by B. J Daniels
"You a news junkie, too?" Odell asked from his apartment doorway.
She jumped and spun around to face him, the newspaper still in her hands, her mind racing for an explanation for being in his apartment.
"The door was open," she managed to say. She'd left it open on purpose so she would hear him coming. But she'd been so upset and busy trying to get the newspaper back in the right place that she hadn't heard him. How long had he been standing there watching her? Had he seen her take the front page and hide it under her shirt?
"I can do without a lot but not the news," Odell said, leaning against the doorjamb watching her. "I have to know what's happening back on the mainland. You're welcome to read that paper if you'd like. I'm finished with it."
She looked down at the newspaper in her hand and said the first thing that came to mind. "I was just checking my horoscope."
He smiled. "You do that, too? It's silly but I can't help myself. When I spill salt, I have to toss some of it over my left shoulder." He smiled. "I even knock on wood. Silly, huh?"
"No. We all have our own superstitions," she said, remembering what he'd buried behind the villa. "If you don't mind, I will take the newspaper. Might as well read 'Dear Abby' while I'm at it."
He wasn't looking at her but at his typewriter now. She hadn't noticed that there was a sheet of white paper sticking out of it. When she'd seen the ream of unopened paper she'd assumed he hadn't been writing yet.
She could almost read what he'd typed—
He stepped to her, blocking her view of the typewriter. "I'm glad you were just after the newspaper and not trying to read what I'd written on my book." His smile didn't seem to reach his eyes now.
She smiled, hers even more strained. "Okay, you caught me. I was curious. Bull said you were writing a book on Cape Diablo."
Odell laughed. "I should have known he would blab. Okay, now you know. I'm fictionalizing it since no one knows what really happened, except maybe that old woman upstairs or her boyfriend, the Ancient Mariner, as I call him. But neither of them is talking. At least not to anyone but themselves," he added, and laughed at his own joke.
"I'm sure the book will be a bestseller."
"You think?" He seemed to relax a little.
She nodded, still smiling. She wanted to ask him what had him so scared that he was worried about evil curses. She wanted to go back to her apartment. She could feel the newspaper article under her shirt growing damp against her bare skin.
"Well, thanks for the newspaper," she said, holding it against her chest. She started to step away and heard the crinkle of the newspaper article she'd hidden under her T-shirt.
"Hey," Odell said.
She froze.
"You'd better watch the sun as fair as your skin is," he said, eyeing her. "You look flushed and a little unsteady on your feet. The sun and heat on this island will do a fair-skinned girl like you right in."
Or something would, she thought.
"You're obviously not from Florida," he said. "Some place up north?"
She could feel him studying her. Had he seen the resemblance to the page one photo of her? She hadn't had time to read the story and see if it mentioned her name or that she was from South Dakota. No doubt the police had been forced to be forthcoming after two of their officers had been gunned down at the safe house and the media had photos.
"No, actually I was born and raised here," she lied. "I just avoid the sun."
"Probably a good idea," he agreed, sounding like he knew she was lying. "You must have gone to a good college. No Floridian accent like most of us. But some accent I haven't been able to place yet." He was no longer smiling.
"I think I'll lie down for a while." She started for the stairs, feeling his gaze drilling into her back as she hugged the newspaper to her stomach and practically ran to get away.
"If you're really interested in the book I'm working on, maybe we could get together and talk about the ghosts that haunt this island," he called after her.
"What ghosts?" Henri said, sticking her head out the open door of her apartment as Willa ran up the stairs.
"Cape Diablo ghosts," Odell said with a chuckle. "Has to be told over a good bottle of wine, though."
"I have the wine," Henri offered. "What do you say, Willie?"
Willa had reached her apartment, opened the door and was almost safely inside. Just not quick enough. She thought of several reasons to decline as she looked down and saw Odell watching her, waiting.
"That is unless Willie is too scared," he said, as if trying to make it sound as if he was joking. His gaze met hers.
"I'm not afraid of ghosts," she said, meeting his eyes.
Odell lifted a brow. "Great. Later I'll get the barbecue grill going. We'll make it a party."
"You got yourself a date," Henri said.
"Sounds great," Willa agreed, just to be agreeable. She would come up with an excuse later.
She closed her door, heard the music coming from the third floor again and shivered as she remembered her stolen artwork and the smell of gardenias. Odell might be right about one thing. The elderly woman living in the tower did appear to be in her own world. What had she done with the painting she'd taken? Probably put it up on a wall. At least no one would see it.
Pulling the newspaper from under her shirt, she dropped it and the rest of the paper on the table before glancing out the window. She caught a glimpse of Anna Garcia standing at her window overlooking the courtyard. Had she been listening to the conversation about ghosts? Apparently she had since she looked upset.
Willa followed the older woman's gaze. Alma seemed to be glaring down not at Odell and Henri who were talking by the pool but at Blossom, who was partially hidden from view where she stood in the shade along the back wall of the villa.
The girl looked as if she was eavesdropping on Odell's and Henri's conversation. Blossom looked up. Her piercing gaze seemed to meet Willa's, almost daring her.
