So why pursue another?
Because the life of the celibate has never ever appealed to me. Yet a sexual relationship without benefit of an emotional relationship has never interested me either.
As modern and as fashionable as the “bedroomfor-recreation” philosophy is publicized to be by such print whores as Playboy and Penthouse, it’s always struck me as about as appetizing as hunting cavewomen with a club.
So I passed the hours away, rolling with the swift wave surge, feeling Sniper’s blue-black hull cut northward through blustery seas.
It was the quandary of the romantic caught in the quandary of life.
And there was no simple answer.
Only life. Death. And the compromise that comes between.
Four hours out, Florida Bay and the mangrove giants of the Shark River behind, I picked up the light tower at Coon Key and decided to refuel and give myself a short break from the rough March weather by cutting in behind Goodland and taking the intercoastal waterway to Naples. At Goodland, I topped off the tanks and had a hot lunch at Stan’s Idle Hour. Interesting place, Goodland. When Deltona Corporation decided to turn Marco Island into a secluded west-coast suburb of cement, concrete-block homes, and expensive condominiums, they purchased the land from the fishermen who lived on the island, and literally moved their houses—lock, stock, and families—to Goodland. Tiny Goodland gained the atmosphere Marco Island had forfeited; the atmosphere and forty or fifty unfortunate mobile homes to boot. I took the time to stop at the post office and leave a card for Al Seely, a hermit friend of mine who lives alone on Dismal Key, then boarded Sniper once again and headed up the Gordon River at a steady twenty-five knots toward Naples, Fort Myers, and, finally, Pine Island Sound, where the little island settlements of Cabbage Key, St. Carib, and Boca Grande waited.
It was time to start planning. All plans had to be loosely woven, with plenty of options; options enough to take me to the X-factor: an assassin alone, like me. A man or woman assigned to murder. Like me.
So how do you find a killer before he has killed?
And then I knew. Once on R & R in Southeast Asia, some buddies finally talked me into going on a tiger hunt. I was reluctant, because I admire the big cats; have loved them since I was a boy in the circus. Besides, the idea of killing an animal—any animal—for something other than food just doesn’t appeal to me. But I finally went—not to see the cat die, but to see to what extremes human hunters had to go to in order to kill the master hunter.
But the hunt was depressingly simple. It was a matter of staking a lamb to a tree.
And then waiting.
Well, I had my lambs: a Russian and an Israeli.
Now all I had to do was maneuver them into a stakeout.
And wait....
5
It was nearing dusk when I finally idled up the channel to Cabbage Key. Clouds were a brilliant rust to the west. An osprey in a gumbo limbo whistled at me with ascending disapproval. Orange sun held the old wooden inn, the water tower, and the jungled shell mound in a tenuous fiery light.
There were three or four big yachts moored at the dock along with a half-dozen smaller cruisers and open fishing boats. A small yellow sloop, sails furled, held my attention longer than the others.
The name on the stern confirmed that it was hers: Sleek.
So she had made it. And how was I going to explain my sudden reappearance after our meeting that morning? It would look as if I was following her. But it couldn’t be helped.
And maybe I was following her.
There were plenty of other places I could have stayed that first night. I could have pulled in at Sanibel’s Tarpon Bay and traded one-liners with old friends there. Or gone on to Boca Grande and looked up one of a number of fishing-guide acquaintances.
But I had chosen Cabbage Key; even rationalized the decision by telling myself that if there was anyone new to the area they would, sooner or later, end up at the old bar and restaurant there, like a tiger at a watering hole.
It would be an awkward moment.
But it couldn’t be helped.
Luckily, I was saved the embarrassment by the island’s owner, Rob Wells. Rob is in his mid-thirties, looks younger, and he and his wife Phyllis run the old inn with a combination of reserve and flourish that assures them a dedicated flow of boating clientele. By chance, Rob was acting dockmaster. He came ambling up after I had docked Sniper, hand outstretched, tall and blond, a look of surprise on his face.
