Deadly Pursuit

12

Rigid, breath stopped, Kirstie stared at the man as he emerged from the shadows of the trees.

He was tall-taller than Steve-and about the same age. He wore a denim shirt, blue jeans, black shoes. His careless posture and casual way of walking implied an ample fund of confidence, frequently tapped, instantly replenished.

The man moved toward her, crossing the bleached moonscape of coral sand, his long, sinuous shadow sliding at his heels.

She was abruptly conscious of how alone she was. This walk on the beach was her morning ritual; sometimes Steve joined her, but most often not. Today he’d mumbled something about catching up with her as she slipped out of bed. Most likely he had just rolled over and gone back to sleep.

She looked toward the house. Beyond the trees, at the southern tip of the island, the red-tiled roof glowed like a carpet of embers. The dock stood on the reflected image of itself, a many-legged insect balanced on the surface tension of a pond.

Would Steve hear her if she screamed for help? She didn’t think so. The distance was too great, and the breeze, blowing out of the south, would throw her shouts back in her face.

As calmly as possible she faced the man, her head lifted, shoulders squared.

“This is private property,” she said as he came nearer.

He smiled, a clean white smile full of friendliness but empty of affection. “I’m aware of that.”

He closed to within six feet of her and stopped. For a beat of time they watched each other without speaking.

Overhead soared a brown pelican, a young bird showing a white belly and brown wings. It wheeled toward the sea in search of food, dipped and rose, then dipped again, dark against the blaze of sun.

Hunter and prey, Kirstie thought. The words touched her with their chill.

“If you know it,” she said slowly, “what are you doing here?”

“Visiting.”

“It’s not allowed.”

“I’m not bothering anyone.”

“You’re bothering me.”

“I would think you’d be lonely. You are alone, aren’t you?”

The question pulled her stomach into a tight, acid knot.

She forced herself to keep her eyes focused on his face. A handsome face, in its way. Sharp-featured, faintly cruel. Stubble dusted his cheeks. The breeze flicked listlessly at his unkempt brown hair.

He stared back without blinking, a cool, flinty gaze that raised prickles of gooseflesh on her arms. His hazel eyes sparkled, but not with merriment.

“No,” she answered. “I’m not alone. My husband is with me. And… some friends.”

“How many friends?”

“You have to go.”

“There are no friends, are there?”

“I want you to leave. Right now.”

“No husband, either, I’ll bet. You really are all alone.”

“If you don’t go-”

He took a step nearer. She wanted to retreat, but if she gave ground, the man would only be emboldened.

“You have pretty eyes,” he said suddenly. “Blue eyes. Deep blue. They match the water.”

Her pulse beat in the veins of her wrists. There was a greasy coldness in her belly. Her mouth was very dry.

“I want you off this island.” Her words came slowly, paste squeezed from a tube. “Now. Immediately. Or my husband and I will radio the police.”

He moved forward again, and this time she did step back, unwilling to let him invade her personal space. A cool splash of tidal water lapped her ankles.

“The police?” He frowned. “That’s not very nice. I have a feeling you and I aren’t hitting it off too well.”

“How perceptive.”

“I’m a surprisingly sensitive fellow.”

“If you’re so goddamn sensitive, you ought to know when you aren’t wanted.”

“I have gotten that message, actually.”

“Then you’re going?”

“In a minute. First there’s just one little thing I have to do

…”

His hand moved toward his pants pocket, and suddenly Kirstie felt sure she had to run or scream or do something, dammit, because this man was not normal, this man was not safe.

An explosion of barking split the air.

She jerked her head sideways and saw Anastasia blunder out of the brush onto the beach, loping this way.

Tension hissed out of her body, leaving her muscles slack. She could breathe again.

“My husband is here,” she said, struggling to hide her relief. “Maybe you’ll listen to him, if not to me.”

The man made no reply, simply gazed past the dog at Steve, following Anastasia across the sand.

