Michael Prescott - Deadly Pursuit

“Lying to the police-”

“It’s not a real lie. I’ve got an alibi. Just can’t use it, that’s all. Come on, Stevie, you don’t want this thing between Lisa and me to come out, do you? My folks’ll fucking kill me.”

It had taken some time and some talk, but Steve had agreed to go along. No other suspects had emerged, and finally the coroner had been persuaded to close the case. End of story, or so Jack had supposed.

“You already admitted you believed me at the time,” Jack said now. The wind kicked up; the boat rode gentle swells. “What changed your mind?”

“A rumor I heard around town a few weeks later. Story was that Mrs. Giovanni had been trying to get back with her husband. They’d spent a weekend together in Cape May-the same weekend Meredith died.”

“Oh, Christ. You mean the little guinea bitch was two-timing me?”

“Apparently. Of course, it was only gossip. Might not have been true. Or maybe whoever started the rumor got the details wrong. Even so, I started to think I’d better go to the police. But if I did, it would look really bad for you-and I still didn’t believe you could have killed Meredith.”

“So you went off to college,” Jack said slowly, as faint hope stirred in him, revived by the beginning of an idea, “and forgot about it.”

“Tried to.”

“Never said a word-for all these years.”

“All these years.”

Jack smiled then. Smiled like a jackal on a flyblown mound.

“We are friends,” he said with rising confidence. “We really are. Better friends than I knew.”

“No.”

“You kept my secret.”

“Wrong. I kept… my secret.”

Jack understood. And suddenly he knew he could master this situation. He could turn things to his advantage. He could take control.

“Yes, Stevie,” he said softly. “That’s right. It was your secret, as much as mine. You lied to the police in a homicide investigation. You were an accomplice after the fact.”

“In a sense.”

“Not in a sense. That’s the way it was.”

“You could say so.”

“Anybody would say so.”

“I didn’t know your story about Lisa Giovanni was a lie-”

“But you knew the alibi you gave the cops was a lie.”

“You asked me to do it.”

“And you agreed.”

Steve closed his eyes, conceding the point. “Yes.”

“And later,” Jack went on, pressing harder, “after you heard the gossip, you began to suspect the truth. Began to realize what you’d done.”

“Maybe so. On… on some level.”

“On a pretty conscious level, I’d say. At first, anyway. But you didn’t want to think about it. So you buried it. Buried it deep.”

“Not deep enough.”

“No. Of course not. Never deep enough.” Jack leaned forward, stronger now, taking charge. “Guilt’s like toxic waste. No matter how deep a hole you hide it in, it always leaks out somehow and pollutes everything around it. Isn’t that right, Stevie? Isn’t it?”

Steve said nothing this time, nothing at all-and that was good.

Kirstie ran along the boardwalk, the tattoo of her sandals on the planks thumping in rapid counterpoint to the beat of her pulse.

Her fear had been steadily swelling, battening on itself, as she traversed the island. A sense of desperate urgency possessed her, yet a corner of her mind stood back from her escalating panic, appraising it with cool skepticism, reminding herself that her terror had no logical basis, no solid foundation at all.

The swamp matched her mood. Past the railing of the boardwalk lay clumps of mangroves divided by narrow channels of brackish water. Things flitted among the trees’ twisted roots and branches; ribbons of glossy darkness slid soundlessly through the ooze. But no detail was visible, nothing specific, only a teasing impression of movement, as indistinct as the forebodings that shadowed her awareness.

She was certain of only one thing. She wished Jack Dance had not come here. She wished he had stayed a hundred miles-a thousand-from Pelican Key.

The boardwalk completed its zigzag course and deposited her on the marly loam near the cove. She emerged onto the mud flats, out of breath and flushed from running.

She scanned the area, looking for Jack’s dinghy. It wasn’t there. She saw nothing but mud and seaweed and a few reddish egrets harassing the minnows in tidal pools.

Had Jack lied about beaching the boat here? Had he come ashore someplace else?

Then her drifting gaze fell on a mound of palm fronds a few yards away. Something grayish and rough-textured, like whale skin, was concealed beneath.

The runabout. Thank God.

She approached the boat. At first she assumed the fronds had been blown over it by some freakish breath of wind, but as she got closer, she saw how carefully the leaves had been arranged.

Camouflage. Jack had hidden the dinghy. But why?

Kneeling, she brushed the fronds away. Inside the boat she found a suit jacket and pants, expensive items, badly soiled and wrinkled.

She remembered wondering if Jack had slept on the island last night. Now she was certain of it.

In the bow were three bulging grocery bags stuffed with canned goods and other nonperishable supplies. Near them, a manual can opener and an emptied can of peaches.

“He came here last night,” Kirstie whispered. “Brought enough food for a week. Slept till dawn. Woke up, had breakfast, then went for a walk-and found me.”

And he had left the boat hidden. Had not wanted it to be seen.

A flurry of splashes and beating wings. In one of the tidal pools, an egret chased down a minnow and snatched it up greedily.

Hunter and prey.

The thought shocked her into action.

She sledded the dinghy through the mud and launched it in the shallows. Climbing aboard, she paddled with her hands till she was out far enough to lower the outboard motor.

She jerked the starter cord. The motor sputtered and died.

A second try. Still nothing.

Oh, hell, was it out of gas? She should have brought a can with her.

She searched Jack’s supplies and found no extra fuel. Dammit. Goddammit to hell.

Panic surged again, threatening to overwhelm her. She forced it down, made herself test the motor once more.

Don’t yank the cord this time, just give it a good firm pull. Easy. Easy…

The motor coughed, rattled, nearly faltered… then caught.

Relief weakened her. She eased the throttle arm forward, and the dinghy headed out of the cove toward open water-and the reef.

“Think about it, Stevie,” Jack said smoothly, while Steve listened, hating him. “If not for your little lie and subsequent silence, I would have been arrested seventeen years ago, and none of those other women would be dead now.”

Steve knew what Jack was doing, of course. Trying to manipulate him by preying on his conscience. Jack was a master at exploiting weaknesses to gain control. Throughout their friendship he had always been the leader, the dominant personality. Even as a teenager Steve had been conscious of the subordinate role he played; and though sometimes it galled him, he’d been willing to go along. He’d taken a kind of comfort in surrendering his independence, allowing himself to be pushed and pulled by a force stronger than himself.

But not this time. He wasn’t a kid anymore.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Steve said brusquely.

Jack merely smiled. “Of course you don’t. Truth hurts. Especially this sort of truth. Seven women have died since Meredith. Seven women you helped to kill.”

Steve blinked. “Six. There’ve been six.”

“You’re behind the curve, pal. Another young lady was found dead in Phoenix two weeks ago, on Saturday morning. Veronica Tyler, but everybody called her Ronni. I didn’t, though. Not when I put that needle in her neck. I called her… Meredith.”