He wouldn't give up-not yet. Not ever. He had to run! Had to get away!
Run, damn you!
He made himself abandon his fruitless attempts to climb the tree and began splashing away into the swamp, roiling black water with each stride, praying the gator would give up.
He slipped and fell. Splashed helplessly trying to stand up. Gained his feet. Ran, ran. Part of the swamp. Part of the struggle. One of the hunted.
Survive! Survive! That was his one and every instinct in mind and muscle. Run fast enough, far enough. Survive!
A branch scratched his face, breaking his stride, slowing him only momentarily.
Three awkward steps and he had his balance again, steadier now. Full speed!
Something grabbed his lower left leg and became a painful vise as he slammed down hard on his stomach and inhaled swamp water. Flailing with his arms and free leg, he fought to keep his head above the surface.
The vise tightened and became needles of incredible pain. Choking, spitting, unable even to scream, Sherman felt himself being pulled backward through the water.
He glanced back at what had him and almost died from terror. He was caught firm in the jaws of the beast. Two prehistoric, uncaring eyes met his. They were very close, darker than the night, and they were death.
Then came sudden brilliance and a roar.
Sherman felt himself sinking.
36
New York, the present
The Pepper Tree was decorated mostly in grays and blues, with one wall a wide mural of green fields beneath a blue sky. The fields were dotted with trees Pearl assumed to be pepper trees, but then, she wasn't even sure if there were types of peppers that grew on trees.
Culinary license, she thought, as a smiling African American man approached. He was handsome if a bit paunchy, wearing a navy jacket with brass buttons, white shirt open at the collar, a red ascot. A guy who had lost his yacht.
"We're not open for breakfast," he said.
Pearl looked out over the rows of white tablecloths without flatware, china, or napkins. "I can see that. You should have locked your door."
He seemed amused. "We're trusting sorts."
"I wish I were," Pearl said, and showed him her shield.
The man's smile disappeared, which was a shame. He had a great smile but without it looked rather ordinary.
"This is about Marilyn Nelson?" he asked, surprising her, and for the first time sounding as if he had a slight Jamaican accent.
"You're clairvoyant," Pearl said.
"Oh, not hardly. Marilyn ate here often. She was a pretty woman. We notice pretty women, especially if they're also as nice as Marilyn."
Pearl glanced about. She and the man seemed to be the only ones in the restaurant.
"My employee Harmon is in the kitchen cleaning up," the man said, guessing her thoughts. "I am Virgil Mantrell."
"The manager?"
"And owner. Which means I'm here virtually all the time."
Useful, Pearl thought. The prospects of her visit to the Pepper Tree brightened. Surely Jeb wasn't the only man who'd dined with Marilyn in the restaurant. "I understand Marilyn usually ate alone."
"Usually, yes. She hadn't been in the city long and hadn't had time to explore. Though she wasn't always alone. I remember her coming here for dinner with men a few times, on dates, it looked like. And another time, later, she had lunch with a woman."
"What do you remember about them?"
"The men were different. Except for one she was here with at least a couple of times."
"What did that one look like?"
"I don't remember much about him. He seemed to be in his thirties, had dark hair. I suppose you'd call him handsome, but at the same time he was very ordinary looking. I'd have trouble recognizing him if he came in here again, and I have a memory for faces."
"And the woman who dined with Marilyn?"
"Her I would recognize."
"Pretty, I'll bet."
"Not as pretty as Marilyn." The smile was back. "We don't like to quantify our customers in terms of beauty or handsomeness."
"Wise policy," Pearl said.
He nodded. "It is only polite, and politeness goes far in the restaurant business. When I made it a point to visit Marilyn's table and make sure everything was all right, she introduced me to the woman, who she said was an old college friend."
"Did she refer to her by name?"
"Yes, she did." He raised his dark eyebrows in a way that made him appear to be in pain. "I'm sorry, but while I remember faces, I don't remember names."
Pearl showed him a copy of the fax with the charge receipts and pointed to the one from the Pepper Tree. "Do you have a copy of this?"
"We do. We keep careful records. That would be from the meal Marilyn had with her lady friend."
"How do you know?"
"The price. And I remember. They were here for lunch. The time will be marked on our receipt."
"I don't see anything on the list from when she dined with the men."
"That would be because they paid cash," Virgil said. The smile flashed again. "It still happens." He looked thoughtful. "Or it's possible that there was an oversight and we haven't yet submitted a charge receipt to the bank. If so, it would still be here and wouldn't show up on your list."
"Shall we look?" Pearl asked.
"You won't need a warrant," he said, using the smile to make it a joke.
He led her through the kitchen, where a pimply teenager who had to be Harmon was cleaning or waxing the floor with some kind of sponge mop, then on to a surprisingly large office with a gleaming hardwood floor and a loosely woven carpet containing muted shades of myriad colors. Virgil Mantrell's desk was large, made of a lightly grained wood that could have been teak. There were oils of sailboats on the walls. Pearl was no judge, but she thought they were good.
Maybe her impression had been right and the man did own a yacht.
"Do you sail?" she asked, as Virgil rummaged through a black metal file cabinet behind the desk.
"Never," he said, not glancing back at her, "but I paint."
"And very well."
Virgil did look back at her and smiled at the compliment, then bent again to his task.
He found the sheaf of charge receipts he was looking for, and swiveled in his chair so he was facing Pearl across his desk. He began adroitly riffling through the receipts.
Pearl, knowing when to hold her silence, stood patiently waiting. Her gaze went to the paintings of graceful sailboats. She wondered if the one on the wall behind the desk was a sloop. She wondered what a sloop was.
Suddenly Virgil's dancing fingers stopped. "Ah!" he said, with seeming great delight.
"You found it?"
"No. The men and Marilyn must have paid cash for their meals."
"Then why the orgasm?"
Virgil looked sharply at her and seemed genuinely shocked by her language. Pearl almost apologized.
"I mean," she said, "you gave the impression you'd found what we were looking for."
"Something else," Virgil said. "When Marilyn lunched with her lady friend, she paid the check by charge. But there's another receipt for that date, time, and table. Her friend used her own charge card to pay the bar bill." He slid the thin receipt across the wide desk so Pearl could reach it.
The name on the receipt was Ella Oaklie. Pearl read it aloud. "Ring a bell?"
"I don't think so," Virgil said. "But she must be the woman I saw with Marilyn. The receipt proves it."
"Can you please give me a copy of this?"
"I'll make a copy," Virgil said, "and I'll let you have the original."
"Because I'm polite," Pearl said.
"And have an eye for art." Virgil smiled. "And are quite pretty."