It had turned into a very frustrating day at the office for Kurt. Earl just refused to die.
When Kurt entered the room, he ran directly into Earl. That's when all hell broke loose. Kurt pinned the submachine gun against the chest of his newly emboldened adversary so the barrel pointed to the side. That didn't stop Earl from firing off a volley. All it did was further decimate the room. Muzzle flashes revealed that it was already in shambles.
As far as skill or experience was concerned, Earl was the runt of the pack. The wannabe who was little more than a lackey. Against all odds, he was still alive. Yet the man who was a living legend was now a dead legend.
Go figure.
As for Gator, he was obviously lying low. Smart move considering 'Mad Dog Earl' was on the loose. Probably hiding in the dining room or kitchen, maybe the bathroom, waiting to see who was still standing when the shooting stopped.
He might have even made a dash for it. Easy enough to do with all the sounds of the room coming apart mingled in with the caterwauling of the storm. But Kurt didn't think so. Gator wanted the emeralds.
Kurt and Earl wrestled halfway across the room like a couple of grizzlies, grunting, groaning, cursing, knocking over the few pieces of furniture still standing. Earl managed to punch the stock of his gun into Kurt's chin.
Kurt staggered back a step, losing his grip on Earl, who swung his gun around to a lethal firing position. Kurt plowed his fist into Earl's face, putting the entire weight of his body behind it.
A burst of lightning revealed Earl cartwheeling over a sofa, then the sofa toppling over onto him. Another lightning barrage picked out Red's body. Kurt dove for it, grabbed his old partner's cannon of a pistol along with all the bullets he could find.
He also helped himself to Red's shotgun and a handful of twelve gauge shells. He took the big knife too, more to keep it out of the hands of Gator and Earl than as a defensive weapon. He wasn't much of a knife fighter.
Earl opened fire again. He was running to a new position, putting down protective fire as he did so. Shrapnel from something metal sliced through Kurt's ear. He yelled out in pain then ducked down, throwing his arm over his head. In doing so, he lost his bearing on Earl's position.
Trying to get a bead on him in the darkness that now enveloped the room, or trying to hear his movements in the deafening clamor of thunder and rain, was an impossible task. He crouched behind an overturned end table, using its rim as support for the big pistol. He had no illusions the table would stop a bullet, but hopefully it would hide him from sight during the next lighting burst.
It didn't take long to find out.
The room lit up like Times Square on New Year's Eve. Kurt scanned the interior. Earl's head pop up behind the bar. Kurt promptly shot his ear off. “Damn,” he said. Earl screamed like a stuck pig. The room went black again.
Knowing his muzzle flash had given his position away, Kurt didn't hesitate to jump and roll to a new spot several feet away. Just as he anticipated, the small table he'd been hiding behind was reduced to match sticks as Earl opened up with his Vig.
The sound of the weapon was inordinately loud but was answered by an even louder bombardment of thunder. It rattled everything in the room that wasn't bolted down, which was practically everything.
Kurt was pissed at the inaccurate performance of Red's big Python .357. If the damn gun hadn't pulled to the right, Earl would be dead now. Never understood what Red liked about the weapon other than the size of hole it put in somebody.
Still there was no response from Gator. Kurt wondered if a lucky shot from Earl had taken him out. Not knowing made him uneasy. At least Paula was safe. That's all that mattered.
From a tactical standpoint, Kurt knew his best move was to take a position on the threshold of the center set of French doors. Because he believed Earl and Gator were still in the room, this was a position that would put him behind them. When the next lightning burst revealed their positions, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
Kurt slung the shotgun over his shoulder, kept the pistol in his hand then elbow crawled across the room. As he passed behind a sofa, his elbow clunked into something beneath it. Something metal. He eased his fingers around the object and quietly drew it out.
Gator's submachine gun.
Mystery solved. Gator wasn’t firing because he didn't have a gun. He probably lost it in a wild dive trying to avoid a fusillade of bullets from Earl. Kurt was glad he had confiscated Red's artillery. It meant the only weapon Gator now possessed was his Bowie knife.
Good to know.
Lightning again. Kurt hugged the floor, tried to spot Earl. Couldn't. But had Earl seen him? He'd know in a second. During the following barrage of thunder, he scooted across the floor with the speed of a black mamba.
No gunfire. Earl hadn't seen him.
Just as he reached his objective, Kurt heard, despite the din of the storm, a sound that was a game changer.
Paula's scream.
Now he knew where Gator was.
Son of a bitch.
No time to contemplate what he might be doing to her. Time only to act.
Kurt jumped to his feet. He charged toward where he knew the door to the museum room was located. Any obstacles in his path would simply be knocked out of the way.
Except Earl.
He'd heard Paula's scream too and knew Kurt would run to the rescue. He moved in the darkness to intercept him with the intention of putting a bullet in his head. A lot of them.
Kurt plowed into Earl like a wrecking ball through a brick wall. The force of the unexpected impact sent his Colt Python flying. Luckily Earl lost his weapon too.
Both men crashed to the floor, fists pumping. Kurt easily deflected the roundhouse punches thrown by Earl, who fought like a drunken sailor in a barroom brawl. Kurt was more concerned about what was happening in the other room. Earl was preventing him from getting to her. That really pissed him off.
“Earl, you fucking piece of shit. I don't have time for this.”
Making matters worse were the flickering blasts of lightning. They were disorienting as well as blinding. Going more by smell than sight, Kurt delivered a salvo of punishing blows to Earl's face and torso. Most men would have collapsed under such an onslaught. Not Earl. He just kept on fighting.
Who was this guy?
More sounds from the other room, this time from Gator. Kurt knew what that sound meant. He had to get to Paula and take out Gator.
Now.
To do that, he had to finish Earl off.
Lightning revealed an overturned table lamp on the floor a foot or so away. In a move that was as surprising as it was deft, Earl rolled away from Kurt, grabbed the lamp cord, wrapped it around Kurt's neck, and pulled back, putting all his weight behind it.
Which was considerable.
Kurt was flipped onto his back. He grabbed at the cord but was unable to get purchase. It was biting into his neck, cutting off his air supply.
Earl was on his feet now, dragging Kurt across the floor by the lamp cord, pulling it tighter, tighter. He was laughing, singing like a bully in a schoolyard. “I'm gonna kill you. I'm gonna kill you.”
And he was too, Kurt realized. This two-bit wannabe had already taken out Red. Now he was about to do the same to Kurt.
Earl's laughter edged into madness as he kept dragging Kurt across the room. Kurt was helpless to stop him. His brain filled with darkness from lack of oxygen.
No, it wasn't going to end like this. If it did, what would happen to Paula?
He knew what would happen to Paula.
He remembered Red's knife. It was shoved into his waistband. He pulled it free, knowing Earl couldn't see what he was doing.
He waited for the next flash of lightning.
It came a second later. He lined up his target then using all the strength he still possessed, thrust upward.
The huge blade jabbed through Earl's scrotum and continued all the way up into his intestines. Once its upward momentum stopped, Kurt gave it a half turn. Earl's scream was without doubt more horrible than any Kurt had ever heard a man make. But not as horrible as the stench that rained down over his knife hand.
None of that mattered to Kurt. Earl let go of the lamp cord. Kurt took a second to suck down several lungfulls of putrid air but his only thought was getting to Paula.
No further effort was needed on Earl. Kurt knew he had delivered a mortal blow. It would be a very painful death. He decided he would leave the knife where it was as a souvenir for Earl to cherish in Hell.
Now where was Red's gun?
A burst of lightning answered that question.
It was in Earl's hand, its barrel pointed at Kurt's face.
The cannonball bounced off Gator's head with a loud thunk, followed by an even louder “Fuck!” He wobbled like a sheet of tin. For a second Paula thought she'd succeeded, but somehow the bastard remained upright, even when the ball took a second bounce off his shoulder.
“Shit,” he screamed, repeating it again as the ball banged against his battered knee then crashed down on his foot. He roared, but a deafening barrage of thunder drowned him out.
Paula was surprised at how her clumsy attempt to knock him senseless had instead inflicted such grievous injury. Judging by his reaction, he was in terrific pain.
Good. But she had no time to gloat.
Despite how badly he was suffering, Gator lashed out wildly with his Bowie knife. It sliced across Paula's hip, cutting through her pedal pushers, her panties, and enough of her skin to spew a thin line of blood.
Paula was outraged. The son of a bitch had actually cut her. “You swamp rat scum-sucking low-life bastard.” It's what she'd heard her father call a pickpocket working his boat -- just before throwing him overboard. It seemed appropriate now. God how she’d like to pick Gator up and throw him overboard.
Her efforts had left him reeling, but his rage was still hitting on all eight cylinders. His knife whisked through the air again, aiming for her throat.
Paula instinctively jerked back. The blade missed her throat but its tip scratched across her chest. Not a deep cut, just enough to draw a line of blood. She screamed, put all her weight behind a savage kick to his knee, then it was his turn to scream.
His breath against her face reeked of rotting corpses. Paula jumped back, repulsed, then grabbed a cat-o-nine tails hanging nearby. She lashed Gator across the face and was shocked at how his skin split open in rivulets of blood. She hit him again but it only seemed to make him madder.
“Gimme that goddam thing.”
Paula was surprised at how easily he snatched it away from her. She knew what was coming next, turned and ran.
She only got a step before feeling the sting of the whip against her bare back. The intensity of the pain was beyond belief, as if her skin had literally been peeled off.
Paula whirled, kicking with all her might directly at his groin. “That hurt?” she asked as he screeched. “How 'bout this?” She kicked his knee again, going for maximum damage. “Yeah? Like that?”
She kicked out again and again until Gator fell screaming to the floor. Paula jumped up as high as she could then dropped down with both feet on his knee. ”Drop the knife and I'll stop. Do you hear me?” She repeated the exercise, yelling, “Drop it or I swear I'll . . .”
She didn't get to finish because Gator had both his arms wrapped around her ankles and jerked up. As she fell, Paula's head collided with the corner of a mahogany display table. When she hit the floor, it spun around her, as did everything else in the room.
She was slipping into oblivion.
One part of her wanted to let it happen. Then it would all be over. The pain would go away.
Another part of her said, yeah, it'll all be over all right. And you'll be dead.
When Paula regained her senses, she was on top of Gator. His arms were locked around her, pinning her own arms to her side, making it impossible for her to fight back. Grunting like a hog in slop, Gator worked Paula up his body until they were face to face.
His was smeared with blood and spit. Thin strips of skin hung loose from it and danced in the wind blowing in through the French doors. Paula had to fight back an urge to retch.
Gator laughed contemptuously. “Yeah, you get it now, don't ya? No matter how tough you think you are, you're still just a pussy. Put on earth for just one purpose.”
Paula squirmed to break loose but Gator had her in an iron grip. “For guys like me to fuck.” And with that, Gator rolled the two of them over so that he was on top of her.
She felt his hardness swelling against her pelvis. He clamped his lips down on hers in an obscene kiss, pressing her skull against the floor so hard Paula was sure it would crack.
This was it.
She was trapped, unable to move. What was about to happen next was unthinkable.
Paula realized her arms from the elbows down were free. She swung them up and grabbed one of Gator's little fingers in each of her hands then jerked back hard against his wrists. She felt bones separate from their sockets.
He roared, snatching his hands away from her grasp as if from a hot skillet.
Just the reaction Paula was counting on. Free from his grip, she rolled away, jumped to her feet, and dashed to the other end of the room, putting as much distance as possible between her and Gator. It gave her a moment to consider her options.
She had to end this.
She had to kill Gator.
He was hobbling toward her with startling speed, screaming like a Zulu warrior, his knife raised overhead, ready for the killing thrust. His injuries were no longer an impediment. He was at a point beyond pain. He was charging in for the kill.
Paula noticed a stand of medieval armor nearby. She grabbed a metal shield about two feet in diameter, held it up just as Gator slashed down. His blade banged against it, skidding off.
The force of his blow knocked Paula off balance and she danced back a step. Gator slashed out again. The vibration from the impact was so severe she almost dropped the shield.
So far, so good, but Paula knew she couldn't keep fending off Gator's attack like this. She had to be able to fight back. But with what?
The solution was only a few steps away, a glistening Arabian scimitar on an ornate silver display rack. It was an especially nasty looking sword, just what she needed.
Paula fended off one more lunge, then whirled away and ran the few steps to the scimitar. She yanked it from the rack.
Gator was stunned by her move. She had a shield and a sword. He only had a knife.
No matter. She was just a woman. He laughed scornfully at her then charged.
Paula didn't hesitate. She conjured up in her mind all the swashbuckler movies she had ever seen and slashed down viciously.
Gator was surprised by her attack but responded instantly. The twelve-inch tempered steel blade of his Bowie knife proved more than adequate to fend off the scimitar's curved blade.
The ear-splitting clang of the two weapons made Paula's teeth rattle. Before she could draw back for another swing, Gator back slashed his knife. She blocked it with her shield. This left him somewhat open and Paula tried a straight in thrust with her sword, aiming for his heart.
Bad move.
Gator jumped back, at the same time slashing down, delivering a powerful blow against her sword, almost knocking it from her hand.
Now she was the one who was open and Gator was ready to exploit his advantage. To keep him from doing so, Paula slammed the shield into his face. He staggered back a step but kept his knife poised to ward off another sword thrust.
Paula spun around and hopped up onto the arm of a full size catapult. It was pulled down into the firing position and nearly parallel to the floor. She liked having the height advantage over Gator.
He simply grinned. “Ready for me to fuck you?” He snatched a double-bladed executioner's axe propped up nearby. He held it upright with one hand while his other hand brandished the Bowie knife.
The ease with which Gator climbed onto the catapult, despite his shattered knee, was unnerving. Paula had never before seen such a display of super human strength and will power.
He was relentless.
He clearly had only one purpose in life now and Paula made the decision that she’d rather die first, even if it was by her own hand. It notched up her anger several more degrees. It sparked in her eyes and said: I'll never submit.
As if the situation wasn't perilous enough, the storm let loose with a seemingly endless burst of flickering lightning that threatened to blind her.
It didn't seem to bother Gator. He advanced doggedly in surreal flashes of movement. Paula scooted back, almost lost her balance.
Gator swung the axe at her. She was able to block it with her shield, but his swing had great force behind it, knocking the shield from her hand. Now she had only one weapon while Gator had two very deadly ones.
He swung the axe again, low, trying to cut her legs from beneath her. Paula jumped high, throwing her legs out in a perfect cheerleader split. The blade sliced the air inches under them.
When she came back down, she landed badly, lost her balance and tumbled off the catapult. She fell face-first onto the floor but managed to cushion the fall with her arms. She heard Gator's boots hit the floor close by and flipped over to face him.
He stepped on her shoulder, pinning her down, then dropped the axe and leaned down with his knife. He slipped the blade under the center of her bra.
There was nothing she could do to stop him.
In a split-second, images flashed through Paula’s mind: Billy as an infant nuzzling her breast, her mother's sunny smile and the sparkle in her eye, her father's hardy laugh in the wheelhouse, Birdy singing in church -- a thousand glittering splinters of the most joyous memories of her life.
Now coming to an end.
Gator's head exploded, spraying blood and brains everywhere, some of it hitting Paula.
Along with little pieces of his face.
When it exploded a second time, there wasn't much left to call a head.
His legs buckled and the rest of him came down with the heft of a sailor's sea bag. Paula scooted sideways to make room for him. What remained of his face slapped down beside her like a wet rag on a drain board. It gazed at her with a stupid grin. An eyeball was hanging out.
Kurt called out, “You okay?”
He pushed his way over to her, holding Red's big gun in his hand. With his other hand he pulled Paula up. Once she was on her feet, Paula just stood there quivering like a volcano about to erupt, shaking her fists in the air; eyes screwed tight, teeth bared viciously.
“No I’m not all right!” She pounded her fists against Kurt's chest, screaming like an Amazon warrior woman.
Kurt let her get it out of her system. She collapsed against him and sobbed from the depths of her soul. As he enveloped her in his arms, she stopped him, wincing. “Don't touch my back,” then continued sobbing.
When Kurt saw the welts on her back, his face flushed with anger. “Jesus,” he said, then swung his gun around and shot Gator again.
Paula didn't react, but did manage to get her sobbing somewhat under control. She noticed the storm had subsided a bit, that it seemed to be moving away. She looked up at Kurt imploringly, her eyes filled with pain and anguish. “Why, Kurt? Why, why, why?”
Kurt took a deep breath. He knew she would be asking this question. He also knew if he had any chance of salvaging their relationship, he would have to answer it fully and honestly. After all she'd been through she deserved the whole truth.
When he looked deep into her eyes, he expected to see hate, loathing. He didn't. They weren't brimming over with affection, but there was a flicker of something that gave him hope.
