Eye for Eye

by J K Franko

  Mercifully, when he looked to north and west, he could see the silhouette of houses along the coast—some with lights on—and all of them backlit by the lights of civilization. Light at the end of a long, dark shaft. That view made him feel connected with civilization, a part of the larger human story.

  As he sat there, Roy struggled to curate and inventory his thoughts and emotions. An amazing wife. A job he loved. Financial independence. A great business. Yet, he had risked it all by crossing the Florida Straits on a jet ski at night. Worse still, he had done that to kill a twenty-something-year-old man he didn’t even know. And, now he was about to risk his life—again—on the jet ski, to cover up that murder.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Why would I ever...

  A number of reasons paraded through his mind, but none felt sufficient.

  To avenge Kristy’s rape.

  Because Harlan deserved it.

  Because he escaped punishment.

  Because Tom Wise asked, for Kristy, and for Camilla.

  To avenge Camilla? Really?

  When push came to shove, he knew he’d done it because Susie had wanted him to. No, because she’d said she needed him to. And because, after thinking it through, he’d believed he could get away with it and he wanted to prove it.

  Did that make him an amoral adrenaline junkie? After all, that’s what an impartial observer would think, wasn’t it?

  Maybe he needed help?

  He laughed. It was a hollow laugh.

  Admitting you have a problem is the first step.

  “Only eleven more to go,” he said out loud.

  Shut the fuck up.

  Practical Roy took over.

  It was too late to be second-guessing what they had done. Or why. Susie had wanted it, sure. Then again, other factors came into play as well. Susie wouldn’t have asked him to do it if Harlan hadn’t been a bad guy. Susie wouldn’t have asked him to do it if Camilla’s death hadn’t left her feeling useless, impotent, empty. He’d felt the same way. He’d muddled his way through it… but she needed more.

  He knew that, during those months after Camilla’s death, he’d almost lost Susie. Their relationship had been on the brink of collapse. And that was something he couldn’t take. He’d seen his parents’ marriage implode when his twin died, and he couldn’t stand the thought of the same happening to him. To them.

  But now, after everything they had been through, and especially after what they had just done together, Roy knew that he and Susie could weather anything. There was no doubt in his mind that this act, as callous and as outrageous as it might seem to an outsider, had brought them together in a way that nothing else ever could. They would be bonded together forever, come what may.

  Were they amoral sickos? He didn’t think so. Maybe their moral compass was off a bit. Okay, maybe it was off by a lot.

  But, their actions were justified. They had offered a sort of twisted human sacrifice to the god of vengeance. Although their victim hadn’t done them any harm, he had hurt someone. And they—Susie and Roy—had also been hurt by someone. They were owed some retribution. In the scheme of things, somehow, all these harms were fungible in a way, weren’t they?

  Wasn’t that what Susie had written about in her blog? This wasn’t just Camilla’s or Kristy’s story. It was a story of all of us. The harms done to Kristy and Camilla created an imbalance. Roy and Susie had only helped to restore the balance.

  Susie. God, how he loved that woman.

  At 2:00 a.m., the intro to “Stairway to Heaven” woke him from another light doze.

  He switched off the alarm and rubbed his face as he surveyed the neighborhood. Most of the lights were out now, so he started the engines and began the slow run up the canal back to the house. And, as much as he knew it was ridiculous, he couldn’t help but take a quick peek over the stern to make sure there was nothing dragging behind the boat—no duffle bag.

  Thank God! He shook his head and laughed.

  He bumped up against the dock at 2:20 a.m. and tied up the Yellowfin. Then, he turned on the VHF and tuned to the weather channel. Conditions had improved slightly. He opened the weather app on his phone and saw that the forecast was the same for the next several days.

  Then again, the weather was fickle. A bird in the hand...

  He had a decision to make. Spend the night and the next day hiding out on the Yellowfin, hoping for a better crossing tomorrow night. Or, he could take off now and go slow. He had more than four hours until sunrise. He’d just had a nap and felt okay. He’d already made the crossing once. He knew what was in store for him.

