Oya's Wake

Chapter 1

2008-11-28T23:04:00.001-08:00

Chuck sprawled out on the hotel room bed as if he were the victim at a crime scene. Beads of sweat were fresh on his forehead. He yanked off his shirt and threw it against the wall. "Oh, yeah!" His dark, wavy hair – which led his mother to call him Elvis Jr. on occasion – stood almost at attention after the shirt ruffled it, making him look like a dark-haired Albert Einstein. The cool covers clung to his moist back, which was killing him after the four-hour trip to paradise. In the eyes of most of his peers, Full Moon Harbor had little to offer. It was a community of Canadian transplants, retirees, summer rentals, tacky tourist traps and overpriced restaurants. But it had his hometown beat on the only thing that mattered to him, and there she was, just outside his door: the ocean. And he had always thought of the ocean as where Heaven meets Earth.

Actually, it was the Gulf of Mexico, but it sure as hell beat the muddy, gator-infested Flint River on which Henderson was built. He loved the water, even if it was just tubing down the Flint with his buddies, but he loved nothing more than the ocean. He had been to Panama City a couple of times before on spring break, but that was different. The ocean was a mere backdrop for the half million drunk, sex-crazed teenagers and college kids in Panama City. In Full Moon Harbor, however, the ocean was the reason you were there.

Full Moon Harbor was actually across the bridge from his hotel, but he could see it from the parking lot. You could see those high-rise condominiums for miles. He was in Crescent Beach, a community of native Floridians who staffed the hotels and restaurants of Full Moon Harbor. There were no high-rises in Crescent Beach. This was where the less-privileged stayed when lured to Full Moon Harbor by colorful brochures only to find out that there were no hotel rooms to be had for less than a hundred dollars a night. In actuality, though, the sand, the waves and the sun were no different across the bridge. And he knew it. Sure, his temporary home had all the characteristics of a cheap Florida hotel right down to the lame name -- the Seabreeze Inn. But it had a bed, an air-conditioner, a pool, a TV, a phone and, above all else, an ocean. He could have paid a hundred dollars a night and been able to walk a hundred yards to the ocean. Here, he paid two hundred dollars for a whole week and still could walk just a hundred yards to get his feet wet.

He did not need much more than the room offered. He was not a man of luxury. At 22, he was fresh out of college. He drove an eight-year-old truck. He grew up in a standard three-bedroom home. He mowed grass and delivered newspapers to earn extra money during junior high school. In high school and college, he made ends meet by working part-time at Mr. J's Steakhouse and with the golf course maintenance crew at the Henderson Country Club. He learned to play golf there, taking up the game up at the age of 15 at the urging of the club's assistant pro who recognized his raw talent. He saved enough money for a set of used clubs and the pros allowed him to play sometimes on his off days when the course was not busy with club members. Other times, he honed his swing at the driving range. Though Henderson High had no golf team, he earned golf scholarship with the local college, Southwest Georgia, after the coach saw him play a few times at the club. He was no great golfer, but good enough for a Division III school. He knew he had no future on the PGA Tour and never even dreamed about it. All he wanted was to go to college, something no member of his family had ever done. Without that scholarship, he never could have afforded to go to college, never would have gotten a degree in accounting and never would have been able to pull up stakes to take an accounting job in Full Moon Harbor. Nor would he have been able to marry Rachael Etheridge.

They weren't married yet, but they were engaged. Rachael still had one more quarter to go. They met at the club. She was the daughter of the family that owned half of Henderson. They ruled the country club. He was from a family of poor, but hard-working country folks just outside the city limits. His father worked for the local pulp mill, while his mother was a secretary at the courthouse. He and Rachael kept their relationship secret for nearly a year. But it was bound to come out sooner or later, and they revealed it to her parents before the senior prom in high school. They didn't say much to him, but he knew they objected in private. But Rachael stuck with him all through college. And he won the Etheridges’ respect, even if he wasn't their first choice, by pursuing a degree and a career, and by treating their daughter better than they could expect any other boy to do. He was honorable.

She would join him when the quarter was over. They would marry and eventually return to Henderson to build a family. They both agreed that while Henderson was home, they wanted at least a couple years away from home to begin their lives together. But, for now, it was just him and his mistress, the ocean. He had a few days before starting work and had no plans other than lying on the sand and relaxing in the surf. He had worked or studied every day since he was 13 years old. The break was well-deserved, he figured. Not once had he let himself go. Even when he had accompanied his friends on spring break, he carried books with him. He drank beer and got rowdy with them at night, but in the early afternoons while they were recovering from hangovers, he was studying. Chuck bore no concept of relaxation, but he was willing to give it a try.

He first saw the ocean at age nine on vacation with his parents in Savannah. All they could afford at the time was a three-night stay, but it was enough for him to decide that life was incomplete without the ocean. Henderson was home, but the ocean was paradise. It didn't matter whether it was Savannah, Miami or Full Moon Harbor, he was determined his entire youth to live on the beach. Back home, he did everything he could to simulate the beach from listening to Jimmy Buffett and cassettes of surf sounds to decorating his tiny bedroom with posters of beach scenes. But there was no substitute for the real thing.

He opened the sliding glass door and stood on the concrete just outside the room. He stared at a sailboat in the distance. Could it be on the way to some exotic island? He could not fathom such freedom, though it was probably just a local boat anyway, he reasoned. It was fun to dream of sailing off into the blue horizon, but who really had such courage? Only a very few, and probably very rich. His mistress beckoned him, running her salty fingertips through his hair on a warm breeze. Just wait, he reassured her. I'll be along shortly.

Chuck was cool now. Even cheap Florida hotels boasted air-conditioners that could put icicles on the ceiling in a matter of minutes. The difference in the price of the hotels was not reflected in the coolness, but was directly proportional to the amount of rattling in the unit. And this one rattled like hell. No matter, he figured. He would not be living in the room forever, and he planned to spend his days on the beach and nights with the gulf breeze blowing through his room. He would simply run the air-conditioner on full blast while he was not in the room and cut it off when the room temperature hit 15 degrees or so. That would keep the room cool for at least an hour, even on the Panhandle.

Chuck donned a dry shirt, refreshed his face with a cool washcloth and tamed his Elvis Einstein hair. Then he paid a visit to the nearby lobby to sample the brochures featuring the area's attractions. There was nothing revolutionary in the rack of pamphlets, brochures and coupon books. It was dominated by marketing for an aquarium around the block, various day cruises and fishing charters, batting cages, amusement parks, an alligator farm and outlet centers. Just another Florida lobby.

"Looking for anything in particular?" a meek female voice asked.

"No." He didn't turn around. He didn't need any help. He wasn't going anywhere. He wasn't going to swing any bats in a cage, and he'd seen enough alligators on the Flint River to last him a lifetime.

"You just check in today?" She wasn't going to be ignored, so he relented. She was a short girl with spunky, shoulder-length blonde hair. Judging by her face, he might have figured her to be 11, maybe 12. But judging by the way her hotel uniform was painted onto her body, there was no doubt she was a teenager in full bloom. Her golden skin was no stranger to the brutal Florida sun and would probably be wrinkled beyond her years by age 40. He hadn't been interested in striking up a conversation, but couldn't turn down her wide smile and bright, blue eyes that screamed innocence. Yet, he sensed that her naivete was a front for a mischievous personality. Maybe even downright naughty.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ma'am? I'm just 17. Don't be calling me ma'am. Where you from, and, uh, who you here with?"

"Georgia ... and no one," he responded as he fidgeted with a brochure advertising a dolphin watch cruise.

"You lookin' for something to do?"

"Not really. I just got a new job down here and was just trying to get a feel for things. You could tell me if there's a good seafood place around here, though, and maybe a jazz bar or something where I could get a drink."

"Jazz bar? I don't know about that, but there are a lot of bars along the boardwalk right there as you go into Full Moon Harbor. And there are a lot of little places to eat on into Crescent Beach. Most of the restaurants in Full Moon Harbor are for tourists, you know, seafood places that'll run you about 15 bucks for the least little thing. If you head up back toward the Air Force base, there are a lot of barbecue and steak places and some reasonably priced seafood joints. But if you're looking to go out and have fun, you've gotta go to the boardwalk, even though it is a Monday night and will probably be a little tame."

"Actually, tame is just fine for right now."

"I'd be glad to show you around," she offered.

"Isn't it a school night?"

"Not 'til next week."

"Well, I'm really just looking for a regular meal tonight. I can wait on the bar scene. Besides, I'm engaged and supposed to stay as far away from pretty girls like you as much as possible. Maybe I need to just find a hole-in-the-wall bar where just the guys hang out." He wasn't interested in pursuing this ingenue, but rather enjoyed the fleeting temptation. The brief moment of gazing into those baby blues was interrupted by a vision of Rachael. Trusting, devoted, dependable, predictable Rachael. He was ashamed of himself. He wasn't flirting, but knew he was doing little to discourage the clerk. He broke the stare and turned toward the door. “I better go.”

"Well, I was just being friendly. By the way, I'm Mindy," she said as she extended her hand across the counter.

"Chuck," he responded as he lightly shook her hand.

"Well, Chuck, I'm up here every afternoon from four to eight and nine to four on Saturdays if you need anything. And if you change your mind, I'll be glad to show you around the boardwalk sometime. It's really no big deal. I'm up there every Friday and Saturday night anyway."

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." He hurried out the door before he changed his mind about a night on the town. He couldn't remember being so physically tempted since he first hit puberty and noticed the tomboys around town sprouting breasts faster than a kudzu patch grows after a summer rain. While Rachael had the grace and poise of a high-society woman and took pleasure in the planning of a wedding that would no doubt entail a horse and carriage and a lot of rule, Mindy seemed reckless and impulsive. The twinkle in her eyes said, "I want to dance and party." Rachael's eyes said, "I want a Mercedes and a maid." He couldn't satisfy either just yet.

As he walked down the breezeway toward his room, he glanced back into the office to catch one last glimpse of the young temptress. She was being berated by a man, obviously her boss, who appeared to be about 30. Chuck reasoned it was an admonishment for fraternizing with a guest. The admonishment was well-deserved, he figured. What if he had been some lunatic killer? You can't be too careful in Florida. Mindy, especially with her blossoming body, did not need to be offering to show complete strangers around town.

As he inserted the key into his doorknob, he looked left along the four doors between him and the office. A part of him hoped Mindy was walking behind him, offering him one last chance to change his mind. She wasn't. He had suddenly become hungry, starving actually. He donned a pair of khaki pants and a golf shirt nice enough to get him into any restaurant along the beach. He rushed to his old Toyota Tacoma. He had to find a restaurant fast, else he might starve to death. His blood sugar must have fallen, for his hands were trembling. He had succeeded in convincing himself he was indeed in dire need of food, not merely a refuge from temptation.

The Blue Dolphin was a touristy restaurant, decorated with ship wheels and fishing nets, but it did have a nice view of Full Moon Harbor's marina. Chuck ordered a frozen margarita to have while looking over the menu. He rolled his eyes as the waiter asked for his ID and quickly flipped his wallet open to get through the embarrassing procedure as quickly as possible. He never had to show ID back home. Nobody checked ID there, maybe because everyone knew him. Now, he was a stranger.

He watched the occasional craft coming into the harbor after a day of fishing. The fishing boats, with their paint peeling and rust on every metal part, didn't stop. They continued past the marina into the Thronateeska Bay under the Highway 98 bridge that linked Full Moon Harbor and its less-fortunate neighbor, Crescent Beach. The marina was reserved for yachts, mini-yachts, loaded fishing boats and the kind of sailboats for which burned-out yuppies abandoned the suit-and-tie business world to find Margaritaville.

He wondered if he could work a few years in the accounting business, live modestly and then buy one of those boats and do charter work and accounting on the side. But it was a very fleeting thought. Rachael would never go for it. She had plans for them, in Henderson. He'd never have to struggle for clients, and they wouldn't have to leave their friends, who were just as unlikely to put down roots far away. Besides, her family practically owned the town of residential streets boasting antebellum mansions and 300-year-old live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss like the Southern accents that dripped from the mouths of the ladies who took over the country club each Thursday for bridge and tea.

He dined on red snapper, a treat he could rarely get back home, but somehow it didn't taste quite right all alone. Even though he was a loner, the reality of being a couple hundred miles away from his nearest friend made him feel uneasy. He was not lonely, but it just didn't feel right, like someone wearing glasses their whole life and switching to contacts. He had gotten used to his friends, family and fiancée being around all the time even when he preferred being alone. They were always there, and he had come to terms with that fact. Now, the thought of going back to watch TV in the hotel room did not interest him as much as it did before he hit the road to Florida. Then again, he was not really alone. There were those thoughts plaguing his mind like a swarm of mosquitoes. He ordered another drink.

He turned down the air-conditioner as soon as he entered the room. It had done its job and he wanted only to hear the surf, not that rattle. After checking the Braves' score, their third straight win, he dropped the wine coolers into the hotel ice bucket, put his shorts back on and walked down the breezeway to the ice machine, where the clanging of the cubes hitting the bottles generated an echo in the near-empty hotel. He then stopped by his car to grab his portable cassette player. In accordance with the plan he created in his mind long before he left Georgia, he tromped down to the beach until he found the perfect vantage point for worshiping the sunset while catching a buzz to the tune of Andy Narell on the steel drums, a jazz artist who for the past year had taken Chuck to the Caribbean from an electrical outlet in the corner of his tiny bedroom in Henderson. The setting sun had lost its ferocious heat and blinding glare. It seemed tired, and the air was warm, not hot. Crescent Beach was quiet, with the exception of the violent crashes of four-foot waves a couple dozen yards away.

He was working on his second bottle a half hour later when he heard, "Hey, again." No longer in her red hotel uniform, Mindy was now wearing cut-off blue jean shorts, sandals and a loose-fitting white T-shirt that had been cut with scissors to show off her tight tan abs. Though she had filled out that uniform unbelievably, this fitted her, for she was a natural beauty. She wore no makeup, and her hair was styled only by the breeze and bleached only by the sun. No made-up Miss America contestant could hold a candle to her in the cut-off jeans competition. He smiled, unwittingly.

"I always walk out here when I get off work." She didn't wait for his permission to create a seat in the sugar-white sand beside him. "What you drinkin'?"

"Fuzzy navel wine coolers"

"Can I have a swallow?"

"You're not gonna get in trouble, are you?"

"Nah."

"Sure?"

"Yeah." He handed her an unopened bottle of her own.

"I'm not bothering you, am I? I'm not supposed to mingle with guests, but I don't see anything wrong with being friendly."

"No, no, you're not bothering me, not at all." He stared at her the same way he had watched the sunset for the previous 15 minutes, but, still, he wasn't aware that he had been so mesmerized. But anyone else looking at his face would know for sure, or would think he had just been hit in the head with a bottle, like on those old westerns. "But I don't want you to get in trouble with your boss."

"Don't worry about it. I'm not. I bet your girlfriend, I mean, your fiancée is very pretty," she said, looking away and twirling her index finger in the soft, cool sand.

"She's very nice."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah."

"If you weren't engaged, would you have gone to the boardwalk with me?"

"In a heartbeat."

She kissed him on the cheek. "You're so cute and sweet. I should have known you were taken." She stood up and slowly walked back toward the hotel, leaving a half-full bottle stuck in the sand. "I'd better head on before David catches me out here talking to you. I'll see ya 'round."

"Yeah, see ya."

"By the way, if you change your mind about going out tonight, there's a cool bar called Sharky's on the boardwalk in Full Moon Harbor. I think you'd like it. I go there a lot."

He could not help but ogle her from behind as she sauntered back to the hotel. Her body swayed with each step, but it was no exaggerated motion for his benefit. It was just the way she walked. When she disappeared around the corner of the building, he turned back to watch sun sink into the sea, but it was gone. Lights at hotels, condominiums and bars were flickering on down the beach toward Full Moon Harbor. The only natural light left was the glow from the purple and orange clouds over the gulf. He gulped down the remnants of his drink and picked up Mindy's bottle. "No sense letting it go to waste," he reasoned out loud. He finished the drink, savoring not the taste of the wine, but the knowledge that her lips had just been there.

Chuck bolted upright in bed. He had no idea where he was. He reached in the direction of the ring. "Hello?"

"Hey baby!"

"Rachael?"

"Well, of course, baby. Who else would be calling this late?"

"Uh, I don't know. What time is it?"

"Ten-thirty. You hit the sack pretty early, didn't you? It's just nine-thirty your time."

"Yeah, I guess that long drive kind of caught up with me. How was your day, baby?"

"Great. I got registered for classes and got everything I needed. I tried to call about six, but you were gone."

"Yeah, I had supper at some seafood place."

"Mmm, I wish there was a good seafood place here, too. Well, I'll let you go back to sleep. I'll call you tomorrow when I get off work, OK?"

"OK."

"I love you."

"You, too."

After a couple of failed lunges, he managed to place the receiver back onto the phone. He slid out of bed and stumbled to the sliding glass door, to see the moonlight reflect off the waves. He marveled at how the gulf seemed so lively and fun during the day, but so mysterious and dangerous at night. He wouldn't dare go swimming in it at night, even though there was no difference. Same water, same waves, same swimming stroke. But swimming in the sea after dark, there was just something scandalous about it, even if there were no rules against it. It was risky, reckless, maybe even kinky in a non-sexual sort of way. Or maybe it was just "Jaws." No matter how much he tried to relax in the water on his few previous beach trips, he was all too aware that he wasn't alone in the water. There were constantly things around him, under him, behind him. Things that stung, things that bit, things that chomped girls in bikinis. But at least he could see them coming in the daytime. And perhaps the shark could see him, too, and see that he was not wearing a bikini and move on.

Chuck was accountant number five out of the five accountants at Wells & Stephens. Sam Wells took Chuck under his wing the first week. He was an acquaintance of Frank Etheridge, Rachael's grandfather, and Chuck knew that likely played a role in his landing the job. Mr. Etheridge had a condo in Full Moon Harbor. He was a retired judge and kept himself busy deep-sea fishing, golfing and investing in real estate along the undervalued Gulf Coast, which ran from Full Moon Harbor all the way down near Crystal River. Chuck earned his keep at the office, but drew far more praise for his 70 in the Wednesday afternoon tournament at the par-72 Thronateeska Bay Country Club. The office was closed every Wednesday afternoon for the tournament. Deals were made on the golf course. And his play was a big deal, conquering the course in his first go-round.

He buried himself in his work, though, not golf. He worked late familiarizing himself with accounts and made a couple of stops at a driving range, anything to keep from bumping into Mindy. He had yet to convince himself he could keep turning her down. He was spoken for and considered himself an honorable man. But he was just a man and could be tempted. He had grown up with little more than his self-respect and felt that he was nothing without it. If that meant hiding from Mindy, so be it.

After work on Friday, it seemed every car he passed was filled laughing teenagers and Generation Xers bound for a night on the town. Every other business he passed was a bar or restaurant alive with patrons. He thought back to those nights in Henderson when he was a teenager, hanging out in front of the bowling alley and paying drunks to buy him some beer from the liquor store. These kids here don't appreciate what they've got, he thought. Not only do they have places to hang out and bars everywhere, but they've got a hell of a lot better view than the parking lot of the bowling alley back home.

"This is crazy," Chuck said aloud as he threw an empty wine cooler bottle into the trash can. It was just past 7 p.m. and he was watching "Jeopardy" while waiting for Rachael's nightly phone call. Even the thought of stepping out onto the beach and watching the sunset was losing its appeal. He was getting cabin fever. The call came sooner than usual.

"Hey, baby!" squealed the voice from the receiver.

"Hey," he mumbled back. She seemed especially perky. He recognized the giggles and laughter in the background as those of Rachael's Kappa Delta sisters. "Are you up on the KD floor?" The Kappa Deltas did not have a sorority house, but did have the run of the third floor of one dormitory.

"Yeah, we're going to the Kappa Sig house for a rush party."

"Kappa Sigs? What for?" Chuck never aspired to be in a Greek organization. Every single member of the college golf team was a Greek, and he didn't like a single one of them. He attended a few open parties during his college days and decided that was all he needed. He wasn't much into brotherhood, especially if you had to buy it. He called them "rent-a-friend" clubs. He had better things to do with his money, like saving it.

Rachael, on the other hand, had no choice but to follow in her mother's and older sister's footsteps into the ranks of the Kappa Deltas. She was also a Sigma Chi little sister. The Sigma Chis were the preppiest frat on campus, and Chuck knew several from the golf team. They recruited him every year, if for no other reason than to clinch the interfraternity golf championship. At least he could tolerate them. The Kappa Sigmas, however, were rowdy and the Sigma Chis' biggest rivals. Parties at the Kappa Sig house usually ended with a visit by the police.

"They're supposed to have an awesome band over there. And, well, the Sigma Chis have got some nerdy pledges this year."

"I don't want you hangin' out at the Kappa Sig house, Rachael. I mean, they've always got fights happening and I've heard of girls getting gang-raped and stuff. You're too old to be hangin' out with those rednecks!"

"Geez, lighten up Chuck. We're just gonna go over there and dance and have a few drinks. It's nothing to get all bent out of shape about. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. Don't be so overprotective."

"I just don't want to see you get hurt!"

"I'll be OK. I'll tell you what. I'm gonna see what I can do about coming down there in a couple of weeks and we can spend some quality time together on some dark corner of the beach." He heard a collective "Woooooo!" from the sisters eavesdropping on their conversation. "How does that sound?"

"Well, uh, you don't care if I go out and have a margarita somewhere tonight, do you? I'm tired of sitting around this damn hotel room."

"Fine with me. I know I can trust you. See how easy that is. But be careful. They're strict about drinking and driving down there. Well, we gotta go. I love you."

"You, too."

"Bye."

The sun was setting over the Gulf as Chuck settled into his chair at Fat Tuesday, an open-air bar overlooking part of the marina that he had seen from his table at the Blue Dolphin earlier in the week. He licked the salt around the cup of his frozen margarita as he watched middle-aged and elderly men clean and secure their crafts for the evening. For the first time in a week, he was soaking up the atmosphere again. It was about 78 degrees with a sticky breeze. The light jazz sounds of the bar and the alcohol helped him relax after getting worked up over Rachael's announcement that she would be spending the night at a wild party. Still, he was glad she wasn't with him in Full Moon Harbor. He relished not having her hanging on his arm every step. He was certain there would come a time when he longed for her again, but it hadn't come yet.

He tossed the empty cup in a trash can and walked to the marina to get the feel of the place and check out prices on sightseeing and fishing tours. Midway along the boardwalk, he stopped to admire a sailboat which stood out among all the motorized boats. The sail was neatly tucked away under the mast, indicating that it was unlikely the boat had left the marina that day or had any plans to leave soon. It gently bobbed as a 40-foot pleasure yacht passed slowly in the no-wake zone. "Oya" was almost pure white with Florida registration letters and numbers along the side. Thick ropes around a pair of heavy timbers rising from the water kept the craft securely in its slip. Tacked onto the nearest timber was a plastic bag containing slips of paper. Written in smeared black marker were the words "TAKE ONE". He reached in and retrieved a piece of notebook paper on which was a handwritten list of services provided:

Captain Sam's Charters

3-hour sunset/dolphin watch sail: $150

Palm Island tours: $250

Charter this boat anytime for $75 an hour or all day for $400

Call Captain Sam at 944-1352

Chuck folded the sheet of paper and stuffed it into his back pocket. He often picked up such items in hotel lobbies and restaurants just out of curiosity, though they usually found their way into trash cans. What the heck, he thought. It might be something to do whenever Rachael or Jack, his best friend back in Henderson, came to Full Moon Harbor.

The marina's sidewalk veered away from the boats and climbed a short hill that carried tourists back to the level of restaurants, bars and gift shops, which blended together without definitive boundaries along a boardwalk. He wasn't sure if this were the same boardwalk of which Mindy spoke. In his boredom, he decided to explore it. Most of the restaurants were filled with middle- and retirement-aged couples, and most of the bars were packed with baby boomers or slightly younger yuppies listening to live music, more often than not a guitar player singing James Taylor-type songs, light and easy. No bar or restaurant seemed different from the next, like those same sofas and pictures the Flintstones kept passing when running through their house. Then he stepped into another world, a bar packed with teenagers and teenager-wannabes with blaring rock music. He might as well have been at the Kappa Sig house himself.

"Hey, Georgia boy! Over here!"

Mindy was sitting with two other girls at a small round table twenty feet away. She motioned for him to join them, though there was no empty seat remaining.

"Chuck, this is Elizabeth and Jennifer." She pointed to each girl as she said the name. Elizabeth smiled brightly, while Jennifer greeted him with a disinterested, but polite grin. "Want to join us for a little while?"

Though he wouldn't admit it even to himself, he had hoped as soon as he began walking toward the bar that he would have a chance encounter with Mindy. She scooted to the side of her chair and motioned for him to share her seat. She took his hand in hers as if they had been friends for years. She then turned to Elizabeth and said, "Told you he was cute." Turning back to Chuck, she asked, "So, tired of staring at those loud hotel room walls?"

"I reckon."

"You know, if you stare at them long enough, they'll make you dizzy," she said.

"Really? I'll have to try that."

"What'll you have?" interrupted a waitress dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt.

"Uh, how 'bout just a plain ol' frozen margarita?"

"You got ID?"

"Yes, ma'am." He flashed his wallet and she checked his license closely. She nodded as she handed the wallet back to him and walked away.

"Oooo, I didn't even think about you being old enough to drink," Mindy said. Most girls at the bar were dressed to the hilt and had every curl in place with makeup caked on their faces, but Mindy needed not go through such rigors to draw attention. A simple pony tail sufficed for her hairdo, complemented by a thin white T-shirt, tight khaki shorts and sandals that exposed her tan feet, the tell-tale sign of a true Florida girl.

"They sure check IDs a lot around here," he said.

"Yeah, Full Moon Harbor's full of old fogies," Elizabeth said. "You've got to catch a buzz and then hit the bars. But Panama City, they don't give a crap what you do. You can be 15 and walk down the strip with a beer in your hand and the cops just cruise right on by. It rocks." Elizabeth's jet black hair was cut in a bob. He sensed she had a wild streak. While Mindy's eyes were bright and innocent, Elizabeth's hinted at a girl willing to try anything. They were obviously best friends. Jennifer was more of a third wheel and sat opposite Elizabeth.

The waitress set a giant frozen margarita before Chuck and he handed her $5. The girls looked on with envy as green as his drink as he leaned back and took a lick of the salt around the rim before taking a swig of the cold treat.

"Uh-oh," muttered Jennifer as a burly fellow approached the table. Mindy gripped Chuck's hand a little tighter.

"Who the hell is this?!" The young man glared at Mindy. Chuck nervously took another swig of his margarita, as if he didn't notice the guy, about six-foot-three and probably about 200 pounds, a good high school linebacker size. His sluggish movements gave away that he had been drinking. He had dark brown hair that curled around a Florida Gators cap and a spotty teenage beard that was a few days old.

"Not that it's any of your business, Billy, but if you must know, he's new in town and we're all showing him around." Elizabeth nodded to confirm the story.

"Why don't we go for a walk on the beach and have a little talk?" Billy suggested. He was looking at Chuck.

"Don't you get it, Billy? Just leave me alone. Please, just leave me alone," Mindy pleaded.

"I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to your new friend here." Chuck was hardly interested in fighting someone who obviously was his physical superior, but he had handled drunk guys plenty of times at frat parties and back in high school. He wasn't about to fight, but wasn't going to let Billy embarrass him either. He was about six feet himself and 190 pounds, though he had the build of a golfer, not a linebacker. Violence was not his first option.

"I'm sorry," Chuck said as he leaned back in his chair and coolly sipped his drink, "but you're not really my type."

Elizabeth giggled, and Billy's face turned red. He lunged over the table, grabbing Chuck by the shirt and spilling half of the margarita on Mindy's shirt. "Don't fuck with me! I'll kick your ass right here, you little faggot!"

A waitress grabbed Billy by his shoulder. "Get out of here now, Billy, or I'll call the cops! I don't think they'll be too keen on you being drunk. You're on the wrong side of the bridge to be pulling this redneck crap!"

Billy let go and backed off. A couple of other guys, noticing the bartender grab a phone and motioning that he was about to call the police, came in to assist the waitress.

"Come on, Billy. Leave him alone, man. Let's go." Billy stared down Chuck as he backed out of the bar with his buddies holding him at the elbows. He gave them a reassuring look to signify that his point had been made and they could release him, which they did. He turned away from their table and kicked the swinging doors that separated the outdoor deck of the bar from the inside and disappeared.

"Great!" Mindy said as she stood and brushed the green ice off her shirt. "God, look at it! That's never coming out! My mom's gonna kill me! This is her shirt."

"We need to rinse it out somewhere real quick," Elizabeth advised. "You don't have to be home for a few hours. You'll have plenty of time to dry it out."

"We can drive by my house," Jennifer suggested. "My folks are probably at dinner right now."

"Uh, yeah, but you parked in front of the bar, right?" Elizabeth said.

"Yeah, why?"

"Billy, that's why," Mindy said. "I guarantee you he's out there waiting in his truck for us to come out there. He's not going anywhere."

"Well, I'm parked down there around the marina," Chuck said. "I'll take you wherever you need to go, since it was my drink."

They agreed and headed for the marina, which could not be seen from the bar's parking lot. As they headed down the steps toward the boats, Mindy said, "Damn, it's drying already!"

"Why don't you dip it in the water now?" Elizabeth suggested. She was pointing to the shore of the inlet that housed the marina. Light waves lapped at a tiny strip of beach that was used as a launching spot for personal watercraft and parasailers, but not for swimming of sunbathing.

"Yeah, I guess. Come with me."

Chuck stayed with Jennifer as Elizabeth and Mindy jogged away. It was dark, but Chuck could make out Mindy's silhouette as she took off her sandals and waded into knee-deep water. After a couple taking a stroll passed, Mindy took off her shirt and dipped it into the water a few times, wringing out the salt water. Elizabeth served as a human shield between Mindy and potential spectators.

Jennifer put her hands over Chuck's eyes, jokingly, though she didn't smile as she did it.

"You were staring," she said.

"Sorry."

"Do you like her?"

"Sure I do. She's a nice girl."

"You know what I mean. What's going on between you two?"

"It's nothing like what you're thinking. Geez, I've only talked to her a couple of times."

"Yeah, but I think you're the reason she dumped Billy."

Chuck said nothing. He was stunned that he had moved Mindy to such action. And he was scared. What had been harmless flirting was developing into an opportunity to act on temptation. And he was interfering in other lives. He had forgotten how teenagers could blow things out of proportion.

"I just don't want to see anybody get hurt," Jennifer continued.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"Oh, you know, Mindy's just ... I don't know. I'd just hate to see her get her heart broken. But you're engaged, right? So, I don't guess there's anything to worry about with you, huh?" She brushed the sandy blonde, shoulder-length hair out of her eyes, revealing ice-blue and very serious eyes. They were not the eyes of a child or teenager. With those eyes, if they ever needed a district attorney on the student council, she'd have been the perfect choice.

"No, I guess not."

"Besides, she and Billy will be back together by next weekend. They do this about once a month."

"He's a real catch,” Chuck said sarcastically. “She can do a lot better than that jerk."

"Billy's all bark and no bite. He's actually kind of sweet in his own dumb sort of way."

"Yeah, he seems real sweet. He'd make a great mall Santa Claus."

Mindy and Elizabeth reappeared in the glow of the street lamp under which Jennifer and Chuck were having their conversation. Fresh from the tragedy of staining her shirt, Mindy was all smiles again and grabbed Chuck by the arm and playfully complained to Jennifer, "I saw you up here trying to steal my man." Jennifer glanced at Chuck, who was busy trying not to notice the wet shirt clinging to Mindy's body. "Is there any chance we could go back to the hotel with you until my shirt dries?" Mindy asked.

"And could you buy some wine coolers for us?" Elizabeth begged.

He looked to Jennifer, almost as if to ask permission. She shrugged her shoulders to signify that she was powerless to stop the duo. Chuck figured there was no harm and that he could resist temptation so long as Jennifer and Elizabeth were there to keep him straight, especially Jennifer. She appeared to be the sensible, calming influence on the trio, countering Elizabeth's wild streak. Mindy bounced somewhere between the two personalities, just wild enough to be fun and just sensible enough to stay out of trouble.

"Park away from the office," Mindy said as Chuck steered his Tacoma into the Seabreeze Inn parking lot with two four-packs of wine coolers in the floor of the passenger side between Mindy's feet. Elizabeth and Jennifer occupied the back seat. "I don't want David to see me."

It was just after nine o'clock when he unlocked the door to the room. Elizabeth turned on the TV and flipped through the channels to MTV. Jennifer sat calmly at the table and began flipping through Chuck's half-read Lewis Grizzard book. Chuck set the bag of wine coolers on his bed and kicked a couple of pairs of underwear and socks out of view. Mindy stood over the air-conditioner and let the air flow through her wet shirt.

"God, that's freezing!" she said. "You know, I haven't been in one of these rooms since we threw that little party here a couple of months ago. Remember that, Jennifer?"

Jennifer's eyes looked like a deer frozen by headlights.

"I don't know about Jennifer, but you were plastered when I left," Elizabeth laughed. "I've never seen you that drunk before."

"I'd never been that drunk before," Mindy giggled. "I had no idea where I was when I woke up, what happened or nothing."

"I've got a shirt you can wear if you want until that gets dry," Chuck suggested, noticing a couple of pointed physical signs that she was cold. He pulled out a T-shirt from his duffel bag.

Mindy read the front of the shirt aloud. "Southwest Georgia Tornadoes. What's that?"

"Oh, it's just a practice shirt from when I played golf in college."

"Cool."

"You can change in the bathroom if you want."

"No need, just close your eyes for a second." She had pulled her wet shirt up enough to reveal her navel before getting the words out. Chuck spun and faced the wall. Elizabeth snickered. "You don't have to be so eager to not peek," Mindy said. "You won't go blind or anything." She wiggled into the shirt and jumped onto the bed alongside Elizabeth and the wine coolers. "Who wants a drink?"

"I do," Elizabeth said.

"Are you decent?" Chuck asked.

"I'd like to think so," Mindy said.

"I'll go get some ice," Chuck said as he grabbed the ice bucket. After Mindy and Elizabeth grabbed bottles from the bag, Chuck removed a third one and offered it to Jennifer, who shook her head to refuse. He twisted off the cap, drank a couple of ounces and set it on the nightstand.

"She doesn't drink," Elizabeth said. "She's a party pooper."

"No she's not," Mindy argued. "It's OK not to drink. One of us has got to keep her head on straight. Can you imagine all three of us drunk?"

Jennifer didn't bother to look up from the book

"I'll be back in a second," Chuck said.

The ice machine was located just outside the office. As the ice made a racket tumbling into the bucket, David, the assistant manager, peeked out the glass door of the hotel office. Chuck smiled and said, "How's it going?"

David said nothing, just nodded. Damn, Chuck thought, I was just trying to be polite. I am a guest here.

Elizabeth and Mindy were barefoot and sitting on the bed in front of the TV on which some grunge rockers were hollering out a song that grated on Chuck's nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. Jennifer appeared uneasy in his room and busied herself reading.

"Ya'll mind turning that down a notch before somebody complains?" he suggested as he began placing the cool wine coolers into the bucket. "I don't want to get kicked out of my home here. This may be just a hotel room to ya'll, but I've gotta live here for a little while."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and lessened the volume with the remote control. Chuck pulled a chair out from the table where Jennifer sat and propped his feet on the bed with his toes just inches from Mindy's thigh. As he reached down into the ice bucket to grab a bottle, he felt Mindy's cool hand caressing his leg, beginning at the ankle and steadily advancing to his thigh.

"You've got cute legs," she said.

He uncomfortably brushed her hand aside, but softly. He liked the attention, but didn't want her to know. She smiled and they gazed into each other's eyes. The ringing of the phone saved him.

"I'll get it," Elizabeth announced as she bounced across the bed toward the telephone.

A wave of panic swept over Chuck. What if it were Rachael?

"No! I'll get it!" he shouted. Elizabeth backed away like a puppy that had been smacked in the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. "And hold it down for a second!" He picked it up after the fourth ring and tried to sound relaxed, as if he had been lying around the hotel room all night waiting for her call. "Hello?"

"Is Mindy there?" asked a male voice.

"Mindy?" He looked to the teen for answers. She shrugged her shoulders. "I think you've got the wrong number."

"I know she's in there, goddammit! Touch her and you die!" The warning was followed by a click and dial tone. Chuck was shaking as he put down the receiver. All three girls stared questioningly at him.

"That guy from the bar tonight, does he know where I'm staying? What did you tell him about me?" Chuck asked nervously. It was one thing to have a run-in at a bar. It was quite another to be stalked.

"Billy? No, that couldn't have been Billy. He doesn't know anything about you. He doesn't even know your name," Mindy said.

"Well, then he must have followed us over here. He knows you're here, and he just threatened to kill me."

Chuck cut the evening short and drove the girls back across the bridge to the boardwalk's parking lot in Full Moon Harbor as soon as Mindy's margarita-stained shirt was dry. Billy's truck was not in sight. Chuck opened the car doors for Elizabeth and then Jennifer. Mindy wasn't ready to leave and stood there as if she were awaiting a goodnight kiss.

"We didn't get to spend much time together, but I had fun," she sighed as she reached for his hand. His hands were shaky and he had the feeling Billy and his buddies were going to jump him from behind at any moment. He released her hand almost as soon as she made contact.

"You'd better go," he said as he helped Mindy into the back seat of Jennifer's blue four-door Corolla. He then turned to Jennifer, the sensible one. "Do I need to follow ya'll home?"

"No, I think it's best that you don't," she responded. "Maybe you'd better just go on back and call it a night."

"I think you're right. See ya'll later."

In the rear-view mirror, Chuck saw headlights jump onto the highway from an apparently abandoned cluster of warehouses on the bay at the base of the bridge between Full Moon Harbor and Crescent Beach. He fumbled for some calming music on the radio as the headlights closed in at a high speed. Don't be paranoid, he thought to himself, as the lights were about a hundred yards behind him and still in his lane. He pressed the accelerator and pushed his speed from 50 to 65 miles per hour. The headlights were now 50 yards away. His heart was pounding as his Tacoma reached the top of the bridge. The steering wheel became loose in his sweating hands. He pictured his truck being rammed on the side, flipping over the guardrail and plunging into the bay below. He put his left foot near the brake as he prepared to dodge the oncoming assault. The lights then veered into the next lane and a Pine County sheriff's department car sped past him and continued into Crescent Beach.

"Must be a shift change," he said aloud. Though no one else knew the terror he had just experienced, he was embarrassed. On top of that, he felt guilty for cheating on Rachael, even if it were only in his heart. As much as he had wanted Mindy earlier, he now longed to feel the security of his high school and college sweetheart's arms wrapped around him. His fiancée. His soon-to-be wife. There was no reason to be unsatisfied with the direction of his life, he reassured himself. There were worse situations than settling down with a beautiful, respectable girl in the security blanket of his hometown with family and friends on every corner – such as getting killed by a jealous redneck. This was not why he came to the gulf. He was supposed to be setting the stage for the rest of their lives, not burning down the theater.