“All I care about right now, Paula, is you're alive. If you hate me for the rest of your life, I'll understand. But even if you do, I'll love you for the rest of mine.”
She shook her head wearily. “I just want to understand.”
“I promise to tell you everything. I was going to tell you after what you had said to me in the bathtub earlier. It changed everything, made me realize what a fool I'd been. You may not believe me but it's true.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Kurt nodded toward Gator. “We had company.”
Paula scanned the room in all its disarray. She avoided looking at Gator. “Yes.” She buried her face in her hands as if the horror of what had happened was just too much to bear. “Oh God, Kurt . . .”
She shivered. Now that the battle was over, her body temperature was returning to normal. She crossed her arms over her chest and said, ”I'm cold.”
“Yeah, lets get out of here.”
She looked at him questioningly. “Upstairs,” he said. “The bathroom. I've got first aid stuff there. We need to clean those cuts.”
“It's mostly Gator's blood.”
“An even better reason to clean it up.” He leaned over, gently touched the cut on her hip. Paula flinched. “Sorry. This one's all you. Come on.”
Kurt made a solo side trip to retrieve the lantern while Paula closed the French doors. They carefully followed a path through the rubble and out the door.
As they entered the main room it was flooded with lightning. Paula gasped -- not from the storm but the sight in front of her. If the museum was a shambles, this place looked like a bomb had gone off.
Kurt left her standing while he lit several more lanterns. The warm, friendly glow was incongruous with the naked violence of the room, not the least of which was Red's body sprawled on the floor.
“Not to worry,” Kurt said. “Maid comes on Tuesday.”
His attempt to lighten the mood didn’t work. Paula's entire body convulsed. Kurt held her, careful not to touch her back. “It's gonna be all right,” he said.
Paula looked at him wild-eyed and said, “Yeah? When?” There was an undercurrent of hysteria in her voice. “My God, Kurt . . .”
“We're alive, Paula. That's what counts. Come with me.”
They walked toward the stairs but were stopped by a loud groan from behind an overturned sofa. Kurt hurried over, gun ready. Earl was on his back in a pool of blood. He waved his gun at Kurt. “Stop.”
Kurt kicked the gun out of his hand impatiently then said to Paula, “Little bastard just won't die.”
Paula joined him. Earl was writhing, coughing, gasping, making gurgling sounds. He looked up at Paula and said in a wet, bubbling whisper, “Please . . .”
The sight of Earl with half his guts strung out around him was nauseating. She turned to Kurt. “What did he say?” He merely shrugged.
Paula leaned over Earl in an attempt to better hear. “What did you say?”
Earl spit up more blood, sucked hard for breath, then said, “Please,” again.
“Please what?”
Earl gurgled some more. “Lemme see 'em. Just once. Please.”
Paula realized what his eyes were focused on. At the angle she was leaning over, they were almost spilling out of her bra. She straightened up, crossed her arms over her chest. She looked down at Earl with utter disgust, her face ice cold, devoid of any semblance of pity.
“No.”
With that, Earl died.
Before heading upstairs to the bedroom, Paula and Kurt stripped off their tattered clothes, crossed the verandah, then helped each other down the steps into the cold driving rain, away from the remnants of violence and chaos and the three dead men inside the house.
The fury of the storm had moved out to the Atlantic but it still contained enough force to scour away the blood, grime, and stench of mortal combat. All that was left was fresh blood. Time to take care of that.
The bedroom was on the leeward side of the house, so even though the French doors were left open after the two had dashed out, very little rain had managed to penetrate. It was easily mopped up with a couple of towels.
With the doors closed and the room bathed in the warm, friendly glow of several hurricane lanterns, there was a sense of homeliness, a semblance of safety and security, even if it was only an illusion.
They attended to each other's wounds lovingly, tenderly, with water, alcohol and antiseptic. The cut on Paula's shoulder wasn’t too deep and Kurt closed it with a large bandage. When done, both shook their heads in wonder at how much gauze and tape covered their bodies.
The knife slash on Paula's hip was too severe and would require stitches as soon as possible. Kurt first poured hydrogen peroxide on the open wound, then blew on it as she yelled, “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” followed by angry tears. He closed it with tightly wound bandages that at least managed to stop the bleeding.
As a precaution he gave injections of penicillin to both of them. There was morphine in his standard issue medical kit, but he knew it was important they both stayed functionally lucid, so he opted for acetaminophen tablets instead.
Medical ministrations completed, Paula pulled on a snug navy blue pullover, another pair of pedal pushers, and canvas deck shoes. The sweater Paula had worn earlier was still on the floor of the main room downstairs where she’d pulled it off. She would never touch it again; much less wear it.
Kurt handed her one of his lightweight bush jackets from the closet. Despite her statuesque physique, it swallowed her, but provided comfort along with a sense of protection. It was just what she need at the moment.
Kurt decided on full tropical combat fatigues including hat, backpack, boots and a bush jacket for himself. It wasn't much different from what most of the sportsmen in South Florida wore, whether hunters or fishermen. He loaded the outfit's numerous pockets with the survival gear he thought they might need, including a big automatic pistol clipped to his belt.
Paula watched him warily. “We going to war again?”
Kurt didn’t miss Paula’s deadly serious tone, devoid of even a hint of humor or sarcasm. “Not if I can help it,” he said. “I won't be caught off guard again.”
He shoved the last item in a side pocket then lit up a Camel.
Paula lit up too. “Done?”
“Except for the big stuff.”
“Good.” Paula's eyes were penetrating, unflinching. “Time you told me everything. You said you would.”
Kurt was clearly dreading this moment. He nodded. “All right.”
They sat side-by-side on the bed. The storm had diminished to little more than driving rain, gusty wind, and a distant grumble of thunder. No lightning. The alarm clock on the bedside table read 5:48.
“First off, there's something you need to understand. I've been a soldier all my life, up until about two years ago.”
“Guessed as much.”
“I'm damn proud of being a soldier. It's a job that has to be done. Always has been since one caveman decided to take something by force that belonged to another caveman.”
Conviction was in Kurt's voice and his eyes. He was opening up a part of his life to her he had never talked about before. She remained silent as he continued.
“As long as there's greed, corruption, contempt for how others think or live, or just plain old deep down evil, there's gonna be wars. And there's gonna be soldiers to fight those wars. The better the soldiers, the better the chances of victory. As long as the soldiers fight on the side of the good and righteous, they provide a valuable service to mankind.
“Think how World War Two would have turned out if our soldiers hadn’t been better than the bad guys’ soldiers, what kinda world we’d be living in now. I always fought on the good and righteous side, Paula. I put a lot of bad guys out of business. I have no regrets about that.”
He was quiet for a moment. It seemed to Paula that a shadow passed over his face. He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Then one day it all went bad.”
“Red?”
He looked at her in surprise then nodded in the affirmative. “We went back a long way. Believe it or not, he used to be one of the good guys.”
Paula had to resist a scoff as she extinguished her smoke. “I'll take your word for it.”
“It's true. Real crusader for the oppressed.”
“What happened?”
“I've lain awake many a night trying to figure that one out. I think his soul just shriveled up and died inside him. Can't really pinpoint what made it happen. Then one night Red did something so . . .” He waved his hands as if at a loss for words. “That was when I knew I had to get as far away from him as possible if I was going to save my own soul.”
“What'd he do?”
Kurt grimaced, turned his head away.
“You promised you'd tell me everything.”
He told her about the night at the campfire when the girl blew her own brains out for fear of Red. Paula sucked in her breath. She pressed her hands together in front of her mouth as if in prayer. “Oh my God, Kurt, no.”
“I tried to stop it. All I managed to do was break my arm. Otherwise I would have killed Red right then and there. Paula, you've got to believe that. I'm not a monster.”
She took his hand in hers. “I do believe you.” She said it solemnly, without emotion, like a businessman agreeing to a deal.
Kurt told Paula how a few months ago Red had shown up out of nowhere and suckered him into a mission to rescue Sonny Stewart, one of their buddies. He explained how it had all been a plot by Red to steal two million bucks worth of emeralds and that it had turned into a bloodbath. Sonny Stewart was not a part of it. Never had been.
“But now you were.”
“Up to my neck.”
“Even though it wasn't your fault,” Paula said.
“A fine point considering who we're dealing with.”
Paula cocked her head quizzically.
“Let's just say he's a prominent citizen of Colombia who'd make Red look like a Sunday school teacher.” He snuffed out his smoke.” Lets also say there are no good guys in this scenario. There's no way to do the righteous thing.”
Paula's mind was whirring. Pieces of the puzzle were coming together. “When did this thing that Red tricked you into happen?”
Knowing Paula, Kurt wasn't surprised by the question. “Little over two months ago.”
Paula nodded in understanding. She extinguished her smoke. “That's why you didn't see me for two months.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I was busy hatching a grand scheme to get you and me safely away from here in style, while getting Red out of my hair once and forever.”
“What about your Colombian friends?”
“Fuck 'em. Like I said, there are no good guys in this. Let ‘em eat each other alive for all I care.”
“What about you? Aren't you a good guy?”
“I'm ashamed to say that for a while there I wasn't a very good guy. I’d deluded myself that I was. Turned out I was wrong.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Not how. Who.”
Paula's face flushed. She knew the answer before asking, but asked anyway. “Me?”
“You.” He stubbed his Camel out.
Paula's head was swimming. She tried to formulate a relevant question starting with “But” or “How” or “Why.” All she came up with was, “I don't understand.”
Kurt's smile was filled not only with affection, but admiration. “Paula, why did you decide to run away with me?”
“What kind of idiot question is that? I love you.” She looked somewhat miffed. “What did you think?”
“It's what you said when we were in the bathtub a little while ago.”
Paula reviewed the scene in her mind but couldn’t guess what Kurt was referring to. “Okay, what did I say?”
“You said you ran away because you were gonna spend the rest of your life doing just as you pleased.”
“Damn right I am. Glad you got the message.”
“And I was one of the things that pleased you.”
“You are. God help me ‘cause I can’t.” They both laughed at that, then she said, “All right, tell me all about this grand scheme of yours.”
“I will. But just remember it was never executed. Okay? None of this ever happened. And I had already decided it wasn't going to happen.” Noticing her skeptical look, he added. “It's all theoretical, Paula.”
“Okay.”
Kurt walked her through it, starting with setting Red up with fake jewels so Estrada would take him out. He told her who Estrada was and how he was involved. He explained the Mr. Ames subterfuge, including the little cabin cruiser hidden on the far side of the boathouse.
Paula shook her head in dismay as Kurt described rigging the Black Jack’s hull with explosives, then told her about his plan to transfer everything, including them, to the cabin cruiser before sinking the Black Jack in deep water. He finished by telling her about the escape route back through the Everglades, followed by the flight out of Miami.
Paula's expression of bewilderment was about what Kurt had expected. “And you thought I would just salute obediently, say aye, aye sir, and quietly go along with this insane plan?”
Kurt took a deep breath, and said, “No, I never imagined that for a second. I knew with absolute certainty that you wouldn't.”
He knew that Paula was bursting with questions, undoubtedly of the indignant kind. He held up a hand to stop her. “Let me explain.” And he did. As she listened, Paula's eyes grew increasingly larger. Her mouth gaped open in utter disbelief.
“You were going to knock me out?” She waited for Kurt to respond. When he didn't she repeated it, but this time with more fury. “Kurt, you were going to drug me?”
Kurt looked sheepish, shrugged helplessly. “For your own good. I didn't like it either, but I couldn't come up with anything better.”
“How about honesty? How about trusting me enough to tell me the truth?”
“I was afraid if I did that, you'd run for the hills.”
“Could you blame me?”
“No.”
“Because, my God, Kurt, if you’d done that to me, you would’ve made me your prisoner. I would’ve hated you for the rest of my life. What were you thinking?”
She was gazing at him with piercing intensity. Sparks danced inside her big green eyes. Not the festive kind. More like the sparks from an ignited fuse. Somehow Kurt found it even more exciting than usual.
“Ah shit, let me make it real simple.” He grabbed Paula by the lapels of her bush jacket, yanked her to him then kissed her with the explosive force of a lightning bolt.
At least that's what it seemed like to Paula, but she wondered sometimes if she wasn’t highly impressionable. Regardless, it left her so breathless she had to pull her face away to gasp for air. Kurt didn't relent. He grabbed her hair, jerked her back around, and captured her lips again, savoring their softness then plunged his tongue into her mouth until she completely surrendered to him.
When he pushed her away, he still held onto her lapels, keeping her close enough to look earnestly into her eyes. “Now do you understand?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she said, panting, her voice little more than a whisper. “I think.”
“What do you understand?”
“That you love me. A lot.”
“Only as long as I draw breath.”
She smiled. Her cheeks glowed with a rosy patina. “And I love you, Mr. Younger. Can't help it. My heart belongs to you. What kind of idiot does that make me?”
Kurt took her face in his hands. “Who the fuck cares?”
They kissed very gently, lying down on the bed. Kurt gathered Paula up into his arms and she winced. “My back, my back . . .”
“Your front, your front,” Kurt replied. They both chuckled then fell fast asleep.
When Kurt's eyes popped open, it was dark outside. The rain had stopped, and the alarm clock read 8:05. He eased out of bed, trying not to disturb Paula, then climbed back into his clothes.
Paula shifted into a fetal position, knees pulled up, arms folded against her chest. Kurt guessed she was trying to compensate for the loss of his warmth. He pulled the covers further up over her shoulders. Keeping her eyes firmly shut, she said, “I'm still asleep.” Kurt smiled, kissed her forehead, then eased out of the room.
Once downstairs he collected all the photo prints as well as the negatives in Red's pocket. Paula didn't need to see them again. He found the waterproof envelope they'd come in and slipped the pictures back inside.
The other things Paula didn't need to see were the bodies of Red, Earl and Gator. A spacious storage room was accessible from the main room. Among its varied contents were several nylon tarps. Kurt decided these would make perfect body bags.
After removing all artillery, ammo, and identification from the three corpses, he started in the museum with Gator. He scooted a number of items out of the way then spread the tarp alongside his remains. When Kurt rolled Gator onto it, what was left of his head fell off.
Kurt did not enjoy scooping up handfuls of skull and flesh and eyeballs, especially since he wasn't wearing gloves. Pieces of Gator squished between his fingers like freshly ground beef.
Kurt thoroughly washed the goo off his hands then donned rubber gloves before he working on Earl. This proved more problematic because when he tried to roll Earl onto the canvas, he came completely apart. Most disturbing was how his intestines spilled out of his body cavity.
Turned out he had a lot of intestines. They stunk like a Kansas City slaughterhouse.
Kurt fought back an urge to puke up his own guts. Instead he returned to the storage room once again, grabbed a shovel, and scraped up several loads of Earl's intestines, along with other internal organs. He dumped them on the tarp, then rolled first the legs, then the torso and head, on top of the slop.
Red's body was completely intact, just the two small holes between his eyes. Conversely, the back of his head was a gory pulp. He was the heaviest of the three corpses. To get leverage, Kurt had to kneel on the tarp beside him, grab him by shoulders and hips then give a mighty yank to roll him over.
It worked. But as Red's carcass flipped over, his arm was flung out. It came crashing down around Kurt's neck, knocking him off balance so that he fell on top of Red, ending up with his face pressed against the face of his former partner. The impact of Kurt's weight on the body pushed up air from his already putrefying innards directly into his face, like being sprayed by a polecat. Kurt gagged, almost threw up.
He didn't like the way Red was looking at him. His eyes seemed to be mocking Kurt. He tried to break loose, but the arm was wedged around his neck as if determined to hold Kurt in an obscene embrace. What was it he used to say? Partners forever.
“Fuck that,” Kurt said out loud, then jerked Red's arm away and stood up. Next, he folded the tarps over each of the bodies and used Army duck tape to thoroughly seal them. When finished, all three bodies looked ready for burial at sea. Appropriate since that was exactly what was going to happen.
He pulled the bodies out onto the front verandah and fired up several hanging hurricane lanterns. They swung gently in the declining breeze, which thankfully was still strong enough to carry away the stench.
He dragged the bodies one at a time down to the dock, where he fired up more lanterns. To Kurt, the warm, festive glow washing over the three tarp-wrapped bodies was grotesquely surreal. Later he would pull the Black Jack alongside and heave the bodies onboard. A dance macabre indeed.
Back inside the house Kurt gathered up the fake emeralds scattered across the floor then returned them to the leather pouch Red had carried them in. He dropped the pouch on the bar and was surveying the damaged French doors when he noticed Paula descending the stairs.
She stopped halfway down, wary, as if expecting something to jump out at her. When she noticed the photos and bodies were gone, she visibly relaxed. She smiled warmly at Kurt. “Thank you.”
Despite everything she'd been through, Paula looked beautiful, downright regal, in fact. Kurt noticed she was limping slightly, favoring the hip that had been knifed. It made his anger flare. The urge to unwrap Gator's corpse and unload a magazine in it was hard to subdue.
