by Mims, Lee
Very scratchy shrubbery, I might add. After waiting for my body to stop hurting and to be sure the coast was clear, I took off for the cover of the woods.
I almost cried with relief when I saw the Jeep parked right where I’d left it and Tulip in the driver’s seat. I opened the door and she hopped out to pee. Even greater relief came as soon as I opened the console and wrapped my fingers around the grip of my baby nine. For good measure, I reached under the seat and removed a small stainless Ruger and a SmartCarry belly holster. (It’s called a belly holster because it lies flat against your belly without being noticeable, assuming your belly is flat.) I kept it in the car for potential problems with larger wild animals—a circumstance I’d so far been lucky enough not to
encounter. At this point, I figured Ivan, Nash, and maybe Shirley qualified.
Back when Bud and I were married, I’d seen the Ruger outfit while we were attending one of those outdoor hunting, fishing, and gun shows. It had been a good buy at the time, and later, after we divorced and I was feeling vulnerable, I planned to get a permit to carry concealed so I would be doubly protected while prospecting. Turned out I never had time to get the permit, so I had just tucked the little gun under the seat.
Now didn’t seem like a good time to worry about permits and regulations, so I dropped my Dockers and wrapped the Velcro straps around my waist. I adjusted the gun to lie snugly against my stomach, hitched up my pants, and pulled my slightly oversized T-shirt over everything. Nothing real obvious showed. “Let’s go, Tulip!” I called.
I climbed behind the wheel, still furious with myself at being duped. On the other hand, maybe it was a good thing. At least now I knew without question that they meant to harm Gladys and me, so I revised my plan to play my hunch as to her whereabouts. I was still going to play it, just with much more stealth. I would take every precaution available to me to ensure they couldn’t follow me to her.
Driving out of the woods as fast as I could without ripping the undercarriage from the Jeep, I hit the hardtop and drove straight to Perdue’s Garage. Was it less than a week ago that Jimmy Purdue had pulled the rig out of the creek and repaired it? Seemed like a lifetime. Sunday meant the shop would be closed, but Jimmy and Melva being God-fearing folks who put their trust in the Lord meant I’d probably find a piece of junk with a key in the ignition somewhere on their lot.
A trio of rusted pickups were parked neatly in a row against the back of the main service building. Tulip and I looked into each one in turn. Keys were in all three. All three had trailer hitches—an absolute necessity for a pickup in the South—so it was just a matter of choice: two rusty S-10s, one blue, one red; or a Ford Ranger all done up in camouflage paint.
I grabbed my purse, jammed my cell and my baby nine into my field backpack, and hopped into the Ford. Tulip sat shotgun.
“Please start,” I said out loud as I turned the key. The engine sprang to life and I had a quarter of a tank of gas to boot. Sweet. Another plus: the safari-style hunting hat half-mashed under Tulip’s butt was just the ticket to hide my hair.
I pulled it out from under her and poked out the crown. After a little size adjustment, I piled my hair under the cap and pulled it low over my face.
Then I saw a nasty blue work shirt wadded up on the floorboard. Looking at the name on the pocket, I thanked Ernie for leaving it there. I didn’t even mind that the back of his shirt sported a large, stinky oil stain. A disguise was just another precaution to keep Nash and Ivan from following me. I was hoping my showing up in Gladys’s root cellar might be proof to them that I didn’t know where she was, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
I buttoned the shirt with one hand as I spun the steering wheel with the other and floored the gas pedal. Gravel sprayed in a rooster tail across the parking lot when I whipped onto the highway. Captain Eddie’s, the marina across the street from the beach house, was my next destination. I had a plan to find Gladys and get us both to safety, and it started there.
Forty minutes later, a little after noon, as I turned into Captain Eddie’s, I caught a brief glimpse of yellow crime-scene tape fluttering in the breeze over at Seahaven. I couldn’t help but wince. I’d somehow make up the damage to Bud’s family’s house later.