Chapter 2

2008-11-28T23:02:00.000-08:00

The Full Moon Harbor newspaper was hardly worth the two quarters he had dropped into the box that morning. All the local news and sports featured people he'd never heard of, and the paper was too small to include more than a page's worth of national and world stories. It did have the Braves' box score, though, and that was as much as he needed before reaching the classifieds. But most of the condos featured there were $250,000 and up. Besides, he didn't want to be the only condo resident who didn't appreciate the genius of Lawrence Welk. Unwilling to go through every three-line, pictureless ad in search of an apartment or condo that might be decent and affordable, he called a real estate office to seek assistance. A lady asked his preferences and price range and told him to be at the office at 2 p.m. He left his hotel room early to get lunch before meeting the realtor.

"Hey!"

He sighed. "Hey, Mindy."

"What're you up to today?"

"Kind of busy. I'm going to look at some apartments. I've really gotta go. I don't have time to talk."

"What're you doing tonight?"

"I don't know, Mindy. Look, I've really got to go. And I really can't talk to you anymore. I don't think my fiancée would like that. You understand?"

"Yeah, sure." She was no longer bright-eyed and bubbly.

"You're a nice girl. I hope you stay away from that jerk at the bar last night. But I'm not the one, OK?"

"Is Billy why ..."

"Sorry, Mindy. Bye."

He shut the door to his Tacoma before her barely audible "Bye." He hated to be short with her. He liked her … way too much. That's why he had to end it before it started. He was an honorable man and was burdened by the guilt of having lusted after her. And he didn't need the trouble of dealing with a jealous ex-boyfriend, either. It was like pulling off a bandage. Rip! Ouch! Back to normal.

The office was located across the street from the boardwalk, so Chuck strolled the boardwalk around noon for a unique place to eat. The search ended abruptly when he caught whiff of a hot dog stand. No, it wasn't unique, but the old black man with gray hair around the edges heaped on the chili just as he liked. He bought two and a Coke and headed down to the boats. He sat on a bench near the sailboat from which he had taken the piece of paper then night before. The boat was lonely, especially for a Saturday. Most of the other slips were vacant as the light wind and gentle seas were no doubt conducive to fishing success. Maybe the light breeze was not enough for the sailboat. The boat was at least 25 feet long, he figured, much bigger than those tiny sailboats he had seen back home on Lake Blackshear. He wondered about the name -- Oya. Most of the other boats had names like Jenny and Santa Maria. He didn't even know if Oya was a name. It sounded like something his mother used to put in green beans.

From over his right shoulder were the faint light jazz sounds from Fat Tuesday atop the knoll. From the left trickled in random notes from a guitar. It sounded like someone was tuning it, or maybe just getting their fingers warmed up. It was coming from the Oya. A rhythm began to develop with a Latin flavor. Every now and then, the rhythm would end on a sour note and then resume from the beginning. Captain Sam must have been trying to learn a new song while business was slow, he figured.

A man probably in his forties passed Chuck with his head down and his eyes shielded by reflective sunglasses that wrapped snugly around his graying temples. His stride was quick and determined. He made a sharp right turn at the Oya's slip and stepped onto the boat. He peeked his head into the cabin, and the guitar ceased. He looked both ways before entering and shutting the cabin door behind him. He did not emerge before Chuck stood up to leave for the real estate office just before two o'clock. It was awfully hot, Chuck observed, to be shut inside that cabin with no door open. Maybe it was much cooler over the water, he reasoned.

"Can I help you?" the secretary at tiny Ballard Realty asked.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm Chuck Carson. I talked to Michelle this morning about seeing some rentals."

"Sure, have a seat, and I'll get her."

She had no intercom and apparently no way to contact Michelle Ballard on the phone. So, she got up from behind her desk, walked a few feet down a short hall and poked her head into a door. The secretary returned with a tall, thin blonde dressed in a navy blue dress and heels. She was obviously an aspiring agent.

"Hi. I'm Michelle Ballard. Are you Chuck?"

"Yes, ma'am." He stood to shake her hand, a dainty, delicate hand. He had strong hands and was careful not to squeeze hers. He hated shaking the hands of women. Any women back home could be hugged by him. Everybody there was either family or friend. But he couldn't hug strangers.

"I've got a list of rentals in Crescent Beach and Full Moon Harbor, inland and near the water. Where would you like to start?"

"Anything near the water would be fantastic. I might not be able to afford anything, but I'd like to look."

"Oh, you'd be surprised what you can afford. The apartments and condos in the major developments are very expensive, but there are some real good deals here and there, mostly private residences."

"Sounds good to me."

"Well, OK. Let's go."

He sat in the passenger side of her sparkling clean Lexus and buckled up. She drove east through Full Moon Harbor and past the towering condominiums, some 20 stories high..

"How would you feel about a loft over someone's garage?" she asked. "There's a darling little place just outside of Full Moon Harbor. An older couple live there and have a huge home on the bay side. Of course, you can just walk across the street and you're at the gulf. They've got a three-car garage that's separate from the house and above it they've got a whole apartment where their son lived for a few years. It's got a little bedroom and little bathroom and the rest of it's kind of airy with the kitchen, dining, living area all in one room. It's cheap, too. Just $450 a month, and that includes cable and utilities. But if you agree to maintain their pool and keep it clean, they'll knock the rent down to $400."

"Well, heck yeah."

Chuck really preferred not to share a residence with someone else, but he would compromise to live on the water. The house was situated on a thin strip of land between Highway 98 and the Thronateeska Bay. There was a long line of houses, each looking to be at least 3,000 square feet on lots of a half-acre or so, large in that area. Chuck stepped out of the car and smelled the rich, sea air. He followed Michelle up the steps to the door of the garage apartment, trying not to stare at her from behind. Even going up the rickety wooden steps in high heels, she walked with class and femininity. His eyes ran from the strands of golden blonde hair down her back to her visible panty line and then to her shapely thighs. He almost bumped into her, not noticing that they had reached the landing at the top of the stairs where she searched for the correct key. To his right, he could see the waves of the gulf as they crashed along the shoreline of Horseshoe Beach State Recreation Area. There was no development allowed on the gulf side of this stretch and the tall condos were mere blue, hazy rectangles to the west. Perhaps they would be far enough northwest not to block the spectacular gulf sunsets. To his left was the bay. It was a popular place for recreation. It's shallow water made it great for snorkeling and sailboating and windsurfing. It was so shallow in some places that he could see people standing in knee-high water a mile into the bay with their boats parked on what was obviously a sandbar. Below him, a basketball goal leaned slightly forward above the middle garage door. He had yet to see the inside, but at $400 a month, he was already sold. He'd live in a tent there at that price.

The apartment was clean, but simple with no frills. The living area was about 14 feet wide and at least 30 feet long, including the kitchen-dining area. On the other side of the kitchen was a door that obviously led to the bedroom and bathroom. In the bedroom, Michelle pointed out a sliding glass door that led to a deck big enough for no more than a grill and chair. It overlooked the bay. The walls throughout were tacky 1970s-style paneling, but he could not care less. He had everything he needed within his reach -- the bay, the gulf, a basketball goal, a pool, a kitchen and a place to sleep. Until he and Rachael were married, this would do just fine. She wouldn't like it. Too simple. Too plain. Too small. But it was just enough for him to handle on his own. He was new to this bachelor pad thing. All through college, he had lived at home in the same room he had occupied as an infant. Compared to home and his current hotel room, this was a mansion.

"I'll take it."

"Don't you want to see some of the other properties?" Michelle asked, knowing what the answer would be. "There are some apartments back in Crescent Beach that aren't on the water, but are very nice."

"No, this is perfect. When can I move in?"

"Next week, after we get your deposit and first month's rent. The Whaleys normally like to meet whoever gets the apartment, but they're out of town. But Daddy sold them this home and they trust him. If we say you're a decent enough fellow, they'll approve. And you seem like a nice young man."

"Thank you, ma'am."

The hotel didn't look so bad, knowing that his days there were numbered. He stopped by the hotel office before heading to his room to rent the room for another week. Mindy was on the phone, telling a potential customer about the hotel. She glanced at him and then turned away so as not to make eye contact. Chuck paid David for another week and was back inside the room in time to catch the final inning of the Braves game on TV. Back to normal.

Rachael called, and they chatted. He apologized for getting upset about her going to the party. She said it was surprisingly dull or she was getting older. He told her about the apartment. She was unimpressed. He reassured her it was temporary. They would find a real home after tying the knot. It was the longest phone conversation they had since he left. They traded "I love you's." He donned his swimsuit. The waves were beckoning. Normal, indeed.

The Whaleys, who met Chuck during the week and were satisfied that he was a fine young man, told him he could move in on Friday, so he called his best friend, Jack, who had agreed to bring Chuck some items when he found a place to live. Among the items Jack was to load upon his truck were Chuck's twin bed, chest of drawers, a bean-bag chair, and a 13-inch television. Chuck had promised to make it worth Chuck's effort with a fishing trip on Saturday and golf on Sunday. He knew that Jack would have helped him for nothing in return, but it would not have been fair. Jack was a year older than Chuck and had grown up just a quarter-mile down the rural road outside Henderson from Chuck's home. They had grown up fishing together on the Flint River, playing backyard football and wandering the woods outside Henderson.

Jack was to leave Henderson around 5 p.m. Eastern on Friday, which would meant he'd be in Full Moon Harbor around 8:30 p.m. Central. Chuck decided to kill the time with a final dip in the deserted hotel pool. He swam a few laps and then stopped in the deep end. He clung to the side of the pool and allowed the late afternoon sun to warm his shoulders. It had fallen enough that there was little danger of sunburn. He was about to doze off when he heard splashing behind him. He turned to see Mindy dangling her tan bare feet in the water. She had changed from her working clothes and was back in her comfortable blue jean shorts and a loose-fitting blouse with the top couple of buttons undone, allowing the breeze to expose her bra and cleavage every few seconds. She put her hands behind her and leaned back, her eyes fixed on the gulf's horizon, as if his being in the pool was a mere coincidence and she was there only to cool off and watch the sunset. He knew otherwise and swam to her.

"Hi."

"You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to," she said.

"Look, Mindy, I'm sorry if I wasn't very polite the other night. It's just ... if I were 18, or you were older, and I wasn't engaged, you know. I mean, I really think you're something else. You're gonna break a lot of hearts. If I were single, you’d break mine, too."

"So, where did you find a place to stay?"

"A little garage apartment on the other side of Full Moon Harbor. Some old folks, the Whaleys. It's not fancy, but it looks right out on the bay and that state park beach area is right across the highway."

"Sounds nice."

She kept her blue eyes glued to the horizon. He wanted to hold her. He knew her eyes were watering with tears. If she only knew it were just a crush, he thought. He'd felt the same in high school. He flashed back to a night during his sophomore year when he lay in bed and cried for nearly a whole weekend after being rebuffed by a junior golfer who had come to Henderson for a state girls golf tournament. He knew they were from different backgrounds, but it was the first time he had met such rejection because of that. She had found polite ways to tell him that country club girls didn't date the groundskeepers. At least she was from out of town and he did not have to be reminded of the pain. And it wasn't long after when Rachael began to bat her eyes at him. Because of the young golfer's rebuffs, he took his time expressing his interest in Rachael for fear he would meet the same fate. He could laugh about it now. Somewhere that girl who had turned him down was probably getting married to a doctor or lawyer and was still turning up her snobby nose at passers-by on the street. Good for her, he thought, glad to have had to settle for sweet Rachael, who could mingle with all the snobs at Henderson Country Club and still show respect for him and even the poor cooks and wait staff who refilled the wine glasses of the town's wealthy white folks for minimum wage. Mindy would get over this. She would find someone to renew her faith in love as Rachael did for him.

Finally, she turned to look him in the eyes. She smiled.

"You shouldn't have to say you're sorry, Chuck. I mean, you are engaged. I'm the one who should apologize. I'm just a stupid kid."

"Don't say that. How 'bout we just call it a draw?"

"OK. If I promise to behave myself, could we still be friends? I really like talking with you and just being around you. That's not so wrong, is it?"

"No, of course not." He felt safe in leading her on by saying that a friendship was possible. He knew it wasn't. Maybe in another day and time, but they were from separate eras. Pretty soon, he would be a married man, tending to his wife and job and, in a few years, kids. She would be going on to college in a year and spreading her wings, meeting many different people, no doubt including a long line of lust-driven guys wherever she went. She had no idea what a natural beauty she was.

"Good. Well, as one friend to another, could I interest you in a walk along the beach? Maybe dip our toes in the surf and talk a little."

"I don't know. I'm waiting on a buddy of mine. He's supposed to be in about a half-hour."

"Oh, come on. Just a short walk. It's not like we'll be gone for hours. Nothing romantic, just two friends enjoying a sunset walk. I'll keep my hands to myself. I promise." Chuck lifted himself out of the water, his arm and shoulder muscles bulging as he lifted his 190-pound, soaking wet body from the water. She smiled. "I had my fingers crossed." Chuck looked upon her admonishingly as he dried his hair with a hotel towel. "Just kidding."

They walked west along the beach. It was abandoned. For late-September, it was a warm late afternoon, in the upper 80s. But snowbird tourists bound for Florida rarely stop in north Florida in the fall. They head down to Miami Beach, the Keys and Fort Myers Beach. Locals, however, knew this was the time to enjoy the beach in northwest Florida. The water was still very warm, but the sun was not as brutal. The locals, however, stayed away from this stretch of hotels, leaving them for the tourists.

"Tell me about your fiancée, Chuck."

"Oh, there's not much to say. We grew up in the same town. We went to high school and then college together. Actually, I never really dated anybody else very seriously."

"Are you excited about getting married?"

"Well, we haven't even set a date yet. Probably next spring. Depends on Rachael getting school wrapped up."

They walked on in silence for a few moments. Mindy stopped suddenly, grabbed Chuck and turned him toward the ocean. "Look, a dolphin!"

"Where?" Chuck scanned the horizon. "You sure it wasn't just a wave?"

"Chuck, I've lived here all my life. I know a damn dolphin when I see it. There! There it goes!"

Chuck followed her pointing index finger and caught a glimpse of the mammal just before its dorsal fin disappeared beneath the surface of the water. "Cool!" He hadn't noticed that Mindy did not let go of his arm after directing his attention to the gulf. He watched the dolphin break the surface a few more times before he sensed her arm holding his. When she knew he had finally taken notice, she let go.

"Sorry." She looked down at the sand where her golden toes were touched by the remnants of a strong wave that had just crashed into the shore. She didn't look up as it receded into the ocean. He could tell that she wanted him to put his arm around her and tell her that just because he was moving a few miles down the highway was no reason why their friendship should end. But he knew it had to end. Mindy was too tempting, and Rachael was too sweet and trusting to betray. For a second, he admired her profile against the sun as she continued to stare away. Her naturally golden blonde hair sparkled in the sunlight as it danced in the wind, which also pressed her blouse tightly against her bronze body, outlining her ample breasts. Her legs weren't long, but were shapely, especially in the thighs and buttocks that were barely covered by her tight blue jean shorts. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was. He wanted to kiss her, knowing that she would not resist. But in the last week he had committed himself once again to a life with Rachael.

"Come on," he said. "We'd better head back. My friend's coming down from Henderson with some of my stuff for the apartment. I told him I'd wait for him at the hotel pool."

"OK, but will you do one thing for me on the way back to the hotel?"

"Yes?"

"Hold my hand."

She put her hand in his and he didn't resist. As they walked in silence into the wind, he wished he could convey how much he cared about her through his touch. She's too pretty to be so unhappy, he thought. And she's too good a girl to go back to that jerk of a boyfriend. About a hundred feet from the hotel, Chuck noticed someone waving from the pool. It was Jack. He was early. Chuck quickly released Mindy's hand.

"I've got to go. I'm sorry."

"OK, she said. "But, don't forget -- we're still friends, and I mean it. Don't you forget about me."

"Don't worry."

She stood on her tiptoes and lightly kissed him on the cheek and walked away, obviously sensing that he did not want to be seen with her by Jack. But there was no doubt that he had seen the kiss.

"She's cute," Jack said as he extended his hand to Chuck for a handshake.

"Don't even think it, man," Chuck responded with a firm, but friendly grip. "Ain't nothing goin' on. She's a nice girl with an asshole boyfriend. Of course, if I were 17 and unattached ..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Jack nodded in agreement as they watched Mindy saunter toward the hotel office. "Well, did you get everything?" Chuck asked.

"Yeah, and I grabbed all the CDs I could find of yours. You listen to some of that jazz and weird crap, so I didn't know what I was grabbing."

"Cool. Well, let's get moving."

Jack followed Chuck's navy blue Toyota truck down Highway 98 over the bridge to Full Moon Harbor and another five miles east to the Whaley's.

"A little one-on-one?" Chuck asked, pointing at the goal above the garage as they exited their vehicles in the driveway.

"Maybe later," Jack said as he stepped out of his emerald green Cherokee. "I was kinda hoping we could hit the town tonight. You get to do it all the time."

"Hell, I've only been out once since I've been here," Chuck said.

"You're kidding! Man, I'd either be at the golf course, on the beach or fishing every day and bar hopping every night."

"I have to work all week, man. I'm tired on the weekend."

"You wuss. Well, we're going out tonight. I don't know what you've got planned for the rest of the week, but we're gonna party tonight at least," Jack insisted as they made their way up the stairs to the apartment with Jack carrying Chuck's stereo and Chuck toting the 13-inch TV.

"OK. I know a couple of good seafood places for supper. There's supposed to be some dynamite all-you-can-eat place near the boardwalk."

"Cool. And then we'll go out chasin' women."

"You can chase women if you want. I'm not interested."

"Yeah, sure. Man, that babe back at the hotel was hot."

"And I told you, there's absolutely nothing to it, so don't even think it. She's just a friend, and I doubt I'll ever see her again. Besides, Rachael would kill me."

"Yeah." Chuck noticed a change in Jack's tone of voice at the mentioning of Rachael. He wondered if it were a sign of trouble back home. As Chuck's best friend, he knew Rachael well. He was as close to Rachael as any guy outside of Chuck. Jack was going to the college part-time and saw her around campus nearly every day.

"Where do you want me to put this?" Jack asked about the stereo.

"Here." Chuck extended his hands and took it from him, setting it down near the first electrical outlet he noticed.

"So, you seen Rachael any since school started?" Chuck asked in an effort to find out what had changed Jack's mood so quickly.

"Got any beer in here?" Jack buried his head inside the refrigerator.

Chuck was growing tense and marched deliberately into the kitchen area. "Jack, what the hell are you not telling me?" Jack turned his attention away from the refrigerator and back to Chuck. He had two Bud Lights in his hand and extended one to his best friend.

"Let's drink a couple of brews on the beach, man." Jack suggested.

"I take it you're about to tell me something I'm gonna have to wash down with a Bud Light."

Jack smiled a half-smile, an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid so."

They stood at the highway for a moment to let a couple of cars go by at about 65 miles per hour. Highway 98 ran without a curve for miles to the east or west. Across the highway was the federally protected seashore. A sign indicated the area was off-limits to people, but it was merely a way of keeping tourists from trashing the beach and to deter development. There were footprints where the residents across the highway made regular treks through the sand. It was the locals' secret, and they took care of the area. You couldn't find a piece of trash with a microscope. Chuck and Jack walked around a sand dune and sat down with their beers as they stared out at the waves. The roar of the waves was before them and occasional whine of wheels on the highway behind them, but at least the vehicles were blocked from view by the sand and sea oats. Chuck twisted off the cap to his beer and took a swig. He didn't know exactly what Jack was about to say, but he knew his and Rachael's well-laid plans were about to take a detour.

"You didn't hear this from me," Jack said. "You've got to promise that you won't say anything to Rachael about what I'm gonna tell you. She doesn't even know I'm down here."

"OK. What is it?"

"I went to the Kappa Sig party last week with this new girl at the college. She's kinda wild and wanted me to take her to the Kappa Sig house. I hated to, but everybody in Henderson knew they were throwing a wild bash. I didn't want the Kappa Sigs getting their hands on her without me knowing it. She's young, but she's a babe. Anyway, I saw Rachael there."

"I already know that," a relieved Chuck said. So much for any big surprise. "She told me she was going. I told her I didn't like it, but, hey, what can I do?"

"There's more to it. She was with some Kappa Sig."

"What do you mean 'with'?"

"I mean kissin' and hangin' all over each other. She didn't see me, though. Then she went back in The Room with him."

"The Room?"

"Yeah."

The Room was infamous at the Kappa Sig house. It was a sex room down the hall from the area where the fraternity would stage bands at their parties. For a Kappa Sig brother to enter The Room was a sign of conquest. Some fraternities had secret songs and handshakes. The Kappa Sigs had The Room. And The Room could be used only by Kappa Sigs and only for one reason. They had private rooms upstairs, but The Room was used as a crude public display of their conquests. It was tucked away down a dark hall, but everyone noticed when you entered the hall and they knew where you were going and what you were about to be doing.

Chuck was on his third beer when his cell phone rang. He was on the balcony facing the bay. His feet rested atop the railing as he leaned back in one of the cheap plastic patio chairs that belonged to the Whaleys. The phone, lying on the kitchen counter, rang again.

"You want me to get it?" Jack asked.

"If you wanna," Chuck responded with disinterest.

"Hello? ... Oh, hey, Rachael." Chuck didn't flinch, keeping his eyes focused on a sailboat in the distance. "Uh, I think he went out for a walk. ... Yeah, I came down to bring some stuff he left in Henderson and to play a little golf." Quit making chit-chat with the little bitch, Chuck thought. "Yeah, I'll tell him you called. ... OK, bye."

Jack rejoined Chuck on the balcony. "It was Rachael."

"I know."

"Maybe you should wait a little while before you call her."

"Yeah. I might wait a long while."

It was sunset, and Chuck, now on his sixth beer, hadn't moved from his spot on the balcony. Jack had left the silent apartment and was strolling along the bay, skipping rocks in the light from the floodlights of the Whaleys' home. Chuck shook out of his drunken stupor long enough to watch Jack for a couple of minutes. He knew his best friend was bored out of his mind. It wasn't his fault, Chuck figured. After all, he could have kept it to himself. And he would rather know about it than be deceived. His heart wasn't broken, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because the reality of the imminent end of the relationship had yet to sink in. Maybe it was because he was preoccupied with having been betrayed and having his manhood threatened by someone he had never met. Sure, he had flirted with Mindy, but he never gave into temptation. The buzz from the beers and the emotional strain made his brain feel tired. He decided to contemplate his new-look future some other day or night. It was time to get his mind off everything. And there was no reason to cancel the big weekend he had planned for Jack's visit -- the mandatory golf game on Sunday and, before that, perhaps a fishing trip.

He pulled out his wallet and thumbed through business cards and credit cards until he found a folded piece of paper. It was the information sheet he had taken from outside the Oya, the sailboat in the marina. It was too late to call Captain Sam about reserving a time to go fishing, but he decided to pay the captain a visit first thing in the morning.

He was glad he hadn't thrown it away after grabbing it out of mere curiosity a week earlier at the marina. It was the same night he had taken Mindy, Elizabeth and Jennifer back to his hotel room. His mind flashed back to the moment when he gazed into Mindy's eyes on his hotel room bed and felt his heart melt. The slight smile on his face was quickly erased as he recalled the threatening phone call and the savage voice. It echoed in his head.

"Touch her and you die!"

He felt a chill go down his spine, but it wasn't fear. Mindy was no longer forbidden fruit. He wasn't sure if it was the beer talking, but he needed to talk to Mindy. He believed in destiny, in fate. Fate had sent Mindy his way for this very reason, he figured. Maybe it was his destiny to spend the rest of his life with the young beauty. Or maybe fate had sent her as a temporary measure to get him through this crisis. Whatever. Nobody could defy destiny after six Bud Lights, not that he would anyway.

Chapter 3

2008-11-28T23:01:00.000-08:00

After an all-you-can-eat seafood dinner in Full Moon Harbor that was truly all they could eat, Chuck drove to the marina to show Jack the boats and the boardwalk that led to the bar where he had bumped into Mindy and her friends a week earlier. They strolled along the docks until they reached the Oya. The dark sky came alive as lightning bolts trickled across the sky, never reaching for the ground. There was electricity in the air, but the storm was still maybe an hour away.

"That's the boat, Jack. That's the one I'm gonna check on in the morning and see if we can get it for a couple of hours to go fishing."

"That's a sailboat, man," Jack said. "You don't go fishing in a sailboat."

"Who says? This, my friend, is a real boat." He walked onto the planks bordering the Oya's slip. "No motor oil to pollute the water. No noise. This is the way a true sailor experiences the ocean. Anybody can crank up a motor and press the gas. One day, before I die, I'm gonna get one of these babies and sail off to the Caribbean. I'm just gonna drop anchor off some tropical island and live on the water the rest of my days."

"Sounds like a plan to me." It was not Jack concurring. It was a female voice. Startled, even in his inebriated state, Chuck spun around to see a dark female figure emerge from the opposite side of the boat's cabin.

"Hey," Chuck sheepishly greeted her.

"I'm Samantha."

"As in Captain Sam?"

"At your service." She crossed the deck and reached for a handshake. "Why don't y’all come out tomorrow and I'll show you how to fish from a sailboat."

"I don't know," Chuck said.

"Oh, come on," she pushed. "I'll tell you what. One hundred-fifty bucks, and you can fish until you get tired, or too sunburned."

"Really?"

"Really."

"You got a deal. What time?"

"Nine a.m."

"We'll be here."

"You look like you're deep in thought, buddy," Jack said as he rested his hand on Chuck's shoulder at the base of the steps leading to the bars from the marina. "Let's have a couple more drinks and get your mind off everything."

"I'm all right," Chuck responded. "I'm glad you told me about Rachael. You know that girl you saw me with today?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, there is something there. I don't know what. Don't get me wrong -- I haven't so much as kissed her, but there's definitely some mutual attraction going on, you know."

"She's hot," Jack said. "What about that chick with the sailboat, though?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on. She seemed awfully willing to cut her prices for you. She wants you."

"Oh, please. I've known her for, what, about a minute and a half now. I couldn't even really see her in the dark."

"Well, I could see her eyes. She had this weird twinkle in them. Chicks dig you, man. You just don’t know how to talk shit."

"Yeah, well, you got me there. I don’t know how to talk shit, but at least I’m not full of it like you. Come on."

They were about 30 feet from the tables outside Sharky's bar when Chuck noticed Elizabeth and Jennifer sitting at a table. Elizabeth looked up from her drink and locked eyes with him. When she was sure it was Chuck, she waved for him and Jack to join them.

"Who's your friend?" Elizabeth asked as Chuck led Jack to the table.

"Jack, this is Elizabeth and Jennifer. They're friends of Mindy." Chuck paused for a moment, realizing that he had introduced them as if Mindy were his girlfriend. Jennifer looked up at him questioningly. He turned to Jack and tried to cover his tracks. "You know, the girl that works back at the hotel."

They made polite chit-chat while Elizabeth flirted with Jack. Jennifer seemed bored. Chuck would say a few words and then stare off toward the dark ocean. He was beginning to come down from his buzz. It didn't help that Mindy was nowhere around.

"Something wrong?" Jennifer asked. Chuck was surprised by her genuine interest. A week earlier, Jennifer had been almost combative with him, defending her friend from a heartbreak.

"Oh, nothing."

Jennifer put her hand on top of his, almost motherly. "Come on. Let's go for a walk on the beach." Elizabeth looked wide-eyed at her friend, and Jack winked approvingly at Chuck. "Oh, knock it off, Elizabeth. I just feel like getting away from the noise of the bar for a little while. Besides, I think I can trust Chuck."

"Well, I don't know if I can leave Jack alone with Elizabeth," Chuck said.

"Why not?" Elizabeth asked. "Is he not a nice boy like you?"

"I'm not worried about him misbehaving," he responded. "You're the dangerous one. Keep an eye on her, Jack. She's a firecracker."

"Well, I'm a cherry bomb," Jack said as he hailed a waitress. "Excuse me! Could we get a couple of margaritas over here!"

Jennifer and Chuck strolled south on the narrow strip of beach that ran parallel to the boardwalk for another half-mile before disappearing from view of the bar patrons. The body of water was not the open gulf, but an inlet bordered by condos on one side and by a peninsula of rocks that protected the homes from the waves of the Gulf of Mexico. Chuck preferred to walk on the wide beach of Crescent Beach with more violently crashing waves, but any time spent near the water was magical to him. Jennifer held his hand. At first, he thought of pulling away, but her grip felt more like that of a sister than a potential lover. He sensed no danger. All his senses were dulled.

"So, Mindy says you're moving out of the hotel."

"Already have. I'm gonna check out officially tomorrow."

"Did you get an apartment?"

"Sort of. I'm renting a place over someone's garage. It's pretty cool. It's right on the bay off 98. So, where's Mindy tonight?"

"She went back out with Billy."

"That jerk from the bar last week? God, she can do so much better than that!"

"He's not that bad, Chuck. Yeah, he's a big goof and drinks a little too much, but so do all the guys that age. He does love her, though. He was just jealous of you."

"Why's that?"

"Oh, come on. It was pretty obvious how Mindy's eyes lit up when you came around. I saw it. Elizabeth saw it. I'm sure Billy saw it, too."

"I still say she could do better. I think he's dangerous. You didn't hear the way he sounded that night on the phone."

"That wasn't him on the phone that night," she said as she shook her head.

"How do you know?"

"Well, for one, that's just not like him. He probably left the bar that night and went down to Panama City or something. Besides, Mindy refused to tell him anything about you. How would he even know to call your hotel room?"

"Whatever. I still don't like the idea of her and him."

"Well, why don't you let Mindy worry about that? You worry about your own girl, your fiancée."

"Former fiancée."

Jennifer stopped in her tracks. "Since when?"

"Since tonight, when I found out she's been cheating on me."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you know that for sure?"

"Yeah, ol' Jack back there saw it with his own two eyes. We've been friends for a long time. He hated to be the one to break it to me."

"Funny, he didn't seem too worried about it to me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. He just seems to be in an awfully good mood for somebody that just broke his best friend's heart."

"I wouldn't exactly say my heart's broken," Chuck said as they resumed a slow pace.

"Oh?"

"I mean, Rachael's a nice girl, with the exception of this, of course. She's pretty. Long blonde hair. Smart. We dated forever. Since high school. And I love her, I guess, and probably always will. I don't really know what happened. Everything seemed to be kinda cruising along."

"Life's full of detours. We'd better turn back," Jennifer suggested as she looked back at their footsteps in the sand. "I can't even see Sharky's anymore."

"Yeah."

They dropped the topics of Rachel and Mindy on the way back. Chuck appreciated her concern for his personal affairs, but he was confused and was tired of talking about problems for which he had no answers. He asked about her. Jennifer was 17 and an honor student at Wallace High. She wanted to be a journalist. Her mother was a reporter for the local newspaper. She planned to attend the University of Georgia, which boasted one of the Southeast's most respected journalism schools. She and her moved to Crescent Beach from Cincinnati just a year earlier. A divorce was the driving force that led them to Florida. Her stressed-out mother also sought the relatively quiet Gulf Coast after covering hot-button news stories for the Cincinnati Enquirer. Jennifer, though, saw herself writing for the Washington Post or New York Times. She said she wasn't really an ocean person, that she would be happier in the Northeast where it was not so hot, or maybe New York City, Chicago or Los Angeles where there was always something going on. Her aspirations contradicted her calm, sensible demeanor. He had her pegged as someone who would be happy in a small town, living the simple life.

Her last name was Hanson, which led to her meeting Mindy Hawkins. Mindy sat behind her in freshman home room where desks were aligned in alphabetical order, Jennifer explained. For whatever reason, Mindy took it upon herself to introduce the new kid in town to all the popular people. Mindy had never lived anywhere but Crescent Beach and knew everybody – and everybody loved Mindy. But the friendship grew as the two realized they had one common bond, if little else in common. Both were estranged from their fathers, who showed but occasional interest in their lives. Both fathers had left their mothers for younger women.

As for Elizabeth, she was another Crescent Beach native, but had attended private school until midway though high school. She had fallen into the wrong crowd there, and her parents decided to give her a change of scenery and save a little money at the same time. Elizabeth was the wilder one of the three. Jennifer was the mature one. And Mindy floated back and forth between the two, never as wild as Elizabeth or as grounded as Jennifer.

They rejoined Jack and Elizabeth at the table, where the two were working on another round of margaritas. They were bonding. Like in the threesome of Elizabeth, Mindy and Jennifer, Jack was the wilder one of the trio that included Chuck and Thad. Jack was the only one of the three who had yet to complete his degree requirements at Southwest Georgia. Just a few classes short, he said the necessary classes were hardly ever offered. Chuck, like Jennifer the grounded one, believed his friend was merely using that as an excuse to continue hanging out at the fraternity and avoid becoming an adult. Jack shared tales of the boys' exploits back home in Henderson, while Elizabeth entertained him with stories of wild trips to Panama City. Chuck ordered a margarita of his own and offered to share with his underage companion, who declined.

"I've got an idea," Elizabeth said. "Why don't we all ride down to Panama City. It's only about 45 minutes away, and it's, what, about 8:30. We could all go to Spinnaker's or something." Jennifer rolled her eyes.

"I don't know," Chuck said. "We've got a fishing trip early in the morning."

"Oh, come on, Chuck," Jack said. "It might be fun."

"Jennifer?" Chuck looked at his new friend. She shook her head.

"But, hey, there's no reason why you two can't go if y’all want," Chuck said. "Jack's got his truck down here."

"Yeah, but I'm supposed to spend the night with Jennifer tonight," Elizabeth said.

"I don't care if you go, so long as you're back before midnight," Jennifer said.

"Well, what are you gonna do?" Elizabeth asked.

"If it's OK with Chuck here, I'll hang out with him for a little while." Chuck was taken aback. Is she coming on to me, he wondered. "Maybe we can rent a movie and watch it over at your place. Maybe go get some ice cream or something before that."

"Sure," Chuck said. "Why not? A quiet night in front of the TV and maybe a couple of wine coolers out on the balcony sounds pretty good to me."

"OK, you old fogies," Elizabeth said. "Well, me and Jack here are gonna party."

Chuck gave Jack the keys to his truck after Jack assured him he was sober enough to drive the short distance down the highway to his new home where, Jack and Elizabeth would then get into Jack's Silverado for the ride to Panama City. Jennifer would drive her car to the video store, a convenience store for ice cream and wine coolers and then to Chuck's apartment. He was relieved to see his truck still in one piece as Jennifer steered into the driveway.

Once inside, Chuck pointed out the VCR and got a couple of plastic cups and spoons for the chocolate ice cream while Jennifer loaded the movie, "Nightmare on Elm Street."

"Be sure to cut out the lights," Jennifer ordered as Chuck made his way toward the sofa, a cup of ice cream in each hand. "You can't watch a scary movie with the lights on."

"OK, but we've both seen this movie like 8,000 times."

"I know, but it's a classic."

"No, 'Casablanca' is a classic. 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' and 'Butterflies Are Free,' those are classics. This is crap."

"Yeah, but it's fun crap," she said.

"You call kids getting sliced up fun?"

"Yeah. So long as you've got somebody to snuggle up to."

Chuck leaned back against the corner of the sofa where the arm met the back and Jennifer wriggled in between Chuck's legs, her back against his front. Still, he felt no sexual attraction, but he felt at ease with her. He had no idea what was running through her head. Was she trying to make a move on him? Or was she just that at ease with him, too?

Halfway through the movie, sensing she was as bored with it as he was, Chuck suggested a refill on the ice cream and a walk across the highway to the deserted beach.

"I had you pegged all wrong, Chuck," she said as they settled into a cool spot in the sand, just yards away from where the surf crashed into the shore.

"How's that?"

"Well, I just thought you were some kind of cocky womanizer, hitting on girls even though you had a fiancée."

"I haven't hit on anybody."

"I know. I know now. You're a nice guy. Maybe too nice."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that I kind of hoped you couldn't be trusted, being alone with you in your apartment." She grabbed his hand and Chuck said nothing as he continued staring at the moonlight reflecting off the gulf. He could feel her watching him. "Sorry, Chuck. I shouldn't have said that." She released his hand. "But I would like to see you again."

"Jennifer, I enjoy being around you. I really do. You're sweet, you're smart, and you're the first person I've met in a long time that I felt I could talk to. But I'm not looking for a relationship right now."

"Is it Mindy?" There was a revealing pause. "Ahh. OK"

"I just want to talk with her, Jennifer, to see if something's there. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted before. But now that me and Rachael are through, I've got to know if it's real or if I was just imagining it."

"Well, you can forget Mindy. She and Billy are making up tonight."

"Well, I hope not. She can do so much better."

"And so can you, Chuck."

"I thought you were her friend."

"I am. But, let's face it. She's not your type. Yeah, she's cute, but what else? You don't have anything in common. She has no ambition. She'll wind up a waitress, living with Billy in a doublewide trailer in Crescent Beach. I like her, too, Chuck, but there's not much behind that pretty little face of hers. Besides ..." She placed her hand against cheek. He winced as he braced for some lame romantic speech. “... I'll fuck your brains out."

Chuck was speechless. She might as well have told him she was Joan of Arc in her previous life. He lay back in the sand. He was exasperated, and she misinterpreted. She rolled on top of him and began ripping open her buttoned blouse, but made little progress before he tossed her aside. They sat silently on the beach few more minutes, Jennifer humiliated and Chuck bewildered. When they returned to his apartment, Chuck left her alone on the sofa to await the return of her friend, while he sat on the balcony, drinking a Coke, no longer in the mood for alcohol. He was feeling sick. A half-hour later, Jack and Elizabeth burst though the front door, laughing and clinging to each other.

"Elizabeth, we've got to get home," Jennifer said as she hopped off the couch. The stern, mature Jennifer that Chuck had first met was back. She didn't bother to say goodnight, and Chuck didn't bother to turn around.

"So, how was your night?" Jack asked as he leaned against the balcony railing.

"Weird."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing. I'll tell you about it later. Pull the sofa bed out and go to sleep. We've got to get down to the docks early in the morning."

Chuck could not rouse Jack in the morning -- not from the bathroom anyway, where his best friend was hugging the toilet.

"Come on, Jack!" Chuck pounded on the door. "We're gonna be late!"

Jack opened the door and Chuck saw a man in absolutely no shape for fishing, much less bobbing up and down over the waves in a sailboat. He was still in his boxers and T-shirt, while Chuck was dressed and holding a cooler of Cokes in his left hand. Jack's eyes were bloodshot and his hair looked as if it had been attacked by a sadistic vacuum cleaner in the middle of the night.

"I ain't going nowhere, man," Jack said. "Better call that chick and cancel."

"I can't do that."

"Why?" Jack asked, even though he knew the answer. He'd grown up with Chuck and never known his friend to ever show up late or fail to honor a commitment. He was the most trustworthy, dependable, honest person he'd ever known. If he put on a sweater, he'd be a 22-year-old Mister Rogers. And if Mister Rogers would have a beer every now and then, he'd be an older version of Chuck. It bugged him, and he rubbed his hands through his hair, at least until catching his fingers in a tangle. Of course, if he ever needed an accountant, Chuck was his man. It was just a good thing that Chuck wasn't a politician or lawyer. He'd never make it.

