by Carl Hiaasen
Ten minutes later Heather was pounding on the bedroom door. She had cut off the remaining bandages and phony surgical dressings. She was standing there naked, striped with gummy adhesive, and crying softly. Stranahan bundled her in the blanket and sat her on the bed.
“He was s’posed to do my boobs,” she said. “And my hips. My nose, eyelids . . . everything.”
“Well, he lied,” said Stranahan.
“Please, I wanna go back to L.A.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“What’s going on?” Heather cried. “Can I use your phone, I’ve got to call my manager. Please?”
“Sorry,” said Stranahan. “No telephone. No ship-to-shore. No fax. The weather’s turned to shit, so we’re stuck for the night.”
“But I’m s’posed to do a Password with Betty White. God, what day is it?”
Stranahan said: “Can I ask you something? You’re a beautiful girl—you get points for that, okay—but how could you be so fucking dumb?”
Heather stopped crying instantly, gulped down her sobs. No man had ever talked to her this way. Well, wait; Patrick Duffy had, once. She was playing a debutante on Dallas and she forgot one lousy line. One out of seventeen! But later at least Patrick Duffy had said he was sorry for blowing his stack.
Mick Stranahan said, “To trust yourself to a hack like Graveline, Jesus, it’s pathetic. And for what? Half an inch off your hips. A polyurethane dimple in your chin. Plastic bags inside your breasts. Think about it: A hundred years from now, your coffin cracks open and there’s nothing inside but two little bags of silicone. No flesh, no bones, everything’s turned to ashes except for your boobs. They’re bionic. Eternal!”
In a small voice Heather said, “But everybody does it.”
Stranahan tore off the blanket, and for the first time Heather was truly afraid. He told her to stand up.
“Look at yourself.”
Diffidently she lowered her eyes.
“There’s not a thing wrong with you,” Stranahan said. “Tell me what’s wrong with you.”
The wind shook the shutters, and shafts of cold air sliced the room. Heather shivered, sat down, and put her hands over her nipples. Stranahan folded his arms as if he were awaiting something: an explanation.
“You’re a man, I don’t expect you to understand.” She wondered if he would try to touch her in some way.
“Vanity I understand,” Stranahan said. “Men are experts on the subject.” He picked the blanket off the floor. Indifferently he draped it across her lap. “I think there’s some warm clothes in one of the drawers.”
He found a gray sweatsuit with a hood and a pair of men’s woolen socks. Hurriedly Heather got dressed. “Just tell me,” she said, still trembling, “why did Rudolph lie about this? I can’t get over it—why didn’t he do the operation?”
“I guess he was scared. In case you didn’t notice, he’s crazy about you. He probably couldn’t bear the thought of something going wrong in surgery. It’s been known to happen.”
“But I paid him,” Heather said. “I wrote the bastard a personal check.”
“Stop it, you’re breaking my heart.”
Heather glared at him.
“Look,” said Stranahan, “I’ve seen his Visa bill. Swanky restaurants, designer clothes, a diamond here and there—you made out pretty well. Did he mention he was going to fly you away on a tropical vacation?”
“I remember him saying something about Costa Rica, of all places.”
“Yeah, well, don’t worry. The trip’s off. Rudy’s had a minor setback.”
Heather said, “So tell me what’s going on.”
“Just consider yourself damn lucky.”
“Why? What are you talking about?”
“Rudy killed a young woman just like you. No, I take that back—she wasn’t just like you, she was innocent. And he killed her with a nose job.”
Heather Chappell cringed. Unconsciously her hand went to her face.
“That’s what this is all about,” Stranahan said. “You don’t believe me, ask him yourself. He’s on his way.”
“Here?”
“That’s right. To save you and to kill me.”
“Rudolph? No way.”
“You don’t know him like I do, Heather.”
Stranahan went from room to room, turning off the lights. Heather followed, saying nothing. She didn’t want to be left alone, even by him. Carrying a Coleman lantern, Stranahan led her out of the stilt house and helped her climb to the roof. The windmill whistled and thrummed over their heads.
