The Water Keeper(91)
I shook my head. “I—”
She glanced at her bookshelf. My books stood stacked in order. Yellowed. Dog-eared pages. Taped covers. She laid her head against her pillow and smiled a satisfied smile. “I’ve heard every word.”
“How?”
She held Ellie’s hand with both of hers. She spoke to Ellie while looking at me. “I want to tell you about your father—and how he saved me.”
Ellie looked at me. Eyes wide.
I crumbled. Shaking my head. My phone rang incessantly in my pocket. Marie said, “Go. Just—” A smile. “Come back to us. There is so much we left unsaid.”
I could only muster one word. “Father?”
She smiled and held my face in both of her hands. “We did one thing right. And she’s standing right here.”
I looked at Ellie. I looked at my daughter. My phone rang again. And again.
I stood, kissed Marie’s forehead, then her lips, then bolted out the door, running through the soft sand. I hit Gone Fiction in stride, slammed the throttle in reverse, and dialed Bones. The slideshow in my mind played two competing images. Marie. Melting into the bed. Death staring down over her shoulder. How long had she been there? How long had she held on? What pain had she known? How did she get there? What about the video and the concrete bucket? Where did she . . . My mind fired ten thousand questions a second. The image flipped and Summer appeared. Drugged and unconscious. Limp body rocking in rhythm with the boat. A hand sliding up her thigh. The sound of evil laughter.
Bones texted me their current latitude and longitude. He was heading due west toward the Tortugas. I slammed the throttle forward. Gone Fiction shot out of the water. I lifted the engine slightly on the jack plate, listening for the prop to hit the sweet spot, and trimmed the engines. Five seconds later, I was gliding across the water. Fifty-three. Fifty-four. A little more trim and the GPS read fifty-six mph.
Gone Fiction was screaming.
And yet he was outrunning us by nearly forty miles an hour. I might be too late. Bones talked while I steered. “When he picked her up, he circled the island once, all twenty-six miles, but given his course and erratic speed, I gathered that he’s pretty good at looking behind him. Proving—”
I interrupted him. “This is not his first rodeo.”
He continued, “Always moving within sight of the island. I think he was giving Summer time to get comfortable with him. Putting her at ease. Given his movements, he’s done this before. Whatever ‘this’ is.”
The signal was breaking up. I was losing every other word. It would be useless at the Tortugas. If Bones needed me, he’d call my sat phone. “I’m losing service.”
“Roger. Watch your top—”
The phone went dead.
Chapter 44
The Tortugas were sixty miles off Key West. He’d be there in thirty minutes. It’d take me an hour. I also knew I couldn’t come in directly behind him, so I charted a course that came in from the side. If they sat at the center of the clock face, I hovered around four thirty. Bones called the sat phone. “Careful. A guy like that may have someone watching his six.”
Gunner stood nervously sniffing the air. Given our speed, he was hunkered between my knees. Whining. Looking for safe purchase in a boat where it didn’t exist for an animal with paws.
A full moon had risen, casting Gone Fiction’s shadow on the water. Twenty miles off Key West, he circled the Marquesas. A cluster of small islands west of Key West. A few of which were privately owned. Lifestyles of the ultrawealthy. Doing this suggested he did not have eyes in the sky like I did. He wanted to know if anyone was on his tail. Weaving through the islands like a serpent, he was trying to throw them off.
Fear gripped me.
My white knuckles gripped the throttle, trying to push it farther, but it wouldn’t budge. My speed read fifty-eight. My oil pressure was rising, as was my engine temperature. The moon glistened off the sheet of glass in front of me. Below my feet I’d installed a sealed hatch. Situated above the gas tank and below the deck. I unlocked it and swung the lid open on its hinge. Below lay my weapons locker.
I pulled on a fitted black shirt and face mask, then swung my arms through my tactical vest and Velcroed it tight about my chest. I press-checked my Sig 226 and used my fingers to count four eighteen-round magazines in the MOLLE carriers on my chest. Each had been fitted with a plus-two cap, bringing each magazine capacity to twenty rounds. I turned on my RMR, or rigid mounted reflex. It’s a red dot for pistols—a comfort when under duress. I pressed the thumb button on my Streamlight flashlight, making sure it lit up the world around me. It did. I slid the Benelli M4 out of its cradle and Velcroed it barrel down alongside the T-top supports. It held nine mayhem-causing rounds. Before closing the locker, I lifted my AR from the rack and swung it across my shoulder. I counted the six thirty-round AR magazines fitted to my vest and unclicked the night vision goggles.
The vest felt familiar while also heavy. A testimony to the quarter-inch plates covering my chest and back. In the forward locker, I’d stowed my crossbow. It was quiet and accurate out to a hundred yards.
The problem with stepping into the ring with someone bent on evil is just that. Evil. And there’s no way to get around it. You don’t talk with it. Don’t reason with it. Don’t negotiate. Land for peace never works. Never has. If they step into the ring with a baseball bat, you don’t meet them with a spoon. Evil is not interested in peace, and no amount of conversation will lessen its intent.