Adrift

by Micki Browning

  The irony of the situation didn’t escape her. She’d been up plenty of creeks before, but this was the first time she’d truly been without a paddle.

  —

  At first, the breeze tickled. It lifted her curls, then dropped them again as if worn out by the effort. It soothed her scorched skin, and served as a welcome ally as she kicked toward land. She’d made strong progress. The kayak served as a kickboard and she’d erased nearly all but a mile of her journey. The effort left her legs burning, though, and she’d kill for a beer.

  The breeze had ambition, and soon it built into a wind, kicking the sea before it, herding it toward shore and carrying Mer with it.

  Clouds darkened the horizon behind her. Layers of darkness draped across the sky like mourning bands. The wind blew harder. Swirling, confused, lost. Coming at Mer from all directions, impeding her progress.

  A growl rumbled from the clouds as they pressed forward, blotting out the sun—a small relief that spoke of greater peril.

  Mer kicked harder.

  Already she could see the sun beyond the far edge of the storm. At least it would be quick, but that was small consolation in the short term. The kayak bucked. The pitch and yaw at odds with each other as the waves buffeted the narrow craft. She adjusted her grip. Wove one hand through the bungee that crisscrossed the stern and tried to pull herself higher across the kayak. Keep her head above water.

  The bouncing destroyed her equilibrium. She spat out salt water and retched.

  A harsh clap of thunder broke overhead, and she flinched. Lightning sparked within the clouds, causing them to glow.

  The air darkened. Rain. Galloping toward her with the speed of a cavalry charge, pocking the ocean with its armament.

  Mer kicked harder.

  The shore was close enough to make out the details of Selkie’s home, the latte-colored walls, the midnight-blue roof—a stunning combination that would look awkward anywhere but the Keys.

  Another wave caught the kayak. The edge of the cockpit smacked Mer in the mouth. She tasted blood. It strengthened her resolve to make shore.

  The rain overtook her with breathtaking speed. Pelted her back with stinging bullets. Deafened her as thousands of drops slapped the hull of the kayak.

  She couldn’t see. The rain drew a curtain around her, obscuring the shore, the horizon, any hint of a bearing.

  She stopped kicking. Tightened her grip. She’d have to ride it out. It would pass as quickly as it arrived.

  If she could just hold on.

  Another wave hit. The kayak slammed against the side of her head. Then nothing.

  Chapter 25

  Mer woke. Or dreamed.

  Her mind slipped beneath the surface of consciousness. Struggled.

  Water lapped at her body. Pushed and dragged at her. Relentless.

  Sand abraded her skin. She tasted salt. No, not salt, tears.

  Strong arms gathered her, lifted her from the sea. Cradled her.

  The surf sang in her ears like a high-tide lullaby. It reminded her of something. Something she should remember, but whatever it was remained like a song that left only emotion in its wake.

  Safe.

  —

  Thirst tormented her.

  Mer licked her lips and felt broken skin and blisters. Her lashes stuck together, gluing her eyes shut. She drew several calming breaths and smelled something. Aloe and lemon polish?

  Too much heat escaped her skin. She shivered. Cold.

  She worked her eyes open. She was inside a room she didn’t recognize. Sunshine poured through the slats of plantation shutters. Morning? No clue.

  She examined her quarters. Square Spanish pavers covered the floor. A large masculine bureau in dark wood stood against the far wall. An overstuffed chair had been pulled close to the bed, a blanket tossed casually across its back. Reading glasses rested on the cover of a Patrick O’Brian novel on the nightstand.

  A large four-poster bed surrounded her. Gauzy swaths of fabric fell in graceful folds. She ran her hand across the sheets. They felt cool against the heat of her skin, but her damaged fingertips couldn’t register the linen’s degree of softness. They looked expensive, like everything else in the room.

  An open door to her right revealed a bathroom. Water. She rolled onto her back. Fire erupted under her skin. She gasped and struggled into a semi-upright position.

  She slid her legs off the edge of the bed. The room spun, and she gulped breaths until it stopped. She had to get something to drink.