But that wouldn't help Paula. What she needed was bolstering up, so he gave her a breezy smile and said, “Fuck the whole world and the horse it rode in on.”
It broadened her smile. She cocked her fist in the air and said, “Yeah, fuck ‘em all.” She continued down the stairs. “What can I do to help?”
“You can fix us a drink. If there's a God in Heaven, a bottle of Jack survived.”
Paula crossed to the bar. Among several shattered liquor bottles was an untouched Jack Daniels Black. She brandished it saying, “I guess God loves you. Oh, and He loves me too.” She held up a bottle of Smirnoff. “Ice?”
“In the freezer below the bar. Should still have some.”
It did. Paula made drinks then handed one to Kurt. They clinked glasses. “I feel numb,” she said, followed by a big sip of vodka. “Ah, well, that helps.” She fired up a Chesterfield.
“Good. 'Cause we still got a long night ahead of us.”
“You mean cleaning up?” Paula slumped back against the bar, took another gulp. “Let's leave it for the maid on Tuesday.”
Kurt shook his head. “Cleaning up's the worst thing we can do.”
When Kurt didn't elaborate, Paula said, “Okay, why's it the worst thing we can do?”
“Look around. Obviously a battle royal took place here.”
“What's a battle royal?”
“Goes back to the Romans. It's what they called a fight to the death between three or more gladiators until only one was left standing. That's what we want them to think. Only they won't know who was left standing. That's to our advantage.”
Kurt had her complete attention now. “They?”
He took a generous pull from his whiskey then glanced at his watch. “Little over an hour ago Red was supposed to meet Estrada in Colombia and give him these.” He reached into the leather pouch, pulled out a handful of emeralds. He held them up in his palm for Paula to see.
She looked at him quizzically. “Yeah, I saw those earlier. So what?”
“Problem is, Estrada's not seeing them right now.”
“Bad, huh?”
“Very bad. He's gonna come after these emeralds. Count on it. And he's gonna come here. With a small army.”
Paula choked on her drink, then said, “You're kidding.”
“'Fraid not.”
“Well why are we standing around talking? Let's get the hell out of here.” She stubbed out her cigarette.
“Easy, easy. We've got a little time.”
“But . . .”
“Bogota is 1500 miles away. Seven and a half hours flight time on a C-47, which is probably what they'll use.”
“Why do you say that? And what the hell is a C-47?”
“Trust me, they won't be flying Pan Am. Hard to check all that heavy artillery, inflatable assault rafts, and big outboard motors as baggage. No, they'll need an aircraft designed to carry all that gear, plus a coupla dozen troops. A C-47 is a standard military cargo plane. Twin-engine prop. A blue million of 'em were made during the war. When they were decommissioned, small military units and freight companies all over the world gobbled 'em up.
“It'll take Estrada a little while to put it all together. Four hours minimum, six at the outside. Means we've got twelve hours, maybe a little more.” He clinked her glass again and winked at her. “Cheers.”
Paula simply stared at him for a moment then said, “God, just when I was starting to like you again.”
Kurt grabbed a handful of breast, tipped her back and said, “Like me hell, you love me.” He planted a deep lingering kiss on her, then brought her back upright. Neither of them had spilled their drinks.
“Point taken,” Paula said. “All right, what do we have to do?”
“Well, nothing to the house, unfortunately.”
“Why not?”
“If we did any cleanup or repair, it would be a dead giveaway as to who survived the battle royal. I’d like to board up the French doors in case another storm blows in. But only the guy who owns this place would do that. Gotta keep 'em guessing.”
“What a shame. Look at this beautiful rug. Ruined.”
Kurt shrugged. “It's a rug.” He glanced up. “At least the overhead windows aren't damaged.”
Paula scanned the upper regions of the wall. “Can't say the same for poor ol' Marty the Marlin.”
Kurt’s prize marlin now had gaping holes punched in it from a wild burst of gunfire. “Maxine, actually. Put up one hell of a fight, she did,” he said wistfully. “Took all day to reel her in.”
Paula gave him a saucy look. “Nothing compared to how long it took to reel me in.”
Kurt nodded, said, “True.”
Paula clinked his glass. “How 'bout I freshen that up a tad.” She did then nodded toward the jewels. “You want to tell me about these?”
“They're fake.”
Paula twisted her mouth impatiently. “Yes, I know. So where are the real ones?”
“Safe.”
“Okay, skip the lengthy explanations, just . . .”
“Paula . . .”
“What?”
“They're safe.”
”Oh come on . . .”
“It's better you don't know.”
“That's what my mom said first time I asked about sex.”
“She was right. So am I.”
“Okay, let me broach a more pertinent question. Where to from here? According to you, Florida Bay'll be swarming with pirates in a few hours.”
”It will be.”
“And you've got a plan to deal with that?”
“Of course I do. The original plan.”
“Plan A?”
“The same.”
“Not plan B?”
“Never had a plan B.”
“So we're back to the one where you knock me out, throw me over your shoulder, and take me off to your cave.”
“Afraid it's not as romantic as that.”
Kurt reached inside his bush jacket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Paula. She opened it to find two Eastern Airlines tickets to Paris with a stopover in New York.
Paula was baffled and a little hurt. “Kurt I thought I explained to you . . .”
“We're not going there to set up house. We're just gonna hide out there till the heat dies down. Doesn't mean we can't have some fun in the meantime.” He put his arms around her. “It's a fun town. And pretty damn romantic.”
“I guess calling the cops is not an option.”
“Not a good one.”
Paula looked so vulnerable it almost broke Kurt's heart. He took her in his arms and they kissed gently, more in a show of support than affection. Kurt gazed over the room’s destruction and a sense of great loss was evident in his eyes. It confused Paula knowing he originally had planned on abandoning the house.
Then she understood. Plans had changed. This was still his home. He'd come back here, live here like before. And when the two of them were together, this is where they would live.
She put a hand to his cheek. “We can make it right again.”
He took her hand and kissed it, his swagger returning. “Damn right we can.”
Paula smiled, but looked troubled. “Something just occurred to me.”
“Yeah?”
“It's probably really stupid.”
“I promise not to laugh.”
“I was just wondering why Estrada would send a crew all the way up here from Colombia. Why not just hire some local guys?”
Kurt just stared at her for a moment. Paula thought she must have said something really dumb.
Kurt said, “Shit.”
“I can't believe you never thought of that,” Paula said as they were packing clothes.
“Not the way I would do it,” Kurt said. “But that may be what Estrada’s counting on. He knows I don't do hit-and-run. I do self-contained unit work. He probably will too. It's the only way to completely control the outcome of a mission.”
“What do you mean?”
“If Estrada’s not here as part of the operation, there's always the possibility the hit-and-run team will just grab the jewels and disappear into the night.”
“But?”
“Estrada knows he has the kind of reputation that would discourage anybody from double-crossing him.”
“You did.”
“Right. That's why you need to pack faster.” He spotted the porcelain egret on the dresser and picked it up. “And you don't want to forget this.”
Something clicked in Paula 's mind. She took the egret from Kurt, carefully packed it into the larger suitcase and slammed it shut. “I'm done. How much time do we have?”
“Under one scenario, hours. Under the other, none.”
“And we're assuming scenario two.”
“Got to.”
Paula took in a deep breath, blew it out. She shook her hands as if trying to get blood into them. “Okay, okay, okay.”
“I'll take the suitcases down to the dock. You hit the kitchen and pack us up some grub. There's ice chests in the storeroom.” Paula's eyes widened with panic. “We'll be outta here inside an hour. Even an experienced hit-and-run team can't get here that fast.”
“You sure?”
Kurt thought about it a second. “Pretty sure.”
“Kurt . . .”
“Move, girl. Move, move, move.”
Paula said, “Yes sir,” and scurried out of the room. Kurt heard her say, “Shit, shit, shit,” as she took the stairs two at a time.
By a little after midnight the dock was jammed with everything they’d need for their getaway. The hurricane lanterns Kurt fired up earlier provided ample illumination. The list he’d scribbled out a little while ago was in Paula’s hand. She called it out item by item.
“Food and water?”
“Check.”
“Clothes?”
“Two suitcases for you, one for me.”
“Booze?”
“His and hers.”
“Weaponry?”
“Plenty. Plus ammo and a crate of grenades.”
“Oh God, Kurt . . .”
“Come on, come on.”
“First aid kit?”
“Check.”
“Rigging gear?”
“Ropes, chains, clips and hooks.”
“Fuel?”
“Several jerry cans.’
Flashlights?”
“Check.”
“And, uh . . .”
“Three carcasses wrapped up and ready for delivery to Davy Jones' Locker.”
Paula swayed, feeling ill. Kurt steadied her. She waved him off. “I’m okay, I’m okay, lets just get out of here.”
Kurt grinned at her encouragingly and said, “Be right back,” then scurried back up to the house. Paula was hot boxing a Chesterfield when she saw him trotting down the hill with a very big machine gun over his shoulder. Ammunition belts were slung over his other shoulder.
“Say hello to Mr. Browning,” he said.
She flicked off a cigarette ash. “Boys and their toys.”
Kurt laid the .30 caliber M1919 and its ammo belts down on the dock. “This toy will give anybody following us a very stern message. Stay the fuck back.”
Paula surveyed all the items strung out on the dock. “We going to be able to get all this stuff on the Black Jack?”
”Some of it goes on the Far Horizons.”
“The what?”
“Little cabin cruiser I told you about.”
“Right, right.” Her eyes got large. “Kurt, listen.”
He went deathly still. His ears pricked up. He whispered, “I hear it. It's coming up the channel from the Bay. Douse these lanterns. Quick.”
They did. Kurt grabbed one of the submachine guns, jammed a clip in then scooted Paula behind him. “Stay low and don't move.” He cocked the gun, then silently moved to a position at the end of the dock, squatted, and waited.
The clouds had moved out. The moon was bright over the open lagoon, but because the channel cut through thick foliage, it was as black as the inside of a gun barrel.
Kurt strained to see but to no avail. But he heard the sound of something moving up the channel. It was moving fast.
Getting closer.
It came out of the mouth of the channel like a torpedo aimed directly at the dock. Kurt leveled the submachine gun at it then jerked the barrel up to keep from filling Wally full of lead.
“Wally!” The relief in Paula's laughter made Kurt and Wally laugh too. He did a back flip then stood up in the water for Paula to kiss him. “Hi, baby.”
Kurt reached down, stroked him and said, “Pal you just scared the shit out of me.”
Paula laughed. She leaned her forehead against Kurt's. They both laughed some more. Like children.
Kurt stood. “All right, you guys stay here. I got one last thing to do before bringing the boats around.”
“Such as?”
“Hide the emeralds where Estrada's boys will be sure to find them.”
“But they're fake.”
“I know that. You know that. They don't know that. Not yet anyway. It'll buy us some time.”
About ten minutes later, the boathouse's big doors swung open followed by the Black Jack easing out. It caught Wally’s attention, too. He effortlessly leapt over the dock and swam over to Kurt, who responded as if he expected nothing less.
He let the Black Jack drift over to the far side of the boathouse where the Far Horizons was hidden under a cover of mangrove branches. He tossed these aside, then made fast a towline to the little cabin cruiser's bow. He closed the boathouse doors, then with Wally leading the way, cruised over to the dock.
All the items they wanted to keep were loaded into the Far Horizons. Everything else went into the Black Jack, including the three tarp-wrapped bodies. At precisely 1:00 AM they were ready to go. Kurt turned to Paula and said, “You'll have to steer the Far Horizons through the channel. I won't be able to tow it fast enough to keep it from swinging against the banks. When we get out to the Bay, you can transfer back to the Black Jack.”
Paula smiled bravely and saluted.
Kurt said, “Here we go.”
She kissed him. “Yes, here we go.”
When they rounded the first bend in the channel, Paula looked back at the house and lagoon before they were eclipsed from view by the thick foliage. The enchanted island disappeared like a dream in the morning sun. Would she ever see it again?
Looking forward, she corrected her course slightly to stay in the middle of the channel. Ahead, Kurt was standing high, hands gripping the helm, feet planted about a foot apart, ready for action as always. He'd removed his bush jacket to reveal a tight-fitting black T-shirt underneath.
Wally had clearly decided that wherever Kurt and Paula were going, he was going too. He led the way most of the time, nodding back to Kurt to follow, but he would also double back to check on Paula, chattering at her. It made Paula smile. “I love you too, baby.”
When they emerged into the Bay the sky was cloudless. The island was silhouetted against a bright, almost-full moon in a sky full of twinkling stars. The irony of being in such a romantic setting in the midst of the deadly scenario they were playing out was not lost on Paula.
Kurt idled the Black Jack’s engines while Paula brought the Far Horizons alongside. She shut down the Evinrude then let Kurt help her onboard. She almost tripped over the bodies laid out in the stern. All thoughts of romantic settings were driven from her mind.
Kurt said, “To hell with them. They got what they had coming to them. Come up to the cockpit with me.” She did and they got underway, towing the Far Horizons behind. Wally seemed to be glad they were both in the same boat and took a position off the port bow. Paula expected Kurt to head out to open water, but instead he steered parallel to the island.
He answered the question in her eyes. “We've gotta find the boat Red and his crew arrived in. Estrada's men aren't going to find any bodies, despite evidence of all out warfare, so they can't find a boat either. They've gotta believe all the players have fled.”
Paula understood. “It also means they don't know how many people they're chasing. When they see the extent of the damage in the house, they're going to know more than two people were involved.”
Kurt nodded. “The more we keep them guessing, the better for us.”
Paula said, “Okay. Sorry, but I've got the heebie-jeebies. And my stomach's making sounds like an angry bear. How 'bout I fix us something to eat and a couple of drinks? I brought a nice looking ham and a there’s loaf of bread. Sandwiches?”
“With lots of bite-your-ass mustard.”
“Comin' up.”
They found the Jon boat Red had stolen where Kurt thought it would be. It was empty except for a spare jerry can of fuel. Kurt wasn't surprised. Everything the three had brought with them would be on their persons.
It only took a few minutes to connect a tow line from the stern of the Far Horizons, loop it through the bow eye of the Jon boat, then run it back to the Black Jack where Kurt tied it off on a stern cleat. This would allow him to release the Jon boat without having to stop. During the process, Wally went from boat to boat as if inspecting to make sure the work was properly done.
“Quite a little circus train we've got going,” Paula said.
“Yeah, I'm not happy about it either. Out here on open water with a big moon, I feel like one of those ducks in a shooting gallery.”
Kurt eased the Black Jack’s throttle forward and the two boats fell in line behind them. Paula noticed he had all lights turned off. She assumed under the circumstances he wanted to remain as dark as possible.
“How far?” Paula asked.
“Hours at the pace we'll be going. Gotta go round the tip of Key Largo to reach the edge of the shelf. We'll cut the Jon boat loose halfway there, close enough to wash up onshore.”
They both grew quiet then, finishing their sandwiches, sipping stiff drinks, and munching potato chips that could only be described as vintage.
At this hour, Kurt and Paula had Florida Bay entirely to themselves.
They covered the distance from Curiosity Cove deep into Blackwater Sound without incident, but at a glacial pace because of towing two boats, one of them being the Jon boat, which was never designed for speed.
Paula was surprised that Wally was still with them. She had expected him to veer off once they cleared the island, but obviously he had other plans. At the leisurely speed they were traveling, he had no problem keeping up.
That was fine with Paula. She remembered her father saying dolphins brought good luck. Right now they needed all they could get. Her stomach was twisted in knots.
The rocky and, at this hour, shadowy coast of Key Largo loomed ahead. Kurt made a wide sweep, slinging the Jon boat toward shore then gave Paula the signal to release. She slipped the knot on the towline. Within seconds the little flat-bottomed boat was scooting toward land. Later in the morning it would make a nice prize for some old Conch. Paula pulled in the towline, coiling it as she did, always the captain's daughter.
The loss of drag allowed Kurt to pick up speed, but not as much as he would like. The Far Horizons was riding in the Black Jack’s wake. Greater speed meant a more turbulent wake, which might capsize the smaller boat. Plus, the Black Jack’s aft was weighted down with bodies and chains. Greater speed could dip it enough to take on water. A slow pace also allowed Wally to keep up. For reasons Kurt didn’t understand himself, that seemed important.
He steered north toward Jewfish Creek, which was about a mile in length. It would give them passage to Barnes Sound. From there they would take Steamboat Creek up into Card Sound, then Angelfish Creek out into the Atlantic. The continental shelf was only a few miles further. The drop off was fairly steep. It wouldn't take long before they were over deep water.
That's where he planned to drop the bodies. Once Red, Gator and Earl were taking that long dive to a place where sunlight never penetrated, Kurt intended to circle back toward the edge of the shelf until he found a spot where the water was only about a hundred feet deep.
