“No, it just fell off. Somebody monkeyed with the pin.”
Garcia considered this for a moment. “Does he know where you keep the boat?”
“Sure,” said Luis Córdova.
“Shit.”
“I better get on the radio and see if we can get help.”
Al Garcia stowed the spotlight, sat down at the console and lit a cigarette. He said, “That bastard. He didn’t trust us.”
Luis Córdova said, “We need a new prop or a different boat. Either way, it’s going to take a couple hours.”
“Do what you can.” To the south Garcia heard the sound of another boat on the bay; Luis Córdova heard it, too—the hull slapping heavily on the waves. The hum of the engine receded as the craft moved farther away. They knew exactly where it was going.
“Goddamn,” said Garcia.
“You really think he did this?”
“I got no doubt. The bastard didn’t trust us.”
“I can’t imagine why,” said Luis Córdova, reaching for the radio.
Driving across the causeway to the marina, Chemo kept thinking about the stilt house and the monster fish that had eaten off his hand. As hard as he tried, he could not conceal his trepidation about going back.
When he saw the boat that Rudy Graveline had rented, Chemo nearly called off the expedition. “What a piece of shit,” he said.
It was a twenty-one-foot outboard, tubby and slow, with an old sixty-horse Merc. A cheap hotel rental, designed for abuse by tourists.
Chemo said, “I’m not believing this.”
“At this hour I was lucky to find anything,” said Rudy.
Maggie Gonzalez said, “Let’s just get it over with.” She got in the boat first, followed by Rudy, then Christina Marks.
Chemo stood on the pier, peering across the bay toward the amber glow of the city. “It’s blowing like a fucking typhoon,” he said. He really did not want to go.
“Come on,” Rudy said. He was frantic about Heather; more precisely, he was frantic about what he would have to do to get her back. He had a feeling that Chemo didn’t give a damn one way or another, as long as Mick Stranahan got killed.
As Chemo was unhitching the bow rope, Christina Marks said, “This is really a bad idea.”
“Shut up,” said Chemo.
“I mean it. You three ought to get away while you can.”
“I said shut up.”
Maggie said, “She might be right. This guy, he’s not exactly a stable person.”
Chemo clumped awkwardly into the boat and started the engine. “What, you want to spend the rest of your life in jail? You think he’s gonna forget about everything and let us ride off into the sunset?”
Rudy Graveline shivered. “All I want is Heather.”
Christina said, “Don’t worry, Mick won’t hurt her.”
“Who gives a shit,” said Chemo, gunning the throttle with his good hand.
By the time they made it to Stiltsville, Chemo felt like his face was aflame. The rental boat rode like a washtub, each wave slopping over the gunwale and splashing against the raw flesh of his cheeks. The salt stung like cold acid. Chemo soon ran out of profanities. Rudy Graveline was no help, nor were the women; they were all soaking wet, queasy, and glum.
As he made a wide weekend-sailor’s turn into the Biscayne Channel, Chemo slowed down and pointed with the Weed Whacker. “What the fuck?” he said. “Look at that.”
Across the bonefish flats, Stranahan’s stilt house was lit up like a used car lot. Lanterns hung oif every piling, and swung eerily in the wind. The brown shutters were propped open and there was music, too, fading in and out with each gust.
Christina Marks laughed to herself. “The Beatles,” she said. He was playing “Happiness Is a Warm Gun.”
Chemo snorted. “What, he’s trying to be cute?”
“No,” Christina said. “Not him.”
Maggie Gonzalez swept a whip of wet hair out of her face. “He’s nuts, obviously.”
“And we’re not?” Rudy said. He got the binoculars and tried to spot Heather Chappell on the stilt house. He could see no sign of life, human or otherwise. He counted a dozen camp lanterns aglow.
The sight of the place brought back dreadful memories for Chemo. Too clearly he could see the broken rail where he had fallen to the water that day of the ill-fated jet ski assault. He wondered about the fierce fish, whatever it was, dwelling beneath the stilt house. Inwardly he speculated about its nocturnal feeding habits.