Rough Draft

by James W. Hall

  The houseboat was anchored in a narrow canal on the edge of Key Biscayne. Skyscrapers visible just over the top of the bushes. The city seemed very close, though the boat was hidden so well, they might as well be in an Amazon river a thousand miles from city lights. Misty had rammed the houseboat so deep into the dense branches, they didn’t even need the anchor.

  Outside the tinted windows a dozen white birds were roosting in the high branches, their guano streaking the leaves below. In the distance Misty could hear motorboats speeding here and there, and a few feet away there was the squawk and flutter of the birds as they resettled on their perches.

  She looked out the window, feeling groggy now that the adrenaline rush was over. Hal Bonner and Misty Fielding were pair-bonded now. She was helping Hal do his job, at the same time she was getting her chance to even the score with Hannah Keller. Two birds, one stone. Like maybe that was what love was all about. Two people using the same rock to kill what each of them needed to kill.

  “There something wrong with Randall?” Misty said. “A mental problem I should know about?”

  “You’re the one with the mental problem,” Gisela said. “Kidnapping a police officer and an eleven-year-old boy.”

  “Hey, I’m trying very hard to be courteous with you. But you keep insulting me.”

  “Listen to me, young lady. You need to let the boy go immediately. He was badly traumatized once in his life already. For three months afterward he was nearly catatonic. There’s no telling what harm this might be causing him.”

  “Catatonic?”

  “He didn’t speak, he barely ate. It’s a dangerous, life-threatening condition.”

  “Bullshit,” Misty said. “Don’t try to trick me. The kid’s a little upset, so he’s clamming up, that’s all. Don’t bullshit me. A person stops talking, that isn’t going to kill them.”

  “It’s more than that,” Gisela said. “It’s emotional shock. Like his system is shutting down.”

  Misty eased into the chair beside Randall. She inched it close to his. She ran her hand through his blond hair and ruffled it. He didn’t move. Didn’t look her way, just kept staring into the glass case with the dinosaurs and pirates.

  She tried to get some sugar in her voice.

  “It’s going to be fine, honey. I’m not going to hurt you. There’s nothing to worry about, Randall. Not a single thing. Your mother cooperates and gives us the information we want, you’ll be home in no time. I promise.”

  The boy just kept staring into the glass case.

  “Would you like some ice cream, Randall? A candy bar maybe?”

  Randall didn’t move.

  Misty looked over at Gisela.

  “What’re some of his favorite foods?”

  Gisela shut her eyes and shook her head.

  “Come on, goddamn it. Help me out here. I’ve got to do something to comfort the boy.”

  “Let us go,” Gisela said. “That’s the only way he’s going to be all right.”

  “Nobody’s going to let anybody go, so you can get that idea out of your head.”

  The lady cop was very still. Staring at Misty from across the cabin, giving her the thousand-watt evil eye.

  “All right,” Gisela said. “I’ll tell you how to comfort the boy, but first you’ve got to cut my ankles loose. My feet are numb.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Hey, you’ve got the gun,” Gisela said. “And we’re out here in the middle of nowhere. What’re you worried about?”

  Misty knew it was cop talk. Angling for every advantage. Always looking for a way to improve their situation, find an opportunity to make a break. But it didn’t matter. She needed to get the kid talking, break the spooky silence. The way Randall was acting was making her start to doubt the whole plan. If she couldn’t get him to open up pretty soon, how the hell was she going to get the kid to say something on the phone, let Hannah know they’d kidnapped him?

  At the moment about the only real comfort Misty had was her derringers. One in each pocket of her overalls. The Legendary Model 1, .45-caliber Colt in her right pocket, the LM5 .32-caliber magnum in her left.

  Misty walked over to the kitchenette, dug through a couple of drawers until she found a steak knife. She drew out the .32 derringer and kept it in her right hand while she went over to Gisela and with a quick stroke, sawed through the tape on her ankles and waited while the woman bent forward and rubbed the life back into her feet.