"I just can't. I told her I'd be there at nine, and I'm gonna. If you're not coming, that's up to you. I'll see you after lunch."

"All right." Jack softly shut the door and returned to the urgent business at hand.

The air was heavy in the marina. You could grab it with your hands. The sun and gulf breeze had yet to take control, but they were on their way.

"Captain Sam?"

The dark-haired woman from the night before peeked her head out of the cabin and smiled. "You showed up?"

"Of course," he said as she stepped out onto the deck and offered him a hand in boarding.

"Where's your buddy?"

"He's a bit sick. I'm afraid it's just me."

"Well, we could do it another time if you want," she suggested.

"No, we had a deal. I've got your 150 bucks right here." He extended an envelope of bills.

"I can't take that. That price was for the both of you. If you still want to go, I'll take you out for a few hours for, oh, how about 75 bucks?"

"No, we agreed on 150."

"I'll tell you what. I'll take the 150 if it's 75 bucks for today and 75 for a couple of sailing lessons. I won't take no for an answer."

Chuck was reluctant to take advantage of her like that, but he did want to learn how to sail. The first stiff sea breeze of the day caressed his body and convinced him. It had to be a sign. "OK, you got a deal."

"You drive a hard bargain, Mr, Mr. ..."

"Chuck. Chuck Carson. I guess I forgot to introduce myself last night."

"Well, Mr. Chuck, you seemed a little bit tipsy. That's why I was a little surprised you showed up."

"I said I would."

"Well, I guess you're a man of your word."

"Yes ma'am."

Samantha was dressed comfortably: a cut-up sweatshirt with the sleeves removed and cut-off sweat pants that clung to her body and appeared to be several years old. She was barefoot and wore her shoulder-length dark hair in a ponytail. Her features were most definitely Hispanic, though he couldn't tell the difference between a Chilean and a Puerto Rican or anyone in between. He had admired the beauty of Latin Americans ever since he saw his first Miami Sound Machine music video on MTV and fell in love with Gloria Estefan. He was still a little jealous of that bearded man Gloria married.

"OK," the captain announced, "I've got a couple of fishing poles you can borrow, and all the tackle and bait you need."

"Actually, it's just fine with me if you want to just show me around the coast. I'd love to see it from the water."

"I'm at your service. whatever you want to do. If you want, we'll do an hour of touring, an hour or so of fishing and I know a great place for swimming. Sometimes the dolphins join me there, too."

"I didn't bring a swimsuit," he said.

"You've got on shorts, don't you? This isn't the city pool. Or you could always go skinny dipping." She smiled. He smiled nervously. "I'm just kidding. But it's the best way to swim in the ocean."

"Maybe so, but I don't want a shark thinking my, uh, you know, is bait or anything.

"You're crazy," she said as she laughed out loud.

"Crazy good or crazy bad?"

"Crazy good, I think."

Samantha Lopez was Cuban-American, he would learn during a tour of the Thronateeska Bay. Originally from Miami, she grew up with her father after he separated from her mother when Samantha was just five years old. Her father taught her to sail. The Tartan 27 on which they were sailing was once his, purchased from a man he met while working odd jobs at the shipyard. He bought it with good intentions, she said. He wanted to show his darling Samantha the world. He also wanted to give her the world, and that led to his murder. He was shot execution-style after a drug deal gone bad. She never knew of his smuggling until after his death. She thought about him every day, even though the murder was a decade in the past. She took it hard, dropped out of school and moved onto the boat, sailing from port to port around Florida, taking odd jobs to put food on her table when the fishing was not good. She had been in Full Moon Harbor for nearly a year, her longest stay anywhere since leaving Miami, the one place in the world she never cared to visit again. She said she supplemented her slack chartering business with a part-time waitressing job, at a small seafood shack called The Captain's Hook. She dreamed of sailing the Caribbean, perhaps returning to the one place that entranced her during her one and only sailing vacation with her father: Belize and the Turneffe Islands. Though she was just 14 on that trip, she knew it was where she wanted to spend the rest of her life. Yet, she hadn't returned. She could not say why.

"So, where did the boat name come from?" Chuck asked.

"Oya?"

"Yeah."

"It used to be “Samantha.' Papa named it that, but it didn't feel right after he died, sailing around in a boat with my name on it. So I changed it to the name of my favorite goddess. Besides I don't go by Samantha anymore. You can call me Sam. My friends call me Sam."

"I've never heard of any goddess named Oya," he said.

"It's Santerian."

"What's that?"

"Santeria? Oh, it's an old African religion that slaves brought with them. It kind of what you'd get if you took paganism, Catholicism and Taoism and put it in a blender. A lot of Cubans are into it, and some people around Miami, too. My grandmother was big into it, and my Papa sort of believed in it."

"What about you?"

"I don't know. Do I believe in a bunch of gods in charge of this and that? No. But, growing up, I liked Oya a lot and at least pretended she was real. I wanted to believe in her. And, as a sailor, it wouldn't hurt."

"How's that?"

"Well, each Orisha's got a certain role, and Oya's the wind goddess. She's supposed to represent female power. She's also responsible for hurricanes and stuff and she makes the thunderbolts. And she's like the guardian of the gates of death, so I'd like to stay on her good side. And she's the goddess of change. And god knows I need a change in my life. Basically, she's a pretty cool chick, even if she's not as real as you and me."

"Interesting. I've never heard of any of this."

"Well, I gotta believe in something. I've never felt a connection to any religion, not even to Santeria, really. I guess Oya, though, is not really like a goddess to me. When I meditate and just try to clear my mind and connect with Mother Nature, you know, thinking about absolutely nothing, I keep seeing the word Oya. She's more like a part of my soul. She's a part of me, or maybe she represents what I wish I was -- courageous, strong, independent."

"I'd say a woman living like you do has got to be pretty strong. I mean, living on a boat all by yourself, that takes guts. I don't think I could do it."

"I dream of going to Belize and just dropping anchor somewhere in the middle of those islands, but I can't do it. And it's not just that I'm chicken. It's like this weird feeling that I've got to fulfill some mission first. There's something holding me back."

"Like what?"

"That's the problem. I don't know. Maybe I'm just imagining it. Maybe it's because I didn't turn out to be the girl my Papa wanted me to be. ... I'm sorry. I'm supposed to be entertaining you, not boring you with my problems. Now, see all those woods back thattaway? They're supposed to be filming a movie around there this year. At least, that's what I've overheard down at the marina. The Air Force owns that land. They've got a base not far from here."

There wasn't much more to the tour. The bay was surrounded by woods on one side and condominiums and homes on the other. He made a point of showing Sam his apartment when they passed it and took delight in seeing it from the water. It truly was a prime location, even if the giant house alongside it wasn't his. He hoped Jack would come out on the balcony so that he could wave to him, but the glass doors were shut and the blinds closed.

They left the bay and sailed northwest past the Seabreeze Inn and the rest of Crescent Beach to a small sound between the mainland and a thin sliver of an island. You could hit a golf ball from the mainland to the island, but it was too small to build so much as a shack on. It was windswept and somewhat barren with the exception of a few bushes and palm trees. The only inhabitants were hundreds of pelicans, who occasionally took to the sky to scout for fish. Sam said it was a great place to go shelling, swimming or just to watch the dolphins play offshore. She dropped anchor behind the island to do some fishing.

Sam took her fishing seriously and the conversation ground to a halt. During the tour, he had forgotten all about Rachael's betrayal, Mindy's slipping through his fingers and Jennifer's coming on to him less than 12 hours earlier. His casts were aimless. He was just going through the motions. He had lain in bed during the night, tossing and turning, wondering if he needed a clean emotional break from all three of those girls. He had shed a couple of tears over Rachael. Sure, he lusted for Mindy, but there were good times with Rachael, too. She was a good girl in spite of everything. He had drifted off to sleep only after forgiving her. Perhaps she had grown tired of folks in the country club circle implying that Chuck was attracted to her family's wealth more than he was to Rachael. He had overheard such rumblings, however ridiculous they were. He had always been determined to make it on his own. If anything, he had always felt guilty that Rachael might have to step down in lifestyle to be with him, because there was no way he was going to sponge off of her family. It was moot now anyway. At least no one could accuse him of gold-digging in pursuing Mindy. Cradle-robbing, maybe, but definitely not gold-digging.

But just as the boring fishing allowed his thoughts to drift back to his old love, a dip in the salt water and brief snorkeling lesson cleared his mind. They were in about 15 feet of water in the sound, where the waves were gentle and the water was clear and teeming with life. It was not a tourist area, and there were no motor boats and Jet Skis to disturb the sea creatures. Sam swam in front of him, guiding him through her world. She pointed out various colorful fish, but Chuck had to return to the surface so often for air that he could not examine the creatures closely. After taking a deep breath above the surface, he dove again and found himself face-to-face with a three-foot-long sand shark. He was terrified, but also frozen. The shark was not interested and began to swim away. Embarrassed, though he could not see where Sam was, he decided to pull himself together and follow the fearsome fish. He came within a couple of feet of the gingerly moving shark when it spun around angrily. It gripped his left arm, and the water turned red in front of him. The tube fell out of his mouth as he tried to shout in a panic. He accidentally inhaled and the world went black.

Chuck's back sank into the sand with each retreating wave. The snorkel mask dangled around his neck. The tube was god knows where. He felt lips upon his, then a violent rush of warm air into his throat, causing him to choke up the saltwater he had just swallowed. The dark-haired woman hanging above him fell against his chest in joy and exhaustion. He pushed her aside and turned onto his stomach to cough up the rest of the water. His throat burned and his head was pounding. All he could hear were the waves rushing by his ears and his rescuer crying, "Oh, god! Oh, my god!"

"Where am I?" he asked before another gush of saltwater poured into the holes in his left arm. "Awwgghh!"

"Come on," she said as she brought herself to his knees and tugged on his left arm, the good one. "We've gotta get you to an emergency room. You've just got a little bite, but I don't know about you blacking out and stuff."

They hustled to the marina as fast as you could from that point in a sailboat, a journey of about 45 minutes with the help of the small motor she rarely used. He wrapped one of her towels around his arm and sat inside the cabin out of the sun, as per the captain's orders. Every now and then he'd peek at the wound. It was actually quite mild, just a row of toothmarks, not even big ones. No need to call Roy Schieder. The afternoon golf game he had promised Jack, however, was definitely off. Though his head was pounding, he was thankful. And, boy, did he have a story to tell Rachael. Oh, yeah. Well, he'd have a story for somebody anyway. And he finally got to see a shark up close -- cool -- although he was in no hurry to do it again.

Sam was tense and shaking as she guided Oya back into her slip. "I'll drive you to the hospital," she said.

"No, I've got a car. I'm fine, really. My pride's a little hurt, that's all."

"I don't have a car, but I can drive yours."

"I told you. I'm fine. I don't need to go to a hospital. They'll just put some antibiotic on it and wrap it up with some kind of bandage. I can go by the drug store and handle that by myself. Besides, I don't have insurance yet."

They continue to argue as she docked. She was adamant, but Chuck was serious, swearing that he would jump in the sea again before letting her take him to a hospital. She could relent or argue the rest of the day. The argument ended with a promise that he would take care of his arm and take it easy the rest of the weekend.

"Maybe I can go rent 'Jaws' or something," he joked.

"That's not funny."

"When's my next sailing lesson?"

"If you're better by next Sunday, is 9 a.m. OK?"

"Heck, I'll be ready by tomorrow."

"Get your ass to the drug store, Chuck! I want you to take care of that before it gets infected!"

"You sound like my Mom."

"Just go! Now! Please!"

"OK. OK. See ya next Sunday."

She groaned in frustration as Chuck leaped carefree onto the planks with his arm still wrapped in her towel. It wasn't bloody, only a watery pink in a few spots. The arm was going numb and the pain had subsided. He was almost enjoying it. It was a pink badge of courage, or stupidity. Either way, it would make a great conversation starter.

Sam watched him walk away as she secured the Oya to its moorings. She shook her head in disbelief as he bounded down the sidewalk back to the parking lot like a kid bound for the next ride at an amusement park. She continued to stare as he paused at a bench where a little girl, maybe six or seven, sat alone, pouting. Chuck looked to a powerboat on his left, obviously occupied by her parents, who were stuffing items back into a backpack after an outing on the water. Still turned where she could watch him, Sam pulled her fish from the live well and laid them on the dock to clean them, while Chuck was apparently telling the dramatic story of his shark attack. The little girl was enthralled. Sam suspected the story was being embellished and giggled as she imagined how much the shark had grown in the past hour. She pulled red snapper onto the dock as Chuck climbed a few steps up the grassy hill between the marina and parking lot and plucked a blossom from a flower bed. He staggered down the hill in comedic fashion and knelt before the little girl, offering his appreciation of her cuteness. She smiled. Chuck walked away. Sam smiled, too, and chopped the head off of the red snapper with her machete.

Chapter 4

2008-11-28T23:00:00.001-08:00

"Is Mindy in?" Chuck asked the assistant manager as he leaned over the reception desk at the Seabreeze Inn. He had phoned Jack to summarize the events of the morning and that their golf game was off. As long as he was in the vicinity of the motel, however, he wanted to waste no time in trying to retrace his steps with the homegrown Florida teenager. Besides, he was eager to tell his story. David, the assistant manager looked at him as if he were a madman with the bandaged left arm and a rose in his right hand.

"I thought you checked out," David said.

"I did, but I just need to talk to Mindy for a second. Is she here?"

"She's busy right now. Can I help you?"

"No, I'll wait."

"I'd rather you didn't. I'll tell her you were here."

"OK. OK." The assistant manager had never treated him like a customer even when he was a registered guest. But it was understandable, Chuck thought, because he had distracted the desk clerk from her duties.

Chuck left the lobby, but he didn't go home. He sensed that his message had already gone in one ear and out the other of the disinterested boss. But, there was so much he had to say. He wanted her to know how much she had tempted him. More than that, he was now free to give in to temptation. And, oh yeah, there was that shark thing. Rather than wait, he wrote a note. The note read simply:

Dear Mindy, I desperately need to talk to you. Call me or drop by my new place. Please. Elizabeth and Jennifer know where it is.

There was a familiar blue Escort in the hotel's parking lot, and he had assumed for some reason ever since he had gotten to know Mindy that the car was hers, though he never witnessed her with the vehicle. He tried to open the driver's side door, but it was locked. He peered inside -- and smiled. A T-shirt lay stretched across the back seat. He recognized a logo on one of the sleeves as representative of the Southwest Georgia golf team on which he played for four years. Sure enough, it was the shirt he had given her to wear the night she, Elizabeth and Jennifer had come to his hotel room, the night of the anonymous phone call warning him to keep his hands off Mindy. He was glad he hadn't asked for the shirt back. And he didn't give a damn anymore about the threatening voice on the other end of the line that night. Through the window, he could also see that the passenger side was unlocked. Given her naivete, he wasn't surprised. Chuck opened the passenger-side door and placed the note on the seat with the rose on top. Then he left for his apartment to await her arrival. While driving the now familiar stretch of Highway 98 to his apartment, he envisioned her running excitedly up the steps to his apartment and leaping into his arms. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a fantasy. It was a realistic expectation. She had already confessed her attraction. It hinged only on whether she had indeed returned to her hot-headed ex-boyfriend for good. He didn't believe so. The sun was brighter. The condos were taller. The clouds were whiter. The roadside was cleaner. Traffic was lighter. He had his first taste of sailing. And a shark had tasted him. It was quite a day.

He was stunned to see Jack's truck was gone from the driveway. Perhaps he had grown tired of waiting for lunch. Or maybe he and Elizabeth had hooked up once again. The questions were answered by a note on the door.

"Chuck, Had to go. Something came up at home. No big deal. Sorry I couldn't hang around for golf. We'll do it again."

Chuck was eager to show off the arm that had been half-eaten by the 40-foot sea monster, but it would have to wait. He was relieved, however, to be alone. The stage was set. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, sat on the sofa and stared at the door. Any minute now. Yep, any minute.

Chuck propped his feet on the rail of the balcony and popped the top to a cold can of Coca-Cola. Not wanting to impair his awareness of this momentous occasion, he had stopped drinking alcohol after three beers. Mindy most certainly had read the note by now. He considered for a moment making sure that his phone's ringer was on, but three times was probably sufficient. It had been on "high" each time. He hoped that by some wild chance she hadn't tried to call during that split second when he checked for a dial tone after checking the ringer.

Seven o'clock. The sky over the bay had taken a purple color, though the setting sun was out of view, far in the west. He was facing east over the Thronateeska. It was a great vantage point for the sunrise, but the sunsets could not be seen from the balcony. She should have been here by now, he thought. Far in the distance was a sailboat, sitting still. It could have been the Oya, for there were few sailboats in the area. There were shrimp boats, small yachts, power boats and ordinary bass fishing boats, but few sailboats.

Eight o'clock. Chuck hung his head. Mindy had acted as though she were madly in love with him before and even after he gave her the brush-off. Now, he was opening his heart to her and getting no response. Could she have not seen the card and rose? he pondered. No way. It was far too obvious on that passenger seat. She wasn't interested, and he didn't care to know why. He knew when to concede. He had missed the boat. Losing two women in two days seemed a bit much for any man to endure. Life had thrown him a curveball. But he was on his own. He was free. He knew he was a strong man. He would bounce back. Tomorrow.

He decided to treat himself to a nice dinner the next evening. He had pulled himself together as best he could. He had slept until noon, ate a sandwich and watched a whole Tampa Bay Buccaneers game before setting foot into the shower. He refused to shave, though. There was no one he had to impress. He was alone. He liked the look of his three-day old beard. He had not gone two full days without shaving since he was sixteen, with the exception of a couple of fishing trips down the Flint River with Jack. Rachael liked him clean-shaven. So did the pro at the Henderson Country Club golf shop. So did the golf coach at Southwest Georgia. And, probably, so did his new employers at the accounting firm. He examined it closely, wiping away the moisture on the mirror in the steam-filled bathroom. Yeah, he liked it.

It was five-thirty. He didn't have a phone book to thumb through the Yellow Pages in search of a seafood restaurant he had yet to try. He would just drive until something caught his eye. He drove all the way down Highway 98 through Full Moon Harbor. The part of the city that reached east toward his apartment was the newest part of the city. A dozen years, he figured, and his new neighborhood would be surrounded by restaurants and hotels. The farther he drove west, the hotels and restaurants were more established. By the time he got to the area near the marina, just over the bridge from Crescent Beach, all the buildings seemed ancient, even if most were only a few decades old. Still, they had been there long before the Canadians, New Yorkers, retirees and wealthy Southerners had overtaken the place. But that old section was a mere pixel in a photograph. It was what the local tourism board no doubt saw as a blemish with no sign of any efforts to promote its history. It was here, in this forgotten few blocks, that Chuck spotted The Captain's Hook, the place Sam had told him about. He wasn't looking for it specifically. But, in general, he was.

"I just need a table for one, nonsmoking," he told the hostess.

"We ain't got nonsmoking," retorted the haggard, short woman whose wrinkled face and tobacco breath was evidence that she had spent more than her share of time in the smoking sections of the world.

"Whatever's fine then." He hated the smell of cigarettes, but was hungry.

Unlike most seafood places in Full Moon Harbor, The Captain's Hook didn't have a lot of fishing nets, wooden ships, paintings of wooden ships and such hanging all over the walls. It was drab with cheap, 1970s-paneled walls, definitely not a tourist trap. He recalled such simple places back home in Henderson as being much better than the fancier, brand-name restaurants that led people out of Henderson to the exits of nearby I-75.

"Will this table do?" asked the hostess. She wasn't your typical hostess either. Hostess might not have even been her proper title. She had on a basic white T-shirt and jeans. He suspected she cleaned tables and poured drinks, maybe even washed the dishes as well. Probably cooked, too. It was a small enough restaurant that she might have been the whole staff.

"Uh, is this one of Sam's tables?" The hostess, or whatever she was, looked puzzled. "Sam is working tonight, isn't she?"

"Samantha? They're all her tables. You a friend of hers?"

"I guess. More of an acquaintance, really."

The hostess left to get him a sweet tea and allow him time to peruse the menu. The dining room was small, only about 20 tables total. They are all her tables, he thought. Damn. It hit him how hard Sam must have to work to make ends meet. Although, only two other tables were occupied.

"Mr. Chuck."

"Miss Samantha." Sam's hair was tied in a neat ponytail. She had a pen behind one ear and carried an ordering pad in her left hand. Her right hand was propped on the hip of her tight blue jeans. She moved it just long enough to brush the bangs of her dark hair out of her eyes.

"I told you not to call me that."

"Well, that's what your name tag there says."

"That's for customers, not friends. All alone tonight?"

"'Fraid so." From the corner of his eye, Chuck could see the hostess chatting with a man he figured was the manager or owner of the establishment. They kept stealing glances toward his table. He figured he'd better cut the chit-chat to keep Sam out of trouble. "Got any suggestions?"

"To be honest," she whispered, "it all tastes the same here. Catfish, snapper, flounder, chicken, it all tastes like the grease it's fried in."

"Well, I'll just get the grouper platter with baked potato and be the judge of that. Can I get that blackened instead of fried?" She giggled. "I guess not, huh?"

"Fried grouper it is."

He smiled as she walked away. He didn't want it blackened anyway. Seafood all tasted the same back home. He was a sucker for the taste of grease at cheap restaurants.

One table cleared while he was waiting for his dinner. He watched one old man as he helped his wife out of her chair and tossed a dollar onto the table. That's it, Chuck thought, a stinking buck tip for a $20 meal. He got up to wash his hands. As he passed the old man's vacant table, he nonchalantly threw another three bucks down. No one noticed. When he came out of the men's room, Sam was clearing the table and stuffing the four dollar bills into her pocket. She smiled at him as she wiped the vinyl tablecloth with a damp rag.

Indeed, the meal proved to be the best he had eaten since leaving Georgia. He ate slowly and deliberately until he was the last customer in the dining room. It was peak time for dining out in Full Moon Harbor, yet Sam had a moment to sit down with her lone customer.

"Take a load off," he said as he pushed out the chair opposite him with his feet under the table.

"So, you don't have anything better to do than hang around with scraggly-looking waitresses on a Saturday night?" He sensed she was a little embarrassed that he had seen her work so hard, being a servant. But she had told him about the place. Her eyes were puffy and her bangs were drooping over her eyes again. They were uneven, as if she cut her own hair.

"I thought I did. I got stood up. Kinda. Actually, I didn't have a date. I almost had a date. Hell, I don't know. I guess I don't have anything better to do. But you look just fine."

"I look hideous."

"No, a little exhausted maybe. You look like you could use a little rest."

"Yeah, you could say that. So, I see you're still alive."

"Huh?"

"Your arm?"

He'd almost forgotten. Unfortunately, he couldn't embellish the story for Sam. After all, she had saved him after a relatively harmless shark nearly killed him, or scared him to death, rather.

"Oh, yeah. It's fine. I told you it was no big deal."

"Well, take it easy just the same this week."

"I'm an accountant, Sam."

"Well, be sure to do all your accounting with your right hand."

"Does that mean we're still on for sailing lessons next Sunday?"

"Sure. Well, I'd better get that table cleaned off over there. It was good to see you again."

"Yeah, you, too."

When she left his sight, he plopped a ten-dollar bill on the table and hastily paid his bill to the haggard hostess. She had seen him drop the ten on the table and looked at him as if he were some sort of criminal for doing so. He wasn't sure why he had left a 100 percent tip. Perhaps it was the guilt of not paying her the full amount for his excursion that morning. Maybe it was the pain of seeing her work so hard for so little. Whatever it was, he felt better for doing so.

Chuck threw himself into his work like never before. He was at the office a half-hour early and left an hour late every day of the week. If he had merely impressed his colleagues before, they were now astounded. They had made the hire of the century. He had come cheap, for an entry-level accountant. And, he was the best. On top of being fast, conscientious, studious and in step with every tax and economic development, he was honest. They couldn't prove that. It was just a sense. Everybody that met him had that sense about him. A fine, upstanding man, the elderly ladies at the Henderson Country Club thought of him. That was quite a compliment, coming from those high-society ladies and bestowed upon a young man of his humble background. He didn't really take pride in that. He was who he was, and couldn't change if he wanted to. His father was strict, and raised him by the belt. He had no choice but to be honest, honorable and dependable. Anything less was painful.

While his work impressed everyone else, he considered it mindless drivel. Numbers were dependable. A hundred was a hundred. It wasn't ninety sometimes and two hundred other days. And tax laws and accounting rules were straightforward. Here's how it works, period. He didn't understand how any of this could be confusing. People, on the other hand, mystified him. He was like his numbers, the same every day. People, and women in particular, were like poems to him. He didn't get poetry in high school or college, and the people who were so-called experts in poetry interpreted poems in different ways. They meant different things to different people. He felt as though he had endured a crash course in poetry over the weekend. From Jennifer to Rachael to Mindy, nothing made sense. In his ledgers, there was no poetry, no thought, no mystery, no pain.

But, come Friday afternoon, his bosses practically shoved him out the door, ordering him to get out and have some fun. He still wasn't ready. He went to the driving range and hit a few golf balls just to make sure his swing hadn't left him. It hadn't. Maybe he could get into some tournaments around northwest Florida, he thought. Maybe that would take his mind off of life's poetry. Golf was full of numbers – par 3s, 10-foot putts, 300-yard drives, 18 holes, $30 for a cart and greens fees.

He put the clubs back into his car just before breaking a sweat. He chose a return to The Captain's Hook. Sam was not working, and the food wasn't as good. But it was still greasy. Tasted like the same grease as on Sunday.

He drove across the highway and parked at the marina. Another stroll past the boats was in order. The setting sun and cooler-than-usual gulf breeze beckoned. Mother Ocean was as much a mystery to him as any other woman, but he couldn't turn her down.

The Oya was docked. He considered stepping onto the boat to say hello, but was worried he might wear out his welcome. He never liked people dropping by his home unannounced. She was the closest thing he had to a friend in Full Moon Harbor, and he didn't want to push her away. Besides, she was his ticket to learning to sail. Perhaps someday he could make enough money as an accountant to retire at 55 or 60 and live the rest of his days on a boat. But that was something single, lonely people did, he figured. He had always pictured himself as a husband and father by age 25 or so. That picture, however, had become clouded.

He walked on past and again headed up to the boardwalk along the bars and restaurants. He bought a frozen Coke and turned around before reaching Sharky's. He didn't want to bump into Mindy and her redneck boyfriend. He wished he could slug him just once, but Billy would wind up beating him to a pulp. He could handle a beating, though. He couldn't handle the humiliation of seeing them together.

On the return walk past the boats, he saw a familiar face. Actually, what was familiar about it was the way it was hidden -- reflective sunglasses, head down, cap bill pulled low over his forehead. His walk, again, was brisk and determined. He did not waste a moment or a step. Again, he made a sharp right turn at the Oya's slip, hopped onto the boat and rapped on the door to Sam's cabin while glancing at his watch. The door opened just a few inches and he slipped inside, quickly shutting it behind him again. There was no sign of trouble, for Sam had apparently let him enter willingly. Perhaps, he could ask her about him on Sunday during their sailing lesson. Then again, it was none of his business. He decided that whatever Sam's relationship with the man might be, she could tell him about it when she was ready. Or not. After all, they weren't exactly friends. She was his tutor. He was her customer. There was nothing more to it than that. And she had to be about 30 years old, plenty old enough to handle her own business.

A flash of lightning far across the gulf signaled it was time to move on. He was about to resume walking when the smell of cigarettes overwhelmed him. A man was now standing in front of him. He was not even smoking at the time. He wore dirty blue jeans, boots, a red bandana and a tight-fitting black T-shirt made for muscle builders, but for him merely revealed his skinny rib cage, flat chest and scrawny arms. His light brown hair was shoulder length and looked as if it had not been washed or combed in weeks. There were tattoos on each forearm, and Chuck figured there were many more he could not see. Chuck's fondness for Jimmy Buffett was likely eclipsed by the man's nostalgic lust for the original Lynyrd Skynyrd. Chuck wondered if he should tell him about the plane crash. This man was obviously still living in the 1970s and might not have heard about it.

"You looking for somebody?" he asked. He glared at Chuck as if he were daring him to lie.

"No. I was just looking for a friend of mine." Chuck began to walk away, but the man tapped him on the shoulder.

"Didn't I see you down here last weekend?"

"Hell if I know what you saw last weekend buddy." Chuck's usual nice-guy demeanor was turned off like a light switch. He knew whoever this guy was, he wanted nothing to do with him.

"If you want to see Samantha, you go through me. Understand?"

"Why?"

"Because I run this marina."

"So?"

"So, you don't be bypassing me to do business with Samantha."

"What do you care who she does business with? Besides, don't you have a 'Springer' show to do?"

"I don't want no trouble down here. You understand me?"

"I didn't know sailing lessons were such trouble."

"Sailing lessons?"

"You know? Sailing. You get in a boat, and the wind blows it around."

"Well, you better be one hell of a sailor when you get through with your lessons."

"Not that it's any of your business, but I plan to be. Now, if you don't mind ..."

Chuck glanced back a couple of times at the man whose suspicious eyes never turned away from him. If anybody ought to draw suspicion, Chuck thought, it would be that guy. He waved his hand to tell the man he could resume whatever his normal business might be, but the man did not so much as flinch. Chuck could not recall exactly which episode of "America's Most Wanted" featured that guy, but he was sure he had seen one or more that did.

He stopped at a bookstore on the way home to browse. He thumbed through the travel magazines, fantasizing about sailing off to the turquoise waters of the various exotic islands pictured. It was apparently sunny everywhere in the Caribbean all the time, if you believed the photos anyway. And he did.

He wandered the aisles, looking for nothing in particular. He chuckled as he glanced at the poetry section. Who in the world would read this junk? he wondered. He picked up one of the thin books and opened it to a random page. He almost dropped it when he saw the title of the featured poem on page 28: "Oya." He pondered the coincidence for a moment, then read the brief passage:

Change upon the wind Thunder 'cross the sky Cursed be the man So unwise as to defy Keeper of the flame Inexorable her will Oya be thy name Fate the matron seals Beware the tranquil water Whose sake it is to fool If there you drop the anchor Her storm shall follow you

"Okie, dokie," Chuck said aloud, though quietly. "Could have written that in Spanish and it'd made 'bout as much sense to me." Greeting card rhymes and limericks involving Nantucket were as deep as he could comfortably delve into poetry.

He bought a collection of Mark Twain’s works and stopped by the liquor store before heading home. He had not visited with Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn in a long time. They would probably be willing to share a couple of bottles of Boone's Farm after all these years, he figured.

The best-laid plans had gone to waste by sunset the next day. Tom and Huck had taken a backseat to a college football doubleheader on television. He had not left the house, not even for food. A medium pepperoni pizza delivered to his door served as breakfast, lunch and supper. He hadn't talked to Rachael in more than a week. She must have realized that he was on to her cheating, he reasoned. His feelings for her had waned over the days as his bitterness grew, but his loneliness was blurring his feelings. He was still longing for Rachael, lusting after Mindy and even considering taking Jennifer up on her offer. But he decided to make no move until he heard it from Mindy that there was no hope. He needed to see her with Billy to be convinced. He showered, dressed in his favorite Ocean Pacific T-shirt and proceeded to Sharky's, where he was most likely to have a "chance" encounter with Mindy.

He had always considered himself a gentleman and an honorable man, but had fallen into one sinful trap -- sex. He and Rachael first had sex on prom night of their junior year. It was the first time for both. They began having sex once every couple of weeks, then every week, sometimes several days straight. He had always justified it because they were in love. It was honorable, for she was loved and respected. But the feelings within him now were less than honorable and he knew it. He lusted for the teen-ager who had tempted him ever since he had arrived on the Gulf Coast. At least he was still a gentleman.

Sharky's seemed less packed than usual, but it was only 8:30. At least he was able to sip a frozen margarita at a table. A couple of young girls smiled invitingly at him, but he turned away to rebuff their advances. Maybe he wasn't so dishonorable after all. He was saving his love for Mindy, if she would ever come along.

"Chuck!" His heart pounded in anticipation of seeing Mindy, for few in Full Moon Harbor knew his name. But it wasn't her. It was Elizabeth, her best friend. His disappointment was short-lived as he realized Elizabeth could be a valuable intermediary. She ran to him and hugged him. "What are you doing here all by yourself?"

"Honestly? I was kinda hoping to bump into Mindy."

"Really? I thought you told her to get lost."

"No, I never told her anything like that. I just tried to discourage her because I had a girl back home. But …"

"But?"

"But now I don't. We broke up. And I realized I wasn't very upset about it because of Mindy."

"Do you love her?"

"I don't know. But there's definitely a spark. I guess I'm a little late, though."

"Maybe not."

"Really? Where is she?"

"At her house. Her mom's out of town and we had a little party going. I came up here to round up anybody we knew that might be hanging out. I've got to call her and tell her about this!"

"Let me talk to her, Elizabeth. Can I go over to the party?"

"That's probably not such a good idea," Elizabeth said.

"Why? Is that boyfriend of hers over there?"

"Yeah, and he's already drunk. But I got an idea."

Elizabeth jogged over to the bar and sweet-talked a bartender into letting her borrow the phone. He took a couple of large gulps from his glass of melting margarita to calm his nerves and caught a brief brain freeze. He was holding his head in his hands in agony as Elizabeth returned.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah. What's going on?"

"Go to the hotel. Wait by the pool."

"Is she gonna be there?"

"What do you think? Now, get the hell out of here. Hurry. And gimme that drink. I'll finish it for you."

He handed her the glass and darted down the steps that led from the boardwalk to the parking lot. His heart was pounding as he fought his keychain for the correct key. Within one minute, his truck was climbing the grade of the Highway 98 bridge out of Full Moon Harbor and into Crescent Beach. Two minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of the Seabreeze Inn. He parked as far away from the front office so that he wouldn't attract any attention. After all, he was no longer a customer. The pool area was empty. He lay on a plastic chaise lounge and impatiently awaited her arrival. After twenty minutes passed, he was beginning to think he had been stood up a second time when he heard the sound of sand being ground into asphalt by slow-moving tires. A door slammed and a shadowy figure emerged from the corner of the hotel.

"Elizabeth? Elizabeth, where are you?" He knew the voice.

"Mindy?" He stood up from the chaise lounge and began walking toward her. They were about 30 feet from each other, and Chuck was silhouetted against a security light that illuminated the motel's private beach area.

"Who's there?" He sensed fear in her voice.

"It's me, Mindy. Chuck." As he stepped closer, her face came into view, and her eyes opened wide as she saw it was indeed the object of her infatuation. They were now face to face.

"What are you doing here? Elizabeth called me and told me to meet her by the pool. Said it was urgent and there wasn't any time to explain."

"I think Elizabeth might have lied to you. Well, maybe fibbed is a better word. But don't blame her. Blame me. I had to see you. I've got to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Are you up for a moonlight stroll on the beach?"

"I guess. Is something wrong?"

"Not that I know of."

The breeze coming off the water was cooler than usual, and the roar of the waves indicated a strong tide. The moon was full, and distant lightning flashed in the western sky, sparking a chain reaction of silent orange explosions through the clouds. It had stormed on an almost daily basis since he had arrived, though most of the storms barely skimmed the Full Moon Harbor area or skipped the two towns completely, providing only a distant electrical show. It looked as though it would be one of those nights. He could see the stars above, and the storm looked to have business in Tallahassee or closer to the Georgia line.

"I guess you thought I was a little corny last week, and that's why you didn't show up or call. It was pretty naive of me to think you'd drop everything for me."

"Chuck, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know. The rose. The note."

"What rose? What note?"

"Don't tell me you didn't notice them in your car last Saturday. You couldn't have missed it. I left it right there on the passenger seat, plain as day, for you to see when you got off work."

"Chuck, there was nothing in my car when I got off work."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I may be a little ditzy sometimes, but I wouldn't have missed that. If there was a rose in my car, I definitely would have noticed it."

"That's weird."

"You left a rose in my car?"

"Yeah."

"And what did the note say?"

"Just that I wanted to see you. And it had the directions to my new apartment."

"Why?"

"Because I can't stop thinking about you." They stopped walking.

"What are you trying to tell me?"

He took her hand gently. "Give me a second chance."

"What about your fiancée?"

"Ex-fiancée. It's off." He didn't bother to explain the situation. "I'll understand if I'm too late, but couldn't hold it inside any longer. I had to tell you."

An awkward silence followed his confession. Mindy stared at the distant lightning.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he agreed.

"Chuck."

"Yeah?"

She turned to face him, placed her hand on his cheek and looked him in the eyes, which reflected the lightning.

"Take me to your place."

"What about your party?"

"We'll throw our own party."

It was three o'clock in the morning before Chuck finally emerged from the bedroom to get a drink. He was exhausted and never imagined having such endurance. Wearing only his boxers, he opened the sliding glass door to the balcony and allowed the mild breeze to blow in from off the bay. He stepped out and leaned on the railing. Mindy, wearing only her T-shirt, soon emerged from the bathroom and joined him on the balcony. She put her arms around him from behind and he turned to hold her head to his chest.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked softly.

"About how incredible my life is right now. I mean, look at the bay. All the stars twinkling on the water. And I've got the most incredible girl in my arms. I just don't see how it can get any better. I mean, I had always fantasized about a life like this, but I guess there was a part of me that kept saying it was just a dream. Pinch me to make sure I'm not dreaming."

"Gladly."

"Oww! I was just kidding. Did you draw blood?"

"You're just a big ol' baby, but I love you anyway."

"I love you, too."

After a few moments of silence, Chuck said, "I didn't know this was your first time."

"And second and third and fourth," she added with a giggle. He didn't laugh.

"I feel like I should have done something to make it more special. I didn't mean to rush you into this."

"This couldn't have been any more special. To go from losing you to hearing you tell me you love me, it was perfect timing. I wouldn't change a thing. Besides, I'm the one who's been rushing you since you got here."

Chuck ran his fingers through her shoulder-length auburn hair. It had a natural bounce and spunk to it, even after sweating through the past couple of hours. In his hands, he felt youth and, somehow, still, innocence and purity. It was in her soul. Rachael had been the only girl to whom he had made love. And their first time was hardly special. He just wanted to get it out of the way back then, if only to tell his friends that he had finally "done it." Rachael was willing, but less than enthusiastic. When it was over, he almost wished it had never happened, despite the sense of relief. And over the years, it became pleasurable, almost in a recreational sort of way. But this was different. This is what he had been missing. The ocean had summoned him his whole life. Now, he knew why. The mysterious link between him and the sea was in his arms.

They kissed and cuddled on the balcony for another half-hour before Mindy reluctantly announced she had to leave. She was supposed to be in Mobile by early afternoon. Her Aunt Laura, who was just eight years older than Mindy, had given birth to her first baby late Friday night. Her mother was already there, getting her aunt's apartment cleaned up and ready for the baby. Mindy had promised to help, too, and was eager to see the baby.

She rested her head on Chuck's shoulder as he drove back to the Seabreeze Inn. At a quarter 'til four, he parked beside her Cavalier. The hotel was silent. She gave him a quick good-bye kiss on the cheek.

"I'll call you when I get to Mobile tomorrow, probably around two or three," she said as she got out of the truck.

"Okay."