I parked in the marina lot, grabbed my backpack and purse, and set out for Henri’s slip. I was familiar with her boat, since I occasionally used it just to get away for the day and fish, and the little boat was just what I needed to get to Gladys’s latest hiding spot.
I pulled my newly acquired Jungle Jim hat low over my aviators and made my way to the small-boat slips at the end of the dock. Tulip trotted along close on my heels.
“Hey, Miss Cleo,” Matthew Holder said as I brushed by him on the dock. So much for my disguise. “Hey, Tulip.” He patted her head and gave her ears a friendly pull. Maybe I should have put the hat on Tulip.
Matthew was one of several high school or college boys who worked at Eddie’s in the summer, and though I was glad he remembered me, the timing was bad. I was in a hurry. Moreover, if I recalled correctly, this was the kid who always had some geologic question for me.
“I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to run into you,” he said. “I’ve been keeping this rock in my pocket, just in case.” He whipped it out and handed it to me.
I glanced down at it, handed it right back to him and said, “It’s an anthrorudite.”
“Get out! That is way cool how you just know this stuff,” Matthew said exuberantly. Then he scratched his head. “Wait. Anthro is like Latin for ‘man’ or something … and rudite means ‘rock’ or … uh … ?”
I waited for the wheels to turn in the kid’s brain but decided I didn’t have that much time. “It’s a joke, Matthew.”
Blank stare.
“It’s just a piece of concrete.”
“Oh, ha.” He forced a chuckle. “Good one, Miss Cleo. But disappointing. I thought it was, like maybe some kind of moon rock … ”
I patted him on the shoulder. “Take some geology courses at college. You’ll enjoy it. Good to see you again.” I started away, then turned back. “Say, Matthew?”
“Yo.”
“I wanted to do a little fishing but it’s so hot, I’m afraid it might be too much for Tulip. Would you mind dog-sitting for a few hours?”
“Hey, I’d love it. She can hang out in the tackle shop with me. Come on, girl,” said Matthew, clucking at her. “I’ll buy you a cheeseburger.”
Tulip looked at me for approval. I gave her an okay nod and she trotted behind Matthew.
I jogged to Henri’s 22-foot Jones Brothers bateau, hopped in, and laid my cap and Ernie’s stinky shirt on the bow. Then I dropped my purse and backpack beside the center console and bent to retrieve the key that Henri keeps on a shelf inside.
I found it, straightened up, and was inserting the key into the ignition when the face of Nash Finley loomed into view. He was leaning against a piling, one leg crossed over the other, looking all relaxed and cool in his Puma running shoes, his polo shirt untucked over Calvin Klein shorts.
So much for my skills at disguise and slipping a tail. First Matthew recognizes me without the slightest hesitation and now Nash apparently followed me like I’d left a trail of bread crumbs. I really needed to pay more attention when watching reruns of Magnum, PI; he never had any of these problems. I did have to hand it to myself, though, because I showed no surprise whatsoever when I looked up and saw him.
Nash took a sip from the bottle of water he was holding and, with a playful lilt in his voice, said, “You really hurt my feelings, Cleo, leaving my little party so early.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Party? Is that what you call it? I call it kidnapping.”
“Tisk, tisk. Kidnapping is such an ugly word.”
“Maybe, but it certainly defines trapping someone in a root cellar and not letting them out.”
�
��You could have left at anytime.”
“I could not and you know it.”
“Prove it.”
“I will. I’ve already called the sheriff and he’s on his way here right now. I’m going to tell him all about it,” I lied.
“Sure you have,” Nash crooned. “While we wait for him, what say we take that little trip you had planned? The one where you go get the infamous Gladys Walton.” Nash pushed away from the piling and took another swallow of water.
“I’m not taking you anywhere. For that matter, I can’t believe I ever let you into my bed—that I ever thought of you as sexy in any way or charming when all you are is a low-life, claim-jumping, kidnapping bastard.”
