Christina said, “What if you’re wrong about them, Mick? What if they only want to ask more questions? Even if they’re coming to arrest you, you can’t just—”
“Go,” he said. Later he would explain that these cops were buddies of the late Judge Raleigh Goomer, and that what they wanted from Mick Stranahan was payback. Asking questions was not at all what they had in mind. “Take the path I showed you. Follow the shoreline about halfway down the island and you’ll come to a clearing. You’ll see some plastic milk crates, an empty oil drum, an old campfire hole. Wait there for me.”
Christina gave him a frozen look, but he didn’t feel it. His mind was in overdrive, long gone.
“There’s some fruit and candy bars in the Tupperware,” he said. “But don’t feed the raccoons, they bite like hell.”
She was twenty yards down the path when she heard him call, “Hey, Chris, you forgot the bug spray.”
She shook her head and kept walking.
Fifteen minutes later, when Stranahan was sure she was gone, he carried his things down to Cartwright’s dock. There he lit another lantern and hung it on a nail in one of the pilings. Then he pulled off his sneakers, kicked out of his jeans, and slid naked into the cool flowing tides.
For Joe Salazar, it was a moment of quiet triumph at the helm. “By God, we did it.”
John Murdock made a snide chuckle. “Yeah, we found it,” he said. “The Atlantic fucking Ocean. A regular needle in a haystack, Joe. And all it took was three hours of dry humping these islands.”
Salazar didn’t let the sarcasm dampen his newfound confidence. The passage through Sand Cut had been hairy; even at a slow speed, navigating the swift serpentine channel at night was an accomplishment worth savoring. Murdock knew it, too; not once had he tried to take the wheel.
“So this is the famous Elliott Key.” Murdock scratched his sunburned cheeks. The Aquasport idled half a mile offshore, rocking in a brisk chop. The beer was long gone, the ice melted. In the cool breeze Murdock had slipped into a tan leather jacket, the one he always wore to work; it looked ridiculous over his khaki shorts. Dismally he slapped at his pink shins, where a horsefly was eating supper.
Joe Salazar held the chart on his lap, a flashlight in his right hand. With the other hand he pointed: “Like I said, Johnny, from here it’s a straight nine-mile run to Rhodes. Twelve feet of water the whole way.”
Murdock said, “So let’s go, Senor Columbus. Maybe we can make it before Christmas.” He readjusted his shoulder holster for the umpteenth time.
Salazar hesitated. “Once we get there, what exactly is the plan?”
“Get that goddamn flashlight out of my face.” Murdock’s eyelids were swollen and purple. Too much sun, too much beer. It worried Salazar; he wanted his partner to be sharp.
“The plan is simple,” Murdock said. “We arrive with bells on—sirens, lights, the works. We yell for Stranahan to come out with his hands up. Go ahead with the whole bit—serve the warrant, do the Miranda, all that shit. Then we shoot him like he was trying to get away.”
“Do we cuff him first?”
“Now, how would that look? No, we don’t cuff him first. Jesus Christ.” Murdock spit into the water. He’d been spitting all afternoon. Salazar hoped this wasn’t a new habit.
Murdock said, “See, Joe, we shoot him in the back. That way it looks like he’s running away. Then we get on this boat radio, if one of us can figure out how to use the goddamn thing, and call for air rescue.”
“Which’ll take forever to get here.”
“Exactly. But then we’re covered, procedure-wise.”
It sounded like a solid plan, with only one serious variable. Joe Salazar decided to put the variable out of his mind. He stowed the flashlight, reclaimed his post at the wheel of the police boat and steered a true course for Old Rhodes Key.
A straight line through open seas. No sweat.
The channel that leads from the ocean to the cut of Old Rhodes Key is called Caesar Creek. It is deep and fairly broad, and well charted with lighted markers. For this Joe Salazar was profoundly thankful. Having mastered the balky throttle, he guided the Aquasport in at half-speed, with John Murdock standing (or trying to) in the bow. Murdock cupped his hands around his eyes to block the peripheral light; he was peering at the island, searching for signs of Mick Stranahan. Two hundred yards from the mouth of the cut, Salazar killed the engine and joined his chubby partner on the front of the boat.