by DS Whitaker
Their butler, Hugh, asked, “Sir, can I get you a spot of tea?”
“No, thank you. After our guests leave, could you send my lawyer in?”
“Yes, sir.”
Alone in the room again, Cud noticed not a single thing had changed in his office over the last decade. It was a time capsule. His wife, Winifred, had decorated the grand room in a mix of Jacobean style and British Colonial furniture, with green silk toile curtains and throw pillows. How many years ago was that?
Beautiful Winifred.
Freddy, to him once.
He ran his hand over the curtains. Freddy had the fabric made custom. Instead of farm scenes or horses or dogs in the toile pattern, she wanted palm trees, sea turtles and corrals. The pattern was subtle, but charming. He hadn’t appreciated her or her decorating efforts at the time. No, he was too consumed with business and increasing the bottom line. It wasn’t until she was dying of cancer that he learned from his mistakes. And by then, it was too late to make amends. The week after her funeral, without telling his family, he instructed his helicopter pilot to drop him on St. John.
Now, the same ghosts haunted him. On the fireplace mantel, a framed photo caught his attention. Their wedding, when they were in their early twenties, without a penny, in love, like nothing else mattered. She wore a white dress she’d found at a London second-hand shop. He wore borrowed tails with sneakers.
As he met Winifred’s happy eyes, he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
The thick mahogany door opened with a creak, waking him from his sweet memories. A slender, white-haired woman walked in; she had a crew cut and wore a loose-fitting black linen suit with a white silk scarf tied in a wide bow. “Welcome back. Are you ready?”
He wiped his eyes. “Please sit, Felicity. Yes, fine then, let’s go over everything.”
She took file folders out of her case and spread them on the conference-size, antique cherry table. Gesturing to a row of five, “These are the incorporation papers for your new acquisition. You need to sign all the tabbed pages. These,” she gestured to a stack of two folders, “invalidate the previous power of attorney you bequested to your grandson, and restores all your bank accounts and holdings.”
Cudlow pointed to a red folder. “Is this…?”
“Yes. As you requested.”
He put his glasses on and opened the red folder, staring at the front page. Was he being foolhardy? “Right. Let’s do this before I change my mind.” Grabbing a gold-tipped pen, he signed the items in the red folder. “Of all the things I want to give her, this pales…” He rubbed his forehead. “Do you think she’ll hate me?”
“Why would she hate you?” She affixed a notary stamp and signed the lines below. “After what you did? Risking everything?”
He fiddled with his hands. Gertie didn’t know about him buying the company to save her. And he intended it to stay that way. “Send it now. I don’t want to discuss this again.”
“I understand. Give me a moment.”
His lawyer left. Cud signed more pages from the other stacks. Five minutes later, Felicity returned. “How are you making out?”
“Fine. Is it done?”
“Yes. The account is transferred. Do you want me to mail a notification to her?”
“No, please call the bank manager, Mr. Jameson, and have him relay the message personally. I would go myself, but there is so much to do.”
“As you wish.”
He let out a long yawn.
“We can pick this up tomorrow if you’d like.” She reached to gather the folders.
“No, best to carry on.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. His ten-dollar, fake wood-grained, plastic reading glasses he’d purchased last week probably looked incongruous with his decade-old black pin-striped five-thousand-dollar suit. But he didn’t care. Hopefully, he’d complete his work soon enough…
Cudlow continued signing. In the last ten years, he hadn’t signed his name on a single piece of paper—until last week with Samuel for the twenty dollars. Now, after signing a few dozen papers, his wrist ached. And his feet hurt. He shuffled off his dress shoes under the table, rubbing the sore parts around his ankle with his socked toes.
His former life was once again his current life. With meetings and legalities and stockholders and bankers. All the things he despised. But until he could turn his new acquisition around and find a new buyer, he was stuck. Which meant he would need to find new development deals to bolster the company’s value to break even; or refinance the hard money loan to more reasonable terms. The livelihoods of ten thousand employees were at stake.
Cud owed them and Jackson to make it right. Especially Jackson.
