Troubled Waters

by Susan May Warren

  “How long have you been here?”

  Oh. She found her voice. “I washed up last night. It was too dark to do anything but curl up in the grass, but this morning I got up and walked the island. It’s not very big. Maybe a mile long and just a few hundred yards wide.”

  “Any sign of water?”

  “No. I did find a lot of garbage. Like water bottles and—”

  “Stay here.” He got up and all at once ran back into the surf.

  She turned and cupped her hand over her eyes. She could hardly believe it when she saw him struggling with what looked like a cooler, a big one, like the one that had been on the deck of the Montana Rose.

  She got up and headed into the water. “Is that from the yacht?”

  He was hauling it into shore. “Yeah. It kept me afloat.”

  He’d ridden the cooler all the way to the island? “It could have turned over—or sank.”

  He pulled it onto the sand. “It could have, but it didn’t. And . . .” He opened it.

  Inside, the ice had melted, and three bottles of flavored seltzer water and a bottle of root beer floated in the puddle that remained.

  “Potable water. We’ll need to conserve it until we can find water. Or I can figure out a desalination system.” He pulled out a seltzer water and handed her one. “If you shake it, it will relieve the bubbles and leave only the flavor.”

  She frowned.

  “I know how you hate the fizzy stuff.”

  She did, but certainly not at the moment. She opened the bottle’s twist top.

  “Not too fast, Sierra. We not only need to conserve, but your body is pretty dehydrated. Too much at once will make you sick.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Crusoe.”

  He grinned, however, as he opened his own bottle. Drank just a little before he put it back into the cooler. “Don’t leave it out in the sun or it will dehydrate.”

  “When did you turn into Survivorman?” She put her bottle inside the cooler.

  “Saturday night television,” he said and winked.

  All the bottled, pent-up fear and the brittle hold she had on her emotions burst free. She turned away, pressed her hand to her mouth, shaking.

  “Sierra?”

  She held her hand up as if to push him away, but he came around to face her, bending to catch her eyes. “Are you crying?”

  She shook her head. Then nodded. Then, “I don’t know. I’m not upset, I’m just . . .” She closed her eyes. Relieved.

  So painfully relieved. “I’m just so glad you’re here. I couldn’t do this alone.”

  Ian, alive. And promising to keep them both safe.

  And her, suddenly, perfectly in his solid embrace, because he’d stepped close to her, pulled her against his warm, strong, amazing body.

  “I’ve just been in the sun too long,” she said. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Mmmhmm,” he said. She felt his chest rise, fall. “Me too.”

  She was standing there, staring out at the sea, sure she never wanted to let him go when . . . “Ian, I see a boat.”

  He put her away and turned, cupping his hand over his eyes.

  “It’s way out there, but—”

  “I see it,” he said. “A cruise ship, by the looks of it.”

  She could barely see the outline of it, a white, shiny hulk on the golden horizon. Still, she waved her hands and shouted.

  He was already moving toward the water.

  “Ian, you can’t swim out there!”

  He didn’t stop but went straight to the raft and then yanked it from the tangle of mangroves. She splashed in after him. “It’s torn, it won’t—”

  Oh.

  He’d grabbed a flare from the pocket of the deflated raft. Turned to her. “We need to make a signal fire. Something that will smoke up and burn. They’ll never see this flare, but if we can build a fire—”

  “Yes. Right! There’s debris on the beach—flip-flops and bottles and lots of coconuts!” She turned and splashed through the water.

  Something slimy and cold wrapped around her foot, like a plastic bag. For a second, she thought it might be debris floating ashore—

  Tentacles wrapped around her leg; a thousand needles pierced her skin.

  She screamed and fell into the waves. “It’s—it’s on me! It’s—”

  Ian appeared in a second, lifted her from the water, and scraped at the creature—nearly see-through and gelatinous on her foot. “It’s a jellyfish!” He scraped the barbed tentacles from her leg and threw the creature back into the sea.

  “It’s burning!” In fact, her entire leg felt on fire. She closed her eyes, tried not to writhe as Ian set her down in the shallow water.