Chuck sat in his truck and waited to make sure that she got out of the parking lot and followed her down the access road for the string of hotels. The road ended at the Highway 98 bridge that linked her hometown of Crescent Beach with Full Moon Harbor. There, Mindy turned left and headed down the highway toward the residential northwest side of town. As the headlights of her Escort faded into the night, he turned right, bound for his new home.

Chuck, who barely remembered to set his alarm for 8 a.m., had no trouble drifting off to sleep. At six o'clock, however, he was awakened by a loud clanging behind the garage. He quickly climbed back into his T-shirt and stumbled out to the balcony. He looked down in the direction from which he thought the sound originated. He could make out the outline of a shovel that had apparently fallen on the concrete patio below. He leaned over the railing and looked for an intruder, hoping to Heaven there wasn't one. He saw nothing, but was trembling. "Probably just a cat," he whispered to himself. He shut the sliding glass door and double checked the lock. He did the same for the main door to the loft apartment. He then opened the refrigerator and grabbed a jug of orange juice, twisted off the cap and took a swig. Then he returned to the bedroom, locking that door as well. He lay in bed with his eyes wide open, embarrassed by his fear, but still cautious. Something inside told him it wasn't a cat or a dog. Perhaps a small animal could have knocked over that shovel accidentally and caused all of that racket, but he doubted an animal would have triggered the motion-detecting security lights that now shined outside his window. He listened intently for the sound of footsteps on the stairs to the apartment, but heard none. If it were a prowler, he hoped the security lights had scared him away. After 15 minutes of silence were followed by the hum of the air-conditioning kicking in, he drifted off to sleep again.

The next time he was awakened, the phone was the culprit. He glanced at the clock, which read 7:55. There were few things he hated more than being awakened minutes before an alarm was going to go off anyway. But if it were Mindy, he decided, it was worth answering.

"Hello?"

"Chuck, this is Rachael."

"Uh, do you know what time it is?"

"Gee, that's some greeting for your fiancée."

"It's over, Rachael. And I think you know why."

"Yeah, I do. Because you're an asshole!"

"Look, I don't know what your problem is, but you can stop pretending. I know what's been going on in Henderson since I left."

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Oh, come off it, Rachael! Look, I'm not angry. I mean, I was for a while, but not anymore. I think it's for the best. Go do whatever you want. I don't have any hard feelings."

"I bet you don't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I know you've been seeing some teenage slut down there."

"Only after I found out about you."

"What are talking about? There's nothing to find out about me."

"I heard about you at that Kappa Sig party last week."

"What about it?"

"Damn, Rachael! You can cut the act! I know all about you going back to the room with some guy!"

"That's bullshit, Chuck! Who told you that?"

"I just know, Rachael. I just know."

"Well, it's not true! I haven't so much as held anyone else's hand since you proposed. I can't believe you think I'd do something like that." He could tell she was in tears. "What about you? Tell me about that girl. Is that what you want? To dump me for some kid?"

"She's not a kid!"

"Then it's true."

"Yeah, but only because of what I heard about you. I really care about you Rachael. I do. I think it's best for both of us if we just go our separate ways."

"That's so lame! But whatever makes you happy. But just so you'll know, I'm gonna have dinner with Jack tonight. Is that gonna be okay with you? I don't want to force you to go out and screw anybody else."

"With Jack?"

"Yeah, you know, your best friend."

"My best friend, huh?"

"Look, Chuck, you've given up your right to tell me what I can do and who I can see now. Besides, Jack's the only guy in the world I feel like I can trust now. I thought you were the greatest guy in the whole world. I knew you were too good to be true. Deep down, you're just like all the rest." He recognized the insincerity in her voice. She knew better. He was not like all the rest.

"That's not true, Rachael. You can say anything you want about me, but I would never hurt you on purpose."

"It hurts just the same."

"I'm sorry, Rachael. I didn't plan any of this. I swear."

"I'll mail your ring back to you. I don't feel like talking anymore." Click.

He put the receiver back and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it stirred the humid, heavy air on its low setting. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled while putting both hands behind his head and under the pillow. He stretched and yawned. It was a relief to clear the air with Rachael, though it hurt him to hurt her. He knew she wasn't lying about the night at the Kappa Sigma house. She had not cheated after all. The blame was all on him, and Jack. It didn't take long for Chuck to add up the clues -- Jack's story about Rachael cheating, his leaving Full Moon Harbor early and the subsequent phone call. And there Jack was in Henderson to pick up all the pieces and offer a shoulder to cry on. He didn't regret ending the relationship with Rachael, but he felt sorry for her, sorry enough for tears to cloud his eyes. He cared deeply for her, but he no longer lusted for her. He knew he should have confronted Rachael before he turned to Mindy, and the relationship could have been saved. Her fictitious "fling," however, provided the excuse to pursue Mindy. And if Jack wanted to be there to pick up the pieces, more power to him. More than anything, Chuck found it hard to believe that his best friend could turn on him so easily and cold-heartedly. He must have really fallen for Rachael, he figured. He'd long suspected Jack of coveting her. His leaving Henderson presented a window of opportunity, and Jack seized it. There were thoughts of calling Jack to simply ask why he betrayed him, but Chuck quickly reconsidered. What good would it do? he wondered. After all, he had been granted his release and was free to love Mindy, Jack had the opportunity he had obviously sought for a long time and Rachael had a shoulder to cry on. He hated, though, that it cost him his best friend. Rachael and Jack might even be a better fit, he reasoned. Neither wanted to leave Henderson. But Chuck did. Always had. And, now, he had no interest in ever going back. The bond that engagement ring had represented could not compare with the bond he felt between himself and the sea. Never again, he vowed, would they be separated by hundreds of miles of dry, dirty land.

Chapter 5

2008-11-28T22:59:00.001-08:00

"Howdy," Chuck said as he walked down the boat slip to the Oya. The phone conversation with Rachael still disturbed him, but he had looked forward to boarding the Oya again all week long. He did not feel so honorable in having broken off their engagement under such flimsy evidence, but he was free. He knew that someday he would reclaim his integrity and be an honorable man once again. It all seemed a fair trade for freedom, which in so many stories he had heard always came at a high price.

Sam was lying on a blanket and pillow on deck, with sunglasses on and an oversized cango hat folded over her eyes. She wore neat khaki shorts, a navy blue Polo shirt and sandals. It seemed quite a preppie outfit for a girl who lived on a boat and was so independent. She peered at him from beneath the wide brim of the hat. Nothing on Chuck's face revealed his internal struggles. "Well, you sure seem to be in a good mood for nine o'clock in the morning."

"It's a beautiful day."

"That it is. That it is. Are you ready to shove off, sailor?"

"You know it."

For the next two hours, Chuck learned the basics of everything Sam knew about sailing. He could never put his newfound knowledge to use as well as Sam could, for she behaved as though she were born on the ocean and had never spent a night sleeping anywhere other than on the sea. Nevertheless, he felt confident enough to steer the Oya back from the center of the bay to the marina.

"Why don't you have lunch with me?" Sam asked.

"I'd better get on back," replied Chuck, who was focusing on his duties as interim captain like a teen-ager behind the wheel of a car for the first time. Just as he had thrown himself into the ledgers at the office to forget his worries, he had done the same with sailing, focusing on every detail, but enjoying the work much more.

"Oh, come on. Please. I'd really appreciate the company."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"OK, it's not like I have any plans. You in the mood for fast food or something better?"

"I hate fast-food joints. Stop the boat under the bridge. We'll drop anchor and eat in the shade. I've got some shrimp in the refrigerator and some french fries. Sound all right?"

"Sure. Did you go shrimping?"

"No, I stole them from the restaurant."

"Say what?"

"Actually, they had pulled them out last night and never got around to cooking them. I put 'em back on ice. If I don't eat them by lunchtime, they won't be any good. And there's too many for me to eat by myself. Besides, I was thinking about you when I took them last night."

"That was mighty nice of you. But you didn't have to do that, and you don't have to give me these cheap sailing lessons, either."

"If I didn't want to, Chuck, I wouldn't. I just don't meet a lot of nice guys around the marinas, you know, under 80 years old." She got up to help tie the sail as they drifted under the Highway 98 bridge. Chuck stared up at the huge beams that held the four lanes of road above the water. Only hours earlier, he was on the other side of the bridge, carrying Mindy to her car after the greatest sex of his young life. Yet, there was something eerie to him about being under the bridge, something dangerous.

"Well, you gonna come down to the galley and help or do you expect me to wait on you again?" Her natural smile gave away the insincerity in the condemning tone of her voice.

"I guess I'd better help out since I didn't bring enough money for a tip."

They climbed down the three steps into the hull of the boat. Chuck had never seen the inside of this boat or any sailboat. It was cramped and you could stand in one spot and just about reach the bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and dining area, although it was really just one cabin. The bed looked big enough to sleep two people, and it was semi-made with the covers pulled back over the pillow, but not tightly tucked around the thin mattress. On the walls hung a couple of crooked pictures. One, a Hispanic man in his forties. In another, the same man all smiles with his arm around a much younger Sam, perhaps 10 or 11. There wasn't room for much else on the walls. A magnet on the mini-refrigerator held several papers full of numbers and addresses.

"Man, I could live in a place like this," Chuck commented.

"Well, I do live here, and believe me, you can get cabin fever in a hurry. That's why I'm always on deck, just so that I can breathe. Sometimes I feel like a sardine."

"You live on here? Can you do that?"

"Sure. You act like you've never heard of such a thing."

"Well, I've heard of people spending like a winter in the Bahamas or something, but I didn't think anybody actually did this."

"It's not so bad. If you don't like where you're living, you can always pull up anchor and move on. You don't have to pack anything, just go. I'll spend the summer season here and then head down to Fort Myers and Cape Coral from November to April. Their peak season for charters and stuff is during the winter. It stays warm all year there. There's not really a peak season anywhere in Florida during the summer. I just come up to Full Moon Harbor because Fort Myers is totally dead in the summer. At least here, there are some tourists during the summer. There's a chance somebody may want to go for a sail. Besides, I've pretty much got part-time work at the restaurant here every summer anytime I need it. I've worked at The Captain's Hook the past three summers. They almost expect me every June now. It's enough to pay the rent at the marina, but that's about it."

Sam pulled a pot from a cabinet, filled it with water from the tiny sink, placed it on the two-eyed stove and tossed in a packet of seasoning. Then she pulled a cast-iron skillet off a hook above the stove, poured in a little grease and removed the shrimp from her refrigerator and a bag of french fries from the freezer. As she began to cook, she caught Chuck staring at the photo of her as a young girl.

"That's my Papa." She smiled at him briefly, then turned her attention back to the boiling water and popping skillet. "This was his boat. He's been gone for almost 10 years now."

"I can tell you really miss him."

"He came to America just before Castro took over. He was just a kid then. Sailed over with his family to Miami. He prayed he'd get to go back to Cuba someday. He always wanted to show me where he was from -- some small village in the mountains near Mantanzas. I've seen pictures. I'm gonna go there someday."

"I'm sure you will. Times are changing."

"Not fast enough for me, though. I'm 29. God, I'll be 30 next spring. Hell, I'll be 50 before I can get there."

"Nah."

The grease was popping, and the water was in a rolling boil, so Chuck quit talking and allowed Sam to attend to the task at hand. He thought about her age. He considered 29 to be pretty old indeed, but wasn't about to tell her. At 22 and out of school with a full-time job, he already thought of himself as old. Sam was ancient. As he looked closer, he noticed tiny crow's feet developing in the corners of her dark eyes. Her eyes were strong, but fearful.

"What are you thinking?" She caught him looking.

"Uh, nothing."

"You're thinking about how old I am."

He wanted to offer a rebuttal, but couldn't. And, for once, it wasn't because he was an honest man. It was because he felt like a kid with his hand in the candy jar. She saw right through him.

"I was just wondering where I'll be at 29."

"You look like the kind of guy who would have a plan, you know, like a vision of who you'll be at age so-and-so."

"You've got me pegged. I had a plan. But not anymore."

"It doesn't matter. The only way to ensure you're not gonna get something is to plan on it." She finished dipping out the french fries and shrimp onto a pair of plates and pulled a fold-out table from the wall. "Pull up a stool"

"That's awfully pessimistic. There's nothing wrong with having a plan. Plans can change. Besides, if you don't know where you're going, how are you gonna know when you get there?"

"I'll know. What do you want to drink? Beer or Coke?"

"Coke please." She removed two cans from the tiny refrigerator and set them on the table.

"So, what's your plan?" she asked.

"I told you. I don't have a plan anymore."

"OK, what were your plans?"

"Let's see ... My age 30 vision was to be a CPA back home, have a four-bedroom home on the golf course, a couple of kids."

"Boy and a girl, of course."

"Of course."

She smiled. "A white picket fence, too?"

"Nah. It'd get in the way when I drove my golf cart to the first hole."

"Married to a long-legged blonde? An Emily? Or maybe an Elizabeth?"

"Heck no. A Rachael. At least, that was the plan. I've got to sit down and write a new one now."

"No more Rachael?"

"As of this week, no."

"I'm sorry." The insincerity was hardly disguised. "You don't seem too broken up about it."

"Plans change."

"And how." He dared not ask, but she filled him in anyway. "Papa wanted me to go to college. He didn't care what I did, so long as I went to college."

"You drop out?"

"Never graduated high school. I'm glad he can't see me now. At least, I hope he can't see me now."

"Oh, come on. You're smart, independent, strong, not to mention beautiful. I think he'd be very proud of you."

"You know, the real shame is that nobody realizes just how beautiful Cuba is. Papa said it was the most beautiful island in the Caribbean. And he's seen them all."

It was clear that she didn't care to discuss her unfulfilling life any further. He wanted to ask her what she wanted out of life and why her life of freedom on the water was so unsatisfying, but that ship had sailed.

"Was he a pilot or something?"

"He was a pirate."

"A pirate?"

"He smuggled pot and coke sometimes. But don't get me wrong; he wasn't a bad guy. He never touched drugs a day in his life, hated 'em. But he couldn't make a decent living working on fishing boats and in the cigar factory. So, every now and then, he'd make a run to Jamaica or Guatemala and pick up some trash, as he called it. He never told me about it, but he knew that I knew after I got older. I was scared he'd get caught and sent to prison. Now, I wish he had gotten caught. Better that than getting shot in the back of the head. Are those shrimp good?"

"They're fine."

"We should make this a regular thing," she suggested, "lunch after sailing lessons. Whatcha think?"

"I'd like that," he replied.

"But I want you to quit paying me." He chuckled and shook his head, not wanting to get into that argument again. "Really," she insisted. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for me. I've never given a sailing lesson in my life. I don't even know what half the stuff on this boat is called. I just enjoy your company."

"Now, Sam, I thought ..."

"Please, Chuck." She placed her hand on top of his, a short reach in the cramped cabin. "I really want you to be my friend, not a customer."

"OK. OK. If it makes you feel better, I won't pay. But I want you to know I'll feel darn guilty about it."

"Thank you. Now finish eating."

"And I'd be honored to have you as a friend."

She rolled her eyes disbelievingly. But he was being honest, and she knew it. She could see right through him.

The rest of the day he spent on the couch or staring at the bay from his balcony during halftimes of NFL games. All he was really doing was waiting for Mindy's phone call, a phone call that never came. He figured she had simply gotten caught up in the excitement of the new baby in her family. Still, he was surprised. She told him she would call. And it wasn't like they had a mere date the night before. What they had was momentous. There had to be another reason than his becoming an afterthought. It was a mystery he couldn't solve, not even as he lay in bed that night, tossing and turning.

He felt as tired as he looked in the mirror the next morning. He was anxious, so much so that he was shaky. He was in no mood to be an accountant, but he had obligations. Mindy was probably at school, not thinking about how her lack of contact had put him through hell. Is this what dating a teen-ager was going to be like? he wondered. Rachael might not have evoked his lust like Mindy did, but at least she was dependable.

"Are you OK?" the secretary asked as he paused at his office mailbox to check for messages.

"Hey, Susie." He didn't feel like smiling the way he usually greeted her. "I'm fine. How 'bout you?"

"Are you sick?" she asked.

"Do I look that bad?"

"You just look tired."

"I am a little bit. Maybe I'll get a better night's sleep tonight."

"Well, there's a full pot of coffee just made. Oh, and I just took this message from someone named Jennifer. She said it was urgent and you'd know what it's about. Is that why you're so tired this morning?"

"No ma'am." He rolled his eyes and took the yellow Post-It note with a phone number from her hand. He didn't see what possible good would come from calling Jennifer. It was obvious she had found out what had happened between him and Mindy Saturday night. What else could be so urgent? He didn't know whether she wanted to berate him in her strict, sensible persona or vie for his affection with her softer side. Either way, he wasn't interested in explaining anything to her. He just wanted to see Mindy again. Only after that would he feel up to talking with Jennifer and setting her straight.

He spent two solid hours on the account of a wealthy retiree before closing his ledgers and rocking back in his chair to stretch and let out a sigh. His only breaks had been for quick trips to the coffee pot, and his eyes were burning. He yawned and then rubbed his weary eyes. Instead of seeing stars when he moved his hands from his eyelids, he noticed figures in the doorway -- human figures, not the kind he had been staring at all morning.

"Chuck, you've got some men here to see you," Susie announced. They motioned for her to leave.

"Can I help you?" Chuck asked the two men as Susie left the room. They were both white men with stern faces. The man on the right a little over 40, Chuck figured. The fellow on the right was much younger, maybe 30.

"Yes, sir," said the older man, whose hair was jet black, but graying around the sideburns and temples. "You are Chuck Carson, are you not?"

"Yeah." Chuck was still reclined in his chair.

"Do you know a Mindy Hawkins?"

The two front legs of Chuck's chair returned to the floor as he sat up straight and braced himself with both hands on his desk. "Yes. Why? Who are you guys?"

"I'm Detective Tom Athon, Pine County Sheriff's Department." He didn't bother to introduce his young partner. "I just need to ask you a few questions."

"What's wrong?"

"Danny, how 'bout shuttin' that door." Detective Athon nodded toward his silent partner and they pulled up two chairs near Chuck's desk. Danny pulled out a black notepad and pen and began to jot down notes while the older man did the talking.

"Mr. Carson, no one has seen or heard from Miss Hawkins since Saturday night. Now, that doesn't mean that anything bad has necessarily happened to her or anything. We just want to ask you a few questions. Her mother is very upset and we just want to find her. You understand?"

"Yeah." His lips were quivering.

"When was the last time you saw Miss Hawkins?"

"About 3:30 in the morning, Saturday night, uh Sunday morning."

"And where was this?"

"The Seabreeze Inn in Crescent Beach."

"What were you doing with her at a hotel at 3:30 in the morning?"

"I was dropping her off to go home. We met there late Saturday night. She works there. She left her car there and we had gone back to my place for a couple of hours."

"What's the nature of your relationship with Miss Hawkins?"

"We just starting seeing each other."

"Like a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship?"

"I guess. I mean, like I said, I've only known her a few weeks and we just starting seeing each other, you know, serious."

"Did anything unusual happen that night? Did you have any kind of a fight or did she seem upset?"

"No. Not at all."

"How old are you, Mr. Carson?"

"Twenty-two."

"And Miss Hawkins is seventeen?" Chuck nodded. Detective Athon glanced at his partner's notetaking. He appeared to be checking to make sure his partner was getting the information down. "Now, you'll pardon me if I have to pry into your personal life a little, but exactly what happened when you and Miss Hawkins went to your place?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you and Miss Hawkins have sexual relations?"

"Yeah."

"And you just started seeing each other?"

"Yeah."

"Did you have a sexual relationship before Saturday night?"

"No, but I don't see what that's got to do ..."

"Mr. Carson, where do you live?"

"Off Highway 98. I rent a little guest house from the Whaley family."

"I don't guess you'd mind if we took a quick look around your home, would you?"

"Absolutely not. I don't know what you guys are getting at, but Mindy was as happy as she could be when she left my apartment, and there's no way in the world I'd do anything to hurt her. And you're not gonna find anything around my apartment. Yes, she was there. Yes, we had sex. But I took her back to the hotel and I watched as she drove off. She was going to go home, get a little sleep and then head to Mobile to see her aunt who had just had a baby. I saw her drive away from the hotel. I sat there in my car made sure she got on the road safe and sound."

Both detectives raised their eyebrows and looked at each other as they stood from their chairs. "You say you saw her get into her car and drive off?""

"Yeah."

"Well, that's kinda strange."

"Why's that?"

"Because Miss Hawkins' car is still at the hotel."

A hush fell over the lobby as the trio passed through. A bewildered Chuck had agreed to lead them to his apartment. He was now so confused that he was willing to do whatever they asked. He had nothing to hide and the quicker they got off his tail, the sooner they could get on the right path. The bright light of the sun hit Chuck as they walked out the front door to the parking lot. Before they had taken four steps out the door, a pickup truck skidded into the parking lot, hitting the threesome with gravel and a cloud of dust. Before Chuck could clear the choking dust from his face he was slammed to the ground. The back of his head banged against the hot asphalt. He felt a warm stream of blood flowing through his hair and down his neck. Before he could move a hand to the back of his head, his face was smashed by a series of blows from a steel fist.

"I'm gonna kill you, you goddamn asshole!" the unknown figure screamed as it continued to pound his face. Chuck felt his lip split and his nose break. The two lawmen wrestled the figure away. Chuck dizzily raised up on his elbows to see the two men having a hard time restraining the assailant. Then their eyes met. It was Billy, Mindy's maniac ex-boyfriend. Tears were streaming down his face.

"Goddammit, Billy!" yelled the younger detective. "What the hell's the matter with you?"

"He killed her! I know he did it!"

Chuck wanted to tell the detectives right then and there about the night they nearly came to blows weeks earlier at Sharky's and the threatening phone call to his hotel room later that night. But he had yet to compose himself, and the two men had their hands full. Besides, if they ever needed evidence of Billy's raging jealousy and hot temper, this was it.

"Damn it. Billy! Calm down!" the young cop continued as Billy began to concede. "We don't know anybody's killed anybody! We're gonna find her, Billy. And if anything has happened to her, you can bet we'll get to the bottom of it." With that, he shot an icy stare in Chuck's direction. Chuck knew this was not a good sign. Not only were the lawmen suspicious of him, but they were apparently on a first-name basis with Billy, whom Chuck saw as the prime suspect if anything had indeed happened to Mindy. Meanwhile, he was a stranger.

Chuck sat on the hood of his Tacoma with his head buried in his hands. His head was throbbing, and he began to cry. There was no doubt in his mind that Billy had done something horrible to Mindy. Her smiling face popped into his mind and he choked on his tears. And here were these small-town cops from a seaside town of retirees bungling the whole thing. Dammit, if he had killed Mindy, would he have brought the authorities to his home and opened the door for them? But he knew there was no sense in trying to sway the cops with logic. He just wanted them to look at everything and see this was a dead end and move on to Billy. It was obvious to him. Billy must have found out about their rendezvous and flew into a jealous rage. But why was Mindy's car still at the hotel? He was certain he had watched it pull away. He couldn't have imagined it.

"Mr. Carson." The younger detective, Danny, was coming from the back of the apartment holding an aluminum softball bat with his glove-covered hands. "Do you recognize this?"

"No. It's not mine. Could be the Whaleys'."

Danny slipped the bat carefully into a plastic bag and placed it in the trunk of their car as Detective Athon made his way down the steps from Chuck's door. He shut the door behind him, signaling he was done. Chuck overheard him quietly ask Danny, "What you got?" as they peered into the trunk.

Athon then opened the passenger side door of the squad car, reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a clear plastic bag. He brought it over to Chuck. "Any of this look familiar?" He held the bag about a foot from Chuck's face. Inside were a wadded-up piece of and a rose. The stem was snapped in half and the petals had been ravaged.

"No."

"Hey, Danny! Come here!" Danny slammed the trunk shut and obliged. "Get your notebook out and read me what was on that note." The young cop pulled out the little black book and flipped through a few pages before stopping to read.

"Dear Mindy. I desperately need to talk to you ..."

"Oh, wait. That's the note I put in her car Friday, and the rose. But she said she never got it. Where did you find it?"

"In her car, on the front seat. You know, something don't make sense here," Athon said. "Friday afternoon she's tearing up this note you left her, and you're having sex with her on Saturday night. It seems to me that if she was as fond of you as you apparently were of her, then she wouldn't be tearing up this note and trashing this flower."

"She's in love with me, I'm telling you! She said she never got that note and flower."

"Did you have sex with her against her will?"

"No!"

"How about taking a little ride down to the station with us? I think we might need to talk about Saturday night in a little more detail."

"You idiots think I did something to Mindy! Were you there when that redneck attacked me? Are you blind? He's the one you ought to be talking to!"

"Just hop in the back seat, Mr. Carson. We'll talk down at the station."

"Are you charging me with something?"

"No, not yet."

"Well, I've got a phone call to make. You'll just have to hold your damn horses for a second."

Chuck walked into his apartment while the two men sat in the car. His hands were shaking violently as he tried to dial his parents' number. He stopped before hitting the last digit. He didn't want to drag them into the whole crazy mess. He called the office instead.

"Sam Wells please."

"He's not in. May I take a message?"

"Susie, this is Chuck."

"What's going on, Chuck?"

"It's crazy, Susie. These cops think I've done something horrible. They want me to go down to the sheriff's office with them."

"Do you need a lawyer?"

"Yes, but I don't know who to call."

"You don't worry about that, Chuck. We'll get you the best there is. Sam knows a ton of lawyers. Now don't you tell them anything until somebody gets down there. You hear me?"

"There's nothing to tell, Susie. I haven't done anything wrong."

"I know, Chuck. You just stay strong until we get down there. OK?"

"OK."

It was 5:30 p.m. before when a man dressed in a dark blue suit knocked on the door of Detective Athon's office. Chuck didn't look up. His aching rested on his arm, which was stretched across a little table upon which was nothing else but a tape recorder. Danny the deputy fidgeted frustratedly in the chair across from Chuck, who answered every question they asked. He answered several repeatedly as they had tried to trip him up over the times he picked up Mindy and dropped her off at the hotel. His answers stood firm, though more curt as the minutes passed. He had nothing to hide. He was frustrated with the cops and the fact they were targeting him and not Billy. More so, he wished he had approached the relationship with Mindy slower. Maybe if they had taken it one step at a time, Billy could have adjusted to the situation. In a way, he realized was partly to blame for whatever had happened to Mindy. Horrible scenarios explaining Mindy's disappearance raged through his mind like runaway trains. As much as he tried to focus on anything else, the thoughts of Mindy could not be ignored. Maybe it wasn't Billy at all. Mindy was cute. Any pervert could have got the jump on her, raped her, killed her. It could have happened in Crescent Beach or on the road to Mobile. But that wouldn't explain her car's still being at the hotel. There was no reasonable explanation. And he couldn't make himself believe that his worrying was all for naught. There simply was no way she would just disappear to get her head straight. He had never seen her happier, and that was saying something, for she was naturally perky anyway. There was no sense wishing for some miraculous explanation when he just didn't believe.

After talking with Detective Athon in private, the man in the suit returned to the office and placed his hand on Chuck's shoulder.

"Chuck, I'm John Morrison. Sam Wells sent me. You can go home now. I'll drive you and we can talk about this in the car."

As the lawyer drove down Highway 98, Chuck gave him a summary of the situation and told him that he was certain Billy was behind it all, perhaps even staging the assault on him at the accounting office in front of the cops to shift the focus away from himself, though it was one hell of an act. John Morrison simply nodded with each statement, taking it all in. He looked to be around 60, like the kind of attorney who could breeze through a house closing, explaining what each form meant in ten seconds or less from having done it a thousand times. Chuck had no idea if he could handle such a complicated case, though, if there were a case. But he didn't care. He just wanted Mindy to show up safely at her home with some wild tale explaining where she had been for the past 40 or so hours. After all, she hadn't even been missing long enough to be considered a missing person. But Chuck felt silly clinging to such a hope. The best he could hope for was that she was knocked out or maybe had amnesia. But such scenarios were far more likely in soap operas.

Morrison did not bother to cut off his Lincoln after pulling into the Whaleys' driveway. He told Chuck how to get to his law office and told him to be there at nine in the morning and they would discuss matters further. He told Chuck there was nothing yet that he could be charged with in connection to Mindy's disappearance, but to be careful and give the police no reason to put him in jail.

"Don't you so much as run a yellow traffic light. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"OK. Now, get yourself cleaned up and get a good night's sleep. From what you're telling me, I don't see any reason why we need to meet for any more than a half hour or so in the morning, then you can go back to work and go about your business as usual."

"I'm taking the day off tomorrow. I don't feel like explaining all this anymore. See ya."

Chuck saw Mr. Whaley pruning hedges in his front yard as Morrison pulled away. He smiled and waved, though he looked curiously at the big Continental leaving his property. He obviously knew nothing about what was going on.

"Having car trouble or something?" Mr. Whaley shouted. He was about 20 yards away and Chuck doubted he could see the mess Billy had made of his face.

"Yes, sir. Long day." Chuck abruptly cut off the conversation and headed up the stairs, desperate to be alone. No cops, no lawyers, no co-workers, no Billy, no Mindy, no Jennifer, no Rachael. Just him and his tears for a while. The answering machine was blinking so many times, Chuck had no idea how many messages he had, but he knew what they were about. He ignored them and lay down on the sofa. For an hour, he just cried.

Around 7:30, the phone rang and he let the answering machine pick it up on the second ring.

"Chuck, this is Jennifer again. We've got to talk. It's urgent. Please call me at 45 ..." He snatched the phone off the hook.

"Jennifer!"

"Chuck! Where have you been? I've been calling all day."

"Have you heard something? Please tell me you've found Mindy!"

"No." Silence. "Chuck, what happened?"

"What do you mean, 'What happened?' "

"You're the last person to see her."

"She came over here and spent a few hours. Then I took her back to the hotel and she got in her car and drove off. That's the last I saw of her. She was gonna hit the sack and then get up and drive to Mobile to see her mom and her aunt. That's all I know."

"She never made it home, Chuck."

"So you were there when this party or whatever was going on?"

"Yeah, earlier that night."

"The one Billy and his friends were at."

"Yeah."

"When did Billy leave?"

"Billy wouldn't have done anything to her, Chuck. He loved her."

"What time did he leave?!"

"I don't know."

"Was he pissed off because Mindy didn't come back?"

"Well, of course he was. But that doesn't mean anything."

"It means everything, Jennifer! What did he say when he found out Mindy was with me?"

"Elizabeth didn't tell him she was with you. She told him it was her mom and she had to go to Mobile right away. He didn't know she was with you."

"Did he believe her?"

"I don't know. But he wouldn't do anything to hurt her, Chuck. I swear."

"Well, I don't believe you. He damn near killed me this afternoon!"

"I know."

"What do you mean, you know?"

"Billy told me all about it. If I were you, I'd stay clear of him. He's pretty upset."

"Oh, so now he's dangerous, but Saturday night after sitting around Mindy's house, drinking beer and finding out his girlfriend wasn't coming back, I'm sure he was just a freakin' teddy bear. Dammit, Jennifer! I don't care if he's your goddamn friend or your goddamn brother! He's crazy. And he's the only person that knows what's happened to Mindy."

"Don't jump to conclusions."

"Well, if he didn't, then who did? She didn't have an enemy in the world, at least not in Crescent Beach or Full Moon Harbor."

"Maybe it wasn't someone from here. Maybe it was someone from out of town."

"Like me, huh?"

"Who knows?"

"Dammit, Jennifer! You know I loved her."

"Loved? Past tense?"

"Screw this! I've got enough people in this town who don't trust me. I don't need you! I'll find out what's happened with or without you!"

He slammed the phone against the hook, breaking the plastic catch that held it in place. In his fury, he then threw the phone so hard that it ripped the cord out of the jack. He had never felt so alone. For a moment, he considered calling Rachael. She had been there for him through some stressful occasions, though nothing in the ballpark with this. But she would not want to hear the details of the situation with Mindy. He could go to Sam, he thought, but he did not want to drag her into his problems, even though she was the only person besides Mindy in the county who had taken him at face value. And what he presented on the outside was no cover. He was indeed sensitive, thoughtful and honest, honest to a fault even. Perhaps Mindy had overlooked those qualities, blinded by her physical attraction to him. But there was no physical attraction with Sam and she seemed to see straight into his soul. She knew there was nothing to fear in him. He dared not shake that impression, however, with the story of his connection to Mindy's disappearance. His story, while true, was not winning any believers. He wasn't willing to risk losing Sam as a friend by drawing any lines between himself and this mystery. Maybe they could talk once he collected his thoughts. Maybe after the meeting with the lawyer. He was physically exhausted and emotionally drained. He lay back on the couch and fell asleep in minutes.

Chapter 6

2008-11-28T22:58:00.001-08:00

Before he left for John Morrison's law office, Chuck phoned Susie to let her know he was taking the day off. He could handle staring at numbers all day, but he could not deal with the stares of colleagues or any questions, none of which he had been able to answer. Morrison's office was in a renovated old drug store in downtown Crescent Beach just off Highway 98. Chuck gave his name to the secretary, and she told him it would be a few minutes. He sat on a leather couch and thumbed through a new copy of Sports Illustrated. He wasn't reading. His mind had no room for the words. He just glanced at the pictures and thought about Saturday night with Mindy.

It was the first time sex had a deeper meaning for him. Every move, every touch was synchronized with hers. All the while, his eyes looked deeply into her clear, green eyes as they reflected the light of the full moon filtering in through the blinds of his bedroom. They took their time. It was soft and fluid. More like some sacred dance than ...

"Chuck! Come on back!" John Morrison popped into the lobby for a millionth of a second to wave Chuck in. He tossed the magazine onto an end table and followed.

"Go ahead and have a seat, Chuck," Morrison said as he pointed to his office. He was in the middle of a lively chat with another older fellow Chuck figured to be the second half of Morrison and Perry. They shared a hearty laugh. It was just another morning at the office, another client with a petty problem. Lunch at the bar and grill at noon. Par-three tournament in the afternoon. Steak for dinner. Maybe take a quick dip in the pool. Watch a little television. Then off to bed to do it all again. But first, Chuck had to be dealt with.

"You feeling better this morning?" Morrison asked as he closed the heavy wooden door behind him and took a seat at his desk.

"Not really." Not that Morrison seemed to truly care how he was feeling. Not that Morrison was rude, but rather apathetic or bored by the routine. He was likely hoping that Mindy would surface safely, he'd bill Chuck and he could move on to house closings and wills that could be scheduled around his golf games.

"Chuck, I want you to tell me minute by minute, second by second, what happened between you and this young lady Saturday night. I want to know times and places. Don't leave out a single detail, important or unimportant."

Chuck sighed and relayed the entire story once more. He caught himself talking as if he had memorized the Declaration of Independence and was speaking before his seventh-grade classmates. There weren't many details. He remembered exactly how she smelled, that innocence in her eyes, that spunky hair and the way her lips tasted. But none of that was relevant. So he gave the simple truth -- he met her at the hotel, took her to his apartment, they had sex and then he took her back to the hotel and watched her drive safely away.

"She is officially a missing person now, Chuck." He said nothing. "I don't guess I have to tell you the police think you're the reason she's missing. You're apparently the last person to see her, or the last person anybody knows about. If anything bad, God forbid, did happen to this young lady, they're gonna be looking at you."

Chuck looked at him unbelievably. "Why? Because I was the last person to see her?"

"They're already gathering evidence against you, though it may be circumstantial. There's that card you gave her that they found all wadded up, and that broken rose. And, of course, there are no witnesses to support your story. But the biggest thing is the baseball bat. Suppose you tell me about that."

"What bat?"

"They took a baseball bat from your residence yesterday."

"Yeah, I saw 'em, but I don't see what that's got to do with anything. It's not my bat. It's probably the Whaleys'."

"It had blood smeared and splattered on it. Well, it's not necessarily her blood. After all, she may be just fine wherever she is. Let's hope so."

"I don't have much hope."

"And why's that?"

"I'm sure her ex-boyfriend is behind all this."

Chuck told Morrison again about Billy and their two confrontations -- at the bar and in front of the accounting office.

"Well, he would certainly have the motive. But in the police's eyes, you had the opportunity. And even if it's not true, it's an easy circumstantial case to build. Guy from out of town falls in love with a pretty young girl. She refuses his advances, even tears up his love letter and flowers. He's hurt and gets even. Unrequited love. They see it all the time."

"It wasn't unrequited, Mr. Morrison. She wanted to be with me from the first day I got here."

"OK, OK."

They discussed the details of Morrison's role in representing him and how Chuck would pay. Chuck assured him that he would ensure the bill was paid, but that he hoped there would be no follow-up visits. Chuck retained his services nevertheless. As he was leaving, Morrison had a final question.

"Chuck, you are telling the whole truth aren't you? If there's anything, anything at all that you're not telling me, I've got to know. I can't represent you unless you're completely honest with me."

"I'm gonna tell you this one time, Mr. Morrison. I didn't hurt Mindy. I didn't kill Mindy. And I have no clue where she is, but if I find out Billy did anything to hurt her, I will be killing somebody."

"OK, Chuck. I believe you. I'll be in touch with you if I hear anything."

It was 9:30 a.m. as he was preparing to leave Crescent Beach. Just before the city limits sign, he abruptly pulled into a tiny liquor store and bought a fifth of gin and a half-gallon of orange juice. His plans for the day were simple. He was going to drink himself into a stupor. Then, Wednesday, he would return to work and try to get on with business as usual. But, for now, he had to get away, not from town, but from reality.

He was drunk by noon. But that didn't stop him from driving to McDonald's for lunch and then to the mall to kill time. He bought a cheap hat that he could pull down over his eyes and ears and look just like another retired fisherman in "The Luckiest Fishing Village in the World." A couple more swigs of gin, and then he took in a movie. He was so drunk, the characters and plots were all giant blurs. He was disappointed to see that it was just four o'clock on his watch when he stumbled out of the dark theater and was blinded by the bright sunlight. Now what? He didn't want to go back to that apartment. He needed a friend. Someone to talk to. He decided to visit the marina.

The marina parking lot was unusually full, and he had to drive around the lot a couple of times before finally spotting a space with vision blurred by alcohol and fatigue. Another swig of gin and toward the steps that led to the boats he staggered.

As he walked along the boats, trying to recall exactly what her boat looked like and the name of it, he noticed a gathering of boats under the Highway 98 bridge.

"Chuck," a surprised Sam greeted him as he unwittingly passed the Oya. She was washing the cabin windows. "What are you doing down here?"

"Actually, I was coming down to see you."

"Well, here I am."

He held on to the railing firmly as he made his way toward the plank to her boat. She stared at him in disbelief.

"Are you drunk?"

"Just a little. I've got a few problems.

"OK, tell me all about it," she said as she stood to help him board the boat without falling. "I've got a few minutes to spare."

"Thanks, Sam. I really, really appreciate it." She turned her head from the alcohol-laced breath of the drunk with his arm draped over her shoulder.

"I think you'd better get out of the sun. Come on inside and cool off."

"Hang on a second. Damn! Check out all those boats out there under the bridge. What's all the boats out there for, Captain Sam? Some kind of boat tournament thing? What's it called? A regatta?"