He had tossed on a pair of long pants, a cotton shirt, and the battered Nike running shoes he refused to throw away. His glasses glinted, the lenses screening his eyes.

Kirstie wished he looked bigger, more imposing. The man before her was muscular and fit. He could take Steve in a fight. But not with Anastasia to help. Thank God they’d bought a big dog.

Steve hurried toward them, urgency conveyed in his long, ungainly strides. As he drew closer, Kirstie was surprised to read more puzzlement than concern in his expression.

He stopped two yards away. For a long moment no one spoke. Anastasia was silent, watchful. The breeze died off, even the air around them holding its breath.

Then slowly Steve smiled. “Jack? Jack Dance?”

The other man extended his hand. “Steve Gardner. Jesus Christ, it is you.”

Kirstie watched, speechless, as they locked grasps in a violent handshake.

This was Jack Dance? Steve’s high-school friend? His companion on the Florida trips that always ended on Pelican Key?

But that was two decades ago. What the hell was he doing here now?

Steve voiced the same question, his smile still fixed on his mouth-a giddy, sunstruck smile, curiously unreal.

“Just visiting,” Jack answered. “Got bitten by the nostalgia bug, I guess. Developed a sudden hankering to see the place again. Relive some old memories. Know how that is?”

Steve nodded. “Oh, yeah. I know how that is.”

“So you live here? You bought the island?”

“Not exactly. We’re like you-just visiting. The Larson heirs are renting out the plantation house to vacationers.”

“Must have fixed up the house pretty nice, huh?”

“You’ll have to see it. I’ll give you a guided tour.”

“Got the whole island to yourselves?”

“Absolutely. Total privacy.”

“Sounds great.”

“It is great.” Steve shrugged. “Look, you’ve got to spend the day with us. Lunch and dinner. We’ll explore the island, just like in the old days.”

Kirstie bit down hard and said nothing.

“Terrific, Steve.” Jack patted Anastasia’s head, and the dog tentatively licked his fingers. “I’d love to.”

“You’ve met Kirstie, obviously.”

“Of course.” Jack spoke in a courtly tone quite different from his earlier mocking insolence. “She’s something special. I’m jealous.”

“You should be. But don’t get any ideas. She’s mine.”

“Then I’ll just have to content myself with this elegant creature’s affections.” Jack stroked the dog’s silken fur.

“Her name’s Anastasia,” Steve said. “We call her Ana.”

“Beautiful animal. Reminds me of my dad’s Doberman.”

“How is the skipper?”

“Passed away four years ago. Heart failure.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

“It was quick, at least. He didn’t suffer.”

Jack scavenged a stick of driftwood and tossed it high in the air. It twirled like a boomerang and landed in a puff of coral sand. Anastasia ran to retrieve it, tail swishing joyously.

A sense of unreality stole over Kirstie as she watched. A couple of minutes ago she’d been confronting Jack Dance alone, trying to find the strength either to scream or flee. Now here he was, accepting the stick from Ana, then kneeling to let her lick his face, her tongue slopping across his mouth in a slobbery kiss.

Kirstie found herself studying Jack’s clothes. They were creased, slightly soiled, as if they’d been slept in.

She remembered Anastasia’s jittery nerves last night. Perhaps a bad dream hadn’t been the cause, after all. Perhaps she’d heard Dance’s arrival.

Had he beached the boat in darkness? Had he spent the night on the island?

The thought traced a slow shiver along her spine.

“How did you get here, Jack?” she asked in a neutral tone.

“Rented a dinghy with an outboard motor.”

“This morning?”

“Just showed up.”

“Funny. I’ve been awake for a little while. I didn’t hear a boat.”

Jack shrugged. “The way the wind’s blowing, the sound wouldn’t have reached you.”

“If you tied up at the dock,” she said, pressing slightly, “you must have seen the house. I’m surprised you didn’t notice that it had been repaired.”

He showed her a bland smile. “I didn’t use the dock. Didn’t see the south end of the island at all. I approached from the north and beached the dinghy at the cove. That’s where Steve and I used to come ashore.”