  He splashed seawater on the wounds. A band of reddened welts encircled her leg.

  She gritted her teeth. “Ian—the signal fire!”

  “Shh, this won’t be the last ship, I promise.” He was using his hand to wash her leg to dislodge the stingers. He winced, and she grabbed his wrist. “You’re getting stung.”

  “I’m okay, just let me finish.”

  He washed the rest of the stingers from her leg, then carried her over to the cooler. Set her on it. Knelt in front of her. “Can you breathe?” He was pressing his fingers to the pulse point at her wrist.

  “Yes, it just—oh, it hurts.” She didn’t want to groan, but—

  “Shh. Okay. Listen, it’s an old wives’ tale, what they say about, well, um—anyway, I think if we can start a fire, we can get some hot cloths on it and draw out the venom. Until then, those are open wounds. Try not to get sand in them.”

  He turned as if to leave her, and she grabbed his arm. “The ship! Light the flare!”

  He cupped his hand over his eyes. After a minute, he crouched in front of her. “It’s too late. We need to wait for the next ship.”

  “But—”

  “If that’s a cruise ship, then that could be a shipping lane. Which means if we build a fire, someone will eventually spot us. But I don’t know how long that will be, and we need to build shelter or we’re going to die from exposure.”

  “No—first we build a signal fire!” She cupped her hand over her eyes, searching for the ship. But it had slipped into the horizon.

  He caught her hands in his. “We will be rescued, Sierra. But until then, we need to be smart. Think like Robinson Crusoe. Priority number one is water—we have that, for now. Then we need to think about rescue and safety while we wait. I’m pretty burned, and you’re injured, so we need shelter.”

  “I think we need to get back in the raft, paddle out to that ship.”

  He turned, again cupping his hand over his eyes, as if considering her words. “And what do you propose to do about that surf? The one breaking at the reef? We’ll never get over that, Sierra.”

  She too well remembered almost not making it into shore.

  “And even if we did, the ship would be long gone,” he added quietly.

  “So, what, we just wait here?”

  “As long as we have water, fire, food, and shelter . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “Looks like paradise to me.”

  She just stared at him.

  His rueful smile vanished. “Sierra.” His voice gentled on the tail end of her name. “Okay, I’m going to say it, but try and have a little faith. I found you . . . I mean . . . Okay, I might have prayed and asked God for help, but here we are. Together.”

  Her eyes widened. “You . . . prayed?”

  “Try not to be so shocked. It’s not like I had many choices.”

  She had the crazy urge to cry again. “You did the right thing,” she said softly. “It’s never a bad thing to have only God to turn to.” She’d sort of forgotten that, in her panic.

  In the long night at sea.

  But Ian hadn’t and . . . could it be that the one thing she’d longed for happened during her darkest night? Without her help?

  “Okay, Ian. I trust you.” She groaned and hated the wince that appeared on his face.

  �
�Let me get the raft out of the water, then we’ll figure out where to set up a signal fire. Once that’s going, I’ll build us a house.”

  “You’re going to build us a shelter? Just like that?”

  “Oh, just you wait, honey.” Another wink, and suddenly Ian morphed into the man she knew. The one standing with his shirt open to the breeze, barefoot in the sand, surveying the island like he owned it. “I’m going to build you a palace.”

  And with a stir deep inside, she wanted to throw herself in his arms again.

  It just might be that Ian was right.

  Water, fire, food, shelter . . . and for the first time, nothing else between them.

  Perhaps she had found paradise.

  “You’re telling me that you’re not going to let me know if my friends are safe or still lost at sea?”

  Jess knew Pete well enough to know that he fought to keep his voice in check, but the rage that radiated through him reverberated through the rental car they’d acquired in Miami.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the bozo from the Coast Guard administrative offices in Key West they had the misfortune of finding on the other end of the phone. “We’re not allowed to give out the names of the survivors until their families have been contacted.”

  “I’m family!” Shae said from the back seat, leaning forward toward the phone where Pete held it up, on speaker. “I’m Ian’s niece, and I’m—”

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am. If you want to come to the station with some form of identification, I’ll be glad to let you talk to our duty chief.”

