by B. J Daniels
Pop. Wood splintered on the shack wall beside her. Landry knocked her to the ground, landing hard on top of her and rolled them both down the slope toward the water. Pop. Pop.
The last thing she heard was Landry whisper next to her ear, "Hold your breath."
Chapter Twelve
They hit the water.
Landry pulled her under, dragging her deeper and deeper, forcing her to swim after him, the water growing colder and colder as they dove down toward the bottom.
Her head buzzed. She needed desperately to take a breath but he had a death grip on her wrist. Even if she thought about going to the surface and taking her chances against the would-be killer with the gun, Landry wasn't letting her go.
Suddenly he stopped swimming and pulled her upward. Her eyes were open but all she could see was blackness as her head broke the surface. She gasped for breath, her lungs burning. Her free hand struck something hard.
"Quiet," Landry whispered and she realized they'd come up under one of the docks along the canal.
She sucked in air, her body trembling from fear and lack of oxygen, as she treaded water, unable to touch bottom. The water was cold and she kept going under.
Landry pulled her to him, holding her up so her head was above water. His body felt warm and strong. She let him take her weight and fought the need to cry. She'd gone twenty-five years without anyone trying to kill her and now every time she turned around someone was shooting at her or putting snakes in her bathtub. She wasn't sure how much more of this she could take.
As if Landry sensed her despair, he pulled her closer, pressing his cheek to hers, holding her gently. She wrapped her arms around him and closed her eyes.
Overhead someone stepped onto the dock. It rocked, making the water under the dock splash. Landry pulled her out deeper into the water until they were almost to the end of the dock, never letting go of her.
The footsteps were slow, purposeful. Did the killer know they were under the dock? Had he seen them? The dock pushed down as the would-be killer walked to the end, leaving little space above their heads for air. But in Landry's arms, Willa felt safe. The irony of it wasn't lost on her.
She leaned back, trying not to panic. Landry was still holding her, his touch calming. She thanked God she wasn't alone or she knew she would have been dead. He'd saved her again. Her heart swelled, tears burning her eyes.
The dock buoyed upward as the footsteps retreated back down the dock.
They waited, listening. Water lapped softly at the sides of the dock. A dog barked in the distance. Finally there was the sound of a car engine, the crunch of gravel beneath the tires and then the growl of the car's motor dying away in the distance.
"Wait here for just a second," Landry whispered and disappeared below the water.
He was gone for more than a second. She was getting ready to panic when he reappeared.
"Looks clear. Take my hand."
She did as he told her, swimming down before heading again to the surface. They came up on the lee side of the dock out of the moonlight. Quietly they swam to shore.
She was shaking hard now, the cold, the fear, all her adrenaline long gone. He helped her up onto the shore. Her legs trembled. She stumbled and would have gladly sat down for a while but he dragged her up along the side of the fish shack, then across the street, moving fast.
It would be light soon, surprising her how much time had gone by since they'd left the island.
The phone booth was an old-fashioned one, the kind that were hard to find, thanks to cell phones and vandalism. Landry dug out a handful of coins and dropped them on the metal tray.
Keeping the door open so the overhead light didn't come on, she dialed Information, waited and then asked for Evan Charles's number. She repeated it out loud to Landry, then still shaking, dialed Evan's number, using the coins Landry supplied as he stood guard. The answering machine picked up after the fifth ring.
"Evan. It's Willa St. Clair. I need to talk to you. If you're there, could you—"
"Willa?" Evan sounded groggy.
"I'm sorry to call you at this hour but I need your help."
"Oh girl, I heard what happened. It's in the all papers. You must be scared to death, sweetie. Was it just awful?"
She had to smile, imagining him sitting up in bed now, eating up the drama. "Evan, what did you do with my paintings that didn't sell?"
"You need money. Of course you do. I told you I could sell them if you let me keep them in the shop."
Her heart fell. "Is that what you did?"
"Of course not. You told me you wanted to wait until you could have another show and we agreed that would give you the most play."
She breathed a sigh of relief. "How many are left?"
"Not even half a dozen."
Landry was motioning to her. "Evan, was there one painting that didn't get hung at the show?"
"Oh, sweetie, I just feel awful about that. I found it later when I went to pack up the others. Do you hate me?"
"Of course not." She nodded to Landry. Relief washed over him, softening the hard lines of his face. He couldn't have been more handsome.
"Can you just describe the painting for me?" she asked, and listened while he confirmed that it was the one they had all been looking for.
"It had a tear in the backing, I guess that's why my assistant didn't put it up," Evan said. "I am just sick about it. I'm positive it would have sold, sweetie."
"It's not a problem, really. I have a terribly big favor to ask of you. Would it be possible for you to send me the paintings without anyone knowing? I could give you an address."
"Not on his home line, in case it's tapped," Landry whispered.
"Could I call you back on your cell and tell you where to send them?" she asked.
"Oh, such intrigue. I'm just shivering all over," he cried. He rattled off his cell number, Willa repeating it.
"I'll call you right back."
