“Dammit!” shouted Patrick in pain and frustration. He crawled behind the kitchen island and managed to stand to rush out the door. This was going horribly wrong, and now he had to find a way to escape.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Tuesday, November 5
Driftwood Key
Still clutching the knife in his right hand while his fractured left hand tried to stem the bleeding from his side, Patrick stumbled out of the main house into the darkness. The confidence and mental acuity he’d possessed when he began his attack on Phoebe was lost. Now he was wounded, frightened, and on the run, in search of a way off Driftwood Key.
He’d lost track of where he was. The loss of blood and excruciating pain resulted in a sort of brain fog that clouded his thinking. His mind raced as he tried to recall all his options. A debate raged within him.
Do I run across the bridge, retracing the steps I took that night to get here? Wait, Mike and Hank might be there. No, they always drink down by the water after dinner. Not tonight, Patrick. They’re manning the front gate. You can’t go that way. Steal a boat. They’ll never find you in the dark. What if I run down the dock and the keys aren’t there? I’ll be trapped.
His mind finally screamed at him as the voices of Mike, Hank and Sonny shouting filled the air. Just hide!
He raced behind the main house to the densely vegetated part of the key. He stumbled along a path, lowering his head to avoid the palms that seemed to defy gravity by growing sideways. He was sweating profusely and made the mistake of wiping his brow with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Patrick wasn’t sure if the blood was his or Phoebe’s. Regardless, it smeared across his face and into his eyes, causing them to burn.
Then he ran head-on into Sonny. The two men collided and knocked one another backwards. Patrick dropped the knife and reached around the ground in search of it.
“Arrrgghhh!” shouted Sonny as he pounced on top of Patrick’s legs.
Sonny threw a punch that hit his already bruised kidneys, causing Patrick to yell in pain. As Patrick struggled to get out from under Sonny’s weight, he found the knife’s handle. He swung his arm around with a slicing motion in an attempt to cut into Sonny’s arm. He was holding the knife backwards, so the sharp edge missed its target.
Phoebe shouted, “Sonny! Help me!”
Sonny became distracted, giving Patrick an opening. He thrust his hips upward and threw Sonny off to the side. Patrick rolled away, found his footing, and continued running down the path. He could hear Phoebe call her husband’s name again, and Sonny responded. His heavy footsteps pounded the crushed shell mixed with sand as he rushed to the kitchen’s back door.
Patrick’s heart was pounding in his chest, and the sweat continued to pour out of him despite the cold temperatures. He ran into a thick cluster of palm trees and leaned his back against one of them as he tried to regroup.
“Think. Think, dammit. Where are you?”
He turned slightly to get oriented. A slight breeze washed over him off the Gulf. He turned his back to it and pointed toward Marathon with his knife.
“That way.”
He started moving deliberately and quietly through the trails that led past the Frees’ home and toward the brackish water separating the two keys. From there, he’d be able to walk through the mix of mangroves and tropical plants until he found the gate. It was his only hope.
Hank and Mike arrived at the main house just as Sonny emerged from the trail. All three men rushed into the kitchen and found Phoebe leaning against the kitchen island, favoring her wounded leg. She was shaking, pointing the gun at the door as the men entered, her hand wavering with her nervous finger on the trigger.
“Stop, or I’ll shoot!”
Sonny responded quickly to reassure her. “Phoebe, it’s okay. It’s just us.”
Phoebe began to sob. Until that moment, she’d mustered all the strength and courage within her to survive. The knife wounds were sending searing pain through her body, but it was her nerves that caused her to break down in tears.
Sonny gently held her as Mike peppered her with questions.
“Who did this?”
“Patrick,” she and Sonny responded in unison.
“Son of a—” started Hank, but Mike interrupted him.
He looked to Sonny in the dim, candlelit space. “How did you know?”
“I ran into him on the path leading to our place. He tried to stab me, but I got lucky.”
“I shot him,” interjected Phoebe. “Twice. Once in the side and once in the hand. Left, I think. It all happened so fast.”
Mike looked at Hank. “The gate.”
Hank didn’t hesitate. He cradled the AR-15 in his right arm and bolted through the open kitchen door.
Mike turned to Sonny. “Did you see him?”
“Yeah, on the trail to our house.”
“Take care of her and lock the door.”
Sonny nodded, and then Mike took off down the trail in search of Patrick.
While Hank took the more direct route toward the driveway gate, Mike followed the trail, using his flashlight to follow the trail of blood left by Patrick. He illuminated the path, and then he realized Patrick only had one option. With his gun drawn in his right hand and crossed over his left wrist, Mike picked up the pace, running toward the water and the narrow path that snaked its way through the mangrove hammocks clustered along the water’s edge.
“Give it up, Patrick,” he shouted as he spotted another glimpse of blood. “You’ll never get off the key alive if you don’t stop now. I will kill you!”
Mike meant it. There were no investigations associated with officer-involved shootings. Deadly force didn’t have to be justified. He wouldn’t be restricted to desk duty for weeks while internal affairs found a way to crucify him. In his mind, it was open season on would-be killers. The only thing that confused him was why did Patrick find it necessary to attack Phoebe? He could’ve left anytime he wanted with everyone’s blessing and a picnic basket full of food as a parting gift.
Mike ducked below the fronds of a low-slung palm tree and then twisted his body sideways to slip between the trunks of two more. That was when the six-inch carbon-steel butcher knife was thrust into his chest.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Tuesday, November 5
Bay St. Louis, Mississippi
Lacey had grown up on the water, and during her childhood, she’d spent a lot of her time around marinas. After parking their truck near the restrooms of the Bay St. Louis Harbor and Pier, they stepped into a moribund version of the vibrant and active marinas of the Florida Keys.
Her eyes surveilled their surroundings. There were no gulls wheeling and diving for bait fish that would normally be seen splashing around the docked boats, scooting away from predators above and below them. There weren’t would-be sailors toting their dock carts from ship to shore and vice versa. Only the bell-like clanging of steel cables on aluminum masts reminded her of home.
A misty haze hung over the warm water. Earth’s atmosphere and its environs struggled with a form of bipolar disorder. Parts of the planet, at the surface and below, behaved normally. The Gulf waters still managed to remain seasonally warm. However, the air temperatures shattered records around the globe. As the cloud cover increased, and temperatures continued to steadily fall, it was a matter of time before the great oceans of the world would lose the battle and become colder.
A gust of wind caused the sailboats to wobble in their slips, and their rigging became agitated as a result. The clanking sound rose to a crescendo, and then, in a blink of an eye, the wind stopped blowing, allowing the vacant boats to rest.