  “Make any kind of move to get out of that chair, you’re dead. You got that?”

  “Listen,” Gisela said. “I can guarantee you immunity from prosecution. You could just walk away from this now before you get in any deeper, no harm, no foul.”

  Behind Gisela, out the dark-tinted window, one of those big white birds landed on the chrome rail and stared down into the water.

  “Forget it,” said Misty. “I don’t want any goddamn plea bargain.”

  “The boy goes back to his mother, you walk away. We forget this whole stupid thing happened. Think about it, Misty. Weigh it for a second before you decide.”

  Misty didn’t answer. Outside the window, just beyond the white bird, there was a motorboat idling up the canal. Gray hull with large blue lettering on its side that said MARINE PATROL. At the wheel was a tall, serious-looking guy in a gray uniform. Short pants, short-sleeved shirt, a gun on his hip.

  “Aw, shit.”

  Misty watched as the boat circled around the houseboat, the guy craning around his console for a better look.

  “All right, you stay quiet,” Misty said. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Gisela turned and looked out as the boat circled closer.

  “Now look, Misty. You can turn yourself in to this marine patrol officer. Let him know what’s going on, and the deal I offered you would still apply. You walk.”

  Misty spun around and jammed the pistol to Gisela’s temple and ground it hard against her flesh. She got her voice down to a harsh whisper.

  “Goddamn it! You just sit here and be quiet while I’ll get rid of this guy. You make a peep, everybody dies. Everybody.”

  Misty gave her a last jab with the pistol then left the cabin.

  She went out onto the deck and moved over to the chrome rail. She felt the calming weight of the two-shot derringers in both pockets of her blue overalls.

  “Hey there, officer. How’s it going?”

  He idled his boat up closer. Blond hair cut in a flattop, dark aviator glasses. Curly blond hair on his hammy arms and his muscular legs. The guy’s sidearm looked like a .45. Big fucking cannon he must’ve needed to bring down all those ocean-going rhino.

  The guy slid up alongside the houseboat, and slung two white boat bumpers over the side, pressed his rail to the side of the houseboat, then lashed a thick line to one of the cleats that ran along the gunwale. His big Yamaha outboard was grumbling at idle.

  “Could I see your boat registration, please, ma’am?”

  “What’s the problem, officer? I know I wasn’t speeding.”

  “Ma’am, are you aware of what kind of trees those are behind you?”

  Misty turned and looked at the green bushes covered in guano.

  “They’re not palm trees,” Misty said. “I know that much. But I’m no big devotee of plants. I know the names of a few constellations. But bushes, no. Bushes aren’t my strong suit.”

  “Those are mangroves,” the man said. “They’re a vital part of the aquatic ecosystem and they’re protected under environmental law.”

  “You got laws to protect bushes?”

  “Ma’am, the way you’ve anchored your houseboat, you’ve done considerable damage to several of those mangroves. I’m afraid I’m going to have to write you a citation.”

  Misty was looking at the bushes, shaking her head.

  “What’s so damn special about these bushes they need the police to look after them?”

  The marine patrol guy pulled out a pad and a ballpoint pen from his pocket. He clicked it a cou
ple of times, giving a closer look at the houseboat as if he were trying to find other infractions.

  “I’m going to need to see your registration, ma’am.”

  “So you can give me a ticket for bumping into some fucking bushes.”

  The guy took off his sunglasses and folded them into his shirt pocket. His eyes were pale blue. He came closer to her and put a foot up on the side of the houseboat, setting his pad on his knee.

  He was peering straight ahead through the tinted windows, trying to see into the cabin.

  “Hey, look, officer. How about if I just pay my fine right here? Give you the twenty bucks or whatever it is, you pass it along to the appropriate parties, or whatever.”

  The man was silent, leaning closer to the window.

  Misty slid her left hand into the pocket of her shorts, felt the cool, heavy presence of the .32-caliber derringer. Her heart was knocking hard.