  Plush sheepskin cushioned her bare feet. Standing, she leaned against the bed until she got her bearings. Cool air touched her naked skin. More shivers.

  Thirst overwhelmed her modesty. She shuffled toward the door and stumbled into the bathroom. Old-fashioned taps rose over the sink. She grabbed the tumbler next to the basin, filled it to the brim, and drank. Her eyes came up and she glimpsed herself in the mirror. A stranger stared back.

  The water forgotten, she studied the image. Fascinated. She touched her eyelids. They felt spongy, like fresh-baked rolls hot from the oven. Her whole face was swollen. Distorted.

  A silky robe settled over her shoulders. The weight almost made her cry. It hurt. Everything hurt.

  Selkie’s face crowded next to hers in the mirror. “What are you doing up?” He reached in front of her and turned off the faucet. “Let me help you back to bed.”

  She reached out and touched the image of his face in the mirror. He looked so concerned. She should probably thank him. Tell him. What? Something. Anything. She opened her mouth to speak, and her world turned black again.

  —

  Darkness greeted her. Soft breaths alerted her that someone was in the chair next to the bed.

  She lay facedown. She’d never been so aware of her skin. So aware of her hair. Each pore, each strand, demanded attention.

  Her back still ached, but not with the same intensity. Compresses cooled her skin from ankle to neck. She smelled lavender and more aloe.

  A growl rumbled from her belly, loud and long. Typical.

  The person in the chair stirred.

  “Hey there,” Selkie whispered. He stroked her head very gently.

  “Hey.” It came out in a froglike croak.

  “Welcome back.”

  She licked her lips. “Wish I could say it felt good.”

  “Beats the alternative.” He held up a plastic cup and bent the straw so she could sip some water. The coolness soothed her throat. “You talk in your sleep. Snore, too.”

  Mer didn’t know which disturbed her more. “Do not.”

  “ ’Fraid so.”

  She settled back onto the bed. “And you’re telling me this why?”

  “I found you hugging that damn kayak. The ocean doing its best to pull you back in. I thought you were dead.”

  The kayak. The boat. Lindsey.

  The details were fuzzy. Lindsey had shouted something. Mer couldn’t remember the words, but the rage on the other woman’s face left a vivid imprint. Mer closed her eyes, but the truth remained: Lindsey hated her enough to want her dead.

  She wasn’t ready to analyze that yet.

  Oblivious of her inner turmoil, Selkie continued, “I wanted to wring your neck for being stupid enough to kayak in a storm.” He set the glass on the nightstand and tapped his finger against the side. “But you’re not a stupid woman.”

  Her skin couldn’t get any redder, but heat rose through her body all the way from her toes.

  “You managed to get yourself home.” He shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “I had a friend of mine check you out. She’s a doctor. Couldn’t risk taking you to a hospital.”

  Her whole forehead shifted when she frowned. “Why not?”

  “You talk in your sleep.”

  “Apparently I snore, too, but I hardly think that would prohibit a hospital from providing medical assistance.”

  He grinned. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

  She felt like shit, wh
ich was still a step up from dead. “I need to find a boat, the Second Chance.”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t exist.”

  “I assure you, it does. It nearly ran me over.”

  “Not officially. I told you, you talk in your sleep. It wasn’t the squall that nearly killed you—well, it was, but something else happened first.” The tapping of his finger against the glass quickened. “You kept crying out for a second chance. At first, I thought maybe you were arguing with Saint Peter—that’d be just like you—but then you screamed Lindsey’s name. After a while, I pieced some things together.”

  “The Second Chance is a boat. A speedboat.”

  “I told Josh. There are four vessels registered with that name in Florida. None of them are speedboats.”

  “Detective Talbot knows?” She wasn’t sure she liked that.

  “If what you mumbled about happened, someone nearly killed you.”

  It hurt to think about. Hurt to think what might have happened. “Not someone, Lindsey. She was driving.”

  The knuckles of his hand whitened and the plastic cup buckled. He noticed and released his grip.

