by Elle James
“No. Stay inside, Sandy. Just to be safe. I’ll be back before dark.”
He stalked out and slammed the French doors behind him. He winced at the rattle of glass panes. He hadn’t meant to slam the door on her while she was talking, but he couldn’t say he was really sorry. He was sick and tired of being sick and tired. He couldn’t deal with Sandy right now, because he had no idea how to explain the way he’d been acting toward her.
Besides, if he was going to have a prayer of catching Vernon Lee, and saving Murray’s son, he had to get the picture taken and send Murray on his way to turn it over to the kidnappers.
Chapter Nine
“This is a stupid idea,” Tristan growled as he shifted his weight off his bad leg while trying to hold the newspaper up so the date was visible. “There’s a date and time stamp on the camera. Why isn’t that enough?”
“Might be enough, but it ain’t dramatic. That man needs to know you know what he’s doing, yeah,” Boudreau said. “Now stand still.” He frowned and squinted at the phone he held in one large hand.
“It’s the icon that looks like a camera,” Tristan said, unable to keep from chuckling at his friend’s efforts to press the minuscule touch screen with his large, bony fingers. He heard the clicking noise that signaled that a photo had been taken.
“Oh, no,” he said, the laugh fading. He tossed the newspaper down and reached for the phone. “Give me that. I’m not sending that SOB a photo with me laughing.”
But Boudreau held on to it, tapping on the screen. “It’s in focus,” he said. “Only good one we’ve gotten, with you fidgeting so much, you.”
“It would have been easier if you weren’t trying to press the button with those gigantic ham-hands.”
Boudreau’s face creased into what Tristan knew was a smile, although someone who didn’t know Boudreau might think his expression was murderous.
“Humph,” Boudreau huffed, holding up his hands. “These ham-hands saved you in that water. You were caught on a branch so big I almost couldn’t break it.”
“I was lucky that you were fishing in that inlet that day,” Tristan said. He felt a pang in the middle of his chest. Boudreau had been like a father to him all his life, especially after his own dad was gone. And he’d happened to be in just the right place at the right time to save his life. Tristan scowled at the older man.
“What?” Boudreau said grumpily, then turned toward the sink. “I got to make some coffee,”
“Boudreau, what were you doing fishing in that inlet that morning? You don’t like it there. You always said it was too close to the rigs. That the discharge from the oil rigs collected there and ruined the fish. You said not even the sharks would eat them.”
Boudreau filled the pan with water and put it on the gas stove and lit it. “Probably why you still alive, you.”
“You knew, didn’t you? Someone told you that night that I’d gone overboard and you figured if the oil from the rigs ended up there, that a dead body might, too.”
“That little wife of yours walked up here to tell me. She said I should know. Said I was family.” Boudreau’s voice faltered at the end.
“So you were looking for me.” Now Tristan’s voice cracked. It was overwhelming and humbling to think about Sandy and Boudreau, these two people who loved him, who, together, had created the miracle that saved his life.
The gratitude and love that erupted from deep inside him was too much. It filled up his heart and overflowed.
Sandy, in the midst of her grief and pain, had thought about Boudreau. She understood that he needed to know what had happened. He shook his head, trying to stop the stinging behind his eyes. “You went out there to look for me.”
Boudreau spent a full minute adjusting the flame under the pan of water, although it appeared to Tristan to be perfect. “I didn’t want you getting torn up on the branches and driftwood, or dragged out to sea.”
A lump so large he couldn’t swallow past it blocked Tristan’s throat. He could never repay either his friend or his wife for what they’d done.
He picked the phone up off the table where Boudreau had left it and moved the photo from the phone’s memory to the SIM card, then took the card out and placed it in a small manila envelope, which he sealed and set on the table.
“Coffee?” Boudreau asked.
“Only if it can walk over here by itself.”
Boudreau chuckled. “It’s been boiling awhile. It might do it. Do you want to take some to Murray?”
“Sure.” Tristan pushed himself to his feet. His leg was hurting like a sonofabitch after this morning’s chase. His body was achy and stiff, as though he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep for days.
“You all right?” Boudreau asked as he handed him two steaming mugs.
Tristan nodded, but he knew he’d groaned when he’d put weight on his leg, and he knew it was going to be painful to walk. “Just a little stove up from this morning.”
“Tell Murray he’d better drink up, ’cause as soon as I clean up, we’ll be going.”
Tristan stopped at the door. “Boudreau...”
“Mais non. We have had this talk already, and it’s barely past noon. You with that gimpy leg, you’d slow us down. Anyhow, oughtn’t you be back home with your wife? What happened to all your worry that she was in danger?”
“Didn’t you tell me you thought she was safe?” Tristan muttered.
Boudreau didn’t say anything. He just gazed at Tristan.
“Anyhow, Murray said the kidnapper told him to leave her alone. I’m sending Lee proof that I’m alive. He has no reason to go after her now.” Boudreau’s head bobbed up and down slowly. Was he agreeing or thinking?
Tristan headed outside and found Murray where they’d left him earlier, his hands tied separately and loosely around a tree trunk so he had some range of movement. The fisherman had been working on the knots, but apparently had given up and gone to sleep. He didn’t stir until Tristan nudged him with his shoe.
