She barked louder.
I reached up, pulled a mango from a tree, and rolled it a few feet away. Blossom trotted over and picked it up in her mouth. No more barking. Then she brought the mango to me, dropped it at my feet, and barked some more.
I picked up the mango and hurled it as far as I could. Barking happily, Blossom took off that way, and I ran the other.
I was nearly to the levee when I heard an engine kick up. A second Jeep was there, waiting. The headlights came on, freezing me. Engine growling, it headed straight for me. I pivoted and ran up the levee, scrambling on all fours in the soft dirt. I heard the Jeep slam to a stop, heard the men yelling behind me.
At the top of the levee, my knee buckled, the one with the railroad track scars, and I tumbled down toward the water. A shotgun blast kicked up mounds of dirt alongside me. With no Blossom running interference, I was in their line of fire now.
I either dived into the water or fell into it. Either way, it was deep enough and fast enough to carry me off. I took a breath and went under, going with the flow. I came up, heard another shotgun blast, and went under again. I held my breath as long as I could and came up again. The shouts were well behind me now. I was gone, body surfing down this channel of clear, fresh water, so recently sucked up from the aquifer.
In a few minutes, the water grew deeper, the current faster. I tried to touch the bottom but couldn't. I slid onto my back and floated farther still. It is not easy to judge the passage of time when your adrenaline is pumping. Maybe it was ten minutes, maybe it was forty, but it wasn't long before the water slowed. A tree branch floated alongside me, and I grabbed it. A black mangrove. Then I caught the scent of brackish water and knew I was nearing the bay.
A mist rose from the moist soil into the night air and then, shining eerily above me, a light. And then another.
I was passing through the orange glow of a string of high-intensity lights, and above me, through the ghostly mist, I saw the silhouette of a building. Or at least the skeleton of one, under construction. Girders and framing a dozen stories high, rising like a spooky dreamscape. Bigger than anything in these parts, power-plant-sized, with a concrete smokestack poised like a missile next to the building.
And then it was gone. The gleam of the lights grew weaker, then disappeared, too. As I floated along, a strange thought worked its way into my consciousness. Had I seen anything at all rising out of the mist, or was it the product of my imagination, my fears, my dreams? Dr. Millie Santiago, where are you when I need you?
The water picked up speed again, and when I tried to swim toward the side of the levee, I was so exhausted I just let it carry me on. In a moment, the current slowed again, then stopped. The water was suddenly warmer. And salty. And endless. I was in Biscayne Bay. Keep swimming east and I'd hit the coast of Africa.
A gentle tide was headed out to sea, and so was I. Floating on my back again, I turned over and did a slow crawl, angling north along the shoreline. Just offshore, the lights of a shrimp boat twinkled in the night. I swam in that direction. A fish jumped from the water, silvery in the moonlight.
I swam some more, picking up strength, cutting smoothly through the flat, warm water. Suddenly I was thirsty, and I thought of Harrison Baker and his tale of fresh water spouting up in the middle of the bay. I thought of the coral reef not far south of here, alive with fish. I thought of all that lay beyond the horizon, so much of it unknown. As a boy, I had wanted to run away to the sea. Now, here I was, wanting to come back to land. There, too, to face the unknown.
15
The policeman knocked on the door and waited. So did I.
Water dripped from my clothing onto the dark wood of the hallway. Blood trickled from a dozen scratches on my forehead, legacy of the thorns. Even worse, my nose itched, and with my hands cuffed behind my back, I couldn't scratch it.
Through a window at the end of the hall, I could see the orange glow of the sun rising over the ocean. It had been a long night.
The cop knocked again, louder. A muffled voice came from the other side of the door. A moment later, Chrissy Bernhardt, dressed in a black-and-red silk kimono, cracked open the door, the chain still attached. She didn't seem surprised to see a cop at her door at dawn.
'Sorry to bother you, ma'am,' the Miami Beach cop said. Yeah, he actually said 'ma'am,' just like in the movies. The cop was in his fifties, probably a year or so away from a retirement watch and juicy pension. He pushed me toward the door. 'Do you know the subject?'
'Subject?' I asked, offended. 'I always thought of myself as more of a verb.'
'Let me get a good look at him,' Chrissy suggested. She pursed her lips and studied me through sleepy eyes. 'He has a certain animalistic charm, don't you think, officer?'
'I wouldn't know.'
'Could we strip-search him?'
'Chrissy!' I protested.
'So you do know him,' the cop said.
'Intimately,' she said, pursing her lips.
'Can you state with certainty whether he's an American citizen?'
She shrugged her shoulders.
' Si, jefe,' I answered in a really bad imitation of the Frito Bandito. 'I love thees country very much.'
' 'Cause he floated up the beach this morning, landed near South Pointe, just like one of those Cuban rafters. I was ready to turn him over to Immigration, get him a deportation hearing.'
'I was sort of hoping for France,' I broke in, 'though I'm told the Costa del Sol is nice this time of year.'
The cop shook his head. 'He claimed he was swimming, then was picked up by a shrimper who dropped him just offshore. Says he was on his way to see you, but he's got no ID, no money… and just look at him.'
I was standing in a puddle of water. My face felt swollen, and my back ached.
'He is a mess,' Chrissy agreed.
'A warm bath ought to help,' I suggested.
'Maybe you should leave those cuffs on, officer,' Chrissy said.
The cop was already fishing for his key. 'No can do. City property.'
The hot water trickled down my chest as Chrissy squeezed the sponge, a real one that used to float in the gulf off Tarpon Springs. She leaned forward and I leaned back. She was behind me in the big old tub with the claw feet, her legs wrapped around my waist, her soapy breasts pressed against my back.
Chrissy had already dabbed my cuts with hydrogen peroxide and scrubbed seaweed from various crevices and orifices. Now she was letting the warm water lull me into a fuzzy state of sleepiness and semi-arousal.
Which was when her breasts began pressing against me, and her nipples hardened.
And so did I.
She was moving the sponge lower now. Down my chest, down the washboard abs, not quite as tight as they used to be, down, down, down. And then back up again.
'Tease,' I complained.
'Just relax, Jake. We have all day.'
I leaned back against her again. I closed my eyes and sank lower into the water, inhaling the sweet, soapy fragrance of her wet hair. She hugged me tight and said, 'It feels good to take care of you. You've done so much for me.'
'I haven't done anything yet, and I'm worried about-'
'Shhh. Not now.'
I let myself drift, still feeling the ocean swells rising beneath me. A feeling of calm. But not peace. The nagging questions hung over me. I would ask Chrissy. Later.
