Deadly Pursuit

by Michael Prescott

  “But you’re not certain?”

  “I’d like to be. But no.” He glanced at the photo again. “Anyhow, I’m positive I’ve never met him.”

  “Well, if you think of anything that might help us, anything at all ...”

  “I’ll get the sheriff’s people on the horn. You bet I will, ma’am.” Pice wagged his fork at her in a gentle warning. “In the meanwhile, you be careful hunting this fellow. He’s a bad one.”

  Moore nodded. “That he is.”

  The night was still hot, the lonely Dalmatian still tied to the post, when she and Lovejoy emerged from No-see-um’s. They leaned against a salt-silvered railing and watched a motorboat cruise through the channel, leaving a wake of white foam.

  “Jack’s not here,” Lovejoy whispered. “He never was.”

  Moore was inclined to agree. “So what do we do now?”

  “We keep looking.”

  “I knew you were going to say that.”

  “Do you have any superior alternatives to propose?”

  “None at all.”

  The water slopped lazily against the pilings, a strangely soothing sound. Moore looked out to sea. Near the eastern horizon sparkled a solitary light, motionless and faint.

  “Boat?” she asked, pointing.

  “House, I imagine. On some small island.”

  “Wish I were there.”

  “Me, too.” Lovejoy shut his eyes and savored the fantasy. “Alone with the parrots and the palm trees, cut off from everything.”

  “Sounds like paradise.”

  “My estimation also. I envy them—whoever’s on that island. They don’t have to deal with any of this.” He sighed. “They don’t have a worry in the world.”

  31

  Jack shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and looked across the living room at the high-backed chair where Steve sat rigid, the Beretta held stiffly in his hand.

  The blued barrel gleamed in the lamplight. The room blazed, every bulb burning. Steve had insisted on that. He wished, apparently, to banish all shadows. He had not yet learned that some kinds of darkness could not be dispelled.

  “You planning to stay up all night?” Jack asked, then instantly regretted it. The question was too obvious.

  Steve smiled briefly. “Yes, Jack. I am.”

  “We’ll need to be fresh in the morning.”

  “You sleep, then.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “We’ve got to trust each other, Stevie.”

  A soft, derisive snort. “Oh, sure. You’re a real trustworthy individual.”

  Another interval of silence stretched between them. Outside, a boat purred past, one of many that had slipped through the night during the last three hours, reminders that Pelican Key was less isolated than it seemed.

  When the boat was gone, there was nothing to hear but the crickets’ monotonous chirping and, from the woods, rare spurts of birdsong. Though Jack was no naturalist, he had spent enough summer days on the island to recognize the peppery trills of a yellow-breasted chat and, farther off, the long, rising glissando of a parula.

  He had always liked bird calls. It had taken him years to understand that the shrill, warbling cries reminded him of screams.

  Reaching over to the end table, he took a last sip of his Coke, which had long ago gone flat. It was the third can he had drained.

  The day’s heat had not let up, and the humidity had actually increased with the approach of midnight. A warm paste of sweat bonded his shirt to his chest and back. Now and then a stray droplet rolled out of his hair and trickled down his neck like a tickling finger.

  Through the patio doorway, a hot, sticky breeze carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine into the room, a breath of perfume, exotic and enticing. Jack thought of the woman he had killed in San Diego; she had worn a fragrance like that.

  A good kill, San Diego, but not as good as what was waiting for him in the radio room, if only he could find some opportunity to make his move.

  So far there had been no opportunities. Hell, he didn’t even have his Swiss Army knife anymore. Steve had compelled him to stow it in a kitchen drawer. The blade had still been wet with Anastasia’s blood.

  Killing the dog had been a mistake, he decided. Or maybe his real error had been to get carried away when he’d slapped Kirstie around.

  For one reason or another, Steve looked at him differently now. And he never stopped looking, never showed the slightest inclination to drop his guard. That cold gray gaze remained fixed on him, as did the muzzle of the gun.

