Deadly Pursuit

36

Where the forest trail met the coral beach, Steve found what he was looking for.

He had spotted it ten days ago, on an aimless walk with Anastasia. The borzoi, like all dogs, had liked to sniff everything within reach; but when she’d started nosing a waist-high shrub with scarlet flowers and yellow fruits, Steve had pulled her hastily away.

Jatropha multifada. The physic-nut tree.

Easy enough to recognize the species. Jack, in fact, had first identified it to him when they vacationed on the island together. Varieties of Jatropha grew throughout south Florida; one of them, native to Key West, was known by locals as “the bellyache bush.”

An appropriate name for any of the Jatropha species, which collectively were responsible for dozens of accidental poisonings every year. The tempting, candy-colored fruits were irresistible to children; the seeds within the fruits contained a purgative oil similar to the ricin found in castor beans.

As little as two seeds could produce symptoms of gastroenteritis within a few hours. The larger the quantity, the faster the onset and the more severe the effects. A large enough dose could prove fatal.

Crouching by the bush, Steve plucked a small yellow capsule of fruit from the nearest branch. With trembling fingers he tore it open, plucked three seeds from the cavities.

He raised them to his lips. Hesitated.

You sure you want to do this, Stevie?

The voice, strangely, was Jack’s. But the thought was his own.

A ripple of tingling cold skittered up his forearms as if in answer. A new wave of the sedative kicking in.

Goddammit, he had to get that shit out of his system. Adrenaline wouldn’t keep him going much longer.

Eyes closed, he thrust the seeds into his mouth.

They were tasteless, crunchy. He chewed, swallowed, then picked another fruit and consumed its seeds as well. A total of six so far.

How many would it take to get quick action? If he overdid it, he would face a painful, writhing death. But if he was too cautious, he wouldn’t feel the effects for hours. Hours he could hardly afford to waste, not with Jack undoubtedly hunting Kirstie at this moment, the Beretta hot in his hand.

He plucked a third fruit, ate the seeds.

Nine now. He’d heard of people dying from a dose of ten.

But other than a mild burning sensation at the back of the throat, he still felt fine.

Dammit to hell, this wasn’t going to work. Maybe he’d misidentified the plant. This might be some harmless shrub that only looked like a physic-nut. In that case he could gorge himself on seeds without effect, until the damn sedative finally put him under.

He jerked another fruit free of the branch, began to pulp it in his fingers to find the seeds, then froze, listening.

From the south end of the island, a distant crack of sound, then another, and more.

Gunshots. Four in all.

Then, rising high and breathless in the night air, Kirstie’s keening cry.

“Stop it! Stop it, you son of a bitch!”

Christ, Jack was killing her. Killing her right now.

“Hell with this.” Steve threw aside the fruit and pushed himself to his feet.

He had to save her. Had to find the strength somehow. If the seeds wouldn’t work, then he would fight off the sedative with sheer willpower. He could do it. He A sudden agonizing stomach cramp bent him double. Sparks of white glitter whirled before his eyes. They expanded, merged, bleaching his world to a spread of arctic snow.

The poison. Kicking in.

He collapsed on his side, trembling violently, as pain clamped down harder on his guts and currents of nausea raced through him like fever chills.

You ate too many of the damn things. The groaning voice in his thoughts was nearly drowned out by the hum and sizzle that seemed to fill his skull. You killed yourself, you asshole. And Kirstie, too.

Somewhere far away, a fifth gunshot sounded. He barely heard it. The noise had no reality to him. Nothing had any reality but the spasms of agony knotting his bowels.

He twisted on his belly and vomited. Again. Again.

His stomach emptied, and he was left rasping with dry heaves that shook his body.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”

Fire laced his throat. His heart pounded impossibly hard in his chest, each separate beat threatening to shake him apart. Sweat dripped from his face in a silent, steady rain.

“God. Oh, my God…”

Flies were already gathering at the foul-smelling puddle he had made. Weakly he crawled away from it, off the path into a patch of weeds, then buried his face in the dirt, tasting grit. For a long time he did not move again.

Gradually pain and sickness receded, leaving him with the limp, hollowed-out feeling of utter exhaustion.

I think you’re going to make it, old buddy. The interior voice was still Jack’s, the words accented with cold mockery. Looks like you bought yourself a second chance.

“Second chance…” Steve licked his lips. His tongue was sandpaper. “Yes, Jack. That’s what I’ve got.”

He lifted his head from the dirt and blinked, trying to clear his vision.

The world seemed murky. Had the poison damaged his eyesight somehow?

No, of course not. It was his glasses; he’d lost them in the fight with Jack. That was why he couldn’t see.

All right, then. How was he doing otherwise?

Methodically he took inventory of his symptoms.

The numbness in his extremities was still present, but less obvious than before.

His limbs had lost their leaden heaviness.

He no longer had to fight a nagging impulse to shut his eyes and yield to sleep.

His thoughts seemed clear.

“It worked.” A crooked smile ticked at the corner of his mouth. “Goddamn worked.”

He had purged himself of the drug. He was clean.

Fighting light-headedness and a residue of nausea, he struggled to his knees. The effort was too much for him. He fell forward, panting.

For a bad moment he was sure he would be sick again. His stomach convulsed. But there was nothing left inside.

He lay unmoving, concentration focused on deepening each breath and slowing his hectic pulse.

When he felt ready, he tried again to stand.

This time he succeeded. His knees fluttered badly, and he had to grab a tree limb for support.

Holding tight to the branch, eyes shut, he waited for his strength to return while considering his next move.

He had to find Kirstie. That much was obvious. Track her down and take her to the boat. Either the motorboat at the dock or…

Or Jack’s runabout.

His eyes flickered open with a thought.

He’d forgotten the runabout. It was camouflaged under fronds and sedges on the verge of the beach, only a short distance from this spot.

The most logical thing to do was to leave the island right now. Take the boat, speed to Islamorada.

Could he navigate the harbor waters without his glasses? Probably. He might nudge a few buoys along the way, but there would be few other obstacles this time of night.

Within twenty minutes he could be at the sheriff’s station, reporting everything.

But if he did that, he would be abandoning his wife. Leaving her alone on Pelican Key with Jack.

He remembered her desperate shriek: Stop it, you son of a bitch!

Afterward, nothing except a final gunshot, some moments later.

The coup de grace? The bullet that had ended her life?

Or was she still alive, but a prisoner?

He pictured her, bleeding, helpless, Jack’s toy. Not hard to imagine the kind of games Jack would play with her.

If he went to the authorities, how much time would pass before they believed his story and agreed to send a patrol unit to the island? An hour? Longer?

He could not leave Kirstie for an hour. Not when she might be in agony, might be dying.

The boat would have to wait. He would find his wife first. Find her and save her life.

If she was not already dead.

The thought stabbed him, icicle-sharp. He blinked back a stinging eyewash of tears as he headed up the trail.