamming over the side in huge, breath-stealing sheets.

  If they could make it to Iguana Bay they might have a chance. Slim, but a chance all the same. Out here, they were sitting ducks.

  He spared a quick glance behind. The chopper was closing in, narrowing the space between them.

  Ten minutes. It would take at least ten more minutes to reach Iguana Bay.

  They didn't have a chance.

  Just then he heard a sharp crack. At the exact same time the windshield shattered, fragments of glass flying through the air like a fine, razor-sharp spray. Behind him, the bench seats exploded, white stuffing popping in every direction.

  A damn submachine gun! They were being fired at with a machine gun!

  He steered with his left hand and pulled the Police Special from the waistband of his jeans with his right. With his thumb, he released the safety and pointed the gun over one shoulder in the general direction of the aircraft-a desperate move. No way could he hit anything. It was like trying to pat your head and rub your belly at the same time-while walking a tightrope.

  He squeezed the trigger. Again and again and again. The windshield of the chopper shattered, and the craft immediately pulled up and away. As he watched, it made a wide circle, ready to come in for a second time.

  Suddenly Elise was beside him, her hand on his arm, another on the steering wheel. "I'll drive!" she shouted up at him. The wind whipped her words away.

  "No!"

  She would be too exposed.

  "You can't drive and shoot at the same time!"

  She was right. He would have to let the boat idle.

  "Get down and stay there!"

  He could see the stubborn set of her chin, knew she was getting ready to argue.

  Fear for her raced thro
ugh him. "Elise, get down!" he half shouted, half pleaded, in frustrated panic.

  But she didn't move.

  "For God's sake! I don't want you to die because of me!"

  He watched her face as his words registered. She looked stunned. Then she nodded and moved back to where she'd been.

  Dylan picked up the M-16 and hurried aft. He set the rifle so it would empty the twenty-shot magazine in one blast.

  There would be no second chances. If the boat heaved, if the helicopter veered, if he lost his footing, if he waited too long, if he didn't wait long enough ...

  So many variables...

  He watched as the helicopter loomed steadily nearer and nearer.

  Squinting through the sights, he aimed for the tail rotor, but he couldn't keep on target.

  He'd been drinking for three days, and his hands trembled. Doubts assaulted him, but he quickly pushed them aside. He took a deep breath, and held it. His hands steadied.

  Not yet. Let them get closer... .

  His index finger itched to pull back on the smooth metal lever.

  Not yet...

  Sweat broke out on his body, the wind drying the perspiration as fast as it came.

  One more second... Just one more second. Wait until the tail rotor is steady in the sights. Ready... ready...

  Now!

  He squeezed the trigger.

  In the same instant spastic gunfire spattered from the helicopter. Hot pain ripped through his upper thigh, and the recoil from the M-16 slammed into his shoulder like a wrecking ball, its echo shuddering through his chest.

  The helicopter's tailpiece and stabilizer bar exploded, shattered pieces falling to the ocean like confetti. The machine gun fire stopped abruptly as the damaged craft went into a slow-motion, out-of-control spin before crashing into the ocean.

  Pain.

  Red-hot. Agonizing. Nausea washed over him in dizzy, sweaty waves, sucking him down into a whirling blackness.

  He struggled to maintain his bearings. He couldn't afford to pass out now.

  Fight it. Fight it.

  The blackness faded.

  His vision cleared. His initial instinct was to pull up beside the floundering chopper and, if he wasn't dead already, put a bullet through Sebastian. But he had Elise to think about. He couldn't risk getting that close.

  She was standing behind him, watching the slowly sinking chopper.

  Heart pounding, Dylan grabbed her shoulder and swung her around, his eyes raking her trembling body. Her eyes, when she focused on him, were full of shocked horror.

  I'm sorry. Sorry I ever involved you in this.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  She swallowed and nodded.

  She reached up and touched a spot on his face where the flying glass had nicked him. "You're bleeding."

  He hoped to hell she didn't look down at his thigh, where he could feel the warm stickiness spreading, soaking into his jeans. He didn't want her scared any more than she already was.

  He reached up and grasped her hand. "A scratch from the glass," he said, careful to keep his left side away from her. He gently pushed her sideways, back to the passenger seat. After she was settled, he took the helm and gunned the engine, heading the boat toward Iguana Bay.

  Ten minutes later he spotted the island in the distance. Home. It was going to feel good to be home....

  But as he watched, the island became hazy. Black crept into the edges of his vision. He blinked and gripped the wheel tighter, his palms slick with cold sweat. Nausea rose in him. Then the blackness, like a giant tidal wave, swept over him, and he collapsed against the steering wheel.

  Gradually Dylan became aware that the boat was no longer flying through the water. No, it was gently rocking. Back and forth. Like a cradle. Or a porch swing. Underneath the rocking was a vibration ... a motor. No, a vibrator bed. The Hideaway used to have vibrator beds. Put in a quarter...

  "Dylan!"

  He struggled through the blackness. But it was thick, incredibly thick. He could feel the humming of an engine, sense light behind his eyelids.

  "Dylan!"

  Elise's voice. She sounded scared. He had to let her know he had everything under control.

