We ran between the rows of parked cars in the beach lot, but the cars soon ran out, and we were exposed.
“Bahia Mar,” I gasped, and we took off running across the traffic, avoiding cars that cruised down the beach doing forty miles an hour. Seconds after we hit the sidewalk on the far side, I heard a horn and the screech of tires as Big Guy and Shorty crossed the street. The back of my throat burned, and I felt like I couldn’t get enough air, but my bare feet kept slapping the pavement. I didn’t know how Ely was keeping up with her short little legs. It probably helped being more than ten years younger than me.
As I ran, I scanned the boats in the north basin through the chain-link fence. I was looking for a classic old Chris Craft, and if I was lucky, B.J. would be working late on his new job. My eyes teared from the wind and the strands of hair that whipped across my face. I blinked and squinted and searched the line of sport- fishermen. Finally I saw the varnished hull, the tarps, and the pile of raw lumber on the afterdeck. It was very clear from the padlock hanging on the companionway door that the boat was closed up for the day.
“Shit!” I wheezed.
I could see the security guard’s booth at the entrance to the Bahia Mar Hotel and Marina. He was really just a glorified parking attendant, and I didn’t even know if the guy carried a gun, but surely if we threw ourselves into his little guard hut, those assholes wouldn’t be able to drag us out of there. I didn’t know where else to turn. I knew I couldn’t keep up this pace any longer and Ely was falling farther and farther behind me.
A vehicle pulled up on the outbound side of the guardhouse. The guard stepped out to the curb and leaned down to talk to the person in the car. Don’t leave, I thought, willing the guard to stay put. I couldn’t make out the whereabouts of the security man anymore, but when the car nosed out to check on the traffic, I saw that it was a black El Camino.
“B.J.!” I yelled. “Hey, B.J.! Hold up!” I leaped the center divider and rolled over the side and into the El Camino’s truck bed. B.J.’s face jerked around in the window, looking fierce, but he arched his eyebrows and shook his head when he saw me. He obviously thought it was all a big joke. I sat up in time to see Big Guy and Shorty no more than a hundred feet behind Ely, who was just crossing the grass divider. Then she jumped at the truck and crooked one leg up over the top.
I banged on the roof of the cab. “Go, go, go. Move it. Go!”
B.J. burned rubber taking off toward the north in front of the oncoming traffic, nearly getting in a wreck in the process. For the first fifty feet he drove on the wrong side of the road. Horns blared. I looked behind us and saw the broad backs and shoulders of Big Guy and Shorty. They both wore tank tops, and under the fluorescent streetlights, their enormous sculptured arms were pressed against their knees as they struggled to catch the only thing left to them: their breaths.
VIII
B.J. turned the El Camino inland at Sunrise Boulevard, and after crossing the Intracoastal Waterway, he pulled into the parking lot at the Galleria Mall. He stopped under a light, far from the boxy building, and parked amid the empty rows of painted white lines. When the engine stopped, he slowly opened his door and climbed out of the truck. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt tucked into navy cargo shorts. He leaned his back against the door and rested his head on the roof staring up at the stars.
“I’ve never driven like that in my life.”
“It showed,” I said.
He lifted his head and looked at me, ready to be angry.
I grinned at him, and he started laughing out loud. Then Elysia started laughing, too.
“You should have seen your face when you turned around and looked through your window,” I said, gasping.
He rested his arms on the top of the vehicle. “What about you? Flopping around in the back of my truck like a boated bass?”
“Seychelle,” Ely said, “did you see the look on that guy’s face when I got him with my shoes?” She rolled onto her back in the truck bed and kicked her feet in the air laughing so hard she got the hiccups. And that set us all off again.
“Whooee,” B.J. said finally, getting himself under control. He pressed his forehead against his bent arms for a few seconds, then looked straight at me. “What was that all about?”
I ignored his question. “I was so glad you hadn’t left yet, B.J. I was looking for the Chris Craft, and when I saw she was all buttoned up, I thought you’d gone.”
“Seychelle, are you ready to explain any of this to me?” he asked.
I stood up, straddled the side of the truck, and sat just behind the cab. “Okay, okay. You know, I’m not sure I understand what happened myself.” At that moment, the full impact of what the two muscle men had been asking finally hit me. It sobered me up fast. “I came by the restaurant to see Elysia, and we went for a walk on the beach. And then when it got dark, these guys came up and grabbed us.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“No. But this wasn’t just random violence, B.J. They started asking me where Neal is.”
He didn’t say anything right away. “Those guys knew who you were?”
“Apparently.”
He rubbed his hand across his chin. “They must have been following you. You didn’t notice anything?”
I shook my head.
“Maybe they don’t know about what happened on the Top Ten. Maybe these guys just wanted Neal for something else,” he said.
“I don’t think so. The big guy who had hold of me did most of the talking, and he said something about not believing in disappearing acts. They think he’s alive, B.J., and they seem to think I know where he is.”
We all three crammed ourselves into the truck cab with me in the middle, Elysia by the window. I tucked my shoulder down so B.J. could reach over me to shift.
“Where to?” he asked. His breath smelled like spearmint gum.
“Let’s take Ely home. Harbor House.”
We doubled back along Sunrise Boulevard to A1A and turned north at the beach. B.J. swung left on Bimini Lane, next to the Flamingo Motor Lodge. One block back from the ocean stood Harbor House. Once upon a time it had been a typical dumpy little beach hotel, but when they turned it into a house for runaway girls, they actually made it look better. There was an elegance to the place, with its whitewashed walls and teal trim. The windows were covered with heavy, wood Bahama shutters. The mirrored glass front door and the classy carved wood sign made the place look more like a high-tech firm than a halfway house for runaway teens.
We dropped Elysia off at the curb out front.
“God, I’m exhausted,” she said, opening the truck door. “At least I don’t have to work tomorrow. I’m going to sleep in till noon and then go apartment hunting.”
“Some people have all the luck.” I reached around and gave her a swift hug. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m always fine, you know that.”
“Ely, I know you’re tired, but I need to know anything more you can tell me about Patty.”
She glanced over at the mirrored glass door. “Seychelle, don’t ask too many questions, okay? Take it from a survivor. Know when to leave things alone.”
“Hey, worrying is my job. I’ll call you. Take care of yourself. Now”—I pointed to the house—“to bed.”