Jessica McClure was on the couch with her back to Ford. She sat astride some man who lay with his feet aimed at the window, a faceless creature who was all legs and long arms. Her head was cast back, auburn hair in a sheet over her buttocks, and she massaged her own breasts while pivoting on the man; lifting, sliding, then ingurgitating him with all the precision of a German clock. Every time she lifted, Ford could see the underside of her like an anatomy lesson.
He stood watching for a moment, detached, feeling no emotion stronger than disappointment, then turned and walked quietly back to the dock. He sat on the dock listening to the smack-thump of mullet jumping, swatting at mosquitoes. There were several big whelk shells in the sand, shells Jessica had collected and left to bleach in the sun. Ford picked up one of the shells, shook the sand out, and fitted his hand through the aperture, gripping the spire so that it was like a boxing glove. After about fifteen minutes, he saw silhouettes against the window, then heard the toilet flush. Ford leaned over the boat and yanked on the rope, starting the engine. Then he grabbed the whelk shell and knelt beside the low hedge of mangroves by the dock.
He heard their voices above the music, a quizzical garble, then the screen door slammed and the man came running out. Ford waited until the man was about to leap onto the dock, then swung out of the bushes and hit him in the face with the whelk shell. He mistimed the punch and the shell glanced off the man's cheek, but he still went down as if he had been shot. Then Ford stepped over the man expecting to see Benjamin Rouchard, the New York art dealer who had jumped bail. Instead, he saw Rafe Hollins.
Ford stood numbly as if in a dream, unable to speak, unable to move; stood wondering if maybe he wasn't having a hallucination from the concussion. But it was Rafe, all right, lying there blinking up at him, wearing only a T-shirt and Jockey shorts, holding his cheek, which was bleeding. Hollins began to slide away from him, backward in the sand, then slowly got to his feet. He said, "Is that any way to greet an old friend, Doc?" Then: "How in the hell did you find me?"
Ford was breathing heavily, still staring. He dropped the whelk shell, grabbed Hollins's T-shirt in both fists, and ran him backward into the mangroves, holding him against the limbs and yelling: "You son of a bitch, your little boy was dying down there. They had him living like an animal! I almost got killed getting him out.'
Hollins wrapped his hands around Ford's arms, not fighting him but shaking him, as if trying to shake information out. "You mean you have him? Jake's alive?"
"As if you care."
"Is he okay?"
"Yes!"
"You've got to tell me where he is! I've got to go see him."
Ford smacked Hollins's hands away. "Real convincing. But then you always were good at tricks." And he hit Hollins in the face again. Hollins fell back into the mangroves, tried to catch his balance, but the limbs sprung him out into the sand.
Another voice said, "Go ahead, Ford. Go ahead and beat him to death." Jessica was walking toward them, barefooted, a robe pulled tight around her neck, and speaking softly in a husky alto voice that sounded cold, cold. "Make everything nice and neat, just the way you like it. Your dead friend isn't dead, so go ahead and solve the problem—eliminate the data that doesn't fit. Kill him."
Ford pointed his finger at her. "Why don't you run along and take a shower? You look a little dirty tonight."
"There! Now you've put me in my place. You're doing marvelously, Ford. Actually showing some emotion." She stepped onto the boat and shut off the engine. In the sudden silence she said, "I knew you had a heart banging around someplace in that big chest of yours. "
Hollins was sitting up groggily, snorting blood into the sand, trying to breathe. "Don't hit me again, Doc. I mean it. If you hit me again I'm gonna have to fight back. "
Ford said, "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I don't want to fight you, but lay off, damn it."
"Jake was down there sleeping in his own crap. He's got open sores all over his legs. They had him chained to a wall. And your buddy Zacul came this close to getting his hands on him."
Hollins lowered his head, shaking it. "Ah, Christ." A low agonized wail.
"Why don't you give him a chance, Ford? Or maybe it's
more than just the boy. Maybe you did some window peeking and just didn't enjoy the show."
Ford snapped, "Why would an old pro like you care?" throwing the words at her—and was surprised to see her face register pain.
She turned her back to him. "Sometimes you're just so damn unfair."
Ford stared at the woman, then released a long breath. He said to her, "Go inside and get some ice. A washcloth, too. He's bleeding pretty bad," as he took Hollins's arm, helped him to his feet, and steered him toward the porch steps.
Hollins said, "I broke into your house."
"I know."
"I just wanted to tell you that right off the bat. "
"Something honest for a change. There were grown men crying at your funeral, you asshole."
TWENTY-THREE
Hollins sat on the steps and the wood creaked beneath his weight. Jessica brought the washcloth out and he leaned his face against it, flinching at the cold. He said, "I needed money, Doc. I figured I needed ten or twelve grand to get Jake out, to make all the bribes and get the right papers—all that stuff. I couldn't ask you for that much, plus I thought I had a couple of other ways to get it. I'd been smuggling in Mayan artifacts and this art dealer, Ben Rouchard, was auctioning them off in New York—
"I know all about that."
"You do?"
Ford looked at Jessica. "Yeah; almost all of it."
"Well ..." Hollins was thinking, trying to put the rest of the story together. He said, "The other way I came up with getting quick cash was to offer the corporation that developed Sandy Key a deal. I used to work for those bastards, and I had some information that could cost them a couple of million in fines if the Environmental Regulation people found out. "
"About them putting illegal insecticide in your helicopter."
"Jesus, you know about that, too?"
"I'm surprised they didn't kill you when you tried to blackmail them. There's no statute of limitations on environmental offenses."
"That's the point. They tried. My old boss was a guy named DeArmand, so I called him and offered him the deal. I said if he brought me twenty grand in cash, I'd sign a paper they could postdate saying that I understood that I'd been fired for spraying illegal chemicals and accepted all responsibility, like the poison was my idea. Like a confession. DeArmand's the sheriff there now, and he threatened to have me put away for that kidnapping charge, the thing with Jake. I said fine, I'd go to prison but he would, too, plus the corporation would go bankrupt paying the DER fines. So DeArmand agreed to meet me on the Tequesta Bank, just him alone with the money.
"He was supposed to be there in the morning, the day before you came. I watched him coming across the flats in a small boat, kicking up mud the whole way because he didn't know the cuts. But, when he lands, I see it isn't DeArmand at all. It's this big guy about my size and I know he's some professional DeArmand has brought in to kill me. But I didn't give him a chance, Doc. We got up there on the mound and I hit him with a club the first chance I got. He went down and I couldn't believe it—he was dead. That quick; just stopped breathing.
"I panicked. I was already wanted for kidnapping and now they d get me for murder, too, and I'd never see Jake again. You know how upset I was when I talked to you on the phone that morning but, when that guy stopped breathing, I just went crazy. At first, I was going to run. Just get the hell out of there.