Deadly Pursuit

by Michael Prescott

  “I’ve got an escape plan. Two men can execute it as easily as one. More easily, in fact.”

  “Escape with you? Go on the run? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Being on the run is better than being in the joint. I’ve done both. I know.”

  “Sure. So we’ll run from state to state till our money is gone, then get nabbed anyway. No, thanks.”

  “You’ve got it completely wrong. I told you, I’ve got a plan. We ...”

  Jack paused, listening.

  Steve frowned, hearing the drone of a motor. Drawing nearer. He shaded his eyes from the sun and gazed across the shimmering water.

  A gray runabout was speeding directly toward them.

  “What the hell is that?” he whispered. “The police?”

  Jack shook his head. “It’s my boat.” His eyes narrowed. “Your wife is piloting it.”

  Steve’s heart kicked. “Why would she be coming out here?”

  “Maybe she got worried about you. She doesn’t trust me, you know.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  Jack turned to him. “Look, Stevie, if she sees you holding that gun on me, it’s all over. She’ll radio the Coast Guard as soon as she gets back to the island.”

  “That’s what I was planning to do, anyway.”

  “Is it? Then why didn’t you reject my deal outright? You questioned the practicality of it. You wanted more details. But you didn’t say no.”

  “I’m saying it now.”

  “Don’t be a hero. Give me a chance to explain how we can get away. If you don’t buy it, then you can still turn me in—and yourself along with me. Maybe you’ll want to do that. But maybe you won’t.”

  Steve hesitated. The boat raced closer. Through a rainbowed mist of spray, Kirstie came into clear view riding in the stern, her hand on the outboard’s throttle stick, blond hair unraveling in the wind.

  “Stow the gun,” Jack said. “And the knife. Come on, do it.”

  Steve knew he shouldn’t. He had kept too many secrets from his wife. It was time to come clean—with her and with the world.

  But the price would be high. Perhaps too high.

  If Jack really did have a workable plan ... if they could escape together ...

  Crazy thought. Of course it was.

  Still, there was no harm—was there?—in hearing the rest of what Jack had to say.

  And the alternative was the world Pete Creston had described in vivid word pictures that still haunted Steve’s bad dreams.

  Slowly he placed the Beretta inside the waterproof case, then dropped Jack’s knife in with it.

  “I’m not agreeing to anything,” he said, his voice unexpectedly throaty.

  “Of course not, Stevie. Of course not.”

  As Jack turned away, Steve caught the glint of gleeful malice in his eyes.

  22

  Kirstie killed the outboard and let the dinghy drift in languid slow motion a few yards from the anchored motorboat.

  Steve stood and hailed her. “What brings you out here?”

  She rose also, planting her sandals wide apart on the wooden floorboards to maintain her balance. “Got a little worried. You two have been gone awhile.”

  “Not that long.” Jack, still seated, trailed a lazy hand in the water. “You’re turning paranoid, Mrs. G.”

  She met his smile with a frozen grin of her own. “Maybe I am.”

  Relief and anxiety competed for priority in her mind. Steve was unharmed, the gun and knife nowhere in view. Yet she sensed tension between the two men, a false calm ready to explode into violence.

  And there was something odd, unsettling, in the way each of them was looking at her—Jack with his vaguely saturnine smirk, Steve with an expression of puzzlement and pain, eyes narrowed in a strangely searching gaze. He seemed to be studying the familiar contours of her face for the answer to some unvoiced question.

  “I see you found my inflatable.” Jack was still smiling, his eyes dark.

  She nodded. “At the cove. Funny thing, though. The boat was all covered with palm fronds.”

  “Camouflage.”

  She was surprised to hear him admit it so promptly. “What made you think camouflage was necessary on Pelican Key?”

  “You said yourself that the island is private property. I didn’t want to get chased off by the owners.”

  “But you thought Pelican Key was deserted.”

  “I assumed it was. I wasn’t sure. Besides, someone could always come along. I was planning to stay a couple of days—as I guess you’ve figured out.”