  Shae sat back in the seat.

  They were running out of time. Jess had been doing the math along with everyone else, and if Ian and Sierra had been cast out to sea without a raft, they’d be surrounded by water, slowly dehydrating, not to mention unarmed against the elements.

  And if they had gotten ahold of a raft, well . . . maybe they had a chance. But even that was dimming if they weren’t found soon.

  “We need to talk to the fishermen who hauled in the survivors,” Jess said as she pressed a hand on Pete’s arm.

  They sat in the parking lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts, refueling with coffee after their four-hour trip from Miami. With less than five hours of sleep after the nine-hour journey from Montana on commercial flights, Jess needed all the fortification she could find.

  Across the street, the morning sun glinted against the Salt Pond Keys, turning the water a deep platinum. Palm trees swayed in the easy sun-soaked breeze, and the smell of brine and seaweed and the call of gulls hung in the air.

  It conjured up memories, too fresh, too raw to sink into. She swallowed them away and refused to look at Ty.

  He’d shown up at the airport without explanation, but Jess had a feeling Pete had called him, asked about that very thing she’d intimated. Ty—and yes, she—had old friends in the Keys. Or at least friends who had yachts moored here. That admission had left a stone in her throat. “I choose you. You, and this life.”

  Yes, she did, and while she didn’t expect Pete to propose on the plane—this wasn’t the time—she longed to just step into the future already. But the way he’d kissed her last night, sweetly, taking her face in his hands, letting his eyes linger in hers before letting her go to her hotel room, yes, he’d gotten the message.

  Their future would still be waiting for them after they found Ian and Sierra.

  Pete held his phone closer to his mouth, schooled his voice as he spoke to the administrator. “Just tell me this. Are the names Ian Shaw and Sierra Rose listed there?”

  A pause, as if the man on the other end might be deciding whether to break the rules. Then, “Okay, I can confirm that they are not on the survivor list. But that’s all I can say. I’m sorry.”

  The car went quiet.

  Pete hung up. Jess shot a look at Shae.

  She was looking out the window, her expression hollow.

  Jess understood that look. Still felt that way when she thought about her father recovering at a hospital in North Carolina.

  “This isn’t over,” Ty said from where he sat beside Shae. “I’ve been in touch with Chet, and his fishing buddy found out the name of the boat that picked them up. Let’s head out to Stock Island and the Key West harbor.”

  For such a small spit of an island, Key West boomed with tourists strolling the wide, cobblestone boulevards downtown, under the shade of palm trees and bordered by whitewashed nineteenth-century homes. People drove mopeds, golf carts, and a few music-pumping convertibles, clearly on vacation. Wild chickens roamed the streets, pecking at discarded ice-cream wrappers, seeds, and anything left over from last night’s celebrations.

  Pete headed east, toward the charter harbor instead of the Galleon Marina.

  Ty seemed to know the way, or maybe he’d pulled it up on his navigation, but he directed Pete south to Maloney Avenue and out to one of the deep-sea fishing charter buildings. A weathered sign above the storefront said Deep Sea Adventure Fishing.

  Pete climbed out, and Jess and the others followed him inside. Today, he wore a bandanna tucked around his golden hair, a pair of aviator sunglasses, and a T-shirt that showed off a tan she hadn’t noticed before. He sauntered into the store and pulled off his sunglasses.

  Pictures of happy customers holding gigantic sailfish, swordfish, and tuna hung on the walls. A man in his early twenties, his dark hair slicked back in a gimme cap, looked up from behind the worn front desk. He set down his phone. “What can I do for you?”

  “Hey,” Pete said. “I’m looking for the guides who pulled in those shipwreck survivors. Our buddy said they work for your outfit.”

  He nodded. “Drae and Teddy. They’re out there, on their boat, the Castaway. Better hurry, they’re about ready to pull out.” He gestured with his head.

