SHADOW OVER CEDAR KEY

by Ann Cook

  Cara gritted her teeth. “We’re going to sit here with our backs braced and kick as hard as we can.”

  Brandy’s spirits rose. “True, these guys we’re dealing with aren’t mental giants. Plywood’s not all that strong.”

  Brandy gave the lowest slat a vicious kick. “If we’re lucky, Twinkle-tongue will be gassing an engine or moving a boat with the fork lift.”

  Cara joined her and the bottom plank splintered, tore loose from the nails, dropped into the water below, then the next. “One more,” Brandy said. “Then it’s over with the line again.”

  When the third plywood board splashed down, Brandy pulled the nylon rope out of her bag, tied it to the leg of the couch, and threw it over the sill.

  “Okay, you first. The water can’t be deep and the store’s on pilings. See if you can get up under the floor out of sight. We’ll try to make it to the back steps.”

  Cara ducked her head and straddled the sill, gripped the line, and let herself down. Brandy heard her slosh into the standing water, then followed her out the window. Once more she was hit by the acrid smell of damp, polluted mud. When her shoes sank into the muck, she looked up and shook her head. No way to pull down the window or retrieve the line.

  They huddled for a minute, up to their knees in the cold flood, then struggled between concrete supports under the building, dragging their feet across a bottom of weeds, mud, and sand.

  Cara shuddered. “Wish we still had our boots.”

  “They wouldn’t have stayed on.” At last, half squatting, they worked their way through the shallow water to the concrete blocks at the back door. They could see the broken hull, and beyond it, the fatal bridge. Their boots still lay beside the road, the gate still hung open. Moose would be expected. No other customers or cars were on the street.

  “Got to try to get away from the store,” Brandy whispered. “We can hunch down and make a run for the old boat. Keep it between us and the store. Then dash through the gate and make for the canal, duck down under the bridge again.”

  Cara nodded, her face rigid. Brandy willed her legs to keep moving. She ran first, along behind the derelict boat, and crouched at the corner of the gate until Cara charged up behind her.

  “Now!” Brandy spurted through the gate, hit the bank of the canal beside Cara, and stooped into the shadows under the concrete arch. Once more they huddled together.

  “Thing is,” Brandy said, “people ought to start coming back soon.” She scanned the few boarded up cottages along the canal. “Watch for a car with kids in it, a family.”

  They sat for several minutes in shivering silence. “It’ll be strange to meet a man who might be my father,” Cara said at last. “How can I prove he is?”

  “Tests. First, the dental records will verify the skeleton is Allison Bullen’s. Then we have to show she’s your mother. DNA testing can do that, prove he’s your father, too. Tests shouldn’t be a problem. Frank Bullen’s a wealthy man.”

  A few more minutes passed. “I don’t need tests. I’ve got the blue bear. Or I did.”

  “I don’t know if that would be legal evidence.”

  The strain of the last two days showed in Cara’s eyes. Her voice broke. “Where in the world is everyone?” Brandy patted her hand, trying to think what to do next. As a guide she had not been a rattling success. “I think you said Dante finally got out of hell.”

  “He did.” Brandy looked at Cara thoughtfully. Finding her biological father would force hard decisions on Cara—about Marcia, her career, her whole future. “But Dante had to reach his final goal by himself.”

  On the road several yards away a car stopped, but no one appeared at the few houses they could see. What kind of vehicle would Moose come in? Surely not the swamp buggy. A pick-up, probably. When Brandy crawled to the edge of the arch and peered back toward the store, her legs almost gave way. The owner now stood in the doorway, glaring out at the parking lot. Then he trotted down the steps, knelt, and looked under the building.

  Shaken, Brandy scooted back to Cara. “The guy knows we’re gone.” If they ran, he would spot them. If they waited, maybe he wouldn’t think of the bridge.”

  And then Brandy heard barking, throaty, excited. She remembered the black lab. The proprietor might not be smart, but he had an assistant, a skilled searcher.