  He inclined his head at the trio of grocery bags in the runabout’s bow.

  Kirstie didn’t know whether his ingenuousness was authentic or merely the studied technique of a skilled liar. She suspected the latter.

  “You did bring a lot of stuff with you,” she said carefully. “Canned goods, mostly.”

  “Nonperishable supplies. I had this notion of camping out. For old times’ sake.”

  “But you didn’t have a sleeping bag, a camp stove—”

  “No, it was a last-minute thing. Sort of half-assed, admittedly. I had no time to get all the items I needed.”

  The tender bumped up against the motorboat, then ran slowly alongside it, a cat nuzzling a friendly leg. Kirstie smelled wet wood and briny skin dried in the sun. The wind dragged her hair across her face; she brushed it back with the heel of her hand.

  Jack’s answers weren’t entirely satisfactory, but she had failed to catch him in an obvious lie. She decided to drop the subject for now.

  “How was the dive?” she asked Steve. “See anything interesting?”

  “Nothing too spectacular.” His words came slowly, heavy with thought. “We didn’t stay out long. Got back on the boat at least twenty minutes ago. And talked.”

  A change had come over his face, as if, in exploring her features, he had found the solution to the riddle he’d been pondering.

  “About high school?” she asked.

  He sat down on the transom seat. His right hand dropped to the vinyl case where the snorkeling gear was stowed. He plucked idly at the zipper with thumb and forefinger.

  “About all kinds of things. Jack’s been telling me some stories. You might find them worth hearing, too.”

  He unzipped the case a few inches.

  “Yes,” Jack cut in, a shade too sharply. “I think you would. I was telling your husband about a mutual friend from school. Poor son of a bitch got convicted on a felony charge—accessory to murder.”

  The words were addressed to Kirstie, but Jack’s gaze was fixed on Steve.

  Kirstie didn’t understand where this was leading. “How awful,” she said tentatively. “Is he still in prison?”

  Jack kept his eyes on Steve. “Died there.”

  A gull passed overhead, keening, then flew on, leaving an abrupt and weighty silence. Kirstie became uncomfortably aware of the desolation around them, the bleak stretches of open water broken only by the coral ridge’s polished fangs and, in the far distance, the green shimmering mirage of Pelican Key.

  “That’s too bad,” she said. To Steve: “Did you know him well?”

  He nodded, eyes hooded. “Better than I wanted to.” He fingered the case a moment longer, then zipped it shut once more. “Anyway, it’s not a pleasant topic. Sorry I brought it up.”

  She looked at Jack. “What made you want to talk about something like that?”

  “I’ve got a morbid streak in me. Didn’t Stevie tell you?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. You used to entertain him with horror stories about these islands.”

  “Historical anecdotes, if you please. Although I guess ‘horror stories’ would be equally accurate. There’s no shortage of material to draw on. A lot of people have died in the Keys.”

  “But none on Pelican Key?”

  Jack got up and stretched luxuriously, displaying the ropy sinews of his arms, the bunched muscles of his abdomen. His powerful physique made a
clear contrast with Steve’s obvious lack of conditioning.

  “None,” he answered, showing that same ambiguous smile. “At least, not yet.”

  A tremor passed over Kirstie’s shoulders, lifting them in an involuntary shrug. Suddenly she felt the need to get away, though she couldn’t quite say why.

  “Well,” she said lightly, “it looks like my premonition of disaster was a false alarm. Guess I’ll be heading back.”

  Jack stretched again, pectorals flexing. “We’ll follow you in.”

  “Sure you were through diving?”

  “Yes,” Steve answered. “We’re through.”

  He wasn’t looking at her anymore. Wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  She wondered why that simple fact seemed frightening to her.

  Restarting the motor, she angled the dinghy to face Pelican Key. She throttled forward, running at a slow, steady pace.

  Sun rays fractured on the shifting surface of the sea, bursting into multicolored fragments like a kaleidoscope’s whirling shards. On the eastern horizon, a sportfisher rushed noisily into the deeper blue of the Atlantic, plowing a wide furrow in the water, casting spray like seed.