He'd sink the Black Jack there so it would be easily accessible to frogmen, especially Estrada's frogmen. To complete the illusion, he'd salt the site with a sprinkling of real emeralds. Nobody would be surprised that Kurt's body wasn't found there, or the rest of the jewels. This was the legendary Florida Straits. The current was swift and deadly.
He was aware of Paula standing beside him, her fingers idly mussing his hair.
“So tell me baby, would you still have hi-tailed it outta Palm Beach if you'd known what you were getting into?”
Paula looked at him as if he had just arrived from Mars. “You're kidding, right?” She waited for a response. When she didn't get one she said, “Of course I wouldn't have.”
That jarred Kurt. “You wouldn't have?”
“I don't have a death wish, Kurt. I have a life wish.”
Kurt took a moment before responding. “Paula, trust me, I'm gonna fix this.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “I do trust you, honey, but how are you going to fix it?”
“I think I know how to take care of Estrada.”
Paula went rigid. “You mean kill him?”
“No, no. You have my word. No killing.”
“What, then?”
“It's complicated but, well, I know the man. I've met him before. Several times. I know what he's made of. I know what he really wants.”
“Oh Kurt, don't. He's a killer, you said so yourself.”
He turned to her in his fiercest fighting stance. “This has got to be done, Paula. It's the only way we can have a life together. I'll be damned if anybody's gonna take that away from us. Anybody who tries will have me to deal with. That includes you, Miss Doherty.”
This is the part where I melt like a puddle at his feet, Paula thought. She gave him her most determined smile. “All you need to know Mr. Younger, my love, my pirate, is I'd rather be running for my life with you than . . . buying eggs and milk at Wilson’s.”
Kurt laughed out loud. “Smart lady. I think we should drink to that.”
Paula gave him a peck on the cheek. “Coming up.” While she juggled booze, glasses and ice, she asked him what time it was.
Kurt checked his watch. “2:15.”
Paula did the math in her head. “Thirty hours. How is that possible?”
Kurt looked at her quizzically, but all she said was, “So where will we be thirty hours from now?”
Kurt thought about it a second, then said, “On top of the Eiffel Tower sipping champagne.”
Paula's eyes lit up. “The Eiffel Tower?”
“Yes ma'am.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Factoring in the time change, we should have glasses in hand right about dusk, just when they're turning the lights on. All over the city.”
The wonder of it danced in Paula's eyes. “The city of lights.”
“It is indeed.” He took a sip of his drink, then set it down. “This helps, but you know, I'm kinda hungry too.”
“Okay. For what?”
“Your lips.”
“You're lucky, mister. They're on special tonight.”
Paula hoped hers were as tasty as his. According to the growling sounds he made, she assumed they were. “Nice and warm,” he said.
“And stamped 'Property of Kurt Younger.'”
“How 'bout 'Gift of Paula Doherty?'”
She smiled, kissed him harder. “Know what I love about your lips?”
He nibbled on her bottom lip. “No, tell me.”
“That they're on mine.”
After that, they didn't talk for a while. Wally interrupted them with the clacking sound he made when impatient. Paula said, “Oh shut up, Wally,” then looked ahead. “Entrance to Jewfish Creek coming up.”
It was a familiar sight to Paula. The shadowy figure of the Overseas Highway Drawbridge marked the entrance to Jewfish Creek. It towered above them the closer they got. There was plenty of overhead clearance for both boats even though the bridge was down. Beyond it was the creek itself with walls of thick mangroves on both sides and wide enough for easy passage.
As they neared the bridge Kurt and Paula were blinded by a powerful spotlight. It was accompanied by an authoritarian voice blasting from a bullhorn. “You in the Blackjack. Heave to.”
Kurt whipped the M1 carbine from its mount beside the helm, told Paula to get down, took aim at the light, and was about to let loose when the voice called out again with greater urgency, but decidedly less authority. “Hey, don't shoot me, I'm just the bridge tender.”
Paula was crouched down under the console with her back to the light. “Oh God, Kurt, put your gun down. That's Frankie Whipplespoon. He's been operating that bridge since George Washington was chopping down cherry trees. He knows me, dammit.”
Kurt lowered his rifle. “Is there anybody in Key Largo who doesn't?”
“Not many.”
Kurt waved at Frankie and called out, “Sorry. I guess you spooked me.”
“Spooked you?” Frankie said over the bullhorn. “Man, I'm gonna have to change my britches.”
Paula giggled. “I can't believe he said that.”
Kurt saw the silhouette of a stooped, wiry old codger with a bullhorn in one hand and a walking cane in the other. Kurt held out his hands apologetically. “Really am sorry, friend.” He wanted the tender to keep the spotlight squarely on him instead of sweeping the boat, lighting up the tarp-wrapped bundles in the back. Wouldn't take much imagination to figure out what was in the tarps. “So why did you stop me?”
“Saw you were headin' up the creek and wanted to warn you. That storm we had earlier really stirred things up. Tore up a bunch of the older mangrove trees and such. Creek's pretty littered with them. Danger of gettin' fowled. Can't guarantee passage to Barnes.”
Kurt considered his options, realized he didn't have any, and called, “Thanks for the heads-up. I'll be extra careful.”
“You do that, mister. Good luck to ya.” He turned the spotlight off then hobbled back inside his house.
Paula unfolded herself from where she was crouching and plopped down in the jump seat. “What are we going to do?”
“Gotta try to get through the creek.”
“Why don’t we turn around, head down to Tavernier, cut over to the Atlantic that way?”
“By the time we got back up to the shelf, the sun would be up. Plus, we'd be cruising up the most populated part of the island. Too much exposure. No, we gotta make it up the creek. This is already taking longer than I thought.”
Paula considered it a moment then said, “In that case, why don't I get in the bow and watch for obstructions?”
“Good idea.”
Paula made her way down from the wheelhouse, found an oar, then moved forward to the bow seat.
“What's with the oar?” Kurt asked.
“If I can push debris out of away, we're good to go. If I can't, we got a problem.”
Kurt grinned. “Beauty and brains.” He ignored her withering glance and throttled up, but at a slow glide, just enough to keep the Far Horizons from swaying behind him. Paula wedged herself into the tip of the bow seat, gripped the railing.
Kurt was more at ease on Jewfish Creek. He and Paula were hidden from view by the forest of mangroves on either side. But while that danger had temporarily passed, other dangers awaited straight ahead.
“Big one coming up,” Paula called. Kurt had seen the clump of mangrove tree branches too, dead center in the creek. He throttled back as Paula leaned over the bow with the oar and pushed against it. Luckily it gave way and she walked back on the foredeck, pushing it as far away as possible. Wally understood what she was doing and joined in, pushing the tangled remnants of the 'walking tree' toward shore.
So far, so good. Kurt looked back to make sure none of the debris worked itself back around to fowl the Far Horizons. Wally made sure it didn't. Satisfied, he eased the throttle open, but just enough for navigation. He knew if he had to stop suddenly, the Far Horizons would rear end the Black Jack. If so, he wanted the impact to be a bump, not a collision.
As they continued upstream they encountered several more tangled clumps of mangrove debris, old rotten stuff mostly, easily torn away by the storm. As before, Paula and Wally worked as a team to clear passage. Kurt steered around the obstacles, careful not to sling the Far Horizons against the opposite shore.
Paula called out, “This one's pretty big.”
Kurt throttled back as Paula jammed her oar down against the tangle of floating debris and pushed it away. But it wasn’t cooperating. Her oar was stuck and she was running out of deck space to pull it free.
Afraid she'd be pulled overboard, Paula braced her feet against the side then pushed backward with all her might. The oar broke free, but the force of her backward momentum made it swing up over her head.
Something was clearly wrong. The end of the oar was moving. Slithering. Two beady eyes and a white mouth gaping open, fangs bared. A cottonmouth, huge and clearly agitated.
Paula screamed. The viper wrapped its five-foot length around the oar in a repulsive dance of undulating muscles and slimy scales, working its way toward her. She tried to throw the oar overboard but before she could, the snake jumped onto her wrist, wrapped itself around it, then crawled up her arm.
“Kurt! Oh God!”
It coiled around her arm, its head darting up and down, its tongue flicking in and out, hissing like a vampire in a horror movie. It reached her elbow, raised its head up and stared her in the eyes. As horrific as the sight was, Paula couldn't tear her eyes away from it. “Kurt!”
“Don't move, Paula.”
The calmness in his voice was almost as insane as what he was asking her to do. “What?”
The snake opened its mouth so wide that Paula was sure it would engulf her entire head. Her heart pounded. Her head was so light she knew she was about to faint.
“Kurt please . . .”
“Steady . . .”
The cottonmouth drew his head back. Paula knew it was about to strike. Instead, its head exploded, disappearing from the rest of its body. Cold blood pumped onto Paula's arm while the blast from Kurt's gun still rang in her ears.
The rest of the snake's body flopped around like an unattended garden hose. Paula threw it onto the deck then hopped up onto a bench seat to get away from it. The decapitated snake continued to slither until Kurt picked it up. He looked at it appraisingly. “Grill this baby up and we got us a real breakfast treat.”
Paula leaned over the railing and threw up.
Kurt nodded, said, “Yeah, it's an acquired taste.”
Kurt thought Paula was about to be sick again. Instead she screamed, “I hate snakes, Kurt! God almighty, I really do!”
One of Kurt's arms was outstretched holding up the snake's writhing remains while the other was wrapped around Paula's shoulders, trying to calm her. “Easy now, easy. Everything's okay.”
“Would you please just get rid of it?”
Kurt shrugged and tossed it overboard, almost hitting Wally, who gave him a puzzled look. He didn't know this game. “There, now,” he said. “All gone. Okay?”
Paula's face twisted into a grimace of revulsion, as if she'd just bitten into a lemon. She shuddered from head to toe.
Kurt realized that after everything else she'd been through earlier, the snake episode had clearly pushed her over the top. He wrapped his arms around her, hugged her, kissed her forehead. “Almost over, baby. In a little while we'll be on a big jet plane flying off to Never Land. Till then I'm not about to let anything happen to you.” He lifted her chin to make her look into his eyes. “You are my life, okay?”
Paula worked her arms free and threw them around Kurt's neck. “I'll be all right. Sorry I got all female on you. It's just I . . . I really hate snakes.”
“Okay, reading you loud and clear on that one. No snakes.”
“Thank you.” She unwrapped her arms from around his neck, swung them in circles as if doing calisthenics, and took a deep breath. “Okay, okay, I'm good. What now?”
“We're gonna swap places. You can drive this tub good as I can so you take the helm and concentrate on being the most gorgeous skipper in Florida Bay.”
As she climbed up into the cockpit, Paula marveled at how Kurt always found a way to make her feel special -- even in dire straits. She struck a pose, cocking her hip out, putting one hand on her waist, and the other behind her head. She winked at him, and said, “How’s this?”
Kurt responded with a hearty laugh that reminded Paula of her father. “You’ll do. Okay, I'll take the bow and make sure no more of those squirmy bastards get on board. If they do, I'll tie 'em up in a knot and toss 'em in the air for target practice.”
“You do that, Roy.” She glanced ahead. “But right now, you better man your oar. Debris straight ahead.”
Kurt saluted, said, “Aye, Cap'n.”
They made it out of Jewfish Creek without further mishap but there were a lot of severed mangrove branches to be pushed aside, forcing them to move at a crawl. Even though the creek was little more than a mile long, it took them a full thirty minutes to traverse it.
They now faced their longest open run, five miles across Barnes Sound to Steamboat Creek. There was scattered debris in the Sound but it was easy to scoot around, allowing them to regain their previous cruising speed.
Wally seemed to think Paula was playing chase with him. He raced through the water like a torpedo, leaping up to grab a breath, then performing an occasional barrel roll just to show off. Paula laughed at his antics, feeling better for doing so, and called to him, “Silly old dolphin.” The tension that had built up was gradually ebbing.
Kurt stepped up behind her, grabbed her pack of Chesterfields from the console, clamped one between his lips, lit it then transferred it to her lips. She took a deep, grateful drag. He shook out a Camel for himself, fired it up then gently kneaded her shoulders. “How ya doin', Cap?”
Paula groaned. “Keep that up and I'm doing just fine.” Kurt was about to swat her on the ass, but remembered the knife wound on her hip. He decided it wouldn't be such a good idea. Instead, he checked the heading. Paula was right on course.
The advantage of being in the Sound was having a flat, unobstructed field of view in all directions. Surprise attacks were not possible. The moon was bright. If company showed up, they'd see it coming from a long way off and have time to take evasive action.
Other than the purr of the engine, the splash of their wake, it was very still, very quiet. Paula looked up at the starry night with its fat moon and felt almost at peace. “Have you ever seen so many stars?”
“Every time I look into your eyes.”
Oh God, Paula thought. He knew every line in the book, along with a few that weren't. Knowing he truly meant it was what made it work. “You keep saying things like that, mister, and we're going to get along just fine.”
Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the mouth of Steamboat Creek. It was a repeat of Jewfish Creek only twice as long and half as wide. The result was that debris tended to clump together more. Paula stayed up in the cockpit, steering them through, while Kurt stood in the bow clearing passage, with Wally's help.
There were no snake attacks this time, but Kurt kept in mind that off the starboard side, Key Largo Island was rife with crocodiles. Only a mile east of their position was Crocodile Lake. If Paula didn't like snakes, he could imagine how she'd react to a croc leaping on board, a feat, unbeknownst to most, they can easily do. Kurt kept his eyes trained on anything floating in the water that wasn't a tree branch.
He hadn't traversed Steamboat Creek in quite a while. He was trying to recall any potential dangers when a red flag popped up in his mind. He turned to Paula, giving her the crossed wrists signal. She slammed on brakes and Kurt scrambled to the stern, using his oar to keep the Far Horizons from rear-ending them.
Paula left the engines idling then joined Kurt mid-deck. “What's up?”
“The bridge for Card Sound Road is just ahead.”
“Yeah, I know. It's low but we can make it.”
“Not what I'm concerned about. Where does Card Sound Road go from here?”
“Across the top of the island. Eventually hooks up with Highway One above town. Why?”
“Access and opportunity. The road provides access. The bridge provides the perfect opportunity for an ambush.”
Paula realized instantly that Kurt was right. She'd have never thought of it herself. Unlike Kurt, her mind wasn’t trained to think that way. “Shit.”
“Indeed.”
“Well what are we going to do? Head back down the creek? Take Barnes Sound around the end of the island?”
“Wouldn't matter if we did. Still have to cross under Card Sound Road at some point. Same situation. They can travel by truck faster than we can by boat. Plus it'd tack on two and a half, three hours of travel time while gaining us nothing.”
“Oh Kurt . . .”
“Yeah, I know. I could shoot myself for not thinking of this little squeeze play. I've been outta the game too long. I'm getting rusty.”
Paula was quiet for a moment then said, “Yeah, but on you rust looks good.” It clearly surprised Kurt. She smiled at him crookedly. “What, you think you're the only one who can do that?”
Kurt grinned too. “Lady, I think I've met my match.”
“You have. Now that we've established that, what the hell are we going to do?”
“For one thing, we've got a lotta fire power in this boat.”
“Oh great . . .”
“What we don't have is speed, which is essential, but we can fix that.”
Paula was ahead of him. “You want me to get in the Far Horizons and drive it so we can both go full speed.”
“It's our only chance. We'll charge the bridge, guns blazing. I'll use Big B . . .”
“What?”
“The machine gun I brought down just before we left.” He lifted the M1919 up to the wheelhouse and slammed it home in the special mount near the helm. “Shoots really big bullets really fast. Settles an argument better than anything I know.”
He attached an ammo belt then hopped down to the deck, grabbing Earl's submachine gun from the weapons stash. “Here, you use this.” He shoved it into Paula's hands.
Paula tossed it back to him as if it was another snake. “Good grief, Kurt, I'm not going to shoot anybody.”
“You're right, you won't. Doubt you’d hit anything if you tried.”
“Well, thanks a lot.”
“But you can damn sure make 'em duck for cover. At the speed we'll be going, that'll be good enough.” He jammed a fresh magazine in, cocked it then handed it back to Paula. She reluctantly took it.
“It's ready to fire. Just point in the general direction and pull the trigger. Concentrate on spraying the bridge, not me. I'll be in front of you with the big gun makin' 'em want to kneel down and pray. Got it?”
Paula nodded. A motion in the water caught her attention. She screamed out, “Kurt! Wally!”
Kurt whipped around to see a crocodile charging Wally, who had already sensed his presence. It was clear to Kurt that Wally was going to try to take on the reptile. He snatched the gun from Paula's hands and stepped up to the railing. The croc had his mouth wide open about to lunge at Wally.
