Deadly Pursuit

by Michael Prescott

  He liked the graceful curve where her neck met her collarbone, liked the way her skin stretched tight over the bone, liked the thinness and fragility of the clavicle itself, delicate as a wishbone, so easily snapped. And below it, above the yellow tank top, a vee of tanned cleavage that drew his gaze inexorably downward to her small, firm breasts, the nipples poking pertly at the thin fabric ...

  A slow shudder passed through him like a current of electricity, leaving a tingling numbness in his extremities. Abruptly he was hot and dizzy.

  “If you don’t mind”—he heard a cheerful, buoyant voice, realized it was his own—“I think I’ll avail myself of the facilities.”

  Gently he dislodged his feet from under Anastasia without waking her, then rose from the patio chair. He did not look at Kirstie again.

  Leaving the patio, he hurried down the hall to the bathroom and shut the door. The latch slipped into place with a soft snick.

  He lowered his head, exhaling a fluttery breath. All morning he’d fought to suppress the impulses raging in him like fever. He’d endured breakfast with the Gardners, then Steve’s endless guided tour of the house, then meaningless chitchat about old times, and finally lunch.

  The interludes with Steve hadn’t been so bad. Almost pleasant, in fact. It was good to recall old times, the summer days on the island, the invigorating sense of freedom and expanding horizons he had known in his youth. Steve was one of the few friends Jack had ever known in his active, extroverted, yet ultimately unsocial existence.

  Which made it all the more difficult to contemplate what he might have to do.

  He didn’t want to ... hurt Steve. Didn’t want their friendship to end ... that way.

  But he wasn’t sure he had any choice.

  Turning in slow circles, looking blankly at the room around him, he considered his situation.

  At breakfast Steve had told him that he and Kirstie hadn’t watched television, listened to the radio, or read a newspaper in two weeks. For the moment, then, he was safe; the Gardners suspected nothing. But once they left the island, they would learn he was a fugitive. They would call the police, report that he’d been on Pelican Key only a short time earlier. The search would narrow, the net tighten. There was little chance he could get away.

  Unless he had transportation. Something faster than the little runabout, and with a longer range. Something like the thirty-foot sportfisher that would arrive at the island tomorrow, piloted by a man named Pice.

  Steve had mentioned the boat while they were talking on the beach. The Black Caesar.

  Jack stopped turning. Motionless, intrigued, he focused his gaze inward on the slowly materializing outline of a plan.

  A vessel thirty feet long would carry a fair quantity of fuel. Probably one hundred fifty gallons. At its maximum cruising speed, say thirty knots, it would burn roughly ten gallons per hour, allowing for a range of four hundred fifty miles.

  The boat could get him to Andros Island, at the edge of the Bahamian archipelago, in seven hours. From there he could proceed southeast around Snap Point and lose himself among the seven hundred islands in the chain.

  He would take the runabout with him. Having hidden the Black Caesar in some isolated cove, he could use the tender to make short excursions to more populous areas. He would put a new name on the sportfisher, maybe repaint the brightwork and make other alterations. Meanwhile he’d drop a note in the mail to Teddy Lunt and set the wheels in motion for the creation of his new identity.

  Slowly he nodded.

  Yes, it really could work. Everything he’d planned to do on Pelican Key, he could accomplish just as easily in the Bahamas—if he had the boat.

  But to get it, he first had to put Steve and Kirstie out of the way.

  His mind recoiled from the most obvious solution.

  Killing Kirstie would be no hardship; quite the contrary. But Steve Gardner, good old Stevie, once his best friend ...

  Desperately he groped for an alternative.

  Knock him out? Strike a blow to his skull from behind? Unconscious, he could be bound with the mooring line from the runabout or with some other rope.

  Jack studied the idea for a long moment, then reluctantly discarded it.

  Too risky. In the movies it looked easy, but in real life it was hard to drop a man with a single blow. And if Steve failed to go down, Jack would have to fight him. Jack was in better condition, but that might not matter. In prison he had seen scrawny, underfed cons defeat bruisers twice their size. Adrenaline could do astonishing things for a man.

  No, half measures were inadequate. Evasions were pointless. There was only one sure way to incapacitate his friend, and that was to use the knife.

  One quick thrust, and Steve’s throat would open up like a torn paper bag.

  Jack bent forward at the waist and pressed his palms to the wall above the commode, his fingertips squeezed white against the smooth ceramic squares. He stared at the tiles, at the complicated pattern of inlaid pieces, but he was not seeing the pictures they made, was not seeing anything in this room.

  It was the future he saw, the future that had been sealed by fate, as firmly as if by an oracle’s prophesy, since the moment when he and Steve shook hands on the beach at sunrise.

  He didn’t want to do it. But he had no choice.

  Unless ...

  “I can run,” he whispered. “Run right now.”

  If he left the island immediately, headed south in the runabout, then went to ground somewhere in the Lower Keys ...

  The Gardners might not hear of the manhunt until they returned to Islamorada tomorrow afternoon. He would have a twenty-four-hour head start.