He couldn’t dwell on the discomfort of his feet or the cold emptiness of his bed. He had to focus on the big picture.
Gertie was worth waiting for.
He only hoped she would wait for him too.
Chapter 26
Johnnie returned to forest hike duty the day after the kidnapping. Kemper said he could take the day off, but he needed some normalcy and he was up at sunrise anyway. The afternoon hike went as well as he could hope for. No dumb questions. Everyone had proper shoes. No rain. No complaints. He even smiled twice without being self-conscious of coming off phony. Yes, it was a good day despite needing to keep a look out for Thomas Smith, because there was no telling when that asswipe might resurface.
At the end of the trail, a Park Service boat transported their group back to the Visitor Center. Once there, he walked inside and up to the desk.
Candy waved to Johnnie, infused with energy, like she was hailing a cab. “Good afternoon, John! how did it go today? Did you battle any international assassins?” She beamed at him from behind the tall, yellow, L-shaped customer desk. The ceiling fan provided welcome streams of cool air across his damp back.
“Ha. Funny. The hike was fine. Hey, I called Robin a couple times. Any word on Smith?” He took off his ball-cap and wiped sweat from his brow, rubbing his wet hand on his pant leg.
“Yes, Kemper came by an hour ago. She heard that the police raided his hotel room this morning but no signs of him. From cell phone tracking, they believe he took a boat off the island during the night.”
“Thanks, Candy. I’m heading home. See you in the morning.” He walked out and checked his cell phone again. A text from Robin reminded him she was away for a three-day storm resilience conference on St. Thomas, and would be back Saturday night. He wondered if that was wise, now learning Smith could be anywhere. He texted her to be careful.
Johnnie rode his Piaggio across the island toward Calabash Boom. Gertie had plans with Dottie that evening at the church—getting things ready for the Sunday Easter service—and Cud was away on his mystery trip. He was all alone, which was just as well, and maybe he could do some fishing, fry up whatever he caught, and go to bed early with a good book.
Before fishing, he stopped home to change into board shorts and a T-shirt. Then he continued south to the beach at Johns Folly, an area where he could legally use his spear to fish.
The sky was blue and the wide sandbar near the rocky southern portion of beach was deserted. His favorite spot. Around the corner, the terrain climbed to a rocky cliff, becoming impassible. The lone house perched on the hillside—with its sleek lines and walls of glass—looked deserted; he never saw anyone or any lights on. If he owned a house as beautiful and remote, he would never leave.
Johnnie took off his T-shirt and sneakers, put on his snorkel and flippers and walked backwards into the water as short powerful waves broke across his legs.
It felt great diving under the surf, searching for dinner. A snapper or a mackerel would be ideal. Fish were part of his ‘clean diet’ that Dr. Lou always recommended for better brain health. She’d given him instructions: whole foods and cut the sugar. He tried, but sometimes emotional eating got the best of him. Like those Mallomars he finished in forty-eight hours. And, of course, cheesy puffs.
He scanned the ocean, swimming past schools o
f small Parrotfish. A dark moray eel scared the shit out of him. Eels freaked him out. Ironically, sharks and stingrays were fine. But eels looked at you funny, like they were reading your mind and they hated you. No, he couldn’t abide them.
When he surfaced, treading water, he took off his snorkel mask and looked back at the shore. A hundred and fifty feet away, a man, wearing black, stood alone on the sand bar. Even from the distance, he could make out the bandages.
Thom the Douche. But how?
The man in black yelled, “Hey, Crosswell. You can’t stay out there all day. Come face me like a man.”
Did Thom track his scooter or his cell phone? It seemed inconceivable. Johnnie considered his options. He could out-swim this guy. So, he stayed put, treading water and grinning. “Come and get me.”
Smith retreated to a high spot on the sandbar and sat down. And he waited.
Johnnie swam closer, waves now crashing on him. He had to yell to be heard. “You have your stupid Bitcoin money. Shouldn’t you leave?”
“It’s not the money. It’s the principle.”
“What principle?” This whole conversation was so strange, shouting over the 25-yard distance.