  He removed the second burner phone from the console. This one he’d purchased in Miami for only one purpose—to let Susie know when he would be attempting the final return journey.

  He texted her, Gerry?

  Any word starting with a “G” meant the return trip was a Go. “W” meant Waiting and “A” was for Abort.

  They’d discussed this and agreed that if the weather was too bad, Roy could stay in Miami and Susie could run the Sunseeker back alone. She was more than capable. It just added some risk. She could be stopped on her way home by the Coast Guard or the Bahamian authorities for whatever reason. If he wasn’t aboard, that would become a matter of public record.

  Similarly, if there were witnesses to Susie leaving Bimini, they may well notice that there was no jet ski on the swim platform. This could prompt questions about Roy’s whereabouts. After all, the Bahamian authorities had documented them both entering Bimini with a jet ski.

  No, Susie returning alone was not ideal, but it was workable if the return crossing via jet ski was impossible. Although Roy didn’t feel that was the case. He felt the return was worth the risk.

  Susie responded to his text—confirming she’d received it—with, Sorry, wrong number.

  He pulled on the wetsuit. It was still damp and cold from his crossing the day before. He gathered his gear, screwed closed the bungs on the jet ski, started the engine, and headed out.

  There was a light chop in Biscayne Bay. He could comfortably run at twenty knots. However, as he passed Biscayne Channel, the seas deteriorated. Again, the issue wasn’t the height of the waves so much as how lack of visibility affected his timing and balance when rising and falling with the waves. He slowed to fifteen knots, made sure he was on course, and focused on keeping a lookout for other vessels.

  Though he tried to stay alert, the droning of the engine, the cold, and the persistent undulation were hypnotic. He dozed off around 4:00 a.m. When he came to, the jet ski was running at less than five knots as a result of his grip on the throttle weakening while he slept. He was also off course.

  Alert once more, he released the throttle, slowing the jet ski to a stop. Then, he sat up straight and slapped himself a few times in the face. He was out in the Straits, about a third of the way across, but the current had taken him north. He glanced over his left shoulder. He could still see the Miami skyline in the distance.

  The wind was blowing really loud, and yet, oddly, there was hardly any breeze.

  Then it struck him. Adrenaline. Fight or flight.

  That’s not fucking wind!

  He looked over his shoulder again and saw them. Lights; red on the left, green on the right, and white above. All three were growing larger by the millisecond.

  A boat. A big boat was bearing down on him. Fast!

  Roy gunned the jet ski as he turned to face forward, pointing it away from the yacht that was about to run him over. The engine sputtered a few terrifying times and then kicked into gear. He felt the propulsion pull him back, hard, but he held on, mashing the throttle lever into the handle, willing the fucking machine to fly!

  Roy felt, then heard, the boat pass behind him. He could feel its mass displacing the air around him and narrowly missing him by what must have been inc
hes, because a split second later he felt the wake coming. It ran under the jet ski from back to front, stern to bow. As it did, the rear of the machine rose high, threatening to topple him from it. He tried to turn to run with the wake, to ride the wake. But he was too late. His reaction was too slow. The stern of the jet ski rose high, dipping its nose down until with a jolt it buried itself in the ocean, slamming to a stop and launching Roy over the handlebars and into the sea.

  * * *

  Susie awoke at 5:30 a.m. to the sound of an engine. It sounded close. She scrambled out of bed and headed up top, thinking it might be Roy. Yet, as she slid open the glass door and stepped out onto the rear cockpit, she immediately knew that she wasn’t hearing the sound of a jet ski.

  Toni, her neighbor, was down on the dock untying her stern line. Apparently, they were leaving even though it was still dark.

  Susie stepped off the boat.

  “Heading out?”

  “Yep,” Toni said. “Back to Lauderdale. Family.”

  “I see. Well, it was nice meeting you. Safe travels!”

  “You, too. Take care. Hopefully, see you again soon. Oh, and thanks for the smokes. They were a life saver!”