“Man, I’d heard you’d gone hermit down in the Keys. Why the honor of the early visit?”
I laughed. “You mean it’s not May, and the tarpon aren’t running yet?”
“I mean exactly that.” He winked. “But I think I can put you onto a few kingfish off Boca. Or did you just come up here to eat our food, drink our beer, and assault our waitress?”
“Do I have to choose?”
After I checked Sniper’s lines a second time, we walked up the mound toward the inn. Briefly, I told Rob about my earlier encounter with Marina Cole, and made it clear what I hoped he would do. Professionals in an enterprise that deals so intimately with the public, like those at Cabbage Key, become used to keeping confidences. And on another level, I knew that I could trust Rob Wells. Period. So I told him I was in the area on personal business and didn’t want Marina to think that I was there in pursuit of her.
He smiled, his North Carolina accent heavy with mock intrigue.
“And you’re not following her, right?”
“Right. Unless she’s not really married. I reserve the right to change my mind on that one.”
“So how about I go inside before you do, and mention to her that an old friend of mine is coming in, and that you’ve been planning your stay here for months, and that she should take special care your beer is cold and your supper is hot?”
“So she is working here?”
“On a trial basis. To see if she likes us and we like her, as always with someone new. And I thought you weren’t interested.”
“You’ve forgotten the reserve clause. And yes, I’d appreciate it if you would do that. It would save us both some embarrassment.”
He gave me a light lockerroom punch on the arm. “Never a dull moment when you’re here, MacMorgan.”
“Is it ever dull at Cabbage Key?”
“Not if you like peace and quiet, good food, and fishing—and especially not if you have two boys like mine to keep you hopping.”
“And how are those sons of yours?”
“Great. As always.”
I puttered around outside for a few minutes to give Rob time; even climbed the old wooden water tower to see what there was to see. The water tower had, ostensibly, been built the same time the mystery writer’s son had built the house. Constructed to store a large supply of fresh water, it spired some sixty feet above the peak of the mound. And even after fifty-odd years of service, it was still in pretty good shape; wood sound and kept whitewashed by Rob Wells’s crew.
It offered a fine view of the islands in Pine Island Sound. Far to the north I could see the brown phosphate silos at the tip of Boca Grande, the affluent island village where the Russian, Kiev Evenki, would soon be arriving. And directly to the east, with its air of Southampton and old Florida wealth, was tropical Useppa, where such notables as Teddy Roosevelt, Gene Tunney, and Gloria Swanson once vacationed; and, more recently, where the CIA had trained Cuban troops for the Bay of Pigs fiasco. And midway between the two was St. Carib Island, looking lush and remote at dusk. I had never been on St. Carib; indeed, had always wondered exactly what was on the island. Geometric shards of white buildings, luminous in the failing light, protruded from the foliage, and a white water tower, similar to the one on which I stood, crowned the green haze of poinciana, banyan, and mango. So that was where the Israeli treaty-smith, Samuel Yabrud, would be staying; an island where the rich could melt their fat away in style.
Pine Island Sound was a tranquil sweep of water and islands in the saffron dus
k.
Osprey whistled and pelicans drifted in formation, arrowing toward their roosts.
It was a postcard setting; the amiable Florida that’s promoted at Disney World.
But there was something in the March wind: a hint of something lethal; a quality of light and air suggestive of that darker side where a killer stalks within us all.
With a sweeping gaze, my eyes went from island to island to island. Somewhere out there was my adversary. At that very moment he sat or stood, heart pumping, lungs siphoning, brain considering his options just as I now considered mine. What did he look like? What were his strengths, his weaknesses?
And just what in the hell was his plan?
I stood there for a moment longer on the tower in the wind, thinking about my friend Norm Fizer. I told myself the fact that he had disappeared didn’t necessarily mean that he had been killed. But in the deepest part of me I knew the truth. And it made me mad. Damn mad. Not just that I had lost a friend, but because someone out there had been a little smarter, a little faster, a little more deadly than a man I had come to look upon as unbeatable.
