“You’re a man, I don’t expect you to understand.” She wondered if he would try to touch her in some way.
“Vanity I understand,” Stranahan said. “Men are experts on the subject.” He picked the blanket off the floor. Indifferently he draped it across her lap. “I think there’s some warm clothes in one of the drawers.”
He found a gray sweatsuit with a hood and a pair of men’s woolen socks.
Hurriedly Heather got dressed. “Just tell me,” she said, still trembling, “why did Rudolph lie about this? I can’t get over it-why didn’t he do the operation?”
“I guess he was scared. In case you didn’t notice, he’s crazy about you. He probably couldn’t bear the thought of something going wrong in surgery. It’s been known to happen.”
“But I paid him,” Heather said. “I wrote the bastard a personal check.”
“Stop it, you’re breaking my heart.”
Heather glared at him.
“Look,” said Stranahan, “I’ve seen his Visa bill. Swanky restaurants, designer clothes, a diamond here and there-you made out pretty well. Did he mention he was going to fly you away on a tropical vacation?”
“I remember him saying something about Costa Rica, of all places.”
“Yeah, well, don’t worry. The trip’s off. Rudy’s had a minor setback.”
Heather said, “So tell me what’s going on.”
“Just consider yourself damn lucky.”
“Why? What are you talking about?”
“ Rudy killed a young woman just like you. No, I take that back-she wasn’t just like you, she was innocent. And he killed her with a nose job.”
Heather Chappell cringed. Unconsciously her hand went to her face.
“That’s what this is all about,” Stranahan said. “You don’t believe me, ask him yourself. He’s on his way.”
“Here?”
“That’s right. To save you and to kill me.”
“Rudolph? No way.”
“You don’t know him like I do, Heather.”
Stranahan went from room to room, turning off the lights. Heather followed, saying nothing. She didn’t want to be left alone, even by him. Carrying a Coleman lantern, Stranahan led her out of the stilt house and helped her climb to the roof. The windmill whistled and thrummed over their heads.
Heather said, “God, this wind is really getting nasty.”
“Sure is.”
“What kind of gun is that?”
“A shotgun, Heather.”
“I can’t believe Rudolph is coming all the way out here on a night like this.”
“Yep.”
“What’s the shotgun for?”
“For looks,” said Stranahan. “Mostly.”
33
Al Garcia was feeling slightly guilty about lying to Mick Stranahan until Luis Cordova’s patrol boat conked out. Now Luis was hanging over the transom, poking around the lower unit; Garcia stood next to him, aiming a big waterproof spotlight and cursing into the salt spray.
Garcia thought: I hate boats. Car breaks down, you just walk away from it. With a damn boat, you’re stuck.
They were adrift about half a mile west of the Seaquarium. It was pitch black and ferociously choppy. A chilly northwesterly wind cut through Garcia’s plastic windbreaker and made him wish he had waited until dawn, as he had promised Stranahan.
It did not take Luis Cordova long to discover the problem with the engine. “It’s the prop,” he said.
“W hat about it?”
“It’s gone,” said Luis Cordova.
“We hit something?”
“No, it just fell off. Somebody monkeyed with the pin.”
Garcia considered this for a moment. “Does he know where you keepthe boat?”
“Sure,” said Luis Cordova.
“Shit.”
“I better get on the radio and see if we can get help.”
Al Garcia stowed the spotlight, sat down at the console and lit a cigarette. He said, “That bastard. He didn’t trust us.”
Luis Cordova said, “We need a new prop or a different boat. Either way, it’s going to take a couple hours.”
“Do what you can.” To the south Garcia heard the sound of another boat on the bay; Luis Cordova heard it, too-the hull slapping heavily on the waves. The hum of the engine receded as the craft moved farther away. They knew exactly where it was going.
“Goddamn,” said Garcia.
“You really think he did this?”
“I got no doubt. The bastard didn’t trust us.”
“I can’t imagine why,” said Luis Cordova, reaching for the radio.
Driving across the causeway to the marina, Chemo kept thinking about the stilt house and the monster fish that had eaten off his hand. As hard as he tried, he could not conceal his trepidation about going back.
When he saw the boat that Rudy Graveline had rented, Chemo nearly called off the expedition. “What a piece of shit,” he said.
It was a twenty-one-foot outboard, tubby and slow, with an old sixty-horse Merc. A cheap hotel rental, designed for abuse by tourists.
Chemo said, “I’m not believing this.”
“At this hour I was lucky to find anything,” said Rudy.
Maggie Gonzalez said, “Let’s just get it over with.” She got in the boat first, followed by Rudy, then Christina Marks.
Chemo stood on the pier, peering across the bay toward the amber glow of the city. “It’s blowing like a fucking typhoon,” he said. He really did not want to go.
“Come on,” Rudy said. He was frantic about Heather; more precisely, he was frantic about what he would have to do to get her back. He had a feeling that Chemo didn’t give a damn one way or another, as long as Mick Stranahan got killed.
As Chemo was unhitching the bow rope, Christina Marks said, “This is really a bad idea.”
“Shut up,” said Chemo.
“I mean it. You three ought to get away while you can.”
“I said shutup.”
Maggie said, “She might be right. This guy, he’s not exactly a stable person.”
Chemo clumped awkwardly into the boat and started the engine. “What, you want to spend the rest of your life in jail? You think he’s gonna forget about everything and let us ride off into the sunset?”
Rudy Graveline shivered. “All I want is Heather.”
Christina said, “Don’t worry, Mick won’t hurt her.”
“Who gives a shit,” said Chemo, gunning the throttle with his good hand.
By the time they made it to Stiltsville, Chemo felt like his face was aflame. The rental boat rode like a washtub, each wave slopping over the gunwale and splashing against the raw flesh of his cheeks. The salt stung like cold acid. Chemo soon ran out of profanities. Rudy Graveline was no help, nor were the women; they were all soaking wet, queasy, and glum.
As he made a wide weekend-sailor’s turn into the Biscayne Channel, Chemo slowed down and pointed with the Weed Whacker. “What the fuck?” he said. “Look at that.”
Across the bonefish flats, Stranahan’s stilt house was lit up like a used car lot. Lanterns hung oif every piling, and swung eerily in the wind. The brown shutters were propped open and there was music, too, fading in and out with each gust.
Christina Marks laughed to herself. “The Beatles,” she said. He was playing “Happiness Is a Warm Gun.”
Chemo snorted. “What, he’s trying to be cute?”
“No,” Christina said. “Not him.”
Maggie Gonzalez swept a whip of wet hair out of her face. “He’s nuts, obviously.”
“And we’re not?” Rudy said. He got the binoculars and tried to spot Heather Chappell on the stilt house. He could see no sign of life, human or otherwise. He counted a dozen camp lanterns aglow.
The sight of the place brought back dreadful memories for Chemo. Too clearly he could see the broken rail where he had fallen to the water that day of the ill-fated jet ski assault. He wondered about the fierce fish, whatever it was, dwelling beneath the stilt house. Inwardly he speculated about its nocturnal feeding habits.
Maggie said, “How are we going to handle this?”
Rudy looked at her sternly. “We don’t do anything until Heather’s safe in this boat.”
Chemo grabbed Christina’s arm and pulled her to the console. “Stand here, next to me,” he said. “Real close, in case your jerkoff boyfriend gets any ideas.” He pressed the barrel of the Colt.38 to her right breast. With the stem of the Weed Whacker he steadied the wheel.