James Patterson - Now You See Her

He was a member of Key West’s vast gay community, I realized.

The wiry guy with the tattoo gave the bottle a deft flip as he stepped over to the driver’s side of the Mercedes.

“The only thing that’s going to get examined is your wallet, queen. After I knock all your teeth down your throat.”

That’s when the Mercedes driver opened his door and my jaw dropped.

The handsome black-haired man was massive, well over six feet, his bodybuilder chest and arms stretching his black polo shirt to the breaking point.

“Forgive me for being so forward, young man,” he said, stepping toward the windsurfing punk with his veined arms crossed over his fifty-inch chest. “But has anyone ever told you how utterly striking those eyes of yours are? Let me guess: you’re a Sagittarius?”

The two windsurfing fools looked at the WWF-sized gay Brit and then at each other in utter horror before racing back to the truck. A boogie board flipped over the tailgate and onto the road as they peeled out.

“I get the hint. Two’s company and three’s a crowd,” the big Brit said to me with a wink and a sigh. “If that isn’t the sad story of my life.”

“SIR FRANK, at your service, m’lady,” the Brit said, walking over to me and offering his hand. “And that little brat in the car there”—he gestured toward his Jack Russell—“is my loyal squire, Rupert. Those weren’t friends of yours, I hope?”

“Not at all,” I said, shaking Frank’s large hand. “Just two jerks who offered me a ride. Thank you so much for stopping. Do you and Rupert always go about rescuing damsels in distress?”

“To tell you the truth, we’d much prefer to rescue a prince, but in your case, just this once, we’ll make an exception. Hop in. I’m only heading up as far as Little Torch, but you’re welcome to join me.”

“First you rescue me, then you offer me a ride?” I said. “If I weren’t so road-grimy, I’d hug you.”

“If you weren’t so road-grimy, I’d let you,” Frank said with another smile. “Actually, I have one minor request. Rupert and I have been celebrating a little too exuberantly tonight, I’m afraid. Sometimes there’re police along this stretch of the road, and we’d prefer not to get a DUI. You, on the other hand, look sober. Would you drive?”

Drive?! I thought. A Mercedes? Duh. “Not a problem,” I said. “Assuming that it’s OK with Rupert.”

Sir Frank leaned over and conferred with the dog.

“Rupert says hop in and step on it.”

I smiled at my tan, muscular friend as I walked around the car to the driver’s side.

Gay British Prince Charming to the rescue. Only in Key West, I thought.

The car had wood trim everywhere and sumptuous leather seats that smelled like expensive cologne. I would have accepted a ride in the back of a chicken truck, I thought, closing the door with a heavy vaultlike clunk. My luck was definitely turning.

I slid the gearshift into drive and tapped the gas. Sand flew as the car roared and lurched onto the road like an uncaged lion.

“Ease up a tad, would you?” Frank said as he produced a silver flask from the glove compartment and took a sip. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Nina.” I made it up on the spot.

“To you, fair Nina,” he said, taking a tipple.

I was really enjoying the car. I’d never been in a Mercedes, let alone driven one. I liked the way it handled and especially the way it was making the highway railing blur by on both sides, putting distance between me and Peter. My escape plan was working out even better than I had expected.

“Hitchhiking on the Overseas doesn’t seem very safe, Nina,” Frank said. “Tell me. Are you running away from something or to something?”

“Neither,” I lied again. “I’m just down here on vacation from New Jersey. My girlfriends and I are staying up in Big Pine. Got separated from them at a party in Old Town.”

“New Jersey?” Frank said, taking in my Goodwill attire and scrunching his face in doubt. “Yes, well, quite.”

“I love your car,” I said to change the subject.

Frank smiled as he pushed his rakishly cut black hair out of his face. There was an almost Asian cast to his dark eyes. His teeth seemed a little too perfect. Were they capped? I wondered.

“Funny you mention that,” he said. “That’s exactly what I said to its owner when he picked me up an hour ago. You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to squeeze the big son of a bitch into the trunk.”

What did he just say? I thought, laughing tentatively.

I turned to him. He took another sip from the flask and sat staring ahead silently. The only sound was the rushing air in the dark. After a long, awkward and tense moment, he laughed loudly.

“Do-do-do-do. Do-do-do-do,” he said, imitating the Twilight Zone theme before laughing again. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. You should see your face. You need to learn to take a joke, fair Nina. Though it is dangerous to hitch. You’re lucky I’m a good person. Who knows what some completely crazy wanker might do to you out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“Thanks again,” I said after I swallowed.

Was it me? I wondered. Or was this getting weird very quickly?

I was doing my best to keep my eyes on the road ahead when there was a flash and a loud click beside me.

Frank, now holding a Polaroid camera, pulled out the advancing instant film and started shaking it.

What the? Now he was taking snapshots?

“Photography’s a little hobby of mine,” he said, blowing on the film. “You know what my favorite American expression is? ‘Take only snapshots, leave only footprints.’ You look shocked. Don’t tell me a pretty girl like you doesn’t like getting her picture taken?”

That’s when a snatch of the Jump Killer news segment I’d watched in the hospital came to me. My lungs stopped working as I almost ran off the road.

The car theft and the body in the trunk may have been jokes, but the wrapper for Polaroid film was found at the site of one of the prostitute abductions!

“Say cheese,” Frank said, raising the camera again.

“YOU HAVE nice bone structure,” Frank said, shaking the second instant film sheet as we drove along. “I have a friend who does some model scouting. Would you like a makeover? I could do wonders for you. Take some head shots. After I do something with that vile hair. Did a blind person color it? You could shower at my motor home.”

At the mention of the words motor home, my throat closed, as if it had been stuffed with a rag. The Jump Killer was speculated to have one of them as well. For the first time, I noticed the key chain dangling from the ignition.

No.

I closed my eyes as my hands started shaking on the leather steering wheel.

It was an eagle on a black shield. I’d been around enough military down in Key West to know that it was the Airborne symbol. Airborne meant parachutes and paracord. And how could a British guy be in the U.S. Army?

“So what do you say? Head shots? Shall we do it?” Frank said, as every molecule of saliva in my mouth evaporated instantly.

I saw some lights up ahead. Red neon in a small window. It was a bar. I accelerated toward it.

“I have to use the bathroom. I’m going to stop,” I said weakly.

“Don’t bother,” Frank said. “My motor home is parked just up the road. You could go there. Won’t be another second.”

I kept gunning it and put on the turn signal. “It really can’t wait,” I said.

“Fine,” Frank said as he put down the camera. “As you Yanks say, ‘When ya gotta go, ya gotta go.’ ”