  “The owner’s dog,” she breathed. They sat paralyzed, hearing the rapid patter of paws, the nails scratching on the road bed, the little yelps of discovery. Tightly they held each other and listened to the dog come clawing down the embankment, its cry exultant.

  CHAPTER 20

  Brandy spun around, grasping for a stick, a rock, any weapon. But retreating water had swept the concrete slab clean. In her panic she thought of the car that had stopped on the street. If it was Moose, if they faced Moose and the marina owner, they were done for. Someone was scrambling down the bank behind the dog. She heard loud panting. As the animal bounded into their dim sanctuary, she ducked and threw one arm around Cara’s shoulder, the other up before her face. Her mind raced with images of salivating Dobermans and pit bulls and her body tensed for the attack. She braced herself and shut her eyes.

  Then something moist touched her cheek. Her heart gave a sudden leap. A dog’s wet tongue? She opened her eyes and looked into a soft, cream-colored mask, saw a flash of feathery tail. Burying her face in Meg’s red-gold coat, she wept.

  When Brandy raised her head, a tall, familiar figure was half sliding down the last few feet into the culvert, arms lifted to keep his balance, dark hair tumbled over his forehead. A wave of emotion surged in her chest. She saw John’s eyes widen with relief, heard him calling her, as he had the last night in her dream. Dripping and muddy and wordless, legs weak, she rose and ran to him, laid her head against his tan jacket, clung to him. For the first time in two days she felt safe.

  His arms closed around her. “My God, I’ve been frantic.”

  She tried to speak and found to her surprise that she was crying. Turning, she took Cara’s cold hand and choked out the words. “We were kidnapped. The guy in the Lazy River Marina. He has a gun.”

  John’s lips tightened. “We’ll take care of him.”

  Thank God, Brandy thought, he’s not alone. With John’s arm steadying her, she held Cara’s hand and stumbled up toward the bridge, while Meg bounced ahead, her tail like a banner. When they reached the road, she could see Detective Jeremiah Strong standing beside his Ford Taurus, hands on his hips, watching with an enormous grin.

  “Guy in the marina,” John called. “He was holding them both.”

  While Strong put in a call on his radio, John waited, one arm still around Brandy’s waist, and rubbed his forehead. “How in the world.”

  Brandy nodded at Cara. “We escaped out a window. Twice. Couldn’t have done it without Cara.”

  Her friend leaned her slim body against the Ford, holding high her head with its tangled mop of hair. Gone was the shaken figure who had cringed before the wind and rain. Even in the soiled shirt and shorts, she had dignity. She knows, Brandy thought, that she conquered a storm and two kidnappers. Now perhaps she’s ready to face Marcia and Truck.

  As the detective closed the car door, John lifted Meg’s leash from the Ford’s hood and snapped it onto her collar.

  “Dixie County deputies been searching this whole area,” Strong said. “Ever since we got the report this morning you was missing. They’ll be here directly.”

  Brandy caught a flicker of motion in the marina doorway. Cara whirled and pointed toward the parking lot. “He’ll get away!” A squat man had bolted down the steps and was trotting across the pavement toward the pick-up. The proprietor had seen the detective’s car.

  “Remember the gun,” Brandy said.

  Strong’s hand moved under his jacket toward a slight bulge at the small of his back. “Only way to get o
ut is past me.”

  Strong crouched and took a few steps forward before Brandy heard the squeal of brakes, and three Dixie County cruisers pulled across the road behind them, armed officers spilling out of each. While the black lab barked through the screen door, they converged on the parking lot. Several hands yanked the marina owner from the pick-up cab, threw him against the door, removed his revolver from an ankle holster, and half dragged and half walked him toward the bridge.

  “This the guy, M’am?”

  The chubby proprietor sagged between two deputies, wild-eyed, gap-toothed, the corners of his mouth dribbling. “D-didn’t do nothing! Just t-tried to h-help them two ladies!”

  Brandy nodded to the deputy. “He’s the one. Helped us by locking us up and threatening us with the gun. There’s another one, even more dangerous, on a houseboat across from Little Turkey Island. Moored on this side of the river—if he’s still there.”