Kurt opened fire, stitching a line of holes from the creature's head to its stern. The chatter of the gun was deafening, sending a flock of sleeping egrets exploding into flight. The crock disappeared beneath the surface amidst bubbles and blood. Wally helped him along.
As the echo of the blast died away, Kurt yanked the magazine from the smoking gun, jammed in a fresh one, cocked it, and gave it back to Paula. “One thing's for damn sure. They know we're here now. Let's get moving.”
After helping Paula onto the Far Horizons, Kurt slipped the knot on the towline then pulled it aboard the Black Jack. He nodded to Paula. “Go ahead and fire it up.”
She laid the submachine gun on the front seat, moved to the stern, grabbed the pull cord on the rusty old Evinrude, and gave it a hard yank. It cranked right up. She left it idling while she made her way to the helm. When she took possession of the gun again, she noticed it had a strap. She slung it over her head so it hung at her side. Easier to handle.
She scoffed at herself. Yeah, listen to Calamity Jane here. This is nuts.
Kurt was directly across from her in the Black Jack. “You'll have to steer with your left hand to leave your right free to use the gun. It's gonna kick a bit, so hold . . ,”
“Don't tell me how it's going to kick, Kurt.”
“It will. And if you don't keep a tight grip, it'll jump right outta your hand and shoot up the boat. Then you'll sink in crocodile infested waters.”
“Okay, okay, okay.”
“It's gonna be all right, Paula. This'll all be over within a minute.”
“That's what old Doc Hutchinson used to say every time he gave me a shot.”
“And you're still here.”
Paula clearly wasn't very reassured by this. Understandable. He was having misgivings himself. She'd spent the last twenty years of her life being a housewife and mother, not a soldier. Yes, she rose magnificently to the occasion dealing with the monsters now wrapped in nylon tarps, but she didn't need to be put in that situation again. Ever.
“Look,” he said. “There's another way we can do this. A better way. Turn your boat around. Get the hell out of here. Go back to your mom's place in Key Largo. Wait there till you hear from me.”
“And when will that be?”
“After I get this mess cleaned up. Not long.”
Paula searched deep in his eyes for any indication he wasn't telling her the truth. He didn't flinch. “That's what you want me to do?”
“It is, baby. It's the best play. Dumb of me not to think of it before.”
Then she did see something, not a lie but a deep, burning love for her that was pure and true. She locked her big green eyes on him. “I'm not going anywhere, Kurt, except with you. So fire up the Black Jack, mister. We got a plane to catch.”
Kurt and Paula's discovery of each other over the past two days was akin to the dance of the seven veils. One by one they had dropped. This was the last one. Now they stood naked before each other. Kurt said, “I promised I wouldn't let anything happen to you and I won't.”
“I know you won't. I believe you.”
“All right.” He took a deep breath, focused on the mission. “When you see me kick it, you do the same, but stay close. No more'n ten feet back. Ride my wake.”
Paula smiled encouragingly. Kurt wasn't fooled. She was scared to the core of her being.
He wasn't.
He'd faced this moment many times before. He was supremely confident that not only would he survive, he'd take out a lot of bad guys in the process.
He grasped the death grip on the M1919, double-checking that it was ready to fire. It was. The engines were still idling the way Paula had left them. All he had to do was push the throttle full forward. He did. The Black Jack reared up like a war horse charging into battle.
Paula's scalp tingled. This is it, she thought. She slammed the Far Horizon's throttle all the way open and was surprised when the little cabin cruiser almost stood up on its stern.
When the bow slammed back down it tried to find purchase in Kurt's slippery wake. It was a little tricky at first but Paula found the sweet spot and held firm.
Wally was trying to keep up with her but was gradually falling behind. He called to her, clearly wanting her to slow down. Sorry, Wally. No can do. She wished he'd turn around and beat it back home, wherever that was. She didn't want him to catch a bullet.
Then she thought with a chill: I don't want to catch one either.
Both boats were ripping through the water at maximum speed, bouncing up and down in exact rhythm. Synchronized speed boating, Paula thought. The cool breeze blowing in her face, washing it with salty spray, would have been exhilarating if she wasn't so terrified.
They rounded a bend. The bridge came into view a couple of hundred yards ahead, low, black and empty, as far as she could tell.
Paula prayed out loud, “God please don't let us get killed.” Then she added, “And don't let me kill anybody.”
Hundred yards.
Dead ahead.
Kurt was lined up on the center span, flying arrow-straight toward it.
Paula was lined up on Kurt.
Oh God, oh God.
Fifty yards.
She saw Kurt swivel the big machine gun into firing position, aiming it at the top of the bridge.
Paula scanned it. Nothing. Maybe it was empty. Maybe nobody was there. Oh please let it be empty.
Thirty yards.
There it was: two shadowy figures moving rapidly along the railing.
Oh shit!
Kurt opened fire. It was deafening. Paula tried to pull the trigger on her gun.
Couldn't.
The figures darted to another position. Kurt swung his gun, never taking his finger off the trigger. The figures threw out their arms, tottered for a second, then fell backwards off the bridge.
The sight of it turned Paula's spine to jelly.
They hit the water just as she passed under the bridge. Kurt was already on the other side. They floated on their backs, a surprised look in their eyes, their arms spread out.
Not their arms.
Their wings.
Paula looked down at two brown pelicans floating on their backs, torn through with big bullet holes. Their blood was staining the water red around them.
Kurt slowed to a stop and Paula pulled up beside him then throttled down. He was laughing so hard he could barely stand up. All of Paula's pent up anxiety burst loose.
“It's not funny, Kurt. You killed a couple of poor, innocent birds.”
Kurt laughed even harder. “I know. It's awful.”
“Oh shut up. What if they had babies?”
When he looked at her, it was obvious she was on the verge of tears. He stopped laughing. “Paula, my sweet Paula. God I love you.”
Under the circumstances, she didn't quite know how to respond to that.
Wally appeared, scolding them with a cackling chatter, occasionally puffing out of his blowhole for emphasis. Kurt put his fists on his hips, exasperated at being dressed down by both of them.
“All right guys, I put a few holes in a couple of pelicans, for which I am truly, deeply sorry, but you'll notice there are no holes in you and that was the object of the exercise. Okay?”
Paula knew it wasn't Kurt; it was nerves. Hers were shot. “I want to get back in your boat now,” she said. “I want you to put your arms around me and tell me everything's going to be all right.”
Kurt helped her onboard and willingly complied. Paula clung to him for a long time. “We gotta go, baby.”
“I know.” She stepped away from him. He moved to the stern, retied the towline to the Far Horizons, and got under way.
The distance from Steamboat Creek to Little Pumpkin Creek, which was a shortcut up to Angelfish Creek, was about three miles. It meant passing through the eastern edge of Card Sound, the last large body of open water before Kurt and Paula reached the Atlantic.
Due to the adrenalin pumping events of the two previous creeks, a veil of exhaustion fell over Paula, permeating every bone in her body. She sat in the cockpit with Kurt, his right arm cradled around her while he steered with his left. Her head was tucked into the comfy spot on his upper chest just below his neck. She was dozing, purring like a cat, vaguely aware of Kurt kissing her forehead from time to time.
The part of her mind that was still awake wanted to stay just like this for the next two centuries or so, nestled in the warm strength of his body while the salty air gently caressed her face. What would be wrong with that?
She believed they were out of danger now. Perhaps they never were in danger. It was her last thought before falling into a dreamless sleep.
Kurt jarred her awake, saying, “Aw shit.”
Paula's mind was muddled for a moment. Kurt was sighting through binoculars. “What's wrong?” she asked.
“Fog bank. Rolling in off the Atlantic.”
He handed her the glasses. It was just shy of 5:00 AM, still very dark. Sunrise wouldn't be for another two and a half hours yet.
“I don't see any . . .” There it was. A thin, silvery line far away on the horizon. “Wonderful. How far?”
Kurt took the binoculars back, gazed through them again. “Can't tell. Hard to judge distances at sea.”
Paula nodded. “So where are we now?”
He lowered the glasses, his expression saying he didn't relish having to tangle with fog. “Little Pumpkin, just below where it pours into Angelfish.”
“About a mile to the Atlantic, then?” Paula asked.
“About.”
A few minutes later they were cruising east on Angelfish Creek. The waterway was wide and relatively clear of debris compared to the previous two creeks.
For the first time, Paula noticed the signs of fatigue etched in Kurt's face. She kissed his cheek and said, “Want another drink?”
“Yeah. Better make it coffee.”
“Ditto. Otherwise I'm going to have to hold my lids open with toothpicks.” She shuffled wearily down to the deck. As she was about to enter the cabin, Kurt turned to her, saying, “Hey, just remembered, outta fresh water in the galley. You'll have to get it from one of the jugs we brought onboard.”
Paula saluted. “Aye Cap'n.”
Kurt turned back around just in time to see a massive tree branch jutting up from the water. “Hold on!” He swerved hard, barely missing the obstruction. Paula grabbed the cockpit ladder to keep from toppling over. They both looked aft to see if the Far Horizons would clear.
It didn't.
The little cabin cruiser bounced off the branch, went up on its side, and for a moment appeared poised to capsize. It plopped back down on its belly but seemed dazed. Kurt had already cut the engines on the Black Jack. He rushed to the stern, grabbing the oar on the way to keep the smaller boat from ramming them. He was about to tell Paula to grab the towline in order to pull the Far Horizons alongside, but she was already doing it.
The good news was that the little boat was still afloat. “Is it taking on water?” Paula asked,
“Doesn't appear to be.” But there was a big V-shaped indent on the starboard side, luckily above the waterline. Wally examined the damage too. He shook his head in disapproval.
Kurt said, “I'm going to hop onboard and have a look below deck.” He gingerly crawled over the side. Once he was stable, he held a hand out. “Flashlight.” Paula passed him one. He dropped to his knees, opened the hatch, stuck his head through, and shined the flashlight's beam from bow to stern. “Amazing.”
“What do you see?” She leaned forward then realized her knee was resting on one of the bodies. She hopped back, overcome with revulsion.
“No sign of damage below deck,” Kurt said, his voice echoing. “Gonna give it a few minutes, watch for seepage.” After the allotted time had passed, he popped his head up. “We're good.” Paula sighed with relief. Kurt make his way aft on the Far Horizons, saying, “Okay, here's what we're gonna do.”
Paula grinned. Good ol' Kurt. Always has a plan.
“I'm gonna hand you one of these spare fuel cans to put aboard the Black Jack 'cause it's running low. There's another spare back here, more than enough to get us where we need to go.” He handed the spare over to Paula then added, “I'm gonna fire up the old Evinrude then set it at about quarter speed, enough to stabilize it in the water, but not enough to ram us.”
“Good idea. Now that we're almost there, can't take any chances.”
Kurt nodded in the affirmative. “Okay, take the Black Jack’s controls. When I give you the signal, pull away. When I come up beside you, I'll hop on.”
Ordinarily Paula would have thought it too risky. But considering the insane events of the past few hours, it seemed perfectly rational. Besides, if Kurt said he could jump from one moving boat to another, she didn't doubt him for a second. He could do anything. He fired up the Evinrude and waved to Paula, “Go.”
Paula eased the Black Jack away. Kurt rushed forward to take the helm. She let him catch up with her then paced him, keeping the boats inches apart. His jump from one craft to the other was seemingly effortless. As soon as he hit the deck, Paula pushed the throttle forward until she reached a safe towing speed.
They entered into the Atlantic at 5:15. Endless water lay before them, but there was also a fog bank out there, close enough now to see without the aid of binoculars.
It only took about twenty minutes before they were over deep water. Once again Paula paced the Far Horizons to allow Kurt to shut down the Evinrude's throttle with the oar. Paula cut hers too.
The fog bank was now uncomfortably close, moving steadily in their direction. “Gotta hurry,” Kurt said.
“What can I do?”
“See those chains over there?”
There were three coils of heavy chain about a yard away. Each had a big spring clip on the end. “Yes.”
“They're too heavy for you to pick up so don't even try. Once I shift a body onto the dive platform, feed me the end of one of the chains. I'll pull it back here, wrap it around the body, then kick the bundle into the sea.”
Body. Paula’s face lost any semblance of color and Kurt was afraid she was about to faint. “It's almost over, baby.”
“I know, I know. I’m okay.” But her face remained pale. “Let's just do it.”
Earl's body was on top of the corpse pile. Kurt manhandled it over the transom and onto the dive platform. Knowing how big Earl was, Paula was amazed at Kurt's strength. She fed him the end of the first chain. He pulled it over and wrapped it around Earl.
Paula made sure the chain fed smoothly, while trying not to watch what Kurt was doing. Maybe not Calamity Jane after all, she thought. The end of the chain snaked over the transom, followed by a heavy click. Kurt hopped over, joining her on deck.
“What?” Paula asked.
“The big machine goes with Earl.”
“What about these other guns?”
“We'll dump 'em when we get close to the Everglades. The grass is thick and tall there.” He hefted the M1919 into his arms. “But this big boy would be too easy to spot. I'll need you to hand me those ammo belts along with a few feet of rope.”
“Right.”
Kurt carried the machine gun out onto the dive platform then sat it down below Earl's body. He wrapped the ammo belts around Earl, tucking them securely into the chains. He tied one end of the rope around the M1919, the other end through a link in the chain. He reached under Earl, grabbed the chains for leverage then rolled him into the ocean.
A loud, heavy splash.
Goodbye Earl.
They repeated the routine with Gator, sans artillery. Another big splash.
Goodbye Gator.
Red was next. He was the biggest of the three. Kurt was clearly having trouble hoisting him up.
“I can at least get his feet,” Paula said.
“No!” Kurt barked it out with such force that Paula jumped back, stunned. “I don't want you touching him.”
Paula was confused and on the verge of tears. Kurt realized he had spoken too sharply and that Paula misunderstood. “I don't want you ever for the rest of your life looking at your hands knowing that at one time they touched this filthy bastard. Your hands are not to be contaminated.”
It was clear to Paula that Kurt was deadly serious. She realized the anger in his voice was not directed at her but at Red and the years of savagery between them. A hot tear rolled down her cheek. She turned away so Kurt wouldn't see it.
By a super human feat of strength, fueled more by rage than muscle, Kurt wrestled the upper part of Red's body over the transom, then swung the lower part over. The stern momentarily dipped down enough to take on a little water. Paula fed him the end of the last chain. Kurt wrapped it tightly around the corpse, then clipped the ends together.
He rested on his knees a moment, hands on thighs, catching his breath. He stared intently down at Red's body. Paula wondered what was going through his mind. Nothing good, she knew. Probably a lot of regret.
Kurt stood, braced himself against the transom, then positioned his boots against Red's corpse. He said, “Burn in Hell, Red,” then gave a mighty shove. There was an explosive splash. After that there was nothing but the lapping of the sea against the Black Jack’s hull.
They were quiet for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.
Until the first fingers of fog reached out for them.
Kurt said, “Let's get outta here.”
Having dumped over a half ton of chain-wrapped bodies into the bowels of the Atlantic, the Black Jack rode higher and noticeably smoother than before. As a result, the engines didn't labor as hard to maintain speed. Again Kurt opted to run the Far Horizon's engine at quarter throttle, especially since the surface had become a bit choppy.
They headed back west toward the shelf, pulling away from the grasp of the fog bank but not the sight of it. Paula hated sea fog. It was just too damn creepy.
Kurt watched the depth finder closely, then called out, “This is it.” Paula was ready with the oar. She deftly closed the throttle on the old Evinrude at the same time Kurt throttled back on the Black Jack.
With the engines off, the silence was absolute. They rocked gently in the restless surf. It was 6:20 AM. They had cover of darkness for a little over an hour. Time to hustle.
Kurt fastened a loop of rope to the railings of both vessels enabling them to easily transfer items from one to the other. They paused for a moment, looking at each other, bonded by love, determination, and exhaustion.
Paula noticed Kurt gazing longingly at the Black Jack. “Do you really have to sink it?”
He gave her a grim, determined look. “Yep.”
Paula nodded. It made her sad and then she thought that's dumb, it just a boat. But she knew it was more than that. It was part of Kurt, who he was. She gave up a home, twenty years of marriage, and traded it for Kurt. He was giving up his soul mate, trading it for Paula and redemption.
Kurt glanced aft then said, “We gotta step on it. Fog's crawling up our ass.” Paula saw it was true. Twenty yards behind the boat, was a wall of dense grey, highlighted sporadically by silvery moonlight.
Because they'd carefully sorted the cargo between the two boats before leaving Curiosity Cove, the remaining artillery and ammo, a box of groceries, and what remained of the booze was all that had to be transferred to the Far Horizons. Everything else would go down with the Black Jack. By the time the task was finished, fog completely enveloped them, accompanied by a noticeable drop in temperature.
Visibility was zero in all directions. The fog seemed not only to suppress vision but hearing too. Because their normal voices sounded unnaturally loud, they spoke in whispers, not even aware they were doing so.
