Gone

NINETEEN

A LITTLE WHILE LATER, I WAS FOLLOWING THE PLAN-but I was a mess.

In my imagination, I could feel Ricky Meeks’s black eyes drilling a hole in my back as I idled my skiff away from Fishermans Wharf and Sybarite, which was just leaving the dock. The yacht’s upper deck was loud with reggae music and the crowded laughter of a party amping up for sunset, eager for the freedom of open water.

Ricky was up there somewhere. Maybe he actually was watching, startled to see I’d left the yacht. Hopefully, though, Gabby was keeping him occupied or he was busy helping Robert get under way as he was being paid to do. I couldn’t risk turning to look, of course. So I sat hunched at the wheel, trying to will my body to stop shaking. I’d been shaking ever since finally meeting Meeks, face-to-face. The man had caused me to behave like a helpless fool and I was still suffering the effects.

Ricky had surprised me when I was alone in Gabby’s tiny cabin, waiting for her to return from Sybarite’s steering room. Olivia wasn’t mingling with the other guests, so it was up to my friend to check the crew area and finally confirm that the missing heiress wasn’t aboard.

Sitting on Gabby’s bunk, feeling nervous and antsy, I had heard a man’s heavy footsteps pause outside her door. There was a long silence punctuated by a soft snorting sound. The rhythm of the sound reminded me of a dog sniffing for the blood trail of wounded game. Into my head came Elka Whitney’s words… he can smell weakness. It’s like an animal thing… as I watched the doorknob slowly twist right, then left-someone testing for a lock. I wanted to do something, anything, to stop what was happening, but my brain and body felt mired in glue. Then, BANG! the door slammed open, hitting the bulkhead hard, and Ricky Meeks suddenly filled the cabin, greasy spit curl on his forehead, his black eyes shining as if he’d known all along where I had been hiding.

“Hannah Smith, you nosy bitch! Guys in Caxambas say you’ve got a skinny ass, but they’ve seen worse. I want to look for myself-on your feet!”

Never in my life had a stranger leered at me with such confidence nor spoken such rude words. I sat there frozen, too shocked to speak, and yet, stupidly, I had managed to stand exactly as the man ordered me to do. Worse, I had remained frozen, numb as a mannequin, when Meeks cupped my face in his rough hands, saying, “Let’s just hope you taste better than you look,” and forced the stink of cigars against my lips. Then he was wagging his big index finger at me, saying, “You and me are gonna have ourselves a little talk when we get back. Then you’re going to show me around your boat. I’ve got some questions need answered.”

An instant later, the man gave me a push, then was gone, leaving only the odor of his cheap cologne and his locker room laughter to linger in the hall.

I felt furious with myself and embarrassed. Too stunned to tell even Gabby or confess my fear that Meeks had put his hands on my breasts before pushing me. Had he? Everything had happened so fast, the details were so blurred, I couldn’t be certain-or was my memory blocking the shame of tolerating such an offense?

Now my brain was still raging about what had happened, punishing me with clever words I could have said, the brave things I should have done with my knee, my fingernails, my teeth. In the past, I’d been mystified-secretly contemptuous, too-of women in the headlines who had been assaulted without fighting back or even reporting what had happened. Now, for the first time, I understood. The realization added guilt to the fury that was causing my body to shake. How could I have been so unfair, so cruel in my thoughts, to women who’d been humiliated by what I was too callow to imagine?

Behind me now, Sybarite’s horn gave three blasts to announce she was backing. Then I heard the yacht’s diesels accelerate and I knew that, finally, I was safe from Ricky Meeks’s mean hands. Even so, I didn’t turn to look. I kept my skiff pointed southeast, toward Estero Bay, frustrated by the No Wake Zone markers but pleased that Sybarite was moving in the opposite direction, headed for the mouth of Matanzas Pass.

If you surprise a dangerous man, expect to be surprised.

