Back in the car, John Murdock had not displayed the crude and cocky ebullience that usually followed the taking of a hefty bribe; rather, his mood had been taciturn and apprehensive. It had stayed that way for two days.
Now, with the boat stuck fast on the bonefish flat, Murdock sulked alone in the stem, glaring at the slow crawl of the incoming tide. Joe Salazar lit a Camel and settled in for a long, tense afternoon. He didn’t feel so well himself, but at least he knew why. This was the biggest job they’d ever done, and the dirtiest.
By a mile.
In fact, the tides would not have mattered if either of the two detectives had known how to read a marine chart. Even at dead low, there was plenty of water from Cape Florida all the way to Old Rhodes Key. All you had to do was follow the channels, which were plainly marked on Luis Cordova’s map.
Mick Stranahan knew that Murdock and Salazar would run the boat aground. He also knew that it would be nighttime before they could float free, and that they would make the rest of the trip at a snail’s pace, fearful of repeating the mishap.
He and Luis Cordova had talked this part out. Together they had calculated that the two detectives would reach the island between nine and midnight, provided they didn’t hit the shoal off Boca Chita and shear the prop off the Evinrude. Luis had offered to tail the Aquasport at a discreet distance, but Stranahan told him no. He didn’t want the marine patrolman anywhere near Old Rhodes Key when it happened. If Luis was there, he’d want to do it by the book. Wait for the assholes to make their move, then try to arrest them. Stranahan knew it would never work that way-they’d try to kill Luis, too. And even if Luis was as sharp as Stranahan thought, it would be a mess for him afterwards. An automatic suspension, a grand jury, his name all over the newspapers. No way, Stranahan told him, no hero stuff. Just give them the map and get lost.
Besides, Stranahan already had his hands full with Christina Marks on the island.
“I don’t want to go for a walk,” she said. “Grandmothers and widows go for walks. I’m staying here with you.”
“So you can take notes, or what?” He handed her a Coleman lantern. The jumpy white light made their shadows clash on the cinderblock walls. Stranahan said, “You’re not a reporter anymore, you’re a goddamn witness.”
She said, “Is this your idea of pillow talk? Half an hour ago we were making love, and now I’m a ‘goddamn witness.’ You ever thought of writing poetry, Mick?”
He was down on one knee, pulling items from one of the duffel bags. Without looking up, he said, “You said you couldn’t be a part of this, I’m trying to accommodate you. As for the afterglow, you want to waltz in the moonlight, we’ll do that later. Right now there’s a pair of bad cops on their way out here to shoot me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Stranahan said. “They’re probably just collecting Toys for Tots. Now go.”
He stood up. In the lantern light, Christina saw that his arms were fulclass="underline" binoculars, a poplin windbreaker, a pairof corduroys, an Orioles cap, a fishing knife, and a round spool of some kind.
She said, “It’s not for the damn TV show that I want to stay. I’m scared for you. I don’t know why-since you’re being such a prick-but I’m worried about you, I admit it.”
When Stranahan spoke again, the acid was gone from his voice. “Look, if you stay… if you were to see something, they’d make you testify. Forget reporter’s privilege and First Amendment-doesn’t count for a damn thing in a situation like this. If you witness a crime, Chris, they put you under oath. You don’t want that.”
“Neither do you.”
He smiled drily. She had him on that one. It was true: He didn’t want any witnesses. “You’ve had enough excitement,” he told her. “Twice I’ve nearly gotten you killed. If I were you, I’dtakethatasa hint.”
Christina said, “What if you’re wrong about them, Mick? What if they only want to ask more questions? Even if they’re coming to arrest you, you can’t just-”
“Go,” he said. Later he would explain that these cops were buddies of the late Judge Raleigh Goomer, and that what they wanted from Mick Stranahan was payback. Asking questions was not at all what they had in mind. “Take the path I showed you. Follow the shoreline about halfway down the island and you’ll come to a clearing. You’ll see some plastic milk crates, an empty oil drum, an old campfire hole. Wait there for me.”
Christina gave him a frozen look, but he didn’t feel it. His mind was in overdrive, long gone.
“There’s some fruit and candy bars in the Tupperware,” he said. “But don’t feed the raccoons, they bite like hell.”
She was twenty yards down the path when she heard him call, “Hey, Chris, you forgot the bug spray.”
She shook her head and kept walking.
Fifteen minutes later, when Stranahan was sure she was gone, he carried his things down to Cartwright’s dock. There he lit another lantern and hung it on a nail in one of the pilings. Then he pulled off his sneakers, kicked out of his jeans, and slid naked into the cool flowing tides.
For Joe Salazar, it was a moment of quiet triumph at the helm. “By God, we did it.”
John Murdock made a snide chuckle. “Yeah, we found it,” he said. “The Atlantic fucking Ocean. A regular needle in a haystack, Joe. And all it took was three hours of dry humping these islands.”
Salazar didn’t let the sarcasm dampen his newfound confidence. The passage through Sand Cut had been hairy; even at a slow speed, navigating the swift serpentine channel at night was an accomplishment worth savoring. Murdock knew it, too; not once had he tried to take the wheel.
“So this is the famous Elliott Key.” Murdock scratched his sunburned cheeks. The Aquasport idled half a mile offshore, rocking in a brisk chop. The beer was long gone, the ice melted. In the cool breeze Murdock had slipped into a tan leather jacket, the one he always wore to work; it looked ridiculous over his khaki shorts. Dismally he slapped at his pink shins, where a horsefly was eating supper.
Joe Salazar held the chart on his lap, a flashlight in his right hand. With the other hand he pointed: “Like I said, Johnny, from here it’s a straight nine-mile run to Rhodes. Twelve feet of water the whole way.”
Murdock said, “So let’s go, Senor Columbus. Maybe we can make it before Christmas.” He readjusted his shoulder holster for the umpteenth time.
Salazar hesitated. “Once we get there, what exactly is the plan?”
“Get that goddamn flashlight out of my face.” Murdock’s eyelids were swollen and purple. Too much sun, too much beer. It worried Salazar; he wanted his partner to be sharp.
“The plan is simple,” Murdock said. “We arrive with bells on-sirens, lights, the works. We yell for Stranahan to come out with his hands up. Go ahead with the whole bit-serve the warrant, do the Miranda, all that shit. Then we shoot him like he was trying to get away.”
“Do we cuff him first?”
“Now, how would that look? No, we don’t cuff him first. Jesus Christ.” Murdock spit into the water. He’d been spitting all afternoon. Salazar hoped this wasn’t a new habit.