  “To tell the truth, I’ve always considered myself a bush lover,” Misty said. “Just because I don’t know all their names doesn’t mean I don’t love the little buggers.”

  The man shot her a quick look, then brought his face even closer to the window, cupping his hands to shield his eyes from the glare.

  Misty heard Gisela say something, her voice muffled by the glass.

  “Don’t mind her,” Misty said. “That’s my mom. She’s had one too many cocktails for breakfast and had to lie down. She’s got a drinking problem.”

  The marine patrol officer lowered his head and looked up at Misty again.

  “Old Mom’s had a hard life, lots of things she’s trying to forget. You know how it is. All those husbands leaving her, boyfriends beating the hell out of her. Booze is about the only thing that’s stuck by her. Booze and me.”

  The marine patrol officer drew away from the window.

  Misty’s hand tightened around the .32 in her pocket.

  He gave her a long, steady look, then said, “I’m going to need to go into the cabin, make sure your mother is all right.”

  “I don’t think so. This isn’t a real good time for visitors.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s what I’m going to have to do.”

  “Look out!” It was Gisela calling from the cabin. Her voice muffled and hoarse, but loud enough to be heard. “She’s got a gun!”

  The marine patrol officer hesitated a half second, then jerked his hand to his sidearm, but by that time Misty already had her derringer aimed at his chest. Their eyes held for a second, the marine patrol officer with his .45 halfway out of his holster but frozen in that position.

  “Take it out real slow,” she said, “and drop it over the side.”

  The cop glanced down the empty canal. He looked back at Misty, took a deep swallow of air. Then he feinted to the right, lunged to the left, drawing his pistol as he moved.

  Misty fired the .32. Winged him in the left shoulder, spun him around.

  Behind her a few dozen birds exploded from the mangroves and sailed off into the blue sky. The marine patrol officer was stumbling to the side, still trying to dig his .45 out of his holster so Misty had no choice but to fire a second round, this one clipping him in the right shoulder and sending him floundering into his console.

  A strangled noise came from his throat, then he slumped over the throttle and his big gray boat lunged forward. The line he’d tied to the cleat of the houseboat went taut and the Margaritaville reeled to the side, and felt for a moment like it was going to tip over. Misty lost her footing and a second later she was sprawled on her back, slipping across the slick deck toward the edge.

  Twisting onto her stomach, she snatched hold of a chrome rail, dragged herself back away from the edge, got to her knees.

  The Yamaha was revved up, water churned wildly at the props, the big gray patrol boat dragging them out of the mangroves toward the main canal.

  Misty heard things crashing down in the cabin, glass breaking. The marine patrol boat plowing ahead, ten feet, fifteen into the wide center of the canal. Its bow rose high out of the water, which sent the officer toppling backward off the controls.

  He was still alive, arms flailing for balance. Misty could see the bullet wounds in both shoulders, the blood running down his arms, staining his gray shirt. He floundered against the leaning post and somehow got lodged there.

  There was nothing Misty could do but pull the .45 derringer from her pocket and sight at the rope that was binding the boats together. But with the houseboat shuddering and rocking so hard, she couldn’t get any kind of aim.

  And now the marine patrol officer had gotten hold of the microphone for his VHF radio. He punched the button on the side and was just bringing the mike to his mouth when Misty fired the .45. The slug struck him in the left thigh, near his crotch, knocked him to the side and he dropped the microphone.

  The throttle was still mashed flat, engine roaring. Both boats were plowing toward a piling in the center of the main canal, a creosote-soaked telephone pole sticking fifteen feet out of the murky water. They were moving fast enough, ten, fifteen miles an hour, if they hit that marker head-on there was a good chance it might split the houseboat in half.

  Misty tugged on the rope, tried to unhook it from the cleat, but it was as rigid and unyielding as iron. When she looked up again the marine patrol boat was brushing hard through the mangrove branches. The boat wallowed to the side and sent the officer staggering toward the rear of his vessel.