The words of Marion Ford returned to my head, and I clung to his voice for several seconds, which calmed me. Surprise. That’s exactly what had happened. That’s why I’d been unable to fight back. Never in my life had a man caused me to feel so weak, so helpless, but it wasn’t because I lacked courage-or so I wanted to believe. It was because Ricky Meeks had skipped the normal bullying steps that usually precede a confrontation. Instead, he had shocked me into submission by doing the unthinkable-but something I should have expected! I had listened to Elka Whitney. I had read Olivia’s journal and seen the hatred in her painting of a faceless, leering man with horns instead of ears. All the facts I needed were stored in my brain, yet I hadn’t anticipated-oreven believed-that I, too, could become the victim of such vicious behavior.

Ricky Meeks had caught me unprepared once, but it would never happen again. That was the promise I made to myself as I sat at the wheel of my skiff, considering the weather, picturing how the sea would feel far offshore. On this June afternoon, the bay was so gelatin slick that bait pocked the surface like rain. Shock waves of a pelican diving echoed for miles, expanding rings on the Gulf’s silver veneer. It was the perfect afternoon for a long trip in a small boat-if I could summon the courage. As I thought about it, something else Elka had said helped finalize my decision: Forgiveness is for women who don’t have the balls for revenge.

Meeks had surprised me. Now was my chance to turn the tables. Do it right, I could blindside the bully who had hurt me, Olivia, poor Elka Whitney, and God only knew how many other women.

I glanced at the sun, then checked my watch: 6:45 p.m. Sunset was at twenty to nine, which meant I could fly the forty-some miles to Marco Island and still have enough daylight to look around Cape Romano and possibly even get to Dismal Key if I hurried. Returning by night was no problem-Dr. Ford had equipped the skiff with the best lights and electronics, even a single-sideband radio, which I’d removed in favor of a handheld VHF. It was getting to the Ten Thousand Islands fast that was important.

I couldn’t fly yet, though. The Coast Guard station was too close to risk ignoring the No Wake Zone buoys. They extended for another hundred yards before I reached the channel. So I paid attention to Marion Ford’s warning and spent the idle time going over my equipment. I had lights, extra clothes, and food if I decided to anchor for the night, plus an item I’d stored beneath the console to show Nathan, then forgotten-the Devel pistol, book case included, all safe in a waterproof bag.

I opened the console, then opened the bag. The weight of the gun in my hand, rather than giving me confidence, brought a couple of worst-case scenarios into my mind that I took time to consider. What if I found Olivia and, instead of welcoming my help, the troubled girl turned against me and called the police? Much worse, what if Meeks had seen me leave Sybarite and was in his truck right now racing me to Marco Island?

In my head, I calculated how long it would take him to make the drive, then cover a few backcountry miles in a small boat. If Ricky had left right away, I decided, he would beat me to Cape Romano by ten or fifteen minutes. More if he was hiding his Skipjack cruiser at Dismal Key.

Not good.

Police and an angry rich girl didn’t bother me at all. But the thought of being intercepted by Meeks in his fast jon boat was spooky. Just the two of us alone in the Ten Thousand Islands, one of the largest uninhabited wilderness regions in America. Nothing but black water, mosquitoes, and mangrove tunnels snaking deep into the sawgrass of the Everglades. At night, probably no cell phone reception-only seven cartridges in the pistol I was holding if I got into real trouble, plus a handheld VHF that was an expensive Lowrance but still only a six-watt radio with limited range.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Meeks was being paid to work as first mate, which Robert, Sybarite’s captain, had confirmed. Unless… unless Meeks had accepted the job not just to try to scare me off, but also track me as I continued to search for Olivia.

For the first time, I risked turning my face toward Fishermans Wharf. Sybarite was already several hundred yards away, the party guests a blur of pixelated shapes. It was impossible to see if Ricky was among them. Closer was the marina parking lot, but much of it was screened by a stand of casuarina pines. If the red truck was still there, I didn’t see it.

For several shaky seconds, my courage wavered. Then my anger at what Meeks had done fired a burning drive in me, that grew stronger and stronger as I imagined what Olivia Seasons had suffered and might still be suffering. As Nathan and Lawrence Seasons had both observed, the missing girl and I had some unusual ties in common. Now there was one more-a mean, wolfish man by the name of Ricky Meeks.