  They hustled out the door and down the wide pier. Many of the slips were empty, but Jess spotted the Castaway, a two-tiered boat with a fishing canopy over the top and an array of poles sticking up from the back. A woman appeared, dressed in cutoff jean shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, her brown hair tied back with a tie-dye wrap. She dumped water over the side of the boat.

  Seagulls screamed, dove for the debris in the water.

  “Hey there!” Pete said, lifting his hand, and the woman looked up.

  Probably the presence of Pete, or more likely Ty, who wore a pair of khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and flip-flops, suggested latecomers to their fishing expedition.

  “You’re late!” she said, confirming Jess’s thoughts. “We’re about to leave.”

  “Actually,” Pete started as he stood at the bow, “we wanted to talk to you about the survivors of the Montana Rose that you rescued.”

  The woman had maneuvered her way along the edge of the boat to the front, now stood on the white hull, above them. “Why?”

  “We’re their friends and we’re trying to figure out what happened. And . . . where they are.”

  “I don’t know. Probably the hospital—one of them had a broken wrist, and I think one of the girls might have internal bleeding, maybe a broken rib. The Coast Guard picked them up last night.”

  “Where did you find them?” Ty asked.

  “About thirty miles from the lower keys. We were fishing for barracuda and saw all four of them riding what looked like a giant pizza box—turned out to be the spa cover from the yacht. But they were in bad shape. Dehydrated, sunburned, and apparently they’d gone down from a rogue wave. We hauled them in and called the Coast Guard.”

  “Do you remember their names?” Shae came up beside Pete. “Or descriptions?”

  The woman gave a laugh. “I’m not much of a football fan, but one of our clients seemed pretty jazzed to meet Hayes Buoye. Apparently he plays football—”

  “For the Texas Thunder,” Ty finished.

  “Right. And then there was Kelley. He was the only one who seemed to have himself put together. I think he was the bosun. And a couple ladies. I can’t remember their names. But my guess is that they probabl
y stayed overnight at the medical center.”

  A man popped his head up from the deck behind them. “Drae, we need to be under way.”

  She turned back to them, but Pete was already waving and Jess followed him down the dock.

  “Hayes Buoye,” Pete said quietly. He looked at Jess. “Do you know him?”

  “Why would I know him?” Jess said.

  He shrugged and got into the car. Said nothing more as they headed across the island to the towering blue and white building that served as the medical help for the community. Pete pulled into the shade of a palm tree and they piled out.

  She caught up to Pete’s long strides. “Why would I know Hayes Buoye?”

  Pete lifted a shoulder, glanced at her. “I just thought . . . well, Ty seemed to know him, so—”

  “Who doesn’t know Hayes Buoye?” Jess said. “Plays defensive end, was the leading pass rusher two years ago? C’mon, Pete. My family wasn’t that well connected. I don’t know everybody.”

  He cast her a sideways smile as he held open the door. “Right.”

  The cool air-conditioning from the lobby whisked heat from her skin, sent a flash of gooseflesh along her arms. Shae came in behind her. She looked impossibly heartbroken, desperately silent, despair in her eyes.

  Jess fought the urge to reach out to the girl, tell her to keep hoping, that it wasn’t too late. Except it very well could be.

  Pete signed them in, asked to see Hayes Buoye. He wasn’t a patient, but when Pete identified them as Ian Shaw’s friends, the receptionist made a call, then gave them directions to a room on the third floor.

  They rode the elevator in silence.

  The doors opened, and as they headed down the hallway, Jess felt Pete’s hand catch hers. He gave it a squeeze, then dropped it a moment before they came to the door. Voices hummed from the room and didn’t stop as they pushed inside.

  The Weather Channel played on the ancient box television affixed to the wall. It displayed a map of the area, the local temperatures and fronts.

  The sound muted as they came into the room. “Can I help you?” A woman lay on the bed, her blonde hair splayed out over her pillow, her arm, encased in plaster, weighted on another pillow. She wore a hospital-issue gown, but even in her disheveled state, Jess sensed she was a woman used to being served. She sat up on the bed, a cup of designer coffee on the bed tray next to a spray of flowers.