“What? Patrick—” Murray jerked awake. “Oh.” He looked around for a few seconds, until he remembered where he was. He lifted his gaze to Tristan’s with a carefully blank expression.
“I don’t understand why you have to tie me up,” he said. “You’re going to help me find my son. Why would I run away?”
Tristan shrugged. “You did before. Here’s coffee,” he said, setting it on the ground between them.
He still didn’t trust Murray. For all he knew the fisherman would kick out and try to trip him, and he didn’t want to take any risks with his bad leg. “Boudreau says drink up. You two are heading out soon.”
Murray reached for the coffee and blew on its surface, then took a cautious sip. “What time is it? Where’s my phone? The kidnappers should have called by now.”
“Yeah, see,” Tristan said, “there’s no cell service here. I mean, look around. It’s a jungle and a swamp. You’ll hear their message when you’re on your way to Gulfport.”
“They’re going to kill Patrick if I’m not there when they get there.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be back at your trailer in plenty of time. Boudreau will tell you exactly what you’re supposed to say and do.”
Tristan propped himself against the old rough-hewn bench and drank his hot, strong coffee as he watched Murray until Boudreau came out with a washbasin and tossed the water into the side yard, then set the basin down. He was freshly shaved and he had his shotgun with him.
He did the same trick he had at the house, loosened Murray’s bonds with a simple flick of his wrist, leaving the fisherman staring bewilderedly at the ropes he’d tried unsuccessfully to loosen.
“See this gun?” Boudreau asked Murray. “She don’t have no compunction about shooting somebody who’s not being smart. And she ain’t sure how smart you are.”
“Well?” Boudreau said, looking at Tristan, who frowned. “You never did tell me what you’re going to do.”
“I’d like to go with you.”
Boudreau shook his head. “I told you no. You’ll slow us down. Go back to your house. Be with your wife.”
He gestured to Murray. “Let’s go. We got to walk down to the dock and then to the seafood warehouse parking lot to get to Murray’s pickup.”
Once they were gone, Tristan ducked into Boudreau’s cabin and grabbed the automatic handgun that his friend had hidden behind a loose board.
The board covered a hiding place Boudreau had shown Tristan years and years before.
If you ever get in trouble, Boudreau had told him, behind this board is everything you need.
And Boudreau had not been exaggerating. Doing a quick inventory, Tristan saw the large magazine for the gun, matches and lighter, a windup flashlight and a battery-operated one, and five hundred dollars in fives and twenties.
Tristan remembered what Boudreau had told him about the stash. If you’re in so much trouble that this ain’t enough, then God help you, because I can’t.
“Thanks, Boudreau,” Tristan muttered as he pocketed what he needed. The gun for sure, the ammo, the lighter and all the cash. “I’m good for it,” he muttered, rising.
He passed the walking stick propped by the door, almost reaching for it but not. He couldn’t keep depending on it. Besides, he was probably going to need both hands.
Tristan pocketed everything but the gun. He looked behind the door and found a hunting vest of Boudreau’s. With the gun and the large magazine in it, the pockets were a little bulky, but it worked.
He made his way to the dock and across to his garage, where his Jeep was parked. It probably hadn’t been driven since he’d gone into the water. Luckily, it started right up.
As he pulled out onto the road, he saw Sandy at the French doors, but he didn’t stop. He had to get to Gulfport, where Murray and Boudreau were meeting the kidnappers to hand over the photo.
He and Boudreau had talked about what might happen once the kidnappers got their hands on the card that contained the photo of Tristan holding the newspaper. Both of them were afraid they would kill Murray and his son.
That was why Boudreau was going with Murray and it was part of the reason Tristan was determined to be there, despite Boudreau’s objection. Neither Murray nor his son would die if he had anything to do with it.
Tristan caught up to Murray’s truck about two miles from the Gulfport commercial pier. He stayed well behind the old vehicle.
Finally, Murray slowed and stopped in front of an RV park across from the pier. Tristan pulled in behind an SUV and watched as Murray got out, unlocked the door of a small recreational vehicle and went inside.
“Go, Boudreau,” Tristan said under his breath. “They could be waiting for him inside.” But he didn’t have to worry. Boudreau waited no more than a few seconds before he got out. He had the shotgun in a seaman’s ditty bag.
Tristan slipped out of the Jeep and circled around to the back side of the RV. The small camper was hardly big enough for two people, so he wasn’t sure what the kidnappers were going to do.
Truthfully, he didn’t know what he was going to do, either, except for one thing. He’d decided a mere picture of him holding a newspaper wasn’t good enough to send to the man who’d ordered him killed. He planned to send him a video that proved in no uncertain terms that he was alive.
With Murray’s recording of the kidnappers, Tristan was at least one step closer to finding the man who’d wanted him murdered. If the kidnapper had said Lee, then the step was a huge one.
Now he needed to get the flash drive he’d hidden in the nursery, in a shiny blue mobile Sandy had hung over the bed. She’d told him she’d bought blue as good luck, because he’d been sure the baby was a boy.
