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Peter had told himself when he left that he wouldn’t think too far ahead. Originally, he’d told himself that he could walk home if need be. Then, after he’d obtained the bicycle from Jackie’s father, he thought he could make it in three weeks if he kept a steady, uneventful pace. Certainly, he couldn’t afford any more encounters like he’d had at the farmhouse.

He plotted out his course along U.S. Highway 360 toward Danville, a small town on the North Carolina border. He wasn’t sure how far he could travel at night with temperatures approaching freezing, especially after the pummeling his body had endured. But he was determined to push himself so he could get to the North Carolina border by sunrise.

After repacking his gear and reloading his weapon, he hit the road. Peter imagined the four-lane, divided highway was scenic, if he could see it. As he clicked off the miles, he began to question the decision to ride at night. He considered attaching one of his flashlights to the handlebars using duct tape to illuminate the road in front of him. He even held one of them in his hands for a while to see if that helped. If the beam of light happened to catch a reflector off a stalled vehicle, then he could manage to navigate toward it. Otherwise, he decided he’d end up burning through his batteries.

For riding purposes, taking the federal highway was a far better option than pothole-filled county roads, where he could easily puncture a tire or bend a wheel. In this desolate part of Virginia, he hoped to avoid contact with others. But, eventually, major highways run through large cities, and that wasn’t a good idea, day or night.

Peter rode for hours and was coming up on Danville, a sizable city of forty-five thousand people. Because it was just after four in the morning, he decided to continue riding until he made it to the North Carolina border. It would mean that he would travel eighty miles that night.

Soon, it became a game to Peter. A competition as to how far he could travel in a given period of time. He’d study the map, calculate the time and distance, and pedal while trying not to think about the difficult task ahead.

It was the thoughts of reuniting with his family that helped him push through the pain.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Friday, November 1

Driftwood Key

“You know, Hank, I simply can’t remember how this happened to me,” lied the man who lived the life of a lie. Patrick was feeling better by that afternoon and was now able to prop himself up on the bed. Both Phoebe and Jessica routinely checked on him, as did Jimmy, the young man he seemed to enjoy the company of the most.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but my brother, Mike, is a detective.”

“Yeah. He stopped by earlier when I was just coming out of the bathroom with Phoebe’s help.” Patrick paused and took a deep breath before he continued. The beatings administered to his ribs and back made the simple task very painful.

“Oh, good. I’m sure he’ll do anything he can to catch these guys,” said Hank, trying to carry the load of the conversation, as he sensed the pain that talking caused Patrick.

In actuality, Patrick was happy to be breathing again, and the pain was nothing more than a nuisance. He feigned difficulty when it suited him. If the conversation with anyone turned toward what had happened or what he could remember, he fed them a little information and then suddenly experienced difficulty breathing. The ploy worked every time.

Hank apologized for intruding on his recovery and left the bungalow. He made a beeline for the dock as he saw Jimmy returning from a day of fishing. The barely noticeable shadows were growing long as he cut through the palm trees between bungalow three and the beachfront. He remembered that Jimmy had been fishing alone each day, so he jogged down the dock to assist him in tying off the Hatteras.

“Thanks, Mr. Hank!” Jimmy said. The usually good-natured young man enjoyed life regardless of how difficult it had become after the attacks. He quickly tied off the aft line and briskly moved toward the bow to toss Hank a line. Hank, after many years of practice, expertly tied it off to a cleat.

“How’d you do?” he asked Jimmy as he repositioned one of the yacht’s bumpers to align with the rubber edge of the dock.

“I have to go farther out each day, Mr. Hank. The water is nothing like it used to be. Pockets, at depth, are cooler like always. In shallow areas, you’d think they’d be cooler, too. Between it being November and all these clouds, I’m surprised how warm it still is.”

Hank stepped on board and stood with his hands on his hips as if he could get a better understanding of the water temperatures if he was standing in his boat. Jimmy directed Hank’s attention to one of the fish holds on the aft deck. With a grin, Jimmy continued.

“However, you have to remember who you’re talking to,” he said as he opened the lid. It was full of snapper.

“You are undoubtedly the second-best fisherman on Driftwood Key,” said Hank, drawing a laugh from the young man. “Say, did you see many boats out there?”

“No, not really. A Coast Guard cutter passed me, heading north. It was pretty far offshore. I see a few pleasure boats like that one milling about. It was odd ’cause they weren’t fishing, which made me wonder why they were burnin’ up fuel.” Jimmy shrugged and went about preparing the Hatteras to close up for the night.

Hank’s mind immediately recalled the night the three men had used the Wellcraft runabout on the other side of the dock in an attempt to steal fuel out of his boat. It hadn’t ended well for the three thieves, as Mike and Jessica had turned them into fish chum. It was yet another reminder of why he wished they’d stay closer to home, but he understood their position now.

With the shoot-out over fuel fresh in his mind, Hank had a thought. “Maybe you shouldn’t go out alone? With all that’s going on, having somebody watching your back might be a good idea.”

“I thought about that today when one of the boats got a little too close. I didn’t have anything on a hook, so I slowly picked up the Mossberg. When they saw I had a gun, they took off.”

Hank decided at that point Jimmy should have someone go with him. The fact of the matter was, he lamented internally, they were short-handed, especially now that Patrick needed more of Phoebe’s and Jessica’s attention.

He sighed and mumbled, “We’ll figure it out.”

As they walked up the dock toward the main house with the snapper on a string in each hand, Jimmy brought up Patrick.

“Um, Mr. Hank.” He hesitated.

“Yeah.”

“How long is Patrick gonna stay here?”

“Why? Do you think he might be a good fishing companion? I’d have to talk with Mike about giving him a gun.”

Jimmy’s eyes grew wide, and he shook his head rapidly from side to side. “No, nothing like that. Never mind.”

“C’mon, Jimmy. What’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Hank. There’s something off about the guy. Mom asked me to check in on him a couple of times today. He just creeps me out, that’s all.”

Hank was curious as to why. “Did he say something that upset you?”

“No, not really. I’m just saying he was kinda clingy or something. He didn’t want me to leave. Wanted to ask questions about the inn and whether I went to college or had a girlfriend. You know. Stuff like that.”

Hank slowed his pace, as he wanted to finish the conversation before they encountered Phoebe. “Small talk?”