Randy White - Gone

I grabbed a second flashlight from my skiff, then jogged up the shell ridge to find Olivia. Ricky Meeks and I were racing again.

WHAT I NEEDED FOR JAKE’S CUSTOMIZED PISTOL WAS A holster, I decided. A book case was a waste on such a fine weapon, and I wouldn’t have to wedge the thing into my jeans to free my hands like I was doing now.

It was because of the rough country I was in: a tangle of mangroves, the cruiser visible through a cavern of mosquitoes and black leaves. The boat was only yards away, but getting to it required gymnastics. The use of tree limbs, grabbing one, then another, to monkey myself over roots to the water was the only way unless I had brought a machete.

So that’s what I did, after securing the pistol between the small of my back and my belt. Got both hands around a limb, swung my feet over a hooped blockade of mangrove roots, then repeated the process several times. By the time I got to the water’s edge, my shirt was soaked from the sulfuric heat that settles into a swamp at night. My jeans were torn, my shoes were ruined, and mosquitoes tickled my face, my hands, the canals of my ears, despite the spray I’d used.

No wonder Meeks had chosen the easier route. But there was no chance he had beaten me here. Even if he had sprinted around the island’s edge-impossible for any man, healthy or wounded-I still had a big chunk of time to use safely. Twenty minutes… half an hour. Plenty. Question was, would Olivia come with me?

A light was on in the cabin, but weak as a candle behind drawn curtains. The air conditioner was running, too, the generator a mild hum compared to the screaming hush of mangroves. Cicadas, frogs, growling cormorants… the baritone Oomph-Oomph o f an alligator, too-or a crocodile. Could be. There were saltwater crocs in the Ten Thousand Islands, although the only croc I’d ever seen was on Sanibel.

Just thinking the name Sanibel made me want to be gone from this dark place where, only a light beam away if I’d chosen to look, was a fetal mound of bones and human flesh-if any flesh remained.

No… I hadn’t looked and wouldn’t. So far, I had used the flashlight sparingly. Didn’t want to risk being seen.

Private investigators behave professionally. Panic, and Ricky wins.

I kept reminding myself of that. Stay strong, be bold-the combination had worked so far, and I wasn’t stopping now that I was almost close enough to touch the cruiser’s hull.

I grabbed another limb, swung my legs, then lowered myself until I was standing in water that flooded my jeans to the waist. The bottom was shell here, at least, not muck. After three strides, I was out of the water again and leaning my weight against the bow of the boat. I’d made it! Now all I had to do was convince Olivia to trust me.

Meeks had nosed the cruiser into the mangroves, then used heavy lines to secure it. Before I could scale the railing, though, I needed to create room by pushing the hull back from the awning of tree limbs. As I did it, someone inside noticed the movement. I could feel the thump of footsteps through the fiberglass. Soon, I heard the cabin door open and a voice call, “Is that you? I was worried… sugar .”

I felt a sick feeling in my stomach. Not because I associated the word with Ricky, but because it was Olivia Seasons speaking. Her voice had the parroting eagerness of a girl who was desperate to please after being beaten into submission.

“Down here, Olivia!” I responded, not loud but in a way I hoped sounded harmless, friendly. “Don’t be afraid. I’m coming aboard, okay?”

After a shocked silence, I heard: “Who are you-don’t come near me!”

“Please listen! Just give me a chance. I’ve got a boat on the other side of the island. It’s safe now, I can take you home.” Fearing she would slam the cabin door and lock it, I spoke fast while positioning myself under the bowsprit. “Olivia, I’m coming aboard. Don’t be scared.”

With fingers wrapped around the railing, I used my legs to spring high enough to get a foot hooked over the bowsprit. I hung there for several seconds, wrestling with the anchor windlass and a rotted tree limb that finally splashed into the water below. Then I scooted across mooring chocks so fast that my bottom plopped into a doughnut of anchor line as if it were a bucket. As I sat there resting, I heard the hush of bare feet moving along the safety rail, so I looked up. It was Olivia: long skinny legs in a white robe, facial features indistinguishable in the darkness, her hands squeezing the robe tight around her neck, a girl too scared to come any closer.

Mentioning Lawrence Seasons, I had already decided, might cause trouble, so I got to my feet, telling her, “My name’s Hannah Smith. If you want out of here, I’ll help-and he won’t bother you again.”

Olivia was shaking her head. “I can’t talk to you! To anyone -not unless he says it’s okay. So you have to leave. Leave right now!” She was speaking for Ricky’s benefit, I realized, in case he was with me or hiding somewhere nearby. No other reason for her to talk so loud.

So I shocked her by replying, “I shot him. I shot Ricky Meeks, and that’s how I know he won’t stop us.”

“What?”

I said it again, adding, “That was the gunshot you heard.”

“You can’t be telling the truth.”

My hands were checking my pockets to confirm I hadn’t lost the flashlights while climbing over the railing… then patted the small of my back where the pistol should have been. Damn! The pistol was gone.

“Is it true?” Olivia whispered. “Someone our age-a woman couldn’t do that. Is he really dead?”

My heart was pounding. I felt a first tremor that signaled my body was starting to shake. My hands were checking and rechecking my jeans, refusing to accept the fact I had lost the pistol. Then, trying not to be obvious, I checked the deck near my feet, then stepped over the anchor line to check the bowsprit. The pistol wasn’t there. I took a deep breath to control myself before turning. If the girl sensed what I was feeling, she would never trust me enough to leave.

“I hit him below the ribs,” I told her. “He’s wounded, bleeding bad, but we have to hurry. Get your things! You need to wear pants. Boots and a heavy shirt if you have them.” My mind was working on the safest way to proceed now that I’d lost the gun.

“We’ve got five, maybe ten minutes,” I added, which was half the time I believed we had, but I wanted to get the girl moving.

“You’re not a policeman-you’re lying.”

“You heard the shot. He’s hurt too bad to cut through the island, but he’s still hobbling. That’s why we’ve got to leave now.” I reached for Olivia’s shoulder, but she backed a step.

“You’ve got to be sure! He’ll kill you… maybe kill me, too! This morning, he”-the girl looked at the wall of mangroves behind me where the corpse lay-“Today, he did something… really awful. Is that why you’re here?”

Some distant part of my brain was aware that Olivia had yet to say Ricky’s name-as if no other man in the world existed. In a way, that was more troubling than her reluctance.

“If I wasn’t sure I shot the man,” I told her, “I’d be headed home alone, not helping you. Can I come in the cabin? Mosquitoes are eating me alive.”

The best hope I could come up with was use the cruiser’s VHF to call an emergency Mayday, then run for my skiff. A vessel this size would have a powerful radio-why Olivia hadn’t used it already to call for help, I didn’t want to understand. Not now, I didn’t. Then I would spend a little time, not much, searching beneath the bowsprit for the pistol. I’d heard a couple of limbs hit the water, but maybe I’d actually heard the pistol fall.