If the voice on Captain Poirier’s satellite phone ordering the commission of traitorous crimes against the United States was proven to be Vernon Lee’s, the multibillionaire mogul was about to crash and burn.
He hadn’t had a chance to listen to all the conversations he’d captured. With any luck, the captain had called Lee by name at least once.
Tristan wanted to confront Lee in person so he could identify his voice, but if he had to settle for sending the man a video, so be it.
It was around three o’clock and the pier and the RV park were essentially deserted. Murray had told them that most of the slips held fishing boats and fishermen were up and out at sunrise and didn’t return until sunset, leaving the dock and the RV park almost empty during midafternoon.
So the kidnappers had chosen the perfect time for their meeting with Murray.
Tristan leaned against the hot metal side of the camper and tried to look casual as he waited to see how the kidnappers were going to contact Murray.
Within moments, he heard a telephone ringing inside, through the obviously thin walls. When Murray answered, Tristan could hear him plainly.
“Hello,” Murray said anxiously. “Hello?” After listening for a brief moment, he said, “Wait. Which slip?”
Tristan straightened, hardly daring to breathe so he wouldn’t miss a word.
“Forty-two? Did you say forty-two? Oh. Forty-three.” Murray paused. “Yes, yes. Of course I have it. I said I would. Is my son there? Hello?”
They’d hung up on Murray, but Tristan had the slip number. He only hoped it was Slip 43 at this pier.
He took off at a gimpy run, needing to make it as far away as he could from Murray’s RV before he and Boudreau came out.
Boudreau could possibly be angry enough at him to fill his butt full of bird shot if he saw him. By the time he reached the Jeep and dared to take a look back at Murray’s camper, Boudreau and Murray were hurrying toward the pickup. Boudreau said something to Murray on the way and Murray responded by pointing east across the rows and rows of slips that made up the docks of the commercial pier.
Tristan climbed into the Jeep and pulled out into traffic. He drove well past the general area that Murray had pointed out and parked in a loading zone. If his Jeep got towed, he’d deal with it after he’d dealt with the kidnappers.
When he got out of the Jeep, his leg nearly gave way. It was throbbing with pain and the little muscle he had left quivered with fatigue and weakness. He probably had only a few seconds’ lead on Murray and Boudreau, so he quickly scanned the docks until he saw the row of slips that included number 43. Reaching into the rear seat of the Jeep, he pulled out an old baseball cap and a rag he kept in the backseat to wipe his windshield.
As he walked carefully down the dock toward Slip 43, which held a relatively small fishing boat, he put the cap on, pulling it down to shadow his face, then he shook out the rag and mopped the back and front of his neck and then his face, just about the time he passed the slip. If the kidnappers were waiting for him somewhere nearby, he didn’t see them, but then he’d limited his vision greatly by holding the rag over his face as he passed.
Slips 44 and 45 were empty, so Tristan stopped at Slip 46, which held a houseboat. After taking off the bulky hunting vest and hiding it behind a coil of rope, he stepped onto the deck of the houseboat and hid, waiting to see who showed up at Slip 43. He thought Murray and Boudreau would be walking down the pier by now, but maybe Boudreau was checking out the area, too, before he let Murray expose himself.
The houseboat rocked a little and Tristan had to steady himself when his leg protested. Then, at the same instant he realized there was someone behind him, he felt a gun barrel in the middle of his back.
“What?” Tristan said, his voice high-pitched as if he were terrified. “What are you doing? What’s that?” He tried to turn around, but the pressure in the middle of his back increased.
“Don’t move, bud, if you know what’s good for you,” the gruff voice said.
“I—I’m not. I mean I won’t. I mean—”
“Shut up,” the man snapped. “Now, what’s going on here? Who sent you?”
“No-nobody sent me,” Tristan stammered, trying to sound genuinely afraid. He was, a little. After all, the man had a gun stuck in his back and his weapon was on the other side of the dock. The only thing that would make the situation worse at this moment would be if Murray and Boudreau showed up.
He glanced down the pier, but didn’t see anybody—yet.
“I swear. I was just hiding here, waiting for...” He stopped, his mind suddenly blank. What could he say? What would sound reasonable enough and at the same time slightly ridiculous?
He’d like to make the man think he was harmless if he could. Then he had it. Or at least the beginning of it. A story that just might work.
“See,” he said breathlessly, “my wife’s screwing the guy that owns that boat down there.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of Slip 43, then tried to turn around to face the man, as probably anyone would do if they hadn’t quite figured out that what was sticking into their back was a gun barrel.
“Don’t! Move!” the man said, sounding as though he were gritting his teeth.
“O-okay. Sorry. Anyway, she told me she was going shopping, but I think she’s coming over here with whoever owns that boat. I found a note in her purse that said Slip 43, Gulfport pier. I’m sure this is it.”
The man cursed, long and colorfully. “Get the hell off this boat,” he ordered Tristan, “and keep going until you’re off the pier.”
“But they’re probably on their way. They might see me. I don’t want her to see me. And I sure don’t want him to. Not till I’m ready.”