"You haven't heard all the excitement? They found some girl's body under the bridge today, right about where we had lunch yesterday. Creepy, huh?"

Samantha pulled Chuck's head to her lap as she sat down on the deck where her new friend was curled up in a fetal position, crying and shaking. He had warned himself there was no hope of finding Mindy alive, but had never admitted that somewhere in his heart was a flicker of hope. Having it extinguished knocked the breath out of him and rendered his knees useless. He hadn't fainted. He was all too conscious of the situation. Samantha, meanwhile, was clueless. Chuck had not bothered to tell her about Mindy. She just rubbed the back of his neck reassuringly as a mother would a son who had fallen off his bicycle and scraped a knee.

"It's OK. It's OK. What's wrong?"

"I know who it is, Sam."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I know who they found under that bridge. Her name's Mindy Hawkins. I was with her Saturday night. And they think I killed her."

"Who thinks you killed her?"

"The cops. Her friends. The whole damn county. I didn't do it, Sam. I swear I never would have laid a hand on that girl. I loved her, Sam. I loved her."

"How do you know it's her?"

"I just do. Who else could it be? They're gonna come after me, Sam. I didn't do it, Sam. I'd never do something so horrible. I loved her."

"I know you didn't." An elderly couple walking along the boardwalk nervously glanced at the hysterical scene on Sam's boat, catching an eat-shit glare from Sam before speeding up their pace. "Come on, Chuck. Settle down. Let's get out of the sun. Tell me about it in the cabin."

She guided Chuck to her bunk, which was the only place to sit in the cabin besides a stool she kept around the stove, off which she often ate her meals straight out of the pots and pans as they sat on the burners. She poured him a cup of orange juice, the only beverage she had in her tiny refrigerator. She held him until the tears and the gasping for air ceased.

"Now," she said as she handed him the red plastic cup, "suppose you tell me what's going on."

Chuck gave her the general rundown, but skimmed over the details. He explained the mountain of possible evidence against him, though he didn't understand where the baseball bat came from, why the rose and letter were found in Mindy's car or why Mindy's car was found in the hotel parking lot as if she had never driven off. And he told her of his experience with Billy.

"What are you gonna do, Chuck?"

"I don't know. I'm sure the cops are at my apartment, waiting to haul me in. They're probably looking for my truck now. I guess I'd better call my lawyer. They're gonna arrest me. Dammit, Sam! I don't have a chance. They're not even looking at anybody else. They just so damn certain that I did it. If I run and hide, that'll just make it look like I did do it. If I give myself up, I might never see the light of day again. What should I do?"

"I don't know, Chuck. This is all so crazy. I feel like I've known you forever. All I can say is I'm here for you. I know you wouldn't do anything to hurt anybody. If you need to, you can sleep on the boat tonight. We could drop anchor somewhere quiet in the bay so you could get your head together."

"I appreciate it, Sam, but I can't drag you into this. It's bad enough that I'm laying all this in your lap. I shouldn't have come over here. I just needed to talk to somebody, somebody that would listen. I didn't know it was gonna come to this, not so suddenly anyway."

"It's OK, Chuck. I'm here for you. I'll be here for you no matter what happens. You're my friend."

"Thanks, but you've done enough."

"I wish I could do something to make it all better. I feel so helpless."

"You believe in me. That's something."

"My offer stands."

"No. I'm not going to get you in trouble. But I'm not going to give up either. I haven't done anything wrong. I better go, Sam."

"Where?"

"I'm just gonna get in my car and drive. Maybe head back home to Georgia until the coast is clear."

"Well, if you're leaving, then I'm going back to Fort Myers for the winter. There's nothing here for me anymore. Let me write down the address of the marina." Sam walked to the refrigerator and tore off a piece of paper. She grabbed a pen off the counter and began copying the address. "Here. Don't lose it. I'll be shipping out in a week or two. I don't care where you are or what you're doing, you better let me know what's going on. Promise me, Chuck."

"I promise." He took the piece of paper, folded it once and stuffed it behind his driver's license in his wallet. "I'm fixing to go."

"You can come with me."

"No. Sam, right now, there's nothing in the world I'd rather do than sail off into the sunset with you. But this would haunt me. I've got to face it. I'm not going to let Mindy down. I'm gonna find out what happened Saturday night, if I have to die trying."

"OK, I understand. Just don't you forget me. And don't forget that I'm here for you, now, tomorrow, years from now. I mean it." She looked down at the floor, trying to hide her emotions.

"Don't worry about me," he said as he put his hands on her shoulders. "Thanks for being a true friend. Just knowing I've got one friend in the world is gonna help keep me going."

Sam looked up and stared into his eyes through the tears. He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm and turned him back to her. Then she hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. "You be careful, Chuck. I don't want anything to happen to you."

"Yeah, me either."

"I really, really like you." Chuck didn't respond verbally, but his somber gaze into her dark eyes said it all. The bond was undeniable. "I'm sorry, Chuck. I couldn't let you go without saying it."

"Take care of yourself, Sam. If I get out of this mess, I'll come find you."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, promise."

Chuck pulled off I-10 at a lonely exit with nothing but a couple of gas stations and a Waffle House. He hadn't bothered to drop by his apartment and pick up any of his belongings. He managed to slip out of Pine County on backroad he didn't even know, but followed so long as they headed north or east and closer to the Georgia line. After getting a Coke for the road at the gas station, he placed his last phone call before leaving the Sunshine State from a pay phone.

"Duncan, Morrison, Howell and Perry. Can I help you?"

He was surprised to hear the secretary's voice at such a late hour. It was after seven.

"Yes, is John Morrison in?"

"Who may I ask is calling?"

"Chuck Carson."

"Hold on, Mr. Carson, I'll put you right through."

"Chuck, where are you?" Morrison asked as soon as he picked up. "I've been trying to get you all afternoon. I hate to be the bearer of bad new, but they found Mindy Hawkins' body in the Thronateeska Bay early this afternoon under the Highway 98 bridge."

"Yeah, I know."

"What do you mean, you know?"

"A friend told me."

"Chuck, they've got a warrant for your arrest. Wherever you are, you need to get down to my office right away, and I'll go to the station with you."

"I don't think so, Mr. Morrison. I'm taking a little road trip. Everybody thinks I did it. I don't stand a chance down there. They'll send me away the rest of my life, if they hang me."

"Chuck, as your lawyer, I can't allow you to do this. You've got to turn yourself in, and we'll fight this in court. If you're innocent, we'll prove it in court."

"That's the problem, Mr. Morrison. IF. If I'm innocent? There's no if, Mr. Morrison. I didn't do it. Not even my own lawyer believes me."

"You can't run, Chuck. It won't take them long to find you. And I'm obligated to inform them that I've had contact with you."

"That's fine. But I'm not giving up without a fight. You just tell the police I'm innocent and somehow I'm gonna clear my name. And tell them not to waste their time trying to find me. Mindy's boyfriend, Billy whatever-his-last-name-is, did it. If they want to get to the bottom of this, they need to look there. If I turn myself in now, they'll never look any further than me."

"Now, Chuck ..."

"Good-bye."

Henderson was quiet when he entered the town through the backstreets on the south side. Normally, he would not be taking such care to avoid being noticed by the cops in his own hometown. After all, he knew half of them by their first names and recognized the rest by their faces. But these were extraordinary circumstances. He didn't know who might be looking for him now. The state patrol? The GBI? The FBI? The CIA? Who knew? He couldn't take any chances.

He didn't even know why he had come home, not that it actually felt like home anymore. Home was on the ocean. But he knew he could hide in Henderson, where he knew every tree, ditch, creek and barn in the county. He had yet to decide on a hiding place, but his car was out of gas again. Like so many other small towns in South Georgia, Henderson was divided into a white side and a black side. There literally was "the other side of the tracks" in Henderson as a set of rails split the town in half. It was on the black side of town that Chuck chose to stop and fill up -- and place another phone call.

"Hello. You've reached the Castleberry residence. Leave a message and we'll get back to you as soon as possible."

"Jack, this is Chuck. I'm back in Henderson and need to talk to you. Meet me at our secret fishing spot as soon as you get a chance. I'm gonna be waiting. It's important."

He didn't say any more, for fear of arousing suspicion in Jack's parents that something was dreadfully wrong. Their parents were neighbors and attended the same church. They weren't as close as Chuck and Jack had been, but they were more like the kind of folks that would bring over dinner if there were a death in the family and would also say "Hello," on the street, occasionally stopping longer to chat. They would most certainly report any problems to his parents, so he hoped Jack got the message first. He wasn't sure exactly what he wanted from Jack, but had plenty of time to figure that out before Jack met him at the river.

Chuck drove out of town toward their "secret" spot on the Flint River midway between Henderson and a little town called Traveler’s Rest. About a mile from the water, he turned down a tiny dirt road to the right. It wasn't really a road, actually, just a couple of trails of exposed sand where pickups had made their way into the woods over the years to for hunting and fishing. But only locals would know to look for it, for the trail was rendered obsolete to most fishermen when they built a boat ramp and marina a couple miles downstream. It was where Chuck and Jack, neither of whom owned a boat, preferred to fish. They would also camp there occasionally under the railroad trestles. They found the spot when they were about 10 years old and began walking along railroad tracks on lazy summer days for entertainment. He cut on his high beams and looked closely for any trees or limbs that might have fallen across the secret route.

He parked his Tacoma a couple dozen feet off the path in a clearing no bigger than the car itself. Branches of overhanging trees scratched at the paint as it crawled to a stop. Fortunately, there was still a sleeping bag behind the passenger seat. In the glove compartment was a cigarette lighter he had used for everything from lighting firecrackers to candles to outdoor grills. He was not an outdoorsman by any stretch of the imagination. If he were forced to hide out in the woods for an extended period, he'd have to give up. He was no Rambo or Davy Crockett. But for a night or two, all he needed was a sleeping bag and a way to start a fire. Plus the beef jerky, bottled water and loaf of bread he'd picked up at a Publix a few hours earlier in Valdosta. He grabbed a few long branches and spread them across the car. Not much of a disguise, but enough of a cover this deep in the woods. Of course, anyone this deep in the woods would notice, but he couldn't just leave it utterly exposed. Though he was certain there wasn't so intense a manhunt for him yet as to reach the air, he was taking no chances. He rolled up the sleeping bag, tossed it over his shoulder and began walking the quarter-mile or so through the woods to the riverbank.

The woods had never seemed so lonely, so scary. He had never been there alone. All the sounds -- the whippoorwills, owls, wild dogs and coyotes -- were familiar, but suddenly menacing. At least it was too cool for snakes to be a threat. He was anxious to reach the river, where the moonlight could find him again and he could build a fire on a sandbar to ward off the creatures of the night. It would also be his signal to Jack, should he arrive during the night. Certainly, Jack would come as soon as possible, knowing that if he were to have driven over 250 miles to come home in the middle of the week, something must be terribly wrong. Perhaps he had even heard the news. It wouldn't take long for authorities to contact someone in Henderson asking about him. And when they did, word would spread like wildfire through the town. Still, he felt certain he could make his break and get clean away so long as he did not have to make any direct contacts. By having Jack come to him, he could stay out of sight.

He found a sandbar not far from the Southwest Georgia Railroad trestles, close enough that he could hear the trains pass every couple of hours, but far enough that he couldn't see them, and they couldn't see him. He spread out his bag behind a fallen tree to shield him from the unlikely prospect that any early morning boaters may pass. It was a deserted stretch of the Flint, where only die-hard fishermen and canoeists dared venture, and certainly not on an early Wednesday morning. But there was no sense in taking chances.

It was obvious to Chuck that it had not rained in the Henderson area in quite a while. Every branch he picked up to build a fire was dry and brittle. Starting a fire would be easy. He grabbed a couple handfuls of leaves and placed them in a pile on the sandbar near the water. He stacked the dry branches on top. After igniting the small pile, he found a sizeable fallen limb and kicked at it until it snapped in two. He took one half of the limb and broke it across his knee, creating two perfect logs for a small campfire -- big enough to burn until he fell asleep, but small enough to be ashes by morning.

Finally settled down, he ate a couple of pieces of beef jerky and then toasted a couple pieces of bread over a small, rogue flame that was warm enough to brown the white bread, but not his hands. He washed it down with a swig of the bottled spring water, but was careful not to waste it. The future was unclear, and so was the water from the Flint River, which was headed the opposite way of Chuck. It would join forces with the Chattahoochee at the Georgia-Florida border to form the Apalachicola River and empty into the Gulf of Mexico around the town of Apalachicola about a two-hour's drive east of his apartment in Full Moon Harbor.

He stared at the heavens, hoping for a falling star, but catching none. He prayed for answers, but none came. He knew escaping his fate was impossible. Someday, the authorities would catch up with him. And as long as he had no plan, it would probably be sooner rather than later. But he was out of ideas. So many questions and so few answers made his head ache. That, and fear. The flickering light of the campfire turned every tree in the woods into a monster from his childhood. And there were real monsters, too -- alligators and such. He'd been up this part of the river enough to know it was a favorite haunt of the reptiles. He was smart enough to know they didn't give a damn about his presence, but dumb enough to be scared anyway. Still, he was too tired to stay awake and stand guard. He stood up, yawned, stretched and walked over to his sleeping bag. The song of the cicadas quickly put him to sleep.

Chapter 7

2008-11-28T22:56:00.000-08:00

Morning. The peace of the river was protected by a shroud of fog. A tiny funnel of smoke rose from the remains of his fire. An owl called it a night, hooting his surrender to the sunrise. It was cold, and Chuck shivered as he wrapped the sleeping bag tighter around his body. No sign of Jack. There was no guarantee that he had gotten the phone message. But he couldn't risk driving back into town, at least not until night returned with its cloak of darkness. It was a certainty that word of Chuck's being a fugitive had spread to Henderson. A day of sitting around the river, eating bread and beef jerky awaited him.

It all seemed so surreal, as if he had dreamed Tuesday's events -- and Saturday, Sunday and Monday for that matter. But if it were dreamed, he damn sure wouldn't be freezing his ass off by the water. His job as an accountant was gone. Everything in his apartment and parents' house was probably confiscated. The house with the white, picket fence, the two and a half kids, the dog and swimming pool, all gone. In two days, his material world had been reduced to a Tacoma, a Bic lighter and a sleeping bag. The bread and beef jerky wouldn't be around long enough to count. His newfound love was dead and his old flame extinguished. But the timeless beauty of the river remained. It cared not for his woes. It had an infinite mission, and he truly was dust in the wind. The Kansas song echoed in his head. A faraway train horn signaled that the world was going on without him.

The peace was broken, not by a distant horn. Voices carried through the woods, and Chuck's eyes popped open. He bolted up in his bag, watching for movement through the trees. The voices were still far away. It could be Jack, but to whom would he be talking. He should have told him to come alone. Chuck struggled out of his sleeping bag. There was no time to hide it under the fallen tree that had been his companion. He couldn't kick it into the woods, for the voices no doubt had ears and would hear the commotion. He had to make a break for it. He ran down the sandbar and followed the riverbank. He would be better concealed in the woods, but that would be negated by the noise of crackling leaves under his feet. No, he needed to cover distance in a hurry, and quietly on the sandy bank. He needed to be far enough away to survey the situation without being noticed. He was in a full sprint when he heard his name and stopped in his tracks.

"Chuck!"

Whoever it was had come for him. It had to be Jack. Chuck was about a hundred yards from his campsite when he turned to await the voices' appearance. Jack had better have one hell of a trustworthy companion with him. Two figures emerged from the woods. Neither was Jack. Not unless Jack was wearing a beige Flint County Sheriff's Department uniform.

"Look, Sheriff, a fire!" blared one of the men. They hadn't seen Chuck.

Chuck began backing away, careful to make no sudden moves as they inspected the spot where he had slept. A little more separation and he would be far enough out of sight to begin running without drawing attention. SNAP! He might as well have fired a cannon when he stepped on the twig. The twig under his foot wasn't even a half-inch thick. Damn that South Georgia drought.

"Chuck!" the sheriff yelled. Chuck knew Sheriff Howell. He had even played golf with him at the country club a couple of times in random pairings. But the sheriff hadn't come to the river to assemble a foursome. Chuck took off like a startled deer, bounding up the hill that led to the railroad tracks he had walked as a child. The distant train horn that had sounded a minute earlier was replaced by the sound of steel rails being pummeled by the wheels of a freight train. It was getting closer and would no doubt be going full speed through such a rural landscape, for there were no crossings for miles. If the train beat him to the top of the hill, he would be trapped and easy prey for the two pursuers. And he couldn't go under the trestle because it was all water. They would catch up with him for sure. His only hope was to beat the train.

"Chuck Carson! Where the hell are you going, boy?! You come back here! I ain't gonna hurt you, son!"

The sheriff, who was about 50, was in a halfhearted jog. Chuck's situation was likely big news in Henderson, but the sheriff had seen cropdusters crash, jealous husbands shoot their wives and children horribly abused, even in the picture-perfect small town. The younger deputy, however, was in full pursuit. Chuck had a sizeable head start on him, but it would be all for naught if he didn't beat that train. He could hear the engine roaring. It was just on the other side of the river.

"Chuck! You got everybody worried sick!" Sheriff Howell, who was not even in a jog anymore, hollered. "You gotta stop running and face this like a man! Chuck! Stop, Chuck! I'm warning you!"

It wasn't like he was going to shoot or anything. He knew the sheriff would just as soon let him run away. He was 10 yards from the top of the hill when he saw the train's lead engine on the bridge. It was seconds away from reaching the west bank. And Chuck was seconds away from the top of the bank, too. The slightest misstep would land him in jail. Even a flawless ascent to the top of the hill was no guarantee he could safely cross the tracks. The train was plowing ahead as if it knew it was a race. Finally, the top, and the train was no more than 40 feet away. There was no time to judge it. He took two steps on the gravel, placed his right foot on a rail tie and leaped. He was sure he felt the train brush his shoe just before his face hit the gravel on the other side of the tracks. He looked to make sure his foot was still there. The engineer had not sounded a horn or hit the brakes. Chuck had darted from the woods so quickly, he probably had not noticed. Maybe he was looking down at the picturesque river. Through the gap between the boxcars and tracks, he could see the deputy reach the top of the hill and stop. There was nothing the deputy could do until the train passed. And the freight trains that came into Henderson were long monsters. But it eventually would pass. This wasn't a permanent barrier. And Chuck knew he couldn't outrun the deputy.

"Did the train hit him?" the sheriff asked upon arriving out of breath at the top.

"I don't know," the deputy answered as he squatted to peer under the train, but could see no more than the brown blur of rust-colored wheels flying by. "I think it did. But we ain't gonna know for sure until it's gone. I can't see anything under here."

"Well, if it didn't hit him, he's gonna be too far ahead to chase now," the sheriff said. "It'll take a couple of minutes for it to pass."

"I can catch him, sheriff. I was already gainin' on him."

"There ain't no point in all that, Darrell. Hell, his truck’s back yonder. He can't go too far without it in these woods. You call Randy and get that truck towed in. He'll show up in town before the day's over. We'll just keep an eye on his mama and daddy's house and his buddies. You hurry up and get back there to that truck before he doubles back on us and beats us to it. I'll stay here and make sure there ain't a mess on the tracks. Lord have mercy."

Chuck rested his head against the inside wall of the boxcar. He was exhausted, exasperated and desperate. He was finished. His worldly possessions didn't even include a truck anymore, just a Bic lighter. And he didn't smoke.

As the trees sped by, he thought of his grandfather on his mother's side. He was Chuck's hero. He died when Chuck was just 10 years old, and it was the first death in the family he could understand and feel the pain.

His grandfather had lied about his age to join the Army when he was sixteen. In 1943, he lost both of his legs in North Africa when his Jeep hit a land mine. He crawled back to safety carrying one leg in his arms as the other hung on by a thread. It, too, would have to be amputated, and he spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

Everything would be OK, he figured, if he could just go home and see his mother. When he arrived, his siblings told him his mother had been dead for months. They didn't bother to tell him in order to keep the paychecks coming home. He never spoke to them again.

During the remainder of the war, he played guitar and sang on a radio show in Washington, D.C., to help sell war bonds. He loved train songs and would later become a huge Boxcar Willie fan. He dreamed of hopping a boxcar and leaving all his troubles behind, but it was an impossible dream. Now, he had accomplished his grandfather's dream by jumping onto the train to flee his own problems. But there was no sense of freedom. He knew the train would likely stop on the other side of Henderson, and he'd have to turn himself in. He had no means to keep going, and he was weary of being a fugitive after less than 24 hours of it. He wondered how Eric Rudolph managed such a life.

It was only a few minutes before the dense woods along the tracks yielded to pecan trees, farm homes and then the city of Henderson. The train slowed from a sprint to a jog. He could jump off when ready now. He was just waiting for some familiar territory. The train came around a bend and Chuck recognized this stretch of track as that which ran between Southwest Georgia College and the Henderson Country Club. Though the train was creeping along, he rolled when he hit the ground as if he had been shoved out of a speeding car in an especially bad "Dukes of Hazzard" episode. Having jumped off on the college side of the tracks, he decided to head that way. There were plenty of nooks and crannies on campus where he could hide.

The main parking lots for commuters were empty, for it was so early that only a handful of classes had begun. He walked past the business building where he had spent most of his four years at the school. Straight ahead was the athletic center. He also knew it well, for it was there that he cheered on the Hurricanes basketball team, took a dozen physical education classes to bolster his GPA and took advantage of the exercise equipment as a member of the golf team, not that he needed to do a lot of bench-pressing to help his putting.

He didn't know why he kept walking or where he was going. He could stop at any point, enter any building and phone the police to give up on his own terms. Extradition to Crescent Beach would come shortly thereafter. He would be tried and convicted, and this brief run from the law would only hurt his case. Mindy would still be dead. Billy would get away with it. Sam would never hear from him again. His family would see him only through bars. And he would pay the ultimate price for falling in love -- following the footsteps of Ted Bundy on Florida's death row. Yet, he couldn't stop walking. He eventually would turn himself in. He was resigned to that. But maybe not for another hour. Maybe not for several hours. Maybe tomorrow.

He walked into the silent athletic center to get a drink of water from a fountain. Somewhere, coaches were preparing for classes or athletic events. Somewhere, athletes were conditioning and getting ready for the next practice or game. but the halls were abandoned. He walked down the stairs to the lower level of the complex, which was halfway underground. He pushed on the door to the locker room assigned to visiting men's basketball teams. It was locked. He pushed on the door to the home team's room, and it creaked open. He peeked inside. Empty. He walked in and locked the door behind him. It was divided into four sections -- the lockers, the toilets, the chalkboard area and showers. He felt dirty after sleeping on the sandbar and rolling around in the dirt after leaping from the train. If we were going to turn himself in, he might as well be clean.

After a two-minute hot shower, he rummaged through the lockers, finding a towel, some sweat pants and sweatshirt. He toweled off, then put on the same socks and underwear. But instead of his clothes, he donned the sweats and threw his shirt and pants into the bottom of a trash can. The front of his new sweatshirt displayed the words "Hurricane basketball." Dangling from the handle of a nearby locker was a baseball cap with the letters "SWG." He took it as well. As he was slipping back into his sneakers, the door shook. It was followed by the pounding of a fist.

"Who locked the door?!"

Chuck unlocked the door and quickly faced away, propping his foot on a bench to tie his shoes as a tall, lanky black boy of about eighteen walked in. "Sorry 'bout that," Chuck apologized without looking up.

The boy looked down at him curiously, but Chuck kept at his shoes as if he had business there in the locker room. After all, he was just one summer removed from being a student athlete there himself. And there were plenty of current students older than he. The boy tossed his gym bag onto the floor in front of the locker from which he had found his towel. Chuck was confident he wasn't wearing the boy's sweats, for that kid's sweatshirt would probably go all the way to Chuck's knees. Chuck figured he must have gotten hold of a point guard's sweats.

The tall kid left the lockers for a moment and walked around the wall to the urinals. Chuck tiptoed out of the room and was gone before the flush. He dashed down the hall and back up the stairs before the boy could have known he was no longer in the locker room. He walked out of the athletic center and headed toward the library. There was now an occasional vehicle on the school's perimeter road and a trickle of students on the campus sidewalks. Eight o'clock classes, though, were still about a half-hour away. He was careful to walk far away from the students and kept his head down to minimize the chances of his being recognized. It was a relatively small school, only about 2,700 students, and there were still plenty of professors and students who knew him and could recognize him even in someone else's clothes. Fortunately, he had spent only the minimum amount of time in the library during his college career and was confident no one there would recognize him.

Just inside the door of the library, there were rows of regional newspapers on display. Fortunately, the Henderson paper was not in yet; it would not go to press until around noon. He would undoubtedly be their top story. He knew families at the country club who controlled enough advertising to push a DUI out of the papers. But he was a murder suspect on the lam, and his family did not have enough money to sweep a jaywalking citation out of the paper. Of all the newspapers in the racks, only the Albany Ledger paper from 40 miles away played his story on the front page:

"Former Henderson resident sought in Florida murder" read the headline across the top. They even had his mug shot with the story. He recognized the photo as the yearbook mug from his senior year of high school. He picked up the paper and began walking upstairs.

"Where do you think you're going?" admonished an older lady from behind the checkout counter. He wondered if he had been recognized. "You know you can't carry newspapers upstairs!"

"Oh, sorry."

He sat down in the lobby with the paper, flipping quickly past the front page so that no one would see the story. When the librarian stepped inside her office, he quietly turned back to the front page, looked around for any possible witnesses and ripped out the article. He then put the newspaper back into its holder backward, so that no one would immediately notice the hole on the front page. Then he walked upstairs to the periodical section. He grabbed a Sports Illustrated and found a dark, lonely corner in a reference section where he could smell the dust of non-usage. He felt safe here. He didn't bother to open the magazine. He just wanted some time to think.

He felt strangely comfortable after his shower. He had slipped away from the sheriff and deputy in such dramatic fashion that giving up now would be like withdrawing from Wimbledon with a 5-0 lead in the deciding set of the championship final. He figured he would still concede at some point, but this wasn't the proper time. But what next? He was hungry and penniless. He had no allies. He could not show his face in town. Every law enforcement officer in the state would be converging on Henderson soon. He had missed his window of opportunity to catch up with Jack. It was time to move on.

He had come to Henderson seeking temporary shelter, but it no longer felt like home. He missed the ocean. He missed laying his problems on the shoulders of the setting sun as she sank into the Gulf. He could accomplish nothing here. He decided to go back to Florida, perhaps even Full Moon Harbor. Maybe he could find a way to link Billy to Mindy's murder. It wasn't so much that he wanted to clear his name; his conscience was mostly clear. But it burned him that Billy could show his face around Full Moon Harbor with no repercussions or suspicious glances. Yet, here Chuck was in his hometown, forced to lurk in the shadows.

Running away from the source of his problems, he felt even further away from the solution. He owed it to himself to return and fight. He owed it to Mindy. Somebody besides Billy had to know something. Jennifer, Elizabeth, maybe even some guest at the motel. Maybe someone totally unconnected to him or Mindy saw something. There had to be a clue, and he had to find it. Perhaps, secretly, he could uncover the trail and lead authorities to Billy. Billy was young and was likely to confide in someone about the crime. In the meantime, he could not allow himself to be caught. If he did, any signs pointing to Billy would most certainly go unnoticed by the police. Case closed.

He recalled Sam pointing out a place called Pirate Cove during their Sunday sailing lesson. It was a deserted, undeveloped inlet of water on the back of the Thronateeska Bay. Sam sometimes dropped anchor there to fish or just get some peace and quiet. Boats could only go a few feet into the inlet as the water became shallow quickly and there was nothing spectacular about the area. The land around it, Sam said, was owned by the Air Force, which paid it no attention. Nevertheless, it was private property where civilians dared not trespass -- the perfect hideout, he figured. If he could just get his hands on a few camping supplies, he could survive there for a while, hopefully long enough to pin Billy. But he couldn't do anything without help. He had no money and no transportation. Someone would have to help him get back.

He walked over to a window. The second level of the library was actually about four stories higher than the main student parking lot, which was about half-full. At first, he saw no familiar cars. Then a familiar vehicle pulled into the lot: a dark blue Honda Accord. There was no shortage of Accords on the streets of Henderson, several of which were probably dark blue. But how many would need to be at the college this early in the morning? And how many would keep circling the parking lot in a futile quest for a closer parking spot when all the students were arriving and none was leaving. It had to be Rachael. He didn't wait to see if a blonde stepped out of the car. It could be hours before she settled on a parking spot. He walked briskly down the stairs and out the door, keeping his head down each time he passed someone.

The sidewalks were getting crowded on campus, but he believed he could be safely lost in the crowd. He sat on a bench and pulled the cap down over his face as if he were sleeping. A hundred feet away, Rachael appeared. She was ascending the steps from the parking lot to the sidewalk. But she wasn't alone. She was with a man. Jack.

The two unknowingly walked right past him. They were too busy talking. Chuck couldn't make out their words as they passed no less than a dozen feet away, but their voices sounded intent and serious. They weren't holding hands or smiling. Yet, there was a bond apparent, whether anyone bothered to take notice or not. Chuck couldn't help but take notice. He rose from the bench and began walking behind them, nonchalantly as he could while still making up ground. Their words trailed behind them and became audible.

"I don't care what anybody says," Rachael said. "Chuck would never hurt anybody. He never laid a hand on me. He didn't even raise his voice to me the whole time we were together. And that was a long time. He may have changed, but you don't become dangerous just like that."

"I don't know," Jack said. "I can't see him killing anybody, either. But he was acting kinda weird Saturday. And guys do crazy stuff when they get their heads mixed up over a girl."

"I can see that."

Rachael gasped as she turned to see who had interrupted their conversation. Jack was stoic.

"What kinds of crazy things, Jack? Maybe set their best friends up so that they can move in on their fiancées? Maybe even tell the sheriff where their best friend is hiding along the river?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"What are you doing here, Chuck?" Rachael asked.

"Shhh. Don't say my name. I've got to talk to you, Rachael."

"I don't have anything to say to you, Chuck."

"The cops are looking for you," Jack warned.

"You ought to know!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You ratted on me, buddy. I barely got away from the sheriff this morning. Besides the fact that I wouldn't be in this mess if you hadn't lied to me about Rachael."

"I haven't said anything to anybody, Chuck."

"What were you saying about me?" Rachael asked.

"Ask Jack. He's the reason I'm in this mess. Look, I don't care about any of that right now. We've got to get out of sight. I need to talk to you. I need your help, Rachael. Come down to the lake for a few minutes and I'll explain."

"I don't know," she said. She looked at Jack, seeking advice.

"Chuck, we can go to jail just for talking to you," Jack said.

"Rachael, just hear me out -- that's all I ask. If you decide not to help me, fine. But my life is in shambles right now. Everything I've worked my whole life for is gone. If you don't help me, I'm a dead man. I'm not asking for another chance with you. I just need you to do me one last favor, then I'll be out of your life forever. If I ever meant anything to you, you've got to hear me out. You'll never see me again whether you help me or not. But if you don't help me, somebody's gonna get away with murder. Look me in the eyes, Rachael. You don't have to love me anymore, but you've gotta have faith in me. You know good and well that I couldn't do something as horrible as this. Tell me you haven't lost faith in me. Please."

"OK."

"I'll come with you," Jack said.

"No," Chuck said. "I don't trust you anymore."

"I'll be all right, Jack," Rachael assured him. "I don't know what's going on, but I know Chuck. And if he needs me, I can't turn my back on him now. You can stay here or go to class. We're gonna talk."

"I'm gonna be right here," Jack said as he glared at Chuck. "I'm not gonna let you out of my sight."

"Fine,” Chuck said. "Whatever."

Chuck and Rachael headed down the hill to the college lake, which was only a couple of acres on the outside of the perimeter road and was maintained by the school's biology department. The walked out onto the dock and Chuck told her everything -- what Jack had told him, why he believed he was free to be with Mindy, the events leading to the murder and the circumstantial evidence that all seemed to point his way.

"Did you love her?" Rachael asked as a tear streamed down her right cheek.

Chuck turned his attention to a pair of ducks swimming nearby. He couldn't bear to see her cry.

"I don't know. I liked her a lot. Maybe it was just lust. It wasn't the same as what we had. I guess I'll never know. We never had a chance."

"Do you still love me?"

"I don't know anything anymore, Rachael. I'll always care about you. You know that. And part of me wishes all of our plans were still intact. But it kind of feels like it was fate that I got into this mess, like some ultimate test of who I am."

"So, now what?"

"I've got to find out who I am, Rachael. I'm not the guy you fell in love with four or five years ago. I'm not an accountant. I have no clue who I am anymore, why I'm here, why all this had to happen to me or where I go from here. But I've got to try to find the answers. If I don't, my life is over, one way or another."

"What do you need me to do?"

Chuck retreated back to his quiet corner of the library as he waited for Rachael to return. He pulled a large atlas from the shelf and held it so that it concealed his profile. He was just another college student with a baseball cap. He made several trips to the water fountain in a vain attempt to stem his hunger. Rachael would be bringing a couple loaves of bread and a few apples along with several other items he requested from the local Wal-Mart -- a hammock, poncho, hunting knife, blanket, canteen, various fishing supplies and a large duffel bag. He also asked her to withdraw $250 for him, knowing she could afford more, but feeling guilty for having to seek her help after all that had happened between them in recent days. And, finally, he needed a Greyhound ticket to Crescent Beach. Meanwhile, he wrote a phony letter to Rachael with paper and a pencil he swiped from a table when a student got up for a moment to make some copies. She had spares, so the crime was minimal, he figured.

Just over an hour later, the Accord returned and he nonchalantly left the library and walked to the parking lot with the bill of his cap pulled down over his eyes. Rachael never left the driver's seat and was nervously drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She leaned over to unlock the passenger side door and Chuck ducked into the vehicle. In his hand, he held the letter.

"What's that?"

"I want you to give this to the sheriff's department. Tell them you found it in your mailbox at the student center."

She unfolded it and read it aloud.

"Dear Rachael, As you've heard by now, I've been accused of a crime I didn't commit. There was a young lady in Crescent Beach named Mindy Hawkins who was murdered by her former boyfriend, a guy named Billy. All the evidence apparently points to me, but you know I could never do such a horrible thing. I would turn myself in and face this in court, but I don't believe I would get a fair trial. Meanwhile, I'm going to have to go into hiding. I've always wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail. Hopefully, by the time I get to Maine and back, Billy will have been caught and I can resume a normal life. Don't worry about me. I purchased some outdoor items at the Henderson Wal-Mart today and will be OK. But please don't let anyone know you've heard from me or know where I'm heading. Love, Chuck."

She seemed confused.

"I don't get it. Why would you want the police to have this? Why would you want them to know you've been in town? And I bought this ticket for Crescent Beach, not the North Georgia mountains."

"The sheriff saw me this morning, Rachael. They already know I'm in town. I'm sure there's a convoy of cops headed this way. And they know I hopped a train this morning. This ought to throw them off the trail for a little while. Give it to them as soon as my bus leaves. Now that they've seen me in Henderson, the last place they're gonna look for me is Full Moon Harbor and Crescent Beach. I want them headed the complete opposite direction. It's only logical that a real killer would go hide in the mountains. Meanwhile, I'm gonna go back and find out what really happened to Mindy. I'm sorry to get you involved in this, but you were my only hope."

Rachael drove to the bus station, which actually was just an old gas station where few customers stopped.

"I don't like this, Chuck. I'm afraid something terrible's gonna happen to you."

"I don't like it, either. But I don't have a choice. I can't give up and have my best-case scenario be spending the rest of my life in prison and my worst-case scenario be the death penalty."

"In spite of everything, I'll do anything you need to help get you out of this."

"No, you've done too much already. There's nothing else you can do for me. And I don't want you getting into trouble." He paused and took a deep breath. Somehow, he knew this would be the last time they saw each other. "I'm sorry everything came apart, Rachael. You're a very special person, and you're gonna make some guy very happy. And what happened between us is totally my fault."

"I don't care whose fault it is."

"I know you don't. You're better than that. Don't you settle for anybody that's not going to treat you right. Understand me?"

"Yeah." Their conversation was interrupted by the squeal of the bus coming to a stop at the station. They both knew he had to go immediately. Buses didn't wait long in Henderson. "How am I gonna know if you're OK?"

"Read the papers, I guess. Don't forget to take that letter to the sheriff's office. And do me one more favor."

"Yes?"

"Don't tell Jack I'm going back. Give him the same story we're giving the cops -- that I'm headed to the mountains. OK?"

"OK."

Chuck stepped out of the car and tossed the duffel bag over his right shoulder.

"Hey!" she called just before he stepped onto the bus, careful not to holler his name out loud. "I hope you find what you're looking for!"

"Me, too," was his barely audible response.

Chuck slept all the way to Crescent Beach, half out of fatigue, half out of his desire to avoid any conversations with any other passengers, particularly the man sitting next to him. He had boarded the bus in Albany and looked like serial killer. How ironic, Chuck thought, that it was he who was the fugitive on the bus. Chuck paid no attention to the man. After all, he didn't even have a wallet to steal.

It was late afternoon when the bus pulled into the parking lot of a small strip mall. At the corner of the building was a Greyhound sign which swayed in the gulf breeze. Chuck wasn't sure which road he was on, but knew it was a major road by its four lanes. He disembarked and draped the duffel bag over his shoulder once again. He was bound for the marina, where he hoped to find Sam and convince her to take him to Pirate Cove to hide out. Because his duffel bag was heavy and conspicuous, he dipped into his $250 for a seven-dollar cab ride.

He descended the now familiar steps of the marina and walked to the slip occupied by the Oya. As he walked the plank, he heard voices rising from the cabin. There was an argument so heated that the tossing of his loaded duffel bag onto the deck seemed to make no sound. And it obviously went unnoticed by the verbal combatants. He thought better of intervening, deciding to wait on deck until the dispute was resolved. He did not know Sam well enough to barge unannounced into her personal business. Perhaps it was a spat with a lover or former lover, or maybe boat business gone awry. He forgave himself in advance, however, for eavesdropping.

"Look, you goddamn bitch!" roared a male voice. "You owe me two hundred fucking dollars!"

"I'll send your money from Fort Myers. I promise."

"I don't give a damn about the money, Sam! The point is, you owe me."

"I'm not gonna run drugs for you, Johnny."

"Sam, I'm telling you, it's perfectly safe. Besides, it's not like you pay taxes or anything. Nobody in the whole goddamn United States of America knows you even exist. All you gotta do is go this little Mexican fishing village, pick up the trash and bring it back, and it's worth ten thousand bucks to you. You can live off that for a whole fucking year. Or maybe you like being a whore?"

"I'm not risking going to prison or getting killed over ten thousand dollars."

"How about eleven thousand?"

"No, Johnny. You're talking about, what, a couple hundred thousand dollars worth of coke? That would be a damn big bust for somebody. It's too risky."

"It's only a few kilos, Sam. Nobody gives a damn about that except around here. And I know this guy. He's cool. And the cops in that part of Mexico just flat don't give a damn. Besides, the place is so remote, even locals don't know their way around. And you'll blend right in. You look kinda Mexican anyway. Nobody will suspect a thing. It's just a little forgotten village right on the coast. You're pretty much in international waters the whole way. The Coast Guard's busy working the main routes. They don't have time for these petty deals. Look, these guys run most of their stuff through the air or on the ground. They just wanna see if this could work. It’s just a test run. It could be a big deal for me ... and you, too."

