Bobby Akart - Whiteout

“Think. Think, dammit. Where are you?”

He turned slightly to get oriented. A slight breeze washed over him off the Gulf. He turned his back to it and pointed toward Marathon with his knife.

“That way.”

He started moving deliberately and quietly through the trails that led past the Frees’ home and toward the brackish water separating the two keys. From there, he’d be able to walk through the mix of mangroves and tropical plants until he found the gate. It was his only hope.

Hank and Mike arrived at the main house just as Sonny emerged from the trail. All three men rushed into the kitchen and found Phoebe leaning against the kitchen island, favoring her wounded leg. She was shaking, pointing the gun at the door as the men entered, her hand wavering with her nervous finger on the trigger.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

Sonny responded quickly to reassure her. “Phoebe, it’s okay. It’s just us.”

Phoebe began to sob. Until that moment, she’d mustered all the strength and courage within her to survive. The knife wounds were sending searing pain through her body, but it was her nerves that caused her to break down in tears.

Sonny gently held her as Mike peppered her with questions.

“Who did this?”

“Patrick,” she and Sonny responded in unison.

“Son of a—” started Hank, but Mike interrupted him.

He looked to Sonny in the dim, candlelit space. “How did you know?”

“I ran into him on the path leading to our place. He tried to stab me, but I got lucky.”

“I shot him,” interjected Phoebe. “Twice. Once in the side and once in the hand. Left, I think. It all happened so fast.”

Mike looked at Hank. “The gate.”

Hank didn’t hesitate. He cradled the AR-15 in his right arm and bolted through the open kitchen door.

Mike turned to Sonny. “Did you see him?”

“Yeah, on the trail to our house.”

“Take care of her and lock the door.”

Sonny nodded, and then Mike took off down the trail in search of Patrick.

While Hank took the more direct route toward the driveway gate, Mike followed the trail, using his flashlight to follow the trail of blood left by Patrick. He illuminated the path, and then he realized Patrick only had one option. With his gun drawn in his right hand and crossed over his left wrist, Mike picked up the pace, running toward the water and the narrow path that snaked its way through the mangrove hammocks clustered along the water’s edge.

“Give it up, Patrick,” he shouted as he spotted another glimpse of blood. “You’ll never get off the key alive if you don’t stop now. I will kill you!”

Mike meant it. There were no investigations associated with officer-involved shootings. Deadly force didn’t have to be justified. He wouldn’t be restricted to desk duty for weeks while internal affairs found a way to crucify him. In his mind, it was open season on would-be killers. The only thing that confused him was why did Patrick find it necessary to attack Phoebe? He could’ve left anytime he wanted with everyone’s blessing and a picnic basket full of food as a parting gift.

Mike ducked below the fronds of a low-slung palm tree and then twisted his body sideways to slip between the trunks of two more. That was when the six-inch carbon-steel butcher knife was thrust into his chest.

Tuesday, November 5

Bay St. Louis, Mississippi

Lacey had grown up on the water, and during her childhood, she’d spent a lot of her time around marinas. After parking their truck near the restrooms of the Bay St. Louis Harbor and Pier, they stepped into a moribund version of the vibrant and active marinas of the Florida Keys.

Her eyes surveilled their surroundings. There were no gulls wheeling and diving for bait fish that would normally be seen splashing around the docked boats, scooting away from predators above and below them. There weren’t would-be sailors toting their dock carts from ship to shore and vice versa. Only the bell-like clanging of steel cables on aluminum masts reminded her of home.

A misty haze hung over the warm water. Earth’s atmosphere and its environs struggled with a form of bipolar disorder. Parts of the planet, at the surface and below, behaved normally. The Gulf waters still managed to remain seasonally warm. However, the air temperatures shattered records around the globe. As the cloud cover increased, and temperatures continued to steadily fall, it was a matter of time before the great oceans of the world would lose the battle and become colder.

A gust of wind caused the sailboats to wobble in their slips, and their rigging became agitated as a result. The clanking sound rose to a crescendo, and then, in a blink of an eye, the wind stopped blowing, allowing the vacant boats to rest.

“C’mon, Tucker. Let’s see if the rumors are true.”

Lacey led the way toward the marina office near the start of Rutherford Pier. At the end of the eleven-hundred-foot fishing pier, several anglers were trying their luck. Lacey thought about her dad and Jimmy. One of their daily duties on Driftwood Key was to feed the inn’s guests, as well as themselves. She imagined fishing took on a whole new level of importance, as it probably did for these people on the pier.

“Hey, Mom. Look over there. It’s the, um, third pier out. There’s a man talking with a group of people.”

They picked up the pace and rushed along the waterfront until soon they were jogging toward Pier 4. The chain-link gate to the last pier of the marina had been held open by a bait bucket with several dead fish inside. The smell forced Tucker to cover his nose. Lacey, however, found it somewhat familiar and comforting.

They turned down the pier, where they were met by an older man walking briskly toward them. Lacey tried to appear cordial, making her best effort to hide her apprehensiveness.

“Excuse me,” she began. “We were told there might be charters heading toward Florida. Is that true?” She looked past the crusty old fisherman as she spoke.

“Depends,” said the old man.

“On what?” asked Tucker, slightly annoyed that the man was playing games with them. He was concerned about leaving the truck unattended and continuously glanced in the direction of the parking lot as they spoke.

“My boy and me are running some folks to Florida. There’s room for two more. The last two seats are pricey.”

“We don’t have any—” Tucker began before Lacey interrupted him.

“How pricey? We have things to trade.”

The man took a deep breath and sighed. “Lady, tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll let you know when it’s enough.”

“We have gasoline.”

“Good start. How much?”

“Maybe thirty gallons, give or take. Plus what’s in the truck.”

“Can’t siphon from these new vehicles,” he muttered. He began to walk away from the negotiations.

“It’s an older truck. Ford Bronco.”

The boat captain’s interest was suddenly piqued. “What year?”

“Mom, let’s go,” said Tucker, reaching for Lacey’s hand. He could tell where the conversation was headed.

“Sixty-seven. Pristine condition. Drove it here from California.”

“Deal. Truck and fuel for two seats.”

“No way! Mom, we can’t do this. That’s Dad’s truck.”

The captain laughed. “I’m sure he’ll understand. You wanna get—”

“Shut up, asshole!” Tucker was incensed. He walked up to the captain with his fists balled up, ready to fight. “He just died!”

Lacey forcefully grabbed her son by the arm and pulled him back toward her. “Tucker, stop it. He didn’t know.”