He traced his finger over the mug shot. “This fellow the reason?”
“Yes.”
“Evil-looking man, all right. It’s the eyes that give his soul away. Shark’s eyes, flat and dead. What’s his name?”
“Jack Dance.”
Pice took another bite of turtle steak, then frowned. “Jack Dance. Funny.”
“What?”
“I could swear I’ve heard that name somewhere.”
“He’s been in all the papers.”
“I don’t read ’em.”
“And all over the TV.”
“Don’t own one. No radio, either, except for my communications gear.”
“Then… how?”
“I can’t say.” He pondered the problem, then shrugged. “Conversation, maybe. Someone might’ve mentioned this news story to me. Sure. That must have been it.”
“But you’re not certain?”
“I’d like to be. But no.” He glanced at the photo again. “Anyhow, I’m positive I’ve never met him.”
“Well, if you think of anything that might help us, anything at all…”
“I’ll get the sheriff’s people on the horn. You bet I will, ma’am.” Pice wagged his fork at her in a gentle warning. “In the meanwhile, you be careful hunting this fellow. He’s a bad one.”
Moore nodded. “That he is.”
The night was still hot, the lonely Dalmatian still tied to the post, when she and Lovejoy emerged from No- see-um’s. They leaned against a salt-silvered railing and watched a motorboat cruise through the channel, leaving a wake of white foam.
“Jack’s not here,” Lovejoy whispered. “He never was.”
Moore was inclined to agree. “So what do we do now?”
“We keep looking.”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
“Do you have any superior alternatives to propose?”
“None at all.”
The water slopped lazily against the pilings, a strangely soothing sound. Moore looked out to sea. Near the eastern horizon sparkled a solitary light, motionless and faint.
“Boat?” she asked, pointing.
“House, I imagine. On some small island.”
“Wish I were there.”
“Me, too.” Lovejoy shut his eyes and savored the fantasy. “Alone with the parrots and the palm trees, cut off from everything.”
“Sounds like paradise.”
“My estimation also. I envy them-whoever’s on that island. They don’t have to deal with any of this.” He sighed. “They don’t have a worry in the world.”
31
Jack shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and looked across the living room at the high-backed chair where Steve sat rigid, the Beretta held stiffly in his hand.
The blued barrel gleamed in the lamplight. The room blazed, every bulb burning. Steve had insisted on that. He wished, apparently, to banish all shadows. He had not yet learned that some kinds of darkness could not be dispelled.
“You planning to stay up all night?” Jack asked, then instantly regretted it. The question was too obvious.
Steve smiled briefly. “Yes, Jack. I am.”
“We’ll need to be fresh in the morning.”
“You sleep, then.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Neither am I.”
“We’ve got to trust each other, Stevie.”
A soft, derisive snort. “Oh, sure. You’re a real trustworthy individual.”
Another interval of silence stretched between them. Outside, a boat purred past, one of many that had slipped through the night during the last three hours, reminders that Pelican Key was less isolated than it seemed.
When the boat was gone, there was nothing to hear but the crickets’ monotonous chirping and, from the woods, rare spurts of birdsong. Though Jack was no naturalist, he had spent enough summer days on the island to recognize the peppery trills of a yellow-breasted chat and, farther off, the long, rising glissando of a parula.
He had always liked bird calls. It had taken him years to understand that the shrill, warbling cries reminded him of screams.
Reaching over to the end table, he took a last sip of his Coke, which had long ago gone flat. It was the third can he had drained.
The day’s heat had not let up, and the humidity had actually increased with the approach of midnight. A warm paste of sweat bonded his shirt to his chest and back. Now and then a stray droplet rolled out of his hair and trickled down his neck like a tickling finger.
Through the patio doorway, a hot, sticky breeze carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine into the room, a breath of perfume, exotic and enticing. Jack thought of the woman he had killed in San Diego; she had worn a fragrance like that.
A good kill, San Diego, but not as good as what was waiting for him in the radio room, if only he could find some opportunity to make his move.
So far there had been no opportunities. Hell, he didn’t even have his Swiss Army knife anymore. Steve had compelled him to stow it in a kitchen drawer. The blade had still been wet with Anastasia’s blood.
Killing the dog had been a mistake, he decided. Or maybe his real error had been to get carried away when he’d slapped Kirstie around.
For one reason or another, Steve looked at him differently now. And he never stopped looking, never showed the slightest inclination to drop his guard. That cold gray gaze remained fixed on him, as did the muzzle of the gun.
Should have been a hypnotist, Jack thought moodily. Then I could have put the bastard in a trance, lulled him to sleep. A smooth patter, soothing words-that’s all it takes if you know the technique. Like those New Age relaxation tapes Sheila uses. Better than sleeping pills, she always says…
Sleeping pills.
Jesus, how could he have forgotten about that?
Steve had given him six pills. He’d fed one to Kirstie, who had spat it out.
The others…
Lightly, inconspicuously, he touched his pants pocket.
The others had gone in there.
Five capsules. More than twice the maximum dose. Easily enough medicine to put Steve under.
Jack sat silently for a few minutes longer, working out the details of his plan.
Then he rose and stretched. “Captain, the first mate requests permission to use the head.”
Steve got up. “I'm coming with you.”
“Oh, fuck, Stevie. Not when I'm taking a crap.” He showed a sheepish smile. “I don’t even know if I can do it with somebody watching.”
