No, half measures were inadequate. Evasions were pointless. There was only one sure way to incapacitate his friend, and that was to use the knife.
One quick thrust, and Steve’s throat would open up like a torn paper bag.
Jack bent forward at the waist and pressed his palms to the wall above the commode, his fingertips squeezed white against the smooth ceramic squares. He stared at the tiles, at the complicated pattern of inlaid pieces, but he was not seeing the pictures they made, was not seeing anything in this room.
It was the future he saw, the future that had been sealed by fate, as firmly as if by an oracle’s prophesy, since the moment when he and Steve shook hands on the beach at sunrise.
He didn’t want to do it. But he had no choice.
Unless…
“I can run,” he whispered. “Run right now.”
If he left the island immediately, headed south in the runabout, then went to ground somewhere in the Lower Keys…
The Gardners might not hear of the manhunt until they returned to Islamorada tomorrow afternoon. He would have a twenty-four-hour head start.
But suppose they learned the news sooner. Suppose his abrupt departure raised suspicions in their minds. He would lose his small but crucial advantage.
And there was one other consideration not to be neglected.
Kirstie.
If he left now, he would never have her.
Jack pivoted away from the wall, faced his reflection in the mirror above the basin. Asked himself if his need for Kirstie Gardner outweighed his friendship with Steve. Was his obsession that strong? His compulsions so irresistible?
He was mildly shocked to know that the answer was yes.
He looked away. His face in the silvered glass was too hard to watch.
All right, then. He would do it. Kill them both. Steve first, Kirstie later. Find a way to separate them, then feed his knife their blood.
Jack relieved himself, washed and dried his hands, and ran the damp towel over his face. Finally he felt calm and composed once more.
The Gardners were carrying their trays inside when he returned to the patio. He picked up his own tray and followed them into the kitchen.
“Hey, Steve,” he said casually, “you have any snorkeling gear around?”
“Sure. Kirstie and I have been out to the reef twice.”
“I’d like to try that. Go skin-diving on the reef again-like we used to do. You up for it?”
“Sounds great.”
“Kirstie, how about you?”
She ran the plates under a stream of hot water. “I’d rather not.”
Good. Jack had been hoping she would say no.
“Let me get the gear,” Steve said. “Have you got a bathing suit?” Jack shook his head. “You can borrow one of mine. I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared down the hall in the direction of the bedroom. Jack, left alone with Kirstie, felt the familiar itch in his palms.
She leaned over the counter, toweling off the plates, her back to him. He took a step toward her, put insouciant friendliness in his voice.
“Want some help with that?”
“No, thank you.”
“I can wash the glasses.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Very.”
The plate in her hand squeaked. She was rubbing hard.
“You don’t like me,” he said softly, “do you?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“If you got to know me, you’d feel different.”
She turned. Gave him a hard, level stare. “No, I wouldn’t.”
Blue eyes. So deeply, consummately blue. They stabbed the hot, impulsive part of him like ice picks.
He was conscious of the knife in his pocket, the blade that would snap free at the prick of his thumbnail, the wicked triangular point …
One second. That was all it would take to pin her against the counter, slam the spear blade into her soft throat.
“Are you… feeling all right?” she asked slowly, watching his face.
He needed to get away from her. Right now. He took a faltering step toward the doorway.
“Just a little gas.” He managed a smile. “Must’ve been that Tabasco sauce.”
He left her. Went through the dining room, out the French doors, onto the patio. Inhaled the calming fragrance of roses.
Anastasia, stirring from sleep, trotted over and licked his hand. He scratched her ears.
“Good girl. That’s a good, good girl.”
The dog mewed softly, and Jack thought of Ronni Tyler in her death throes, whimpering with her last hissing exhalation of breath.
It would be better with Kirstie. The best so far. Even without the syringe, it would be perfect.
Soon, he promised himself.
He let his mouth relax into a smile.
15
Kirstie intercepted Steve on his way out of the bedroom. He had changed into a bathing suit and was toting a bulky carrying case loaded with two sets of snorkel tubes, face masks, and swim fins.
“Don’t go with him,” she said urgently.
He stopped in the middle of the loggia and set down the case. “What?”
“Out to the reef. Don’t go.”
“Why not?”
She couldn’t say, exactly. There were no words for it. In the kitchen a few minutes earlier, Jack had acted odd again, vaguely menacing-yet when she replayed the incident in her mind, she could find nothing definite to object to.
He had asked if she wanted help with the dishes. Had said he wanted to be liked. A perfectly innocent exchange. Hardly one that should have left her frightened and unsettled.
Yet it had. It had.
“I’ve got a bad feeling, that’s all.”
Steve smiled. “Like a man-eating shark is gonna get me?”
“Not a shark. A snake.”
She turned toward the French doors. Through the sun-streaked glass, Jack was visible in a far corner of the patio, petting the dog.
Steve followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed as he understood.
“Jack…? Oh, come on.”
The doors were shut, and Kirstie was sure Jack couldn’t hear their conversation, but she pitched her voice low anyway. “He scared me on the beach. He still scares me.”
“I’ve known him for years-”
“No. You knew him-years ago. That’s different. You haven’t seen him since high school.”
“He hasn’t changed.”
“Everybody changes.”
“I don’t notice any difference.”
“Because he’s hiding it.”
Steve studied the floor. “What are you saying?” he asked slowly. “That he’s a psychopath? That he’s luring me to the reef so he can drown me?”
Kirstie felt her scalp prickle. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Listen to yourself.”
“No-you listen to me.” She took his hand. “I’m asking you not to go. Whether it makes any sense or not… that’s what I want.”
He lifted his head and stared at her for a long moment, then let his gaze travel through the French doors, to rest on Jack again.
“I already promised,” he said softly.
“So break your promise. People do it all the time.”
“Not me.”
Something snapped inside her. “Jesus Christ, when did you get to be so goddamn righteous?”
“Calm down. He’ll hear you.”
She almost screamed at him that she didn’t care what Jack Dance heard. Then self-possession took hold of her, and she bit back the words. She stood unmoving until she could speak quietly, reasonably.
“You won’t even humor me a little?” she said at last.
He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Not when I think you’re being irrational.”
“Then will you at least do one thing for me?” He waited. “Take the gun.”
“The gun?”
“Just stick it in your bag. Where you can reach it-if you have to.”
Steve shook his head disbelievingly, then crossed the narrow space between them and embraced her.
“Kirstie… Jack’s an old friend.”
“I don’t want you to be alone with him.”
“It’ll be all right.”
“You won’t take the gun?”
“Forget the gun. Everything will be fine.” He brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead and smiled. “I’ll be back in an hour. Still in one piece. I guarantee it.”