Heather said, “God, this wind is really getting nasty.”
“Sure is.”
“What kind of gun is that?”
“A shotgun, Heather.”
“I can’t believe Rudolph is coming all the way out here on a night like this.”
“Yep.”
“What’s the shotgun for?”
“For looks,” said Stranahan. “Mostly.”
CHAPTER 33
AL García was feeling slightly guilty about lying to Mick Stranahan until Luis Córdova’s patrol boat conked out. Now Luis was hanging over the transom, poking around the lower unit; García stood next to him, aiming a big waterproof spotlight and cursing into the salt spray.
García thought: I hate boats. Car breaks down, you just walk away from it. With a damn boat, you’re stuck.
They were adrift about a half mile west of the Seaquarium. It was pitch-black and ferociously choppy. A chilly northwesterly wind cut through García’s plastic Windbreaker and made him wish he had waited until dawn, as he had promised Stranahan.
It did not take Luis Córdova long to discover the problem with the engine. “It’s the prop,” he said.
“What about it?”
“It’s gone,” said Luis Córdova.
“We hit something?”
“No, it just fell off. Somebody monkeyed with the pin.”
García considered this for a moment. “Does he know where you keep the boat?”
“Sure,” said Luis Córdova.
“Shit.”
“I better get on the radio and see if we can get help.”
Al García stowed the spotlight, sat down at the console and lit a cigarette. He said, “That bastard. He didn’t trust us.”
Luis Córdova said, “We need a new prop or a different boat. Either way, it’s going to take a couple hours.”
“Do what you can.” To the south García heard the sound of another boat on the bay; Luis Córdova heard it, too—the hull slapping heavily on the waves. The hum of the engine receded as the craft moved farther away. They knew exactly where it was going.
“Goddamn,” said García.
“You really think he did this?”
“I got no doubt. The bastard didn’t trust us.”
“I can’t imagine why,” said Luis Córdova, reaching for the radio.
DRIVING across the causeway to the marina, Chemo kept thinking about the stilt house and the monster fish that had eaten off his hand. As hard as he tried, he could not conceal his trepidation about going back.
When he saw the boat that Rudy Graveline had rented, Chemo nearly called off the expedition. “What a piece of shit,” he said.
It was a twenty-one-foot outboard, tubby and slow, with an old sixty-horse Merc. A cheap hotel rental, designed for abuse by tourists.
Chemo said, “I’m not believing this.”
“At this hour I was lucky to find anything,” said Rudy.
Maggie Gonzalez said, “Let’s just get it over with.” She got in the boat first, followed by Rudy, then Christina Marks.
Chemo stood on the pier, peering across the bay toward the amber glow of the city. “It’s blowing like a fucking typhoon,” he said. He really did not want to go.
“Come on,” Rudy said. He was frantic about Heather; more precisely, he was frantic about what he would have to do to get her back. He had a feeling that Chemo didn’t give a damn one way or another, as long as Mick Stranaha
n got killed.
As Chemo was unhitching the bow rope, Christina Marks said, “This is really a bad idea.”
“Shut up,” said Chemo.
“I mean it. You three ought to get away while you can.”
“I said shut up.”
Maggie said, “She might be right. This guy, he’s not exactly a stable person.”
Chemo clumped awkwardly into the boat and started the engine. “What, you want to spend the rest of your life in jail? You think he’s gonna forget about everything and let us ride off into the sunset?”
Rudy Graveline shivered. “All I want is Heather.”
Christina said, “Don’t worry, Mick won’t hurt her.”
“Who gives a shit,” said Chemo, gunning the throttle with his good hand.
BY the time they made it to Stiltsville, Chemo felt like his face was aflame. The rental boat rode like a washtub, each wave slopping over the gunwale and splashing against the raw flesh of his cheeks. The salt stung like cold acid. Chemo soon ran out of profanities. Rudy Graveline was no help, nor were the women; they were all soaking wet, queasy, and glum.