  He waved his big muscular arms like a tightrope walker, then he tripped over the transom and tumbled headfirst onto the top of the outboard motor. He grabbed at it, tried to hug it to his chest, his feet kicking. But his hands slipped on the slick plastic housing and he began to slide headfirst into the foamy water.

  As his shoulders were just disappearing below the surface, one of his boat shoes snagged on a rear cleat and his body was slung hard against the lower unit.

  The motor shuddered and almost died, like a blender that’s overloaded. Then the big Yamaha surged and the bubbles sputtering out behind the boat turned to red froth. The propeller twisted the officer, once, twice, with his boat shoe still snared on the cleat.

  Ahead of them the piling was less than ten feet away, dead ahead of the houseboat. Misty pulled herself up to her knees and crawled to the rope, got out her .45, and fired into it. Her first shot just nicked the outer strands. She pressed the barrel to the rope and squeezed the trigger again, but the derringer was empty.

  The marine patrol boat roared on, dragging the Margaritaville sideways into the pole. Misty dropped flat to the deck and gripped the chrome rail but when the boat crashed, her body was pitched forward and her chest slammed against a flag stanchion, the air knocked from her lungs.

  Dazed and reeling, Misty raised her head. She felt the deck listing hard to the left. The big Yamaha had stalled out and for a moment the canal was silent. A breeze filtered through the branches. Two white butterflies danced around the leaves. Out in the middle of the canal a patch of bloody foam floated on the surface.

  Misty lay back against the deck trying to catch her breath. She’d kidnapped a cop, then murdered another cop. All in the same day. She squinted up at the sky and listened to the hot rasp of her breath and felt the houseboat sinking beneath her.

  Bloody foam on the canal. A hacked-up body floating in the bushes.

  Behind her eyes, the burn of tears began to build. She was wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand when she heard the two splashes.

  Misty stood up and hustled to the front of the houseboat.

  Gisela and Randall were swimming side by side into the dense mangroves. The kid must’ve cut Gisela’s hands free and now the two of them were flailing around, searching for somewhere to hide.

  Misty scrambled down the chrome ladder to the lower deck, found her blue gym bag on its side near the transom. The houseboat was tilting hard to the right, the sound of water rushing below deck.

  She unzipped her bag, chose the M-4 Alaskan survival two-shot .410 and
the Model 4 with the rosewood grip. She tucked one in each pocket. Then she crab-walked down the narrow side deck, reached up, and yanked down the long aluminum boat hook. She went forward to the open front deck, flattened onto her belly, and stretched out as far as she could, reaching with the boat hook until she snagged the bow rail of the marine patrol boat and dragged it over.

  When it was near enough, she got to her feet, steadied herself on the edge of the gunwale, then hopped from the Margaritaville to the patrol boat. She untied the line, then slid behind the console, turned the ignition key, and after a couple of cranks the motor revved to life. She swung around, went back to the stern, unhooked the marine officer’s shoe from the cleat, and let it fall into the dark water.

  Then she put the boat in gear, cut it hard to the left, and idled up the canal toward where Gisela Ortega and Randall Keller had headed off into the thick tangle of mangroves.

  It only took a minute to find them. They’d gone right into a dead-end canal and were treading water side by side, holding onto the stalky roots of the mangroves.

  Misty idled closer. When the patrol boat was ten feet away, she shut down the engine and let it coast.

  Gisela was shaking her head sadly, one arm around the boy’s shoulder, one holding onto the mangroves.

  “Let the boy go,” Misty said. “And move away from him. Do it now.”

  Gisela continued to shake her head. Misty walked up to the bow of the boat and aimed the pistol at Gisela’s face.

  “I told you what I was going to do if you tried to get away. Now move away from the boy. If you don’t move away, I might accidentally hit him. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”

  Gisela looked at Randall. The boy was crying soundlessly.

  She pushed away from him and started to breaststroke out into the open water. Randall shrieked and grabbed at her blouse.