Kurt jerked his head up, fully alert, and motioned Paula to be silent. His ears pricked up, his head jerked left then right, his eyes were wary. She mouthed, “What?” He motioned her to be very still.
All she heard was the bobbing of the boats, the swirling of the fog around them, a sound she felt rather than heard.
Then she heard something else.
Voices. Men's voices.
Not casual conversation. Not friendly voices.
Threatening voices. Dangerous voices.
Speaking in Spanish.
Kurt silently untied the rope holding the two boats together and let them drift apart enough so they wouldn't knock against each other. He had held onto the submachine gun he'd given Paula earlier with the attached clip. She'd never fired it, meaning it was still ready for action.
Paula's eyes filled with the horror of what was happening. She clamped both hands over her mouth to keep from making a sound. Kurt gave her his best 'it's gonna be all right' look.
She wasn't so sure.
One of the men spoke sharply. It was little more than a husky whisper, but it spurred a heated argument among the others until the first man, obviously the leader, said, “Silencio! Silencio!” followed by complete quiet.
Kurt had been listening carefully. He held up five fingers for Paula. At first she thought he was cautioning her not to move, then realized he was saying there were five men out there somewhere.
It was that 'somewhere' that made Paula shudder. She couldn't see them. She couldn't hear them. But she could feel them. She could feel their evil. It radiated from them, penetrated the fog, and her heart. These men were cold-blooded killers; of that she was sure.
To Paula they were more terrifying than Red or Gator or Earl. Those three she could see, read their eyes, decipher their body language. It wasn't much but it was enough to enable her to fight back, to survive. These men existed in a gray void. It was like waiting for the cold finger of death. You never saw it coming.
Kurt and Paula sat motionless. She was trembling, couldn't help it. He was steely calm, coiled, ready to strike. Paula knew without doubt that of the six men circling in the fog, he was the most deadly. It was reassuring and heart chilling at the same time.
They heard impatient whispers off their port bow, close, too damn close. A moment later there were sounds of a man shifting in his seat off their starboard side. Then all was quite again. All around them, the impenetrable gray nothingness.
It was maddening.
Then it occurred to Paula: where's Wally? They hadn't seen him since the fog set in. Had it spooked him away? She didn't think so. He was out there, maybe right next to them, but he sensed danger and was taking advantage of the fog's cover. At least she hoped so.
The slapping of water against the hull would surely give their position away, she thought, then it occurred to her that the others had the same problem. The splashes against their own hull were closer and therefore louder than those coming from Kurt and Paula's boat. Small comfort.
Kurt was a statue. Only his eyes moved, scanning in all directions. Paula was sure he could remain like that for hours. Years of deadly missions taught him how. Not her, though. She was about to explode.
They heard the splashing of the surf against a hull that was not the Black Jack’s, or the Far Horizon's. It was from another hull. A hull that displaced water differently, indicating a heavier, bigger craft. That they could distinguish it at all meant it was very close, no more than a few feet away.
But nothing was visible. They tried to track the sound's movement, but it was impossible to pinpoint. The fog bounced sounds around. Within the dense gloom, there was the hint of a shadow, a shape slightly darker than the fog. Just for a second. Moving parallel to Kurt and Paula maybe ten feet away. Then it was gone.
They both immediately knew what it meant.
If Kurt and Paula could see them, they could see Kurt and Paula. As if to verify this, they heard something plunk into the water nearby. Moving with the stealth of a panther, Kurt handed Paula the gun then grabbed the oar, eased it into the water, and paddled them away in a different direction.
There was another small splash.
Kurt kept paddling soundlessly. He understood what the enemy was doing. They were throwing rocks, coins; whatever was available, trying to hit the boat without giving away their own position. Clever.
The next splash was several yards off their bow. Kurt quit paddling, shipped the oar then used his hands to gently push Paula down onto the deck, placing his mouth against her ear. Even so, his whisper was barely audible. What he said froze her heart. “Do you love me?”
She placed her lips to his ear. “With all my heart and soul.”
“Do you trust me?”
“With my life.”
“Will you do what I tell you to do now?”
Paula knew where this was going. “Oh Kurt, please.”
“Will you?”
Paula swallowed the lump in her throat. She wouldn't allow herself to sob. They’d hear her sobs. But to keep from doing so almost choked her. “I don't think I can.”
“You must.”
She looked at him pleadingly, her eyes large and green and moist. Kurt kissed her cheek, her eyes, her lips, then put his own lips against her ear again and in that faint whisper said, “There's no other way.”
At that moment there was a loud swish of water followed by Wally's ear splitting chatter high above the surface. The men in the other boat shouted vile curses and opened fire. A heavy splash followed as Wally fell back into the water. The gunfire stopped, echoed through the fog, but the men still quarreled noisily among themselves, making no pretense at stealth now.
Kurt had seen their muzzle flashes. He knew they were about a dozen yards off his port bow. Their cacophony of chatter allowed Paula and Kurt to converse without putting their lips to each other's ears, which was good because Paula couldn't suppress a “Poor Wally.”
She was sad. Kurt was seething. But he had to keep it together, stay focused on the mission. “Now listen to me, baby. Sun'll be up in a few minutes. May cut through this fog, may not. Can't take a chance. We gotta get you in the other boat, now. I'll untie the towline and you paddle away from my stern as far as possible. As soon as I think you're at a safe distance, I'm gonna force their hand.”
Paula knew what that meant. “No, Kurt. There are five of them, one of you. No.”
“Now listen to me. This is how it has to be.”
Paula couldn't stop the flood of tears. “You'll be killed.”
“I won't.”
“You will, you will.”
They heard the lead man trying to get his men under control, without much success. Their position was the same as before, only maybe a yard or two further away.
Paula buried her face in Kurt's chest, pounded his shoulders with her fists. He lifted her face. The intensity in his eyes made her cringe. “I need you to be strong, Paula. That's what you can do for me right now. You've got to be strong. I know you can be. I've seen it.”
Paula tried to bring her tears under control. “I can't live without you.”
Kurt looked at her more earnestly than he'd ever done before. “Baby you know I'm not a Heaven and Hell kind of guy, but I do believe in our eternal spirits. Think how many eons it's taken for our souls to find each other. We'll never be apart again.”
The men in the other boat were settling down, obeying their leader.
Kurt grabbed her arm and lifted. “We gotta move.”
Paula wanted to protest but Kurt wouldn't let her. He was guiding her to the stern then was pulling the Far Horizons alongside. Before she said anything, Kurt hoisted her over the side into the other boat.
Once she was onboard he slipped the knot on the towline then put his hand behind her head and said, “No goodbyes for us.”
Paula tried to appear brave but she knew it was just a facade. “No goodbyes, my love.”
They kissed passionately. As they were doing so, Kurt grabbed the railing of the Far Horizons and gave it a mighty shove. Paula was snatched away from his embrace.
Her last image of Kurt was his deep love for her burning in his eyes.
Then he was lost to the fog.
All was eerily silent, just the never-ending dance of the surf. She found a paddle and pushed away.
A minute passed. Nothing.
Another.
Then it happened. Lights cut through the fog. Bright lights. Paula knew it was the Black Jack’s floodlights.
The floodlights.
Kurt's shadow moved around the deck. A powerful spotlight pierced the fog. In its beam was the dark shape of another boat pulling alongside.
It was a big boat full of big men snarling, cursing and yelling. They boarded the Black Jack en mass.
Kurt was no longer visible.
Until he opened fire.
He was behind the spotlight, blinding them. They scurried for cover. There was none. They screamed in agony, writhed in pain, returned fire. Kurt was yelling too. The spotlight was knocked out. Kurt never stopped firing.
A bright flash.
Lightning?
No, it came from beneath the boat. A sharp crack rolled across the water, snapped in Paula's ears. She clamped her hands over her them, screwed her eyes shut.
When she opened them again, the Black Jack was gone. The floodlights were visible, but they were submerged now and growing dimmer as they sunk.
For a brief moment Paula was too stunned to move. Then she fired up the Evinrude. Within a few seconds she was at the sight where she'd last seen the Black Jack.
A few cushions were floating there, along with scraps from the hull.
The attackers' boat had taken several hits from Kurt's gun and was sinking fast.
Kurt was nowhere to be seen.
“Hey babe, lovely day for a dip. Care to join me?”
It was exactly what she expected him to say, arms folded over the side of the Far Horizons, eyes gleaming with mischief, and his usual shit-eating grin.
But it didn’t happen.
Paula searched the flotsam scattered around her and called his name yet again. She was startled at how plaintive her voice sounded, like a child lost in the dark calling for her mother. “Kurt, where are you?” She clapped her hands over her ears to block out the repeats then said in a smaller voice, “I’m scared.”
She couldn’t stop her voice from quivering, nor stop the sobs that echoed over the water. They were thrown back at her by the fog again and again, mocking her as if there were a dozen little girls out there suffering the same fate. Cold, gray fingers of mist closed around her and seemed to tighten their grip. Paula pulled Kurt’s field jacket tighter, folded her arms to keep from shivering.
“Kurt!” Again the fog taunted her. “Kurt . . . Kurt . . . Kurt . . .” Each repetition was a little quieter than the one before but the whimper of despair in her voice was just as prominent each time.
Can't be. Not possible. Kurt's invincible. He’s here. Somewhere.
But there was only the formless nothingness surrounding her. Choppy surf slapped against the Far Horizon's hull, its hollow echo sounding as if the entire ocean was inside a giant gymnasium.
The only other sound was the breaking of her heart. It made her cry out in agony, sounding like a yelp an injured dog might make. She pounded her fists on the side of the boat in an effort to release the pain. No, she told herself. No, no, no.
She continued to putter around in what she hoped was widening circles, but with the dense fog it was nearly impossible to tell. She did her best to keep the Black Jack’s flotsam in sight as a point of reference but that was proving increasingly difficult, and because of the swift current, not very reliable.
A chilling thought occurred to her. Maybe I’m dead and this is what death is really like, not pearly gates and a chorus of angels, but a formless, colorless mist that you swirl around in for eternity. But do the dead have to change gas cans? She had to do that a little while ago. Now she was using the spare Kurt had given her. He hadn't realized how much he'd burned by running the Far Horizon's motor while they were towing it.
So . . . Maybe she wasn’t dead.
So . . . Maybe Kurt wasn’t dead either. After all, Kurt always had a plan.
Kurt was indestructible.
The fog had a golden glow to it now, indicating the sun was up, but it did nothing to improve visibility.
He's out there, she told herself, had to be, but he’d have drifted far away by now. If Kurt was caught in the Florida Straits, he was probably well on his way to Cuba, basically a southerly direction. But which way was south? The little cabin cruiser didn't have a compass or a radio. It was a pleasure craft designed for boating and fishing close to shore, not for taking on the open seas.
Oh God Kurt, where are you?
The answer settled in her heart like a thorn.
He’s gone. You know he’s gone.
It hurt so damn bad she couldn't think of anything else but the pain. It was all she had now. Her head was splitting. She grabbed it with both hands and screamed, “Please God help me,” but her cry echoed away into the fog.
She decided that if she didn't get out of the fog her head would explode. In desperation she opened the throttle all the way and charged ahead, even though she had no idea of where ahead was.
Kurt was gone. Wally was gone. The Black Jack was gone. The bad guys were gone.
Her life was gone.
She plowed through the surf, expecting any moment to crash into another boat or a bridge abutment or a rocky shoreline. She didn't care; she just had to get out of the fog. She had no idea whether she was going straight or in circles. Circles, probably. Typically that's what happened. She had no concept of time either. Hours could have passed. Days. She didn’t know. Thinking rationally no longer had any relevance.
The spitting and sputtering of the rusty old Evinrude interrupted her thoughts. Then it made no sound at all. Out of fuel. No more spare cans.
She was adrift. Lost. She sat rocking in the boat, how long she didn’t know. She was vaguely aware of a transformation taking place within her. She no longer felt panic.
She no longer felt much of anything, except a deep aching for Kurt.
She didn't know how long she stayed like that, didn't know when she first noticed the chugging of an approaching boat or see the spotlight beam scanning right and left through the fog until it stopped on her face.
The shadow of a boat took shape, about the same size as hers. There was somebody in the boat. Two men, maybe more. Paula was jolted back to reality. Panic lodged in her heart and turned her arms and legs to jelly. Were these more of Estrada's men? What could she do? There was a stash of guns beneath the tarp behind her, but she didn't even know how to load the damn things. This was Kurt's game, not hers.
A voice called out, “Who's there?”
She knew that voice. The boat drew nearer. Not two men. Just one very big man.
“Pappy?”
“Why, Miss Paula. My goodness, what're you doing out here? You okay?”
“Oh my God, Pappy, you don’t know how glad I am to see you. I’m in so much trouble.” She couldn’t stop the outburst of tears.
“Hey now,” Pappy was saying. “Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing. Pappy’s here and everything’s gonna be all right. Here . . .” He handed Paula his hanky. “It’s clean.”
She gratefully took it. “Can you tow me to my mom's place?”
“Why, of course I can. I'll just fasten a line.”
“Thanks Pappy but I'm getting in your boat with you, okay?”
“Well, of course it’s okay, Miss Paula. My pleasure. My pleasure indeed.”
Within minutes they were under way, the Far Horizons tagging faithfully behind. Paula was shivering and Pappy put his massive arm around her. “Now, now, Miss Paula. Everything’s all right. Pappy’s got ya.”
Paula was alreadyfast asleep on his shoulder.
Paula studied her mother's face.
It was a sweet, tender face, always with that enigmatic Mona Lisa smile. There was a light in her eyes that even Alzheimer's couldn't diminish. It was a light that had always been there. Paula knew it came from that eternal flame of love burning in her mother's heart. A love so pure that pain, suffering or unkindness never penetrated it.
They sat on the swing in the backyard not far from the water's edge. Although her mother was unable to express it, this was clearly her favorite spot. This was where she was calmest, most at peace. She gazed out over the gentle rise and fall of the surf, not as if she was searching for anything, but rather waiting for something.
Or someone.
Paula wondered if it was her father she was waiting for, whether deep down inside the fog of her mind he still existed for her. Old Doc Hutchinson had assured Paula that wasn't the case, but when she looked into her mother's eyes, she wasn't so sure.
Maybe I'm just superimposing my thoughts onto hers, she reflected. How many days have I sat here waiting for Kurt to come galloping up on the Black Jack, hopping overboard into the surf where I'm waiting with outstretched arms?
Countless times, very single day.
But Kurt was gone. So was the Black Jack. She knew because she'd been back to the site twice now in the Far Horizons. It was only a matter of time before the Straits claimed it and took it God knows where. The second time she went, she borrowed a friend's scuba gear and dove down to see if the emeralds were still there.
They weren't.
Nor any sign of Kurt.
She checked daily for reports of a body found washed up anywhere in the Keys, or snagged in a fishing net. Nothing. Logic told her what had happened to Kurt and the thought of it made her shiver. But the heart has its own logic. Hers said that Kurt was still alive. If he was gone, she was sure she would know it in her heart. She would feel it. An Atlantic breeze pushed gently against them and her mother sucked it in, her chest swelling. Her eyes sparkled. She's feeling better, Paula thought. Maybe old Doc Hutchinson was wrong.
A finger of lightning danced on the horizon. A moment later thunder grumbled and rolled across the water toward them. As if on cue Birdy appeared with her mother's wheelchair, saying “'Spect we better get her inside.”
As Paula pulled the wheelchair up the ramp to the back deck, heavy, fat raindrops splattered down around her, but she managed to maneuver her mother inside before the downpour started in earnest. Once Birdy got her mom settled in her usual spot, she turned to Paula, put her hands on her hips and said, “Can' decide whichah you two is more lost.”
As usual Birdy hit home with such uncanny accuracy it took Paula's breath away. She burst into tears. Birdy gathered her in her arms and pressed her head into that massive, welcoming bosom of hers. She let Paula cry it out for a while then said, “C'mon honey, lets go sit out on th' porch. Time you tol' ol' Birdy all 'bout it.”
It had been a week since Paula showed up at the front door that foggy Monday morning, suitcases in hand and the side of her pedal pushers black with dried blood. She had rarely seen Birdy register surprise, but this time she did, complete with wide eyes and gaping mouth. “Lawd chile, what happened?”
Paula stumbled inside and dropped her suitcases on the floor. “Nothing, Birdy. I'm just really, really tired.”
Birdy wasn't buying it. “Uh-huh. Who hit you? Bill?”
“No, no, I just . . .” She staggered a couple of steps, woozy.
Birdy steadied her. “Looky here, girl, don' you faint on me. Not here. Gawd and me both could'n get you up off th' floor. C'mon over here to th' sofa.”
With her last ounce of energy Paula complied, clinging to Birdy for support, mumbling, “I'm okay, I'm okay . . .”