  Toni carried the line on board with her.

  Susie watched as they left and waved as they headed down the channel.

  Back on board, she made coffee and went up onto the flybridge to wait. She re-read Roy’s message. Gerry? According to her phone, it had arrived at 2:42 a.m.

  The critical part of the plan was over. They were documented as being in Bimini and out of the United States when Harlan disappeared. It would be impossible to place them anywhere near him, but getting Roy back to Bimini would seal the deal. Assuming he could do twenty knots, the trip would take about two and a half hours. He should be arriving around 5:15 or so.

  At 6:00, Susie began to worry. She checked her phone. No more text messages.

  The sun came up.

  Susie was in uncharted waters. They had discussed the possibility that something could happen on the crossing, going or coming. The jet ski could break down. Roy could hit something—something floating in the water, an animal, a boat. Or, he could just lose control and fall off the jet ski. In the dark, with the waves, depending on how hard he fell and how far from the jet ski he was, he might not be able to find his way back to it. Sure, the kill switch would shut it off. But in the dark, with waves, he might lose sight of it, even if he was uninjured.

  And, of course, there were the predators. Sharks. Susie cringed at the thought.

  They’d been through all the possibilities. And they’d tried to provision the ditch bag for as many eventualities as possible. As far as Susie was concerned, they’d agreed that she was to stick to the ‘Roy has food poisoning’ story until the last day of their planned time in Bimini.

  It was Thursday.

  If, by Saturday, Roy still hadn’t appeared, she was to report him missing, claiming that he’d taken the jet ski out for one final spin that day and hadn’t returned.

  “Plan for the worst, visualize the best,” Roy had said.

  So really, for now, all Susie could do was sit and wait.

  She went up onto the flybridge and sat facing toward the channel, watching for Roy. For the next hour, Susie watched as boats and yachts came and went. Several jet skis went out.

  Her heart skipped when she saw one returning.

  Not Roy.

  At 7:00 a.m., Roy still hadn’t arrived. The sinking feeling in her stomach was turning to nausea. Susie went below and put on another pot of coffee. She lit up a cigarette. They never smoked inside the boat, but fuck it.

  When the coffee was ready, she poured herself half a cup, then topped it off with Baileys and went back up top, taking the remaining quarter bottle of Baileys with her.

  At 8:00 a.m., still nothing.

  She was starting to feel ill. Her stomach was cramping, and she found herself getting angry at herself.

  Are we fucking idiots?

  The weight of what they had done suddenly hit her like a truck. Not killing Harlan—that needed to be done—but Roy crossing the Straits on a jet ski. Alone. At night. Twice! It was too risky. They should have called it at one crossing. He should have just stayed in Miami.

  What the fuck am I going to do if he doesn’t come back? If he doesn’t make it? If he’s...

  Susie couldn’t bear to think of Roy dead.

  She’d seen a lot of death.

  Too much of it, and too close.

  This whole mess with Harlan was the second time Susie had been close to a killing.

  The first had been much more emotional. Visceral. She had managed to repress that shit for years. But now, as if in punishment, her sadistic subconscious insisted on dredging it all up—bringing it to the surface like a putrid carcass that had filled with gases as it rotted and floated up from the bottom of the sea.

  Susie was thirteen when it happened, but she could still hear those three fateful words as if they’d just been screamed out loud.

  I’m gonna tell!

  By the time Susie got her shorts back on, Deb was already out the cabin door and running down the trail.

  Susie was gangly and long-legged, but she was coordinated, fast. She caught up to Deb just past the turn on the trail heading back to the main cabin. She saw that Deb was crouched down. When Susie approached, she found Deb talking in harsh whispers to Joan, who was sitting on the ground, trying to untie a knot in one of her shoes that had apparently come off somehow.

  “I know what I saw!” Joan whined.

  “You made a mistake. If you tell and you’re wrong, that makes you a liar!” Deb said. “And you know what God does to liars? In hell?”

