SHADOW OVER CEDAR KEY

by Ann Cook

  “There’s no window latch on the inside.”

  Brandy took a few steps around the small room, checked the solid back door—locked—the tiny bathroom and its toilet, shower, and sink, above the toilet its high, narrow jalousie window.

  She looked back at Cara. “Did you get the picture at Shell Mound?”

  Cara gave a sad shake of her head. “I don’t know. He took my purse and my pictures. Never saw them.”

  “I think he did, from what he said just now on the phone.” Brandy sat down again, her gaze fixed on the window, and patted Cara’s slender hand. It was trembling. Rain pattered now against the pane, and they could hear the wind rising in the cypress trees. She took Cara’s chin in her hands and turned her away from the window. Here was a young woman who could hike alone into the woods at night, but could not stand the sound of heavy rain and wind. “I found some useful information in New York. I’m pretty sure I know who your father is. A wealthy attorney.” No need to tell her about Frank Bullen’s paternal doubts. Legally she was his daughter. “The oddest thing I learned is about Nathan Hunt. You remember the good-looking guy at the hotel with the ducktail haircut?”

  Cara swallowed and nodded.

  “Nathan Hunt is not really Nathan Hunt. His name is Blade Bullen, and I think he’s your half-brother. Probably he was shadowing Rossi. Your father re-married a few years ago. His name is Frank and yours was Belinda, Belinda Bullen. He wants to know about you.”

  Cara raised her head, for the moment distracted from the whine of the wind. “I knew you’d find out. My mother?”

  “Allison Bullen. Dental tests should confirm that.” Restless, Brandy rose again. “We’re probably here because of the photograph. Somebody thinks you got a picture of them burying Rossi. It’s possible Rossi’s murder doesn’t have anything to do with your mother’s, although now Strong thinks it might.” She opened a folding door into a narrow closet. Rain slickers, a torn life cushion, a can of tobacco, three pairs of dirt-encrusted fishing boots, and the lingering, sweetish smell of marijuana.

  “Looks like Strong was right about the drug connection. Our brutish friend is into running pot.” She looked at her watch. Five-thirty. They had to act before the hurricane hit, or it would be too late. “When do they feed the animals here?”

  “Oh, God, how can you think of food?”

  “I’m not thinking of food. I’m thinking of escape.”

  “We couldn’t overpower that gorilla, drunk or sober.”

  Brandy slouched again on the bunk. “We got one thing he doesn’t. Brains. That ploy at the drug store—somebody programmed him. He’s working for someone. Could be anybody. Except the person had to know when you were going to the drug store. That narrows it a bit—John and me, MacGill, Truck, Blade Bullen, and, of course, Mar-cia. We know the hotel clerk has a big mouth.”

  Tears trembled again in Cara’s voice. “I wonder why he didn’t just shoot me? Why are they holding us?”

  “Could be lots of reasons. Some of those people care about you.” Brandy didn’t add aloud another reason. Maybe someone doesn’t want to dispose of more bodies right now. She rummaged in her large tote bag. Camera gone, of course, but she still had her plastic film pouch. Both could hold useful things. Outside the line was still tied to the rail. “We’ve got to think of a plan.”

  But she thought first of John. Right now she should be walking through the door of their cluttered apartment, or listening for his key in the lock. She hadn’t seen him since Saturday night. This was Wednesday. Almost a week since she had lain in his arms, since she had last felt loved and secure. He would pour himself a beer and begin waiting. Would he worry that something had happened to her and call the police? Or would he be angry, think once more she had abandoned him for her job?

  Cara clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. “If we tried to break a window, that devil would be on us like a flash. He might tie us up. He did that to me. I can’t stand that again.”

  A blast of wind and rain rattled the panes. The boat began to rock. “We ought to make our break before it’s completely dark. Before the hurricane makes landfall.”

  Cara’s gaze was again drawn to the window. “If he’s not too drunk, he’ll probably bring our food by six. He did yesterday. After that, he’ll be busy with the storm.”

  “I wouldn’t count on his seamanship.” Brandy’s eyes brightened. “There’s one real hope. The woman at Fowler’s Bluff. She’ll report that I didn’t come back with her boat, and the rental car’s still there. She knows where I was going. Someone will contact the Sheriff s Office, and Strong will call my husband. He’ll find us, at least after the storm passes.”