"No."

"OK, fine! You're a stubborn bitch, Sam! But you better have my two hundred bucks by tomorrow, and I don't care if you have to fuck all night to get it."

"Look, you'll get your $200. I swear. Just not by tomorrow."

"Oh, really? Well, I guess we'll just have to make some other arrangements." Chuck was peeking in from the deck now and saw a scraggly, thin man with tattoos covering both arms reach up to caress her hair. She slapped the hand away. "Let's see, two hundred dollars. That's about a whole night's worth, right?"

"No, Johnny."

"Oh, come on. It's not like you got any other skills. What are you gonna do? Be a professional waitress? You ain't making no money with this piece of shit boat. Use your skills, baby. And you've got skills." He grabbed her by the waist, pulled her closer and grabbed her right breast with his left hand.

"Get off me, Johnny! Stop it!"

"Come on. We'll call it even. How about two hours for my two hundred bucks?"

Sam was now beating her fist against his chest, but he wouldn't yield. With one leap, Chuck bypassed the steps to the cabin and delivered an elbow to man's upper back. He released Sam and screamed out in pain. Chuck curled his arm under the man's chin and drove his head into a counter top. When the man fell to his knees, Chuck delivered a hard punch to his nose, causing his head to snap back and a steady stream of blood to flow. Chuck snatched two hundred dollars from the pocket of his Southwest Georgia sweatpants and threw it at him.

"There's your two hundred bucks! Now get the hell out of here before I kill you!"

The man collected his money and walked sideways up the steps, keeping a close eye on Chuck.

"You've done it now, bitch!" he hollered. As he did, Chuch noticed that his front tooth was broken, but didn’t recall the feeling of hitting his teeth. "I want your ass out of here tonight! And as for you, motherfucker, if I catch you around here again, I'll shoot your ass!"

As Johnny stormed off the boat, Chuck finally looked back at Sam, who was breathless and wide-eyed.

"So nice of you to drop by, Chuck."

"What's going on, Sam?"

"He manages the marina. And his boss, the guy who owns this place, is the local drug baron. He's pissed because I won't pick up trash for him. What the hell are you doing here?"

"That's not much of a greeting for a guy who just came to your rescue. Don't I get a thank you or something?"

"Sure, Chuck, thank you. Thank you for putting my life in jeopardy. And yours, too. I could have handled him. He's a dangerous guy, Chuck. If his boss finds out I turned him down, I'm a goner."

"Why's that?"

"Because the more people who know what's going on down here at the marina, the better the chances somebody's gonna get caught. I was a commodity. They thought they could rope me into some jobs. Now, I'm expendable. They won't take any chances that I might tell somebody. See, I've already told you. And, speaking of you, why are you here? Your picture's all over the papers and TV today. You're the most wanted man in Florida. And if Johnny recognizes you, I wouldn't put it past him to try to collect some reward money, even if it did mean bringing the cops down here."

"Do you think he recognized me?"

"Oh, I doubt it. He's pretty stupid. I doubt he's ever read a newspaper. I doubt he can read, period."

"I need you to do me a favor, Sam."

"What's that?"

"Take me to Pirate Cove. I was gonna pay you, but I just lost what little money I had."

"Pirate Cove? What are you gonna do? Camp out the rest of your life? They'll find you eventually, Chuck."

"I just want to stay long enough to find out what happened to Mindy. Maybe if I can get some details, I can pin it on her old boyfriend."

"No. I won't do it."

"Please, Sam. If you don't help me, I won't have any choice but to give up."

"You can't do that, either. Go with me to Fort Myers. You can hide on the boat. They've got a huge marina where we can blend into the crowd. And when winter's over, we can go disappear in the Caribbean somewhere. I sure as hell can't come back here."

"Thanks, but no thanks. You've done enough. Well, thanks anyway. I'll go turn myself in now and die in the gas chamber or electric chair or whatever the hell they use here in Florida. Nice knowing you."

"OK, goddamn it! I'll take you to the cove. But we've got to leave now. I don't feel safe spending another second here."

"I knew you'd come around."

"Yeah, but I still say you're crazy, and I'm gonna talk you out of it before we get to the cove. You gonna live like Robinson Crusoe or something?"

"Something like that. And, hey, if I can't handle it, I'll surrender, spend a dozen or so years on death row and take a permanent vacation."

"No hell you won't! The only thing stupider than camping out in the cove is giving up."

"I'm not planning on giving up, Sam. Not yet anyway. But there's no freedom in running from this. I found that out this morning. I've got to stay here until I find out what happened to Mindy. Until then, I can't leave."

They wasted no time in pushing out of the marina and sailing toward the setting sun before turning north under the Highway 98 bridge and then northeast toward Pirate Cove. Nearly an hour into the journey to the far end of the Thronateeska Bay, Sam withdrew the sails and dropped anchor. Chuck, who was inside the cabin, poked his head out to see why the boat had stopped.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"No, I'm just ready for supper. How about you?"

"I'm not hungry."

"That's bullshit, Chuck! Look, it's dark. There's not a single other boat around. We're thirty minutes from the cove. You can have one last decent dinner with me. Nobody will ever know."

"Do I have a choice?"

"What do you think?"

His resistance was only token. He wasn't ready to be left alone again. And he was indeed starving with the prospect of eating nothing but bread and apples staring him in the face. But he felt refusing the invitation was the honorable thing to do. And he was still an honorable man, even under the circumstances. In the wake of the tragedy, he had come to the realization that all he had was his honor. He clung to it with fury. Still, he could not refuse an order from the captain.

"So, Chuck, suppose you fill me in on your plans and ease my mind a little bit," Sam said as she fumbled through the pantry.

"I don't guess I have much of a plan, really."

"Oh, come on. You mean you haven't made out a to-do list."

"If I thought I could sit down with a pen and paper and figure all this out, I damn sure would. But nothing adds up. I don't know where to start. I don't know where it ends, either. How do you convince the whole world you're not the person they've convinced you are?"

"I don't know, but if I find the answer to that question, be sure to let me know. I've got some cream of chicken soup here. How about that and grilled cheese sandwiches?"

"What? No grouper or red snapper?"

"Well, to say you dropped in on me rather unexpectedly is a bit of an understatement, don't you think?"

"I just messing with you, Sam. Grilled cheese and soup sounds five-star to me."

"Well, you sit down on the bed there if you like and I'll put on my chef's hat."

"That's OK. I think I'll stand, stretch my legs a little."

"Chuck?"

"Yeah?"

"How long were you out there before you jumped on Johnny?" She didn't look at him as she softly asked the question. She feared the answer.

"Long enough."

"Do you think less of me?" She seemed to be concentrating all too intently on melting butter in the frying pan for the grilled sandwiches. It was a task that hardly required such attention.

"Of course not. I mean, yeah, I was surprised. Stunned. But there's something about you I can't put my finger on. You're real. When I'm around you, I feel like what I see is what I get. You don't seem to put up a front for me even though we've known each other for just a few days. You're who you are and that's that. Even the way you look, you know. You're naturally pretty, without makeup. And you believe in me. Why you believe in me and no one else does, I don't know. But I do appreciate it. Really."

She turned away from the frying pan. "Chuck, there's only one man I've met in my entire life who didn't treat me like total crap, and that was my Papa. Until you. ... Please go to Fort Myers with me, Chuck. I just wouldn't feel right about leaving you here."

"And I wouldn't feel right leaving," he said as he took her hand. "I'm not asking you to understand, Sam. I don't even understand it. But I feel like I owe this to Mindy. In a way, I am kind of to blame for her death. She was so sweet and innocent and trusting. I get sick to my stomach when I think about somebody taking an angel like that out of this world. Maybe this isn't the logical or rational thing to do, but I've spent my whole life doing the rational thing, following all the rules. Now, I've got to do what I think is right, even if it's not the rational thing to do."

"I do understand, Chuck. Life's just not fair, you know. You do the right thing, or try to, and still it all blows up in your face. It seems like all the assholes get their way, but being a good person counts for nothing."

"Maybe it depends on who's doing the counting. I used to give a damn about what everybody thought. I don't anymore. Even though everybody thinks I'm some sort of sick killer, this isn't about clearing my name. At first, it was, or at least I thought it was. But now I know I'm doing this for myself. And that's all that counts -- being true to myself. ... Um, I think your butter's scorching."

"Oops. Would you mind grabbing that squeeze butter out of the refrigerator for me? And while you're at it, go ahead and grab a couple of beers and take that blanket and spread it out on the deck. Go on."

After dinner, Chuck and Sam lay on the deck and stared at the heavens. It was cool, and Sam lay as close as she could to him without snuggling. For a few minutes, they did nothing but watch the stars twinkle and a couple fall. A pair of blinking lights crawled across the cool sky at a snail's pace. Sam was not ready to go to Fort Myers. Chuck was not ready for solitude. The inevitability of their situations hung over the gently swaying sailboat like a pelican hovering over a school of fish.

"There's something I don't understand, Chuck. How is hiding out in the cove gonna get you out of this mess? How are you gonna solve this mystery from the other side of the bay, miles from town?"

"That's a good question. I guess I'm really just using it as a base. I figure in a couple of days, after I get my thoughts clear, I'll find my way back into town. There's a couple of people I want to talk to, a couple of Mindy's friends. And I've got to confront her old boyfriend, somehow. My beard will be grown out pretty well in a couple of days. No one's looking for me here, and no one would recognize me anyway. They think I'm headed for the Georgia mountains right now."

"About two or three miles back of the cove's a highway," she said. "There are a couple of little gas stations and stores here and there. Maybe you could head that way and make some phone calls or something. Just be careful you're not calling anybody they'd expect you to be calling, you know, so they could trace it."

"I'm not close to anyone here but you. The only person anybody would expect me to call in Full Moon Harbor or Crescent Beach is my lawyer. And he thinks I'm guilty, too. But, yeah, thanks for the tip. That's probably what I'll do. I might have enough money for a couple more taxi rides into town from one of those stores. Maybe I could even find an odd job or something to earn some cash, just enough to keep me going, you know. Maybe mow some old lady's grass or something."

"You know, maybe I ought to consider one drug run."

"No way, Sam. You don't want to get mixed up with folks like that."

"Yeah, but just once. I could score a big chunk of cash and then set sail for Belize or something, maybe open up a snorkeling and scuba diving charter business there and work at one of those little tourist traps on the side."

"You sound like you've got it all planned out."

"I always said that if I could save enough money, I'd sail to the Turneffe Islands off the coast of Belize and drop anchor there. I could live on the boat. Plus, it's not like the rest of the Caribbean. There's a lot of American dollars around there, a lot of American business people. And it's not as dirty or corrupt, you know. I sailed through there with my Papa about 15 years ago. It was beautiful. The water was clean and clear. There were little islands all over the place. And several of them have really expensive American-owned hotels where people will spend two hundred dollars a night. There are vacation homes that rent out for a thousand or two thousand a week. And they'll probably fork out big bucks to someone who could carry them to the best snorkeling spots, you know."

"How come I've never heard of these islands? What are they? The Turnip Islands?"

"No, dummy. Turneffe. Turneffe Islands. A lot of people go there because there's this huge natural reef not far off the coast. It supposedly is paradise for divers and snorkelers and stuff. I didn't get to see the reef or go diving, but the place is the closest thing to paradise I've ever seen. Damn sure beats Florida."

"You'll get there, Sam."

"Oh, I don't know. I'm always broke. If I didn't have this boat, I don't know what I'd do. If nothing else, at least I don't have to pay rent, although it does cost me to dock at a marina. But in the Turneffe Islands, I could go from one island to another without ever having to pay some crook at a marina. I could just drop anchor wherever I felt like and sail on when I got tired of the view."

"Well, why don't you go? How much money do you need to do that?"

"I don't know. I'd want enough that I could open up a T-shirt shack or something. Just a little security is all I need. A tiny nest egg. Now that I think about it, maybe working just once for Johnny wouldn't be such a bad idea after all."

"It doesn't sound safe to me, Sam. If it's so safe, why doesn't he go do it himself?"

"Probably because he's been to prison before and he's paranoid that the cops are keeping an eye on him. He's been extra-paranoid lately. If he were to get caught, they'd probably lock him up and throw away the key, not that it would be any great loss to the world. Besides, Johnny just looks like a criminal, you know. If you were a DEA agent, would you let him pass you on the water without searching him?"

"I guess not. I just don't think you ought to get involved with somebody like that. Especially after the way he acted today."

"Hell, that was being nice for Johnny. He will have forgotten all about it by tomorrow. But don't worry, Chuck, I'm too scared to do something like that by myself. I'm gonna try to stick it out another winter in Fort Myers. Someday, I'd like to have a really good charter year with snorkeling and dolphin watch cruises and such, so I don't have to, um, you know."

"Yeah."

"I'm not gonna do it anymore, Chuck. I've been thinking about what you said -- you know, about being true to yourself. I've always thought of myself as being an independent, strong woman. But I'm still just a scared little girl. A 29-year-old baby. Maybe if I were true to myself, I would be that strong woman I thought I was. You think so?"

"Well, it would be a start. You've got to see it to be it. Since I've been on the run, I've found out how crucial it is to believe in yourself. I've lost my truck, my home, all my belongings and my job and everything. But I've been amazed at how much inner strength I've got. When you know you're doing what's right, when you're being true to yourself, you feel a weird sort of power and determination. I feel like I'm a foot taller."

"I'm glad I met you, Chuck."

"I'm glad I met you, too. You're my only friend in the whole world right now. But it's getting about time to drop me off and for you to get on your way."

"Will you do one thing for me first?" she asked.

"What's that?"

"Hold me. Just hold me for a while."

He gently placed his arm around her and pulled her to his chest. She placed her left hand in his and closed her eyes. The rough-edged, independent woman who recklessly sold her body and was on a first-name basis with ex-cons and criminals snuggled with him like a 3-year-old girl with her papa. She hadn't found her inner strength yet, but he was more than willing to share his if it offered any comfort for the long journey ahead of her. He closed his eyes and focused on transferring some of his soul into her heart. It was a fantasy. But when she seemed to respond by gripping his hand more firmly, he smiled as if it had worked. Maybe there was something to people's giving off vibes and such, he thought. Nah, but it was a nice moment, one that he worked to etch in his heart, for he figured he might have to rely on that moment for inspiration at some point. Some point soon.

Chapter 8

2008-11-28T22:54:00.000-08:00

Chuck yawned and stretched in his cheap nylon hammock. He rubbed his hand across his face, upon which was now a six-day-old beard. It was not enough to hide his face, but enough to change his image from the clean-cut kid whose photo had been splashed across the front pages of newspapers in Florida and Georgia. No one was searching for the dirty, scraggly bum he had become. This would be the day to head into town as the homeless private eye. Besides, he'd rather wrestle an alligator for supper than eat another piece of the white bread that had comprised his last few meals.

He stumbled over to the rock near the creek that flowed into the bay at Pirate Cove. The rock was about four feet high and six feet wide. On one side of the rock was a gaping hole that looked to have been caused by a blast of some sort, perhaps dynamite. It was here that he stored his duffel bag of supplies. He grabbed his toothbrush and once again scrubbed his teeth without the luxury of fresh water. Then he waded into the small creek and checked the trot line he had run about midnight. It was only thirty feet from start to finish, running from a bush on the bank to an old stump in the middle of the creek. Because the creek itself was only 20 feet wide, he had to run the line at an angle. He had snagged nothing but a turtle. He suspected he was wasting his time so close to saltwater. This was nothing like the catfish-filled rivers and ponds back home. After freeing the turtle, he took up the line and tossed it behind a live oak tree. If he ran it again, it would have to be further upstream. His camp was less than a hundred yards from the bay.

He put on the sweats which he had washed out as best he could in the creek the previous afternoon, giving them plenty of time to dry in the ocean breeze. He tucked a few dollar bills into his pocket and began heading through the woods away from the bay toward the road Sam said was nearest the cove. He wandered northeast for over an hour, all the while wondering what he was going to do when he got out of the woods. He still had no plan. When he began to hear the low rumbling of tires ahead of him, he took a break. He sat on a fallen tree and pondered his next move.

What he needed was something to pin on Billy, even if it were circumstantial. After all, the whole world was ready to hang him on circumstantial evidence. Jennifer seemed to be convinced that Billy was all bark and no bite. But what about Mindy's best friend, Elizabeth? She could give him some insight into Billy's actions after she arranged the meeting between Mindy and Chuck at the hotel just hours before she was murdered. She was supposed to spend the night at Mindy's house. She would most likely know when Billy left the party and whether he had flown into a jealous rage. He had to get in touch with her.

After waiting for the road to clear of traffic, he emerged from the woods behind a billboard. It was a two-lane road, most likely county maintained. He saw no signs nearby indicating what the name of the road was nor where it headed. A couple of hundred yards down the road to his right, he saw an Amoco sign. As he drew closer, he saw that it was a convenience store and not a mere gas station. He decided to get his brunch there and possibly his bearings, too.

He grabbed a 20-ounce Coke and a bag of powdered doughnuts, which he hoped would provide enough carbohydrates to get him through the day. He had been careful not to expend any physical energy in order to make the most of the little bit of food at his camp. He kept his cap pulled down low over his face, but the cashier had no interest in him as she puffed away on a cigarette and kept her eyes glued to a fuzzy black-and-white TV screen with "Sally" on. She nodded in an agreement when an audience member stood and spoke into Sally's microphone, telling one of the guests that she should leave her no-good husband. With his change, Chuck bought a copy of the local newspaper from the box just outside the door. He walked to the payphone at the corner of the building as if he were about to make a phone call. He took the receiver and placed it under his chin. If anyone came near, he pretended to be talking on it. He was just another average Joe talking on the phone. Nothing suspicious about it. Meanwhile, he sipped his Coke and munched on doughnuts as he read the latest front page story on Mindy's death.

ment had told the reporter. They offered no further specifics on the case, other than to say that Chuck was the top suspect and that they had no reason to believe he was still in the area. His plan to throw the authorities off his trail had apparently worked. The story then mentioned that Mindy's funeral had been the day before. It was a closed-casket funeral. His eyes watered. He was ashamed of feeling a small victory in throwing the cops off his trail and depressed that he did not get to say good-bye at her funeral.

He had hoped that the story might have a quote from Elizabeth, since she was Mindy's best friend. He needed a quote because he had no idea what her last name was and therefore had no chance of finding her family's listing in the phone directory. But no luck. However, the last paragraph in the story noted that Wallace High's homecoming football game would go on as scheduled that evening, but a moment of silence would be held before kickoff to remember the slain member of the senior homecoming court. Elizabeth could be at the game, possibly even on the homecoming court herself, he reasoned. She was a pretty girl, but perhaps more sexy than cute. He suspected that her reputation left her ineligible for the homecoming court. She might be a good date for prom night, though. He decided he had to go to that game in search of Elizabeth, while taking every precaution to steer clear of Jennifer and Billy. With a few doughnuts left in the bag, he closed it and returned to the front door of the store and peeked his head inside.

"Excuse me, ma'am."

She kept her eyes on "Sally," but answered, "Yeah?"

"Can you tell me how to get to Wallace High School?"

"Three miles thattaway," she said as she motioned her hand toward the east. "Just stay on this road. It's on the left. You can't miss it."

"Thank you."

The game started at 7:30. Chuck made his way into the gate at 8:15 after the crowd had settled and all eyes were on the field. He knew he would regret paying five dollars to get into the small stadium if Elizabeth was nowhere to be found. His cash had dwindled to around $20 already. Wallace was up 21-0 on a typical homecoming opponent. But it wasn't the score he cared about. There were just over three minutes before halftime ceremonies. He stood at the end of the stands around the bathrooms. It was between the concession stand and the steps to the bleachers. The only people around him were a few teen-agers who were sneaking cigarettes out of their parents' sight. The smoke hovering around him, though, was drifting from the concession stand and smelled of grilled hamburgers. But he could not waste his paltry sum of cash on such a lavish meal.

Halftime. Everyone was focused on the center of the field as the freshman, sophomore and junior court representatives were announced and escorted for the most part by their fathers. The senior class representatives, however, included no Elizabeth. There were squeals and applause as a tall blonde was crowned queen. He hung his head and pondered his next move. Then he overheard a conversation by a trio of girls walking back toward the entrance to the bathrooms. They were obviously disgusted with the crowning of the otherwise seemingly popular tall blonde.

"God, I hate that bitch!" one of them said as she pulled a fresh cigarette from a pack and offered each of her friends one.

"Yeah, the only reason she won was because ... you know," said another.

"Yeah, Mindy was way cooler than her."

"Excuse me." The girls turned to glare at the unshaven slob in sweats who had interrupted. The apparent leader who had control of the cigarette pack rolled her eyes and turned away from him. The others mimicked her. "Did ya'll know Mindy Hawkins?" He might has well have dropped a grenade at their feet.

"Who are you?" the leader asked.

"I'm her cousin. So I guess you would know a friend of hers -- a girl named Elizabeth?"

"Yeah."

"Is she here?"

"I haven't seen her, but I doubt it. She hasn't been at school all week."

"Yeah, I guess she's pretty upset, huh?"

"Devastated." The leader was bored with him and turned to close him out of their circle.

"Uh, I kind of need to talk to her. It's sort of urgent. Do you know where she lives or her phone number?"

"Look, I don't know you. I'm not telling you where she lives."

"You don't have to show me where she lives. I've just got to get in touch with her. I don't care if it's in person, on the phone or whatever. It's about Mindy. It's urgent."

The girl said nothing, just looked at him as if she were trying to decide whether or not he was a lunatic. "Hang on a second." She pulled her two friends out of earshot to discuss the situation. One pulled out a cell phone and began dialing. After a few moments of conversation, the leader looked his way again and asked, "What's your name?"

"Is that Elizabeth on the phone?"

"Tell me what your name is."

"I can't. If that's Elizabeth on the phone, tell her she spent last Friday night with my best friend, Jack."

After she relayed the message, she held the phone out toward him. "Here, she wants to talk to you."

"Elizabeth, I've got to talk to you."

"Why, Chuck? She was my best friend. Why'd you do it?" She was crying.

"Elizabeth, I didn't do anything. The last time I saw her, she was driving away from the hotel. I loved her, Elizabeth. I would have never done anything to hurt her."

"Then why are they after you?"

"I don't know. Billy killed her. He obviously found out about me and Mindy and went nuts."

"No. Billy didn't do it."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

"Elizabeth, I swear it wasn't me. Look, I'm gonna find out what happened that night after I left Mindy at the hotel. You can believe me, or not. You can help me, or not. But I'm not giving up. If you want to give up, fine. But I really need your help, Elizabeth. Please, just meet me somewhere tomorrow and let's talk about it."

"I don't know about that."

"Please, Elizabeth. You pick the place. Pick some spot where there are plenty of people around, but where no one will notice me. Nothing's gonna happen. I just need some answers. I need you to help me start looking for clues."

"OK. I don't care where, just so long as it's on a major road."

"Well, there's a Taco Bell just west of your high school. How about there about two o'clock tomorrow?"

"OK."

"Please don't let me down, Elizabeth. I'm counting on you."

"I'll be there."

"Promise?"

"Yeah."

Chuck returned the phone to the leader and thanked her. He then slipped through the crowd toward the gate. As he looked back, he noticed the three girls talking to a deputy providing security at the game. Chuck quickened his pace as much as he could without appearing to make a run for it. When he got to the gate, a deep voice boomed, "Hey!"

Chuck turned to see a hefty deputy manning the gate. His heart was pounding so hard against his chest that he was afraid it was visible on the outside. He was prepared to break into a sprint toward the woods across the road from the school on the deputy's first move.

"You know if you leave, you're gonna have to pay to get back in!"

"Uh, yeah, I know."

"And don't be loitering out in the parking lot. Either stay in here or leave."

"Yes, sir. I'm gone."

Chuck returned to his brisk pace. Just a dozen strides from the gate, he slipped into the maze of parked cars -- hundreds of them. After passing a couple rows, he ducked and sprinted to the left toward the highway, which was just a hundred or so yards away. He slipped behind a SUV and peeked through its tinted windows. He could see the deputy who had accosted him at the gate jogging from the field into the parking lot along with the deputy Chuck had seen talking to the girls. They paused at each row of cars and looked left and right for him before returning to their jog. Chuck decided to hold his ground and allow the deputies to fade into the darkness of the parking lot. Moments later, there was the sound of tires squealing. Two rows away, a pickup truck with a couple of teenage boys in the cab was speeding away. The deputies bolted back toward the gate where they had parked their car. They jumped inside and pursued, though they had gotten a hopelessly late start. But Chuck took no chances, returning to his brisk pace. If the deputies managed to catch the truck, they were certain to be disappointed that they had caught nothing but a couple of teen-agers goofing off instead of a murder suspect. And they would return. Of course, there was also the chance that they would brush aside whatever those girls had reported as paranoia or hysteria and keep it to themselves.

When Chuck made it to the billboard where he had first emerged from the woods that morning, he knew he could never retrace his path back to the cove in the dark. So he walked about a mile toward the bay until he found a spot where he could bed down for the night. It was a giant live oak tree with a trunk four feet in diameter. He snuggled in between a couple of fat roots on the opposite side of the tree from town. He lay his head against the trunk and thanked God it was too cool for snakes to be on the prowl. The October night in northwest Florida could be comfortably warm or viciously cold. It was just an undecided cool this night, but Chuck knew he'd better make some headway toward clearing his name, for Mother Nature's patience would soon wear thin and he was not prepared to feel her wrath.

The Taco Bell had been busy for the past two hours. Chuck knew because he had watched the traffic flow from a phone booth down the block. He was looking for any sign that Elizabeth might have ratted him out, but there was no sign of any cops. Nor was there a guarantee she would show. She could have been paying him lip service just to get off the phone with him. She may have been a bit on the wild side, but was still just a teenager. And she had just been given a cruel dose of the real world with the death of her best friend. He doubted she would be the same trusting, carefree girl he had met only weeks earlier.

When he sensed it was getting near two o'clock, he began making his way toward the Taco Bell. He walked past the restaurant quickly once to see if there were any suspicious characters inside. He saw none, but still no Elizabeth, either. He stood nervously in front of a pair of newspaper boxes for a couple of minutes before a Chevy Cavalier pulled into a parking space on the opposite side of the restaurant. Through the glass, he saw a dark-haired girl with her hair in a ponytail practically jogging into the Taco Bell. It was Elizabeth.

There were only a couple of occupied tables. Elizabeth was standing at the counter and looking at the overhead menu. Chuck casually opened the door and walked to a table in the back corner. Elizabeth glanced at him and then turned back to the girl taking her order as if she had not recognized him. But he knew.

Chuck kept his baseball cap pulled as low as he could over his forehead without looking like someone trying to hide his face. Elizabeth set her soft drink down across the four-seat table from Chuck and sat at an angle to him.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Just tell me what you want," she whispered without looking at him. I've got my cell phone with me and I've got a speed dial set for 911."

"It wasn't me. You understand?"

"Well, then who was it? You were the only person with her that night."

"I know you don't believe it, but I know it was her maniac boyfriend."

"Billy?"

"Yeah."

Elizabeth simply shook her head.

"What?" he asked. "Why does everybody act like this crazy redneck is so innocent? God, it's so obvious to anybody who can look at this objectively. If ya'll could just step back an see it from an outsider's perspective, you'd see what I see."

"Billy was with me that night."

Chuck leaned closer. "Say what?"

"I said he was with me. When I got back to Mindy's house to tell her I saw you, I had to distract him so he wouldn't be asking about where Mindy was. Me and him and Jennifer and a couple of Billy's friends started playing quarters. I decided to get Billy totally wasted so he would pass out and worry about Mindy later."

"And?"

"Well, he got wasted, and so did I. We kept flirting and acting stupid, and the next thing you know, we're in Mindy's mom's bedroom."

"All night?"

"I guess. We passed out pretty soon after that. Next thing I knew, Mindy was pulling up in the driveway. I got the hell out of the bed and went into her room before she saw me and Billy together."

"Wait a minute? What time are we talking about here?"

"I don't know. About two or three in the morning, I guess."

"So Mindy did go home that night."

"Well, of course. You ought to know. She had just stepped in the door when you called."

"What do you mean when I called?"

"She said you were down at the hotel and had a dead battery."

"I didn't call her, Elizabeth. I didn't have a dead battery, either. I left just a few seconds after she did. Are you sure Billy was in the bed with you that whole time, even when that phone call came?"

"Oh, yeah. He was still there at ten o'clock in the morning, barfing in her mom's bathroom."

Chuck leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, hoping for some kind of rational answer to fall from the sky. He wanted to cry. He had come so far and gotten absolutely nowhere. The exasperation drained all life from his body.

"Chuck?"

"Yeah."

"You really didn't do it?"

"I told you. No. I wouldn't hurt her in a million years."

"You hungry?"

"Starving."

"What do you want?"

"You buying?" She nodded. "How about five tacos and a Coke?"

Elizabeth returned with his order and sat directly across from him this time. "Tell me what happened between you and Mindy that night."

A brief smile crossed his face as he reminisced, but it melted as the haunting reality of the present sobered the memory. "It was incredible. We went back to my place and went to bed for a couple of hours. I had never experienced anything like it. I've never felt that close to anyone before. She was amazing."

"That was her first time."

"Yeah, I know."

"Why does everybody think you did it? And why are you hiding out?"

"Everything points to me, Elizabeth. I can't explain it. I guess it's just that everybody knows we were together. And nobody but you knows she ever made it out of the hotel parking lot. The cops think she never left."

"How have you been hiding? Everybody's looking for you."

"Every way I can. I went back home for one day and thought about running on. But I had to come back. I couldn't let whoever did this get away with it. I was sure it was Billy. Now ... now, I just don't know. I have no idea what to do."

"Where are you staying?"

"I've got a little camp site off the bay a few miles from here. But I'm about out of money and food. There's no way I'm gonna be able to clear my name now. Nothing about this makes any sense."

Elizabeth sat silently as Chuck ate. When he finished, he looked at her. A lone tear streamed down her cheek.

"She was my best friend," she said as her lips quivered.

"I know."

"You really did love her, didn't you?"

He nodded. "I don't know how to explain it. Maybe it was because she was younger and so full of life. Maybe I was just in love with what she represented, freedom or something. I was completely enamored with her from day one. I know I tried to push her away at first, but I didn't want to. You can't imagine what was going on inside me, wanting her and trying to be true to my fiancée back home. I tried to ignore her, but ignoring her is like trying to go on with a picnic during a tornado." After a pause, he tried to save his theory that Billy was still somehow responsible. "Well, if Billy was with you all night, what about all the other folks at the party?"

"It wasn't a lot of folks, just a couple of Billy's friends and Jennifer."

"Maybe Billy sent a couple of his buddies to do his dirty work for him."

"No, they were all crazy about Mindy. Everybody was. Nobody that knew Mindy would hurt her. Everybody else in the world's got enemies, you know. Nobody gets along with everybody. Except Mindy. She's the only person I've ever known that was friends with everybody. And I mean everybody. She didn't have a mean bone in her body."

"When did everybody else leave the party?"

"Oh, not long after me and Billy got drunk. Jennifer seemed to be in a bad mood when Mindy left and didn't come back. I think she knew she was with you. Jennifer had a thing for you, too."

"Yeah, I know."

"Have you talked to her?"

"Just for a second. She thinks I did it."

"Really? She hasn't said anything to me about it."

"Well, she does." They sat hushed for nearly a minute before Chuck's hunger forced him to focus his attention on the tacos before him. To Chuck, the greasy meat might has well have been filet mignon from the finest Chicago steakhouse. It sure beat the hell out of bread slices. He was too depressed to eat, but had to.

"What are you gonna do now?" Elizabeth asked as he polished off the fifth taco faster than a wino downing a shot of whiskey.

"I don't know. Part of me says, 'Give up.' I can turn myself in, maybe just get life in prison. But I owe it to Mindy to find out what really happened. But it's like trying to find a needle in a haystack and then realizing you've been looking in the wrong haystack. I don't know where to start anymore. I just wish I knew who called her and told her I was at the hotel with a dead battery."

"Why don't you just go hide in Mexico or something?" she asked.

"I can't handle being on the run for the rest of my life. Besides, it wouldn't be the right thing to do. I could never put this behind me with it all unsettled. I can't get on with my life unless I know the truth."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Well, I could use a little bread to get me through the next few days."

"No problem," she said as she reached for her purse. "Of course, I don't have a lot of money."

"No, I mean bread as in bread that you eat. Could I trouble you for a couple of loaves? And maybe a bag of candy or something?"

Chuck lay low in the passenger seat of Elizabeth's car as she drove to a nearby grocery store and parked far away so that few shoppers would pass the car. She emerged with three loaves of whole wheat bread and a jar of jelly. He thanked her, and she apologized for not having enough cash on her to do more. Then she drove him to the convenience store nearest the route he had taken from his hideout on the bay.

"Chuck, I'm sorry I didn't believe you before. You really are a good guy."

"Thanks," he said through the open window of the passenger door after stepping out. "You can't imagine how much that means to me. I've been pretty lonely this past week. Mindy's lucky to have had a friend like you. I wish I could say the same about me."

As he began to walk away, she shouted, "Hey! Just a second!" When he turned around, she handed him a slip of paper with her phone number. "If you need anything, just call me."

"OK, but I don't want to get you involved in my mess anymore. I was hoping you could lead me in the right direction. Now, I'm more lost than ever."

"I'm sorry it wasn't what you wanted to hear. But it's the truth you're after, right?"

"Yes, it is. I just feel like I keep taking one step forward and two steps back, you know."

"I will keep my eyes open, Chuck. But if I find out anything, I don't know how I can get in touch with you."

"Don't worry, I'll touch base with you at some point, when I know I won't get you in trouble. You can get into a lot of trouble just for talking to me."

"I know."

But there's one thing you could do one more thing for me."

"What's that?"

"Jot down Jennifer's number for me, too."

"You gonna call her?" she asked as she obliged.

"I might. I doubt she knows anything you or I don't know. But her mom is a reporter or something for the local newspaper. It might not be a bad idea to check in with her before I make any decisions about whether to give up."

"Do you want me to talk to her for you?"

"Well, it might not be a bad idea to warn her I might be in contact. I don't want her to get hysterical if I call, especially since she thinks I'm a killer."

"I can't believe she would think that, being hot for you like she was. But I'll talk to her."

"Thanks. I won't call her until tomorrow at the earliest. Tomorrow is Sunday, right?"

"Yeah."

"Damn. Life sure can change in a week."

"Yeah." She smiled a half smile, blinked away a couple of tears and drove away. Chuck meandered around the corner of the store and when the highway traffic subsided he slipped back into the woods. He headed in the general direction of the bay. Not remembering the exact path back, he knew he'd better get to the water by sundown if he hoped to find Pirate Cove again.

Chapter 9

2008-11-28T22:53:00.000-08:00

Chuck nearly fell out of his hammock as he awoke from the nightmare. It was unusually cold and he shivered with his arms close to his chest. The dream was still vivid. He was standing at Mindy's grave, apologizing to her. Out of the corner of his eye, a shadowy figure ducked behind a nearby tree. Knowing this was the person who killed her, Chuck gave chase. Every time Chuck got close to the man, he'd appear behind another tree yards away. Finally, Chuck chased him down, tackling him by the foot. Chuck threw jabs at him, those dream punches that lack the power of real life. The man turned to face him. It was no longer a man. It was Rachael. Then a bell clanged, and the dream ended abruptly.

He struggled to make some sense of the subliminal events. It frustrated him that he had the man in his grasp, only to have him morph into Rachael. He knew there was something symbolic in that, but he would rather have seen the man's face. It might have been the clue he needed to renew his real-life pursuit of the truth. He was certain he was supposed to know the man in the dream. But, the bell? What was that all about? What significance did the bell have? It didn't fit with the rest of the dream. He heard it again, but he was awake. It came from the bay. He didn't dream it, after all. He wasn't alone.

He slithered off the hammock like a panther and crawled to his backpack stashed under the giant rock. He unzipped the front pouch and pulled out his knife. It had a 4-inch blade and a handle that fit snugly in his palm and fingers. He knew that he could inflict some serious damage with it, provided he caught his prey unsuspecting.

His heart pounding in his chest like a bowling ball repeatedly dropped on the lane, he made his way toward the shore, step by deliberate step, hiding behind tree after tree. Minutes later, he was at the shore. It the distance was a boat, but he could see only the moonlight reflecting off its wet hull and hear its moorings clang. To his left, at the entrance to Pirate Cove, a shadowy figure was entering the woods. It was searching for something, or someone. He tiptoed along the shore, but quickened his pace. Could this be the person in the dream? He was terrified, but he could not turn back. He had to go on the offensive. Kill or be killed. The dream must have been a premonition. This was the moment of truth.

The figure followed the banks of the creek which poured into the bay at the cove. Chuck decided to backtrack a few yards, follow a parallel route through a path he had made in the woods and get the jump on him. About a hundred yards into the woods, Chuck turned toward the creek and waited behind a giant live oak. The canopy of the trees shielded the moonlight and Chuck could make out nothing about the dark figure as it approached, carrying a tiny flashlight. As soon as it passed the tree, Chuck leaped and grabbed him from behind, reaching the back, dull edge of his knife around to the bottom of the chin, ready to cut the jugular with one quick downward slash. The figure screamed. A shrill, high-pitched scream. A woman's scream. He withdrew his blade.

"It's me! Chuck! It's Sam! Samantha!"

"Oh, my God! I'm sorry, Sam!" he said as he embraced her. She was shaking violently. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't know. I thought you were the killer."

He tossed the knife away and they collapsed to the ground, arms wrapped around each other, both overcome by the overwhelming fear and subsequent relief.

Chuck scraped some branches together and lit a small fire. He broke a nearby limb in half and tossed the pieces on the newborn flames. It would provide enough light until sunrise. He then draped his arm around Sam, whom it had taken him nearly a half hour to calm down.

"Are you OK? I am so sorry. You just don't know."

"Yeah, I'm all right now," she said. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's just I had this dream, and then I heard you coming, and, well, I guess I just freaked out. What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were in Fort Myers."

"They turned me away. I think Johnny called and told them not to let me stay."

"Why didn't you just go somewhere else, like Miami? Aren't you originally from there?"

"Miami's too dangerous. If you think Johnny's bad, he's nothing compared to some of the dealers down there. No, when I got turned away at Fort Myers, I took that as my cue. It's time for me to move on, not just with my boat, but with my life."

"Then why are you back here?" Chuck asked as he poked a log to move it over a flame.

"I need your help."

"You need my help."

"Yeah. I told Johnny I'd do it. I'll make one run for him, and that's it. I'll make enough money to start a new life down in the islands, maybe open up some kind of snorkeling business or something down there. A few thousand American dollars will go a long way in Belize."

"What do you need from me?"

"I want you to go with me."

"To Belize?" He shook his head. "I can't. There's nothing I'd rather do than escape with you, Sam. But I can't. I just can't."

"That's not what I meant. Although, my offer to take you with me stands. You can get lost in those little islands and cays down there." He shook his head. "I know, I know. Anyway, what I meant is for you to go to Mexico with me. I can't do it by myself. It wouldn't be for long, just a little over a week."