Willa dropped the blind back into place and picked up the newspaper article she'd taken from Odell's room and turned it over.
All the breath rushed out of her. Earlier she'd been so shocked to see her own photo in the paper that she hadn't even noticed a second story—and photograph.
This one was of a younger Landry Jones.
He was wearing a police uniform!
Dropping in a chair, her gaze flew to the headline. Undercover Officer Wanted For Murder Of Partner: Manhunt Continues For Killer Cop—And Only Witness.
Willa quickly read the newspaper articles. The story had been broken by the news media after discovering that the police were involved in an intense but secret manhunt for plainclothes detective Landry Jones of the St. Petersburg Police Department.
Jones was wanted for the murder of his partner, Zeke Hartung after an eyewitness saw Jones kill Hartung outside a St. Pete Beach art gallery.
The police commissioner refused to discuss rumors that the two had been working undercover at the time of the murder or had turned on each other after infiltrating a criminal organization.
An inside source not to be named by the paper said Landry Jones had been working for known crime boss Freddy Delgado and had been hired for the contracted killings of Zeke Hartung and another undercover police officer, Simon Renton. Simon Renton's mutilated body had been found at a favorite organized-crime dumping site the day after Zeke Hartung's murder.
An inside news source said Renton's body had been identified by a tattoo on the torso because it had been impossible to get prints from the badly mutilated body.
Willa felt sick. No wonder the police had insisted on putting her in protective custody. Unfortunately they'd failed to tell her anything about Landry Jones. Or what he was involved in. Organized crime. Contract killings of two police officers.
She looked at Landry Jones's photo. The caption under it read Dirty Cop? Landry Jones Wanted For Questioning In The Brutal Murders Of Two Other Officers.
As she turned the page to finish the story, her g
aze fell on a third photograph.
Willa gasped. It was the same man who'd come into her art studio the night before her gallery show.
The caption under the photograph read Undercover Cop Simon Renton Found Dead.
Willa was shaking so hard she had to put down the newspaper. Simon Renton was the man who had come into her studio the night she was finishing the last of the framing for her gallery show the next night. Now he was dead? Murdered? She shuddered. His body mutilated.
She dropped the newspaper. Simon and Landry were both cops, both working undercover on the same case. An icy chill wrapped around her neck. One man had come into her shop saying he needed a painting for his wife for their anniversary. The other had come to her gallery showing saying he was interested in the artist and her work.
Her pulse jumped. Both had lied. According to the story, Simon wasn't married. And a man like Landry wasn't interested in Willa's art—or her.
What had Simon Renton being doing in her shop that night? She shivered, remembering how he'd almost pushed his way in. He'd made her uncomfortable although she had the feeling he'd been trying to do just the opposite.
Something connected her with the two men. But she had no idea what. Both men had supposedly taken an interest in her artwork and now she was running for her life.
Not just from the police who were apparently doing their best to protect her, but from Landry Jones and organized criminals who it seemed might have a reason also to want her dead. It made no sense.
According to the paper, the safe house had been attacked by two known organized-crime hit men, the article said. Percy "TNT" Armando and Emilio "Worm" Racini. Both were being sought by the police after appearing on media cameras at the scene.
Was it possible that no one had seen Landry Jones but her? She'd just assumed he'd killed her two guards. If not, then what was he doing at the safe house?
Chasing her, she thought with a shudder. Making sure his buddies got the job done.
She had to get out off the island. She didn't know where she'd go—just that she had to keep moving. She'd been a fool to think she could hide out—even here—for a few weeks until Landry was caught.
But she'd run out of highway. Out of luck, as well. Landry could find her here. He was a cop, a renegade cop, but still he was trained for this. He had resources that ordinary people like herself didn't have. And he had organized crime behind him. She didn't stand a chance.
She wanted to curl up in a ball. Hastily she wiped at her tears. She didn't have the time to break down let alone feel sorry for herself. And giving up wasn't an option. She would go across the island to where Odell said the old man fished in his boat.
She'd ask him to take her back to the mainland. If he agreed, she'd come back and pack.
Now that her picture was in the paper, she wouldn't feel safe anywhere.
Just the thought of Landry Jones sent a chill through her. Look how close he'd come to getting to her at the safe house. She could still remember the murderous look in his eyes. She felt another wave of hopelessness. If she had any hope of surviving, she had to be strong. She'd stayed alive this long, hadn't she?
At the window, she peeked out. The courtyard was empty. Odell's door was closed. Willa let the blind fall back into place and opened her door, listening for a moment before she started down the stairs.
She heard music, this time coming from Blossom's apartment. Some awful loud band yelling obscenities over the scream of guitar strings.
Willa took the stairs, stopping partway to check to see if Henri's door was closed. It was.
Something told Willa that Henri wasn't in her apart—not with that horrible music blasting into her south side wall.
As Willa hurried out of the courtyard through the back arch, she caught a glimpse of Henri and Odell walking down the beach. They had their heads together as if they'd known each other longer than less than an hour.
The conversation looked pretty serious for two strangers.
