The Water Keeper(44)

“Two things. First, Barclay T. Pettybone did in fact do sixty for murder. In Alabama. Which probably wasn’t easy for a man of his color. He is also dying of cancer, but . . .” He cleared his throat. “He doesn’t have to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Surgery and treatment will help him. Extend his life. But it’s expensive. Somewhat experimental. And he would need to travel. Quickly.”

“How long does he have?”

“That depends on the infection in his lungs and . . . whether or not he wants to keep living.”

I stared at Clay’s door. “He’s pretty weak. I have a feeling he’s not going anywhere until he finds what he’s looking for in the Keys.”

“He may not make it that far. Can you lean on him?”

“I can lead a horse to water, but I can’t make him drink. I think you were the one who taught me that.”

I could see him nodding in my mind’s eye. “I might have said something like that over the years . . . a time or two.”

“You said ‘two things.’”

He cleared his throat. His tone changed. “There’s a body in the morgue at Jupiter Medical. Fits the description of your girl. Runway-model looks. Recent tattoo that reads ‘Angel.’ Toxicology suggests opioid overdose. Body showed up last night. Nobody’s been to see her and nobody’s claimed her.”

I rubbed my face and cussed beneath my breath.

He continued, “And because you’re not family, they’re not going to let you in to see her unless you use that ID you keep hidden behind your driver’s license.”

Seconds passed. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Have them ready to look at Clay when we get there.”

“Done.” His voice softened. “You got any sleep in your future?”

I stared at my boat, then the lights of the street and a twenty-four-hour Chinese takeout. “Doubtful.”

I was about to hang up when he said, “Murph?”

The tone of his voice changed again. The first time I’d heard that tone, I was facedown in the sand and had been drunk for the better part of a year. “Yeah?”

“You all right?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The hair’s standing up on the back of my neck.”

I rubbed my face. “Mine too.”





Chapter 18


Clay’s feet shuffled as he walked to the boat. Between his door and Gone Fiction, he stopped twice to cough. Both times left him doubled over. The wind had picked up so I offered him my windbreaker and brought him a cup of coffee and a blanket. All of which he accepted. He’d aged overnight. He collapsed into his beanbag, Summer joined me in the eye of the hurricane, and Ellie moved aft. Sitting on the back bench, pulling her knees into her chest, and not taking her eyes off me. Gunner floated around the boat, licking each of us good morning.

We pulled out of the marina and the sky shone crimson red as the sun broke the skyline. I whispered to myself, “Red sky at night . . .”

Summer leaned inside the eye of the hurricane. “What’s that?”

“Sailor lore. ‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning.’”

“What’s it mean?”

“It’s a warning about the day’s weather.”

“Where’s it come from?”

“Its roots go back about two thousand years when it was a warning about the days ahead. Has something to do with the life of a shepherd. Over the years it’s been shortened but it goes something like, ‘Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. Red sky at morning, shepherd’s warning.’”

“Who said it?”

“Jesus.”

She slipped her hand inside my arm. “The farther we get down this river, the more interesting you become.”

And the farther we traveled down this river, the tighter her grip became on my arm, which spoke volumes about the condition of her heart and the fear she was fighting.

I looked at her hand, interwoven with mine. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a touchy-feely kind of person?”

“As a dancer, your hands tell your feet where they’re going. Good dancers learn to close their eyes and follow the lead. It’s like braille.”

“Does following get old?”

“Two can’t lead, and no matter what these young kids think today, one can’t dance alone. By definition, the leader is only leading when someone is following. If no follower, then no leader. And if you’re leading, then you’re judged by how well another follows. They need each other.”

“Is the same true for the heart?”

She tugged slightly on her hand, attempting to withdraw it, but then thought better of it, sinking it farther. “Sometimes my hands tell my heart how to feel, and . . .” She turned toward the back bench where Ellie sat staring at the shoreline. “In my experience, that’s another dance that very few men know how to lead.”

Summer and Ellie sat on the back bench as we motored out of Stuart. Getting to Jupiter would take a while as one no-wake zone led into another. Up front, Clay coughed. One spasm leading into another. To say he was worsening would be an understatement. One episode lasted twenty minutes and left him sweating, pale, and struggling to catch his breath.