by Jude Hardin
I felt twenty pounds lighter without the shoes, and about twenty degrees cooler without the shirt. The late afternoon sun was a bitch. It was going to fry my back and shoulders, but I’d been sweating profusely with the black T-shirt on. Sunburn I could handle. Dehydration was another story.
“Help,” I shouted, but I knew it was no use. In every direction there was only ocean and sky. The vastness of it was overwhelming. I’d never felt so lost and so alone.
I tried to relax and just float for a while, but the sea was choppy and the waves kept washing over my face. I tried to keep my breathing regular and think about happy things. I tried not to think about how much my arms and legs ached already.
For some reason the song “Spiritual” by the late great John Coltrane started playing in my head. It reminded me of the night I first met Juliet. It was at a club called Lyon’s Den. It was a Tuesday night in April. I had gotten a call earlier in the day from an old friend who played bass guitar. He invited me to the club, said he’d make sure I was treated well by the bartenders. I went alone. The band played a variety of music, everything from Motown to modern rhythm and blues and jazz standards. They had a sax player, keyboards, drums, lead guitar, and bass. I had known Tyler, the bass player, since we were kids. He got me a seat in the front row. Halfway into the second set, I noticed this really cute brunette sitting with three other women at the table next to mine. She kept looking over at me, smiling, and stirring her drink with a swizzle stick. I figured she was out of my league. She was younger, for one thing, by about ten years, and she was beautiful. She had the kind of skin that looks tanned all year, and I could tell she had a nice body, even though she was sitting down. She wore a crisp white shirt with lace around the collar. One of her friends got up, walked to my table, and asked me if I’d like to dance. They were playing an old Meatloaf song called “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad.” While we danced, she whispered that it was her girlfriend Juliet’s birthday. She said Juliet wanted to meet me.
“Me?” I said, acting flattered but not really believing what I was hearing.
“She thinks you’re hot.”
After the Meatloaf song, I walked to their table and introduced myself. Juliet and I struck up a conversation about, of all things, Area 51. About the possibility that extraterrestrial aliens had landed on Earth and there was some sort of government cover-up about it. You can really get going on a subject like that after a few cocktails.
The band went into another slow song, “Spiritual” by saxophonist John Coltrane, the same song playing in my head now. I asked Juliet to dance, and I started falling in love with her the minute our bodies met on the floor. We made a date for the following Saturday, and the rest is history. Juliet and I have had our ups and downs through the years, but we’ve always managed to come out hand in hand.
I thought about her and how she had practically begged me not to take this job in Key West. As usual, she’d been right. I should have left it alone.
I looked at my watch. An hour had passed. If I could make it one hour, maybe I could make it two. That’s how I had to think about it. In small increments. Maybe I could eat this elephant one bite at a time.
I wondered what the world record was for treading water in the open sea. Surely someone had done it for more than fifteen hours. Surely it was humanly possible. If that person could do it, I could do it. One second, one minute, one hour at a time.
I was psyching myself into thinking I might actually stand a chance when I saw the dorsal fin of something very large speeding directly toward me.
The John Coltrane song that had been playing in my head came to an abrupt stop.
It was replaced by the theme to Jaws.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The big fin kept coming, and then I saw another. And another. There were a dozen or more. I was surrounded by them.
I might have been able to fend off a single shark. I’ve heard of it happening. I have a friend whose daughter was attacked while surfing the waters between St. Augustine and Daytona. She was out there alone when she saw the fierce predator swim by, and when it came back after her, she did the only thing she could think of: she punched it in the nose. It took a bite the size of a Chihuahua out of her fiberglass surfboard, and then swam away. My friend’s daughter made it back to shore without a scratch.
So I might have been able to handle one shark.
But not a dozen.
If one of them bit me, the blood would attract the others, and a feeding frenzy would ensue. Now there was no hope. I was going to die. It was almost a certainty. As Buck Owens used to say: adios, farewell, good-bye, good luck, so long.
I was expecting to be torn apart limb by limb when a shiny gray snout emerged and started making a nasally staccato laughing sound.
Dolphins.
Fucking dolphins!
They all started laughing, and I started laughing right along with them. I laughed until it hurt. A sense of relief washed over me, a wave of euphoria like I’d never felt before. Now I knew what an eleventh-hour death-row pardon felt like.
The dolphins swam around playfully and jumped and splashed and nudged me with their slick bodies. They weren’t going to eat me. They were going to help me. At least I hoped they were.
I latched onto one of the dorsal fins, and my amiable aquatic friend started towing me one way and then the other. Just playing around. I decided my dolphin was female. I decided to give her a name. Lucille. That was a good name for a dolphin. It was playtime for Lucille and the gang, but I figured eventually they would continue toward their destination. And a few minutes later they did. The school started swimming westward, toward the sun. I had no other point of reference, so I had no idea where we were going. From Key West, Jim Ballard could have taken me out to the Atlantic. In that case, we were headed toward Florida. If Jim had dumped me deeper into the Gulf, we were headed toward Mexico.
