“And your hubby’s no different. Little Stevie may lack my dramatic flourish”-he knelt and looped the antenna wire around Kirstie’s ankles, lashing them together, then secured her legs to the chair-“but he’s equally committed to staying alive. At any cost.”
That statement seemed to reach Steve at last. To reach him even though Ana’s death had not. Slowly he shook his head in feeble protest.
“Not… any cost.” He coughed, trying to clear his voice of its unnatural rasp, and focused his gaze on Kirstie. “I told him I wouldn’t allow you to be harmed. And I won’t. I swear.”
She refused to permit him to get away with that. “I’ve been harmed already. In more ways than one.”
He flinched as if struck. “I’m… sorry.”
The words were so small, so obviously inadequate, that no reply was necessary.
Jack checked all the knots again, then nodded. “You’re not going anywhere. Have a nice night, Mrs. Gardner. Hope you don’t mind the smell of blood.”
He walked out of the room, chuckling. Steve lingered a moment, seemed to consider saying something more, then turned and departed in silence.
Kirstie was left alone in the sudden stillness, her only companions a ruined radio and, on the floor a yard from her feet, the motionless body of Anastasia, sprawled in a slowly widening red stain.
30
No-see-um’s Bar amp; Grill was perched like a ramshackle vulture on a wharf overlooking Tea Table Key Channel, southwest of Upper Matecumbe Key. Hot rods and pickup trucks cluttered the parking lot, their fenders nuzzling glittery rivulets of beer-bottle shards. A bored Dalmatian, leashed to a post outside the bar, scratched itself monotonously as Lovejoy and Moore walked past.
“No-see-um’s.” Moore studied the buzzing neon sign, gaudily pink against the ink-black sky. “What could that mean?”
“I believe it’s the name of a local pest. The no-see-um. Similar to a gnat, only somewhat smaller.” Lovejoy swatted something invisible that had darted too near his face. “In all probability, I just killed one.”
The bar was dimly lit, smoky, loud with conversation and country music. Two big men with pliers on their belts played pool in a corner of the room. Fishermen, probably, who wore the pliers to pry the fishhooks from their catches.
Lovejoy found himself liking No-see-um’s instantly. It lacked the slick, touristy feel of the tiki-bars and hotel restaurants in the area. This was a real place.
The aroma of cooked fish reached him from the kitchen. His stomach gurgled.
He glanced at his partner. “When was the last time we ate?”
“This morning. Breakfast on the plane.”
“Let’s grab dinner here.”
They took a table with a view of the water, placed orders with a waitress named Dorothy, and gave her a look at Jack Dance’s mug shot. She hadn’t seen him.
While waiting for the food, Moore used the pay phone to check in with the sheriff’s station, and Lovejoy showed Jack’s picture to the bartender and assorted patrons. The two pool players were happy to interrupt their game for a chat with a fellow from the FBI.
“What’s this bird done?” the nearest man asked, chalking his cue tip.
“We believe he’s guilty of multiple homicide.”
“Damn straight,” his friend said. “I saw it on the news. Mister Twister. He here?”
“I can’t answer that.”
A rough elbow nudged him. “Come on, you can tell Bud and me.”
“What I mean is, there’s simply no way, at present, to ascertain his whereabouts.”
“Aw, shoot. You must have some reason to be poking around in these parts.”
“The search isn’t confined to this vicinity. Law enforcement officers are engaged in an extensive manhunt operation throughout the United States.”
“Well”-the first man, Bud, lined up a shot-“if we eyeball him, we’ll give a holler.”
“Call the sheriff’s department or the state police.”
“Will do.” A flick of the cue, and Bud banked the six-ball off the cushion, into a corner pocket.
Lovejoy found Moore in the hallway near the phone, looking at a collection of salvaged junk from local shipwrecks. A gold coin, a musket, a large pitted sphere identified as a cannonball.
“New Jersey faxed us that police report,” she said. “Otherwise, nothing new.”
“No one here has seen Jack.”
“Any bars or restaurants left that we haven’t checked?”
“No. And no more motels, either.” Lovejoy pressed his fingertips against the glass surface of the display case. “Maybe we should have gone to Fort Myers, after all.”
“Too late now.”
He nodded, studying his reflection in the glass. “Too late.”
Shortly after they returned to their table, dinner arrived. Moore had ordered the grilled shrimp, Lovejoy the fried fish basket. The portions were huge.
“I can’t eat all this,” Moore said, astonished.
“Certainly you can. Consider it a last meal for the condemned.”
“What did you get, anyway?”
He hoisted a forkful. “Dolphin.”
“You’re eating Flipper?”
“Dolphin fish.”
He sampled it, then nodded. Delicious.
Lovejoy thought he could get to like the Keys. Tasty meals, fiery sunsets, no allergens to trigger sinusitis.
Perhaps I’ll relocate here after I quit the Bureau, he thought, then tried to decide whether or not he was being funny. He couldn’t tell.
He and Moore passed up Dorothy’s offer of key lime pie for dessert. Two new patrons had entered the bar separately in the last twenty minutes. To be thorough, Moore showed them Jack’s mug shot while Lovejoy paid the tab.
A woman with bleached-blond hair and an armadillo purse squinted at the photo for a long moment, then turned to Moore and quipped, “Looks like my ex.” A burst of raspy smoker’s laughter followed.
The other new customer was a large, leathery man in his sixties, cutting into a turtle steak at the far end of the bar. He shook his head after a silent perusal of the mug shot. “Afraid not. Who is he?”
“Suspect in a homicide case.”
“I might have guessed. Lord, what’s this world coming to?”
Moore found him familiar. She searched her memory, then found the visual match she was seeking. Mr. Brundle. Of course. Wonderful old Mr. Brundle, who had managed the grocery store in her Oakland neighborhood for decades, giving away candy bars and comic books to the kids, until one summer night an angel-dusted punk had put three jacketed hollowpoints in his head.
Like Mr. Brundle, this man was big and mellow and tough, with the same salt-and-pepper hair, the same slightly paunchy, lived-in body, the same wise, knowing eyes.
He noticed that she was staring at him. Taking no offense, he extended his hand. “Chester Pice.”
“Tamara Moore, FBL”
His smile was slightly sad. “When I was your age, a black woman couldn’t sit in the front of a bus or eat at a lunch counter south of the Mason-Dixon. Now here you are-Miss Tamara Moore, a special agent of the FBI.”
“Sometimes I almost wish I weren’t.”
“Like tonight?”
“Like tonight.”
