SKIN TIGHT by Carl Hiaasen

Christina Marks ran all the way back to Cartwright’s dock. Along the way she dropped the Coleman lantern, hissing, on some rocks. But she kept running. When she got there, Caesar Creek was black and calm. She saw no boat, no sign of intruders.

On the dock, the familiar figure of a man in a baseball cap slouched beneath another lantern, this one glowing brightly.

“Mick, what happened?”

Then Christina realized that it wasn’t a man at all, but a scarecrow wearing Stranahan’s poplin jacket and long corduroys. The body of the scarecrow was stuffed with palm leaves and dried seaweed. The head was a green coconut. The baseball cap fit like a charm.

24

The Aquasport wedged itself deep in the mangroves on Totten Key. The engine was dead, but the prop was still twirling when Mick Stranahan got there. Barefoot, he monkeyed through the slick rubbery branches until he could see over the side of the battered boat. In his right hand he held Luis Córdova’s .38.

He didn’t need it. Detective John Murdock wasn’t dead, but he would be soon. He lay motionless on the deck, his knees drawn up in pain. Blackish blood oozed from his nose. Only one eye was open, rhythmically illuminated by the strobing blue police light. Cracked but still flashing, the light dangled from a nest of loose wires on the console. It looked like a fancy electric Christmas ornament.

Stranahan felt his stomach shrink to a knot. He put the pistol in his jeans and swung his legs over the gunwale. “John?”

Murdock’s eye blinked, and he grunted weakly.

Stranahan said, “Try to take it easy.” Like the guy had a choice. “One quick question, I’ve got to ask. You fellows were going to kill me, weren’t you?”

“Damn right,” rasped the dying detective.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I can’t believe you’re still sore about Judge Goomer.”

Murdock managed a bloody grin and said, “You dumb fuck-wad.”

Stranahan leaned forward and brushed a horsefly off Murdock’s forehead. “But if it wasn’t revenge for the judge, then why pull something like this?” Silence gave him the answer. “Don’t tell me somebody paid you.”

Murdock nodded, or tried. His neck wasn’t working so well; it looked about twice as long as it was supposed to be.

Stranahan said, “You took money for this? From who?”

“Eat me,” Murdock replied.

“It was probably the doctor,” Stranahan speculated. “Or a go-between. That would make more sense.”

Murdock’s reply came out as a dank rattle. Mick Stranahan sighed. Queasiness at the sight of Murdock had given way to emotional exhaustion.

“John, it’s some kind of city, isn’t it? All I wanted out here was some peace and solitude. I was through with all this crap.”

Murdock gave a hateful moan, but Stranahan needed to talk. “Here I’m minding my own business, feeding the fish, not bothering a soul, when some guy shows up to murder me. At my very own house, John, in the middle of the bay! All because some goddamn doctor thinks I’m going to break open a case that’s so old it’s mildewed.”

The dying Murdock seemed hypnotized by the flashing blue light. It was ticking much faster than his own heart. One of the detective’s hands began to crawl like an addled blue crab, tracking circles on the blood-slickened deck.

Stranahan said, “I know it hurts, John, but there’s nothing I can do.”

In a slack voice Murdock said, “Fuck you, shithead.” Then his eye closed for the last time.

Mick Stranahan and Christina Marks were waiting when Luis Córdova pulled up to the dock at nine sharp the next morning.

“Where to?” he asked Stranahan.

“I’d like to go back to my house, Luis.”

“Not me,” said Christina Marks. “Take me to Key Biscayne. The marina is fine.”

Stranahan said, “I guess that means you still don’t want to marry me.”

“Not in a million years,” Christina said. “Not in your wildest dreams.”

Stranahan turned to Luis Córdova. “She didn’t get much sleep. The accommodations were a bit too … rustic.”

“I understand,” said the marine patrolman. “But, otherwise, a quiet night?”

“Fairly quiet,” Stranahan said.

The morning was sunny and cool. The bay had a light washboard ripple that made the patrol boat seem to fly. As they passed the Ragged Keys, Stranahan nudged Luis Córdova and pointed to the white-blue sky. “Choppers!” he shouted over the engine noise. Christina Marks saw them, too: three Coast Guard rescue helicopters, chugging south at a thousand feet.

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