Kirstie wouldn’t let it go. “Pretty early in the morning to rent a boat.” She watched his eyes. “It must have been tough to find anyplace open before dawn.”

She detected no flicker of uncertainty when he answered. “I rented it last night. Figured I’d get an early start this morning. A friend at the marina arranged it.”

“Mickey Cotter?” Steve asked.

“That’s right. Good old Mickey.”

“Didn’t he tell you I was out here?”

This time there was hesitation, and Kirstie was sure Dance had been caught in a lie. But all he said was: “No, never mentioned it.”

Steve sighed. “Maybe Pice forgot to let him know.”

“Who’s Pice?”

“Boat captain who ferried us to the island. He’s got a thirty-foot sportfisher called the Black Caesar. Picking us up first thing tomorrow.”

“You’re going home then?”

“Afraid so.”

“I nearly missed you. Glad I didn’t.”

“So am I. Come on back to the house and we’ll have breakfast. We’ve got a refrigerator full of groceries we need to use up.”

They headed off together, Anastasia trailing Jack and woofing happily, Kirstie taking up the rear.

Ahead loomed the line of trees bordering the beach, furnace red in the intense daylight. The palms threw feathery shadows on the hardwood stands behind them. The casuarinas were graceful sculptures in bold relief.

At the end of the beach Kirstie paused to look back. The sun was a full circle now, stamped on the sky like a target, burning a fiery path through the shallows to the shore. As she watched, the pelican dived into the glitter and bobbed up with a catch in its pouch. It floated on the surface, head lowered, as if in thankful prayer for the gift of food.

The same thought recurred to her: Hunter and prey.

She turned away with a jerk of her head and followed Steve and Jack into the forest.

Close-packed trees and shrubs swallowed them like the walls of a cave. Flies buzzed like miniature dive bombers. Green darners chased mosquitoes in the tremulous young light.

Jack twisted a cane free of a blackberry bush, then produced a pocketknife and deftly sliced off leaves, stems, and thorns. Kirstie thought of Jack’s hand reaching for his pocket as they faced each other on the beach. A tremor passed through her as she watched the slim, clever blade coruscate in a patch of sun.

He threw the twig to Anastasia, continuing their game. The dog snatched it up and scampered away. Jack followed at a jog trot, laughing.

Kirstie touched Steve’s arm to hold him back.

“How could you invite him to stay all day without asking me?” she hissed.

“I didn’t have much choice. He’s an old friend.”

“So I gathered. Tom Sawyer, reunited with Huck Finn.”

“It’s not like that,” Steve said quietly, as his eyes took on that unfocused gaze she knew too well.

She wouldn’t let him drift away. “When he was alone with me,” she whispered insistently, careful not to let Jack overhear, “he seemed

… weird. Dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Steve frowned. “How?”

“The things he said.”

“Like what?”

She replayed their conversation in her mind. Suddenly the encounter struck her as frustratingly innocuous. There had been no open threats, nothing blatantly improper, only an intuitive sense of jeopardy, impossible to justify with a bare recital of the words exchanged.

She tried, anyway. “He kept asking if I was alone. When I told him to get off the island, he ignored me.”

“Did he say he wouldn’t leave?”

“Well… not exactly. But I didn’t feel safe with him. And I still don’t.”

Steve smiled. “Look, there’s nothing to worry about. He’s just a high-school friend who happened to turn up. Anyway, I’m here to protect you. Okay?”

He moved on, rejoining Jack, without waiting for an answer. Kirstie stared after him.

She’d barely heard what her husband had said. Her whole attention had been focused on his face.

His mouth had been smiling. But his eyes had captured some other emotion, something she could not define. Grief, perhaps, or guilt. Or

… fear.

She wasn’t sure what she had seen or what it meant.

But somehow it scared her, scared her worse than the knife in Jack Dance’s pocket.

Kirstie felt herself trembling as she continued down the trail.