Now You See Her Part 11

Twenty minutes later, I looked at myself in the mirror.

My reflection provided some much-needed comic relief.

My still wet, self-cut, bleached hair was already turning platinum, and I had more black around my eyes than a racc.o.o.n. In the Catholic-school plaid skirt, black Social Distortion concert T, and Doc Martens boots that I scored from the secondhand store, I now looked like a cross between Courtney Love and a homeless fortune-teller.

My disguise was complete. I could have been any of the punk-rock girl runaways who hung around Duval asking for handouts. Time to go.

There was a city bus to Marathon, but that would be the first place Peter would check if he wasn't convinced by the crime scene. My plan was to hitchhike out, find some tourist pa.s.sing by who would never link sweet young cop wife, Jeanine Fournier's, disappearance to my new punk-rock persona.

The wind was picking up as I came back out onto the beach, the first gold shadows stretching over the sand. There was a roar, and I looked up at a small "puddle jumper" pa.s.senger prop plane coming in. Happy tourists about to touch down in paradise.

"One piece of advice. Take a pa.s.s on the Jell-O shots," I called up to it.

I shook my head as I gazed at the ocean, at the curvature of the world that I was about to enter practically penniless, definitely friendless, with a baby inside of me.

My Doc Martens clopped loudly on the concrete jogging path as I pointed myself toward the first bridge and whatever the h.e.l.l would come next.

Chapter 41.

THE SPEEDING STINGRAY rose and dipped like a skipping stone as Peter opened up its three-hundred-horsepower engine full throttle on their way back in. This was Key West at its finest, he thought, looking through the spray at the red-gold sunset. Wind in your hair, cold beer in your hand, cooler bursting with amberjack.

The pink clouds starboard reminded him of the blood in the water when they'd fed Teo's body to the sharks that afternoon.

The product that Peter had bought from him and Elena was supposed to have been pure. He'd paid for pure. But it had been cut. Not a lot. Just enough to get them both killed.

Peter took another icy hit of his Corona and placed it back into the drink holder, his blue eyes glued to the horizon. He thought what he always thought when push came to shove and someone had to go.

G.o.dd.a.m.n f.u.c.king shame.

It was twilight as they turned into the bay. Killing the engine, Peter expertly drew up along the seawall and saw that all the lights were off in the house. He hopped out of the boat and went inside as Morley tied up and unloaded.

"Jeanine?" he called.

He noticed that her sneakers were missing from the closet when he walked through the bedroom. A glance out the front door showed her Vespa wasn't in the carport either.

He went back into the bedroom and made a phone call. The phone kept ringing. He hung up and sat on the edge of the bed, thinking. He looked in the closet again. All their bags were still there. All of her clothes.

Finally, he looked at their wedding portrait on the shelf beside the bed.

"f.u.c.k," he said.

Morley was at the picnic table, dividing up the catch into freezer bags, when Peter arrived beside him.

"What is it?" Morley said.

"Jeanine," Peter said. "Something's wrong."

Chapter 42.

IN THE RISING ENGINE WHINE of an approaching truck, I scrambled up onto the tiny concrete ledge on the highway bridge's shoulder just in time. Blinded by headlights, road grit biting at the side of my face, I easily could have reached out and touched the side of the rattling, creaking, speeding eighteen-wheeler flashing by.

Or ended up underneath it.

My knees buckled as its swooshing waft of air came close to knocking me over the bridge's shin-high railing and into the water. At least he was kind enough not to hit his eardrum-puncturing air horn as he clattered past like the truck before.

I hopped down off the ledge and soldiered on after the truck's red taillights, swinging my CVS bag up on my shoulder. There wasn't much left in it, half a package of Combos and a dwindling bottle of water. Supplies were definitely running low. My legs were OK, but my feet were killing me, starting to blister now in the Doc Martens after nearly four hours of walking.