  She felt a rush of warmth for John. He might be annoyed with her, might be fascinated by Tiffany Moore, but if he knew Brandy was in trouble, he would be an absolute bloodhound.

  Cara pointed toward the window. “Brandy, look.”

  Moose had clamored down from the houseboat. They watched him crash through the wet underbrush toward the end of the island. They waited, pulses racing. Maybe he had deserted his post for safer shelter. But in a few minutes they saw him tug Brandy’s skiff along the island shore, saw him throw its oar far out into the roiling water, turn the boat upside down, and with a mighty heave, send it sliding into the river. They watched it twist and turn until it bobbed around the bend out of sight.

  Cara’s hand flew to her mouth. “They’ll find your empty boat. My God, your husband will think you drowned in the storm.”

  CHAPTER 18

  At 5:45 Brandy heard the lock turn again. The pocket door slid a foot to one side and Moose thrust his perspiring face against the opening. He had grown a bristly stubble, and for the first time Brandy noticed a missing tooth.

  “Chow time.” He stooped and with thick fingers set a pan of tomato soup, two slices of stale bread, and two tablespoons on the top step. Unsteadily he straightened up and hoisted a vodka bottle before the opening. “Have us a little party. Soon’s I move the damned boat out a-ways. Gonna be a helluva blow tonight. Hurricane party.” He peered again at Brandy and Cara, huddled together on the side of the lower bunk. “Two of you be fun.” He dangled a rope from one big hand, his heavy brows contracting. “I’ll make sure you gonna cooperate.” They looked back with faces of stone. Nausea rose in Brandy’s throat. A demon from hell, Brandy thought, remembering Dante’s Inferno, the classic she’d packed to re-read over the weekend—a weekend that seemed eons ago.

  After Moose slammed the door, Brandy stepped forward and peeped through the square glass panel.

  Pale, Cara whispered, “Remember, he’s got a gun.” Brandy could see him sitting at the wheel, fingers drumming on the console. Then he stood, yanked a yellow rain slicker from a rack in the galley, pulled it on, and opened the wheel house door. The wind was rising, and she could make out his yellow bulk bent against it in the rain.

  Brandy carried the pan across the swaying floor to the bunk, handed a spoon to Cara, and took a sip of the tepid soup. “Got to keep up our strength.” Suddenly she gazed at the heavy handle, then into the open bathroom, up at the narrow window, and felt a surge of excitement. “Keep a watch on Moose.”

  Dropping the toilet lid, she climbed onto it, holding the spoon. She estimated each jalousie pane’s width at about five inches. Removing at least three might give them an escape route. On tiptoe, she pried with the handle at the metal flange that held the bottom glass in place. “Maybe we have a chance. This is one way burglars get into a lot of Florida houses.” She had worked one side of the pane loose when the handle snapped. “What’s he doing?”

  “Re-tying the line, giving it more slack.”

  “Come, take this.” Brandy handed down the narrow glass. Water spattered her face. Forcing herself to be more careful, she loosened another strip with the other handle. She was getting the knack. “We have to move fast. He’ll be taking
the houseboat farther out. Make it a lot harder for us.” She lifted the second pane down and started feverishly on the third. “Cara.” Brandy looked down at the slim face staring up at her, at the slight body. “You know what you’ve got to do. I could never get through this opening. I think maybe you could.”

  Cara shrank back against the sink. “Go out in the storm? I couldn’t!”

  Brandy climbed down and took her by the shoulders, wanting to shout at her, to shake her, to ask how else they could possibly get away. Her own heart was pounding, but she tried to think rationally. Their only hope was Cara. In a psych class Brandy once heard about overcoming phobias. The feared thing should be associated with someone or some object the person liked.

  “Look, as a little girl you were horrified by a storm because you were deserted, alone, helpless. Now you’ve got me. I won’t leave you. Would you rather hang around for Moose’s party?”

  Tears of horror filled Cara’s brown eyes. Time was passing. Where was Moose? Brandy slipped over to the glass panel in the pocket door, Cara behind her. The wheel house door swung open. Moose shambled back in and peered between strips of duct tape toward the shore. They could see his big lips move. Probably swearing. Then he pulled out a small drawer, picked up a handgun, stuck it in his belt, and lumbered outside again.