But he had a new adversary now.
The hunter was being hunted. Again. And I felt the shadow of that unknown assassin and the weight of the task draw over me like a cloud. And for the first time in a very, very long time I felt fear, because the shadow and the cloud were both death....
Marina Cole was on the back porch of the old inn waiting tables when I finally went inside. Rob Wells sat at the bar with his wife, Phyllis, both sipping at orange juice in tall glasses. We exchanged greetings, and after brief pleasantries, Rob said, “That matter you mentioned—I think it’s all taken care of.”
“Very efficient man you have here,” I said to Phyllis.
She chuckled. “Efficient because I helped. Hope you don’t mind that Rob brought me in on it, Dusky, but women are much better at this sort of thing than men. And by the way, from the look of her, I can’t blame you for leaving your options open.” She was still chuckling as I walked away.
Without the tentlike rain slicker on, Marina Cole was a striking lady indeed. She wore pleated safari shorts, long dark legs based on leather sandals. The thick braided hair was coiled atop her head, and she wore an old cotton madras shirt that displayed the tapering ribs and upward thrust of breasts. She moved with affable grace beneath ceiling fans and soft lights, the tanned face smiling as she traded jokes with her customers. As I watched her work, I decided that she had probably never waited tables before—but that she was the type of person who would become good at anything she tried in the shortest possible time.
She was carrying a tray when she finally noticed me. Even with Phyllis Wells’s warning, it surprised her. She damn near dropped the tray. But she recovered quickly and held up one finger accompanied by an uncomfortable smile.
I was to wait a minute.
I took an empty chair in the combination bar and library. A mounted tarpon, its eyes aglow with catatonic plasticity, hung over the door along with an old percussion-cap fowling piece. A few fishermen sat trading stories over their bottles of beer beneath the slow whirl of the fan while Kathy McKee, the enduring bartender, alternately polished glasses and answered calls on the island’s VHF radio under the counter. Long ago, God knows when, someone decided that the way to become a part of Cabbage Key was to sign the name of his vessel on a dollar bill, then tape that dollar bill to the wall. The custom caught on, and now the walls and ceilings are papered with signed currency. There were even dollar bills taped to the old upright piano where a sweating bald man pounded out a torchy version of “Tangerine.”
It was longer than a minute. In fact, I was halfway through my first Beck’s when Marina finally slid into the chair beside me.
“Whew,” she said, wiping her face. “Some first night. When Rob told me he needed help because it was the peak of the busy season, he wasn’t kidding.”
“So how do you like it so far?”
She reached over, took a sip of my beer, hesitated at her own familiarity, then took another. “I love the island. Got here early this morning, slept for a few hours, then went right to work. People seem nice. So I hope to stay awhile.”
Our hands touched briefly as I took my beer. The texture of her skin suggested she might be a little older than I had guessed earlier. Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. No older. Nothing in the legs or breasts to suggest the sag of age or childbirth.
But still the smooth gold ring on her wedding finger.
“Told you you’d like it,” I said, then added a little awkwardly, “I’m glad.”
Then came the uncomfortable silence again; the silence of people who realize that a relationship could begin, but, for whatever reasons, shouldn’t.
Marina cleared her throat, toyed with a napkin. “Phyllis Wells told me you come here a lot. Said you’d been planning this trip for a while. I was kind of surprised you didn’t tell me that yesterday morning.”
“Thought it might sound like I was offering something . . . or, damn, I don’t know. Then I realized after you’d left that not telling you would make my arriving here even more suspicious. I mean, what I’m trying to say, Marina, is that I’m not hot on your trail or anything like that. I’m not following you.”
She considered that for a moment. Someone called her from the kitchen, and she stood up quickly. She said, “Are you going to be on the island for a while?”