  But suppose they learned the news sooner. Suppose his abrupt departure raised suspicions in their minds. He would lose his small but crucial advantage.

  And there was one other consideration not to be neglected.

  Kirstie.

  If he left now, he would never have her.

  Jack pivoted away from the wall, faced his reflection in the mirror above the basin. Asked himself if his need for Kirstie Gardner outweighed his friendship with Steve. Was his obsession that strong? His compulsions so irresistible?

  He was mildly shocked to know that the answer was yes.

  He looked away. His face in the silvered glass was too hard to watch.

  All right, then. He would do it. Kill them both. Steve first, Kirstie later. Find a way to separate them, then feed his knife their blood.

  Jack relieved himself, washed and dried his hands, and ran the damp towel over his face. Finally he felt calm and composed once more.

  The Gardners were carrying their trays inside when he returned to the patio. He picked up his own tray and followed them into the kitchen.

  “Hey, Steve,” he said casually, “you have any snorkeling gear around?”

  “Sure. Kirstie and I have been out to the reef twice.”

  “I’d like to try that. Go skin-diving on the reef again—like we used to do. You up for it?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Kirstie, how about you?”

  She ran the plates under a stream of hot water. “I’d rather not.”

  Good. Jack had been hoping she would say no.

  “Let me get the gear,” Steve said. “Have you got a bathing suit?” Jack shook his head. “You can borrow one of mine. I’ll be right back.”

  He disappeared down the hall in the direction of the bedroom. Jack, left alone with Kirstie, felt the familiar itch in his palms.

  She leaned over the counter, toweling off the plates, her back to him. He took a step toward her, put insouciant friendliness in his voice.

  “Want some help with that?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I can wash the glasses.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Very.”

  The plate in her hand squeaked. She was rubbing hard.

  “You don’t like me,” he said softly, “do you?”


  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “If you got to know me, you’d feel different.”

  She turned. Gave him a hard, level stare. “No, I wouldn’t.”

  Blue eyes. So deeply, consummately blue. They stabbed the hot, impulsive part of him like ice picks.

  He was conscious of the knife in his pocket, the blade that would snap free at the prick of his thumbnail, the wicked triangular point ...

  One second. That was all it would take to pin her against the counter, slam the spear blade into her soft throat.

  “Are you ... feeling all right?” she asked slowly, watching his face.

  He needed to get away from her. Right now. He took a faltering step toward the doorway.

  “Just a little gas.” He managed a smile. “Must’ve been that Tabasco sauce.”

  He left her. Went through the dining room, out the French doors, onto the patio. Inhaled the calming fragrance of roses.

  Anastasia, stirring from sleep, trotted over and licked his hand. He scratched her ears.

  “Good girl. That’s a good, good girl.”

  The dog mewed softly, and Jack thought of Ronni Tyler in her death throes, whimpering with her last hissing exhalation of breath.

  It would be better with Kirstie. The best so far. Even without the syringe, it would be perfect.

  Soon, he promised himself.

  He let his mouth relax into a smile.

  15

  Kirstie intercepted Steve on his way out of the bedroom. He had changed into a bathing suit and was toting a bulky carrying case loaded with two sets of snorkel tubes, face masks, and swim fins.

  “Don’t go with him,” she said urgently.

  He stopped in the middle of the loggia and set down the case. “What?”

  “Out to the reef. Don’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  She couldn’t say, exactly. There were no words for it. In the kitchen a few minutes earlier, Jack had acted odd again, vaguely menacing—yet when she replayed the incident in her mind, she could find nothing definite to object to.

  He had asked if she wanted help with the dishes. Had said he wanted to be liked. A perfectly innocent exchange. Hardly one that should have left her frightened and unsettled.

  Yet it had. It had.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling, that’s all.”

  Steve smiled. “Like a man-eating shark is gonna get me?”

  “Not a shark. A snake.”

  She turned toward the French doors. Through the sun-streaked glass, Jack was visible in a far corner of the patio, petting the dog.

  Steve followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed as he understood.

  “Jack ...? Oh, come on.”

  The doors were shut, and Kirstie was sure Jack couldn’t hear their conversation, but she pitched her voice low anyway. “He scared me on the beach. He still scares me.”

  “I’ve known him for years—”

  “No. You knew him—years ago. That’s different. You haven’t seen him since high school.”

  “He hasn’t changed.”

  “Everybody changes.”

  “I don’t notice any difference.”

  “Because he’s hiding it.”

  Steve studied the floor. “What are you saying?” he asked slowly. “That he’s a psychopath? That he’s luring me to the reef so he can drown me?”

  Kirstie felt her scalp prickle. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Listen to yourself.”

  “No—you listen to me.” She took his hand. “I’m asking you not to go. Whether it makes any sense or not ... that’s what I want.”

  He lifted his head and stared at her for a long moment, then let his gaze travel through the French doors, to rest on Jack again.

  “I already promised,” he said softly.

  “So break your promise. People do it all the time.”

  “Not me.”

  Something snapped inside her. “Jesus Christ, when did you get to be so goddamn righteous?”

  “Calm down. He’ll hear you.”