  Cara’s fingers fastened around Brandy’s arm. “He’s carrying a gun!”

  Brandy shook loose, rushed back into the bathroom, climbed up, and peered into the blowing rain. Moose had plodded below the empty window, head down, to the rear deck. Here with a wrench of his arm, he righted the dingy, carried it to the side, threw it over, and begun climbing down. “He’s going over the side,” Brandy reported.

  Cara’s face glowed with relief. “My God, he’s leaving.”

  “Probably won’t be gone long. He must’ve seen something. He’s rowing around the island to the right, toward shore. Come on! It gives us a little time.” Jumping down, Brandy turned to Cara. “It won’t be easy. I’ll boost you through the opening. A jail deputy once told me if your head fits, the rest of you will. You’ve got a hole, maybe fifteen inches wide.”

  Cara pulled herself up on the lid and then began to cry. Brandy fought her frustration. “You’re brave. You went out into the forest alone at night. But I know this is hell for you.” When she thought of the ghoulish Moose, the connection clicked again, the story of a journey through hell.

  “Ever hear of the Divine Comedy?” Cara looked down, puzzled. “In the Inferno Dante was afraid of hell, but he had a guide. That guide took him through all the circles of hell and never left him, no matter how awful things were. They saved themselves. Cara, we can be like that. I’m your guide.”

  Cara nodded, turned back to the wall, and with an effort raised her arms, and with trembling fingers gripped the sill.

  “Now listen carefully. The key is on a peg above the door. Get any keys you see. Maybe the swamp buggy’s still around. I’ll be getting ready. Let me out and we’ll make a break for the shore.”

  When Cara had pulled herself part way up the wall, Brandy leaped up on the toilet lid and pushed her farther. “Does your head fit?” She could see the dark hair flying. “Twist your shoulders through the opening and sit on the sill.”

  At last Cara inched her lean body through the slot and rested for a second on the window ledge. Through the opening her voice came back muffled. “Some kind of deck above me. Maybe I can grab the lowest rail.” She stretched above her head with one arm. “Got it!” Drawing her legs after her, she hung suspended for a second from the outside rail, then dropped to the lower deck.

  Brandy’s heart hammered against her chest. Where was Moose? From the closet she snatched up the plastic slickers, rolled them tightly, stuffed them into two pairs of fishermen’s boots, crammed the boots into the big plastic bag, and zipped it. How to carry it? Quickly, she removed her belt, ran it through the handles of the bag, threaded it again through the belt loops, and buckled it. She would have to try to swim with the extra weight. They would need the boots to hike through the swamp along the river, and hurricane winds would hit in three hours. By then they wouldn’t be able to drive or walk.

  Through the door panel she saw Cara sidle into the wheel house, saw her shaking fingers pull the keys out of the boat’s ignition, then dash to the door to lift down its key. When the pocket door slid back, Brandy slipped through and closed and locked it behind her. “When Moose gets back, maybe he’ll think we’re still here.”

  On the galley counter she swept up some packages of cheese and crackers, dumped the extra roll of film out of the plastic pouch in her bag, replaced it with the crackers and her watch, and re-locked the pouch. Cara’s face was ashen. Her teeth chattered. God, Brandy thought, don’t go into shock. The worst hasn’t even begun. “We’ve got to let ourselves down with my line, get across the island, and swim to shore.” She took Cara’s cold hand. “The channel isn’t wide. Maybe twenty yards. It’s protected.”

  They crept down the narrow walkway facing the river to the stern. Still no dinghy in sight. The only sound was the pounding of the waves against the hull, the whistling of the wind. In the fading light, Brandy looked toward the knotted wall of trees beyond the island, Wildlife Refuge for bobcats, alligators, snakes. Maybe they could find refuge, too.

  She led Cara to the line slung from the railing, and obediently Cara slipped over the side, held on, and dropped into the coffee-colored water, Brandy close behind. Working her fingers furiously, she untied the wet line, and thrust it into a pocket. They might need it. Then she led the way to the left, around the edge of the island, past dripping spines of saw palmettos, through clumps of wax myrtle, her bag catching on low branches of pond cypress and river birch, until they halted before the strait that separated them from the mainland. And then, near the houseboat, they heard a loud crackling. As one, they turned. A giant yellow shape came blundering after them. Cara gave a little shriek.

