Randy White - Gone

What I saw was a human hand, fingers missing, attached to what remained of a forearm. Even from the distance of several yards, I couldn’t deny what the hog had been eating. I felt eerily calm while, slowly, the flashlight revealed bloody details I didn’t want to see, or remember. No… I was in shock, but didn’t realize it. The same chilly calm stayed with me while I stood my ground and used the light to search the mangroves below until I had found the body.

Yes… a human body. Vultures had returned and were now competing with crabs for what had, until recently, been a person, judging from the freshness of what I saw. Man or woman, though, I couldn’t be sure because a frenzy of wings and crawling shadows obstructed my view. If I descended the ridge, the vultures would scatter, but my feet wouldn’t allow me to move. So I used the flashlight to probe. The victim was an adult, from the size… an adult who had sought safety by balling into a fetal position, then was left to die.

My eyes moved from the corpse to the Skipjack cruiser, to the corpse, then swept the area nearby. Hanging from a bush was a raspberry-colored garment that looked feminine enough to have been a woman’s blouse. A length of denim cloth covered a portion of the dead person’s thigh : blue jeans . Now my eyes moved from my own legs to the corpse to the cruiser as I put the details together.

Somewhere deep in my brain, a detached observer was amazed by my analytical behavior and also approved of the rage gathering inside me.

“Olivia? Oh… Olivia!” I whispered the girl’s name, giving it different meanings, while the detached observer advised me, You can’t let that son of a bitch get away with this.

“I won’t,” I promised the shadows. “I swear to God, he’ll pay.”

Slowly, slowly, then, I began backing away, which is when two things happened at once-something confusing, the other startling:

In the lifeless cruiser, a light blinked on, then the cabin door opened. Out stepped a tall, frail girl, mousy hair tangled, her expression, when she turned my direction, that of a child who feared punishment if caught looking at the sky.

Maybe Olivia saw me, maybe not. I couldn’t be sure because at the same instant, from the other side of the ridge, I heard a man’s voice calling. A voice with a sarcastic edge, ordering, “Hey, you! Hannah Smith! Get your ass down here… darling!”

Olivia heard the man, too, and fled instantly to the cabin. A girl so scared would be no help, and I couldn’t rescue her by hiding in the mangroves. I took a last look at the corpse, thinking, It’s the private investigator, then had to decide whether to escape to the cruiser, or return to my skiff and get the gun.

My body didn’t want to do it, but I finally turned in the direction I knew I had to go, my conscience urging, Protection is promised to those who behave boldly.

I HAD HEARD RICKY MEEKS’S VOICE ONLY ONCE, BUT IT had a taunting slickness I would never forget. It was him waiting for me, which I’d known before I topped the shell ridge. Ricky still wore the gray dress shirt, the tight slacks, and he was grinning because he’d surprised me, arriving in the cruiser’s dinghy, which he paddled quietly as a canoe. Rather than hike through swamp after hearing me bang aground, he’d apparently decided to observe from a distance… or was showing off, feeding his ego by humiliating me once again.

Trying to, I reminded myself.

“My God, it’s a cowgirl!” Meeks hollered with a Texas twang, close enough to my skiff now to fold the oars and drift. “From the look of it, you’re better suited to rank horses than fine boats. Need some help?”

The ridiculous spit curl dangled between his eyes, which he brushed back in a showy fashion that suggested practice in front of a mirror. Same with the way he yawned and stretched, flexing his big hands as if tired by rowing, and then said in a scolding way, “I warned you, you wouldn’t listen. I’m surprised you made it this far without Injuns scalping you.”

Meeks expected me to respond. I didn’t. So his tone took a sharper edge, taunting, “Didn’t your mamma teach you a boat’s no place for a woman? Particularly a cowgirl that dresses like Belle Starr-and who don’t know the difference between bottom and deep water.” The man gave it a beat before adding the punch line: “Unless the girl’s on her back, of course.”

Ricky was in a game-playing mood now that he had me alone. Having too much fun with my grounded skiff and Barbara Stanwyck clothes to comment on the bayonet needles I was clipping off with my pliers and storing point down in the scabbard. He had been watching me for a while, I realized, which gave me a dirty sort of chill. Meeks had seen me leave Sybarite , no doubt about it now. Or someone had told him. The man had beaten me to Drake Keys with just enough spare time to ditch his blazer and probably warn Olivia to keep her mouth shut. Now here he was. But why the interest in me? And why return to a cruiser that was anchored within throwing distance of a dead body?

One guess was that Meeks planned to blame someone else for the murder and wanted me to witness how surprised he was when he saw the body. It was not the behavior of a sane man, which made it even more likely. Eugene Schneider came to mind as the one to accuse.

But no… Ricky was the killer-a killer who realized he wasn’t done yet. It was in his voice when, fussing with his hair again, he asked, “What you find up there, partner? Anything real interesting ? Might as well tell the truth ’cause I’ll find out one way or the other.” To convince me, he picked up a chunk of axe handle and whapped the palm of his hand a couple of times.

As I slipped the fisherman’s tool into its scabbard, I was gauging the distance to my skiff, still deciding the best way to get my hands on that shiny customized silver pistol. Ricky had only a few yards to cover if he tried to intercept me, but he was still in the dinghy, and I had the advantage of running downhill.

“Don’t you go try anything stupid,” Meeks warned, some animal sense in him smelling trouble… or aware I was picking up speed while descending the ridge. Then when I began to sprint, he yelled, “Stupid slut!” and it was a race to see if he could bail from the dinghy and slog through water before I made it to my skiff.

This time I won. But just barely, skidding to a stop on the starboard side of the boat while Ricky charged from the port side, moving catlike for a man his size. For some reason, though, arriving too late didn’t seem to worry him.

When I saw what he had done, I understood. My lockers were open, gear was scattered, and there were muddy footprints everywhere. Calling my name from the dinghy, pretending he’d just arrived, was Ricky’s idea of being clever. Or he’d wanted time to search for something before I returned.

“My Lord, who could have made such a mess? Poor little cowgirl. Are we having ourselves a bad day?” The man tapped the axe handle against my boat to remind me who was in charge. Then the threat took added meaning when he patted the sleeping bag he’d found in a locker, pointed toward the island, and said, “There’s a shady little spot of sand over there. Why don’t you and me corral ourselves a little nap first? I brought us some bug juice.”

I was thinking about my bawdy aunt, Hannah Three, how she’d handle herself in such a spot. Her on one side of a skiff, knee-deep in water, a man threatening to rape her on the other. Aunt Hannah would want to slow things down, get the upper hand, while her eyes searched the plundered deck for the pistol that was no longer on the passenger seat where I’d left it. What had Meeks done with the thing?