Randy White - Gone

“Fishermans Wharf, not Caxambas,” Nathan explained, laughing because he was nervous. After showing such strength, my friend seemed to be seeking peace through camaraderie. I didn’t appreciate him mentioning my personal business to a drunk, but I was busy thinking about Schneider’s offer to take us to Dismal Key. Not that I intended to go with him, of course, but we could rent a boat at the marina ourselves. I’d just have to get approval from Mr. Seasons for something that expensive.

The problem was, Schneider had told us so many lies it was impossible to pick out the small bits of truth-if any. If Ricky Meeks had been anchored off the Drake Keys, why would this local drunk reveal the exact name of Ricky’s new hiding place? Schneider either didn’t suspect I could boat to the place on my own, or he was intentionally trying to nudge us off the trail until he’d had time to warn Ricky to move-not out of friendship, but because of what remained of Olivia’s fifty-thousand-dollar checking account.

As I sat there thinking, the party aboard Sybarite no longer seemed important… but that suddenly changed. It changed when I noticed how curious Schneider was about the name of the yacht hosting the party.

“Nate!” I interrupted. “Eugene was about to tell us who else is on that Skipjack cruiser. You mind letting him answer?”

Schneider was disappointed. I could see it. The man finished his beer, his mind working hard at something, no telling what, then finally said to me, “I know the person you’re talking about.”

“On Ricky’s boat?” I countered.

“She’s a woman about your age. A rich young woman, or so that asshole claimed. I only got a quick look at her-she was coming out of the post office. Her and Ricky together. She reminded me of a stork, all bones and legs. Can’t imagine what the dude saw in a piece like her.”

My face warming, I replied, “We can’t all be short and soft, now can we?”

The man missed the sarcasm. “This was… two weeks ago or so. But she took off.”

I said, “What?”

“You offered to pay if I told you about Ricky’s passenger. So I told you. He had a woman with him-I just described her-but that was a while ago.” The man’s eyes moved from Nathan to me to see how we accepted the news. “I’ll be damned!” he said after a moment. “ She’s the reason you’re here! Well, you’re wasting your time, darling. The woman got pissed off at Ricky, or he got bored and kicked her out. Who knows? But she’s been gone at least two weeks.”

“Gone where ?” I demanded.

The man was shaking his head. “If you want more details, it’ll cost you… two hundred dollars cash. Now.”

Confident after seeing my reaction, Eugene Schneider was smiling again, back in control. Within a few hours, I’d get my first look at Ricky Meeks whether I paid or not, but there was no way of knowing that. No way of predicting or even guessing at events that would soon follow.

So I did what I thought was prudent. As I reached for my wallet, the little man was signaling for another beer.

MORE THAN AN HOUR BEFORE SUNSET, I TIED MY BOAT AT Fishermans Wharf, dressed for the party aboard Sybarite , but I was not in a party mood. As I crossed the bay from Sanibel, my cell phone had buzzed, so I had shut the engine off and drifted so I could hear Lawrence Seasons.

“Hannah! I’ve got something important.” In contrast to the man’s urgent tone, a few yards from my skiff a pod of dolphins rolled in slow unison, their blowholes spraying a genie mist into a silver June sky.

“You found Olivia?” I asked. Part of me hoped it was true, part of me felt guilty because of my disappointment.

“Listen closely,” Lawrence replied. “The P.I. from Miami we hired, the first guy on this case? He’s just been listed as a missing person. Officially. His agency called, state police are looking. I had a feeling something was wrong-that’s why I was so tough on you today.”

I replied, “Martha told me the guy was an alcoholic. Said he was probably barhopping on South Beach.” As I spoke, gulls hovered above the dolphins, bickering about who owned the rights to any bait that was flushed. Watching the birds, I recalled how odd the news about the investigator had struck me earlier, yet Martha hadn’t seemed bothered.

“That’s what the agency manager told her. The guy has a history of binge drinking, so they were giving him a last chance-and probably time to surface. But it’s been a week. They found his dog half starved. Even his family hasn’t heard a word. According to the logs, he planned to rent a boat in Everglades City but hasn’t been heard from since. How far’s that from where Ricky Meeks buys fuel?”

Everglades City was only a short drive from Marco Island, which I told Mr. Seasons, but didn’t mention it was ten very complicated miles by water to Dismal Key, plus a few miles more if the investigator had actually gotten a boat and tried to find Cape Romano.

“Understand now why I couldn’t let you do it?” Lawrence was explaining again why he’d refused to authorize the expense of renting a boat in Caxambas. I’d been so disappointed, I would have paid the money myself if Nate and I could have pooled the five-hundred-dollar cash deposit required. It was because of what Eugene Schneider had told us-or hadn’t told us. After listening to the surly man, my hopes and fears for Olivia were more mixed than ever, and I wanted to find out the truth with my own eyes. Was Ricky Meeks still anchored near Cape Romano, hidden in a bay formed by the Drake Keys? Or had he really moved his Skipjack cruiser to Dismal Key, where there was a dock, as I remembered, and the remains of a shack? More important, was Olivia still with him?

Maybe Schneider actually believed the girl had left the area two weeks before, maybe he didn’t. Either way, it didn’t matter. Ricky Meeks could have lied to him about Olivia being gone, hoping the rumor would spread among the Caxambas fishing community. If Ricky had done something bad to Olivia-a crime even worse than the way he had treated Mrs. Whitney-it was a way of buying time. I didn’t want to wait another twenty-four hours before joining sheriff’s deputies on the docks, hoping Ricky Meeks would bring his cruiser and the truth to Caxambas.

Lawrence Seasons, though, was a stubborn man when he’d made up his mind. In the conference call I’d made from Nathan’s truck, I had shared Schneider’s claims with him and Martha as well, but neither would budge. “I don’t want you anywhere near Meeks,” Lawrence had told me for the second or third time. “We’re paying you to find Olivia, not some con artist who might be dangerous. Until tomorrow, at least, we’re assuming the drunk you talked to was telling the truth. Olivia is free, finally. She’s safe.”

When I tried to argue, the man had cut me off, saying, “ Think about it, Hannah-his story fits with Olivia’s credit card records. Two weeks ago, she started using the Centurion card again. Why? Because she’s traveling alone. Without Meeks looking over her shoulder, she doesn’t need to be so careful about covering her tracks. Your theory had merit, but you were wrong. Is that what this is about? If that’s the problem, get over it. It’s time to shift your focus and move ahead.”

To Lawrence Seasons, that meant calling the list of Olivia’s friends he had sent by e-mail. To Martha, it meant sticking with my plan to attend the party, where I might run into someone from Port Royal who had seen or spoken to Olivia recently.

I wasn’t convinced. First, Olivia disappears, then a trained private investigator? The possibilities my imagination conjured up gave me a shaky feeling in my legs, made it impossible to focus on anything but what the girl might be suffering now… this instant . I’m not the sort of person who can force a fake smile and pretend to have fun when someone I care about needs help-help I might be able to provide.