  Should have been a hypnotist, Jack thought moodily. Then I could have put the bastard in a trance, lulled him to sleep. A smooth patter, soothing words—that’s all it takes if you know the technique. Like those New Age relaxation tapes Sheila uses. Better than sleeping pills, she always says ...

  Sleeping pills.

  Jesus, how could he have forgotten about that?

  Steve had given him six pills. He’d fed one to Kirstie, who had spat it out.

  The others ...

  Lightly, inconspicuously, he touched his pants pocket.

  The others had gone in there.

  Five capsules. More than twice the maximum dose. Easily enough medicine to put Steve under.

  Jack sat silently for a few minutes longer, working out the details of his plan.

  Then he rose and stretched. “Captain, the first mate requests permission to use the head.”

  Steve got up. “I'm coming with you.”

  “Oh, fuck, Stevie. Not when I'm taking a crap.” He showed a sheepish smile. “I don’t even know if I can do it with somebody watching.”

  Steve hesitated, then yielded. “You can go in alone. But I’ll be right outside.”

  “Great. My bodyguard.”

  They didn’t speak again until they arrived at the bathroom. Jack reached for the door.

  “Wait.” Steve switched on the lights and went in first. Briskly he checked the drawers, the medicine cabinet, the storage area under the sink. “Okay.”

  “You afraid I stashed an Uzi behind the commode or something?”

  “Just being careful.”

  “Paranoid, you mean.”

  “Around you, a little paranoia may be justified.”

  Alone, with the door shut, Jack felt safe and secretive. The bathroom was a private place, a refuge, where he could work his mischief unobserved.

  Quickly he checked the medicine cabinet, hoping to find the rest of the sleeping pills. There were none. No surprise. Steve had said his insomnia was a secret; he’d kept the pills hidden from his wife. Well, five would be sufficient.

  Jack took apart the capsules, pouring their contents into an unfolded Kleenex. A small heap of white powder formed. The tissue, neatly folded, went into his pocket, along with the empty gelatin casings. He would need those.

  He removed the paper shade from a light fixture over the sink, then wrapped the bulb in bathroom tissue, being careful to wind the wrapping loosely so it would not ignite too soon.

  He replaced the shade. In a carrying case on the counter he found an assortment of Kirstie’s toiletries. He dug out a jar of nail-polish remover, then brushed the liquid liberally over the wall near the lamp, painting a diagonal trail that snaked down to a wastebasket. More toilet paper went into the basket, doused with the remaining alcohol in the jar.

  A flush of the toilet for realism, and he stepped out into the hall. “Nothing like a successful dump to make Jack Dance a new man.”

  “You’ll never be a new man, Jack. You’re stuck with yourself.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  They left together. Steve, still wary of shadows, did not turn off the bathroom lights.

  In the living room, Jack shook his empty Coke can. “I’m up for another. How about you?”

  “All right.”

  Steve watched as Jack retrieved two more cans from the fridge and popped the tabs. They resumed sitting, Jack on the so
fa, Steve in the armchair, a precise recreation of the original tableau. The only variation in detail was Steve’s nylon jacket, which he had finally shed and draped over the back of the chair. His short-sleeve shirt was as limp and sweat-soaked as Jack’s own.

  A fly buzzed erratically around the room, alighting on the mantel, the globe, the arched window framing the garden. Its wings glittered.

  Jack wondered how things were progressing in the bathroom. The toilet paper wrapped around the hot bulb must be smoldering nicely by now. How long would it take to flare up? How quickly would the flames spread, first to the lamp’s paper shade, then to the trail of flammable liquid on the wall?

  Not much longer, he figured. Another minute at most.

  “Something occurred to me while you were in the bathroom.” Steven sipped his soda. “Your boat. The little inflatable.”

  “What about it?”

  “When Kirstie came in from the reef, she left it at the dock, alongside the motorboat. Pice will see it when he shows up tomorrow. He’ll know there’s someone on the island besides Kirstie and me. We’ll lose the element of surprise.”

  “Hell.” Jack hadn’t thought of that. He was doubly annoyed—at himself for this lapse, at little Stevie for outthinking him.