  “I may be a liar, but you’re a... a whore!” Joan yelled, awkwardly. She’d obviously heard the word before, but it sounded as though she’d never used it.

  Susie wondered if Joan even knew what it meant.

  “You’re a little cunt is what you are,” Deb hissed, eyes flashing aggressively. Unlike Joan, she was clear and calculated in her choice of words. The rage in Deb’s voice frightened Susie.

  She stepped in to try and calm the situation. “Hold on,” she said, placing a hand on Deb’s shoulder. “Let me talk to her.” She could see Joan had been crying, and there was dirt and blood on her knees. She wondered if it was Deb who had pushed her down.

  Susie knelt down next to Joan and looked her in the eye. “Joan, are you okay?” she asked, softly. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “No. I just tripped on that stupid root,” she said, pointing with her head.

  “Where were you going?”

  The little girl hesitated, glancing at Deb who was still glaring at her. Then she blurted, “I saw what you two were doing. It’s evil and I’m gonna tell!” she said, through gritted teeth. She was afraid, but she wasn’t going to be intimidated. Grandma had told her that she should always stick up for herself, and for the truth. God helps those who help themselves.

  “Are you sure you know what you saw? ‘Cause I think you may be wrong.”

  “I know,” Joan insisted, struggling to untie the laces on her shoe so that she could put it back on. “And you’re going to hell,” she added, petulantly. “Just like in the Bible. You’re bad, bad, sinful girls!”

  Susie looked down at Joan’s shoe and began, “Let me help—” but the rest of her sentence was cut short when the little girl suddenly lurched forward, as if propelled by an unseen force, went limp, and then folded in on herself until she was resting on her legs.

  At first, Susie thought she’d had some sort of fit—anxiety, or epilepsy, or something. Then she looked up and saw Deb standing over Joan, holding a thick tree branch with both hands like it was a baseball bat.

  Slowly, it dawned on Susie that Deb had hit Joan across the back of the head with the branch. Susie was st
unned. Her head began to buzz. She wanted to say something but couldn’t. Her tongue was paralyzed.

  Deb dropped her weapon and began arranging Joan, laying her flat on her back. Susie could see that Deb’s mouth was moving, but she was unable to comprehend exactly what she was saying.

  “Susie!” Deb hissed through gritted teeth while her strong hands shook Susie back to reality. “Help me,” she ordered.

  Together, they picked Joan up—one taking wrists, the other ankles. Deb led, and Susie followed. They trudged down the path through the woods until they emerged at the opening to the scenic overlook. Susie could hear the rumble of the river fifty feet below.

  They were still carrying Joan. Deb moved closer to the edge, but Susie stopped, pulling Joan protectively back toward her.

  “Wait Deb, stop! What the... what are you doing?” Susie asked, incredulously.

  Deb carefully put Joan down. Susie did the same.

  “Susie, if she told what she saw, you know what would happen to us? You know how it is for girls like us?”

  “But Deb, you didn’t even try to talk to her. Maybe if we talk to her—”

  “Don’t be fucking stupid, Suze!” she snapped. “You heard her spouting her Bible shit.”

  “Yeah, but when she comes around, I could try to…” Susie babbled in a trembling voice, but allowed the words to trail off when Deb stepped closer to her.

  “Come around?” Deb put her hand on Susie’s shoulder. “Susie. She’s fucking dead,” Deb said, flatly.

  Susie looked down at Joan. She couldn’t tell if she was alive or not. She dropped to the ground next to her and held her hand in front of her face. That’s what they did in the movies. Or at least that’s what she thought they did. She couldn’t remember. She was confused. She didn’t feel any breathing.

  She bent over and placed her ear on the girl’s chest with the hope of hearing a heartbeat. Susie later remembered the tears blurring her vision. All she could hear was the roar of the river.

  She looked up at Deb.

  “I didn’t mean it,” Deb said weakly. She was breathing hard, though Susie couldn’t tell if it was from the exertion of carrying Joan or from nerves. “I think I hit her too hard.”