Michael Prescott - Deadly Pursuit

“What color is it?”

“White exterior, blue interior. It’s a four-door hardtop, relatively new. Could be a ’92.”

“That just might be the vehicle we’re looking for,” Lovejoy said.

Banks nodded heavily, multiplying his chins. “I know.”

“Jack trashed the car so it would pass for an old wreck.” Moore was thinking fast, her mind remarkably clear despite long hours without sleep. “Took the tags so we couldn’t link it with the airport theft.”

“Conceivably. On the other hand, the possibility exists that this is a different Sunbird altogether.” Lovejoy turned to Banks. “Was that location checked last night?”

“Doubtful. Darby and Brint work patrol on the Thursday p.m. watch, and those two sumbitches never do jack. Oh, they’re supposed to poke around behind the restaurant, sure, but more’n likely they were sawing lumber in their car somewhere out on Industrial Drive.”

“How about the night before?”

“No Sunbird then. I make the rounds myself on Wednesdays.”

“Time frame is right,” Moore said.

Lovejoy pursed his lips. “We have no proof that this is the car from airport parking or, even if it is, that Jack was the one who lifted it.”

“Well”-impatience struggled with Moore’s frayed self-control-“let’s quit yakking and find out. We need to contact Miami, get a search team down here, go over that damn car with a microscope and tweezers.”

“My recommendation also.” Lovejoy picked up the desk phone, then remembered courtesy. “Excuse me, Sergeant. Mind if I make a call?”

Banks moved his big shoulders. “At your service. Tell you true, though… you people sure do move fast.”

The swamp was hot and fetid, choked with clouds of mosquitoes, the pests swarming thicker here than in any other part of the island. Kirstie had lost the strength even to wave them off. They battened greedily on her, leaving a rash of bumps on every inch of exposed skin. When she brushed sweat from her face, her fingers came away dabbed with blood.

The bites didn’t matter. The heat and humidity, the sweat trickling from her hair, the aching exhaustion in every muscle-none of that mattered, either. Nothing mattered except planting one foot in front of the other, pushing herself remorselessly forward, crossing the endless yards of the boardwalk plank by plank, and arriving, finally, at the northern tip of Pelican Key. Then she would be at the cove, where maybe-just maybe-she would find the runabout.

Unless Jack or Steve found her first.

This boardwalk scared her. It was narrow and crooked and dark, and it could so very easily be a death trap. While making her way along it, she was as badly unprotected as she’d been on the beach. And an ambush would be easy in the swamp-the swamp, with its countless hiding places, its croak and buzz of ambient noise to mask more furtive sounds, its canopy of waxen leaves that eclipsed the stars and hung the trees in shadows.

She had never been here at night. The labyrinth of contorted mangroves and crisscrossing channels was creepy enough by day. Darkness made it a nightmare, some fevered blend of known and imagined terrors.

Cottonmouths glided through the opaque, tannin-stained water under her feet. Corn snakes and rat snakes writhed among the fantastically gnarled roots and branches of the mangrove thickets. The foul odor of hydrogen sulfide, signature of decay, hovered over the place like an unwholesome cloud. Somewhere a heron cried; to her left, a clump of marsh grass stirred with unseen activity; behind her, wood creaked in a low, regular rhythm, the footsteps of a restless ghost treading the boards…

She froze.

Footsteps.

Someone else was on the boardwalk. Whether it was Jack or Steve was unimportant. Both were killers now.

Was one of them shadowing her? Doubtful; the tread was heavy and quick, with no suggestion of stealth. It was the walk of a man in a hurry.

Most likely he didn’t even know how near she was. If she could hide till he passed by…

The footsteps quickened, closing in.

She ducked under the low railing and silently lowered herself into the murk, then eased beneath the boardwalk. The water, only slightly less saline than the ocean, was warm and pungent. Her tank top and shorts, instantly soaked through, clung to her skin in wrinkled patches.

It was difficult to judge the swamp’s depth. The tide was not yet in, the red mangroves’ arching prop roots only partially submerged. Her feet kicked, searching for the muddy bottom, then sank into spongy ooze nearly up to the ankles.

Her collarbone was at the waterline. The underside of the boardwalk loomed ten inches above her head. Not much clearance, but more than there would be at high tide.

She waited.

The footsteps were closer now. Touching the boardwalk, she could feel vibrations through the planks.

How near was he? Thirty feet? Twenty?

The creaks became solid thumps. Loosened dirt fell from between the planks, showering her in a gritty rain.

He was directly overhead.

She willed him to keep going, pass her by.

He stopped.

The moan welling in her throat would be fatal if released. She bit down hard and held it in.

What the hell had he stopped for? There was no way he could know she was hiding here. No possible way.

A pale flicker of luminescence above her. The wavering beam of a flashlight. It swept over the water near the boardwalk, then stopped, a small floating object pinned its glare.

One of her sandals.

She drew a quick, silent gasp.

The sandal must have slipped free when she entered the water. Bobbing on the surface, it pointed out her hiding place like a traitorous hand.

He’s on to me. Oh, God, he knows I’m here.

Abruptly the flashlight swung downward, shining on the boardwalk itself, the beam’s splintered rays fanning through the gaps between the planks.

Could he see her through the cracks? She didn’t think so.

Her teeth wanted badly to chatter. She ground her jaws.

The light inched toward her, arriving in successive waves of vertical bands, crawling over her face, her hair, then slowly moved on.

He hadn’t seen her. She might be okay, then. If he decided to keep walking A yard from her head, the planks exploded in a hail of splintered wood.

Shock and terror nearly tore a scream from her lips.

He had the gun-must be Steve, then-and he’d fired directly at the boardwalk, hoping to either kill her with a lucky hit or drive her into the open.

Over the shrilling clamor in her ears, she faintly heard the creak-thump of another footstep.

Above her. Directly above.

Heedless of noise- his ears must be ringing, too-she flung herself backward, dog-paddling wildly.

A second blast. Another yard of the boardwalk, shredded. Debris showered her. The blue muzzle flash lighted the swamp like a burst of fireworks.

She refused to be panicked into committing a suicidal error. What she needed was cover. Cover that would allow her to swim to a new hiding place without being seen.

Scanning the black water, she saw a thicket of red mangroves growing adjacent to the boardwalk twenty feet away.

Overhead, creak-thump.

Again he was above her, tracking her by luck or instinct.

She executed a clumsy breast stroke, using her arms only, afraid to kick because the churning water might draw his aim. She swam for the trees.

Behind her, a third gunshot. Spray of splinters and nails. Was he planning to obliterate the entire boardwalk three feet at a time?

She kept swimming. The mangroves glided alongside her. Their exposed roots glistened in the patchy starlight, a cage of polished wicker. She kept the roots between her and the flashlight’s glow as she circled around the mangrove cluster and took cover behind the trees.