"I'll get a pen and paper. Don't worry, sweetie, I'll destroy the evidence. I'll shred it. Or burn it. If you want, I'll shred it and eat it with a nice marinara sauce."
She hung up, half shaking her head. Evan was such a trip. She adored him. She just prayed that she wasn't endangering him.
"Wait," Landry said as she started to dial Evan's cell. "The safest way to do this is have Evan send the box by special courier to the marina so Bull can bring it out tomorrow when he brings the rest of the supplies. If he does it tonight, it will get here in time."
She nodded and called Evan's cell, gave him the address for Bull. "Address the box to Cara Wilson. That's the name I'm using."
"I'll do it right now. Not to worry. You really must let me know how this all turns out. I'll just be on pins and needles until I hear."
She promised, hung up and looked at Landry. This was almost over but she knew her life would never be the same.
There was one regret she was determined she wouldn't have when it was all over, she told herself as she leaned into Landry and kissed him.
"You all right?" Landry asked, seeming surprised.
She just looked at him. Was she all right? He had to be kidding. She was soaked to the skin, half-drowned, some kind of seaweed stuff in her hair and at least one person was trying to kill her—more than likely more.
He smiled and picked something green from her hair. "Think you can make it back to the boat?"
Like she had a choice. She nodded. The sky behind them paled as they reached the boat. She'd half expected someone to be waiting for them in ambush but apparently no one knew what Landry's boat looked like, and there were dozens of boats tied up along the canal.
She climbed in, surprised that she was starting to get her sea legs. He untied the boat and stepped in after her, quickly starting the motor and turning the bow out toward the watery horizon.
He tossed her an old towel from the bottom of the boat. It smelled of gas and oil. She didn't even care. She wrapped it around her and slid down in the boat. Sleep took her at on
ce, dragging her down into a dreamless cold darkness.
She woke with a start, blinded by the light and jarred awake as the boat hit the sand. Struggling to sit up, she looked around. They were back on the island. She was awed and surprised that Landry had managed to get them back here alive. Daylight broke over the tops of the mangrove islands to the east. She felt as if she'd been dragged through the mud, like an alley cat sneaking home after a rough night on the streets.
As she turned to look at Landry, she saw the blood. "My God, you're shot!"
Landry smiled at the concern in her voice. "It's all right," he said as he stepped out into the water and pulled the boat partway up on shore. "It's just a flesh wound."
She climbed out, looking unsteady and a little green around the gills. "Why didn't you tell me you were shot?" She sounded angry now.
"It's no big deal. Anyway, what would you have done? You aren't one of those women who faint at the sight of blood, are you?" He reached for her as she seemed to wobble. "Oh, hell," he said as she sank to the sand.
He dropped beside her and forced her head between her knees. "Take deep breaths."
She was crying softly, gasping for breath. "My mother wanted me to be a nurse."
He laughed, and rubbed the back of her neck with his palm. "Yeah, you would have made a great nurse." When she was breathing normally, he hid the boat in the bushes again and then helped her up. "Can you walk?"
She looked offended. "Of course I can walk." She glanced at his upper arm, the shirtsleeve soaked with blood, and started to go faint on him again.
"Come on," he said, leading her through the brush, using his uninjured arm to guide her. They had to bush-whack for a ways through the brush before they hit the trail, skirting around the swamp and unstable ground.
"Watch out. There are parts of this island that are like quicksand," he told her. "You wander in there and you're never coming out again."
He was glad to see that the tide was coming in, the waves washing away any sign of their footprints in the sand. Soon the small beach would be covered in water.
He'd had time to think about the attack at Everglades City. Whoever had seen them leave the island had to have contacted someone onshore. First the security guard at the storage facility. Then the shooter.
What bothered him was that the two incidents didn't seem connected. The guard hadn't seemed alarmed. He might have just been checking things after being called about a possible break-in.
The shooter was a whole other story. He'd tried to kill them both. One of Zeke's friends from the force? Definitely someone who didn't give a damn about the disk—and just wanted Landry dead.
Landry was sure he'd been the target. Willa's mistake was being with him. And here he'd thought he could protect her. The way things were going, he would get her killed.
But the painting was on its way. All they had to do was wait for Bull to bring it to them then get off this island. He thought about the person he and Willa had seen watching them leave the island. Was it possible they'd been followed?
He hadn't heard another boat but no reason to take a chance. On the way back to the villa, he took a detour. "Stay here," he whispered, and sneaked down to the old fisherman's dock and checked the boat motor. Ice-cold. The boat hadn't been out.
"What?" Willa said when he returned and they were headed for the villa again.
"Is there another boat on the island that you know of because that one hasn't been anywhere," he said.
She shook her head. "You think the person who saw us leave somehow contacted whoever was shooting at us? But there is no cell phone service out here."
He smiled. "Exactly. That's what makes me think there's a boat we don't know about."
The villa was silent as they slipped through the archway and made their way up to her apartment. Once inside, Landry locked the door.
Willa looked beat and worse there was something so endearing about her he just wanted to hold her and promise her that everything was going to be all right.
