“Grandma …”
“Courtney, I've been so worried about you. Where are you?”
“Something bad has happened.”
“What honey? What happened?” The woman coughed.
“A man's been killed. He was stabbed to death. It was horrible. I tried to help him, tried to stop the bleeding. But I couldn't. I didn't know what to do, so I just ran. I had to get out of there.”
“Courtney, where are you?”
“Florida. I think the town's called DeLand. I was trying to find the Celtic torc he stole from you. I heard he was workin' the carnival circuit. I was getting closer. Then all this happened.”
“I told you to stay away from him. He's more evil than you can understand.” She coughed into the phone. “Courtney, listen to me. You have to go to the police. Tell them what happened. Then you come on back home. You understand?”
“I can't go back there. You know why.” Courtney saw a police cruiser slowly coming down the street in her direction. She turned her back to the cruiser. “Grandma, I gotta go.”
“Courtney! Courtney, come home.”
“I love you. I’ll call you.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
Courtney disconnected, opened the car door, leaned in and said, “Thank you for the ride. I really appreciate you stopping.” She cut her eyes to the right and watched the police cruiser continue down the street, slowing in front of a Dairy Queen restaurant and turning around in the parking lot.
Lois said, “I hope you're gonna be okay. The women in the clinic will help you.”
Courtney nodded. “I appreciate what you did, stopping for me. Bye.” She closed the car door, turned her back toward the cruiser and walked to the front entrance. From the reflection on the dark glass doors, she could see the police car pulling up to the curb.
Courtney entered the clinic. A receptionist looked up from the magazine she was reading behind the desk. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I'm here to see Carla.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, Lois Timbers sent me.”
“Please, have a seat. I'll see if Mrs. Flowers is available.”
Courtney looked through the front glass. Two officers were getting out of the car, one speaking into a radio microphone clipped to his sleeve. “Where’s the ladies’ room?”
The receptionist pointed to her left. “Through that door. It'll be on your right.”
Courtney smiled. She walked in the direction she was given, but turned down a hallway that led the opposite way from the front door. She stepped quickly over the polished tile floor, ignoring a nurse who asked if she could help her. Courtney found the rear exit and bolted out the door. She ran down a long alleyway. A frightened a black cat jumped from a garbage can, the aluminum lid falling to the concrete. The sound of Courtney's hard soles echoed off the old walls between the buildings and the rattle of dripping air conditioners. Drops of warm water hit her in the face. She ran harder, turning the corner at the end of the alley.
A city bus was pulling away from a stop at the corner. Courtney banged on the bus door. The startled driver opened the door and Courtney paid the fare, taking a seat in the back. She noticed many of the passengers were about her age, college students. She rode for more than ten minutes, and when the students began getting off the bus, she followed suit. She found herself on the campus of Stetson University.
The campus was set in acres of well-manicured grass. Caladiums and oleanders were planted behind rows of border grass. Squirrels hopped between stately old oaks, the blooming jonquils and azaleas like perfume to Courtney. The red brick buildings were majestic, reminding her of Old South plantation mansions she'd seen in part of South Carolina. She watched students walk by talking and laughing about some event they shared together earlier. Some rode skateboards, iPods in ears, backpacks slung over their shoulders. Two male students tossed a Frisbee.
Courtney sat on a park bench beneath an oak tree and watched them for a minute. She could hear church bells in the distance. The smell of grilling barbeque chicken was in the breeze. Suddenly she felt a deep sense of sorrow, as if she was an absolute stranger in a strange world and was just passing through, never belonging, never achieving. Never becoming, only witnessing from afar. And she felt so alone.
An acorn fell from the oak, bouncing off the wooden bench to within inches of her shoe. She watched a squirrel coming closer to her, the squirrel's eyes on the prize. Courtney leaned over to pick up the acorn. It was hidden in a patch of grass that had somehow missed the mower's blades. Next to the acorn grew a tall, perfect clover in the speckled sunlight through the branches. She picked the clover and held it in front of her, rotating the four leaves in her hand.
Maybe this is a good sign. She touched each of the leaves and remembered a conversation she’d had with her grandmother about the Irish shamrock. Courtney would continue. She had no choice. She smiled, reached for the acorn and said, “Come here little fella.” She gently tossed it to the squirrel, the animal scampering like an outfielder chasing a groundball. The squirrel sat back on its haunches, looking directly at her and gnawed the heart out of the nut, its cheeks puffing out.
Courtney Burke smiled, glanced down at the four-leaf clover in her hand, and she no longer felt so alone.
8
Jupiter was home. She was docked, back in her stationary course less than eighty yards from the Tiki Bar in the small universe of Ponce Marina, slip L-17. Seeing my old boat at her place secured to the docks, floating on a rising tide, was like seeing an old friend back in the game of life. Max and I walked down the long pier, Jupiter near the end. The breeze across the harbor brought the smell of a receding tide, barnacles drying in the sun, mangrove roots, and grilled shrimp. Three brown pelicans flew just above the masts of the sailboats. The birds cut a sharp right and alighted near a fish-cleaning station as a charter boat arrived. Fresh meat.
After watching the newsflash on the television hanging above the bar, I told Kim Davis that I'd seen the young woman, Courtney Burke, walking along Highway 314 last night. The girl refused my offer to drive her to town, or anywhere for that matter. But that's all I told Kim. No need to mention the two gents who tried to drag the girl into their pickup truck or what had happened after their attempt. I thought about the message Dave had left on my cell phone after recognizing my voice on the 911 call.
Max stopped, ears rising, nostrils testing the breeze, her eyes like heat-seeking missiles locking on smoke drifting from the St. Michael. The boat was forty feet in length with a much longer lineage connected to ancient mariners who sailed the Sea of Galilee two-thousand years ago. St. Michael was designed with an Old World style bow that could take high waves. The wheelhouse looked like it was lifted from a small tugboat and plopped near the bow. The large, open transom was intended for commercial fishing, and its captain, Nick Cronus, was one of the best in the business.
Nick stepped from the salon door, lifted the hood on his small grill perched in the center of his cockpit, and turned over a piece of fish. The smell of garlic, lemon, olive oil, and grilled fish filled the air. The smoke rose like a ghost beckoning Max. That's all it took. She barked once and darted down the dock toward St. Michael. Nick spun around, greeting her with a wide smile and open arms. “Hot Dog!” he bellowed. “Come see Uncle Nicky.” Max trotted to the boat; Nick, leaning over the side of St Michael, scooped her up in one hand and stepped to the grill, Max’s tail wagging in overdrive.
Nick, born in Greece, made a living from the sea, and he looked it. Wide shoulders, forearms like hams, olive skin, thick moustache, black eyes that smiled, and a mop of dark, curly hair styled from sun, surf, and salt. We’d become close after I pulled two bikers off Nick late one night. They’d accused him of making a pass at one of their women, and they jumped him from behind in the parking lot after the Tiki Bar closed. They were using a tire iron on his wrists and knees, and were about to split his skull when I pulled up and caught them in my high beams. I’d stepped out of my Jeep, Glock extended. Show over. I’ll always remember Nick looking up at me through swollen eyes, teeth red with blood, broken jaw, a shattered wrist, and grinning wide. “There’s a special bond when a man saves another man's life,” he said later. “I got your back forever.”