Mercy was probably still in the truck, injured or dying.
Maybe already dead.
Anger and grief surged within Jenna. First Noah, now Mercy. The killers had taken everything from her now.
No, not everything. You’re still alive.
With a start, Jenna realized that the killers were not done with her. They would almost certainly check the wrecked truck, and when they discovered she was not in it, they would realize where she had gone.
I have to get away from here, she thought, but then another inner voice countered: And go where?
She turned back to the lights she had spotted off in the distance. Boca Chica Key lay off to her right, perhaps a mile away. In the other direction, a little closer, was Stock Island.
Going to Boca would put her that much closer to her ultimate destination on the mainland.
But what would she do once she got there? Hitching a ride was just too risky. If the killers didn’t spot her walking along the roadside, the cops almost certainly would, and chances were good that they were already looking for her. She might be able to stow away in someone’s car or truck. That was less risky, but there was no guarantee that it would get her where she needed to go.
Steal a car?
She felt a twinge of dismay at even considering that possibility, but she couldn’t dismiss it out of hand. As with the theft of the SCUBA gear, extreme circumstances justified extreme actions. She tabled her moral reservations, and considered the practical aspects of such a course. She had a learner’s permit, and she was pretty confident behind the wheel. She didn’t have the first clue about how to break into a car or hotwire it, but she was pretty sure that it wasn’t the kind of thing that could be learned through trial and error. Noah had always scoffed at how easy they made it look in movies. No, if she was going to boost a car, she would need to find one that came with keys. A valet parking lot maybe?
She shook her head, dismissing that idea as well. The Overseas Highway was more than a hundred miles long. Even if she could steal a car, she’d never reach Miami without being caught. So what did that leave?
If she went back to Stock Island, she would be moving further away from her goal, but there were a few more options that way. She knew people there: school friends, teachers, some of Noah’s acquaintances.
She glanced up at the truck, wondering again whether Mercy was trapped inside, dying, or maybe already dead. Was that the fate that awaited anyone who helped her?
Suddenly, Jenna thought of someone else who might be able to help her. It was a crazy idea, crazier even than stealing a car, but the more she thought about it, the more certain she was that it would work.
She rolled over in the water, and as quietly as she could, she began swimming back toward Stock Island.
13
When she had heard the words ‘night club,’ Jenna had envisioned a glitzy, neon-bright industrial exterior, pulsing with a deafening bass backbeat, and a crowd of young over-dressed socialites queued up behind a velvet rope. In hindsight, she should have known better. This was kitschy, touristy Key West, not Miami. The place looked like a standard Key West home, a pastel pink Bahamian conch house, single-story, built on wooden piers so air could circulate underneath. The only indications that it was anything but a residence were its location on historic Duval Street, an area zoned for commercial use, and the hand painted sign that read: The Conch Club — Members Only. The only neon around was a sign in the window with the words: ATM inside. There was no line waiting to enter. The entire block seemed sedate, as if people were making an effort to avoid being seen in the vicinity. As Jenna stared at the old house, she wondered if she had made a mistake in coming here.
It had seemed like a good idea an hour before, floating in the Boca Chica Channel, hunted, sore, exhausted, hungry, and worst of all, completely alone.
Who am I kidding? she thought. This is a terrible idea.
She realized now that the actual destination had not been as important as the simple fact of having a goal. Something to work toward.
The first few minutes of the swim had been a Herculean ordeal. The simple act of stretching her arms out to swim had awakened pains and aches unlike anything she had ever experienced. The sting of dozens of tiny cuts crisscrossed her arms and face. She had wondered if she was bleeding. The blood could have attracted a ravenous tiger shark or bull shark. Or both. The minutes had passed and the pain gradually had subsided into a more tolerable throb, but the ache in her temples had grown, along with a gnawing hunger in her belly.
She hadn’t attempted to swim all the way back to Stock Island, but instead came up amid the trees that lined the side of the road closer to the island. Hidden by the trees, she had made her way back to the island and then kept going, following the Heritage Trail, which ran parallel to the Overseas Highway, until she had reached the address that she recalled from the registration paperwork the Villegas brothers had signed, when they had come aboard the Kilimanjaro the previous week. The information was just another bit of information in the filing cabinet of her perfect memories.
Now that the goal was finally in sight, she was filled with dread for what would happen next. Even worse was the sinking feeling that all her efforts had not brought her any closer to the answers she craved. She took a deep calming breath, headed up the steps and opened the door.
She stepped into a small unfurnished foyer. There was a cash machine in one corner, a window that looked a little like the check-in desk of a rundown hotel and a closed door. On the other side of the counter, an elderly gray-haired woman — Jenna thought she looked old enough to be Noah’s grandmother — played mahjong on a computer.
The woman started to speak, but when she got a look at Jenna, whatever she had been about to say was forgotten.
Jenna stood there, unable to speak. She had been mentally preparing for a different sort of gate-keeper, maybe a beefy steroid-infused bouncer or a hostess wearing a leather dominatrix outfit. She shook her head to clear away the hesitation. “I need to speak to Raul.”
She saw the flicker of recognition in Granny’s eyes. Well, at least I’ve got the right place. Then the woman’s face twisted into a matronly look of concern. “Oh, sweetie. You can’t be here.”
Jenna kept her expression neutral, but puffed up her chest a little, leaning forward. “Raul.”
The old woman squinted behind her glasses, as if questioning her original appraisal, then reached down and pressed the button on an intercom box. “Someone here to see you, Raul.”
There was a brief pause and then a tinny voice issued from the speaker. “Send him back.”
The woman glanced at Jenna again, the anxious look back on her wrinkled face. She really wants me to leave. Maybe I should go while I still can. Jenna pointed down and mouthed the words: “Out here.”
Granny nodded to her then pushed the button again. “It’s not a ‘he,’ and I think maybe you should come out front.” As she lifted her finger, the woman gave Jenna a sad, resigned look, as if to say ‘I tried to warn you.’
Yes you did, she thought. But I’m going to play this through to the end.
The door opened and Raul Villegas stepped out. He was wearing a white linen suit over a lavender silk shirt, opened to just above his sternum, revealing the thick gold chain around his neck. There was an easy-going smile plastered on his face, which vanished in an instant when his eyes found Jenna.