“Stop. You’re damaging my self-esteem,” he said, giving me a boyish grin. “Besides, you still think I’m sexy, and you know it. Admit it, you’re feeling that tingle right now, aren’t you?” His eyes dilated a little and for a horrified second I thought he was going to hop in the boat and try to kiss me. “You know … that tingle that makes you all warm and … ”
“Stop right there,” I said, holding my hand up. “The only thing I feel when I’m around you now is … nausea.” His grin faded a little as he lifted his shirt discreetly to show me the Smith and Wesson .45 tucked into the waist of his shorts. I looked down the dock. No one was around. I checked the other side of the marina. A couple was loading a small cruiser with picnic coolers.
“Have it your way … for now,” Nash sighed. “Let me tell you how the rest of the day is going to go. First, you are going to take me to Gladys. Then, it’s very likely you and she will meet with an accident. So sad. There’ll be no doubt who’s to blame for the tragedy because so many people—the sheriff, Shirley, Ivan, even your own kids—know you’ve hidden Gladys for your own financial gain.” Nash slugged the last swallow from his water bottle, screwed the top back on, and pitched it into the water. The guy even littered. Typical.
“I tell you, Cleo,” Nash said as he moved along the dock toward the bow of the boat. “If I had written it myself, I couldn’t have hoped for a better ending to this saga, which I might add, would have never gone this far if you’d acted like any normal woman when faced with a rattler in her car. Or having her dog shot. Or being pushed down a well. Why didn’t you just go home?”
He laughed “Hell, even when I fixed it so the road would collapse under the rig and nearly kill your crew, you didn’t back down. No, not you. Lives of the innocent mean nothing to you … ”
He hopped down onto the bow platform of Henri’s boat.
“No way,” I sputtered in a rage, grabbing onto the handrail of the center console as the boat rocked with his weight. I knew from watching true crime dramas on television that you never let your abductor remove you from a public place. I had the Ruger in the belly holster, but I knew the odds of me being able to draw it quickly enough to use it were slim. I had to stall for time, keep him talking. Surely someone would walk down the dock soon.
“You’ve got some nerve, Nash. Talking about lives of the innocent. You, who killed Gladys’s cousin thinking it was Gladys. You, who … ”
“That wasn’t me, cupcake,” Nash said smoothly. “Ivan, that ignorant twit, killed the cousin. It was just a case of mistaken identity. You know, kind of like you accidentally killed that bumbling retard Robert Earle … ”
“Don’t call me cupcake. And how dare you compare an act of cold-blooded murder to what happened to me! He was trying to kill me!” Though I’d have thought it impossible, my rage ratcheted up another notch. But I’d also let him push my buttons, his obvious intention, so I resolved to shut my mouth and let him talk.
“Whatever. But, if you think about it, it works out better for all concerned, especially considering that the day isn’t over.” Nash’s voice took on a low, sultry tone. “It could still work out. You and me. Together in business. Together in bed. Forever.”
Nash moved toward me as he talked. He was holding on to the handrail on the starboard side of the center console, one foot resting on the gunwale. His arrogance was astounding. I opened my mouth to tell him so when, in the blink of an eye, he shifted his weight just enough to throw me off balance and snatch my backpack from the deck. Damnit.
He backed away from me a few steps and looked inside the bag. “Nice. I’ve always wanted a baby nine.” He rezipped the backpack, keeping a grip on it.
In response to my best cold and stony glare, Nash touched his hand to his waist to remind me that Misters Smith and Wesson were still on duty, then backed diagonally across the boat to the port side bow and bent to open the anchor locker. Now seemed like a good time to show Nash what I thought of being together forever with him.
Henri would never be accused of being a neat freak, and her boat showed it. A coil of rope that belonged in the bow locker had been left on the deck along with the ten-pound anchor she kept in case she needed to secure the stern in a strong current. I’d kidded her many times when she added a poling platform to her boat, but she’d insisted she wanted to learn to fly cast from it. The truth was she was dating a fly fisherman at the time and probably had visions of the two of them on the platform with a good bottle of wine and a setting sun.
Fortunately for me, Henri’s stiffy—the 18-foot pole used to push the boat along while standing on said poling platform—was also lying on the deck. Nash had just stepped over it to reach the forward locker and now straddled the handle end. Perfect.