She plopped down on the sofa then toppled right over onto her side, groaned, and was instantly sleep. Birdy removed Paula's canvas deck shoes then grabbed her ankles and swung her legs up onto the sofa. She took the cover off the back of the sofa, spread it across Paula then stuffed a throw pillow under her head. She stepped back, folded her arms over her bosom, shook her head, and said, “Lawd, Lawd, Lawd.”
It was after two when Birdy nudged Paula's shoulder. “Missy. Missy, wake up. Doc's here.”
Paula's eyes popped open. She sat up too quickly and the room spun. “What? Who?” Old Doc Hutchinson, stood hunched over a few steps away, his battered black medical bag in hand, his glasses perched halfway down his nose, his baggy gray pants and sea green shirt rumpled, the knot of his blood-red tie loosened, his stethoscope draped around his neck, and his bushy white hair unruly as always. He looked at Paula with kindly, tired eyes. Paula had known those eyes all her life. He was the one who brought her into the world.
Paula's injuries incurred the day before manifested themselves now in aching bones, sore muscles, and a stinging hip where she'd been cut. But she gave the doctor a bright-eyed smile. “Hi Doc, what're you doing here?”
“Don't even start,” Birdy said. “I seen that nasty cut on yore hip while you wuz sleepin'. Called the Doc to come over here and stitch it up. Now lay down on yore side.” Paula did and without further ado, Birdy unfastened Paula's pedal pushers and jerked them down.
“Birdy!”
“Oh hush up, chile. Doc's seen yore bare butt b'fore. He wuz the first one to paddle it.”
Doc Hutchinson chuckled then carefully removed the tape and bandage Kurt had applied yesterday. “Okay,” he said, scrutinizing the injury. “Birdy you'll need to get a towel or something to lay under her. There's going to be bleeding.”
After injecting Paula with Lidocaine, he deftly applied sutures, his hands as steady as a twenty year old's, then cleaned the incision with an antiseptic. He was about to bandage it when Paula stopped him, saying she was going to take a much-needed shower.
“Okay,” he said. “While you're doing that I'll check on your mother.” He patted her on the head the way he did when she was a little girl. Paula asked, “Don't I get a lollipop?” Doc Hutchinson chuckled then followed Birdy out of the room.
Paula grabbed a suitcase and because she was so beat, used both hands to haul it upstairs to her room. She stripped down then took as hot a shower as she could stand. Although her hip was still numb from Lidocaine, she used a delicate touch when cleansing the wound. Her other cuts and bruises screamed at her in outrage. She could not hold back tears of pain. She forced herself to bear it, lathering up and rinsing off several times, then thoroughly scrubbing her hair.
When she stepped from the stall her skin glowed and was tingly. She used one towel to dry off with, another to wrap around her hair. She applied bandages to her hip, slipped on a fluffy terry cloth robe and slippers then went back downstairs.
Doc Hutchinson was standing in the foyer with his arm around Birdy's shoulder while she wept quietly. “Oh no,” Paula said and ran over to them. Before she asked the question, Doc said in his gentle voice, “Your mom's still with us, Paula. But these are last days. She can go anytime.” He put his other arm around Paula, gave her an encouraging hug.
That was a week ago. Now she and Birdy were on the front porch in wooden rockers fitted with all-weather cushions, gazing out at the rain.
Birdy wanted Paula to start from the time of her last visit, a little over two weeks ago. She complied, giving it to her moment-by-moment, day-by-day, leaving nothing out and being completely honest. She was surprised at how beneficial she found the exercise, organizing the events of her chaotic life during the past two weeks, putting them into some sort of logical perspective.
Birdy listened silently, never once grunting or saying, “Um-hum,” the way she normally did. When Paula was finished, Birdy pulled a hanky from her bosom, wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“I guess I screwed up pretty bad,” Paula said.
Birdy patted Paula's hand. “You wuz tryin' ta find love an' happiness, Missy. That's ev'ry woman's job. Lotta women ain't strong enough or brave enough to do it. Only the special ones are. Like you.”
Upon hearing that, Paula let fly with the tears. As did Birdy. They cried and hugged. The rain stopped before their tears did. Paula wiped hers away with the flaps of her shirt. Birdy used her hanky, which was now soaked.
They rocked silently for a while then Birdy said, “Pappy called an' said he has a mess a shrimp for us.”
Paula nodded. “I'll go pick them up. I've got a few other things to get anyway.”
She kissed Birdy then went inside, changed her shirt and did her best to repair the damage to her wrecked face. By the time she pulled Kurt's Jeep out onto the highway, the sun was out in full force.
She’d found the keys to the Jeep among the things Kurt had already loaded into the Far Horizons before . . . She remembered him telling her he kept the vehicle stored at Handsome Harry's Marina. Paula had grown up with Harry. After she showed him Kurt's keys, plus spent a little time reminiscing about the 'good old days', the Jeep was hers. It still carried Kurt's scent and a sense of his presence. Once she got in it, she was reluctant to get out.
When Paula stepped into Davy Jones Locker, Pappy was busy with ‘Widder Jane’, who was constantly berating him while he dutifully filled her order, saying, “Yessum, yessum.” Widder Jane had been a widow as far back as Paula could remember. She always wore black.
While waiting, Paula browsed Pappy's eclectic selection of wares, bracing herself against a shelf or display case whenever he took a sudden turn. She noticed the porcelain egret was missing. She pointed it out to Pappy when he got free of Widder Jane.
“Oh hi, Miss Paula. Yes ma'am, I sold that to some real nice folks from up north. Fetched a pretty penny, too.” He pushed his Greek sailor hat back on his head like he always did. “Wuz able to buy new tennis shoes for all my kids. One's they had wuz gettin' pretty ragged.”
Paula stood on her tiptoes and kissed Pappy on the cheek. “Good for you, Pappy.”
Pappy's face flushed ruby red. After a second he said, “I got them shrimp ready for ya.”
When Paula turned into her driveway, Doc Hutchinson's station wagon was parked there. She jumped out of the Jeep and ran up the steps to the front door. Before she got there she heard Birdy wailing from inside. Doc Hutchinson pushed open the screen door for her. All he said was, “She went peacefully.”
The first day Birdy didn't wear black was three days after the funeral. She and Paula had lunch out back at the picnic table. Southern fried chicken. Corn on the cob. Cole slaw. Biscuits. Everything but the biscuits was left over from the funeral. As usual there was enough food to feed a brigade. Birdy drank syrupy sweet iced tea. Paula had a vodka tonic.
“Be movin' in with Lewis an' his family come Monday,” Birdy said.
Paula was surprised. “But why, Birdy? This is your house much as it is mine.”
“Can't stay here, Missy. Ever time I look up, I see her. Ever time I breathe in, I catch her scent. I have to let her go. Can't do that if I stay here. An’ . . . I needs to be with my family. You understand.” Once again tears rolled down her cheeks. She daubed at them with her napkin.
Paula put her hand on Birdy's. “Of course I do. I'm so sorry.”
“Tell me, when does it quit hurtin'?”
Paula took a deep breath, fought back her own tears. “Yes, when?”
Afterwards when Paula was in the kitchen cleaning up, she saw the postman shove a letter into her box. She retrieved it and took it to the rocker on the front porch. It was from Bill.
“Dear Paula. I was so sorry to her about your mom. She was a very sweet woman. We'll all miss her. I guess Birdy's taking it pretty hard too. I was glad Billy was able to attend the funeral. He practically lives in that chick magnet you got him. I understand why you did it, but can't say I agree with your reasoning. Sorry, we can talk about that later.”
No, Paula thought, we can't. But she had to admit she was mortified when Billy came roaring up to the church in his sleek red T-bird. She still bridled at calling it his T-bird. For a few brief shining moments it had been her dream car.
What really disturbed her was that Billy brought his cheerleader girlfriend with him. They stayed just long enough to wolf down some food after the service, then pecked Paula on the cheek saying they had to get back before curfew. A minute later they left with a screech of tires.
She continued reading.
“I didn't think it appropriate for me to attend considering the circumstances. I didn't want to chance upsetting anybody on a day dedicated to her memory. She was a very fine woman, Paula. Probably the finest I've ever known.”
Undoubtedly true, Paula thought.
“I want you to know I bear no animosity toward you. I understand why you did what you did. I realize I haven't been a good husband to you for a long time. Maybe I never was. You deserved better.”
Paula's mouth gaped open. My God, was it really Bill who wrote this?
“I propose we make the divorce as simple as possible. We both just want to move on with our lives. There is no rancor on my part. I hope you feel the same. For Billy's sake, I hope we can end this amicably.”
Paula let out a bark of laughter, thinking: what you really hope is I won't take you to the cleaners. Which means you still don't know anything about me.
“I realize most of the problems we had were the result of me being too focused on my business and not enough on my family. Well, I've got a second chance now with Betty. I'm determined not to make the same mistake. I've had an offer for TaylorMade Printing and I've decided to take it. Sure it'll mean we'll have to live on a tight budget, buy a smaller house in a less exclusive neighborhood, but if we're careful with our money, we'll have enough to get by on.”
Paula was hardly able to believe her eyes. She thought back to the days when TaylorMade Printing was just the two of them working out of their garage. It was Bill’s big dream. It took her a while to realize the dream didn’t include her or a family.
“It means Betty and me and the kids will have lots of time together for playing, for loving, for just being happy. I haven't told Betty yet. I'm saving it as a wedding night surprise.”
Paula doubled over in laughter. Poor, pathetic Betty. She had played out a role as old as time, plotting and planning to seduce the big boss, then grab the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Paula almost felt sorry for her. Almost. She continued reading.
“She really is a good kid. She takes such good care of Mama, who's living with us now in a sick room I put together for her. Betty waits on her hand and foot. By the way, Mama asks about you all the time. Can't understand why you're not here. Keeps saying you're her daughter and how she loves you.”
Of all the things Bill had written, somehow that stung Paula the most. She laid the letter down, wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. Tears for Mama Taylor? If this world gets turned anymore upside down, she thought, I know I'll just fall off. She continued to read.
“I really don't know how Betty manages it all. Besides caring for Mama and looking after the kids and making sure my meals are ready on time, she's also quite frisky in her wifely duties, if you know what I mean.”
Read you loud and clear, you idiot. You had a Ferrari and traded it for an Edsel. Have a nice ride.
Bill closed the letter by saying that however she wanted to handle the divorce was fine with him, but that he hoped she understood his financial resources now were very limited.
Paula refolded the letter, then slipped it back in its envelope. She considered the fact that she was truly alone in the world now. Kurt was gone. Her mother was gone. Birdy would be gone come Monday. Her marriage of twenty years was gone. And Billy for all practical purposes was gone. Into his own head.
A chill ran over Paula, raising goose bumps. She hugged herself for warmth, even though the air around her was balmy and the sun was bright.
It did not penetrate the wretched, abject loneliness that enshrouded her.
She had run away to be a woman who did just as she pleased.
She wished she knew what that was.
It was Thanksgiving Day but Paula was not feeling very thankful. She wasn’t feeling much of anything other than restless. And that she might explode at any moment.
She wanted Kurt. She wanted him so bad it hurt.
Yesterday had been the worst. She wandered from the living room sofa to the rocker on the front porch to the swing out back, firing up one Chesterfield after another, sucking down vodka tonics as if it were the last day before prohibition, never staying in one spot more than a few moments, then pacing, pacing like a lioness in a cage.
Billy called to say he'd be spending Thanksgiving some place up in Vermont with his girlfriend's family. He'd be sure to eat an extra slice of pumpkin pie just for her, he said. After that, they were all going snow skiing. But he wanted her to know he sure did love her and sure did miss her and sure did hope she'd have a happy Thanksgiving. Paula responded tonelessly saying, “Okay honey. Have fun. Miss you. Bye.” When she hung up she felt nothing.
That bothered her.
Later in the evening, Paula stood in the dim moonlight over the place where she and Kurt made love that first night. Memories came rushing back. His lips on hers, forceful and passionate. His hands touching her, ravaging her. The feel of him inside her, hard, thrusting. She moaned. It came from a place deep and hot and wet.
God they were good together. Two bodies, two souls as one.
Paula flung her cigarette into the surf then screamed out, “Come back to me Kurt. I need you.” With all her might she hurled her glass down against the rocks. But it was plastic and bounced up like a rubber ball, arced out into the Sound, and was lost. She marched around the backyard in tight circles, saying, “Why, why, why?”
She knew her emotions were getting completely out of control. To use Birdy's words, she was working herself into a tizzy. But Birdy never explained how to make a tizzy go away.
Her skin was hot to the touch and her forehead was glowing. She knew if she didn't do something quick she really was going to explode. She ran to the end of the pier, stripped down, and plunged in.
The water's chill soothed her fevered skin. She instinctively went into a racing stroke, pumping arms and legs in perfect form, trying to work the anxiety out of her muscles. She ran out of steam a quarter of a mile out in black water under a black sky. A sliver of moon was grinning at her like the Cheshire Cat.
She was pleasantly exhausted. She took a few moments to catch her breath, then got her bearings from the house lights and the ones on the pier and used a leisurely backstroke for her return.
When she got back, two men were standing at the end of the pier ogling her.
Both were fondling sweaty bottles of beer with cigarettes wedged between their fingers. Both sported shit eating grins. One was in Bermuda shorts, sandals, and a black tank top. He was leaning on the other guy. He wore denim cutoffs, sneakers, and nothing else. Bad choice, Paula thought. With that flat-chested hairless torso, you really should wear a shirt.
Tank Top spoke first. “Hey Chesty. Ain't it just the perfect night for a swim, though? Mind if we join ya?”
To their surprise, Paula showed no sign of alarm. She didn't scream or try to cover her breasts. She effortlessly treaded water, staring brazenly at them, then said, “You're trespassing on private property, boys. You need to leave.”
Flat Chest clutched his heart as if Paula had mortally wounded him. “Aw come on, honey. No need to get all unfriendly like. Hell, you already naked. Why don't we get naked too and see if something good happens?”
“I'm not your honey.”
Tank Top said, “Gawd what a set of tits.”
“And you've seen them so it's time to leave.” Even Paula was surprised at the growl in her voice.
Tank Top straightened up, hooked his thumbs in his shorts, and cocked his head belligerently. “How 'bout we don't wanna leave? Whadya gonna do about it?”
Paula's eyes were glowing green embers. She thought, if I can take on Gator, I can certainly to hell handle these redneck island boys. “What am I going to do about it?” she echoed.
Tank Top laughed sneeringly. “Yeah, whadya you gonna do about it?”
The fierceness in Paula's eyes could have melted tungsten steel from a hundred yards.
“I'm going to kick your asses.”
Clearly the last thing Tank Top and Flat Chest expected the naked redhead to say. Both were momentarily speechless. Paula never wavered, never blinked, just stared them down.
Flat Chest spat and said, “Well hell, honey, no need gettin' all huffy. Just lookin' for a little fun.” He motioned to Tank Top. “Hell, let's split.”
Tank Top hitched up his shorts, dug a quarter out of his pocket then flipped it toward Paula. “Thanks for the show.”
As they both skulked away, Tank Top took a parting shot. “You ain't the only fish in the ocean, bitch.”
As the two neared the end of the pier, Paula heard Flat Chest say, “Yeah, but she's the only one that's bare ass naked and got big tits.” They both laughed, then were lost to the night.
A part of Paula was disappointed. She realized she'd been spoiling for a fight.
Another part of her asked: what's come over you?
She went inside, showered, and plopped into bed, but sleep wouldn't come. She tossed fitfully. When the morning sun peaked in her window, she was still awake.
Thanksgiving day.
A little over five weeks since she'd last seen Kurt.
She spent the morning doing perfunctory housework, mainly just haunting the big, lonely house. She tried TV but it was a blur of parades and other holiday events. She picked up a magazine but put it back down after realizing she'd read the same paragraph four times.
Around noon she made herself a sandwich but only ate half of it. Not able to think of anything else to do, she just sat at the kitchen table, staring out the window.
And saw the Far Horizons tied up at their pier. Her pier now, bobbing lazily. As she watched, she heard Kurt whisper her name.
Or was it the wind?
She ran out onto the front porch, looked in all directions. “Kurt? Kurt where are you?” She ran over to the pier. The Far Horizons made a squeaky sound as it rubbed against the fenders. Paula shaded her eyes, looked to see if any boats were nearby, if Kurt was on one of them calling to her.
“Kurt?”
A runabout was trolling in the Sound. A man was standing up in it. He waved at her.
“Oh my God!” Paula bounced excitedly, waving both arms at him. “Kurt? I'm here!”
He stooped over slightly. He was reeling in a big catch, drifting a little closer to shore as he did so.
It wasn't Kurt.
