I heard footsteps on the sidewalk behind me. At least two people were chasing me. I was running flat out, hoping to reach the major thoroughfare before they caught up with me.
I was fit from running on the beach, but they were in better shape. The footsteps were getting closer. I was breathing hard, used to jogging, not sprinting.
The sound of a pistol shot cracked the air. A bullet gouged a chunk of cement from the sidewalk near my left foot. I dove to my right, into the hedge that lined the sidewalk.
I could see my pursuers through the leaves of the bushes in which I landed. There were two of them, the one from the parlor and another brute. They were still coming, running. I had the. 38 in my hand. I raised it and shot the parlor guy. He grabbed his gut and fell to his knees. His buddy dove into the shrubs less than twenty feet from me. Lights came on in the house behind the bushes.
I took off again, rounding the corner onto Simonton, where I saw two bicycles propped against a low wall. A young couple was sitting on the nearby grass, holding hands, talking quietly. I grabbed the closest bike, a girl's model, jumped aboard, and pedaled off. The young man hollered at me, but I didn't look back. I didn't think he'd leave his girl to chase me.
I headed southeast on Simonton, riding the sidewalk, staying in the shadows of the trees lining the road. I was passing city hall when a police cruiser pulled into my path. I came to a stop as the patrolman got out of his vehicle. I waited, straddling the bike. He walked toward me, his hand resting near the gun holstered on his equipment belt.
Oh, shit, I thought. Oh, shit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The cop walked up to me. "Good evening, sir," he said. "Are you visiting with us?"
"I am:'
"Then you're probably not aware of the city ordinance against riding a bike on the sidewalk."
"I'm sorry, Officer," I said, breathing a sigh of relief, "I wasn't."
"That's why we painted a bike lane on the major streets," he said, pointing to the now obvious bike lanes that ran on either side of Simonton. "We don't want you running down our old folks."
"You're right. I'll stay off the sidewalk."
"Have a good evening, sir," he said, and climbed back into his patrol car.
I moved into the bike lane and a couple of blocks later, turned left off Simonton and rode to within a couple of blocks of my rooming house. I left the bike on the side of the road leaning against a pole topped by a bus stop sign. It probably wouldn't be there in the morning. I felt bad for the kid who owned it, but sometimes one has to improvise.
I went to my room, got my shaving kit, and walked down the hall to the bathroom. Nobody was using it. I climbed into the shower stall and turned on the water. A trickle of cold rust colored liquid sputtered out of the showerhead. It'd have to do. I was too tired and dirty to worry about what kind of crap had taken up residence in the old pipes.
I crawled into bed, but couldn't sleep. The mattress was lumpy and the pillow hard as a rock. My mind was churning with images of young blonde nudes and shot-up bad guys. I hoped the one on the street didn't die, but I'd taken the only shot I had. I wondered what the hell Peggy had gotten herself into.
What was the connection between a high-class whorehouse in Key West, a place called Blood Island, and a student at the University of Georgia? What kind of joint called their whores Sister and prayed before copulation? Did Sister Amy's tattoo have any significance? It must have, since it was identical to the logo on the front door sign. Was any of this connected to the deaths of Wayne Lee and Clyde Varn? To the shootings at Coquina Beach and Hutch's? To the vulture pit guy? To Laura's disappearance?
I fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed of dead Spaniards and sunken ships and tattooed blondes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I awoke the next morning, still tired. A dream lingered for a moment in my consciousness and then slipped away, as elusive as a handful of fog.
Sunlight was streaming through the dirty window into my room. I'd left it open during the night to catch what little breeze came by. I could hear birds trilling in the trees of the backyard, and the blasted chickens clucking on the grounds. In the distance, a rooster crowed, perhaps calling his hens for a little morning delight.
I stumbled to the bathroom just as a desiccated man was coming out. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, went back to the room and dressed in fresh clothes. It was a little after seven.
I stopped by the desk on my way out and gave the elderly woman thirty dollars for another night. I passed the bus stop where I had left the bike the night before. It wasn't there.
I walked a block to a small cafe that hunkered under a gumbo-limbo tree, its reddish bark the color of a tourist too long in the sun. There was a small grocery store attached to the restaurant, and I went in.
In Key West every kind of store carries nautical charts and gear. I bought a large-scale chart that covered the Lower Keys out to the Dry Tortugas, and a book of aerial photos of the Keys. I also picked up a copy of the local newspaper. I took them with me into the restaurant and ordered breakfast. I scanned the paper for any news of the shooting at the Heaven Can't Wait Spa, but there was nothing. My breakfast came and I ate while studying the chart.
I found Blood Island just where Austin Dwyer said it would be, out on the edge of the Boca Grande Channel. It was small, perhaps a half mile square. It was shaped like a crab, with a lagoon almost enclosed by arms of the island encircling it on either side. The water around the island was very shallow, and the only deep channel was the one that ran from the channel into the lagoon. The controlling depth was twenty feet in the protected area of the lagoon and less than ten feet in the entry channel. A big boat couldn't make it in without running aground.
I opened my book of photos and thumbed to the pictures of the Mule Keys. There was one that took in Woman and Boca Grande Keys and Blood Island. The colors of the water were stunning, showing all the shades of a tropical sea. I compared the photograph with the chart, and could see the turquoise shallows fading to the azure colors in the deep channel.
Blood Island had no beach, except in the lagoon. Several varieties of palm trees and Australian pines blanketed the island and mangrove forests ran right down to the water. They would be almost impenetrable to anyone trying to sneak ashore.
I finished breakfast and left the cafe. I called Debbie as soon as I got to the street.
"You've got to start sleeping later," she said, as she picked up the phone.
"I know, babe, but I need you."
"Yeah, you say that now, but not when I'm awake and horny."
I chuckled. Debbie was about as interested in me as she was in Logan, which wasn't much. She was a good friend.
"See what you can find out about a place west of Key West called Blood Island. Who owns it, what goes on there, etcetera. I also need to know who owns a piece of property in Key West." I gave her the address of the Heaven Can't Wait Spa.
"When do you need this?"
"Now"
"How do you know I don't have a playmate in bed with me this morning?"
"I know you, Deb. You're too picky for the local guys."
She laughed. "Don't be too sure," she said, and hung up.
I called JeffTimmons. Nothing new on Laura. He was beginning to lose his equanimity, to panic. I could hear it in his voice, the quaver that hadn't been there before. She'd been gone for the better part of three days, and there had been no sign of her. The police still weren't excited about it. I told him I didn't have any more information for him on Peggy, but that I was still looking.
Peggy was important to me, but that was mostly because she was important to Laura. On the other hand, I had loved Laura for a long time, and the thought of not having her somewhere in the world, alive, breathing, and thinking occasionally of me, was stoking my fears for her safety. Where the hell was she? If I could find Peggy, maybe she would hold the key to Laura. That thought added a layer of urgency to my already revvedup intensity. I had to find the women.