I reached down, wrapped my fingers around the pole where it lay next to my left foot, and pulled straight up with all my might. Testicles must be very tender things; Nash collapsed so hard his head cracked down on the edge of the forward locker. He didn’t even yell, just made this gross grunting noise, grabbed the family jewels, and curled in the fetal position.
The bad news: he’d slung my backpack with my cell and my sweet little Beretta overboard on his way down. The good news: his being stunned by the blow to his head gave me time to jam the key in the ignition. For the second time today, I prayed to the gods of the internal combustion engine.
My prayers were answered. The four-stroke woke with a purr. I hit the tilt and trim button to lower the prop and watched as Nash, his face purple with rage and pain, pushed to his knees, both hands still cradling his crotch. There were only a few seconds of incapacitation left in him and those I filled by cutting the bow and stern lines with the trusty little pocketknife my brother had given me when I left home for college.
“That’s twice, cupcake.” Nash groaned through gritted teeth as he struggled upright. “Now it’s your turn!” Holding his injured parts with one hand, he reached out with the other and lunged for me. He failed in the attempt, however; at that second, I rammed the throttle home, spun the wheel to port, and sent him bouncing off the center console’s cushioned seat and over the starboard side.
I told him not to call me cupcake.
The couple loading the cruiser cursed me as I whipped out of the marina at full speed, breaking the no-wake rules and sending my Ernie shirt and cap disguise fluttering off the bow.
When I reached Motts Channel, the short channel running between Banks Channel and the Intracoastal Waterway, I pulled the throttle back enough to keep from being pulled over by a Fish and Wildlife officer. That’s when, knowing my Henri like I do, I thought to check the fuel gauge. It was dead on empty. I’d never been able to teach either of my children to put a vessel away with a full tank of gas.
This wasn’t good. I would need a full tank to reach my destination: my old fishing camp. The one I’d told Gladys about when I told her the story of Opal, the old woman who listened to her children and almost ended her days stuck out on a spit of limestone in an abandoned quarry. I remembered Gladys saying she knew where it was because she and Irene used to buy flowers from her.
Chugging obediently up the channel, indecision engulfed me, and not just because of the empty tank. You know how it is when one li
ttle part of a plan goes wrong and throws the whole thing into question? I’d used the boat in the first place for its stealth factor; why would Nash or Ivan think to look for me in a boat? In my mind, it was the perfect solution to keep them from following me. Now that they knew my mode of transportation, maybe it was time to change plans. What if Nash knew how to operate a boat and managed to get one? What if he’d followed me—again?
Then, gritting my teeth, I gripped the wheel and pushed indecision from my mind. I was sure my original plan was still the best option and it started with putting as much distance as possible between Nash Finley and me. But I was going to have to stop for gas. My backpack was a goner, but I still had my purse and the Bridgetender Marina was dead ahead. I pulled in and tied off at the fuel dock.
A young woman dock attendant about Matthew’s age handed me the fuel nozzle and I began to fill the tank while keeping a lookout for Nash. To say that I was extremely uncomfortable being this close to where I ditched him—it takes only about fifteen minutes to navigate Motts Channel—was an understatement so I only put in ten gallons. Plenty to get me to Surf City, a safer distance away from Nash and Ivan. I’d have to fill up again, but there were plenty of marinas along the way to the cabin.
Back on the waterway, I couldn’t shake the nagging worry that Gladys wouldn’t be at my fish camp, though it was the only solution I could think of. It was my last hope. If she wasn’t hiding there, then damned if I knew where she could be.
TWENTY-NINE
Henri’s boat hummed efficiently under me. I checked my watch. One o’ clock Sunday afternoon and the sun beat down from a cloudless sky. Already today I’d been trapped in a root cellar and tracked down despite my best efforts. Then I was threatened with a gun by a crazy—and I do mean crazy—person. I was exhausted, my body burned in the sun like I was standing next to a pit fire, and I had a trip of between four and five hours ahead of me, depending on boat traffic. But there was nothing to be done for it.