As he made a wide weekend-sailor’s turn into the Biscayne Channel, Chemo slowed down and pointed with the Weed Whacker. “What the fuck?” he said. “Look at that.”
Across the bonefish flats, Stranahan’s stilt house was lit up like a used car lot. Lanterns hung off every piling, and swung eerily in the wind. The brown shutters were propped open and there was music, too, fading in and out with each gust.
Christina Marks laughed to herself. “The Beatles,” she said. He was playing “Happiness Is a Warm Gun.”
Chemo snorted. “What, he’s trying to be cute?”
“No,” Christina said. “Not him.”
Maggie Gonzalez swept a whip of wet hair out of her face. “He’s nuts, obviously.”
“And we’re not?” Rudy said. He got the binoculars and tried to spot Heather Chappell on the stilt house. He could see no sign of life, human or otherwise. He counted a dozen camp lanterns aglow.
The sight of the place brought back dreadful memories for Chemo. Too clearly he could see the broken rail where he had fallen to the water that day of the ill-fated Jet Ski assault. He wondered about the fierce fish, whatever it was, dwelling beneath the stilt house. Inwardly he speculated about its nocturnal feeding habits.
Maggie said, “How are we going to handle this?”
Rudy looked at her sternly. “We don’t do anything until Heather’s safe in this boat.”
Chemo grabbed Christina’s arm and pulled her to the console. “Stand here, next to me,” he said. “Real close, in case your jerkoff boyfriend gets any ideas.” He pressed the barrel of the Colt .38 to her right breast. With the stem of the Weed Whacker he steadied the wheel.
As the boat bucked and struggled across the shallow bank toward Mick Stranahan’s house, Christina Marks accepted the probability that she would not live through the next few moments. “For the record,” she said, “he’s not my boyfriend.”
Maggie nudged her with an elbow and whispered, “You could’ve done worse.”
CHEMO stopped the boat ten yards from the dock.
The stereo had died. The only sound was the thrum of the windmill and the chalkboard squeak of the Colemans, swinging in the gusts. The house scorched the sky with its watery brightness; a white torch in the blackest middle of nowhere. Christina wondered: Where did he get so many bloody lanterns?
Chemo looked down at Rudy Graveline. “Well? You’re the one who got the invitation.”
Rudy nodded grimly. On rubbery legs he made his way to the bow of the boat; the rough, wet ride had drubbed all the nattiness out of his L. L. Bean wardrobe. The doctor cupped both hands to his mouth and called out Stranahan’s name.
Nothing.
He glanced back at Chemo, who shrugged. The .38 was still aimed at Christina Marks.
Next Rudy called Heather’s name and was surprised to get a reply.
“Up here!” Her voice came from the roof, where it was darker.
“Come on down,” Rudy said excitedly.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” said Heather. “No thanks to you.”
Chemo made a sour face at Rudy. “Now what?”
“Don’t look at me,” the doctor said.
Chemo called out to Heather: “We’re here to save you. What’s your fucking problem?”
Suddenly Heather appeared on the roof. For balance she held on to the base of the windmill. She was wearing a gray sweatsuit with a hood. “My problem? Ask him.” She pulled the hood off her head, and Rudy Graveline saw the bandages were gone.
“Damn,” he said.
“Let’s hear it,” Chemo muttered.
“I was supposed to do some surgery, but I didn’t. She thought—see, I told her I did it.”
Maggie Gonzalez said, “You’re right. Everybody out here is crazy.”
“I paid you, you bastard!” Heather shouted.
“Please, I can explain,” Rudy pleaded.
Chemo was disgusted. “This is some beautiful moment. She doesn’t want to be rescued, she hates your damn guts.”
Heather disappeared from the roof. A few moments later she emerged, still alone, on the deck of the stilt house. Rudy Graveline tossed her the bow rope and she wrapped it around one of the dock cleats. The surgeon stepped out of the boat and tried to give her a hug, but Heather backed up and said, “Don’t you touch me.”
“Where’s Stranahan?” Chemo demanded.
“He’s around here somewhere,” Heather said.
“Can he hear us?”