  She almost screamed at him that she didn’t care what Jack Dance heard. Then self-possession took hold of her, and she bit back the words. She stood unmoving until she could speak quietly, reasonably.

  “You won’t even humor me a little?” she said at last.

  He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Not when I think you’re being irrational.”

  “Then will you at least do one thing for me?” He waited. “Take the gun.”

  “The gun?”

  “Just stick it in your bag. Where you can reach it—if you have to.”

  Steve shook his head disbelievingly, then crossed the narrow space between them and embraced her.

  “Kirstie ... Jack’s an old friend.”

  “I don’t want you to be alone with him.”

  “It’ll be all right.”

  “You won’t take the gun?”

  “Forget the gun. Everything will be fine.” He brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead and smiled. “I’ll be back in an hour. Still in one piece. I guarantee it.”

  Useless to argue. She yielded.

  “Of course you will,” she breathed, the words toneless, a memorized lesson. “Don’t mind me. I’m paranoid.”

  Abruptly he pulled her closer, his mouth meeting hers with surprising urgency. His sudden need, the driving intensity of his desire—she found it shocking, disorienting.

  Then he drew back, and Kirstie caught her breath. She searched for something to say.

  “What ... what was that all about?”

  “Do I need a reason to kiss you?”

  “No. No, of course not, but ...” Watching his eyes, she felt her mouth slide into a faltering smile. “Oh, look at you. You got your glasses all smudged up.”

  “It doesn’t matter—”

  “Sure it does. Let me have them.”

  She fogged the lenses with her breath and carefully polished them with a soft tissue.

  “You know you can’t see without your glasses,” she said weakly. Some emotion she couldn’t identify quavered in her voice and made it ragged. “You’re ... practically helpless.”

  A tremor passed through her hands, and the glasses nearly dropped from her grasp.

  “You okay?” Steve asked.

  “Just a little worked up, I guess.”

  He slipped the glasses back on. He had trouble snugging the stems behind his ears.

  Kirstie frowned. “Your hands are shaking, too.”

  “It was that amorous interlude we just shared,” he said lightly, then planted a quick social kiss on her cheek, merely an affectionate peck. “Left me kind of unglued.”

  He picked up the carrying case and headed off before she could say anything more.

  16

  Jack’s anxiety had passed, leaving him composed and controlled, by the time Steve stepped onto the patio.

  “Ready to go?” Steve asked brightly.

  “Sure. As soon as I climb into my suit. Your suit, I mean.”

  “I left one in the bathroom, on the towel rack.”

  “Be right with you.”

  Jack pulled on a pair of red-white-and-blue trunks, concealing the knife, with the blade safely retracted, under the elastic waistband.

  It was the same knife he had brought with him to the island on those summer days nearly two decades ago, and now it would slash Steve’s throat. The thought made his stomach clench.

  He cooled his face with a damp towel again, then emerged from the bathroom and found the Gardners waiting wordlessly in the foyer. The tension between them was obvious. Kirstie must have been trying to warn her husband not to go, but he hadn’t listened. Part of Jack—a very small part—almost wished he had.

  “Suit fit all right?” Steve asked.

  “Perfect.”

  “All set, then.” A clap of hands. “On the attack—Jack!”

  Jack’s smile covered his wince as he echoed the clap. “Ready to go—Steve-o!”

  It was a rit
ual from their high-school days, pleasantly goofy then, painful now. It brought back memories of better times. Unwanted memories.

  He followed Steve and Kirstie out the door, then along the flagstone path to the dock. Together he and Steve climbed down the ladder and boarded the motorboat. Kirstie threw off the mooring line.

  “Have a good time,” she called, her voice neutral, eyes guarded. She fixed her gaze on Steve and added, “Be careful.”

  Steve returned the stare complacently. “Always am.” He settled into the stern and fumbled with the starter cord, smiling at Jack. “Great day, isn’t it? Just like summertime when we were seventeen.”

  Jack looked at the blue sweep of sky, the turquoise water, the dancing spangles of sun. His answer, low and bitter, was swallowed by a ripping cough of sound as the outboard motor revved to life.

  “Yeah, Steve-o. It’s a perfect day.”

  He touched his waistband, felt the shape of the knife.

  Throttling back, Steve guided the boat away from the dock, heading east, toward the reef.

  Jack looked back once and saw Kirstie still standing at the end of the dock, her hair blown in the wind, her arm cutting the sky in a long, sweeping wave.

  17

  Anastasia was waiting by the front door when Kirstie stepped back inside the house. The dog whined.

  “You miss your buddy Jack?” Kirstie snapped. “Well, I don’t.”

  Then she sighed. Kneeling, she stroked Ana’s silky coat. “Sorry, girl. Mommy’s a little worked up right now. And the thing of it is, she’s not even sure why.”

  Steve was probably right: she was being irrational. She’d taken an instant, visceral dislike to Jack Dance and had allowed it to color all her subsequent impressions.

  Most likely he really was nothing worse than a creep. Not the devil incarnate, just your garden-variety ... snake.

  “But how come he had to spoil our paradise?” she wondered aloud.

  Ana had no answer.