She tapped the map with one of her stiletto fingernails. “You can’t miss the goddamn things, they’re sticking three stories out of the water.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were drifting through a Stiltsville channel with the boat’s engine off. Chloe Simpkins Stranahan was complaining about her hair getting salty, while Chemo untangled the anchor ropes. The anchor was a big rusty clunker with a bent tongue. He hauled it out of the Aquasport’s forward hatch and laid it on the deck.
Then he took some binoculars from a canvas duffel and began scouting the stilt houses. “Which one is it?” he asked.
“I told you, it’s got a windmill.”
“I’m looking at three houses with windmills, so which is it? I’d like to get the anchor out before we float to frigging Nassau.”
Chloe huffed and took the binoculars. After a few moments she said, “Well, they all look alike.”
“No shit.”
She admitted she had never been on her ex-husband’s house before. “But I’ve been by there in a boat.”
Chemo said, “How do you know it was his?”
“Because I saw him. He was outside, fishing.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Three, maybe four months. What’s the difference?”
Chemo said, “Did Mick know it was you in the boat?”
“Sure he did, he dropped his damn pants.” Chloe handed Chemo the binoculars and pointed. “That’s the one, over there.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, Captain Ahab, I am.”
Chemo studied the stilt house through the field glasses. The windmill was turning and a skiff was tied up under the water tanks, but no one was outside.
“So now what?” Chloe said.
“I’m thinking.”
“Know what I wish you’d do? I wish you’d do to him what he did to my male friend. Krazy Glue the bastard.”
“That would settle things, huh?”
Chloe’s tone became grave. “Mick Stranahan destroyed a man without killing him. Can you think of anything worse?”
“Well,” Chemo said, reaching for the duffel, “I didn’t bring any glue. All I brought was this.” He took out the .22 pistol and screwed on the silencer.
Chloe made a gulping noise and grabbed the bow rail for support. So much for poise, Chemo thought.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Stranahan, this is my just-in-case.” He laid the pistol on top of the boat’s console. “All I really need is a little friction.” Smiling, he held up a book of matches from Sunday’s bar.
“You’re going to burn the house down? That’s great!” Chloe’s eyes shone with relief. “Burning the house, that’ll freak him out.”
“Big-time,” Chemo agreed.
“Just what that dangerous lunatic deserves.”
“Right.”
Chloe looked at him mischievously. “You promised to tell me who you really are.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“At least tell me why you’re doing this.”
“I’m being paid,” Chemo said.
“By who?”
“Nobody you know.”
“Another ex-wife, I’ll bet.”
“What did I say?”
“Oh, all right.” Chloe stood up and peered over the gunwale at the slick green water. Chemo figured she was checking out her own reflection.
“Did you bring anything to drink?”
“No,” Chemo replied. “No drinks.”
She folded her arms to show how peeved she was. “You mean, I’ve got to stay out here till dark with nothing to drink.”
“Longer than that,” Chemo said. “Midnight.”
“But Mick’ll be asleep by then.”
“That’s the idea, Mrs. Stranahan.”
“But how will he know to get out of the house?”
Chemo laughed gruffly. “Now who’s the rocket scientist?”
Chloe’s expression darkened. She pursed her lips and said, “Wait a minute. I don’t want you to kill him.”
“Who asked you?”
A change was taking place in Chloe’s attitude, the way she regarded Chemo. It was as if she was seeing the man for the first time, and she was staring, which Chemo did not appreciate. Her and her tweezered eyebrows.
“You’re a killer,” she said, reproachfully.
Chemo blinked amphibiously and plucked at one of the skin tags on his cheek. His eyes were round and wet and distant.
“You’re a killer,” Chloe repeated, “and you tricked me.”
Chemo said, “You hate him so much, what do you care if he’s dead or not?”
Her eyes flashed. “I care because I still get a check from that son of a bitch as long as he’s alive. He’s dead, I get zip.”