As mad as I was, though, I wasn’t about to do anything foolhardy or stupid. That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway. To prove it, I took my cell from its waterproof pouch and called Gabby, hoping to be reassured that Meeks hadn’t left the yacht. I wasn’t surprised she didn’t answer, and so left a message asking her to call me first chance she got.

I couldn’t call Martha or Lawrence Seasons and tell them where I was going-they would have stopped me-but I wanted someone to know. Nathan would try to talk me out of it, too, of course, so I called his apartment instead of his cell and left another message. In detail, I told him where I planned to search, and what he should do if I didn’t make contact before noon, which is when Martha, Lawrence, and I were scheduled to meet sheriff’s deputies in Caxambas.

“Cell phones probably won’t work down there,” I explained, “but I’ll monitor channel sixty-eight on the VHF if there’s some kind of emergency.” Nate is experienced with boats and water so wouldn’t have found my mention of the radio as comforting as most. Handheld radios transmit at low wattage with a line-of-sight range that’s rarely more than five miles, depending on how many islands block the signal. Even on Sanibel, I sometimes receive Key West weather a hundred miles away. But transmitting a solid signal to even nearby Captiva is considered a lucky day.

Even so, I had taken all the precautions available to me. As a reward, I allowed myself to do something personal. I dialed Marion Ford’s lab, even though I knew he was in South America, just to enjoy the comforting sound of his recording. His was a low voice, so calm and solid that I found myself replying with the same details I’d left on Nathan’s machine, which pretty much guaranteed the biologist would call the moment he got back.

“I’ll tell you the whole story when we fish for tarpon on Friday!” I added with some spunk, then returned my cell phone to its waterproof case.

Reassured by my solid behavior, I stood at the wheel as I neared the channel, feeling some confidence for a change and the first spark of excitement about the trip I was about to take. Within easy reaching distance, I had secured a thermos of cold sweet tea and a Tupperware container that held two blueberry yogurts, a banana, and an orange I’d packed for the ride home after the party. I hooked the ignition safety lanyard to my belt in case I fell overboard, checked around for Coast Guard boats, then shoved the throttle forward-too fast in my eagerness. The rocket sled acceleration caused my cell phone to jump off the console, then skitter overboard despite my desperate lunge to catch it.

Too late. The case was waterproof, not sinkproof, and it was gone.

No reception down there anyway, I told myself, then buried the mistake by opening the throttle wide. Minutes later, after shooting beneath Big Carlos Pass Bridge, I entered the Gulf of Mexico doing fifty-plus according to my gauges, my eyes blurring from speed.

To my left, windows of distant hotels and condos mirrored a brassy westwarding sun. Afternoon storm clouds were building, I noticed, but I ignored them, preferring to concentrate on my destination. A mile offshore, safe from sandbars, I checked my GPS, then the compass switch, just to make sure my electronics were a hundred percent. The compass glowed a mild red for nighttime navigation. The GPS told me that at current speed, estimated arrival time at the sea buoy off Marco was 19:47 hours, which would put me off Cape Romano around eight p.m.

Good! My guess had been right. I would have more than an hour of daylight to search for the Skipjack cruiser and Olivia.

Feeling more confident than ever, I turned south. Checked fuel, oil pressure, and water temp-all fine despite the engine’s blistering fifty-five miles an hour-then sat behind the windshield to dry my eyes and take a swig of tea. Overhead, a jetliner banked to land at Southwest International, and it pleased me to imagine how my fast boat looked to passengers peering down. Like an arrowhead, I hoped, that cut a feathered wake as it cleaved a straight line toward its target. The Seminole shaman, Billie Egret, and Tomlinson would have both liked that.

I finished my tea, tweaked the trim tabs to nudge more speed from the engine, and felt my skiff settle beneath me, a Kevlar hydroplane, only its chines and propeller connected to the water.

Ahead, there was no horizon, no buildings to use as range markers. There was only the emptiness of water and my teenage memory of the wild islands that lay beyond.