Far out at sea, I spotted the red running lights of an anch.o.r.ed tanker. Above them, the clear startling night contained about a hundred billion silver-blue stars. I remembered how Peter and I had lain out in our backyard after our city hall wedding, drinking Coors Light and kissing in the dark like teenagers as we watched for shooting stars.

Now he was probably searching for me.

I figured that I'd covered about 20 of the 105 miles that make up the Overseas Highway, but I still wanted to put a little more distance between me and Key West before I tried to hitchhike. I wanted to be far enough away that anyone picking me up wouldn't think to put me and my planned disappearance together.

After another ten minutes, I stopped and sat in the sand and finished the Combos. I stood immediately after I dozed off for a second. I couldn't put it off any longer, I decided. I had to hitchhike now. If I didn't, I'd fall asleep on the spot.

Peter was certainly back by now, and there was only one road out of Key West. If I was on it come morning, he would find me. I couldn't let that happen.

I stood as a pair of northbound lights appeared in the distance behind me. I walked to the road, tentatively lifting my thumb.

The vehicle's high beams dimmed as it slowed. I heard loud music coming from the radio.

Who would stop for someone out on this isolated piece of road? I thought, holding my breath. A good Samaritan? A weirdo? Peter?

I bit my lip to stop it from quivering as the lights. .h.i.t me, and the car rolled to a stop.

It wasn't actually a car, I realized, but a vintage hot rod pickup with windsurfing boards and sails jutting out over the cherry red tailgate. The radio was blasting AC/DC.

I took a breath as I made eye contact with the two people inside of it. The driver looked friendly enough, a young guy with short, reddish blond hair. He wasn't wearing a shirt. Neither was his wiry, older, and meaner-looking friend, who had a bottle between his knees and a well-endowed-mermaid tattoo on his forearm. I winced as I spotted their glazed red eyes and caught the reek of pot.

d.a.m.n, I thought. What have I gotten myself into?

"Hey, punk-rock girl. Need a ride?" said the wasted driver, turning down "h.e.l.ls Bells."

His Red Hot Chili Pepper reject of a friend took a swig of Southern Comfort and burped. "Cab's a little crowded, but let me clear off a seat for you," the tattooed guy said, wiping at his face.

I knew it, I thought, as icy pinp.r.i.c.ks of fear made a path down my spine. I should have waited to hitch until I was at a place with more houses, more lights.

"Actually, guys, I changed my mind," I said, walking away. "I think I'm going to keep walking. Thanks. My boyfriend will be here any minute anyway."

I could feel my heart beating madly in my throat as the truck rumbled. I felt like crying as it kept pace alongside me.

The driver called to me, "Honestly. We're more than happy to give you a ride."

The truck suddenly shot off the road and did a half doughnut in front of me.

"Yeah, come on and stop being a b.i.t.c.h already," said the skinny guy with a smile as he opened his door. "We won't rape you. Promise."

Chapter 43.

I DROPPED MY BAG as I turned and sprinted in the other direction. The skinny b.a.s.t.a.r.d laughed and gave a rebel yell as the truck rumbled again. I looked over my shoulder to see the truck reversing.

Were they just trying to scare me? They were doing a d.a.m.n good job.

I was thinking about heading into the brush to hide when I saw another set of headlights. A car was coming off the bridge to the south. I ran out into the road, waving frantically. It slowed and then stopped ten feet in front of me. It was a dark Mercedes.

"Say, are you OK?" asked the man behind the wheel. He had a British accent. A feisty Jack Russell began barking from the pa.s.senger seat behind him.

Before I could answer, the reversing pickup came to a sand-raising stop in front of the luxury sedan. The two shirtless men hopped out.

"Beat it, fool. Before we put you in the hospital," said the mean, wiry guy, brandishing his booze bottle like a club.

Instead of screeching away as I feared he would, the Mercedes driver just leaned out of his window and smiled.