  “She veered,” Mer continued. “The wake swamped the kayak. She stole my paddle. Yelled something at me. A threat, but I don’t remember the words.”

  “She left you out there.” His hand shook slightly as he replaced the cup on the nightstand.

  “Four miles offshore.” Mer’s lips tightened into a line. “I still had about a mile to go when the storm hit.”

  “Lindsey’s gone,” he said. “Josh tried to interview her. No one has seen her since Friday.”

  “I saw her Saturday.” Light peeked through the shutters. Morning, then. How long had she been here? “What day is it?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Oh.” A burn that had nothing to do with the sun flamed in her gut. She tried to dampen it. Failed.

  “When you’re up for it, Josh wants to speak with you.”

  “Lucky me. He probably thinks I had something to do with Lindsey’s disappearance, too.”

  Selkie rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s really not that bad a guy.”

  She raised her eyebrow and her whole face shifted painfully. “I need to find the Second Chance.”

  “You don’t need to do anything but recuperate.”

  She pushed herself up. “Try to stop me.”

  He put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “As much as I’d enjoy watching you fly naked from that bed, you’re weak as a fresh-hatched turtle.”

  With as much dignity as she could muster, she dragged the sheet around all the parts she wanted covered. “How strong do I need to be to sit on your boat while we search?”

  “Oh, now I’m searching, too?”

  “Either that or I’ll take the kayak again, but, all things considered, I’d really rather avoid that for a bit.”

  His jaw tightened. “You’d kayak just to spite me.”

  “No, but that would be a bonus.”

  “Let Josh do his job.”

  “He couldn’t find Ishmael, he can’t find Lindsey, and he says the Second Chance doesn’t exist. That leaves me somewhat skeptical of his ability to help.” She tucked the edge of the sheet under her arm and lifted her chin. “Lindsey nearly killed me. I still need to find out what happened to Ishmael, and the best lead we have is that boat.”

  Chapter 26

  Ripples marked the passage of Selkie’s boat, the disturbance transforming the opaque water into a mirror that reflected only Mer’s frustration. From the bridgedeck she held high ground, a tactical advantage that had yet to prove beneficial in her quest to find the Second Chance as they trolled the canals that rimmed the island.

  “You’re about to wear a hole in the bench with all your fidgeting,” Selkie said without turning. “You need some more aloe?”

  He stood at the helm of the Devil’s Advocate. His discarded shirt hung over the back of the captain’s chair. The broad expanse of his back displayed myriad scars, and the muscles of his shoulders tensed and jumped as he made course corrections. She tried to recall which ones she’d seen before but gave up. The intervening years had dulled the memories.

  Mer lounged on the wraparound bench behind him and readjusted the cuff of her long-sleeved shirt to cover more of her wrist. The breeze caught the flimsy fabric of her loose pants and she tucked her legs underneath her.

  “I’ll be better when we find the Second Chance.” Her skin itched, and no matter how she shifted she couldn’t get comfortable.

  They’d been searching since breakfast. In the ensuing hours, they’d encountered yachts, dinghies, fishing boats, double hulls, sailboats, inflatables, even a Jet Ski or two, but no go-fast boats. Specifically, no Baja 35 Outlaws with red and black racing decals and monster engines.

  Selkie spoke over his shoulder. “Hungry? We can grab a bite to eat at the Lighthouse.”

  He was only trying to make her feel better, but being mollycoddled only stoked the anger that simmered as hot as her skin.

  “I’ll buy you an ice cream,” he teased.

  She shot off the bench seat. “Enough. Please. I’m not hungry. I don’t need aloe. I just want to find this damn boat.”

  He turned to question her. “The boat or Lindsey?”

  A puckered round scar she’d never seen before marred his chest, and Mer had to drag her eyes up to his face. “I do have a couple things to say to the missing Ms. Hatchet.”

  “I get that.” He edged over to the right to create more room for an oncoming boat. “But indulge me. I’m starving.”

  “Fine,” she said.

