Murdock said, “See, Joe, we shoot him in the back. That way it looks like he’s running away. Then we get on this boat radio, if one of us can figure out how to use the goddamn thing, and call for air rescue.”
“ Which’ll take forever to get here.”
“Exactly. But then we’re covered, procedure-wise.”
It sounded like a solid plan, with only one serious variable. Joe Salazar decided to put the variable out of his mind. He stowed the flashlight, reclaimed his post at the wheel of the police boat and steered a true course for Old Rhodes Key.
A straight line through open seas. No sweat.
The channel that leads from the ocean to the cut of Old Rhodes Key is called Caesar Creek. It is deep and fairly broad, and well charted with lighted markers. For this Joe Salazar was profoundly thankful. Having mastered the balky throttle, he guided the Aquasport in at half-speed, with John Murdock standing (or trying to) in the bow. Murdock cupped his hands around his eyes to block the peripheral light; he was peering at the island, searching for signs of Mick Stranahan. Two hundred yards from the mouth of the cut, Salazar killed the engine and joined his chubby partner on the front of the boat.
“There he is!” Murdock’s breathing was raspy, excited.
Salazar squinted into the night. “Yeah, Johnny, sitting under that light on the dock.”
They could see the lantern and, in its white penumbra, the figure of a man with his legs hanging over the planks. The figure wore a baseball cap, a tan jacket, and long pants. From the angle of the cap, the man’s head appeared to be down, chin resting on his chest.
“Dumb fuckwad’s asleep.” Murdock’s laugh was high and brittle. He already had his pistol out.
“Then I guess we better do it,” Salazar said.
“By all means.” Murdock dropped to a crouch.
They had tested the blue lights and siren on the way down, so Salazar knew where the switches were. He flipped them simultaneously, then turned the ignition key. As the Evinrude growled to life, Salazar put all his weight to the throttle.
Gun in hand, John Murdock clung awkwardly to the bow rail as the Aquasport planed off and raced toward the narrow inlet. The wind spiked Murdock’s hair and flattened his cheeks. His teeth were bared in a wolfish expression that might have passed for a grin.
As the boat got closer, Joe Salazar expected Mick Stranahan to wake up at any moment and look in their direction-but the man didn’t move.
A half mile away, sitting on a milk crate under some trees, Christina Marks heard the police siren. With a shiver she closed her eyes and waited for the sound of gunfire.
They could have come one of several ways. The most likely was the oceanside route, following Caesar Creek into the slender fork between tiny Hurricane Key and Old Rhodes. This was the easiest way to Cartwright’s dock.
But a westward approach, out of Biscayne Bay, would leave more options and offer more cover. They could come around Adams Key, or circle the Rubicons and sneak through the grassy flats behind Totten. But that would be a tricky and perilous passage, almost unthinkable for someone who had never made the trip.
Not at night, Stranahan decided, not these guys.
He had gambled that they would come by the ocean.
In the water he had carried only the knife and the spool. Four times he made the swim between Old Rhodes and Hurricane Key; not a long swim, but enervating against a strong outbound current. After pulling himself up on Cartwright’s dock for the last time, Stranahan had rubbed the cold ache from his legs and arms. It had taken a long time to catch his breath.
Then he pulled on some dry clothes, got the.38 that Luis Cordova had loaned him, and sat down to wait.
The spool in Stranahan’s duffel had contained five hundred yards of a thin plastic monofilament. The line was calibrated to a tensile strength of one hundred twenty pounds, for it was designed to withstand the deep-water surges of giant marlin and bluefin tuna. It was the strongest fishing line manufactured in the world, tournament quality. For further advantage it was lightly tinted a charcoal gray, which made it practically invisible underwater.
Even out of the water, the line was sometimes impossible to see.
At night, for instance. Stretched across a mangrove creek.
Undoubtedly John Murdock never saw it.
He was squatting toadlike on the front of the boat, training his.357 at the figure on the dock as they made their approach. Under Joe Salazar’s hand, the Aquasport was moving at exactly forty-two miles per hour.
Mick Stranahan had strung three taut vectors between the islands. The lines were fastened to the trunks of trees and crossed the water at varying heights. The lowest of the lines was snapped immediately by the bow of the speeding police boat. The other two garroted John Murdock in the belly and the neck, respectively.
Joe Salazar, in the bewildering final millisecond of his life, watched his partner thrown backwards, bug-eyed and gurgling, smashed to the deck by unseen hands. Then the same spectral claw seized Salazar by the throat, chopped him off his feet, bounced his overripe skull off the howling Evinrude and twanged him directly into the creek.
The noise made by the fishing line when it snapped on Joe Salazar’s neck was very much like that of a gunshot.
Christina Marks ran all the way back to Cartwright’s dock. Along the way she dropped the Coleman lantern, hissing, on some rocks. But she kept running. When she got there, Caesar Creek was black and calm. She saw no boat, no sign of intruders.
On the dock, the familiar figure of a man in a baseball cap slouched beneath another lantern, this one glowing brightly.
“Mick, what happened?”
Then Christina realized that it wasn’t a man at all, but a scarecrow wearing Stranahan’s poplin jacket and long corduroys. The body of the scarecrow was stuffed with palm leaves and dried seaweed. The head was a green coconut. The baseball cap fit like a charm.
24
The Aquasport wedged itself deep in the mangroves on Totten Key. The engine was dead, but the prop was still twirling when Mick Stranahan got there. Barefoot, he monkeyed through the slick rubbery branches until he could see over the side of the battered boat. In his right hand he held Luis Cordova’s.38.
He didn’t need it. Detective John Murdock wasn’t dead, but he would be soon. He lay motionless on the deck, his knees drawn up in pain. Blackish blood oozed from his nose. Only one eye was open, rhythmically illuminated by the strobing blue police light. Cracked but still flashing, the light dangled from a nest of loose wires on the console. It looked like a fancy electric Christmas ornament.
Stranahan felt his stomach shrink to a knot. He put the pistol in his jeans and swung his legs over the gunwale. “John?”
Murdock’s eye blinked, and he grunted weakly.
Stranahan said, “Try to take it easy.” Like the guy had a choice. “One quick question, I’ve got to ask. You fellows were going to kill me, weren’t you?”
“Damn right,” rasped the dying detective.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I can’t believe you’re still sore about Judge Goomer.”
Murdock managed a bloody grin and said, “You dumb fuck-wad.”
Stranahan leaned forward and brushed a horsefly off Murdock’s forehead. “But if it wasn’t revenge for the judge, then why pull something like this?” Silence gave him the answer. “Don’t tell me somebody paid you.”
Murdock nodded, or tried. His neck wasn’t working so well; it looked about twice as long as it was supposed to be.
Stranahan said, “You took money for this? From who?”
“Eat me,” Murdock replied.
“It was probably the doctor,” Stranahan speculated. “Or a go-between. That would make more sense.”
Murdock’s reply came out as a dank rattle. Mick Stranahan sighed. Queasiness at the sight of Murdock had given way to emotional exhaustion.
“John, it’s some kind of city, isn’t it? All I wanted out here was some peace and solitude. I was through with all this crap.”