It was Handsome Harry. Velma was in the boat with him. The wave Harry had given her was nothing more than being friendly. Velma waved too, calling out, “Hiya Paula. Happy Thanksgiving.” True Conches, they fished virtually every day, whether it was Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Fourth of July.
Paula returned the wave halfheartedly. “Hi Velma. Hi Harry.”
With his catch onboard, Harry throttled up. He and Velma were soon lost from sight.
Paula went over to the swing, plopped down, and gazed at the hypnotic sway of the Sound. Her heart hurt so bad she wondered if it truly was breaking. “Oh God help me. I can't take this. It just hurts too bad.”
To make matters worse, every time she closed her eyes, there Kurt was, right in front of her, smiling at her with his roguish grin, a twinkle in his eye right where it was supposed to be.
She gazed toward the northeast, out where the shelf dropped off and beyond sight, the place where Kurt went down.
The light of realization flashed in her mind. Kurt's not there.
I know where he is.
How could I have been so stupid?
He's at Curiosity Cove.
Every female fiber of her body screamed it out to her. Call it intuition. Call it overwrought emotions. Paula knew it was a woman thing and her woman thing was hitting on all eight cylinders. Meaning normal logic was irrelevant. She was a woman following her most primeval instincts.
Nothing would hold her back.
She had to get to Curiosity Cove.
That's where Kurt was. She knew it.
The Far Horizons was waiting for her, saying come on, let's go, fill up my gas cans, load me up with water and food and emergency gear just in case, get your dad's chart that shows how to get there. And for God's sake get a compass.
Come on girl. Get moving.
It only took Paula an hour to pull together the things she needed, including fuel. She changed into shorts, a long sleeve shirt, a pair of canvas deck shoes, and wrapped a scarf around her hair. She took a seat at the rear of the little cabin cruiser then gave the chord on the ancient Evinrude a hard yank.
Nothing happened.
Paula kept jerking on the chord until she thought she'd pull her arm out of its socket. With each pull, her ire rose.
She stopped for a moment, put her fists on her hips, and yelled, “Look here boat, I'm going to Curiosity Cove whether you like it or not. If I have to yank this chord all afternoon, then by God that's what I'll do. Got it?”
For good measure she stood up and kicked the motor. She'd seen her father do that many times when something wasn't cooperating. It always seemed to work for him. Sitting back down, she yanked the chord with all her might. The Evinrude coughed twice then fired up.
“All right then,” Paula said. She threw off the line, took a seat at the helm, and puttered out into Largo Sound. She cruised south toward Tavernier then west onto Tavernier Creek. It cut across the island like a big ditch, dumping her into Florida Bay. Being Thanksgiving, it was virtually clear of traffic. Paula checked her father's chart and set a heading.
The weather was brisk, the water choppy. Purple-blue thunderheads were building on the horizon. Paula didn't care. She had to get to Kurt as fast as possible. He was waiting for her; she knew it.
She opened the throttle to its maximum stop. The Far Horizon's bow lifted up obediently. Even though it was a shallow draft boat, Paula concentrated on the channel markers. Florida Bay was treacherous. Much of its bottom was only a few feet deep and made of hard coral. It could peel open the belly of a boat like a giant can opener.
But she was Paula Doherty, captain's daughter. She had grown up on these waters and was as comfortable in Florida Bay as Br'er Rabbit was in his briar patch.
On my way, Kurt.
The air in her face was invigorating. The Far Horizons bucked like a young bronco as it skimmed over the water. No matter. Paula was not about to be thrown.
She searched the horizon and there it was. A cluster of treetops was swaying in the blustery wind. The clouds overhead seemed determined to add drama to the setting. Ranging in color from deep purple to shiny silver, interspersed with shades of cobalt blue and violet, they swirled and rolled as if in a celestial wrestling match. Shafts of purest sunlight punched through them, dancing on the water's surface.
Magical, Paula thought. Anything less would be inappropriate.
She drew near to the island and pulled back on the throttle. The Far Horizons humbly laid down flat on its belly. Paula steered toward the channel entrance. She sucked in her breath as the tunnel closed around her.
It was relatively dark inside. And mysterious. Paula’s skin tingled. Thunder rolled across the Bay, echoed through the tunnel, stirred up a cacophony of exotic bird calls.
Paula hardly heard them, so intent was she on keeping the little cabin cruiser squarely in the center of the meandering channel. Her eyes were focused straight ahead. She tried to remember whether the tunnel opened up into the lagoon around the next bend, or the bend after that, but couldn't. She felt like a child cranking a Jack-in-the-box, waiting for the clown to jump out. The anticipation was almost unbearable.
Would the house still be there? Did Estrada's men destroy it, burn it down? She said a little prayer that it would still be just as she and Kurt left it.
It had to be.
Up ahead the tunnel grew somewhat brighter, which meant the last bend was coming up. She was about to enter the lagoon. Seeing that her knuckles were white from her iron grip on the helm, she forced herself to relax.
She eased around the bend. The tunnel opened up. Just like the first time she was here, it reminded Paula of a curtain opening at the start of a play, revealing the most enchanting set she had ever seen.
The house was still there.
Intact.
It stood almost regally on the little hill of white sand above the lagoon. Paula laughed with joy. She steered the Far Horizons across the lagoon to the pier, shut down the motor, hopped out, and tied up. Rain began, softly at first, then great big water bombs. She was about to run up to the house when a thought stopped her.
What if somebody was there other than Kurt?
It froze Paula in her tracks. She looked closer at the house. No, it was not just as they’d left it. Repairs had been made. From her angle she saw the French doors in the main room had been replaced.
By who?
Were Estrada's men inside, watching her, waiting for her to come in so they could attack her? The horror of what Red, Gator and Earl intended to do to her -- would have done to her -- quickened her heart. A voice in her head said run, get back in the boat and get the hell out of here.
She couldn't do it.
She knew instinctively the rest of her life would be determined by what she did in the next few moments.
She walked up the hill.
Were there footprints in the sand when she first looked up at the house? The image in her mind wasn’t clear enough. If there were footprints, the rain had already washed them away.
She quietly climbed the steps to the front verandah, then stopped, straining to hear. No sound or movement came from inside, but the drumming of the rain was so loud it would have obliterated anything quieter than an explosion.
Paula warily turned the doorknob. It was unlocked. She took a deep breath, pushed the door open, then jumped back, ready to run like a scalded dog at the first sign of movement.
There wasn't any.
Paula kneeled down, stuck her head through the door. She looked all around.
Nothing.
She stood up, tiptoed inside, leaving the door open in case she had to bolt. She stepped down into the main room without incident. It looked nothing like the last time she’d seen it. All the furniture except the bamboo bar had been replaced. The big beautiful rug was gone, replaced with several braided throw rugs. The bullet holes in the walls had all been repaired. The few pieces of wall décor that had been undamaged were back in place.
Paula was stunned. There was no evidence of the violence that had taken place in the room. It had been restored to its former open, comfortable, very masculine glory.
Clearly Kurt's hand was at work here because only Kurt knew what it originally looked like.
But where was he?
Convinced that the boogieman wasn't going to jump out and grab her, she called out, “Kurt?” When she didn't get an answer she called out again, “Kurt, where are you?” It was then she realized several lights were on. She heard the drone of the generator, meaning he had taken on propane.
Like a child, Paula was incapable of walking, she had to run and she ran into the kitchen. Dirty pans and dishes were stacked in the sink. She jerked open the refrigerator. It was stocked not just with beer but with fresh food. She wanted to shout hallelujah.
She ran back into the main room. Yes, a bottle of Jack Daniels Black stood proudly on the bar, about half of it gone. Had to be new; she had taken the only bottle that hadn't been smashed with them when they made their hasty departure.
Next she dashed into the museum room and it was there that she got her greatest shock.
It was empty, nothing but walls, floor and ceiling.
What did it mean?
As if in answer, the memory of that long, scary trip out to the shelf on the Black Jack came back to her. Kurt told her he had an idea of how to square things with Estrada so they wouldn't have to spend the rest of their lives worrying about him coming after them.
This was how he did it.
Paula told Kurt the contents of the museum room were probably worth a couple of million bucks. That's what the emeralds were supposed to be worth.
Kurt did the one thing Bill had never done during all the years they were married.
He listened to her.
Not only that, he took her at her word.
Who thought a woman's word meant anything?
Kurt did. As long as that woman was me.
She found herself laughing girlishly as she ran upstairs to the bedroom. The covers were thrown back. The mattress was lumpy, the way a man would leave a bed. She ran out onto the balcony then around back to the tub. The makeshift shelf above it was barren.
Except for a single pink frangipani in a bud vase.
Paula's hands flew to her mouth. Oh my God, he's here, he's really here.
But where?
She looked down toward the lagoon but the rain was an impenetrable wall.
“Kurt? Kurt, where are you?”
She pricked her ears, listened. A deafening timpani roll of rain blotted out all other sounds.
“Kurt? Oh please . . .”
She heard a voice, barely audible. Not Kurt's. Higher pitched. Much higher pitched. Calling to her.
Wally.
The pieces slammed together for Paula. The question of how Kurt survived without a boat. Wally. He had stayed with them the whole trip. Kurt must have clung to his good buddy Wally to reach land, not that far away.
God bless you Wally.
Paula used her long legs to take the side steps two at a time, then ran toward the lagoon. Wally kept calling to her. She laughed and cried and ran down the hill. She made out another boat tied up next to hers. Nothing like the Black Jack but formidable just the same.
A shadowy figure was running up the hill toward her, laughing like the buccaneer he was. She would recognize that figure from a mile away.
Kurt.
Charging like a bull.
He scooped her up effortlessly in his powerful arms, then slammed her down on the sand so hard it made her grunt, then laugh, but only for a moment because it's impossible to laugh while being bombarded with kisses. Kurt's skin was feverish, like hers. Even the cold deluge couldn't quench it.
They clung to each other and rolled over and over down the hill to the edge of the lagoon. Wally was nearby nodding his approval, slapping the water with his fins, laughing like a hyena and performing the occasional back flip.
Paula threw her head back long enough to catch her breath. “Oh my God, Kurt, why didn't you let me know you were alive?”
Kurt pulled her up to a sitting position, placed his hands on her face. Paula wrapped her legs around him so their hips were pressing together. “But you knew I was alive, didn't you?”
It took Paula by surprise. “Yes, I did.”
“How did you know?”
“I could feel you in my heart.”
“Damn right you could. Just like I felt you in mine. We were never apart, Paula.”
“But why didn't you come for me?”
“I was waiting for you to come to me.”
Paula cocked her head, clearly baffled. “What?”
“Listen to me, baby. I got us in some deep shit by assuming I had the right to make choices for you, make you live your life the way I wanted. I was wrong. You let me know I was wrong, that you were determined to make your own choices.”
Paula was puzzled about where this was going. “Okay . . .”
“After everything went to hell and we almost lost our lives, I too was determined. Not to make the same mistake again. Not to come busting back into your life and tell you what our new game plan was.” He took her hands gently. “Especially after I learned of your mother's death. You needed time. Space. I knew you'd figure out where I was. And you'd come when you were ready. If you still wanted me in your life. Does any of that make sense?”
Paula smiled. Her eyes sparkled green. She said, “It makes perfect Kurt sense.”
Kurt laughed. More hugs, more kisses, then Paula asked, “So what about you? What have you been doing?”
“I needed time too, baby, to make things right. For us. Had to make sure you were out of danger.”
“And are things right?”
“Lady, I don't think they can get any more right than this. And they're gonna stay right. My promise.”
“My promise too.” She sealed it with a kiss then asked, “So what's next?”
“Well, I've got these open tickets to Paris via New York City. Wanna go?”
Paula laughed. “Nothing would please me more.”
“Nothing?”
They kissed, hugged, couldn't get enough of each other. Paula thought: this is the part where the rain stops and a brilliantly hued rainbow arcs over the lagoon.
It didn't happen.
In fact, it rained harder.
But it didn't matter.
If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review at the site where it was purchased. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated.
http://www.unthinkableconsequences.com/index.html
http://rectorwriter.wordpress.com/
To the woman who is my wife, my life, my business partner, my fellow adventurer, the matriarch of our family, a best selling author herself, and my constant inspiration, Marsha Roberts.
Several authors who generously gave of their time and expertise as I honed this book into its final form provided invaluable assistance. That they are all women was particularly important to me since my protagonist is a spirited, independent, determined, charming, and fearless woman, which could easily describe each of them.
Marsha Roberts is my wife, a best selling author, and at least 200% woman. Her book, Confessions of an Instinctively Mutinous Baby Boomer, is described as an astounding work of literary genius and I have to agree. Friends who know Marsha, and who have read passages from my book while it was in the works, have said that Paula is just a 1959 version of her. Well, not exactly, but it does hit close to the mark. Did I take inspiration from her when creating Paula? You bet.
I want to thank Claude Nougat, author of the Forever Young series, for her objective editorial advice. She pointed out several problems in story construction, extraneous exposition, and superfluous characters. I am grateful for the time she devoted to helping me, and for her patience, friendship, and support.
Dianne Harmon, author of the best selling Blue Coyote Motel, combed through the manuscript with her eagle eye and caught many errors, omissions, and faulty descriptions (petal pushers instead of pedal pushers, for example). Her enthusiastic support for the book has been most welcome.
I extend my heartfelt thanks to each of these literary ladies.
Bob Rector has been a professional storyteller for forty years, but his background is primarily in film, video, and stage work as a writer and director.
Bob was one of the pioneers of music videos, first for The Now Explosion and then for Music Connection, which were highly popular nationally syndicated shows that preceded MTV by ten years. He created over 100 films for the top musical artists of the times.
Bob wrote and directed an outdoor-adventure feature film, Don't Change My World, and has won countless awards for nature and sports documentaries.
His original three-act play, Letters From the Front, entertained America’s troops around the world for fifteen years and was the first professional theatrical production to be performed at the Pentagon. It became known as the World's Most Decorated Play.
After decades on the road (and in the air), Bob finally settled down long enough to write his first novel, Unthinkable Consequences. The book is available in eBook and in print at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and most online book sites.
You can find me at the following links . . .
https://www.facebook.com/RectorWriter
https://twitter.com/RectorWriter
Blog:
http://rectorwriter.wordpress.com/
Website
http://www.unthinkableconsequences.com/index.html
Turn the page to read about related releases . . .
This play about “the fragile and precious nature of life” is often described by those who’ve seen it as an emotional roller coaster. It weaves letters written to and from soldiers and their loved ones going back as far as Valley Forge, even though the story is set on the home front during the waning days of WWII. The personal themes in the letters are honestly reflected, as is the commitment of everyday Americans to preserve freedom.
Popular essayist Katharine Hartgrove, whose son is fighting in Northern Italy, has been commissioned to write a play based on these letters. She enlists boyfriend Johnny Chastain, America’s favorite radio wise guy, to assist her. He provides an unseen twist to the story, along with plenty of comic relief. When the laughter and tears subside, Johnny is the most unlikely of heroes and Katharine is healed from emotional scars that have haunted her for twenty years.
Letters From the Front has been performed at over 120 military installations around the world to cheers and standing Os. It is known as The World’s Most Decorated Play and is the only professional theatrical production to have played at the Pentagon.
“A patriotic tribute to the men and women who so bravely serve.” -- CBS Evening News.
“A wonderful show!” -- The Today Show, NBC
“A tear-jerking, hand-clapping, mind-blowing stroll through history.” -- Shreveport Times
Find out more about Letters From the
Front at:
https://lettersfromthefronttheater.wordpress.com/
Continue on to other related releases . . .
Confessions of an
Instinctively Mutinous Baby Boomer
and her Parable of the Tomato Plant
By Marsha Roberts
Marsha Roberts is not only the wife of Bob Rector but also the producer of Letters From the Front. The fact that “Letters” touched hundreds of thousands of lives was extremely rewarding for Marsha, but it also gave her the opportunity to travel. She climbed aboard a C-131, a C-17 (and a bunch of other C-aircraft!) taking their show to far away places. Not to mention seeing America mile-by-mile as the show was bus-and-trucked to major cities and little towns from sea to shining sea. She shares some of these experiences and more in her inspirational memoir.
Her book, which Kirkus Reviews calls “An optimistic look at the magic of life” is an unflinching look at the life of a Baby Boomer woman told with heart, humor and charm. Roberts grapples with the question: how do you keep the twinkle in your eye and the sass in your walk as you get older? The unique way she finds the answer has been described as “Funny, touching and inspirational” ~ “Heart tugging and heart warming” ~ “Delightful!”
Roberts takes the reader on a captivating journey where real life collides with real miracles. With stories ranging from candidly intimate to wonderfully adventurous, each chapter or parable uncovers a piece of the puzzle. And as it comes together, the picture that emerges reflects Roberts’ life-affirming belief in God, the essential ingredient in her secret formula for happiness.
Her book is available as an e-book, in print, and as an audiobook:
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