Thom screamed, “That you’re a punk-ass whiny bitch that needs a beat-down. You fucking ruined my face.”
“I’m sorry about hitting you with the shovel. Does that help?” He smiled, which was not the right move. His face was incapable of sincerity, because deep down, he wasn’t sorry. And unfortunately, his tone of voice was equally unconvincing.
Thomas snickered and cracked his knuckles. “You’re a weirdo. And I’m going to punch your skull in.”
“That’s totally unnecessary.”
“I say what’s necessary.” Thom shook his fist at the sky. “Yeah, shut up number four!”
Number four? Who was he talking to? “Damn. And I thought I had anger issues.” Johnnie paddled closer toward the sneering Frankenstein monster jug-head. When the water was shallow enough, he found his footing and stood, water up to his waist, waving at Thom from a distance of thirty feet. “Okay, bro, come get me. Or are you scared of the water?” He clucked like a chicken and wiggled his arms. He glanced up again at the house on the hill. No signs of life. Their showdown would not have a witness.
Thom stripped off his black dress shirt, balled it up and left it on the sand. “Right. Screw rule five. Let’s go.” He clapped his hands and strode through the water.
What was rule five? Johnnie rethought his plan. Bare-chested, Thom was jacked, with muscles like the Rock. Maybe he should just swim away? Instead, he took off his flippers and tossed them toward the beach; they spun like wobbly Frisbees, missing his target and crashing into the surf.
Allegedly, according to his former buddies, he was once good at hand-to-hand combat, sparing with his bunk mates for fun and winning often. Did he even remember how to fight? Were his reflexes up for this? He did best Chain Boy, even with bruised ribs. But Chain Boy was a poser.
Yes, maybe this was a terrible idea.
Thomas closed the distance quickly.
Now in striking range, Johnnie said, “We can work this out—”
Thom whipped his fist at Johnnie’s jaw, sending it sideways.
Johnnie’s goggles, perched on his forehead, flew off. He fell backwards, below the surface. In freefall, water entered his lungs. Get up, his inner voice screamed. His backside hit the sandy bottom and he rolled to the side to get his legs under him. Breaking through, he popped up, coughing, spitting out salty water.
But Thom was on him, grabbing his neck, squeezing, pushing him down under the water again. Johnnie couldn’t breathe, couldn’t release his grip. Was this the end?
He knew what had to happen…how to execute his plan. If he could only reach...
Kicking Thom’s legs had the intended effect. His opponent fell, his face below the water. Thomas involuntarily released his grip around Johnnie’s neck. Johnnie twisted, reaching for the handle on the ocean floor where he had left it. With a quick flick of his wrists, plunging it forward, he stabbed Thom in the torso with the fishing spear.
Thin streams of blood oozed out of the holes in Thom’s abdomen.
A look of surprise crossed Thom’s face. With this window of opportunity, Johnnie punched him in the jaw, twice in succession with all his strength, and chopped him in the Adam’s apple. These reflexed fighting moves surprised himself and he wondered where he had trained; they felt like pure muscle-memory, as if he’d done them a thousand times.
Thom gagged, fell, eyes shut, and sank below the shallow water. His foe was defeated.
For a moment, he was proud of himself. Like he wasn’t a total incompetent. He clenched his fists with a sense of joyful vindication. But this gratification was short-lived.
In an instant, Johnnie’s brain flooded with fear and regret.
He wasn’t a killer. As much as Smith deserved it, he couldn’t let the creep drown. Even on patrols during Village Stability Operations—before his injury—he had never killed anyone, even when it might have been justified as self-defense. At least as far as others told him. Did his friends shelter him from a grimmer truth? Whatever the truth had been, he knew he couldn’t live with himself if he let Smith die.
And—like Dr. Lou always said—he didn’t have to let rage control him.
Johnnie reached down, grabbed Thom and pulled him to the surface. He blew into Thom’s mouth, expanding his lungs. He checked for a pulse. Smith was alive! Although still passed out. The wound below Thom’s ribs was bleeding, but in small streams as the entry points were tiny.
