Michael Prescott: Deadly Pursuit

“Well,” she said, “here we are.”

“Nice place.”

She eased into her assigned space in a crowded carport and shut off the engine. “Yeah, I’m pretty happy with it. Everything’s first-class, you know? Pool, spa, clubhouse, the works.” Works came out badly slurred. “Even got a security guard in the lobby.”

“Security guard? He on duty now?”

“Always is. I mean, not the same guy all the time…”

She was fumbling with the latch on the driver’s-side door. He stopped her. “Wait.”

“What for?”

“I want to kiss you.”

“Right this second?”

“I’ve held off long enough.”

His mouth found hers. He shut his eyes and kissed her hard and thought about the guard.

It was a problem. An obstacle. He couldn’t be seen entering with her. Leaving the bar together hadn’t worried him too much; the place was crowded, and as best he could tell, no one knew her there. But the security guard, who saw her every night, might very well take note of any new man she was with. Some of these guys were ex-cops; they had a memory for faces.

She broke away from him with a gasp. “God, you’re really turned on, aren’t you?”

“I’m just getting warmed up.”

The words were automatic. He was thinking fast. Take her to his motel? He could get her into his room without being seen. But how to convince her to go there, when they were already parked at her place?

“Well, in that case”-she reached for the door latch again-“let’s not waste any more time.”

Her head was turned, the side of her neck exposed, and he knew what he had to do.

They didn’t need to go to her apartment or to his motel room or anywhere else. Here in the carport would be fine.

His hand reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a plastic syringe.

“These seats recline?” he asked softly.

She popped the latch, and her door swung open. The ceiling light winked on. “Huh?”

“Do the front seats recline?”

“Sure, honey.” Another giggle. “But you don’t wanna do it here, do you?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said quietly, “I do.” He gripped the syringe with four fingers, laid his thumb on the plunger. “Good night, Meredith.”

Ronni turned toward him, her blue eyes bright and unsuspecting.

“Meredith? My name’s not-”

She had time to blink, perhaps to detect a flash of motion on the periphery of her vision, and then the needle punched through the soft skin under her jaw, biting deep and squirting venom, cruel as an adder’s kiss.

The island bloomed like a second sunrise on the horizon, and Steve Gardner smiled.

Still looks the same, he thought with a rush of nostalgic yearning. Unspoiled Perfect.

He turned to Kirstie, standing beside him on the motel balcony, her face colored by the pink blush of morning. Her blond hair, recently permed, was losing its curls in a fresh easterly breeze. The flaps of her blouse collar beat like wings against her smooth, tanned throat.

“That’s it.” Steve pointed. “Pelican Key.”

She caught his excitement and reflected it in her smile. “Looks beautiful. Like paradise.”

Padding at their feet, Anastasia let out a soft whine. Steve scratched the borzoi’s angular snout.

“That’s how I always thought of it,” he said softly. “Paradise. The kind of place that never changes. The rest of the world can go downhill, straight to hell-but there’ll always be Pelican Key, pristine and uncorrupted.”

“I don’t think there’s too much corruption in Danbury.”

She made an effort at levity, but he caught the familiar undertone of irritation in her voice.

“No,” he said briskly. “Of course not.”

Conversation ended then, leaving a silence between them. There had been too many silences in recent months.

My fault, Steve told himself. Always is, right? My fault-and my guilt.

The thought was a clinging cobweb. He brushed it away.

He knew he couldn’t make his wife see what the island meant to him. Whenever he tried, the words came out sounding like a criticism of their home, their marriage, all the pieces of the life they’d built together. Better, safer, to say nothing at all.

Back inside the room, he repacked his razor, toothbrush, comb, and the few other items he’d used that morning, then methodically checked the nightstand and bureau drawers, though he knew neither he nor Kirstie had even opened them. They had spent less than ten hours in the motel, just enough time to grab some desperately needed sleep after the thirty-six-hour drive from Danbury, Connecticut, to Upper Matecumbe Key.

Kirstie used the john, and Steve did the same, and Anastasia barked and they both silenced her, fearful of disturbing the neighbors at this early hour, and finally they were ready to check out.

Trundling and lugging suitcases, they made their way down to their Grand Am and loaded the trunk. Steve wandered over to the office and paid the bill. The off-season rate was pleasingly low.

Not that the place was likely to win four diamonds in the AAA guidebook anytime soon. There were better motels on the key, but two people who meant to keep a Russian wolfhound in the room with them could hardly insist on elegance.

On his way back to the car, Steve took a short detour to look at the saltwater swimming pool-shallow now, at low tide-and beyond it, the tiny square of pitiful manmade beach that was the establishment’s pride. Sand beaches were rare in the Keys. The coral reef that paralleled the chain of islands on their seaward side, all the way from Key Largo to Key West, stopped the wave action that normally deposited drifts of sand on coastal platforms. For the most part the shoreline consisted of coral and limestone ledges, mangrove forest, and mud flats.

He had no real interest in the pool or the trucked-in sand, of course. What he wanted was one more sight of Pelican Key. Shielding his face to cut the glare on his eyeglasses, he stared out to sea.

There it was-a faint green line on the blue waters, tremulous as a daydream, elusive as hope.

He and Kirstie ate breakfast at a fast-food place, buying an extra sausage-and-egg sandwich for Anastasia to consume in the car. After that, a trip to a local market, where they stocked up on groceries and other supplies.

He paid for the items and wheeled the cart outside. Kirstie was waiting for him near a pair of vending machines, a newspaper in her hand. “Got you a Miami Herald.”

Steve’s heart constricted with a brief squeeze of fear. “I don’t want it.”

“You always read the paper. Two or three of them a day, lately.”

“Not today. Not on this trip. We’re on vacation, remember?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“We’re taking a break from… from the world.”

A frown briefly clouded her face. Then she shrugged. “Well, okay. But since I already bought this one, we might as well take it with us.” She placed it in the cart. “I can do the crossword-”

“I said, I don’t want the goddamn thing.” He grabbed the paper and wedged it roughly in the mouth of a trash can.

She stared at him, eyes narrowed, then turned and walked quickly through the parking lot, toward Anastasia yelping in the car. The cart wheels squeaked as he followed.

Hell. He shouldn’t have done that. But he had to establish the trip’s ground rules sometime. For the next two weeks, no newspapers, no TV, no radio. No contact with anything outside Pelican Key.

The island was his haven. He meant to keep it secure.

At eight o’clock, precisely on schedule, the Grand Am eased to a stop outside the gated entrance to a marina in Islamorada. Steve leaned out the window, and the security guard swung down from his seat in the guardhouse.