  Moose had beached his dinghy near the houseboat, had heard them or seen their tracks. Brandy was moving again, even as she called to Cara, “Into the water—fast! If you don’t see me on shore, run!”

  When she hit the water, she gasped with the sudden cold, with the strength of the current. She struck out in a modified crawl, trying to glance behind her on every third breath. Soon all she could do was struggle forward, dragged down by the plastic bag and her own tennis shoes. Even in this sheltered backwater, waves dashed against her face, filled her mouth, blurred her eyes. If she could stay afloat, the current should wash her ashore, maybe several yards upriver.

  She hoped the splashing near her was Cara. Her friend would reach land more quickly, and by now the afternoon’s large alligator should have found its hole. Even the thought of the ridged back she had seen earlier made her feel faint. She forced herself to think of Moose instead. Would he swim after them? Surely not. He’d go for the dinghy. Above her head she heard a zinging noise and something hard hit the water to her left. A bullet? He did have the gun. But she didn’t dare duck under water. She might not be able to surface again. She’d decided to jettison the bag, when, through the filter of rain, she saw trunks looming ahead, gnarled roots.

  She stepped down and her foot plunged into the pulpy river bottom. She breathed in the acrid smell of riverbank mud. Before her, Cara was crawling forward among a nest of blunt cypress knees. Brandy staggered up beside her, looked back, saw Moose crouched like a demon monster in the dinghy, yelling, his words lost in the wind. Once again Brandy grabbed Cara by the hand, found an overgrown trail, maybe an animal’s, ducked and scrambled up the marshy riverbank. She looked back from the partial shelter of a bald cypress trunk. Moose was ashore now, his gun drawn. Again they hurled themselves down the dim track.

  The keys from the boat ignition—she had fingered three keys on the ring. Maybe one went to the swamp buggy. Another shot. Wide. It slammed high into a tree behind them. Moos
e had not yet floundered up to level ground. Through the rain Brandy could see a square bulky shape like a Jeep in a clearing ahead.

  At that moment her wet fingers slipped from Cara’s hand, she heard a loud crunch, and Cara screamed. Brandy’s first thought was, Cara’s been shot! But as she whipped around, she saw Cara’s arms flailing, her mouth stretched in terror, one leg plunged to the knee in a pile of sticks and branches. She managed to cry out, “Oh, God, Brandy! A ‘gator hole!”

  In an instant Brandy recognized the tell-tale depression, the tangle of leaves and stems. Time shifted to slow motion. She reached out as Cara’s leg sank lower. Eyes wild, Cara babbled, “Something moved!” Even as Brandy grasped both Cara’s hands and tugged, she remembered the full brute length of the afternoon’s alligator. Cara, white face frozen, slid upward. A split second passed like a hour. Then she scrambled to her feet, and they bolted toward the Jeep.

  Over her shoulder Brandy heard a thrashing noise, turned and saw the huge snout protrude, the rutted moss green back heave upward, tail lashing, jaws open, saw the long shining teeth. She had read that for short distances a person couldn’t outrun an alligator—certainly not as burdened as she was. Even as the beast lunged forward, hissing, on powerful legs, the yellow rain slicker surged up from the river bank. A bullet hit a cypress trunk behind them.

  Ahead Brandy could make out the mammoth wheels, the open metal body of the swamp buggy. Again she glanced back. Another shot. The beast careened around in the path, its tail sweeping a giant arc, and raised its massive head to the new menace. Brandy vaulted onto the running board and into the driver’s seat. Behind her Cara clamored into the back seat, then tumbled over into the front. Brandy’s hand shook so hard she was afraid she could not switch on the ignition. Even if Moose didn’t hit them, he could puncture the stubby engine or the monster tires.

  Willing her fingers to work, she tried one key. Wouldn’t fit. Maybe it was the one to the houseboat. The next slid into the slot, turned. The engine barked to life. Behind them down the trail, Moose had halted, retreated a few paces, and fired again at the alligator. Brandy jammed down the clutch and the gas, shifted, and whirled the wheel. The buggy jerked backward, then leapt down a slick, two track road. Rain pounded the steel chassis; limbs swung overhead.