Stuart Woods - Choke

Suddenly, Daryl was aware of the Mercedes headed in the opposite direction on Roosevelt. She had made a U-turn and was headed north again, and he was in the right-hand lane. Traffic was solid, and he had to wait until the light ahead of him changed before he was able to get into the left-hand lane for a turn. It took another few seconds for him to bully his way into the northbound traffic. He began weaving in and out of traffic, changing lanes at every opportunity to make some headway, but still the Mercedes was not in sight ahead of him.

When he reached the bridge to Stock Island and U.S. 1 North, he crossed the bridge and looked out at the straight stretch ahead of him. No Mercedes. She had doubled back on him. Shit!

Daryl put the red light on top of the car and tore into another U-turn, startling other drivers and creating a racket of screeching tires. Once headed south again, he brought the light inside; he didn’t want her to see that in her rearview mirror. He looked as far ahead as he could, searching the distance for the Mercedes, but he saw nothing but the usual early-morning stream of traffic. He was abreast of the Key West Yacht Club, moving fast, when he caught sight of the Mercedes out of the corner of his eye, parked behind the yacht club. He slammed on his brakes, switched lanes, and made yet another U-turn. If he kept driving like this, he thought, he’d get himself arrested.

He managed a left turn into the yacht club parking lot and screeched to a halt behind the car. It was parked as far as possible from the clubhouse, alongside a little canal that ran inland from Garrison Bight. The canal wasn’t yacht club territory; the boats there mostly belonged to the houses that backed up onto the canal. He got out of the car and looked around. The trunk lid was ajar on the Mercedes, and he looked inside. Empty.

Then he looked up and saw a small cabin cruiser two hundred yards away, making a right turn out of Garrison Bight, toward the open sea. Clare Carras was at the wheel.

“Oh, my God,” he moaned. He ran back to his car, got it started, stuck the red light on top again, and entered Roosevelt Boulevard at a high rate of speed, scattering traffic in his path. Once out of Garrison Bight, she could go anywhere, and by now she was invisible behind the arms of land that formed the entrance to the Bight.

Daryl swung right into Palm Avenue, his siren going, the red light flashing, overtook half a dozen cars, started up the bridge, and, at its highest point, slammed on the brakes. He opened the door and, oblivious of traffic backing up behind him, climbed on top of the car and stood up. He was ten feet higher than the bridge, and he could just see over the land to the dredged channel beyond. He caught sight of the little cruiser heading west just as she motored under a bridge, steaming along slowly, mindful of the posted order not to create a wake in the channel. He grabbed for his phone and dialed Tommy.

“Yeah?” A sleepy voice.

“Hit the deck, Tommy, she’s on the move!”

“Where?”

“She had a boat we didn’t know about, and right now she’s headed toward the western end of the island. She’ll go right past Key West Bight, and then she could go anywhere.”

“Where is the police boat docked?”

“Stock Island. Not even remotely useful.”

Tommy was quiet, seemed to be thinking. “Where are you? Can you see her boat now?”

“I’m at the top of the Garrison Bight Bridge, standing on top of my car. I can see the boat moving past the Coast Guard Station and on toward Key West Bight. Shall I call the Coast Guard?”

“No, no, we want to follow her if we can, not bust her. Not yet, anyway. Here’s what you do.”

Daryl listened to the instructions. “Right,” he said. He broke the connection and jumped down from the car.

Chuck was sleeping soundly when suddenly there was a loud thump aft, and Choke rocked in the water.

“What was that?” Meg said sleepily.

“Somebody on the afterdeck,” Chuck replied, sitting up on an elbow. Now whoever it was was banging on the hatchway and shouting something. Chuck struggled out of bed, grabbed a nearby pair of tennis shorts, slipped into them, and went aft. “All right!” he yelled, “I’m coming.” He got the hatch open, and Daryl Haynes spilled into the boat.

“Chuck, sorry to wake you,” Daryl panted, “but Clare Carras is on the run, and Tommy said for you to get your engines started and get ready to let go your lines. He’s on his way.”

“What do you mean she’s on the run?” Chuck asked, still sleepy.

“Just do it; Tommy will explain when he gets here.”

“Oh, all right.”

Meg stepped out of the forward cabin, dressed only in a T-shirt. “What’s happening?”

“It appears we’re going out for a boat ride,” Chuck replied. “Better get some clothes on.”

Chuck stepped up into the cockpit, switched on the ignition, and started both engines. After a moment they were idling smoothly. “Meg,” he called below, “will you make some coffee, please? I need it bad.”

“The water’s already on,” she called back.

“Daryl, you go forward and let go the springs; just toss the lines aft to me. I’ll get the gangplank in.” Daryl followed his instructions, and just as Chuck got the gangplank stowed, Tommy appeared on the run and leaped aboard. Chuck brought in the stern lines and went to the pilot’s seat. “Here we go,” he said. “Fend off on both sides, Tommy, Daryl.” In a moment they were free of their mooring and heading toward the little harbor’s entrance.

“I guess you’d like to know what’s going on,” Tommy said.

“I guess I would,” Chuck replied.

“Clare is running.”

“From what?”

“From me.”

“In what?”

Tommy turned to his partner. “In what, Daryl?”

“In a little cabin cruiser, maybe twenty-two feet, outboard engine, looked about forty horsepower from the size of it.”

“Color?”

“White.”

“Swell, everything’s white around here.”

“It has a light blue cabin top.” Daryl was standing high on the cockpit rim, looking dead ahead. “Nothing out that way; better turn left once you’re through the entrance.”

Choke cleared the harbor entrance, and Chuck swung the helm left. “See anything?” he called to Daryl.

“Not much on the move this early,” Daryl replied. “We ought to be able to pick her up; she can’t be all that far ahead.”

Clear of the Bight, Chuck applied more power, and shortly they were doing fifteen knots.

“We’ve got to find her,” Tommy said quietly, almost to himself. “If she gives us the slip now, she’s gone forever, you can believe that.”

Chuck handed his binoculars to Daryl. “Use these,” he said. “She can go one of three ways: straight ahead to Sand Key, where the channel runs through the reef; left and up the east side of the Keys or to the Bahamas; or to the right.”

“What’s to the right?” Tommy asked. “I’m new here.”

“A bunch of small, uninhabited islands with various names, then the Marquesas, which are another bunch of uninhabited islands with shallow water all around, and finally, about seventy, eighty miles out, the Dry Tortugas and Fort Jefferson.”

“What’s Fort Jefferson?”

“It’s an island with a fortress on it, built during the Civil War. Remember Dr. Samuel Mudd, the guy who set John Wilkes Booth’s broken leg after he assassinated Lincoln?”

“Yeah, vaguely.”

“He was convicted as a conspirator in the assassination, although he was innocent, and he was imprisoned in Fort Jefferson, where he became a hero during a yellow fever epidemic.”

“What’s your best guess on which way Clare will go?” Tommy asked.