  “Besides,” Steve added, “if the boat has been reported stolen, Pice might even recognize it and radio the police.”

  “It’s got to be moved.”

  “Back to the cove?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. I can hide it in the brush on the beach. Cover it with fronds and sedges.”

  “You’re not doing it alone. We’ll go together.”

  “What are you, my freaking shadow?”

  “No, Jack. I’m your partner. Partners do everything together.” Steve paused, sniffing the air. “What the hell?”

  “Something wrong?”

  Steve stood. “I think I smell ...” He took a step toward the loggia, then froze. “Oh, fuck. What did you do? What the hell did you do?”

  Looking past him, Jack could see a flickering reddish glow at the far end of the hall.

  “Don’t move!” Steve bolted for the kitchen, returned a moment later with a small fire extinguisher. “Don’t you fucking move!"

  Then he was racing down the hall, his footsteps banging like a drum roll, diminishing fast. A moment later, an angry dragon hiss: spray from the canister.

  Jack unfolded the Kleenex and poured the granules into his own can of Coke.

  The empty casings he scattered like seeds around Steve’s armchair. Crouching down, he made a show of frantically collecting them

  “Christ.” Steve’s voice, breathless and fluttery. “So you’re an arsonist now. Is that it?”

  Jack palmed the last casings and held them in a tight fist. He got to his feet as Steve approached.

  “Hey, Stevie, don’t get all bent out of shape. Just a minor practical joke to liven up a dull evening.”

  “What were you doing on the floor?”

  “Killing a bug. One of those big Palmetto mothers.”

  The gun lifted ominously. “Another lie, and you’re dead. What’s in your hand?”

  With feigned reluctance Jack spread his fingers.

  Steve frowned, momentarily bewildered. Then he understood.

  “You had some left,” he whispered.

  “Five.”

  “Enough to knock me out for hours. You son of a bitch.”

  “I wouldn’t have hurt you, Stevie.”

  “Shut up. How did you think you’d get away with it, anyway? Didn’t it occur to you that I’d know you set the fire as a diversion?”

  Jack let his gaze slide away from Steve’s face. “I intended to let you find me in the kitchen. You would have thought all I was after was my knife.” He met Steve’s eyes in a good imitation of childish defiance. “Would’ve worked, too—except after I put the stuff in your soda, I dropped the empties. Couldn’t pick them all up in time.”

  “You just can’t stop thinking about her, can you? You can’t control these impulses of yours?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “You’re so fucking sick, Jack. And so fucking dangerous.”

  “I wasn’t going to hurt her.” He lifted his shoulders in a jerky, helpless shrug. “Really. You’ve been making me nervous with that gun. That’s all.”

  Steve’s mouth twitched. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Jack. You’re making me a little nervous, too.” He waved the gun at the armchair. “Sit.”

  Jack sat.

  “Now ... drink it.”

  He looked at the soda. “Oh, hell, Stevie.”

  “Go on.”

  “You’re going to need me alert tomorrow.”

  “The effects will wear off by then. In fact, a few hours’ sleep will do you good. Aren’t you the one who said we need to be fresh in the morning?”

  Jack closed his hand over the soda can. “Shit,” he muttered in angry acquiescence, and took a sip.

  “All of it. Gulp it down.”

  Jack obeyed.

  “Good boy.” Steve sat on the sofa and lifted Jack’s soda can. “You took your medicine. Daddy’s very proud.”

  He drank Jack’s Coca-Cola. Jack watched, keeping his face expressionless. He did not quite relax until Steve had drained the can.

  “All right.” Steve rose from the couch. “Let’s move the runabout.”

  “We could wait awhile.”

  “No way. In an hour you’ll be out cold. Then I’d have to go by myself. And to be honest, I don’t trust you enough to leave you alone with my wife even if you’re unconscious.”

  “Nice. Real friendly attitude.”

  “We stopped being friends awhile ago, Jack. I thought you would have figured that out by now.”

