Blood of Cain

60

I unlocked the sliding glass door between Jupiter’s cockpit and her salon. In thirty seconds, I had music coming from satellite radio tuned to a blues station, Keb Mo singing through the Bose speakers. Then I started searching. Checked every lamp shade. Checked behind the couch. Under the smoke alarm. Worked my way through the galley, the master berths, and the other sleeping areas. Nothing. If there was a bug somewhere on Jupiter, it couldn’t be buried in the engine room or the bilge to be effective. It had to be hidden in the open area to pick up conversations.

But where?

I sat on the couch and looked around at everything I’d touched. And I looked at places I hadn’t inspected. I got down on my knees and stared up at the underside of the bar. And there it was, hanging like a barnacle under a dock. I stood and stepped to the bar, bending down to get a better look. It was no larger than a cap from a bottle of beer, but deadly as a cobra within the striking distance of its listening limit, which was most of Jupiter.

I assumed the bug was planted by the phony marine surveyor. What had I said, in person or on the phone, since then? I played back the conversations I’d had — conversations with Dave, Nick, and Kim … even chatting to little Max. When Kim and I talked, I made sure she wrote down the number to Lois Timbers, never speaking it.

And now that might prove to be a horrible mistake. Although they didn’t have Lois Timbers name or number, they had Kim’s name, and they heard her talking with me. I remembered the part of our conversation, what Kim said, that might cause them to hunt for her. ‘She’s a school teacher in DeLand, and called from the school during her break. She said after dropping Courtney off at a clinic, she never saw her again until all of this news coverage began. She told me that Courtney asked to borrow her cell phone, and she made a call to someone.’

I had one of three choices to make, and I had to make it now. I could either call Dave or Nick to Jupiter, and unknown to them, paint a picture that would tell the eavesdroppers that the call and message Kim delivered to me turned to be a nothing but a hoax. I could say it was probably some political junkie calling to stir things up. Since Nick or Dave had no clue that I would be lying, the bluff might work.

The second option would be to speak directly into the bug and give the listeners a warning. If they even considered approaching Kim, I’d hold a news conference — tell reporters what Andrea Logan told me about her husband, show evidence of the bug, and let the voters sort it out at the polls.

But what if it was too late? What if they were at Kim’s home, or heading there? What could I really say? Maybe nothing. But I could do something, and that was to find Kim immediately.

I stepped out of Jupiter, locking the door, jumping over the transom to the dock and running to Dave’s boat. He was sitting at a teak table in the salon working a crossword puzzle, windows wide open, white drapes flapping in a breeze blowing across the marina water. Max jumped from the couch to greet me. “Hey, Kiddo,” I said, scratching her head. “Dave, do you have Kim’s number?”

He looked over the tops of his bifocals. “No. However, if I were twenty years younger, I’d make it a priority to get it. Why?”

“I think she’s in danger.” I quickly told him what I knew, including my call to the mysterious woman in South Carolina. “Is Nick on his boat?”

“I think so.”

“Call him and see if he has her number or knows where she lives.”

“Good idea.” He made the call and asked the questions. “Thanks, Nick. Yes, he’s standing here. Sure …” Dave handed the phone to me. He said, “Nick doesn’t have Kim’s number, and he says he thinks she rents a small home near the lighthouse.”

I took the phone and Nick said, “That detective, the black guy who knows you …”

“What about him?”

“He was here about an hour ago. Said he tried to call you, but got no answer. He wants you to call him.”

“Did he say what it was about?”

“No, man. Told him I’d pass it on if I saw you. Is Kim okay?”

“I don’t know, Nick. I need to find her.”

“Big John ought to know how to get hold of her.”

“Thanks, Nick. Gotta go.”

I turned to Dave. “Can you keep an eye on Max? There’s some food for her in Jupiter’s galley. You have a key.”

“Go find Kim; take care of her. I can take care of Maxine.”

Big John, at the Tiki Bar, gave me Kim’s number and the address to her home. I stood on the dock adjacent to the bar and made the call. On the second ring I heard, “Hi, this is Kim. Please leave a message.”

“Kim, it’s Sean; call me.” I left the number and ran hard to my Jeep. She lived less than a mile away. But I felt like it would be a long journey because I couldn’t get there fast enough. I drove more than sixty through a twenty-five zone down a winding, narrow road that hugged the west side of Ponce Inlet, near the Halifax River. It was bordered on the left with cabbage palms and windswept scrub oak resembling giant bonsai trees. I swerved around bicyclists in the center of the road, golf carts crossing the road, tourists on mopeds, and cars crawling well below the speed limit.

I turned off Peninsula Drive onto Sailfish Street, a street filled with ranch-styled homes. The fourth house on the left was the address. It was a small brick home. Yard neat. Royal palms on either side of the house. Kim’s car was in the drive. I spotted a white Chevy van across the street, under the shade of a large oak. Not a good sign.

I parked near the van. Made a mental note of the plate number. I got out of the Jeep, stood in the shade a moment, the ticking of the engine cooling was the only sound. I walked toward a large banyan tree, keeping the tree between me and the house, a strangler fig gripped the tree trunk with octopus tentacles. I lifted my Glock from under my belt.

On the way to the front of the house, I placed my hand on the hood of Kim’s car. Very warm. I dialed her number and walked silently to the front door. I stood at the door and heard the phone ring. On the fourth ring, it went to her voice mail. Phone’s here. Car’s here. Where’s Kim? Napping, maybe? Not likely. I looked at the lock on the door. There were some slight abrasions. Not worn by keys, but fresh. Picked. I gently opened the door. I held the Glock with both hands, and walked inside. I felt a drop of sweat roll down the center of my back. The cool air encircled me. I stood in the foyer and listened. There was the hush of air through the vents in the living room ceiling. The ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner to the right of a blue sofa. The floors were wood, polished. A large oriental rug in the center.

A noise.

A creak coming from the wooden floors. Somewhere in a back room. I slipped my boat shoes off and walked barefooted down a hallway, Glock extended. Adrenaline pumping. Another creak. Was Kim walking? I wanted to shout her name. To verify that she was okay. The grandfather clock started chiming. Bong … bong … bong …

The sound of someone walking carefully was closer. And there was the distinct sound of a gas stove ignited, burning.

I stopped in a closed doorway — maybe a bedroom. Listened. The whoosh of a gas burner was louder. I turned my head to the left, guarded, and peering into the kitchen. The front right burner was on high, blue flames whispering. There was a bright white flash. Next to my head, a framed glass photograph on the wall exploded. The bullet missed my ear by less than an inch. I hit the floor, rolling, and came up behind a kitchen counter, Glock firing.

Two men returned fire, bullets ripping through the kitchen, room filling with white smoke, the smell of cordite heavy. I fired again. One man screamed. I heard them running, tripping over furniture. Smashing things. They bolted out the front door. I followed, smoke in my eyes. There was blood on the floor. One of my bullets connected. I’d try for two. I stood at the open door and aimed my pistol. They ran through the yard to a waiting dark blue van. I started to squeeze the trigger. A neighborhood kid on a bicycle was less than fifty feet behind the running men, and the kid was in the line of fire.

The men jumped into the passenger side of the van and the driver sped off, the tires throwing loose gravel. I lowered my Glock and turned to go back inside. Horrified at what I might find.