Mexico was a long way away. I would never make it to Mexico. I would weaken from dehydration and lose my grip on Lucille, and then I would sink and drown. But that didn’t happen. I got lucky. About thirty minutes into our journey, I spotted an island straight ahead. The sun was getting low and blinding me and I could barely see it. It appeared to be tiny, probably not even a dot on the map, and there were no other land masses in sight. But it was a chance.
The dolphins started veering north.
“Lucille, this is where I get off,” I said.
I let go of her fin and she swam on without looking back.
“Thank you,” I said.
I started freestyling it toward the shore. When I got to within maybe a hundred yards, I saw someone paddling a kayak near the south side of the island. I kept swimming. It was a young boy. Maybe nine or ten. When he saw me splashing toward him, he pulled the kayak onto a dry finger of land and ran away shouting, Daddy! He seemed very alarmed, which was understandable. It’s not every day you see a wild-eyed pink-skinned monster with long hair and a beard wash in with the seaweed.
I crawled from the water onto the bank and lay there staring at the sky and breathing heavily. It wasn’t a nice comfortable sandy beach. It was rocky, and the rocks were digging into the skin on my back and shoulders. But it was land. Blessed land. I never thought I would feel it beneath me again.
A few minutes after I landed, a man wearing neon green swimming trunks and a matching pair of water shoes trotted over and said, “Are you OK?”
“I think so,” I said. “Can you help me up?”
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Nicholas Colt. Someone just tried to kill me.”
He extended his hand and we locked wrists and I struggled to a standing position. My ears were clogged with seawater, my head reeling with vertigo.
“Think you can make it to the house?” the man said.
“How far is it?”
“Not far. Just past those trees.”
“Where are we?” I said.
“It’s a private island you can rent by the week. I’m here wit
h my wife and our boys.”
“You have a boat?”
“Yes. It’s also a rental. We’re from Canada, and—”
“I need to get back to Key West,” I said.
“That’s no problem. I can take you to Marathon. It’s only a five-minute boat ride from here. From Marathon you can take a taxi down or rent a car or whatever.”
He seemed anxious to help. He probably wanted me out of his hair as quickly as possible, so he and his family could get on with their vacation.
I still felt a little woozy. “Maybe I better rest for a few minutes,” I said.
“Sure. Come on up to the house.”
He led me to a boardwalk and then to the cottage. We walked inside. He introduced me to his wife, Vera, and their two sons. Justin was the one I’d seen in the kayak. The other boy was only six. His name was Aaron.
“And I don’t think I caught your name,” I said to the man.
He laughed. “Sorry about that. Ralph Parker.”
We shook hands.
“Is there a phone here?” I said.
“In the kitchen.”
I called Juliet, told her to ignore any future reports of my untimely demise. I figured the Coast Guard search would be all over the eleven o’clock news. I didn’t go into a lot of detail. I told her it was just a big mix-up. I didn’t want her to be worried. She said she would call Brittney and tell her right away.
She was surprisingly cool about the whole thing. Or maybe resigned was a better word. It seemed maybe she had given up on trying to talk me out of staying on this case. She didn’t raise her voice or start crying or anything. Then again, she said she’d taken a Valium not long before I called.
After talking to Juliet, I walked back to the living room and sat with the Parker family for a while.
“Did you swim all the way here?” Aaron said.
“I had a little help,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
“Yes I would. What happened?”
I told him about the dolphins. I told him about the one named Lucille.
“Wow,” he said. “That’s cool.”
The boys prodded me for more adventure stories, but Ralph must have seen how weary I was getting. He interceded on my behalf.
“You guys run along and play now,” he said to the boys.
Justin and Aaron grabbed a couple of flashlights and went outside. Vera fixed me a cup of tea, and Ralph gave me a shirt to put on and a pair of flip-flops. They seemed interested in my story, so I told them all about my little ill-fated ocean cruise. It gave them something unusual to take back to their friends in Canada. They were very nice people. I told them so, and I thanked them for their kindness.
“There’s an extra room,” Vera said. “You can stay here tonight.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“We insist. Come on, I’ll show you to your room. You look exhausted.”
She was right. I barely had enough energy to stand on my own.
Ralph loaned me a pair of pajama bottoms and I climbed into the bed Vera led me to and slept for nearly Twenty-four hours. I only got up to use the bathroom and to get drinks of water. Twice, Vera brought food to my room on a TV tray, and both times I sat up and ate and then went back to sleep.
Finally, almost a day later, I woke up and felt as though I’d gotten enough rest.
Someone had washed and dried and folded my pants and boxer shorts. They were on top of the dresser, along with a clean T-shirt. I walked out to see if it was OK to take a shower, but the house was empty, so I found a towel and helped myself. By the time I got cleaned up and dressed, Ralph had returned and was loading a twelve-pack of beer into the refrigerator. He said Vera and the boys were still out exploring.
“I’m feeling better,” I said. “Maybe I should go now.”
“Won’t you stay for dinner?”
“I would like to, but I really need to get back.”
“Ok. I’ll just leave a note here for Vera.”
