SKIN TIGHT by Carl Hiaasen

So hard that the point of the chisel punched through the brittle plate of the ethmoid bone and penetrated Rudy Graveline’s brain.

The hapless surgeon shuddered, kicked his left leg, and went limp. “Damn,” said Stranahan, jerking his hand away from the blood.

This he hadn’t planned. Stranahan had anticipated having to kill Chemo, at some point, because of the man’s stubborn disposition to violence. He had figured that Chemo would grab for the shotgun or maybe a kitchen knife, something dumb and obvious; then it would be over. But the doctor, alive and indictable, Stranahan had promised to Al Garcia.

He looked up from the body and glared at Chemo. “You happy now?”

Chemo was already moving for the door, wielding the mallet and neutered Weed Whacker as twin bludgeons, warning Stranahan not to follow. Stranahan could hear the seven-foot killer clomping through the darkened house, then out on the wooden deck, then down the stairs toward the water.

When Stranahan heard the man coming back, he retrieved the Remington from under the bed and waited.

Chemo was panting as he ducked through the doorway. “The fuck did you do to your boat?”

“I shot a hole in it,” Stranahan said.

“Then how do we get off this goddamn place?”

“Swim.”

Chemo’s lips curled. He glowered at the bulky lawn appliance strapped to the stump of his arm. He could unfasten it, certainly, but how far would he get? Paddling with one arm at night, in these treacherous waters! And what about his face—it would be excruciating, the stringent salt water scouring his fresh abrasions. Yet there was no other way out. It would be lunacy to stay.

Stranahan lowered the gun and said, “Here, I think this belongs to you.”

He took something out of his jacket and held it up, so the gold and silver links caught the flush of the lantern lights. Che-mo’s knees went to rubber when he saw what it was.

The Swiss diving watch. The one he lost to the barracuda.

“Still ticking,” said Mick Stranahan.

34

At dawn the cold front arrived under a foggy purple brow, and the wind swung dramatically to the north. The waves off the Atlantic turned swollen and foamy, nudging the boat even farther from the shore of Cape Florida. The tide was still creeping out.

The women were weary of shouting and waving for help, but they tried once more when a red needlenose speedboat rounded the point of the island. The driver of the speedboat noticed the commotion and cautiously slowed to approach the other craft. A young woman in a lemon cotton pullover sat beside him.

She stood up and called out: “What’s the matter?”

Christina Marks waved back. “Engine trouble! We need a tow to the marina.”

The driver, a young muscular Latin, edged the speedboat closer. He offered to come aboard and take a look at the motor.

“Don’t bother,” said Christina. “The gas line is cut.”

“How’d that happen?” The young man couldn’t imagine.

It was a strange scene so early on a cold morning: Three women alone on rough water. The one, a slender brunette, looked pissed off about something. The blond in a sweatsuit was unsteady, maybe seasick. Then there was a Cuban woman, attractive except for an angry-looking bald patch on the crown of her head.

“You all right?” the young man asked.

The Cuban woman nodded brusquely. “How about giving us a lift?”

The young man in the speedboat turned to his companion and quietly said, “Tina, I don’t know. Something’s fucked up here.”

“We’ve got to help,” the young woman said. “I mean, we can’t just leave them.”

“There’ll be other boats.”

Christina Marks said, “At least can we borrow your radio? Something happened out there.” She motioned toward the distant stilt houses.

“What was it?” said Tina, alarmed.

Maggie Gonzalez, who had prison to consider, said firmly: “Nothing happened. She’s drunk out of her mind.”

And Heather Chappell, who had her career to consider, said: “We were s’posed to meet some guys for a party. The boat broke down, that’s all.”

Christina’s eyes went from Heather to Maggie. She felt like crying, and then she felt like laughing. She was as helpless and amused as she could be. So much for sisterhood.

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