  The tension in Cara’s face relaxed as the marina owner was hustled past.

  “Marine Patrol can pick up the second guy,” Strong said. “The dispatcher will be glad to call off the divers. They was fixing to look for you.” He moved again toward his radio, then motioned to the corporal in charge. “Meantime, you might cover those logging roads this side of the river. In case the guy takes off.”

  Cara giggled. “His swamp buggy’s bogged down on one of those roads. We got away in it.”

  For the first time John flashed his lop-sided grin.

  While two deputies secured the marina site and waited for a search warrant, another pair tucked the marina owner into the cage in the rear of a cruiser. Strong opened the passenger door of his own car for Cara, while John ushered Meg, then Brandy into the back seat and climbed in last.

  “This area’s under Dixie County jurisdiction,” the detective said, sliding under the wheel. “I told the corporal how to reach you both. You’ll have to come back and make full statements.”

  One deputy started his engine, then leaned out the car window and called to Strong, “Got a message here for Mr. Able. Dispatcher says there’s a contractor in Gainesville trying to reach him. Called our operations center in Cross City.”

  John was reaching for the door handle when Strong spoke. “You can’t call from the marina. No one can go in until it’s searched. You can use the phone at the store in Fowler’s Bluff. We got to take you there, anyway, for your car.”

  While Strong drove back down the narrow highway, John moved in close to Brandy. “Damn it,” he said, frowning. “The call’s got to mean a problem on the bank restoration job. I had to leave in a hurry, and I left things to Tiffany. The first crews started today.” He lifted a strand of water weed from the back of her neck, looked around, and finally deposited it on the floor mat. “Left my car next to your rental at the store.” He pulled her head onto his shoulder. “When the woman at the fish camp got back this morning, she called the Levy County Sheriff’s Office. Her boat hadn’t been returned, and your car was still there.”

  “Bless that woman,” Brandy murmured.

  John’s lips brushed her dirt-streaked cheek. Then he drew back and scowled. “Any idea how crazy that news made me? The woman said a young lady had rented a boat to look for a houseboat near Little Turkey Island. Said the water was already rough. After her call, her empty skiff washed ashore.” He rubbed his forehead again and sighed. “I never doubted the missing woman was you. Who else would go out in that weather? Detective Strong confirmed your name at the rental agency. He let me come with him.”

  Brandy felt like a child who’d been rescued from danger by her parents, but still faced their wrath. John looked down at the retriever cuddled up beside Brandy. “We were hoping somehow you’d made it to

  Suwannee. I knew Meg’s nose might come in handy. She went wild over those boots on the bridge.”

  Strong glanced in the rear view mirror. “I reckon the kidnapping hooks in with the Rossi murder.” Brandy lifted her head and noticed the white steeple floating past, then the roofless trailer. Strong grinned. “Reckon it turned out to be drugs, after all, right?”

  Brandy rested her head again on John’s shoulder. She felt bone tired, her arms and legs limp. “Marijuana had been stored on the houseboat, yes.”

  She wondered if she would recognize the clump of cabbage palms where she and Cara had found shelter, where the bob cat had sprung forth. A weak sun glowed through a thin cover of clouds. It all seemed unreal now.

  “But I gotta hand it to you, O’Bannon,” Strong added. “You was right about Miss Waters here being snatched.”

  Cara had slumped against the passenger door. Now she nodded. “I never got to see the photograph. Maybe it did show the murderer.”

  “The Dixie County guys will be looking for it, for sure.” He turned right at U.S. 19, drove through the tiny community of Old Town, and crossed the brimming Suwannee at Fanning Springs. “Got to thank Mrs. Able for another tip,” he said in a few minutes. “Before the storm we took up the woman’s skeleton. Carried it to Gainesville and faxed the dental records. Preliminary report came in early today. It’s Allison Bullen, all right. I called the man used to be her husband in New York. Wasn’t any other family.”

