He lay in bed, trying to put his finger on what had happened to raise their suspicions. He recalled every conversation he’d had with them. Did his story change? What about his demeanor? He acknowledged he hadn’t been a hundred percent lucid those first few days as he recovered from the beatdown. Maybe he’d let something slip?
Then his mind raced to the worst-case scenarios. Had Detective Mikey extracted his DNA and come up with a match to the murder victims? Had somebody identified Patricia and given a sketch artist all the details? Patrick had become adept at applying makeup after years of practice, but were they somehow able to study him against the composite sketch while he was sleeping?
All of this troubled him that day. And when they started taking him for limited walks and constantly badgered him about regaining his strength, warning lights flashed in his mind. They’re getting ready to vote me off the island just like they did everyone else in the Keys who didn’t belong as far as they were concerned.
Patrick weighed his options. He thought about who was the most vulnerable and open to manipulation. At first, he’d thought it would be Jimmy, but Patrick began to realize he was sending the young guy signals that he shouldn’t have. He’d changed his approach to Jimmy in the last day, but it might have been too late.
Then he thought about Phoebe. She was compassionate. Motherly. In a mother hen sort of way. He could tug on her heartstrings if necessary.
So, equipped with a plan, Patrick decided to give them what they wanted. A more mobile, rapidly recovering patient who should be ready to leave in a week at the most. Only, his leaving was gonna be on his timetable.
As in—never.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Monday, November 4
Central Florida
After their final passenger drop-off, Peter relieved Rafael behind the wheel. He and the family of three squeezed onto the bench seat, with Javier sitting in his dad’s lap against the passenger door. It was the young man who first caught a glimpse of the traffic on Interstate 75 near Thonotosassa, where they’d dropped off the last of their passengers.
“Look at all those Army trucks, Dad!” the young man exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement.
Peter had pulled into a funeral home’s circle drive and was making a wide turn through their memory gardens when the interstate came into view. One transport truck and troop carrier after another ambled along the highway toward Brandon, a bedroom community to the east of Tampa.
“That’s a heckuva convoy,” commented Peter as he slowed to view the Desert Storm–era, khaki-colored trucks. In addition to the transport trucks like the one they were driving, several Humvees were interspersed throughout the slow-moving vehicles.
“They’re mobilizing for something,” Rafael opined. “My first thought would’ve been MacDill Air Force Base just south of the city. But these guys are heading southbound.”
“The only other military base I can think of anywhere near the Gulf is at Homestead,” added Peter.
“The air reserve base?” asked Rafael. “Doesn’t make sense. These are guard units. Maybe…?” His voice trailed off.
“What, honey?” asked his wife.
Rafael tapped his knuckle on the passenger window and pointed toward Tampa and the lower end of St. Petersburg. Black smoke was rising into the sky from several locations on the horizon.
“Unrest?” said Peter inquisitively.
Rafael grimaced and nodded. “Yeah. Probably in Miami, too.”
“What’s that mean, Dad?” asked young Javier.
Rafael adjusted his son in his lap so he could rub his hand through the boy’s long locks. “It means some people got out of line, and the National Guard needs to straighten them out.”
“Do you still think it’s safe to go to your parents’?” asked Maria.
“Where do they live?” asked Peter.
“West of Kendall. The south part of Miami-Dade. This road will take us through a handful of small towns and eventually run into South Trail.”
“Tamiami Trail?” asked Peter. U.S. Highway 41 ran along Florida’s Gulf Coast through Sarasota, Fort Myers, and Naples before turning east toward Miami. Kendall was a residential area in the vicinity of where U.S. 41 ended.
“That’s right. I thought it would be easy to take this route to get you into the Keys.”
Rafael leaned closer to his wife to study the truck’s gauges. Peter picked up on his intentions and immediately looked to the fuel gauge. He noticed the look of concern on Rafael’s face and spoke first.
“You’ll never make it all the way to Driftwood Key and back to Miami. You’re gonna have to drop me off.”
Rafael and Maria exchanged looks. “We made a promise,” she said.
Peter smiled. He focused on the road but glanced in their direction as he spoke. “Guys, when the blast wave threw me off into the ditch, all I could hope for in that moment was staying alive. Then I reconciled myself to walking twelve hundred miles. After that, a man was kind enough to give me a bicycle. You know the rest of the story.”
“But…” Javier began to protest, but he knew Peter was right. They’d never make the round trip from Kendall to Marathon and back. Peter waved his hand to prevent him from picking up on his thought.
“Listen, we’re talking about fifty or sixty miles to the Upper Keys. From there, I can find a ride down U.S. 1. My uncle’s a cop. I’m sure I can hitch a ride with one of the deputies.”
Maria spontaneously leaned over to plant a kiss on Peter’s cheek. He blushed and looked down shyly. He’d bonded with the family through the ordeal and vowed to look them up when it was over. For a brief moment, he considered encouraging them to come to Driftwood Key. Maria and Javier would fit in well with his family and the Frees. Not to mention that Rafael would be nice to have around because of his military training. In the end, he decided not to bring it up, as their own family needed them more than Driftwood Key did.
As darkness approached that afternoon, Peter pulled over to the side of the road across the street from the Miccosukee Resort. The normally full hotel and casino complex stood vacant at the intersection. They nervously shuffled around the cargo box while Peter gathered his things.
He divided up the potassium iodide to provide the family enough dosage for another ten days. He wanted to do more, but he had to consider his own family’s needs. He allowed Rafael to keep the handgun and extra magazines. He was confident he could make this final stretch of his journey with the guns he’d taken from Mr. Uber and son.
The group exchanged hugs and tearful goodbyes. Peter stood and waved to the family as they continued on toward Miami. He strained his eyes as he tried to focus on the Miami skyline. However, the hazy, darkening skies made it difficult. What he expected to observe, but didn’t, were the plumes of black smoke dotting the landscape like in Tampa. In fact, there was no indication of structure fires whatsoever.
This puzzled Peter. If the National Guard was traveling this way, he figured the unrest must’ve been worse than Tampa-St. Pete. It didn’t make sense.
He shook off the thought and began the final trek toward the Keys, full of anticipation.
CHAPTER FORTY
Monday, November 4
Homestead, Florida
It was pitch dark as Peter approached Homestead. He elected to take a residential side street to avoid walking through the heart of town. It was well known that Homestead had its issues with drugs and homelessness, problems certainly exacerbated by the power outage. The detour added about thirty minutes to his walk toward the Keys, but it was uneventful, something he needed at this point in the long journey south.