“I’m sure.”
Chemo’s eyes swept back and forth across the house, the deck, the roof. Every time he glanced at the water he thought of the terrible fish and how swiftly it had happened before. His knuckles were blue on the grip of the pistol.
A voice said: “Look here.”
Chemo spun around. The voice had come from beneath the stilt house, somewhere in the pilings, where the tide hissed.
Mick Stranahan said: “Drop the gun.”
“Or what?” Chemo snarled.
“Or I’ll blow your new face off.”
Chemo saw an orange flash, and instantly the lantern nearest his head exploded. Maggie shrieked and Christina squirmed from Chemo’s one-armed clasp. On the deck of the house, Rudy Graveline dropped to his belly and covered his head.
Chemo stood alone with his lousy pistol. His ears were roaring. Shards of hot glass stuck to his scalp. He thought: That damn shotgun again.
When the echo from the gunfire faded, Stranahan’s voice said: “That’s buckshot, Mr. Tatum. In case you were wondering.”
Chemo’s face was killing him. He contemplated the damage that a point-blank shotgun blast would do to his complexion, then tossed the Colt .38 into the bay. Perhaps a deal could be struck; even after splurging on the car phone, there was still plenty of money to go around.
Stranahan ordered Chemo to get out of the boat. “Carefully.”
“No shit.”
“Remember what happened last time with the ’cuda.”
“So that’s what it was.” Chemo remembered seeing pictures of barracudas in sports magazines. What he remembered most were the incredible teeth. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said.
Stranahan didn’t mention that the big barracuda was long gone—off to deeper water to wait out the cold. Probably laid up in Fowey Rocks.
Chemo moved with crab-like deliberation, one gangly limb at a time. Between the rocking of the boat and the lopsided weight of his prosthesis, he found it difficult to balance on the slippery gunwale. Maggie Gonzalez came up from behind and helped boost him to the dock. Chemo looked surprised.
“Thanks,” he said.
From under the house, Stranahan’s voice: “All right, Heather, get in the boat.”
“Wait a second,” said Rudy.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be all right.”
/> “Heather, don’t!” Rudy was thinking about that night in the fireplace, and that morning in the shower. And about Costa Rica.
“Hands off,” said Heather, stepping into the boat.
By now Christina Marks had figured out the plan. She said, “Mick, I want to stay.”
“Ah, you changed your mind.”
“What—”
“You want to get married after all?”
The words hung in the night like the mischievous cry of a gull. Then, from under the stilt house, laughter. “Everything’s just a story to you,” Stranahan said. “Even me.”
Christina said, “That’s not true.” No one seemed particularly moved by her sincerity.
“Don’t worry about it,” Stranahan said. “I’ll still love you, no matter what.”
Rudy cautiously got to his feet and stood next to Chemo. In the flickering lantern glow, Chemo looked more waxen than ever. He seemed hypnotized, his puffy blowfish eyes fixed on the surging murky waves.
Heather said, “Should I untie the boat now?”
“Not just yet,” Stranahan called back. “Check Maggie’s jacket, would you?”
Maggie Gonzalez was wearing a man’s navy pea jacket. When Heather reached for the pockets, Maggie pushed her away.
There was a metallic clunking noise under the house: Stranahan, emerging from his sniper hole. Quickly he clambered out of the aluminum skiff, over the top of the water tank, pulling himself one-handed to the deck of the house. His visitors got a good long look at the Remington.
“Maggie, be a good girl,” Stranahan said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Christina took one side of the coat and Heather took the other. “Keys,” Christina announced, holding them up for Stranahan to see. One was a tiny silver luggage key, the other was from a room at the Holiday Inn.
Chemo blinked sullenly and patted at his pants. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said. “The bitch picked my pockets.”
He couldn’t believe it: Maggie had lifted the keys while helping him out of the boat! She planned to sneak back to the motel and steal all the money.
“I know how you feel,” Stranahan said to Chemo. He reached into the boat and plucked the keys from Christina’s hand. He put them in the front pocket of his jeans.