  He struggled to open his eyes, but couldn't. Then he felt her hands on his shoulders, pushing him back so that his head was leaning against the headrest. He heard her horrified gasp, but her voice sounded far away, muted. Was he dying? Was that why her voice was so distant? The rifle. He'd fired his M-16 without wearing earplugs. He always went a little deaf for a while after firing his M-16 without earplugs.

  It was one of the hardest things he'd ever done, but with a superhuman effort he managed to force his eye-lids open.

  Elise was leaning over him. And she was scared. Scared to death. He reached up to reassure her in some way, just to touch her face, but when he took his hand away, he left a trail of blood on her pale cheek.

  Oh, hell.

  He lifted his head just enough to look down at him-self. Not a pretty sight.

  A damn bloodbath.

  He felt incredibly weak, incredibly tired.

  "I think you're gonna have to drive," he mumbled, slightly shocked at how weak his voice sounded.

  "Why didn't you tell me you'd been shot?" she cried, her voice frantic.

  He struggled to pull his thoughts together. "Didn't want to be a bother..." He tilted his head back so he could see her better. "An' I didn't want you to look at me the way you're looking at me." Another thought came to him, something stupid that made him wonder if he wasn't getting a little light-headed. "I didn't want to spoil your vacation...."

  "Oh, Dylan," she said, sounding as if she were choking back tears.

  Next thing he knew, she was helping him to the deck. Behind his head, he could hear the empty beer cans rattling around.

  He looked up at her, but the expression on her face made him forget all about his physical pain. It made him ache in another way.

  He'd seen that expression before. Where?

  His dad. His dad had looked at him like that when Dylan's mother had died. Dylan had never gotten her flowers before, but that day he'd bought her some roses because he knew how much she liked them. But when he got to the hospital, his father met him in the hall to tell him that his mother was dead.

  His face had held the same pain as Elise's....

  Tears glistening in her eyes, she reached down and lightly touched his cheek. Her hand was soft, his jaw sandpaper rough.

  Dylan tried to think of something that would cheer her up. He asked, "What grade do you teach?"

  She smiled at him through her tears, and he thought he would have taken a hundred bullets to see that smile.

  Chapter 18

  Seabirds cried. Water slapped rhythmically against the hull of the gently rocking boat.

  Blood. It was everywhere. Elise had never seen so much blood.

  The waves that had come crashing over their heads earlier had swamped the boat. Dylan's blood had mixed with the salt water, and now the entire deck was awash with it.

  His eyes were closed, his face deathly pale against the darkness of his hair, the darkness of his unshaven jaw:

  Don't you die on me, Elise prayed. Don't you dare die on me, Dylan Davis.

  With trembling hands, she felt his wrist. As soon as her fingers made contact with his cool skin, his pain-glazed eyes opened and locked with hers.

  The only knowledge she had about first aid had been gathered at an eight-hour Red Cross class that dealt with handling schoolyard accidents. But then, anyone would know that the most important thing to do was stop the bleeding.

  She shrugged out of the bulletproof vest, then elevated Dylan's leg by propping it up with a couple of seat cushions that had survived the gunfire.

  She tried to lift his jeans away from the wound, working one finger into the jagged rip in the cloth where the bullet had entered, hoping to be able to tear the denim in order to get to the wound.

  Dylan lay watching her, and now, bro
w furrowed in pain, face ashen, he tried to work his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. "Knife," he mumbled by way of explanation.

  Elise lifted his hand away and replaced it with her own, working her blood-slick fingers around until they made contact with the knife. She pulled it out, but when she tried to open it, her fingers slipped on the steel. She wiped her hands on her skirt and tried again. This time she was able to tug the blade free.

  She sliced his pant leg open enough to reveal a round, oozing hole in the fleshy part of his upper, inner thigh.

  It was then she realized that the bullet had gone all the way through and come out the other side. There was a larger exit hole at the back of his leg.

  The blood oozed out in a steady stream. No spurting, thank God. The bullet had somehow missed a major artery.

  She scanned the boat for something to use as a bandage. Everything was soaked. She finally found an old green T-shirt with the life jackets. She tore it into strips and wrapped it around his leg, jeans and all.

  Dylan stiffened and paled even more, sucking air in through his teeth.

  Elise almost came undone.

  Oh, God. She couldn't stand this. Couldn't stand hurting him like this. Her hands were shaking so badly that she could hardly tie a knot in the smaller strip she used to secure the makeshift bandage.

  "We have to get you to a hospital," she told him when she had finished. Her voice shook as much as her hands. "But you're going to have to help me-I won't be able to find the way to the coast without your help."

  Confusion and doubt buffeted her. How much blood would he lose on the rough trip? Would he be able to remain conscious? If they became lost ...

  Terror gripped her.

  She'd never been so scared. Not even when the machine gun fire had ripped across the boat.

  "Iguana Bay," Dylan said, his eyes closed, his face deathly pale. "Go back ... to Iguana Bay." The words were forced through clenched teeth.

  "For God's sake, Dylan! We have to get you-"

  "The pigeons."

  Her fingers were sticky with his blood, and he was worried about some dumb pigeons? He was out of his head.

  "Send Skeeter ... a message."

  "Dylan, we can't depend on a bird to-"

  She'd almost said, save your life, but that would have been the same as admitting that he might not live. Her mind refused to dwell on such a possibility. A world without Dylan was unthinkable.