  Kirstie glanced back and saw the motorboat trailing at a distance, Steve at the controls.

  Her fears had been groundless, it appeared. Her husband had never been in any danger. He and an old friend had simply been passing the time on a summer afternoon, swimming among the coral towers and talking idly about nothing in particular while they sunbathed on the boat.

  An attractive picture. She could almost believe in it.

  Almost.

  23

  Jack was feeling pretty good about things.

  Seated on the sailing thwart, facing astern, he felt flurries of spray peppering his back as the motorboat plunged landward, each droplet stinging like a fleck of spattered grease.

  He didn’t mind. The discomfort was minimal compared with the indignities of prison—and prison was a trap he had only narrowly avoided.

  For a few tense moments, it had looked as if Steve would draw the gun and confess everything to Kirstie. Luckily his courage had faltered, and now Jack was sure the mark was his.

  He’d bitten on the hook. All that was necessary was to reel him in, just as Pavel Zykmund, CSGI’s last customer, had been hauled, thrashing and flopping, into the net.

  “You almost made a big mistake, Stevie,” Jack yelled over the buzz of the Evinrude outboard.

  Steve gazed toward the distant runabout and said nothing.

  “Fortunately I was here to remind you of the consequences. Did you see your wife’s face when I told her about our mutual friend who’d gone to jail? She was shocked, wasn’t she? Imagine her looking at you that way.”

  Steve nudged the throttle arm forward, revving the engine higher. The boat bounced lightly on the water.

  “You’re better off doing things my way. And she’ll be better off, too. You made the right decision.”

  “I haven’t decided anything, Jack.” His voice was soft enough to be nearly inaudible. “I said I’d give you a chance to convince me you’ve got a viable plan. Go ahead.”

  A setback. The sale was not yet closed. Well, it would be, soon enough.

  “No problem.” Jack put all his breezy confidence into his tone and body language. “All we need is Captain Pice’s boat.”

  “How are we supposed to get hold of that?”

  “It’s no more difficult than stealing a car. Which I did last night without breaking a sweat.”

  “Pice is a big man.”

  “You’ve got a gun. Remember?”

  Steve smiled, not kindly, and tapped the bundle of gear at his feet. “Don’t worry, Jack. I hadn’t forgotten. So we hijack the Black Caesar. Then what?”

  “You said it was a thirty-foot sportfisher, right? A boat like that can take us to the Bahamas in less than a day.”

  “The Bahamas? Oh, Christ.”

  “It’s the perfect destination. Seven hundred islands, American tourists coming and going all the time. We’ll blend right in.”

  “As soon as somebody recognizes the boat, we’re finished.”

  “We’ll rechristen her, paint over the brightwork, make a few other modifications. Has she got a tuna tower?”

  “No.”

  “We can add one. That’ll change her appearance dramatically.”

  “A new tower won’t come cheap. And we can’t exactly charge it to our credit cards. What do we do for money?”

  “I brought ten thousand dollars with me. Twenties, fifties, hundreds. Stashed most of it in those grocery bags on the runabout after I came ashore, except for a few bills I stuck in my pants pocket in case I got separated from the boat somehow. Believe me, we won’t run short of cash for a good long while.”

  “We’ll need more than money. In a foreign country we’ve got to have passports, visas—”

  “A guy I know can supply us with whatever documents we require. We’ll change our names, alter our appearances, start new lives.”

  “As beachcombers.”

  “As anything we want. There’s business in the Caribbean, lots of it. Me, I’m planning to stay in the investments game. You’re a lawyer; my friend can get you a law degree in your new identity from any university you want. Quality paper, the kind that will check out. Then just type up a resume and name your price. Rake in the bucks, pay no U.S. taxes, and spend your weekends lying on the beach.”

  “It’ll never work. We’ll get caught. And instead of two years in prison, I’ll get twenty.”

  Despite the constant rebuffs, Jack could sense Steve’s sales resistance weakening as one objection after another was knocked down.