  The Devil’s Advocate rocked slightly as it churned through the other boat’s wake.

  Creases formed beyond the protection of Selkie’s sunglasses as he squinted at her. “Fine you’re good with getting something to eat, or fine I’m going to find a steak knife between my shoulder blades?”

  Mer adjusted the brim of her ball cap to better shade her puffy and peeling face. “Are you hungry or not?”

  “Yes, but now I’m a little bit worried about putting you in proximity to sharp objects.”

  She plastered an innocent smile on her face but said nothing. Based on the thin white lines that marred his tanned skin, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d come into contact with sharp objects. But the round scar. Had he been shot?

  He harrumphed. “You just lost out on ice cream.”

  “I’ve been buying my own ice cream for years. I’ll survive.”

  The boat entered the main canal, and Selkie steered it toward the restaurant. The perimeter of the marina resembled an open square, with channels feeding into the area from the south by the fisheries and the main canal from the east. Roads paralleled the docks on two sides, and another dock partially bisected the square. Like many eateries in the Keys, the Lighthouse Restaurant opened onto the water and provided dockage for its seafaring clientele.

  Despite her precautions, the sun’s heat burned through Mer’s clothes. Dead skin flaked off her body like sharp-edged shale, revealing sensitive new skin. The impulse to scratch had morphed into a near-constant compulsion—one that, if she indulged, led to a different type of torture.

  “You should drink some more water,” Selkie said.

  She shielded her eyes against the sun. Probably around two o’clock—too early for what she really wanted. She calculated time zones. Five o’clock in the Arctic. Plenty of ice, too. What was she doing in the Keys?

  Most of the boats in the marina were commercial vessels, large fishing charters with massive outriggers and tall flybridges. A flash of red caught her attention. She clutched Selkie’s sleeve and pointed with her free hand. “There! That’s got to be it.”

  Sandwiched between a derelict barge and a million-dollar catamaran floated a low-profile speedboat with red and black striping on its hull.

  Mer lowered her voice. “It looks abandoned.”

  He altered course. “Why are you whispering?”

  Sunbu
rn forgotten, she shimmied down to the main deck and heaved the bumpers over the side while Selkie maneuvered the thirty-six-foot boat into a vacant slip by the fisheries. Lines secured, he pulled on his shirt and joined her on the dock.

  They walked the short distance around the marina. Mer read the names of the boats along the way: Diversion, Bragging Rights, Chum Lord, Sir Simon. All the names meant something, told a story. She wanted to know more about the Second Chance.

  A padlock hung open on the dock box and a hose snaked along the length of the slip. This was the boat that Lindsey had used to nearly kill her; she was sure of it. Her excitement morphed into trepidation, but Selkie’s presence reassured her. She squatted to examine the carbon fiber above the swim step. “Somebody scraped off the name.” Bits of the black lettering still fluttered like soot in the breeze, but the sun had seared a ghostly outline of the letters into the paint. Mer’s pulse quickened. The Second Chance.

  “Bad luck to rename a boat.” Selkie’s alert eyes roamed over every detail of their surroundings. He leaned close to her and whispered, “Someone’s here.”

  A noise from the V-berth startled Mer and she fell backward onto the only part of her body that wasn’t sunburned.

  Selkie brought his finger to his lips and extended his other hand to help her up, placing his body between Mer and the boat.

  A man emerged holding a rag. He eyed them suspiciously. “Need something?”

  “Nice boat,” Selkie said. “Ever think of selling her?”

  The man wiped his hands, then dropped the rag on the helm seat. “Everything’s for sale if the price is right.”

  The sun struck his face, and Mer gasped. A wad of tobacco distorted his lower lip, but there was no mistaking the narrow nose, the high forehead, and the two hundred and fifty pounds of body mass she’d once seen up close and personal.

  He leaned over the gunnel and spit into the canal.

  “You know this guy?” Selkie asked.

  Mer tugged the brim of her cap lower, although between her swollen features and sunglasses, she doubted even her mother would recognize her.