"I don't know, Sam."

"Look, I know it's wrong. Hell, I've never even done drugs. But somebody's gonna go get 'em at some point anyway. I'll make enough cash to get me out of here. And I'll give you enough to stay here for a long time, if that's what you really want."

"How much?"

"How about two thousand?"

"I could hang out for a long time on two thousand bucks. But I don't know what good it would do me now."

"What do you mean?"

"The guy I thought did it, it sounds like he probably didn't. Now I understand why they think I did it. I'm the only one that makes any sense. Problem is, nothing makes sense. Everybody, and I guess me too, is looking for some kind of logical explanation, you know. But this isn't logical. Killing somebody, especially somebody like Mindy who never did anything to anybody, there's nothing logical about it."

"I'm sorry, Chuck."

"I've 'bout given up hope, Sam."

"Then come with me to Belize."

"I don't know. I think I'd rather go to prison."

"Thanks a lot. I thought you cared about me, Chuck. Don't you feel anything for me?"

"That's not what I meant, Sam."

"Then what the hell did you mean?"

"Just that I can't be free, not with this hanging over me. I do care about you, Sam. I really do. But you wouldn't want to be with me while I've got this cloud hanging over me."

"Yes, I would."

"No."

"Goddammit, Chuck! Quit telling me what I want!" she yelled as she stood up. "I want to be with you! I don't give a damn about this godforsaken town! Please, Chuck, run away with me. Please." He was silent. "Chuck, at least go to Mexico with me, if for no other reason than to get away from this and get your head clear. Being out on the water can do wonders. The middle of the ocean's a great place to think. Maybe by getting away for a while, you can see everything with fresh eyes when we get back." He was still silent. She dropped her arms by her side and looked toward the stars in exasperation.

"OK. I'll make the run with you, Sam. I ain't got anything to lose."

"Thank you. You won't regret it, Chuck." She reached her hands out to help him stand. "Well, pack up your stuff and let's go back to the boat. I've got a john boat on the shore."

"I'm packed. All I've got is what's on my back. But hold your horses. I'm hungry. Could I interest you in some breakfast?"

"What's on the menu?"

"Well, let's see. Today's Sunday, I think. That means it must be toast and jelly."

"Wonderful. Then we'll go?"

"Yeah, then we'll go."

For a week, he had lived with the labels of murderer and fugitive. Why not add drug runner to his resume, he wondered as he sat on the deck of the Oya. Being a criminal no longer felt so strange. It was like a dog collar. He hated the damn thing, but was resigned to it. Even if he could find out who killed Mindy, what could he ever do with the information? Who would believe him?

The sun had risen, but no other boats were near as the Highway 98 bridge appeared on the horizon. Chuck soaked up the fresh morning air and the openness of the bay. He didn't have to hide. He was there for all the world to see, though there was no one around. Behind him, Sam steered the boat silently. He sensed she was nervous about dealing with Johnny, but more so about the impending run across the Gulf of Mexico to some Mexican village just around the Yucatan Peninsula from Cancun. It was supposedly a safe place to pick up the cocaine. The local cartel had total control of the police, according to Johnny, and seeing an American sailboat anywhere in the vicinity of Cancun was hardly an unusual sight. Chuck felt guilty about participating in such an illegal venture, but was not scared. He was too tired to be scared. He was wary of Johnny, however, and anybody who might consider Johnny a colleague. He placed his hand on his hip and felt the folded-up knife in his pocket. He had repeatedly checked to make sure he hadn't left it behind at the cove. Sam, too, was well-armed, for she always kept a gun in the cabin. But he expected no violence. The details were supposedly worked out between Johnny and Sam. And she already been given forty thousand dollars for the run -- thirty-five thousand belonged to the supplier and five thousand to Sam, two thousand of which Chuck had hidden with his precious few possessions under the rock at the cove. Sam would be paid another five thousand would be paid her upon her return with the drugs.

Chuck stood up to watch the Oya's captain. Her brown eyes were focused on the water ahead, but her mind obviously was adrift. She could not be so intensely focused on an empty bay. Her dark hair fluttered in the light breeze, which also toyed with her baggy white T-shirt underneath her unzipped navy blue windbreaker.

"Hey, Sam?" No answer. "Sam? Sam?"

"Huh, did you say something?"

"I need to make a phone call."

"I got rid of my cell phone, Chuck. Sorry."

He thought for a moment. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to get off the boat at that point, but he had to call Jennifer to ease his conscience. Perhaps if he could get her to believe he was innocent, either she or Elizabeth would come up with some clue or would hear something that would give him a reason to stay in Pirate Cove.

"We've got to stop somewhere then, Sam. I can't go without making this call."

"You gotta be kidding, Chuck. There's nowhere to stop but at the pay phone at the marina. I want to get out of here now."

"I know, Sam. Me, too. But please, I've got to do this."

"What if somebody sees you, Chuck?"

"I'll be quick, Sam. No one's looking for me down here. Besides, do I look like the same guy of a week ago?" He rubbed his week-old beard.

"No. You swear you'll be quick?"

"I promise, Sam. I'll be a much better first mate if I can get this out of the way."

"All right," she sighed. "But go down in the cabin and get a hat and sunglasses or something so nobody recognizes you. I need to get a few fishing supplies anyway. Just make it quick. I don't want to bump into Johnny. I only want to see him one more time, and that's to collect my pay."

"It'll just take a second. I'm not too keen on bumping into Johnny, either. I get the feeling he's not very fond of me."

"Maybe it's because you kicked his ass."

"Could be. Could be."

Chuck dropped his last quarter in the pay phone slot and prayed there would be an answer.

"Hello?"

"May I speak with Jennifer please?"

"This is she. Who's this?"

"It's Chuck. Did you talk to Elizabeth?"

"Yeah. Where are you?"

"Doesn't matter. You were right, Jennifer. Billy didn't have anything to do with Mindy's death."

"I told you."

"I know. But I didn't do it either." There was silence as he waited for a response that wasn't coming. "Jennifer, you can believe what you want to believe. I don't give a crap anymore about what anybody thinks about me. I know I didn't have anything to do with it, and that's good enough for me. But I'm not going to stop trying to find out what happened. If you don't want to help, that's fine, but don't get in my way. But I'd really appreciate your help. If you don't want to do it for me, do it for Mindy."

"What do you want from me?"

"Any detail from that night. Did you see anything unusual that night?"

"No."

"Where did you go after you left the party at Mindy's house?"

"I went home."

"Straight home?"

"Yeah, straight home. And I didn't see anything."

"Will you at least keep your eyes and ears open? And remind Elizabeth to do the same. Somebody around here knows something. This town's too small to keep a secret. I'll get in touch with you in a few days, maybe next week. Or just get in touch with Elizabeth."

"Where are you?"

"I can't tell you."

"You said, 'Somebody around here.' Are you back in town?"

"I told you, Jennifer. It doesn't matter where I am." He looked down the 20-foot hill that separated the boats from the business portion of the marina, where he stood at the pay phone. Sam was standing on deck of the Oya, signaling to him by tapping at her wrist even though she didn't wear a watch. "Look, I gotta go. Please, Jennifer, anything you can do."

"If you didn't do it, then why don't you turn yourself in?"

"Think about it. I know you about as well as anybody down here, and even you don't believe me. Lord knows, nobody else down here is gonna give me the benefit of the doubt. No, I've got to have something to fall back on. Somebody else did it, and when I find out, then I'll turn myself in and let the pieces fall where they may. But not until. I'll be in touch. Bye."

The morning sun was beginning to erase the chill as Chuck jogged down the slope to the boat, which was docked at a waterside store. Sam had bought gas for the small motor she seldom used and some fishing tackle.

"Come on," she said. "I just saw Johnny walking around. Get inside, quick."

Chuck did as he was told, and Sam slammed the door to the cabin and began untying the Oya. Before she could fire up the motor to hasten her departure, Johnny leaped onto the boat.

"Good morning, Sam," he greeted with phony cheer. "I thought you were supposed to be on your trip. In fact, I'm pretty sure you were leaving yesterday afternoon."

Chuck kept his ear pressed against the door in case he needed to rush to her aid.

"Something came up, Johnny. But I'm leaving now. I'll be back next week. Don't worry."

"I got a lot of money sunk into this, Sam. You know what's gonna happen if you try to screw me over, don't you?" He was speaking in a forceful whisper.

"You made that abundantly clear. But I told you I'd do it, and I'm gonna do it."

"I can find you, Sam. If you try to run off with that money, so help me God I will find you and kill you. Understand?"

"Yeah. Now will you get off my boat, so I can go?"

"Yeah." He jumped back onto the wooden planks and stared at Sam. "Remember, Sam, I'll be watching."

The sailing was smooth, but slow, the entire first day. They weren't making much progress, Sam said, though she seemed to care little about the pace, almost as if she hoped they would never make it to Mexico. Chuck, meanwhile, had no idea whether they were two miles from Full Moon Harbor or halfway to Mexico. Everywhere he looked, there was water. Anyway, it was a perfect pace for teaching Chuck all the basics of sailing. And they knew that if they were going to keep a constant pace toward the Yucatan Peninsula, Chuck would have to spend some time on his own behind the wheel. When night fell, Sam showed him how to navigate by the stars. She had a Global Positioning System on board, one of the few luxuries she owned, but she said she preferred the map provided by Heaven.

Having eaten bologna sandwiches for lunch, Sam insisted on cooking supper as Chuck held the steady course. It was eight o'clock and the sun had long since given way to moonlight. He was amazed how bright it was. The sky was clear, and the moon and every star in the heavens reflected off the water. Even in the countryside of Henderson, far away from big city lights, he had never seen so many stars.

Supper was fried hamburgers and french fries. It was greasy and unhealthy. It was manna from Heaven, too.

"So, what are you gonna do in the Turneffe Islands again?" he asked casually.

"Don't know exactly. Probably the same thing as here -- do a few charters, live on the boat and find some part-time work if I need to. There are American-owned hotels and restaurants down there. I'm sure they'd like to have an American woman who could also pass as a local native."

"Do you know anybody down there?"

"Not really. I remember Papa saying I had an aunt in Belize, but I don't even remember what her name was, much less where in Belize. That's why I wish you'd go with me. Well, that's not the only reason."

"Oh?"

"I know I'm older than you and not your kind of girl, but I can't help it. I'm totally infatuated with you. That's never, ever happened to me before, not this much anyway. Something just tells me that I was supposed to meet you. It's something spiritual, you know. I feel like we're soul mates. Even if I'm not your soul mate, Chuck, I know you're mine."

He stopped eating and tried to soak it all in. He sensed an attraction between them, but had no idea she felt so strongly. He could not say the same. Sure, she was a natural Latin beauty, but she was so much older. He had no response, just an awkward smile.

"You don't have to say anything, Chuck," she continued. "I know how you feel. But I couldn't hold it in anymore. Out here on the water, just the two of us, the feeling's just so powerful." She sighed and picked at the food on her plate. She appeared to have lost her appetite suddenly. "Can I ask you one question, though?"

"Yeah." He hadn't lost his appetite with his mouth half full of hamburger.

"If I were your age and we had met under different circumstances, what would you have thought of me? Could we have been ... you know?"

"Sure."

"I guess I should feel better then. But I don't. I must be cursed. I feel like I'm living the wrong life, in the wrong body. My whole life's just been one mistake after another. And now you come along, and I know I was supposed to be with you. But it's just not meant to be for me to be happy. Not in this life anyway."

"Don't say that Sam. I think you're beautiful. I just, I don't know."

"I'm just too old."

"No."

"Yes. You can say it, Chuck. I understand. And I don't blame you. Your best years are still ahead. My timing's just bad, that's all. I was born too damn early."

Chuck finished his food and threw it into a plastic bag that served as the Oya's trash can for the voyage. He sat down behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. He rubbed them, hoping to elicit a moan of pleasure. She just hung her head to sob. He didn't understand what she was feeling, but hurt for her. He lay back and pulled her to his side. She curled up with him and buried her face in his chest. She was sobbing gently, but not uncontrollably. After a half hour or so, she was quiet and still. She was asleep, so he slid out from under her and retrieved a blanket and pillow from the cabin. It was a little cool without the sun, but there was no threat of inclement weather, so he felt comfortable letting her sleep on deck. He lifted her head and slowly pushed the pillow under it. Her eyes opened slightly, and she smiled a half-smile. "Thanks," she whispered.

"Sleep tight, Samantha," he whispered as he knelt over her and kissed her forehead. "If you get cold, go inside, OK?"

"OK, sweetie. I'm OK up here right now. If it's OK with you."

"Of course. Now get some rest. I'll just keep us heading west, right?"

"Yeah, baby."

"Good night, Samantha."

He used the quiet time to ponder his dilemma. What could possibly motivate someone to kill Mindy? Every soul in Crescent Beach loved Mindy, himself included. Billy, too. Was it possible that someone loved her too much? Or could it have been a complete stranger and a tragic chance interlude? No, whoever had called Mindy's house and told her to meet him at the hotel had to be connected to him or her somehow. And why was Elizabeth so willing to see his side, while Jennifer refused to listen? Jennifer had been a chameleon since the moment they met. She was at first Mindy's protector, then ruthlessly sought what Mindy wanted -- him. Certainly, she could not have been so jealous as to have played some role in her death. She and Mindy had been friends too long to let their brief encounter with him drive a wedge that deep between them. Still, Jennifer's unwillingness to discuss anything related to the murder seemed suspicious. Then again, she had just lost the first friend she ever had in Crescent Beach. Her silence was understandable. Maybe she'd be ready to talk when he returned. He wondered which would give first -- Jennifer's silence or his run of luck as a fugitive. He had read stories about old men who had escaped from prison and lived on the lam for decades, often becoming productive members of society. But they seemed to be petty thieves and such. He recalled no such story about fugitives charged with murder. From Ted Bundy to O.J., they all got caught sooner or later. He shook his head in disbelief. He, Bundy and O.J. in the same thought. It didn't seem possible. But whose footsteps would he follow? Unless something dramatic happened soon or a dream team of lawyers would take up an innocent man's case, it looked as though Ted Bundy had saved him a seat.

They picked up pace on the second day. Thin white cirrus clouds danced in and out of the sun's rays while a steady wind carried them toward the western side of the gulf. A more confident sailor, Chuck held a steady hand on the wheel as Sam disposed of the remains of lunch. She was quiet, but rested. He had helped her get into bed around midnight, and she did not awake again until eight that morning. Though his life was in tatters, his mood was boosted by the serenity of the gulf. Sam, too, was a good influence. She had her moments of vulnerability and hopelessness, but she had the power to flip that switch at any moment to turn herself into the strong, independent woman who was intimidated by no one, drawing her strength from the ocean and her wind goddess. There were more Santerian references to Oya than just the name painted on the back of the boat. There were tapestries and artworks in the cabin that bore various images of the goddess. As Sam casually explained her fascination with Oya, Chuck began to understand why she felt a connection to the goddess, though not with the rest of the Orishas or any other religion. As the goddess of fire and the thunderbolt in addition to the wind, Oya represents female power. In her anger, she can create hurricanes and force change. She's also the guardian of the gates of death and is the Orisha whose name is invoked during times of illness or when a transformation is necessary. Perhaps the strength that occasionally slipped through Sam's hands was found in her semi-worship of the goddess. She insisted she did not believe in the goddess exactly as the religion represented her, but maintained there was something real about that name, Oya. And she had to believe in something.

After confessing her feelings for Chuck and then sleeping on it in despair, she seemed to have put it behind her. Maybe she couldn't love him, but at least her dream of sailing off to the islands was about to become reality. That's freedom, he thought. It's not drifting aimlessly on the ocean. You've still got to have a destination. Freedom is being able to choose the island and steer the ship. Whom you meet along the way and what you encounter, that may indeed be up to the fates.

Sam returned to the deck with her hair in a ponytail and carrying a guitar.

"You play?" he asked.

"Not really," she confessed. "Papa taught me a few chords when I was a little girl. I strum a little, sing a little. Mostly folk songs and stuff from the '60s and '70s. You know, Joni Mitchell, James Taylor and stuff like that. Even a little Jimmy Buffett, mainly his older stuff, you know, pre-'Margaritaville.' "

"That's cool."

Sam flipped her ponytail behind her as she strummed G, C and D chords with no particular rhyme or reason. She paused for a moment and stared at the instrument her father once played. Then she broke into song:

"I never used to miss the chance to climb upon his knee and listen to his many tales of life upon the sea. We'd go sailing back on barkentines and talk of things he did. Tomorrow's just a day away for the Captain and the kid."

He had heard the song before on a old Jimmy Buffett album. It was one of his earliest songs, about his grandfather. But Sam's angelic voice made the tune her own. She stopped singing after that verse and looked toward the horizon. The waitress and part-time prostitute metamorphosed into a 10-year-old girl before his eyes. She giggled and smiled with her big, brown, sparkling eyes open wide. Her whole life lay ahead of her. A middle-aged man appeared on deck and draped his arm around her, pointing in different directions, telling her the places she would go. She believed in him.

The man disappeared, and the woman turned back to face Chuck as the last traces of a D chord drifted by on a breeze. She gave him a half-smile, and there was still a barely noticeable twinkle in those tired eyes.

"Wow, you can really sing," he said as she waved off what she felt was a patronizing remark. "No, really. You act like you're one tough cookie, you know, but your voice ... it's like an angel."

The half-smile spread. It was the first time he had seen her full smile. He had seen her fake smile, nervous smile and the half-smile. He knew this was a rare moment. His heart rate increased and his palms grew sweaty. He most certainly had boarded that sailboat with no intention whatsoever of falling for Sam. They were completely incompatible. He was a good ol' Southern Baptist boy, a proud member of the Henderson Country Club. Sam was a hooker, virtually homeless, pretty much an atheist with a touch of voodoo, a loner, older, tougher, and she carried a gun. But stranger things had happened. Much stranger things of late.

"Thanks," she said. "You're sweet."

"I'm glad somebody thinks so."

"Oh, I know so."

"Oh, really. And how's that? You psychic?"

"Kinda, sorta. It's kind of like when you come up on a dog that you've never seen before and know right off whether you can pet it or if it'll bite you. It's not like I can predict the future or anything."

"Gee, thanks. So, what am I? Pit bull or cocker spaniel?"

"You're definitely no pit bull."

"What about you?"

"Oh, I'm a mutt for sure," she said confidently.

"I love mutts."

There was that smile again.

The steady rocking of the boat made for great mid-day sleeping conditions. He wondered if he might get seasick, but was pleasantly surprised to find himself at ease with the swells in the middle of the gulf. He rolled onto his back. Though Sam's tiny bunk was hard, the waves made him feel like he was on the world's largest waterbed. He wanted to stay in the cabin and snooze for a few more minutes, but knew he was likely to sleep a few more hours instead. He had no idea what time it was, but was sure Sam had done more than her fair share of keeping the boat on course. She deserved a little relief.

Having slept in a pair of boxer shorts that belonged to Sam, he figured there was no harm in borrowing one of her T-shirts. He grabbed a baggy white shirt out of her closet and climbed the few steps out of the cabin. He was met by a warm, caressing gulf breeze. But Sam did not have her hand on the wheel. She was on deck, near the bow. She sat Indian-style and faced a purple western sky. Her back was turned to him and she was breathing deeply and slowly. She appeared to be meditating, or perhaps worshipping the sunset. And she was nude.

He did not want to be a voyeur, but could not turn away. Her body was the same bronze color from head to toe. She wasn't thin and frail, but nor did she have an ounce of fat on her body. She was fit, but feminine with sharper curves than a Formula One racetrack. Her dark brown hair dangled tantalizingly down her back and the ends pointed to her round derriere.

He could see nothing but her. There was no sunset, no boat, no waves, no Gulf of Mexico. As he stood there, his body became numb -- most of it anyway. When a seven-foot swell smashed against the hull, Chuck lost his footing on the steps and nearly knocked himself out as he slipped and hit his chin on the deck. Sam was dripping from the spray of the wave as she quickly turned and giggled upon seeing Chuck rubbing his chin.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he stammered. "I didn't mean to disturb your ... uh ... whatever."

"I'm just relaxing. Why don't you join me?" He looked at her as if she had just suggested he eat a chocolate-covered tarantula. "Oh, come on. Don't be shy. Hurry, before the sun's gone."

His knees were weak as he climbed the steps again and walked toward her.

"Sit down," she ordered. He did as he was told, but behind her. "No, dummy, in front of me." He crawled around to face her. "You don't have to look at me if that makes you uncomfortable." She uncrossed her legs and stretched them out flat on the deck. "OK, sit like me with the bottoms of your feet against mine." He complied. "Take off your shirt." He did. "Now, hold my hands and pull me toward you to stretch my back. Ahh, that feels great." She then returned the favor. "Your hands are shaking. Am I making you nervous? Are you that shy?"

"Um, I just woke up. I guess you kind of caught me off guard."

"There is nothing better than feeling the warm wind flow freely over your naked body. It's so liberating. Come on, try it."

"Try what?"

"Get totally nude. Trust me. It feels great. I won't peek, I promise."

"Uh, I don't know."

"Oh, you big baby!" With that, she let go of his hands and grabbed the bottom of the boxers and gave a tug, only to find he was not nearly as relaxed as she was. But she didn't stop. She fought with the underwear until she finally wrangled them down to his ankles. He blushed and cringed at how she might react. "Oh, my!"

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not." Chuck hung his head sheepishly. "Do you really find me attractive, or is it because you just woke up?" He just closed his eyes. "On second thought, don't answer that ..." The next thing he felt were her lips against his and her hands on his chest, pushing his back to the deck. She crawled on top of him and kissed his cheek, his neck and then his ears. "... just show me or stop me."

He pulled her close, relishing the feel of her breasts, still wet from the splash, against his chest. All the tension from the previous ten days had turned him into a volcano and he held nothing back. Besides, there was no stopping her now -- not that he wanted to.

Chapter 10

2008-11-28T22:52:00.000-08:00

Chuck didn't catch exactly what it was Sam ordered, so he just ordered a beer. Actually, he told Sam he wanted a beer and she relayed the order to the man behind the counter in slow, deliberate Spanish. The shack was no doubt the only restaurant in the tiny fishing village. Just a short trip up the coast from Cancun, there was no trace of the tourist traps that awaited Americans and the greenbacks there. This was the real Mexico.

"You're not hungry?" she asked.

"I'd rather have a jelly sandwich. I'm not much for Mexican food. I don't even like Taco Bell very much. You got Mexican money to pay for this?"

"Pesos? Nah. He'll take American money." She unzipped her purse and grabbed a few bucks. She got the attention of the old man behind the counter and waved the bills. He nodded his acceptance. "See? American money is gold around here."

Chuck nodded, but he had no clue. He did, however, take notice of Sam's pistol in the bag. The old man handed him a cold bottle out of a refrigerator older than any he had ever seen. "Gracias," he responded. That was the extent of his Spanish knowledge.

"Here," she said as she handed him the purse. "Watch my bag. I've got to step out and use the pay phone for a second."

"Who are you calling?"

"The guy we've come all this way to see."

An hour later, Sam had long since polished off her lunch while Chuck had broken down and ordered a couple of burritos. He was finishing the last bite when a man walked through the swinging front doors of the tin-roof shack. He was looking for someone. They were now the only two patrons in the restaurant. They weren't hard to find. He was about 50 years old, Chuck figured, judging by the wrinkles of his face that bore the wear of too many days in the sun and on the water. He looked like a crusty sailor, but he was no Latino. His hair was sandy blonde and he had a week-old beard, probably constantly had a week-old beard. Then again, Chuck's beard was going on two weeks. He waved at the man behind the counter, who nodded as if he saw him every day.

"Sam?" he asked as he approached the table.

"Yeah. Paul?"

"The one and only." He extended his hand to Sam, shaking it not like a sailor, but like a real estate agent about to show them some homes.

"And you are?" he asked, turning his attention to Chuck.

"Sam's friend," he said.

"Hi, Sam's friend, I'm Paul." They shook hands. Chuck had expected a Mexican gang leader, complete with reflective sunglasses, cigar and gun by his side, something along the lines of Manuel Noriega or Daniel Ortega. Paul might as well have been selling used cars in Pensacola. He seemed harmless enough, especially in his khaki shorts, Roman sandals and Hawaiian shirt.

"So, why isn't Johnny coming to see me anymore?" Paul asked.

"I don't know," Sam said. "He seems to think he's being watched. He's on probation, you know."

"So, are you gonna be coming to see me on a regular basis?"

"No, this is a one-time thing to help the son of a bitch out."

"But Johnny said he found a full-timer."

"Maybe, but it's not me. Look, I don't mean to be rude, but I'd like to do this and go."

"All right, honey, all right. You see that little dirt road right there." He was pointing out the window to a tiny dirt road. "At the end of that road is my house. It's the only house on that road, a little concrete block place with a satellite dish out front. Meet me there in two hours and we'll do business."

"OK," Sam agreed.

"No." The voice was Chuck's.

"Excuse me," said Paul. Sam glared at him bewilderedly.

"Do you mind if we talk in private for a second?"

"No problem," Paul responded.

Sam grabbed Chuck by the sleeve and they walked outside the shack to the pay phone so that Paul could not hear them.

"What are you doing?" she stammered.

"Sam, I don't trust this guy. I know he seems nice enough, but I don't think carrying thirty-something thousand bucks down a tiny dirt road in a godforsaken Mexican village is safe. We've got the money, Sam. We should be in control of this. It's got to be on our terms. I don't want some federalis finding our bodies along that road there."

"Well, what do you suggest then?"

"Make the exchange on the boat. He drops the drugs and we hand him the cash, simple and quick. And you have your gun handy the whole time. One minute, then we're off. If we walk down that road with all that money, we might make it to his house, but I don't think we'll make it back to the boat."

"Why?"

"Just a hunch. If this guy was so trustworthy, he wouldn't be living south of the border right now. Besides, it's one thing for him to be dealing with Johnny all the time. He may not trust you or me. He could ambush us and take the money and run."

"And what if he doesn't go for it?"

"We tell him no deal and shove off. But that won't happen. He's not going to let that much money float away. But you've got to hold firm, Sam. This has got to be on our terms."

"How did you become a damn expert on this?"

"Didn't you watch 'Miami Vice?' "

"Yeah," she said, "but I missed this episode."

Two hours later, it was twilight on the water and Sam and Chuck were on deck waiting for Paul, who at first had refused the conditions, but relented just as the two were walking out the door. He was meeting them on the boat under protest, especially since they insisted he come alone, a condition that drew a suspicious raise of his eyebrows. Sam assured him the she and Chuck meant no harm and were merely cautious. Yet, she also warned him not to try "anything funny." A simple transaction, she said, and he would never see or hear from them again.

The lagoon was just deep enough near the shore that they could drop anchor and still have the boarding plank reach the muddy bank. Sam sat in her cheap, white plastic chair, in which she leaned on its back legs against the outside of the cabin. On top of the box where she stored her life vests sat the loaded gun, just inches from her dangling right hand. Chuck paced while constantly checking his front pocket for his buck knife.

A man made his way up the beach toward the boat. He was alone and carried a large duffel bag. Gone were the Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. He now wore blue jeans, boots, a light jacket and cowboy hat.

"Ahoy there, mates!" Paul bellowed as he took his first step onto the wooden plank. The angry man they last saw at the ramshackle restaurant had transformed back into the used car salesman/real estate agent persona. Sam didn't budge from her reclined position in the chair. Chuck stopped pacing and stared him down. "Ya'll look like you've got someplace to be. Why the rush? The coast is beautiful this time of year."

"You got the stuff?" Chuck asked with a blank, all-business expression.

"Yeah, yeah. But you don't get your hands on it until I see the cash. I know you've got your own little rules and stuff, but that's one rule that doesn't change. I don't let go of this bag until I see the money."

"Go get the money, Chuck," Sam said. He nodded. Seconds later, Chuck reappeared on deck and tossed a briefcase at Paul's feet.

"That's it," Chuck said. "You can count it if you want to, but if it ain't right, that's between you and Johnny. We're just the middle man."

As Paul knelt to open the briefcase, his eyes noticed the gun beside Sam. He kept looking back and forth between Sam's right hand, with the tips of her fingers now touching the gun, and the latches on the case. It popped open to reveal stacks of hundred dollar bills bound by rubber bands. He nodded and smiled. It seemed to be a familiar sight to Paul, and Chuck breathed a sigh of relief. Paul could now drop the duffel bag and this whole nightmare could end.

"All right," Chuck said. "You can drop the bag and we'll be out of your hair."

"You know, I really don't appreciate your business style," Paul said. "And I don't appreciate the little lady over there stroking her gun when I've been so accommodating. Y’all come to my turf and tell me how to run my business, and now the little lady over there wants to shoot me."

"Nobody's gonna shoot anybody," Chuck said. "Just drop the bag and you can take the money."

"Not until the little lady gets both her hands up where I can see them."

"Sam, why don't you oblige the man so we can go."

She slowly pulled her right hand onto her lap. Paul smiled.

"OK, now drop the bag," she said.

"Sure, no problem," he said as he dropped it and it landed with a thud. Chuck stooped down and began unzipping the big, black bag. "What's the matter? You don't trust me, either?" Chuck didn't answer. "See, this is why I like to cut out the middle man."

Chuck reached into the bag and pulled out a few socks, a T-shirt, a pair of shorts, but no drugs. Meanwhile, Paul's right hand began creeping into his jacket. Sam reached for her gun and Paul responded by pulling out his own handgun. Chuck leaped to his feet and lunged at Paul as a shot rang out. Sam screamed and fell back in her chair, knocking her head against the deck.

The blood was warm and flowing freely down Chuck's right arm. It saturated his sleeves. He had yet to loosen his grip on the knife that was lodged in the upper part of Paul's back. The third thrust of the four-inch blade had done the trick. Sam was lying on the deck in a fetal position, her chair sideways. His first stab at Paul caught the man in his right shoulder just before he shot at Sam. Even so, a bullet hole in the side of the cabin just an inch from where Sam's head had been was evidence of how close her life had come to ending. Hearing her whimper, Chuck finally released his hand from the knife and Paul's lifeless body collapsed with the entire knife blade still embedded in his back. Chuck crawled over to Sam and shook her.

"Sam, you've got to get hold of yourself! We've got to get out of here! You get that motor running and get us out of here as fast as possible."

"I don't have much gas left," she said.

"Well, you better use every ounce of it now! You can bet that somebody around here heard that gunshot and is gonna come to see what happened. If he's in cahoots with the police around here like you said, they're likely to enact some swift justice."

"What about him?"

"We'll worry about him later. Now, come on!"

Chuck pulled her by the arm, and Sam stumbled to the wheel and ignition for the light motor she used only for powering and maneuvering the boat in docking areas. It cranked immediately and she floored it. Still, with a mere 20 horsepower motor, the boat seemed to creep toward the open water of the gulf.

"Step on it, Sam!"

"I'm going as fast as I can!"

Chuck feared Paul had a partner somewhere nearby, but no one showed as the boat steadily moved out of the lagoon and away from land. When the last lights of the village were out of sight, the motor began to sputter and promptly quit. There was no sign of any pursuit, but there would no doubt be some suspicion soon as the villagers began to wonder what became of the gringo. And the old man at the restaurant would no doubt tell of the two strangers in town. Soon, there would be patrols looking for them. Sam stepped down from the steering wheel to help Chuck unfurl the sail in the darkness.

"What are we gonna do now?" she asked.

"I don't know, but we'll sure as hell never make it back to Florida in this boat."

"Chuck, the Turneffe Islands are only about 400 miles south."

"We'll never make it there either. How far are we from Cancun?"

"Only about 50 miles."

"OK, it's dark now. We'll go to Cancun and hide and regroup. We'll figure something out. One thing's for sure, we're dead meat out here on the open water."

"What about him?"

"When we get out into deeper water, we'll tie an anchor around his sorry ass and feed him to the sharks."

"And the bag?"

"The whole damn thing's his dirty laundry, Sam. He never had any intention of giving us the stuff. He was just gonna take the money and run."

He walked over to the black bag and kicked it, then grabbed it by the bottom and began shaking its contents free. Another shirt fell out, and then a clear plastic bag of white powder. Then another. And another.

"Holy shit!"

"Oh, my God!" Sam said. "We botched it!"

The trouble they were in just seconds before was now trivial. Not only had they killed Johnny's supplier, but they had thousands of dollars worth of cocaine for which no one had been paid. There would be hell to pay on either coast.

Two hours later, Paul was deep-sea diving against his will, and Chuck was scrubbing blood off the deck while Sam kept them on course for Cancun. He had thrown his blood-stained clothes overboard, too, along with the bags of cocaine that he allowed the wind to blow away. If someone did catch them, they would want the drugs or money. Perhaps with no drugs on board, they could convince them that they were the innocent victims of mistaken identity.

When he finished, he walked over to Sam and draped his arm over her shoulder. Such an event might have sent him over the edge a month or so earlier when life was so much simpler. But, now, it was just another day in the life of a most wanted man.

"I've got an idea, Sam."

"I'm all ears."

"We've got thirty-five thousand bucks. We go to Cancun and buy another boat, one that looks completely different. You ought to be able to get a decent sailboat for that. Then we sink this boat near the shore, where it can be found pretty easy."

"Why?"

"So it looks like we've gone down with the ship."

"And Johnny and everybody else thinks I'm dead. Do I have any other options?"

"I don't think so. I'd rather stage your death than have it become reality. Anyway, then you can take me back to Florida and head down around Belize and start your whole life over."

"What? I thought you were coming with me. I mean, things have changed between us, you know."

"Nothing's changed in Full Moon Harbor. I told you, Sam. I can't walk away from my situation."

"But, Chuck, now you really have killed somebody."

"Yeah, but does it really matter in the long run? I mean, the world just lost one more jerk, a drug dealer. If that were all I had to live with, it wouldn't bother me. I'd get over it. But, Mindy, that's something completely different. Everybody loved her. She was sweet and innocent and had her whole life in front of her. Paul had his chance and blew it long ago. She never got her chance and I couldn't live with myself if I ran away and let somebody get away with murder while I hide out to save my ass. I owe it to her."

"I don't want to go to Belize by myself anymore, Chuck. I'll stay with you."

"You can't. If anyone found you, Johnny would kill you if for no other reason than to keep you from talking. Look at me, Sam. I promise you that as soon as I find out what happened back at Full Moon Harbor that night, I'll hop a boat for Belize whether I've been cleared or not. But I've got to find out the truth. Until then, I can't go."

"Promise you'll find me someday when it's all over?"

"Yes, although you will have probably gotten on with your life by then."

"No, I'll be leaving my life behind, not just my past, but now my future, too. The only reason I want to go to Belize is for my future. But until you're with me, there will be no future."

"I promise, Sam. I'll find you. I don't mind running away from my past or my present. But I can't run away from the truth. I've got to chase it down or die trying."

"Don't say that."

"Just a figure of speech, Sam."

"Better be."

In Cancun, Sam and Chuck each sipped on a margarita in the crowded marina restaurant as they collected their thoughts. Neither had slept after rolling Paul's body off the deck with a couple of weights tied to his feet. They were also waiting for any American sailor who might be able to steer them toward a new boat. Sam had already approached a couple who had no idea where they might be able to find a sailboat or simply said they didn't to avoid getting bogged down in a conversation with a stranger. A man who looked to be in his late 60s then sat on a stool at the end of the bar.

"Hey, Miguel!" he said to the bartender. "How are you this morning?"

"Bueno, bueno. Beer?"

"Yeah, the usual if you please, my good man."

The Mexican bartender nodded and retrieved a cold bottle of Corona Extra. Chuck nodded at Sam to work her magic. She strolled over to the cheerful fellow and sat beside him.

"Hello, are you from America?" she asked with a smile and a few bats of her long eyelashes.

"Yes, my dear. You from around here?"

"No. Florida. Miami originally."

"I figured that, with the Cuban accent and all. But don't call me sir, goddammit. Name's Don."

"Hello, Don. Nice to meet you."

"Are you just passing through?"

"Yes."

"Damn. All the pretty girls are transients. Maybe it's time I sailed on back to the Keys. Lived there for damn near ten years. Now, I kind of sail all around the Caribbean, dropping anchor for a few months here and there. I've been retired for a couple of years. Was a stock broker in Miami. But the Keys, that's still home to me. Where are you headed?"

"Curacao," she lied, blurting out the first island that came to mind. "I've got some friends there."

"Been there once. Beautiful."

"I was wondering if you could steer me to someone who sells boats, preferably sailboats."

"You don't have a boat?"

"Yeah, but I'm looking to get rid of."

"Well, how much are you looking to spend?"

"Oh, no more than twenty-five thousand or so. I'm looking for about a 30-footer or so."

"Um, you're not going to be able to find a new one for that, not even a 20-footer."

"Oh, it doesn't have to be new. I'll be perfectly happy with a used one."

"Well, I do know a fellow in Puerto Morelos that refurbishes old boats and sells them. A Canadian. His name is George. I don't remember the last name right off hand. He worked on my boat last week, just some minor stuff to get her in tip-top sailing shape. He's about 55, kind of a tall fellow. Anyway, he's got probably a dozen or so boats you might be interested in. His place is right before you get into the town there. The first little inlet north of town, go in there and you'll see a tin-roof shack with a dozen or so sailboats out front. He also sells gas and bait to get by. It's supposed to be a nice day today, so you'll probably see him working on the boats out there."

"Thanks, Don. Here." She handed him a five dollar bill.

"What's that for?"

"I'm buying your beer." She said and turned away.

"What? You leaving just like that?"

"Sorry, Don. We've got to keep moving. But thanks."

"We?" he asked before Chuck stood to hold Sam's hand and escort her out of the restaurant. "Goddammit! Now, that's a woman, Miguel, and one lucky-ass son of a bitch. I think I might go back to Curacao instead of the Keys."

With barely enough breeze to fill the sails, the Oya crept into the inlet which they believed to be the one Don identified. Sure enough, they came upon a cluster of sailboats near a tin-roof shack. A rickety pier divided the dozen or so sailboats and a tall man was busy polishing the chrome rails on the deck of the biggest one.

"Excuse me!" Sam shouted as the Oya inched closer. "Are you George?"

The man nodded.

"Mind if we stop and look at any boats you've got for sale?"

"Help yourself!"

Sam carefully steered her boat toward the end of the pier and tossed a rope to George, who pulled the boat into place and tied it around a mooring. Chuck extended the plank to the pier and George helped steady each of them as they disembarked.

"Are ya'll looking to trade?"

Sam looked at Chuck for advice. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know," she said. "But we would like to see what you've got."

"Well, most of what I got's pretty small stuff," George said. "What kind of sailing are you into?"

"All over the gulf and Caribbean," Sam answered.

"Well, the biggest I've got is this beauty I just finished," he said in referring to the boat they saw him polishing as they approached. It's a Chaser, Chaser 33. It was built in 1976, but it's in great shape now."

"How much?" Chuck asked bluntly.

"Well, I don't know," George responded. "To tell you the truth, I just got through with it and haven't thought much about it. I guess it's about $30,000 worth of boat. Of course, then there's fees and stuff. Do you want to look at it?"