  Cara faced him, her voice clear. “Except me. Allison Bullen disappeared during Hurricane Agnes.” She frowned. “I found the blue teddy bear her little girl was carrying. My foster mother had it hidden. She knew I was that woman’s child all along. That’s why I left. Brandy says my name’s really Belinda Bullen.”

  After a pause, Strong spoke more quietly. “If that’s the case, I reckon you’ll see your daddy and his new wife later this afternoon. Flying into Cedar Key in some kinda private jet. I told him he could claim the remains in a few days. He wants to talk to you and that son of his. Says Rossi called him about the search, and he sent his son to check it out. Didn’t want anyone to know who they were, not ‘til he was sure Rossi was on the right track.”

  “Mr. Bullen was afraid of a false claim,” Brandy said.

  “He’s a wealthy man.” She could see Cara’s narrow shoulders go tense. In the pale light her eyes looked enormous. How would it feel to meet a father you’d never known, a man who might not acknowledge you? “He plays his cards close to his vest,” Brandy added, “like a lawyer would.” She glanced at the detective. “What did you tell Mr. Bullen?”

  “Nothing,” Strong said, “except that we identified the skeleton.”

  Brandy remembered her own halting interview in Bullen’s well-appointed study. “I told him the medical examiner thought his wife had been murdered.”

  “Come down to it, I’ll likely see the man today myself. I aim to go back to Cedar Key this afternoon. Got to question a certain someone.” Brandy remembered MacGill’s gun was being tested for Rossi’s murder. Angus was probably in for a grilling.

  Strong swung off Route 19 and made the final turn toward Fowler’s Bluff. In the fish camp parking area he pulled around a fallen oak limb beside John’s car, switched off the engine, and heaved his long legs out from under the wheel.

  “Wait while I run in and call Gainesville,” John said. He opened his door and looked down at Brandy, nestled beside him, at her ragged shirt and damp shorts, at her wan eyes. He shook his head. “You’re in no condition to drive the rental car back to Gainesville.”

  Strong leaned against the Ford while John sprinted across a yard littered with twigs and Spanish moss, up the worn steps, and into the store. “Be patient and long suffering,” the detective said, mostly to himself. “So shall thou have dominion over all wicked works.”

  Brandy nodded with satisfaction at his words. She had closed her eyes when John came back, the muscles in his forehead taut, anger plain in the tilt of his chin. “All work at the construction site’s stopped.

  Contractor’s mad as hell,” he growled. “We had to redesign a steel support system to pres
erve the old structure. Something about it’s not right. I never should’ve left an intern in charge.” There’d been a problem with Tiffany Moore’s renderings, Brandy knew. That was why she’d called John Saturday at the hotel.

  Even though Brandy did not want John blamed, she felt a twinge of vindication. The architectural profession was replete with excellent women, but she had never thought one of them was Tiffany Moore.

  With gentle pressure John took Brandy’s hands in his and helped her from the car. “I’ve got to get to the bank building as soon as I can. I can straighten out the problem. The contractor can’t go on without me. It could mean my job with the firm.”

  Cara leaned over the back seat, appealing with her eyes to Brandy. “Brandy, come home with me this afternoon. Clean up and get a good rest. You could make a fresh start tomorrow.” Her voice became more urgent. “You could meet my father with me. You talked to him in New York. I wouldn’t know him if I saw him.”

  Without looking at Cara, Brandy took John’s hand. “Do what you have to. Go on to Gainesville. Your work’s more important right now. I’m safe. Anyway, I don’t want to wait at the job site while you solve the problem. And I need to return the car.”

  John drew her to him and kissed the top of her head. “I don’t want you driving back alone, not until I’m sure you’re okay. Take a room at the hotel and rest.” He pulled back and looked into her eyes. “In the meantime, I’m asking Detective Strong to follow your car to Cedar Key, in case you get any other looney ideas.”

  For a second longer he held her. “Call me tomorrow morning when you leave. I’ll pick you up at the airport car rental.” His tone softened, and turning away from the others, he murmured, “Then we’ll have a real celebration.” She gave him a final hug.

  It was not until Brandy had settled behind the wheel, Cara beside her, that she realized he would spend another evening working with