that afternoon.
The product that Peter had bought from him and Elena was supposed to have been pure. He’d paid for pure. But it had been cut. Not a lot. Just enough to get them both killed.
Peter took another icy hit of his Corona and placed it back into the drink holder, his blue eyes glued to the horizon. He thought what he always thought when push came to shove and someone had to go.
It was twilight as they turned into the bay. Killing the engine, Peter expertly drew up along the seawall and saw that all the lights were off in the house. He hopped out of the boat and went inside as Morley tied up and unloaded.
“Jeanine?” he called.
He noticed that her sneakers were missing from the closet when he walked through the bedroom. A glance out the front door showed her Vespa wasn’t in the carport either.
He went back into the bedroom and made a phone call. The phone kept ringing. He hung up and sat on the edge of the bed, thinking. He looked in the closet again. All their bags were still there. All of her clothes.
Finally, he looked at their wedding portrait on the shelf beside the bed.
“Fuck,” he said.
Morley was at the picnic table, dividing up the catch into freezer bags, when Peter arrived beside him.
“What is it?” Morley said.
“Jeanine,” Peter said. “Something’s wrong.”
Chapter 42
IN THE RISING ENGINE WHINE of an approaching truck, I scrambled up onto the tiny concrete ledge on the highway bridge’s shoulder just in time. Blinded by headlights, road grit biting at the side of my face, I easily could have reached out and touched the side of the rattling, creaking, speeding eighteen-wheeler flashing by.
Or ended up underneath it.
My knees buckled as its swooshing waft of air came close to knocking me over the bridge’s shin-high railing and into the water. At least he was kind enough not to hit his eardrum-puncturing air horn as he clattered past like the truck before.
I hopped down off the ledge and soldiered on after the truck’s red taillights, swinging my CVS bag up on my shoulder. There wasn’t much left in it, half a package of Combos and a dwindling bottle of water. Supplies were definitely running low. My legs were OK, but my feet were killing me, starting to blister now in the Doc Martens after nearly four hours of walking.
Far out at sea, I spotted the red running lights of an anchored tanker. Above them, the clear startling night contained about a hundred billion silver-blue stars. I remembered how Peter and I had lain out in our backyard after our city hall wedding, drinking Coors Light and kissing in the dark like teenagers as we watched for shooting stars.
Now he was probably searching for me.
I figured that I’d covered about 20 of the 105 miles that make up the Overseas Highway, but I still wanted to put a little more distance between me and Key West before I tried to hitchhike. I wanted to be far enough away that anyone picking me up wouldn’t think to put me and my planned disappearance together.
After another ten minutes, I stopped and sat in the sand and finished the Combos. I stood immediately after I dozed off for a second. I couldn’t put it off any longer, I decided. I had to hitchhike now. If I didn’t, I’d fall asleep on the spot.
Peter was certainly back by now, and there was only one road out of Key West. If I was on it come morning, he would find me. I couldn’t let that happen.
I stood as a pair of northbound lights appeared in the distance behind me. I walked to the road, tentatively lifting my thumb.
The vehicle’s high beams dimmed as it slowed. I heard loud music coming from the radio.
Who would stop for someone out on this isolated piece of road? I thought, holding my breath. A good Samaritan? A weirdo? Peter?
I bit my lip to stop it from quivering as the lights hit me, and the car rolled to a stop.
It wasn’t actually a car, I realized, but a vintage hot rod pickup with windsurfing boards and sails jutting out over the cherry red tailgate. The radio was blasting AC/DC.
I took a breath as I made eye contact with the two people inside of it. The driver looked friendly enough, a young guy with short, reddish blond hair. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Neither was his wiry, older, and meaner-looking friend, who had a bottle between his knees and a well-endowed-mermaid tattoo on his forearm. I winced as I spotted their glazed red eyes and caught the reek of pot.
Damn, I thought. What have I gotten myself into?
“Hey, punk-rock girl. Need a ride?” said the wasted driver, turning down “Hells Bells.”
His Red Hot Chili Pepper reject of a friend took a swig of Southern Comfort and burped. “Cab’s a little crowded, but let me clear off a seat for you,” the tattooed guy said, wiping at his face.
I knew it, I thought, as icy pinpricks of fear made a path down my spine. I should have waited to hitch until I was at a place with more houses, more lights.
“Actually, guys, I changed my mind,” I said, walking away. “I think I’m going to keep walking. Thanks. My boyfriend will be here any minute anyway.”
I could feel my heart beating madly in my throat as the truck rumbled. I felt like crying as it kept pace alongside me.
The driver called to me, “Honestly. We’re more than happy to give you a ride.”
The truck suddenly shot off the road and did a half doughnut in front of me.
“Yeah, come on and stop being a bitch already,” said the skinny guy with a smile as he opened his door. “We won’t rape you. Promise.”
Chapter 43
I DROPPED MY BAG as I turned and sprinted in the other direction. The skinny bastard laughed and gave a rebel yell as the truck rumbled again. I looked over my shoulder to see the truck reversing.
Were they just trying to scare me? They were doing a damn good job.
I was thinking about heading into the brush to hide when I saw another set of headlights. A car was coming off the bridge to the south. I ran out into the road, waving frantically. It slowed and then stopped ten feet in front of me. It was a dark Mercedes.
“Say, are you OK?” asked the man behind the wheel. He had a British accent. A feisty Jack Russell began barking from the passenger seat behind him.
Before I could answer, the reversing pickup came to a sand-raising stop in front of the luxury sedan. The two shirtless men hopped out.
“Beat it, fool. Before we put you in the hospital,” said the mean, wiry guy, brandishing his booze bottle like a club.
Instead of screeching away as I feared he would, the Mercedes driver just leaned out of his window and smiled.
“Oh, I don’t want to go to the hospital,” he said to them in a campy, whimsical Shakespearean voice. “How about if we just stay here and play doctor in the back of that butch truck of yours instead? I call doctor. Who wants