"Oh, I don't want to go to the hospital," he said to them in a campy, whimsical Shakespearean voice. "How about if we just stay here and play doctor in the back of that butch truck of yours instead? I call doctor. Who wants to get examined first?"

He was a member of Key West's vast gay community, I realized.

The wiry guy with the tattoo gave the bottle a deft flip as he stepped over to the driver's side of the Mercedes.

"The only thing that's going to get examined is your wallet, queen. After I knock all your teeth down your throat."

That's when the Mercedes driver opened his door and my jaw dropped.

The handsome black-haired man was ma.s.sive, well over six feet, his bodybuilder chest and arms stretching his black polo shirt to the breaking point.

"Forgive me for being so forward, young man," he said, stepping toward the windsurfing punk with his veined arms crossed over his fifty-inch chest. "But has anyone ever told you how utterly striking those eyes of yours are? Let me guess: you're a Sagittarius?"

The two windsurfing fools looked at the WWF-sized gay Brit and then at each other in utter horror before racing back to the truck. A boogie board flipped over the tailgate and onto the road as they peeled out.

"I get the hint. Two's company and three's a crowd," the big Brit said to me with a wink and a sigh. "If that isn't the sad story of my life."

Chapter 44.

"SIR FRANK, at your service, m'lady," the Brit said, walking over to me and offering his hand. "And that little brat in the car there"-he gestured toward his Jack Russell-"is my loyal squire, Rupert. Those weren't friends of yours, I hope?"

"Not at all," I said, shaking Frank's large hand. "Just two jerks who offered me a ride. Thank you so much for stopping. Do you and Rupert always go about rescuing damsels in distress?"

"To tell you the truth, we'd much prefer to rescue a prince, but in your case, just this once, we'll make an exception. Hop in. I'm only heading up as far as Little Torch, but you're welcome to join me."

"First you rescue me, then you offer me a ride?" I said. "If I weren't so road-grimy, I'd hug you."

"If you weren't so road-grimy, I'd let you," Frank said with another smile. "Actually, I have one minor request. Rupert and I have been celebrating a little too exuberantly tonight, I'm afraid. Sometimes there're police along this stretch of the road, and we'd prefer not to get a DUI. You, on the other hand, look sober. Would you drive?"

Drive?! I thought. A Mercedes? Duh. "Not a problem," I said. "a.s.suming that it's OK with Rupert."

Sir Frank leaned over and conferred with the dog.

"Rupert says hop in and step on it."

I smiled at my tan, muscular friend as I walked around the car to the driver's side.

Gay British Prince Charming to the rescue. Only in Key West, I thought.

The car had wood trim everywhere and sumptuous leather seats that smelled like expensive cologne. I would have accepted a ride in the back of a chicken truck, I thought, closing the door with a heavy vaultlike clunk. My luck was definitely turning.

I slid the gearshift into drive and tapped the gas. Sand flew as the car roared and lurched onto the road like an uncaged lion.

"Ease up a tad, would you?" Frank said as he produced a silver flask from the glove compartment and took a sip. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

"Nina." I made it up on the spot.

"To you, fair Nina," he said, taking a tipple.

I was really enjoying the car. I'd never been in a Mercedes, let alone driven one. I liked the way it handled and especially the way it was making the highway railing blur by on both sides, putting distance between me and Peter. My escape plan was working out even better than I had expected.

"Hitchhiking on the Overseas doesn't seem very safe, Nina," Frank said. "Tell me. Are you running away from something or to something?"

"Neither," I lied again. "I'm just down here on vacation from New Jersey. My girlfriends and I are staying up in Big Pine. Got separated from them at a party in Old Town."

"New Jersey?" Frank said, taking in my Goodwill attire and scrunching his face in doubt. "Yes, well, quite."

"I love your car," I said to change the subject.

Frank smiled as he pushed his rakishly cut black hair out of his face. There was an almost Asian cast to his dark eyes. His teeth seemed a little too perfect. Were they capped? I wondered.