“Where the hell are they?”
“Relax,” says the voice under the tarp.
“I bet we got lost in that storm.”
“The hell we did,” says Juan.
“Then I bet they got lost.”
So I switch off the spotlight and wait. It doesn’t take long to become frantic about Emma. Jerry’s had another brainstorm, I’m sure. He’s not clever enough to let the meeting pass without trying something outlandish. This is a problem with many criminals; this is why we need jails.
In anticipation of trouble, Juan and I have talked through possible scenarios, devising a fitting response for each. Yet now, drifting in a darkness without horizons, all our slick ideas seem puny or improbable. There’s no way to know what Jerry will do, but I doubt he intends to behave. Every time he stares in the mirror he’s reminded of what I did, and it is impossible to believe he won’t try to settle up.
“I hear something,” Juan says.
“Me, too.”
It sounds like a small plane, flying low to dodge the weather.
“Try the spotlight, Jack. Maybe they’re looking for you.”
I paint a slow high arc with the Q-beam, flashing it on and off repeatedly. As the engine noise grows louder, I’m thinking Juan’s right—Jerry probably sent up a spotter to pin my location.
From the bow: “You see it yet?”
“Maybe they went into some clouds.”
“I’m not moving,” Juan announces, “in case they’ve got infrared.” Flying without lights is not unheard of in South Florida, but it’s still ballsy. The boys in Customs are quite proud of their fancy radars. And something else seems wrong: Whatever is buzzing toward us is every decibel as loud as an airplane, but not nearly as fast. A plane would have passed over us by now.
I point the spotlight in the direction of the approaching din but it turns out I’m aiming high. A more powerful beam shoots back at the johnboat and I spin away, to save my eyes. The onrushing roar is now so intense that I put down the spotlight and press my knuckles to my ears. Suddenly the engine changes pitch, and trails off to nothing with a thwocka-thwocka-thwock.
Now I know what we’re dealing with: Cleo’s bodyguard has swiped an airboat.
The light plays back and forth across our little fishing craft, lingering on the yellow tarpaulin a moment too long for my ragged nerves. I snatch up my own light and aim for the guy’s face. He ducks, but not before I catch a telltale glint of an earring and a flash of bare pate.
“Knock it off, dickhead,” the shadow barks.
“Jerry, my brother, you’re late.”
Simultaneously we kill the spotlights. The distinctive L-shaped profile of the airboat becomes visible against a pinkish swath of low sky—the faraway glow of West Palm Beach. I see Jerry’s burly silhouette on the driver’s platform in front of the big propeller. In the bow are two other figures; one is standing and one is seated, cloaked in a hood.
“Where’s the package?” Jerry shouts at me.
“Not yet, you silly man!”
The standing figure prods the hooded figure, who says, “Jack, it’s me.”
I feel like a mule just kicked me in the gut.
“It’s me, Emma.” She sounds doped and exhausted.
“How are you doing, princess,” I hear myself calling in a strained voice. “It’s gonna be all right.”
I’m shaking so badly it must be rocking Juan in the front of the boat. If I tried to stand up now I’d keel sideways into the lake. “How do you want to do this?” I ask Jerry.
“Right here. Bring your boat over.”
Boy oh boy.
The tall figure in the front of the airboat is loosening the hood on Emma’s head. I feel for the starter cord on the Mercury and I pull on it once, twice, three times.
That figures—the fucker won’t start. Its moist wheezing reminds me of the late MacArthur Polk.
“Hurry it up,” Jerry snaps.
Easy, Jack. Don’t panic. Try the choke—but let’s not flood it, okay?
“What’s the problem, dickhead?” Jerry zaps me with his spotlight. He thinks I’m stalling.
Twice more I yank on the cord before the outboard chugs to life. I put it in gear and idle toward the kidnappers. What else is there to do?