Willa put the two of them out of her mind. Soon they wouldn't be a concern. Soon, she would be off the island. She would go to Miami, maybe catch a boat to anywhere it was headed, anywhere far from here.
She found a narrow path through the thick vegetation, hoping this was the way that the elderly man had gone and that the path would lead her to the boathouse and Carlos Lazarro.
Not far into the dense undergrowth the air became thick and humid. Mosquitoes buzzed around her. She swatted at them and tried to keep moving, her bare limbs glistening with perspiration.
At a turn in the trail, she stopped to wipe the sweat from her eyes and thought she heard a sound behind her on the trail. Quickening her pace, she wound through the trees and brush, the island becoming denser. She felt turned around, no longer able to see the sun, and had no idea which way she was headed. For all she knew she could be going in a circle. The island wasn't large. She should have reached the other side by now.
Willa stopped to catch her breath. The trail forked ahead and she wasn't sure which way to go. This time there was no mistake about it. She heard the brush of fabric against a tree branch. Someone was following her.
Fear paralyzed her. She looked back but could see nothing through the underbrush. After reading the newspaper articles she now knew that it wasn't just the cops and Landry Jones after her—but possibly organized crime killers who didn't want her testifying.
She started down one path, afraid she was only getting farther and farther away from the villa—and more and more in danger. A twig cracked not far down the trail behind her.
A soft pop was instantly followed by leaves and bark flying up on a tree trunk next to her. Another soft pop, then a limb next to her exploded.
Someone was shooting at her!
Run!
She took off, running as fast and hard as she could, running blindly as the path twisted and turned. She could hear footfalls behind her, then another pop as a bullet buzzed past her ear and ripped through the leaves of a bush ahead of her.
She stumbled and just as she thought she might go down was grabbed from behind. An arm came around her, picking her up off her feet as a hand covered her mouth. She was jerked backward into the bushes and trees, her body slamming into the solid form of a man's chest as he tightened his grip.
"Don't make a sound or you're as good as dead." Her blood froze as she recognized the male voice that whispered at her ear as she was dragged backward into the darkness of the dense tropical forest.
Landry Jones.
Hadn't she known it was only a matter of time before he found her?
Chapter Eight
Landry dragged a struggling Willa St. Clair deep into the trees. She tried to bite his hand, connected several good kicks to his shins and jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. Pain rocketed through him as she hit too close to his bandaged gunshot wound.
Angrily he tightened his grip on her and pressed his lips close to her ear. "Do that again and I will kill you myself right here."
Keeping his hand firmly over her mouth, he dragged her a little deeper into the dense undergrowth and threw her down, pinning her to the ground as he sprawled on top of her and drew his gun with his free hand.
Her eyes blazed with anger and stark terror. Even against the odds and his threats, she still struggled to free herself. The woman was a scrapper. Under other circumstances he might have admired that.
He leaned close. "Quiet," he whispered, and pressed his body down over hers as he listened. He thought he heard someone moving along the path not far from them. He held his breath, knowing how vulnerable he was in this position. All he could hope was that whoever was on the path didn't spot them. He wasn't sure he could get in a shot before someone else did.
Minutes passed. Finally he heard footfalls retreat back down the path. He waited until he was sure the person was gone before he holstered his gun and pulled Willa St. Clair to her feet. Still keeping her mouth covered, he dragged her back through the trees.
On this side
of the island, the surf from the Gulf broke over the rocky shoreline. It was loud enough, it would muffle any sounds that she made. He dragged her to a short stretch of sandy beach where he'd pulled up the borrowed boat he'd hidden in the brush.
Tossing his weapon onto the duffel bag lying in the bottom of his boat, he dragged her out into the water until they were waist-deep.
"Now listen to me," he said next to her ear. "I'm going to remove my hand from your mouth. You're going to be smart and not scream or fight me. And then we're going to talk. Got it?"
Her body was still rigid with stubborn determination. But she nodded and he removed his hand, knowing without a doubt what she would do.
She took a swing at him and opened her mouth to scream.
He ducked the swing, grabbed her and hurled her into the deeper water, forcing her head under before she could get out a sound. He held her there, his hand tangled in her short curly dark hair, until some of the fight went out of her, then he dragged her to the surface.
She came up spitting and sputtering, murder in her eyes.
"What part of that didn't you get?" he demanded as he dunked her under again.
She gulped for air as he brought her up choking on the saltwater, but at the same time glaring at him. He watched her eyes and saw what she planned to do before she tried to scratch his eyes out.
He shoved her head under water again, holding her down longer this time, half-afraid he'd drown her before she'd give up. He jerked her to the surface and felt some of the fight go out of her.
"Why don't you just kill me and get it over with," she cried, choking and coughing as she came up. "First you shoot at me, then try to drown me?"
He shook his head. "I hit what I shoot at. If I wanted you dead, you'd already be dead. I saved your puny butt back there on the trail."
She gave a chortle of disbelief.
"Look, sweetheart, I could have broken your neck back there off the trail," he said, getting angry. "Or I could drown you right now. I'm not trying to kill you. I'm just trying to get you to quit fighting me. The last thing I want is you dead."