He had to think. Keeping Smith’s dead weight propped up in the ocean wasn’t sustainable. The beach was still deserted, thankfully. No boats in sight. They had drifted a few more feet from shore, and now the water came up mid-chest. The tide was going out. Despite his fatigue and stress, he had to move Thom far away where he’d have little chance of coming back soon…if he survived.
Leduck Island rose out of the water about a half-mile away. It was his best option. Not that he was thinking clearly. What he had in mind was insane and could kill them both.
In between the black, jagged boulders on the southern shore-line, he spotted a faded, busted-up blue boogie-board. From his Marine training, Johnnie knew how to use a lifesaving stroke, he didn’t have the muscle strength these days. Using flotation was the only way, no matter how strange or uncomfortable.
He dragged Thom to shallower water, then headed south, clutching his foe’s arm with one hand while he trudged toward the rocks to snatch the Styrofoam board. The board had a nylon cord attached. Johnnie untied the knots, using his teeth, then placed Thom chest down on the board, his face to the side. He tied Thom’s hands behind his back, just to be safe. Uncomfortably, to propel their craft forward, he had to keep his arms around his nemesis and lean against Thom’s rump. He could only imagine how it looked, but it kept them both breathing in the choppy water.
After the first quarter mile, his kicking slowed down. His heart felt ready to burst from the strain, his legs were numb like icy rubber, and salt water stung his eyes. He could easily dump Thom and no one would be the wiser. Or he could turn around and call the police. The stabbing was in self-defense. Tobias wouldn’t arrest him again…would he? But what if Tobias was on the take? On Smith’s payroll? He could ask Robin to contact the FBI. But he couldn’t land another one of his disasters on her shoulders. She’d been through enough. Involving her was out of the question.
As the pair floated, in a bizarre fashion like bareback lovers—the water below them deep and cold—Thomas groaned, then whispered, “I’m gonna kill you.”
Johnnie splashed water in Thom’s face, toward his slack mouth, and shouted, “Shut up or I’ll let you drown.”
Thom gagged, closed his eyes and he grew still. Did he pass out again? Or was he biding his time, lulling him into a false sense of security for a later attack? The boogie board had red ooze on one side. How much blood had Smith lost?
J
ohnnie resumed the journey, his body freezing and his hands numb. John’s Folly receded to a fuzzy line in the distance. Another fifteen minutes and they reached Leduck Island—an uninhabited wildlife preserve. But there were too many rocks to bring Thom ashore. He kept paddling. A couple minutes later, around a corner, a patch of sandy beach appeared. A safe area to land.
He pulled with all his might, digging his bare heels into the sand, gripping Smith under his arm pits. Johnnie pulled, straining, until Smith was fully on dry land, and rolled him to his side. Johnnie checked again for Smith’s breathing. It was shallow, but there. Part of him wanted to check Smith’s pockets for the thumb drive. But he resisted. Rule number 1, no more taking things off bodies on the beach.
Did he dare untie Smith? No, the bastard could figure it out.
A Laughing Gull, with a black head feathers and red beak, perched on a boulder ten feet away, and cawed at him relentlessly like a rabbit in distress, upset at the intrusion.
“Yeah, I know,” he told the gull. “But he’s your problem now.”
With his muscles aching and his hands and feet tingling, he returned to the water, flopping chest down on the board. He paddled methodically back toward Johns Folly, a speck in the distance. An apt name given his situation. Before he rounded the inlet, he glanced back. Thomas hadn’t moved.
Johnnie didn’t know what time it was; the sun was setting behind the hills. Long shadows crept toward him, turning the surrounding water black and ominous. Keep paddling, keep paddling…you can make it.
Time slowed. He rested his arms for a spell, bobbing in the water, doing his breathing exercises, wondering if he would die. The Sabbat Channel was sixty feet deep in this spot. Would anyone really miss him? Robin would get over it. Gertie could find another renter. Cudlow might not come back. And iguanas only lived twenty years, and Stumpy had to be at least fifteen.
Sheer exhaustion taunted him with thoughts of sleep. The waves lulled him; his body relaxed into the cold.
