Shiver on the Sky
Page 4
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Owen collapsed forward over his paddle, gasping for breath as his kayak glided to a stop.
His arms ached, and as circulation returned to his numbed hands a grainy sort of stinging sensation vibrated between his left thumb and forefinger. Another blister. He should have stopped to do something about it before it got this bad—the gloves weren’t helping much.
But hell, blisters didn’t matter. He’d pushed himself pretty hard, maybe even set a personal record, crossing the Corpus Christi Bay. Wheezing and flailing at the water, good form left somewhere far behind, he’d thrashed his way into the City Marina and declared victory. The Fusty Navel, home sweet home since he’d left his job last year, floated only forty or so yards away.
He laughed briefly, his lungs still heaving. A record, by God. If he’d actually timed it, and if anyone cared. He could tell Shawna about it later—he’d be doing the cooking tonight, so maybe she’d agree to feign awe at his prowess.
Or not. But that was okay. She’d probably smile, at least a little. He’d take what he could get.
After a few minutes, his breathing almost under control, Owen glanced up—and took a few quick strokes to get out of the way of a fast-approaching tourist in an aluminum outboard. It looked like one of the boats John Sumner notoriously left clustered at the loading dock, apparently so he could rent them to idiots in paisley Speedos.
Owen rode out the overpowered little boat’s wake, shook his head and began paddling slowly homeward. He’d been away for two days this time, and even with the hazards to navigation it was good to be back.
Up in the parking lot, somebody’s child screamed his defiance of the natural order and repeatedly slammed a car door. Owen usually enjoyed noisy kids, and only partly because they weren’t his problem. But his grin died half-formed, and he nearly missed the water with his paddle, as his eyes leapt to an empty space next to the fresh-shrimp stand.
Owen lowered the paddle to his lap, still staring into the parking lot. For several minutes no boats moved in or out of the marina. The kayak drifted through an oily flatness.
His Jeep Cherokee was missing.
All at once he couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t focus his mind even to paddle the last few yards to his boat. He felt inadequate, struck by an absurd conviction that he should be able to immediately understand, and maybe fix, what had happened.
But…who would have bothered to take the Jeep? With all the other cars sitting in the lot, grabbing Owen’s twenty-year-old ride didn’t make a lot of sense. It almost had to be kids, or maybe something personal.
Whom had he pissed off lately? And was the houseboat okay?
Or…Owen’s chest loosened as he realized there was a more likely explanation…maybe Leon had needed to borrow the Jeep? He knew where the keys were. He’d promised to rewire Owen’s instrument panel this weekend, and all he’d wanted in return was a 12-pack of Shiner Bock. Which he would probably split with Owen anyway, because Leon didn’t like to drink alone. So if he had taken the Jeep, he’d more than earned the privilege.
And for some reason Leon couldn’t keep his little diesel-powered VW Jetta running smoothly, even though he was a miracle worker with marine engines. He’d kept Owen from falling for a shady mechanic’s claim that the Fusty Navel’s port-side Westerbeke needed replacing, and then hadn’t charged much to fix the old one, so Owen didn’t begrudge him the occasional loaner.
On the other hand, up till now Leon had always asked for permission in advance.
Leon usually left notes about the work he was doing inside, on Owen’s refrigerator. Owen closed his eyes, told himself to relax. There would probably be a note. Or maybe Leon would only be gone for a few minutes.
He leaned out and dug in with his paddle, aiming for home. He’d deal with Leon and the Jeep later, if it turned out he had to. Right now he was going to enjoy the end of his trip.
Owen reached his boat and climbed aboard, smiling partly in self-mockery but mostly in a genuine and pleasant fog of anticipation. He hungered for some quiet, laughing time with Shawna in a few hours.
Once he’d stowed the kayak on deck and finished off the sole remaining bottle of beer from the cooler he’d carried behind him, he stretched out his aching legs and checked his watch. Thanks to his personal record crossing the Bay, he had plenty of time before Shawna showed up for their date at nine. He had filleted fish to split between the freezer and the frying pan, salty gear to rinse with freshwater, and probably some mail waiting for him at the marina office.
But his first priority, aside from checking for a note from Leon, was clear: he needed a shower. Two days of dribbled sweat were backing up his pores, and the disconcerting full-body prickle-chafe of dried seawater was calling attention to anatomical regions he preferred not to contemplate.
Besides. Coming back to the Fusty Navel also meant returning to the everyday world, with all its standards and expectations. His fragrant blend of old and new sweat, fish slime, and spilled beer would definitely not please Shawna when she arrived. He left everything where it sat and fumbled with the combination lock on the starboard door.
A faint but subtly out-of-place scent drifted beneath his own stench, permeating the back of his mind and settling in dark recesses. Its passage was setting off alarms, but they were muffled by the comforting insulation of exercise and alcohol.
When he finally opened the door (or hatch, as Leon kept wanting him to call it) and entered his living room, a concentrated miasma seemed to gather itself and rise up like a wall in his path.
He clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes watering. His first thought as he turned away and stumbled back outside was that he would have to stop calling it a living room.
Leon had always insisted it was the main salon—and what was left of Leon waited inside. In a very real sense, he would never leave again.
Owen’s second thought was lost over the rail, along with the beer and sandwiches he’d had for lunch.