  Yeah, buddy boy, Jack thought as Steve marched him into the foyer, then out the door. I figured it out. Now here’s something for you to figure out.

  One hour from now, I’ll be the one with the gun.

  And you and your lovely wife will be dead.

  32

  The pain in Kirstie’s shoulders had become a spread of tingling heat, draping her like a skin-tight shawl. Tendrils of agony shot down her arms, electrifying her elbows and wrists, as she went on raising and lowering her hands behind her with mechanical monotony.

  Occasionally a string of whispered words punctuated her labor. The same words, always.

  “God damn you, Steve.”

  Oddly, she felt no desire to curse Jack. Jack was hopeless, irredeemable. Curses would be wasted on him.

  But for her husband to stand by and allow that smirking psychopath to tie her to this chair with electrical wires—for him to simply watch, his gun as useless as a toy, while his wife was reduced to helplessness—for him to have permitted that violation of her person was a betrayal so deep it could never be forgiven.

  For a long time after she’d been left alone, she had given in to alternating paroxysms of grief and terror. Finally the tears had dried to salty tracks. And a new emotion, equally intense and far more healthy, had risen to her surface.

  Rage.

  How dare they do this to her? Steve, especially. How dare he?

  She was a modern woman, college-educated, career-oriented. She worked for PBS, for Christ’s sake. She wasn’t some peasant prostitute in a snuff movie. She could not be treated this way.

  Fury had revived her, made her strong. She’d begun to consider means of escape.

  Craning her neck, she’d scrutinized the radio console behind her. The transmitter and receiver components were housed in metal cases with clever edges and sharp corners. If she could maneuver her chair a little closer to the table, then rub her wrists against the radio till the insulated wire had been sawed through ...

  That was her plan. For some immeasurable stretch of time—hours now—she’d been struggling to carry it out. By gently rocking her chair, she had inched within reach of the table; by repeatedly shrugging and dropping her shoulders, she had dragged the bindi
ng on her wrists vertically along the nearest edge of the receiver.

  There was no way to gauge how quickly the wire was being worn. She thought she sensed a little more give in it, but that impression might be only her imagination.

  One thing was certain: the muscles in her arms and shoulders were rapidly reaching a point beyond soreness, a point of total exhaustion that would make any subsequent movement impossible.

  She had no idea what Steve and Jack were up to. For a long time there had been silence. Then a frantic clatter of activity—Steve yelling, rapid footsteps. She had thought the men were having a fight.

  Good, she’d told herself. Maybe Steve will shoot the son of a bitch.

  But she’d heard no gunshots. Only silence again.

  And now ... footsteps.

  The two men walking through the living room, into the foyer. The front door opening. Then closing a moment later.

  No further sounds.

  They’d left together, via the front door. Why?

  To sit on the porch, maybe. The house was hot. Outside, it might be cooler.

  Whatever they were doing, at least they were gone for the moment. And the wires definitely did seem looser now.

  Ignoring pain and fatigue, she rubbed harder.

  * * *

  Steve kept the Beretta trained on Jack as the runabout motored slowly away from the dock. Jack steered, easing the throttle arm to port, guiding the boat to the island’s eastern shore. The motor, in low gear, burred softly.

  Slowly the lights of the house receded, screened by trees. Lifting his head, Steve saw no moon, only a blaze of stars, diamond bright. Their reflected brilliance shimmered on the water like whirling sparks of fire.

  He supposed this would be the shape of his life from now on. Tropical nights, starlit waters, the rustle of palm fronds—and guilt and shame and fear.

  Prison had always terrified him. His fear of incarceration with violent, conscienceless men, spurred by his own guilt and by Pete Creston’s vivid stories, had become almost phobic in its intensity.

  Yet now he wondered if his fears hadn’t been misplaced. Prison was a waking nightmare, but to forfeit one’s soul, become a man like Jack Dance—wasn’t that a still grimmer version of hell?

  You’re not turning into Jack, he said to himself, disturbed by the thought. That’s ridiculous. He’s a murderer, for God’s sake.