“I’m staying the night. And I’ll be around the area. I’m up here to do some fishing and take care of some business.”
She gave me a sudden swift smile, as if she had decided something.
“Any chance of you and me having a drink here in the bar later, MacMorgan?”
“My calendar’s pretty full—but for you, yeah.”
“I still don’t know how to take this vehement insistence that you’re not following me.”
“I’m not!”
She gave me a sisterly wink, with just a hint of vampishness on her face. “That’s what I mean. I don’t know if I should be relieved. Or disappointed.”
And with that she hustled to the kitchen to pick up her order.
I finished my beer and walked back down the mound to the docks, where Sniper shifted in the wind, tugging experimentally at her lines. Lights were on in the neighboring yachts, where the stayaboards filled the March night with the soft laughter of cocktail hour. A half mile across the sound the houses on Useppa, their windows aglow, stood out ghostly in the distance. St. Carib Island was a darker line on a dark horizon.
Rob Wells showed me to a room in the inn with a private bath, then apologized for having to leave the island for the night. I was disappointed. I had questions to ask. It was another blustery evening, and he had seen to it that my fireplace was lighted. Stout black mangrove logs flickered and roared in the draft. I stripped off my clothes, put a new Wilkinson blade in the razor, shaved, showered, then lay down and slept for an hour before dinner. The water takes it out of you—especially eight hours in choppy seas. Alone.
I awoke with a taste for stone crabs. Kathy McKee, looking taller than her five eleven in slacks and sweater, got me a table on the porch and brought beer.
“Long time no see, huh?”
“Yes indeed. Your boat still sunk?” She laughed. It was a standing joke. Long ago she had owned some ancient hulk of mahogany yacht—an unusual playtoy for a woman. Its sinking in some frozen New Jersey harbor had prompted her to head southward and, finally, to Cabbage Key.
“Still housing fish as far as I know.”
“And some people just talk about conservation. I won’t need a menu. Just a double order of stone crab, plenty of toast, and drawn butter—and maybe a little conversation when you get a minute?”
She tilted her head, surprised. “It wouldn’t be about our new waitress, would it?”
“No. A private matter.”
“Do I look like a gossip?”
“Not hardly. But you can’t tend bar at a place like this without
knowing what’s going on. Right?”
She nodded. “Sure, Dusky. I’ll stop back when I can.”
If there’s a seafood—or any food, for that matter—better than fresh stone crab claws, I’ve yet to discover it. So when the food came I gave it my full attention, cracking the claws, dipping the crab meat in hot butter, and washing it down with the fine Beck’s beer. And I was just about finished, trying to decide if I should order the excellent Key lime pie immediately or wait until later, when Kathy returned.
“You have time to talk?”
She nodded, stretched wearily. “Yeah. God, what a week. Seems like more people find out about this place every year. I dream about the ingredients of a rum punch in my sleep. So I’m on a ten-minute break and I put this gin and tonic on your bill. It’s very good, by the way. Made it myself.”
She sipped at the drink, smiling. Truthfully, I didn’t know how I should start. I knew that I could trust Kathy McKee just as I could trust Rob. But there was only so much I could tell either of them. It demanded a one-sided exchange of information, no questions asked. So I gave it a try.
“Kath, I’m looking for someone.”
She grinned. “From the way you’ve been ogling that new girl—Marina, is it?—I’d say you’ve already found her.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“I guess you could be even less subtle—say, club her on the head and drag her off to your room.”
“Believe me, this has nothing to do with Marina. I’m looking for someone else. Could be a woman, I guess—but it’s probably a man. And I have no idea what he looks like. But I would guess that he is very tough, very smart, and possibly isn’t American. And he would be a stranger to the area.”
“A stranger? Or a tourist?”
“A stranger. I know there’s a lot of water and a lot of islands in the area—but there aren’t very many people at all. And sooner or later those people end up here at Cabbage Key. Have you seen a guy who might fit the description?”
Assassin's Shadow Page 5
