“Oh,” he said simply.
For just one moment Jack Dance forgot who he was and what he did for fun. He forgot the syringe and his victims’ convulsions and his sweaty exercise afterward with their undressed bodies.
In that moment he was not a killer. He was only a man gazing transfixed at the woman on the beach.
She wore sandals and shorts and a yellow tank top. Her hair was golden, her skin sun-bronzed. Her slender body was limned in fire against the red dazzle of the sun.
She ambled lazily along the irregular line of seaweed that marked high tide, her head thrown back, arms loose at her sides. Plovers scattered before her, comical in their helter-skelter distress.
An enchanting picture. So perfect it might have been posed. The woman belonged on a postcard or a calendar. Anyone looking at her would smile, just as Jack was smiling now, not in lust but in simple aesthetic appreciation.
She knelt to examine something on the beach. A shell. It gleamed in her hand. She put it back, reached for another, and then her gaze lifted and, across a span of thirty feet, she met his eyes.
Slowly she stood. She watched him.
Jack saw the sudden tightness in her mouth, the unnatural stiffness of her body. He saw fear. And seeing it, he remembered himself.
His interlude of rapt contemplation ended instantly, as if a switch had been thrown. No more time for that. There was a job to do.
He stepped out of the brush into the loose pebbly sand and started toward her, still smiling, but his smile held a different meaning now.
From this distance he could not distinguish the color of her eyes. He hoped they were blue.
Even if they were not, he would enjoy watching her face when he took out his pocketknife and buried the spear blade in her throat.
12
Rigid, breath stopped, Kirstie stared at the man as he emerged from the shadows of the trees.
He was tall-taller than Steve-and about the same age. He wore a denim shirt, blue jeans, black shoes. His careless posture and casual way of walking implied an ample fund of confidence, frequently tapped, instantly replenished.
The man moved toward her, crossing the bleached moonscape of coral sand, his long, sinuous shadow sliding at his heels.
She was abruptly conscious of how alone she was. This walk on the beach was her morning ritual; sometimes Steve joined her, but most often not. Today he’d mumbled something about catching up with her as she slipped out of bed. Most likely he had just rolled over and gone back to sleep.
She looked toward the house. Beyond the trees, at the southern tip of the island, the red-tiled roof glowed like a carpet of embers. The dock stood on the reflected image of itself, a many-legged insect balanced on the surface tension of a pond.
Would Steve hear her if she screamed for help? She didn’t think so. The distance was too great, and the breeze, blowing out of the south, would throw her shouts back in her face.
As calmly as possible she faced the man, her head lifted, shoulders squared.
“This is private property,” she said as he came nearer.
He smiled, a clean white smile full of friendliness but empty of affection. “I’m aware of that.”
He closed to within six feet of her and stopped. For a beat of time they watched each other without speaking.
Overhead soared a brown pelican, a young bird showing a white belly and brown wings. It wheeled toward the sea in search of food, dipped and rose, then dipped again, dark against the blaze of sun.
Hunter and prey, Kirstie thought. The words touched her with their chill.
“If you know it,” she said slowly, “what are you doing here?”
“Visiting.”
“It’s not allowed.”
“I’m not bothering anyone.”
“You’re bothering me.”
“I would think you’d be lonely. You are alone, aren’t you?”
The question pulled her stomach into a tight, acid knot.
She forced herself to keep her eyes focused on his face. A handsome face, in its way. Sharp-featured, faintly cruel. Stubble dusted his cheeks. The breeze flicked listlessly at his unkempt brown hair.
He stared back without blinking, a cool, flinty gaze that raised prickles of gooseflesh on her arms. His hazel eyes sparkled, but not with merriment.
“No,” she answered. “I’m not alone. My husband is with me. And… some friends.”
“How many friends?”
“You have to go.”
“There are no friends, are there?”
“I want you to leave. Right now.”
“No husband, either, I’ll bet. You really are all alone.”
“If you don’t go-”
He took a step nearer. She wanted to retreat, but if she gave ground, the man would only be emboldened.
“You have pretty eyes,” he said suddenly. “Blue eyes. Deep blue. They match the water.”
Her pulse beat in the veins of her wrists. There was a greasy coldness in her belly. Her mouth was very dry.
“I want you off this island.” Her words came slowly, paste squeezed from a tube. “Now. Immediately. Or my husband and I will radio the police.”
He moved forward again, and this time she did step back, unwilling to let him invade her personal space. A cool splash of tidal water lapped her ankles.
“The police?” He frowned. “That’s not very nice. I have a feeling you and I aren’t hitting it off too well.”
“How perceptive.”
“I’m a surprisingly sensitive fellow.”
“If you’re so goddamn sensitive, you ought to know when you aren’t wanted.”
“I have gotten that message, actually.”
“Then you’re going?”
“In a minute. First there’s just one little thing I have to do
…”
His hand moved toward his pants pocket, and suddenly Kirstie felt sure she had to run or scream or do something, dammit, because this man was not normal, this man was not safe.
An explosion of barking split the air.
She jerked her head sideways and saw Anastasia blunder out of the brush onto the beach, loping this way.
Tension hissed out of her body, leaving her muscles slack. She could breathe again.
“My husband is here,” she said, struggling to hide her relief. “Maybe you’ll listen to him, if not to me.”
The man made no reply, simply gazed past the dog at Steve, following Anastasia across the sand.
He had tossed on a pair of long pants, a cotton shirt, and the battered Nike running shoes he refused to throw away. His glasses glinted, the lenses screening his eyes.
Kirstie wished he looked bigger, more imposing. The man before her was muscular and fit. He could take Steve in a fight. But not with Anastasia to help. Thank God they’d bought a big dog.
Steve hurried toward them, urgency conveyed in his long, ungainly strides. As he drew closer, Kirstie was surprised to read more puzzlement than concern in his expression.
He stopped two yards away. For a long moment no one spoke. Anastasia was silent, watchful. The breeze died off, even the air around them holding its breath.
Then slowly Steve smiled. “Jack? Jack Dance?”
The other man extended his hand. “Steve Gardner. Jesus Christ, it is you.”
Kirstie watched, speechless, as they locked grasps in a violent handshake.
This was Jack Dance? Steve’s high-school friend? His companion on the Florida trips that always ended on Pelican Key?
But that was two decades ago. What the hell was he doing here now?
Steve voiced the same question, his smile still fixed on his mouth-a giddy, sunstruck smile, curiously unreal.
“Just visiting,” Jack answered. “Got bitten by the nostalgia bug, I guess. Developed a sudden hankering to see the place again. Relive some old memories. Know how that is?”
Steve nodded. “Oh, yeah. I know how that is.”
“So you live here? You bought the island?”
“Not exactly. We’re like you-just visiting. The Larson heirs are renting out the plantation house to vacationers.”