It was a promise he couldn't make though, and holding her right now when they were both feeling vulnerable was the last thing he should do.
He walked through the bedroom and turned on the water in the tub. She was still standing where he'd left her looking lost. He motioned her into the bathroom. "Strip down and get in there. You can get hypothermia even this far south, and right now you look like you might tip over at any moment." He stripped off his shirt.
Willa's eyes widened.
"Don't worry, I'm not getting in with you. I'm just going to clean up the wound and then go see if I can find another boat on the island. I'll lock the door as I leave. You get some rest. I'll be back before you know it."
She nodded and he turned his back to her. He cranked on some water in the sink and began to gingerly wash the flesh wound to his shoulder. This was the second bullet he'd taken in a matter of days. Not a good sign.
"There's a first-aid kit in the cabinet," she said behind him.
He opened the medicine cabinet over the sink and took out the box, amused to see what all was in it—including a note that read "Be careful. Love, Mom xoxox."
He smiled to himself as he took out the gauze and replaced the box, note and all.
Just before the mirror steamed completely over, he saw Willa slip out of her shirt and bra. He looked away, but not before he'd seen the pale creamy flesh of her breasts and remembered the warm soft weight of her breast in his palm. Just the sight of her half-naked sent a stab of desire through him like a hot knife blade.
He ducked his head, waiting until he heard her step into the tub and close the curtain before he looked up again. Fighting the urge to join her in the tub no matter what he'd said, he quickly cleaned the wound. It hurt like hell but it was exactly what he needed to exorcise the memory of Willa half-naked and remind him what was at stake here. He had to keep his mind on finding the disk. The last thing he needed was to let Willa St. Clair, South Dakota virgin, distract him.
The thought made him laugh. She more than distracted him.
"What's so funny?" she asked from in the tub.
"You, darlin'," he said as he shut off the water in the sink and covered the wound to his arm with the bandage before pulling on a clean shirt.
"I was just thinking about you and all those men you've been with," he said, and stepped out of the bathroom as the shower curtain opened a crack and a bar of soap flew past his head. He closed the door just in time, smiling to himself as the soap smacked the bathroom door.
In his duffel bag he took out his second gun, the one with the silencer, feeling surprisingly guilty. He'd had to do what needed to be done and yet… He stuck the weapon in the waistband of his shorts, covering it with the tail of his shirt.
He heard Willa get out of the tub to retrieve the soap as he left, locking the door behind him. The villa was quiet, no one apparently up yet, as he left. The sun rose behind the palms to the east in a burst of hot orange.
As Landry walked, he mulled over the same thoughts that had been haunting him since they'd left Everglades City. What if he was wrong about being the target? But who would want Willa dead? It made no sense.
If his theory was right Freddy D. had made sure both he and Willa were free so they could find the disk for him. Even Zeke's buddies wouldn't kill Willa.
So who did that leave?
Someone who didn't want the disk to ever be found. Or for Landry or Willa to live long enough to talk.
Landry swore as he circled the island looking for a boat. Who the hell was after them?
Willa finished her bath although she was so exhausted that just drying off took all her effort. All the adrenaline rushes, being shot at, running for her life, being almost made love to—all of it was taking a toll on her body.
Her mind wouldn't shut down, though. Her thoughts circled around Landry refusing to rest. She'd been wrong about him. He'd saved her life twice now. How could she doubt him anymore?
She thought about Odell and what
he'd said to her in his kitchen. He had been acting so strangely during the barbecue. Almost jealous. Maybe definitely jealous.
The truth was she had little to no experience with men. As much as she hated to admit it, Landry had been right about her. She'd dated some in high school, all neighboring ranch boys who attended the same church she did. A couple of them she would have let get to first base—if they had tried. They hadn't.
She'd heard a rumor her senior year that she was frigid. She hadn't really known what that meant since she felt anything but. The rumor had persisted, and by the time she went away to college, she'd started to believe it.
She seemed to intimidate men. At least some of them. Men like Odell, who seemed to put her on a pedestal and wanted to protect her. Not men like Landry Jones, she thought as she slipped on a cotton nightshirt and climbed between the covers.
Overhead she heard the creak of footsteps, but she didn't even give Cape Diablo's ghosts a second thought as sleep took her again, this time even more deeply than in the boat on the way back to the island.
Landry took the main path down to the pier, then circled the island counterclockwise. He waded around fallen trees, mangroves, swampy bogs of quicksand and mud and finally rocks, sometimes having to almost swim to keep going.
As he reached the end of the island near the deep water cover, he spotted an older man. Carlos.
That was all he could remember. Carlos, the faithful friend, who had been given the right to stay on the island until he died—just like the old lady who lived on the third floor, Alma Garcia.
Willa said she'd seen the two talking, seeming to be arguing as if the old man was trying to convince the woman of something.
Now Landry watched Carlos pull his small fishing boat up on the beach. The elderly man seemed lost in his own world, making Landry wonder if both of the elderly on the island weren't senile. Or was that just what they both wanted everyone to think?
