Michael Prescott - Deadly Pursuit

“No,” she answered. “I’m not alone. My husband is with me. And… some friends.”

“How many friends?”

“You have to go.”

“There are no friends, are there?”

“I want you to leave. Right now.”

“No husband, either, I’ll bet. You really are all alone.”

“If you don’t go-”

He took a step nearer. She wanted to retreat, but if she gave ground, the man would only be emboldened.

“You have pretty eyes,” he said suddenly. “Blue eyes. Deep blue. They match the water.”

Her pulse beat in the veins of her wrists. There was a greasy coldness in her belly. Her mouth was very dry.

“I want you off this island.” Her words came slowly, paste squeezed from a tube. “Now. Immediately. Or my husband and I will radio the police.”

He moved forward again, and this time she did step back, unwilling to let him invade her personal space. A cool splash of tidal water lapped her ankles.

“The police?” He frowned. “That’s not very nice. I have a feeling you and I aren’t hitting it off too well.”

“How perceptive.”

“I’m a surprisingly sensitive fellow.”

“If you’re so goddamn sensitive, you ought to know when you aren’t wanted.”

“I have gotten that message, actually.”

“Then you’re going?”

“In a minute. First there’s just one little thing I have to do

…”

His hand moved toward his pants pocket, and suddenly Kirstie felt sure she had to run or scream or do something, dammit, because this man was not normal, this man was not safe.

An explosion of barking split the air.

She jerked her head sideways and saw Anastasia blunder out of the brush onto the beach, loping this way.

Tension hissed out of her body, leaving her muscles slack. She could breathe again.

“My husband is here,” she said, struggling to hide her relief. “Maybe you’ll listen to him, if not to me.”

The man made no reply, simply gazed past the dog at Steve, following Anastasia across the sand.

He had tossed on a pair of long pants, a cotton shirt, and the battered Nike running shoes he refused to throw away. His glasses glinted, the lenses screening his eyes.

Kirstie wished he looked bigger, more imposing. The man before her was muscular and fit. He could take Steve in a fight. But not with Anastasia to help. Thank God they’d bought a big dog.

Steve hurried toward them, urgency conveyed in his long, ungainly strides. As he drew closer, Kirstie was surprised to read more puzzlement than concern in his expression.

He stopped two yards away. For a long moment no one spoke. Anastasia was silent, watchful. The breeze died off, even the air around them holding its breath.

Then slowly Steve smiled. “Jack? Jack Dance?”

The other man extended his hand. “Steve Gardner. Jesus Christ, it is you.”

Kirstie watched, speechless, as they locked grasps in a violent handshake.

This was Jack Dance? Steve’s high-school friend? His companion on the Florida trips that always ended on Pelican Key?

But that was two decades ago. What the hell was he doing here now?

Steve voiced the same question, his smile still fixed on his mouth-a giddy, sunstruck smile, curiously unreal.

“Just visiting,” Jack answered. “Got bitten by the nostalgia bug, I guess. Developed a sudden hankering to see the place again. Relive some old memories. Know how that is?”

Steve nodded. “Oh, yeah. I know how that is.”

“So you live here? You bought the island?”

“Not exactly. We’re like you-just visiting. The Larson heirs are renting out the plantation house to vacationers.”

“Must have fixed up the house pretty nice, huh?”

“You’ll have to see it. I’ll give you a guided tour.”

“Got the whole island to yourselves?”

“Absolutely. Total privacy.”

“Sounds great.”

“It is great.” Steve shrugged. “Look, you’ve got to spend the day with us. Lunch and dinner. We’ll explore the island, just like in the old days.”

Kirstie bit down hard and said nothing.

“Terrific, Steve.” Jack patted Anastasia’s head, and the dog tentatively licked his fingers. “I’d love to.”

“You’ve met Kirstie, obviously.”

“Of course.” Jack spoke in a courtly tone quite different from his earlier mocking insolence. “She’s something special. I’m jealous.”

“You should be. But don’t get any ideas. She’s mine.”

“Then I’ll just have to content myself with this elegant creature’s affections.” Jack stroked the dog’s silken fur.

“Her name’s Anastasia,” Steve said. “We call her Ana.”

“Beautiful animal. Reminds me of my dad’s Doberman.”

“How is the skipper?”

“Passed away four years ago. Heart failure.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

“It was quick, at least. He didn’t suffer.”

Jack scavenged a stick of driftwood and tossed it high in the air. It twirled like a boomerang and landed in a puff of coral sand. Anastasia ran to retrieve it, tail swishing joyously.

A sense of unreality stole over Kirstie as she watched. A couple of minutes ago she’d been confronting Jack Dance alone, trying to find the strength either to scream or flee. Now here he was, accepting the stick from Ana, then kneeling to let her lick his face, her tongue slopping across his mouth in a slobbery kiss.

Kirstie found herself studying Jack’s clothes. They were creased, slightly soiled, as if they’d been slept in.

She remembered Anastasia’s jittery nerves last night. Perhaps a bad dream hadn’t been the cause, after all. Perhaps she’d heard Dance’s arrival.

Had he beached the boat in darkness? Had he spent the night on the island?

The thought traced a slow shiver along her spine.

“How did you get here, Jack?” she asked in a neutral tone.

“Rented a dinghy with an outboard motor.”

“This morning?”

“Just showed up.”

“Funny. I’ve been awake for a little while. I didn’t hear a boat.”

Jack shrugged. “The way the wind’s blowing, the sound wouldn’t have reached you.”

“If you tied up at the dock,” she said, pressing slightly, “you must have seen the house. I’m surprised you didn’t notice that it had been repaired.”

He showed her a bland smile. “I didn’t use the dock. Didn’t see the south end of the island at all. I approached from the north and beached the dinghy at the cove. That’s where Steve and I used to come ashore.”

Kirstie wouldn’t let it go. “Pretty early in the morning to rent a boat.” She watched his eyes. “It must have been tough to find anyplace open before dawn.”

She detected no flicker of uncertainty when he answered. “I rented it last night. Figured I’d get an early start this morning. A friend at the marina arranged it.”

“Mickey Cotter?” Steve asked.

“That’s right. Good old Mickey.”

“Didn’t he tell you I was out here?”

This time there was hesitation, and Kirstie was sure Dance had been caught in a lie. But all he said was: “No, never mentioned it.”

Steve sighed. “Maybe Pice forgot to let him know.”

“Who’s Pice?”

“Boat captain who ferried us to the island. He’s got a thirty-foot sportfisher called the Black Caesar. Picking us up first thing tomorrow.”

“You’re going home then?”

“Afraid so.”

“I nearly missed you. Glad I didn’t.”

“So am I. Come on back to the house and we’ll have breakfast. We’ve got a refrigerator full of groceries we need to use up.”

They headed off together, Anastasia trailing Jack and woofing happily, Kirstie taking up the rear.

Ahead loomed the line of trees bordering the beach, furnace red in the intense daylight. The palms threw feathery shadows on the hardwood stands behind them. The casuarinas were graceful sculptures in bold relief.