Deadly Pursuit

20

Kirstie ran along the boardwalk, the tattoo of her sandals on the planks thumping in rapid counterpoint to the beat of her pulse.

Her fear had been steadily swelling, battening on itself, as she traversed the island. A sense of desperate urgency possessed her, yet a corner of her mind stood back from her escalating panic, appraising it with cool skepticism, reminding herself that her terror had no logical basis, no solid foundation at all.

The swamp matched her mood. Past the railing of the boardwalk lay clumps of mangroves divided by narrow channels of brackish water. Things flitted among the trees’ twisted roots and branches; ribbons of glossy darkness slid soundlessly through the ooze. But no detail was visible, nothing specific, only a teasing impression of movement, as indistinct as the forebodings that shadowed her awareness.

She was certain of only one thing. She wished Jack Dance had not come here. She wished he had stayed a hundred miles-a thousand-from Pelican Key.

The boardwalk completed its zigzag course and deposited her on the marly loam near the cove. She emerged onto the mud flats, out of breath and flushed from running.

She scanned the area, looking for Jack’s dinghy. It wasn’t there. She saw nothing but mud and seaweed and a few reddish egrets harassing the minnows in tidal pools.

Had Jack lied about beaching the boat here? Had he come ashore someplace else?

Then her drifting gaze fell on a mound of palm fronds a few yards away. Something grayish and rough-textured, like whale skin, was concealed beneath.

The runabout. Thank God.

She approached the boat. At first she assumed the fronds had been blown over it by some freakish breath of wind, but as she got closer, she saw how carefully the leaves had been arranged.

Camouflage. Jack had hidden the dinghy. But why?

Kneeling, she brushed the fronds away. Inside the boat she found a suit jacket and pants, expensive items, badly soiled and wrinkled.

She remembered wondering if Jack had slept on the island last night. Now she was certain of it.

In the bow were three bulging grocery bags stuffed with canned goods and other nonperishable supplies. Near them, a manual can opener and an emptied can of peaches.

“He came here last night,” Kirstie whispered. “Brought enough food for a week. Slept till dawn. Woke up, had breakfast, then went for a walk-and found me.”

And he had left the boat hidden. Had not wanted it to be seen.

A flurry of splashes and beating wings. In one of the tidal pools, an egret chased down a minnow and snatched it up greedily.

Hunter and prey.

The thought shocked her into action.

She sledded the dinghy through the mud and launched it in the shallows. Climbing aboard, she paddled with her hands till she was out far enough to lower the outboard motor.

She jerked the starter cord. The motor sputtered and died.

A second try. Still nothing.

Oh, hell, was it out of gas? She should have brought a can with her.

She searched Jack’s supplies and found no extra fuel. Dammit. Goddammit to hell.

Panic surged again, threatening to overwhelm her. She forced it down, made herself test the motor once more.

Don’t yank the cord this time, just give it a good firm pull. Easy. Easy…

The motor coughed, rattled, nearly faltered… then caught.

Relief weakened her. She eased the throttle arm forward, and the dinghy headed out of the cove toward open water-and the reef.