  “We won’t get caught,” he answered soothingly. “Hey, you think I’m an amateur at this? Yesterday morning the FBI raided my place of business in L.A. Surrounded the building, thought they had me. And I walked right out.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “Same way I’m going to manage this. By outthinking them. They’re looking everywhere in the whole country for me. They don’t know where I am or what I’ll do next. They’re boobs, pal of mine. I can run rings around them. Already have. And if I can outmaneuver the feds, how hard can it be to do the two-step around the Bahamian police?” Jack chuckled. “It’s almost not enough of a challenge.”

  Puddled water shivered on the floorboards, silver in the sun, like spilled mercury. It was cold against Jack’s bare feet. Steve’s too, most likely, but Jack didn’t think Steve noticed anymore.

  “How long have you been planning all this?” Steve asked slowly.

  “Years. Which is why I’ve had ample opportunity to work all the bugs out. It’s glitch-free, foolproof.” Sell it now. Sell hard. “And you can do it with me—if you’ve got the nerve. It’s your choice. Lie on the beach ... or rot in a cell.”

  “I’d rather rot than be anywhere—with you.”

  “You don’t have to stay with me. Once we’ve established our new identities, we’ll split up. The Bahamas covers a lot of territory. We’ll never have to see each other.”

  “And you’ll go on killing.”

  “Maybe. But you won’t have to know about it.”

  The words touched Steve like a spark. He gave a violent shake of the head. “No way, Jack. I won’t be a party to that. No goddamn way.”

  “People die all the time, pal. It’s a hard world.”

  “No way,” Steve said again, and Jack saw that he had come up against an apparently immovable obstacle to the closing of the deal.

  Well, he had an ace up his sleeve.

  “Okay.” Jack moved his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “It’s prison, then.”

  “I can handle it.” Steve swallowed, trying hard to be brave. “It’s only ... a couple of years.”

  “More than that.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Oh, yes, Stevie. Much more. You’re looking at life imprisonment.”

  “Come off it. I looked it up in the Penal
Code, remember? I know the maximum sentence for being an accessory after the fact.”

  “Sure. But what’s the sentence for homicide?”

  “I’m not guilty of homicide.”

  “I say you are.”

  Jack watched Steve’s face as the meaning of his last words registered.

  “You can’t get away with that,” Steve said finally.

  “Can’t I? I say you were with me the night Meredith died. You helped me sneak into the pavilion. You distracted the bitch while I crept up behind her. And afterward you masturbated into her mouth.”

  “No one will believe—”

  “Everyone will believe it. Why else would you lie about my alibi? Out of friendship? Pretty lame, Steve. The real reason you covered for me was that if I went down, I was taking you with me.”

  “It’ll be your word against mine. You’re a fucking multiple murderer, for Christ’s sake. I’m ...” His voice trailed off.

  Jack smiled. “Yes, Stevie? What are you, exactly? I’ll tell you what you are. You’re a frightened yuppie lawyer who’s concealed a homicide for seventeen years. And you know what else you are? You’re my best friend. We’ve stayed in touch—secretly—all this time, and after each murder I call you from a pay phone and describe it in detail, and you listen and beat yourself off. That’s our pattern, Stevie, our symbiotic relationship. I kill, and you’re my audience.”

  “That’s crazy.” Strong words, but the panicky darting of his eyes betrayed how he really felt. “You can never prove any of it.”

  “Prove? Maybe not. But consider this. Why did I come to Pelican Key to hide out at the very time you happened to be here? Coincidence? Hardly. I knew you were vacationing on the island, and I came to you for help. I figured you’d have to help me, because we’ve always been in this thing together.”

  Steve was looking for a way out, looking hard. “Then ... then why did I turn you in?”

  “Attack of conscience. You couldn’t live with your guilt any longer. That much is true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And there’s something else that’s true, Jack.” Steve grabbed at the bundle of gear with a jerky thrust of his hand. “I’ve still got the gun.”

  “I’m very much aware of that.”