Ralph and I walked to the dock and boarded the rental boat, and he ferried me over to Marathon. He asked me if I needed money for cab fare. I told him I was OK.
I climbed out of the boat. Every muscle in my body was sore from the swim yesterday.
“Thanks again,” I said. “Next time you and your family come to Florida, give me a call. I’ll take you to the best seafood restaurant on the East Coast.”
“Angels were watching over you yesterday, Nicholas.”
“I think you’re right,” I said.
“Take care, my friend.”
I watched as he motored back toward the little island.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I found an ATM and withdrew four hundred dollars. I figured it would cost me half that to get back to Key West. Two hundred bucks to go forty-eight miles.
The first two cabbies I approached said they didn’t have time. The third said OK, and I climbed into a minivan that smelled like cheap cigars and dirty diapers. The driver was a guy named Charlie. I couldn’t handle the smell, so I told him to take me to the nearest rental car place. I picked out a black Ford Focus. It had a built-in GPS system, which I thought might come in handy. The guy at the counter said I could drop it off at the office in Key West tomorrow. I said OK. I paid with my debit card, and an hour later I was back in my hotel room.
Luckily, I still had my wallet and my car keys. Missing in action were my cell phone and my .38. Not to mention a fairly new pair of Sperry Top-Siders and my T-shirt from the John Fogerty concert.
I spread all the wet things from my wallet out on the dresser. I still had the business card Detective Craig Sullivan had given me, and I was about to call him when my room phone rang. I answered.
“Hey, Nicholas. This is Wesley West again. I tried your cell phone, but it kept going to voice mail. We said eight, right?”
I looked at my watch. It was almost nine. “I’ve had a pretty rough couple of days, Wesley. I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it.”
“Sorry to hear that. I bought beer and a meat-and-cheese tray and some nice crackers. I was hoping we could make a night of it. But if you can’t make it, you can’t make it. By the way, some detective came by asking about you. I told him you’d been over here looking for me the day Alison Palmer was killed, just like you said.”
I felt bad. Wesley had come through for me, and now I was standing him up.
“Give me an hour,” I said. “I can’t stay late, but I can come over for a little while.”
“Cool. Yeah, just come on over whenever you’re ready.”
I hung up and tried to call Detective Sullivan. An answering machine picked up and told me to call 911 if this was an emergency. I dropped the receiver into the cradle, stripped, and took another hot shower. For some reason, the water on the island had left me feeling as though I was covered with some sort of film.
Sullivan still wasn’t answering his phone when I got out. Maybe he was sitting somewhere with a tall, cool glass of Fuck The World in front of him. Even homicide detectives have to call it a day at some point. I thought about filing the report with someone else, decided against it. I could talk to Sullivan tomorrow. The fewer police detectives I got involved with, the better; and I was a little worried that the cops would believe Jim’s version of the story, not mine. If they believed Jim, that I’d been drinking and went for a swim and didn’t come back up, then I was the one who would be in trouble. Jim could produce a firearm registered in my name, a gun I’d had no business carrying. No telling what kind of story he might make up.
After considering the possible outcomes for a few minutes, I wondered if I should even talk to Sullivan tomorrow. It was something I needed to think about.
I called Juliet, told her I still wasn’t dead. She gave me umpteen rations of hell this time. I told her to take another Valium.
I got dressed and drove over to Wesley’s place. I hadn’t brought a second pair of shoes to Key West with me, so I was wearing the flip-flops from R
alph Parker. I didn’t like driving in them, and I felt naked without my cell phone and my gun.
I knocked and Wesley opened the door and I walked into his apartment.
“Nice place you have here,” I said.
“Thanks. I do OK for a lounge singer, I guess.”
There was a sectional sofa and a big television and a round coffee table with a snack tray and some magazines on it. There was a framed poster on the wall, a promo with a list of tour dates for a band called Freak Willy. Near the television there were two acoustic guitars on stands. One was a Martin, the other a Takamine. Both fine instruments.
“Choose your weapon,” Wesley said.
I picked up the Martin, sat on the sofa, and strummed an open G chord. I hadn’t held a guitar in a while. It felt strange, and my fingers started aching right away.
The high E string was a little out of tune. I tweaked it by ear.
“Nice ax,” I said.
“Thanks. I have an electronic tuner if you want to try that.”
“I think it’s OK now. Your E was just a little sharp.”
“Can I get you a beer?” he said.
“Do you have any coffee?”
“I can make some.”
“That would be great.”
He went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. When he came back, he grabbed the other guitar and sat across from me on a wooden stool.
He started strumming a twelve-bar blues progression. I played some lead notes over it, best I could with my crippled hand. I’d lost all my calluses, and after a few minutes my fingertips started getting sore.
“That sounds great,” Wesley said. “Show me what you were doing there.”
I played the notes slowly while he watched, and then again while he tried to play along. He was struggling with it. His hands looked as though they might have been more at home turning a wrench.
“It’s just a scale,” I said. “But you’re going to have to practice these runs using all four fingers. It’ll take some time, but you’ll get the hang of it eventually.”