Sam and Chuck both nodded. George took them aboard and pointed out every feature -- including its rebuilt 40 horsepower engine, 12-volt electrical system, mainsails from 1976 and 1989, and the cabin, which was much larger than Sam's Tartan. The cabin had sleeping space for seven people and six feet of headroom. It also had a 35-gallon fresh water tank, a two-burner stove and larger closet space. George was particularly proud of its state-of-the-art navigation systems, which included two compasses, a depth sounder, global positioning system and autopilot among other electronic features.

After making small talk, Chuck and Sam nodded in agreement as if to say, "We've found it."

"You mind if we talk in private for a moment?" Chuck asked. "We like the boat. But we've got see what we can work out financially."

"Sure, sure. I've got plenty more work to do. Talk about it. I don't want you to rush into any decision. I'll be over here whenever you're ready."

He took a few steps and hopped onto the next boat, while Sam and Chuck reboarded the Oya.

"How much did he want?" Sam asked.

"He said about $30,000, but if we trade this boat in, that ought to be worth at least $10,000 or so."

"Maybe not that much. She's got a lot of problems. Besides, didn't you say something about sinking the boat and staging my death or something?"

"Yeah, well, maybe that wasn't such a bright idea in the heat of the moment and all. But I've got a better idea. We tell him my name's Paul, and I'm from that place Paul was from."

"Rio Lagartos."

"Yeah, that. Then we tell him we're headed for the Virgin Islands or Curacao or someplace way the hell away from here. I doubt anybody's ever gonna track down this boat here. But even if they did and asked who he sold it to, it would sound like you and Paul took off with the money and the drugs. They'd be looking for Paul and not you. The chances of their figuring out what really went on are a million-to-one. And this is a really nice boat, isn't it?"

"Yeah," she responded. "Even used, this would cost a fortune in the States. So how much are we offering?" she asked.

"Grab me about $25,000 out of the bag. That'll leave you with about $10,000 to get started in Belize. Would that be enough?"

"Well, it'd be about what I planned on to begin with. And I'd have a much nicer boat. Although ..." Her voice trailed off and she didn't finish the statement.

"Although what?"

"This was Papa's boat. It was all he left me."

"I'm sorry, Sam. But wouldn't you want this guy to fix her up, rather than destroying it. This guy obviously loves boats and will really spruce her up. And then some guy will come along and take care of her. It would be the best situation for the boat. Besides, your father's not on this boat, he's in here and always will be," he said as he placed his hand on her heart. She nodded in understanding, but still had tears in her eyes. "It's the best possible scenario. Just start gathering up all your personal stuff."

"All right."

They grabbed the money and headed back out onto the pier.

"George?" Chuck called.

The tall man peeked his head out of the cabin or the boat parked alongside the Chaser 33.

"We're ready to make you an offer. By the way, I didn't mean to be rude before. My name's Paul." They shook hands for the first time.

"Well, come on inside the office and we'll talk. I'm sure we can work something out. Of course, you don't have to do anything today. I don't want to rush you. I don't make a whole lot of sales. Most of my money comes from gas and fishing supplies and beer. Boats are just my passion. I just like fixing them up and seeing them return to their glory days."

"I appreciate that, George, but actually we are in a hurry. We're headed down to Curacao and we're not much for wasting time."

"So, where are you two from, originally?" George asked as they walked down the pier toward his shop.

"Well, Samantha's from Florida. I've been in Rio Lagartos for the last few years."

"Rio Lagartos, huh? That place has kind of a bad reputation."

"Yeah, well, that's kind of why we're leaving."

George held the door to his shop and motioned for the two to have a seat on a tacky, red vinyl sofa, beside which sat Mr. Coffee. "How about something to drink?" he asked.

"No thanks," Chuck answered.

"OK, Paul. You seem to be a man who likes to get down to business. What you got for me?"

"Twenty-three thousand plus the boat we came in."

"Um, I don't know. A Tartan 22, that's not much for sailing on the open sea."

"OK, twenty-four and the boat."

"All right, how are you gonna pay?"

"Cash."

"Cash, huh? And you're from Rio Lagartos. Look, Paul, I don't want to get involved in any drug deals or anything."

"I'll tell you what: We'll give you $25,000 and the Tartan if you just gas up that Chaser and don't ask any more questions."

"You got a deal."

Chapter 11

2008-11-28T22:14:00.001-08:00

Neither got much sleep on the return voyage. So much had changed, yet so much was the same. Chuck had gone from being wrongly accused of killing a popular girl that everyone loved to actually killing a man about whom no one seemed to care. While behind the wheel of the Chaser, he wondered if it were fate for him to kill Paul. After all, what in the world had spurred him to make this voyage with Sam in the first place. Maybe it was some sort of divine plan to bring balance to the universe. While Mindy's death was tragic, the other was no loss to society.

And what about Sam? His relationship with her began as one of admiration, then turned to romance. But was it love or lust, he wondered? He didn't know, and their not talking about it since the night of their sunset interlude on the Oya that was now docked in Puerto Morelos further clouded his mind. Meanwhile, the guilt over Mindy's unresolved murder persisted and was growing stronger. Having played some unwitting role in her murder would no doubt haunt him for the rest of his life. But this voyage had blurred his focus on justice. Not since that night with Sam had he pondered the circumstances of her death, and, for that, he was ashamed of himself. However, the possibility of landing in the electric chair no longer terrified him. The way his life was going, it sounded more like a vacation. But that would be the easy way out.

They sailed into the Thronateeska Bay under the cloak of darkness. Sam was at the helm, while Chuck slept. He awoke to the gentle bobbing of the bay's half-foot waves. It was like getting off a roller coaster and finding that the stable earth feels strange. As his eyes opened in the dark cabin, he made out the female silhouette of a woman crying at the fold out table in the galley, which was tiny, though twice the size of the Oya's. Her arms were crossed and her head buried in her hands.

"Sam?"

"I'm sorry," she said as she quickly wiped her eyes. "Did I wake you?"

"No, the waves did. Or the lack of them. Are we home?"

"Yeah, Pirate Cove, back where we started."

"Then I'd better go. And I want you to get out of here while it's still dark."

"Please, Chuck. Don't do this. You're not gonna be able to do anything here. Come with me. I can't sail to Belize by myself."

"What are you talking about? You're a great sailor."

"Maybe, but I'm scared. I don't want to be alone on the open ocean, especially in a new boat. I've gotta have a first mate. That's why I asked you to go to Mexico."

"We've been over this, Sam! I can't! I'm sorry. Besides, this boat handles like a dream."

He was dressing himself in a pair of Sam's sweatpants and fleece pullover as she sat down on the bunk beside him. He strapped on his backpack and stood up to take his leave.

"If you won't listen to reason, Chuck, at least give me one more night. I need you to hold me."

"No. You've got to get the hell out of here, and you need to do it now! Every second you're here, your life's in danger. Go! Go to Belize! Start your new life! I've got to try to fix what's left of mine!"

"But I love you, Chuck!"

"Don't say that."

"Why?"

"Just don't. Neither of us need that right now. You've got a whole new future ahead of you. I've got a past to fix."

"Goddammit, Chuck! I haven't been waiting my whole life to go to Belize! I've been waiting for you!"

"Get it through your thick skull, Sam -- I'm not going with you! I want you to get the hell out of my life right now! I'm getting on the raft and paddling back to the cove. You can pull it back when I hit dry land. If I ever find the truth, I'll come find you. But I can't handle you right now. I've got other priorities."

She bit her lip, and Chuck could see in her eyes that she wanted to slap him. But she didn't. She just stomped up the stairs to the deck. He followed, climbed down the rope ladder to the rubber raft that trailed the boat and left for the shore. She kept her back turned toward him. His heart was breaking, but he had no choice other than to be harsh with her. If he yielded the slightest bit to his heart, even one more kiss, they would be bound for Belize together, and he knew it. His job here was far from over. But if it ever concluded, he vowed then and there, he would go to Belize and find her and explain his behavior and why it was for her own good. But, for now, he needed her to be angry. He wanted her as far away from Florida, as fast as possible. And if he had to destroy their relationship to save her, then so be it. He had learned the hard way that he could take a woman's life indirectly. He wasn't going to let it happen twice. And perhaps with Sam completely out of the picture, he could better focus on the mission at hand: justice.

He marched off into the woods without looking back, and Sam furiously pulled the raft back to the Chaser. Seconds later, she pulled up the anchor and fired up the motor to make a speedy exit from the cove. When he was sure she could no longer see him, he stopped and peeked through the bushes as the boat disappeared into the darkness. It was safe to cry now.

He built a small campfire, just enough to warm his hands. The temperature had dipped into the upper 40s, not unusual for the Panhandle in late fall. Winter was on the horizon, and he was not equipped to deal with the two or three freezing nights that would no doubt come without warning. He knew he would have to move out of the cove and into shelter. Besides the fact that the chances of his being discovered increased each day he spent in the cove, it was too far away from town to serve as a base to investigate what happened to Mindy.

He decided to take the five thousand dollars he and Sam had stashed under the boulder and find the sleaziest apartment building, trailer park or godforsaken motel in the area to hide out from the authorities and the cold. It had to be the kind of place where the owners probably didn't read the papers and wouldn't recognize him. Maybe even the kind of place where a fugitive with cash was welcome. The kind of place where they simply didn't care about the tenants, so long as they paid the rent. It didn't even have to be a safe place.

Having napped as they sailed into the bay, he was now wide awake and hungry. He had taken nothing off the boat to eat -- only a couple of Sam's T-shirts and a sweatshirt that he had stuffed into his backpack. He figured there was no reason why he should not head to town under the cloak of darkness. He had a flashlight to guide him through the woods. He waited for the fire to die before taking his leave. As he watched the flames slowly shrink to a flicker, he thought of that sunset interlude with Sam. But he couldn't think of that without being reminded of Mindy. He would never look at one-night stands the same way again. He felt cursed. But both women were out of his life, and he wasn't about to let another one in. If he could someday, somehow reunite with Sam, he would. But when he promised to find her in the islands, he knew it was a lie. It wasn't a vicious lie. He desperately wanted to join her in paradise, but believed it was hopeless. The chances of finding out what happened to Mindy seemed just as slim, and it was likely he would get caught by the cops in the process. Sure, all he had to do was find out who killed Mindy without a clue in the world, then sail or fly down to the western edge of the Caribbean and find Sam among the clusters upon clusters of islands off Belize. Sure, and when he got through with all of that, maybe he could fight Mike Tyson or something.

"Sorry, Sam," he said aloud as he poked the embers sending sparks skyward, "but don't wait for me."

After kicking some dirt on the last persistent flame, Chuck retrieved the flashlight from his backpack and made his way back toward the creek where he had stashed the money under the rock. He felt a little like a pirate going to dig up his treasure, recalling how Sam said the cove got its name. Legend had it that a British pirate who raided Spanish ships in the 1500s left a fortune buried under the rock and anyone who tampered with it was cursed. Sam said it was a bunch of baloney, especially since no less than a few hundred people had found their way to the cove and the rock only to find nothing. The legend, though, was lost on the younger generations and Pirate Cove was forgotten, just another creepy, swampy inlet that was of no interest to sailors, Jet Skiers and windsurfers on the bay. Only a few old sailors from northwest Florida had even heard the legend, and they, too, knew there was nothing to it.

As he prepared to start digging, Chuck shined the flashlight at the base of the legendary rock. But where he had buried the cash and neatly covered it with dirt and leaves pressed firmly against the base of the rock, there was now a gaping hole -- and no money. He tried to convince himself a bear or raccoon had gotten hold of it and has simply scattered it about the camp site. But there wasn't a single dollar bill in sight. He spun around and shined the light at the two trees to which his hammock was tied. It was in tatters, dangling from one tree by a thread. Again, his heart began beating out its hard bass notes, moving his shirt. Then it almost stopped when he saw it. The note was nailed to the tree just above the hammock. It read simply, "Give up or die!"

That was no message from the police. And it was a good thing he wasn't here when the message was delivered. It had to be from the killer or someone who knew something about Mindy's death. Anyone else who found out he was there likely would have simply called the proper authorities. This person had a score to settle and was threatened by Chuck's being on the lam. Could it be the same person who placed that menacing phone call when Mindy, Elizabeth and Jennifer were in his hotel room weeks earlier? That voice still echoed in his head: "Touch her and you die! Touch her and you die!" But he was still convinced the voice on the other end of the phone that night was Billy, who was lying in bed with Elizabeth when Mindy was killed.

The echo in his head was disturbed by the sound of a boat motor. It couldn't be Sam, for he recognized the sound as a small boat, like the one he and his father had used for bass fishing before Chuck got hooked on golf as a teenager. And anyone who ventured so far into the bay with such a small boat had to be a local. They had to know the legend about the cove. Maybe they had been there before. Maybe even recently.

Chuck was torn. It could be the same person who had stolen the money, ripped up his hammock and posted the note. Someone had no doubt waited for his return. Anyone who hid five thousand dollars was going to return to retrieve it, and the person in the boat probably knew it. This might be his chance to meet the killer face-to-face. He could settle it once and for all. But as the bottom of the aluminum boat scraped against the sand in coming to a stop on the shore, he ran as fast as he could the opposite way with his flashlight off.

A hundred or so yards from his campsite, he hid behind a giant live oak tree. He tried not to breathe heavily and inhaled as silently as he could while still supplying the needed oxygen after the sprint. He heard no pursuit, no crackling of leaves under anyone's feet. But the glowing embers of the just-extinguished campfire would certainly give away that he had indeed returned and was not far away. He checked for his knife. It was still in his pocket, but he was in no hurry to use it again. He held his ground, neither ready to face the intruder or run farther away.

He heard voices. Or maybe it was just one voice. He could not be sure. But even if it were just one voice, it was talking with somebody. He couldn't make out the words, but deciphered that it was a male voice. He could tell nothing more. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe it was a fishermen or naturalists merely seeking a place to bed down.

"Chuck Carson! We know you're here!" The anonymous intruder theory was shot to hell. "We just wanna talk to you!" The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"We're not gonna hurt you!" It was another male voice, familiar, too, though a little less so. "If the police find you, they're gonna shoot first and ask questions later! We're not gonna hurt you! Come with us and nothing's gonna happen!"

"Chuck! Chuck Carson! Come out, come out wherever you are!" It was the first voice again and sounded almost jovial.

The yelling ceased and the distant, unintelligible mumbling resumed. As Chuck stood panic-stricken with his back to the old oak, he listened intently for any sign of people entering the woods, but heard nothing. After a few minutes, the silence was shaken by the growl of a small motor whose starting cord was being yanked. The motor revved to life. And Chuck assumed their mission had come to a close. He wanted to ease toward the bay to catch a glimpse of the boat, but thought better of it. Perhaps one or more had stayed behind. Perhaps the starting of the motor was a mere ploy to bring him out of hiding. Regardless, he was moving on. But plans had changed. He had no money and was being pursued. His hideout was no longer secret and whoever was trying to uncover his presence in Full Moon Harbor was sure to alert police. Meanwhile, Mindy's mysterious killer had multiplied. He had been searching for the one deranged person who could possibly have a grudge against Mindy. Now there were two. It was getting out of control, and Chuck knew it was only a matter of days, maybe even hours, before the game was up. Conceding defeat, he kept a steady pace toward the highway miles away. He was anxious for sunrise, for the darkness that had provided security since he began his run was now fraught with danger and uncertainty.

Elizabeth tossed her books on top of her red Celica while she dug into her purse for her keys. After finding them, she unlocked her door and reached for her books. Behind the books, on the other side of the car, appeared a face. She screamed.

"Shhh. It's just me."

"Damn, Chuck! What are you doing here?"

"I'm turning myself in, Elizabeth."

"I thought you said you didn't do it!"

"I didn't."

"I don't get it."

"Elizabeth, someone's found out I'm here. They came looking for me on the bay last night. They stole some money I had stashed away. Did you tell anyone I was here, that I was staying on the bay?"

"No, the only person I told was Jennifer. I told her that I had bumped into you and that you were going to call her. I told her you didn't do it, but she didn't say anything one way or the other. Do you think she told the cops or something?"

"I don't know. She's convinced I did it. But those guys after me didn't sound like cops."

"Well, there's a big reward out for you. Ten thousand dollars. They could just be bounty hunters or some rednecks looking to make some money. You know, I could go to jail just for talking to you."

"Ten thousand dollars, huh? How would you like to make ten thousand dollars, Elizabeth?"

"What are you talking about?"

He looked to the sky and sighed. He could no longer run. And if his freedom had to come to an end, something good must come of it. He walked around the front of the car and put his hands on her shoulders. "I want you to turn me in, Elizabeth. Take the money and do something positive with it, get started in college or something. And give a little to Mindy's mom."

"I'm not turning you in, Chuck."

"Yes, you are."

"No!"

"Look! If you don't do it, I'll go straight to Mindy's mom and have her call the cops on me! But I need you to do me a favor first."

"What's that?"

"Take me to wherever Mindy's buried. I never got a chance to say good-bye."

"When?"

"Now. It's time for this to end."

"OK. Get in."

They stopped briefly at a convenience store to pick up a lone rose for Chuck to place on her grave. Elizabeth also bought Chuck a Coke. She smiled apologetically as she handed it to him. It wasn't much consolation, but it was all the consolation she could afford with a five dollar bill.

"You know, Chuck, you could be found innocent," she said as she restarted the vehicle and pulled back onto the highway. "And, like I said, I'll speak up for you."

"Thanks, but you've done enough. Don't worry about me. How bad can prison be? I should be able to get a good bit of reading done, have plenty of time to rest. And if I get the chair, oh well. That would be a long way off. The appeals process takes years and years. The truth's just as likely to come out with me sitting in a cell as it is with me wandering around here without a clue."

Elizabeth could not respond to his resignation. He was relaxed, like someone who had decided to commit suicide and merely wanted to tie up a few loose ends before leaving.

Elizabeth pulled into the cemetery and parked on the shoulder of a loose gravel road behind a blue Honda Accord. Chuck said nothing as he stepped out of the car and inhaled deeply. This was it. The run ended where it began, a secret rendezvous with Mindy.

"We'll have to walk a little piece," Elizabeth said as she craned her neck into his blank stare. "You ready?"

"Yeah, I reckon."

Elizabeth held his trembling hand and they kept a slow but steady pace past the crumbling headstones of those who had died years and decades earlier. The newer graves were farther from the road at the end of a flower-lined walking trail that was shaded by massive live oaks dripping Spanish moss from their thick limbs. There was only one other person at the cemetery. He was far ahead of them in the morning mist, kneeling at a lone grave under a freshly planted weeping willow. Elizabeth stopped and jerked Chuck back toward her.

"What is it?" he asked.

"That's Mindy's grave." She whispered and pulled him behind a giant monument, obviously belonging to one of Pine County's most prominent families.

"Is that her father or something?" he asked.

"No, her daddy's a big guy, and she barely knew him. I don't know who that is. He doesn't look that old."

They watched as the man knelt at her headstone and talked to it. They could hear nothing. He wiped tears from his eyes occasionally.

"Come on," Elizabeth said as she pulled Chuck back toward the car.

"Where are we going?"

"To find out who this guy is."

"You think he might know something?"

"I don't know, but the simple fact that a strange man is visiting Mindy's grave is weird enough. I say we follow him and see where he goes from here, maybe figure out who he is."

They got back into Elizabeth's car and slowly pulled the doors shut without a sound before she drove away from the cemetery. A hundred yards from the entrance, she stopped in the parking lot of a furniture store and waited for the man to emerge from the main gate of the cemetery.

After 20 minutes passed, Chuck asked, "Is there another entrance to the cemetery?"

"No, just the main gate. You know, that blue car we saw -- there's something familiar about it."

"The Accord? I'm sure there is. There's only about a thousand in this town, probably a hundred that exact color."

"True. Still, I just know I've seen that same car before. And it had a Pine County plate, so it's somebody local. I just can't imagine who in this county knew Mindy that I wouldn't recognize. I know everybody Mindy knew. I'm gonna follow him and see where he goes."

"Be careful, Elizabeth. Stay way back. I feel bad enough about getting you involved. I certainly don't want you getting into trouble or getting hurt."

The blue Accord finally emerged from the cemetery's driveway and headed down the road toward Crescent Beach. Elizabeth followed, far enough behind that she could see each turn the car made, but not close enough to make out anything about the occupant or the car itself. The car finally turned into a trailer park past a junkyard just outside the Crescent Beach city limits, far away from water or any prime property. The Accord came to a stop outside a singlewide trailer that sat precariously on top of concrete blocks, which also formed the stairs leading to its front door. The man unlocked the door and slammed it behind him before the two could get a good look at him. They drove on past the trailer on the tiny dirt road that wound its way through the trashy park. She stopped in the driveway of an apparently vacant home.

"That's weird," Chuck noted. "That's a pretty nice car to be driving while living in a dump like that. Do you know anybody that lives here?"

"Hell no, and I'm sure Mindy didn't either."

"Well, there's got to be some connection. People don't just pay random visits to graves of folks they don't know and talk to them for a half-hour."

"Why don't we just knock on the door and ask him who he is?" Elizabeth asked.

"That might not be safe. If he knows something about what happened to Mindy, he would have come forward by now -- unless he had something to hide."

"Yeah, but he doesn't know who I am."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. Mindy might not have known him, but he obviously knew her. And if he knew her, he might have known you, too."

"Do you think this guy did it?" Elizabeth asked.

"I don't know. There could be nothing to it. He may have some perfectly legitimate, innocent explanation for why he was out there. Still, at least we've got a lead to follow."

"Does this mean you're not giving up after all?"

"Well, not yet. Not just yet. Not until I know this guy's story."

"Good. I wasn't gonna let you turn yourself in anyway. We're gonna figure this out, Chuck. I want to know the truth as bad as you do. She was my best friend. I owe it to her."

"We both do."

Elizabeth, caught up in Chuck's excitement of having an actual lead for the first time, ordered him to take a nap in the car while she kept watch on the mysterious man's trailer. The once flighty teen was in serious training to become the next "Charlie's Angel." Having endured a nightmarish evening after his camp was raided, Chuck drifted off to sleep almost immediately. The terror sparked by the intruders never subsided. Every bird call, every squirrel's movement, and every frog's croak startled him. Without so much as a moment's sleep by dawn and his mind cluttered with so many images that added up to nothing, he decided to give up. At least in jail there would be iron bars to protect him. And with his money stolen and his closest friend headed to the western Caribbean, he no longer had the support to keep running. The game was up. The trip to the cemetery was supposed to be the culmination of a valiant but failed quest for justice. Instead, it appeared to be just the beginning. And though he still had no answers, at least he knew a question to ask: Who was this mystery man, and how was he connected to Mindy? The questions swirled, but having a sense of direction eased his mind, allowing him to sleep again. As for Elizabeth, he had no doubt he could trust her. In her, he sensed the same desire for the truth, justice and closure that burned within him.

Bap! Bap! Bap! A scraggly man with gray hair and beard was slapping his hand against the driver's side window to get Elizabeth's attention.

"What are you kids doing?" he asked in the raspy voice of a longtime smoker.

Chuck awoke as Elizabeth grasped his arm seeking intervention. The man motioned for her to roll down the window and Chuck nodded.

"What do ya'll want?" the man demanded.

"Uh, well, we're looking for a place to rent," Chuck responded. "Do you know who we need to talk to."

"Yeah," the old man said, "me."

Chuck tried not to look directly at the man for fear he might rouse suspicion or that the man might recognize him. He looked like a Crescent Beach local, the kind of guy who fished the gulf for decades before settling into an uncertain retirement.

"How much is this place here?" Chuck asked, referring to the tiny mobile home in whose driveway they were parked.

"Two hundred and fifty a month."

"Hmm, well what are the neighbors like? And who lives in that trailer over there?" Chuck asked as he pointed to the singlewide with the blue Honda Accord.

"That one? Name's David. I can't tell you his last name. He's a good tenant, always pays his rent on time and keeps to himself. Very quiet. I don’t think you’d have any problems with him making a racket or anything."

"Well, we'll think about for a while and call you. You got a phone number we can call you at?"

"Yeah, whatever."

Elizabeth pulled a notebook and pen from her purse and jotted down the man's phone number. She also scribbled the name "David" and the words "blue Accord" underneath it." The old man walked away, stopped at a cluster of crooked mailboxes to collect his mail and then proceeded down the dirt road on foot.

"You know a David?" Chuck asked.

"At least a dozen," she said.

"Any of 'em drive an Accord?"

"No. How about you?"

"Name sounds familiar, but there's probably as many Davids around here as there are Honda Accords. He would have to have a generic name. Still, it's a hell of a lot more information than I've had up 'til now."

"Hold up, Chuck!" She pointed to David's trailer. "He's leaving! What you wanna do?"

"Follow him again. We know where he lives now; we can always come back. I wanna know where he's going now."

The Accord was on the highway before Elizabeth could get her Celica cranked. A cloud of dust encircled the car as she threw it into reverse and slammed her foot down on the gas.

"Hang on!" she warned as she sped toward the trailer park exit.

"Settle down, Elizabeth! It's not a race!"

The Accord was barely in sight as they pursued. Though Elizabeth was frustrated that the Accord had an overwhelming head start, Chuck reassured her that it was just as well, for there was no way they would arouse suspicion from so far behind. The car headed into downtown Crescent Beach, took a left onto Highway 98 and turned right just before the bridge that linked Crescent Beach with Full Moon Harbor. Chuck knew the road well, for it led to a string of inexpensive hotels, including the Seabreeze Inn which had been his temporary home and the last place he saw Mindy alive. It passed the liquor store from which Chuck bought his wine coolers during the first couple of weeks in town. It then pulled into the parking lot of the Seabreeze Inn and stopped. They watched as the male figure with his back to them entered the main office of the hotel.

"Damn," Chuck said as Elizabeth pulled into the far end of the parking lot. "Talk about coming full circle."

"If he lives in that trailer park, why does he need a hotel room?" Elizabeth wondered aloud.

"He doesn't," Chuck answered. "I know who it is! David! He's like the assistant manager here!"

"Is that good or bad?" she asked.

"I don't know. It kind of rules out the total stranger theory. Mindy obviously knew him, but I didn't get the impression they were very close. In fact, I don't think Mindy was very happy working for him. And he was always an asshole to me for some reason."

"She never said much about working here," Elizabeth noted, "maybe because she'd worked here so long, ever since our sophomore year. Want to go in and have a talk to him?"

"No. I wouldn't know what to ask. Besides, you can bet he'd recognize me from the newspapers and stuff. I've got a better idea."

"What's that?"

"Well, he's at work now. He'll probably be here the rest of the day."

"So you wanna rummage through his trailer, don't you?"

"Exactly."

They returned to the trailer park, parking across the road at a convenience store so they wouldn't draw the attention of the old man who apparently kept watch over the rows of cheap mobile homes. While Elizabeth stood lookout at the corner of the trailer, Chuck sought a way inside. The door to the trailer had three small fold-out windows at eye level. He slipped a few fingers under the lowest window and pulled, breaking its lock, but not the glass. He thrust his hand through a screen and felt around the door frame for a lock. There was a dead bolt and chain lock to undo. Then, with a quick twist of the inside door knob, it was open. He stepped in as fast as he could and shut the door behind him.

It appeared to be a typical trailer for a single guy. There were stacks of dirty dishes in the sink, an unmade fold-out sofa bed in front of a television and VCR, T-shirts strewn about the floor and beer bottles, empty and half-empty here and there. Chuck walked down the hall where there were three doors. It appeared to be two bedrooms and a tiny bathroom. He opened the door to the bathroom, and, again, there was nothing suspicious -- razors on the sink, no cap on the toothpaste, towels in a heap on the floor and a shower head that was steadily dripping. The first bedroom was more of a junk room, cluttered with dusty exercise equipment and cardboard boxes of books. The centerpiece of the room, however, was not junk; it was a high-tech computer with numerous gadgets such as photo scanners and deluxe speakers attached. A three-foot stack of CDs was comprised mostly of fantasy and role playing games. Chuck thumbed through them, but they meant nothing to him. He knew Charles Schwab, not Lara Croft. He hadn't played video games since Donkey Kong was a hit among the Henderson Elementary crowd, and he couldn't even make it past the second level on that.

The second bedroom was much neater and simply furnished with a double bed, chest of drawers, nightstand and a trunk at the base of the bed. The bed was made, leaving Chuck to believe that David probably crashed on the sofa bed in front of the living room's TV every night. Chuck sorted through the drawers in the chest and nightstand, but found nothing except for socks, underwear and T-shirts. The nightstand drawers contained a few popular fiction best-sellers and dozens of intense pornographic magazines. Still, that was hardly unusual, Chuck figured, for a single guy of David's age, which he figured to be about 35 or so. He tried to open the trunk, but it was locked. Probably more pornography, he reasoned. He tried to lift the trunk to see how heavy it was. When he did, he saw a key. It was hidden near enough the front of the trunk that it could be reached easily. He inserted the key and opened the top. It did not creak. Sure enough, there were more porno magazines and a few videotapes. Chuck rummaged through the top items and saw nothing overly suspicious. Then, in the bottom, he came across three high school annuals from Wallace High. They were from the past three years. Then there were news clippings. Several were about the high school softball team. Chuck recalled a brief conversation with Mindy in which she mentioned playing softball. There were photos of the softball team. There were a couple of newspaper photos of Mindy. One was from her sophomore year when she was on the homecoming court. Chuck found envelopes of snapshots taken of Mindy, some of her working at the hotel and some of her with friends that seemed to have been snapped unbeknownst to them. There were stacks of photos like these and below them were more packages of prints -- hidden camera shots. They were of Mindy undressing from a ceiling or high wall angle, perhaps through some sort of vent. In some of those shots, Mindy was removing or slipping into her hotel uniform, so Chuck figured that David had some sort of hidden-camera trap at the Seabreeze Inn. In none of the photos was she looking at the camera or acknowledging the photographer. And there was not a single photo of her with David. The trunk was now empty, except for some scattered computer Zip disks and several bottles of Rohypnol prescribed for David McDaniel.

After a quick check with Elizabeth outside the trailer to ensure the coast was clear, Chuck turned on the computer to take a look at the Zip disks, which were labeled simply by numbers with no descriptions. He inserted the disk labeled "5" because it was atop the stack. There was just one file listed: "aug8.mpg." He double-clicked the file and a shaky, black-and-white video began playing in a two-by-two-inch box in the middle of the computer screen. There was no sound, only video -- again apparently from a hidden camera -- of Mindy, Jennifer, Elizabeth and a male Chuck did not recognize. They were drinking and playing card games in a hotel room.

"Hey, Elizabeth!" Chuck yelled out the first bedroom's window.

"Yeah!"

"See anybody coming or anything?"

"No!"

"Well, get in here. I got something you need to see."

"OK, but make it quick before anybody shows up. I'm starting to get nervous out here."

Elizabeth found Chuck in the bedroom-turned-computer room and took a seat on the edge of the computer chair with Chuck. She studied the video through squinted eyes.

"Look familiar?" Chuck asked.

"That's me, and Mindy, and ... What the hell is this? It looks like that hotel. Oh, I remember. We had a little get together just before summer break ended, not long before you got here. Nobody was videotaping it, though."

"Not that you knew of," Chuck countered. "This freak's got loads of hidden-camera pictures of Mindy undressing and stuff in his bedroom."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"You think he might have been obsessed with her?" she asked.

"No, this goes beyond obsession."

"But that doesn't prove he killed her, does it?"

"No, but it's a hell of a motive. When me and Mindy hit it off, maybe he flipped out or something. It's the only explanation that makes any sense."

"We better cut this thing off and get out of here before he gets back," Elizabeth suggested. Chuck could feel the fear in her voice. "This is freaking me out."

Just as Chuck pushed his mouse to quit the program, the screen went blank for a moment and cut haphazardly to a shot of two half-naked girls lying on the motel room bed and engaged in lesbian foreplay.

"Oh my God!" Elizabeth said. "That's Mindy! Oh, my God!"

"Who's she with?"

"I think it's Jennifer. Yeah, that's Jennifer. I don't believe it." Elizabeth and Chuck glanced at each other for a moment. Neither knew what to make of the act on the screen. Mindy had never so much as hinted that she might be engaged in such behavior. He had never figured out Jennifer, who sometimes seemed so bright and sensible, but moody. They looked back at the screen to see Jennifer removing Mindy's panties. Mindy was lethargic, and Jennifer was initiating all the action.

"Cut it off!" Elizabeth shouted.

"Wait a second!" he responded. "Look how Jennifer keeps looking back toward the camera, like she knows they're being watched."

"And?"

"Well, did Mindy ever say anything to you about this? I mean, you were best friends, right?. You had to know if something like this was going on."

"She told me everything, Chuck. She never said a word about this. This just doesn't make any sense."

"I think it does," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at Mindy."

"I don't want to."

"Do it anyway." She obliged, staring in disbelief as Jennifer kissed Mindy's abdomen and moved further down with her kisses. "I think there's a reason Mindy didn't tell you about this. I don't think she knew about it."

"What are you talking about? There she is."

"Yeah, but she's barely moving."

"Like she's drugged?"

"Exactly." Chuck quit the program and ejected the disk before it got any more graphic. "Follow me." Chuck led her to David's bedroom where he showed her the photos of Mindy and the bottles of medicine.

"What is that?" Elizabeth asked of the bottles of Rohypnol.

"I don't know exactly. He obviously had a prescription for it. But why would you keep medicine in the bottom of a trunk? Where do you normally keep medicine that you've gotta take?"

"In the bathroom, or maybe the kitchen."

"So that it can be handy, right?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know what Rohypnol is, but he obviously didn't need to have it handy. And he had reason to hide it. I think we might have just seen what he needed it for."

"But he wasn't in that video," she retorted.

"No, but the way Jennifer kept glancing at the camera, this was a set-up, and Jennifer was in on it. And David was obviously in on it since he's got this disk and God knows what else on these other disks. And something tells me this Rohypnol stuff ain't for curing headaches."

"So, now what do we do?"

"Well, we better get the hell out of here, but not before we take a few souvenirs."

He handed the Zip disks to Elizabeth, who stuffed them into her purse, followed by a handful of Rohypnol bottles.

"Are you just gonna leave all this mess scattered? He'll know somebody's been here."

"Yeah," Chuck answered. "I want him to know. I want him to panic. I want him to know somebody knows what's going on."

The front door to the trailer then slammed.

"Shit," Elizabeth whispered. "Tell me that was the wind." Footsteps toward the bedroom answered that question. "What'll we do?"

"Quick," Chuck answered. "Under the bed."

They slithered under the bed at lightning pace, but without a sound. Elizabeth was breathing heavily, and Chuck turned to her with his finger over his mouth, warning her to keep it down. From their hiding place, they could see boots and the bottom of a pair of jeans in the bedroom's doorway.

"David?" the man called as he turned away from the apparently vacant bedroom. "Anybody here?"

Chuck raised a curious eyebrow.

"What?" Elizabeth mouthed silently.

"I know that voice," he whispered. "That's one of the guys who came after me at the cove last night. I bet David was the other one."

"What now?" she asked.

"I don't know. Just wait. Maybe he'll leave."

The man the stepped into the bathroom and shut the door. When Chuck heard him peeing, he nudged Elizabeth to go. "Come on, quick."

While the sound of the man relieving himself continued, they jogged on their tiptoes down the hall and toward the door. They were in the living room when the toilet flushed, and Chuck prayed the man would wash his hands before exiting the bathroom. On the living room's sofa bed was a familiar leather satchel. He grabbed it as Elizabeth reached the door. But when she pulled, it didn't open as quietly as she had hoped. In fact, it made a loud clang as she didn't notice the chain lock had been restored and it caught the door. The bathroom door opened as Elizabeth's violently shaking hands managed to free the lock, and they leaped from the trailer before the man could emerge from the hall. But they heard him running after them. Elizabeth sprinted down the main dirt driveway of the trailer park, but Chuck leaped behind the open front door. The man jumped out of the trailer, but didn't see Chuck. The man ran after Elizabeth, but Chuck caught him from behind and tackled him in front of an old Chevy truck that was not parked at the trailer when they had arrived. The man turned to face his tackler, but Chuck kicked him in the face before the man with a familiar face, but unfamiliar crew cut could get a good look at him. Chuck then delivered a couple of swift kicks to his groin and pulled out his knife. But he didn't use it on the man groaning in the dirt. Instead, he jabbed it into one of the truck's tires before running after Elizabeth. It was certain the man would not be getting up anytime soon. By the time Chuck made it to the trailer park's entrance, Elizabeth's red Celica was squealing onto the highway. She slammed on the brakes at the driveway, and Chuck jumped inside. As she sped away, Chuck looked back and saw the man still kneeling in pain at David's trailer.

"Slow down!" he warned her.

"Are you crazy?"

"No! Trust me. He's not getting up, and I flattened one of his truck tires. If you don't slow down, we might get pulled over by the police or something. We don't need that right now."

"What's in that bag, Chuck?" she asked, referring to the satchel he swiped from the sofa bed. Meanwhile, she slowed to 55 before taking the first left off the highway and back toward town.

He paused, took a deep breath and unzipped it. It was familiar indeed.

"Five thousand dollars," Chuck answered matter-of-factly.

The look on poor Elizabeth's face immediately changed from intense fear to total bewilderment. He knew her loyalty and trust deserved an explanation ... and the truth.

Chapter 12

2008-11-28T21:34:00.000-08:00

"I swear, Elizabeth, I've never so much as smoked a joint in my life. Hell, not even a cigarette for that matter," Chuck assured her as they sat at a picnic table and ate Kentucky Fried Chicken in an empty Neptune Park under a magnolia tree. "And I know it wasn't right, but I had to have money if I was going to hide out long enough to find out what happened."

"Who's this Samantha? How well do you know her?"

"As well as you can know somebody in a few weeks," he said. "She never did anything like this either. She needed the money to leave the country. Only problem is the whole deal went sour in Mexico."

"What do you mean?"

"The guy who delivered the drugs, he took a shot at Sam, and ... well, I killed him."

"Oh my God, Chuck."

"I know. I feel sick about it, even though he was pretty much a waste of human flesh. Anyway, we had to ditch the boat and buy a new one."

"So where's this Samantha now?"

"On her way to Belize, or some islands off the coast of Belize. I promised her that as soon as find out what happened to Mindy, I'd come find her."

"Do you love her?"

"Honestly, I don't know. Something's there, and I'll give it a chance as soon as I can. A promise is a promise. But this comes first."

"This whole drug running thing, it just doesn't sound like you, Chuck," she said.

"It's not me. I was desperate. It was either that or give up. And when I got back and found the money gone, I was ready to give up again."

"And now that you've got the money back?"

"Well, I'm planning to rent a room or something in the seediest, cheapest place I can find and lay low for a while. And now I've got a lead to go on."

"So, do you think this David guy did it?" she finally asked.

"That would be my guess. I didn't think much about it at the time, but he was pretty short and rude with me when I was staying at the hotel. Then again, if he was so in love with her or obsessed with her, you wouldn't think he'd kill her."

"Well, he's obviously wacko. There's no telling what he's capable of. But what about the guy at the trailer?"

"That's the wild card, I guess. He obviously is connected to David somehow, and he knows about me and my money. He's got to know something."

"So, what are we gonna do with those disks you took from the trailer?" she asked.

"I don't know yet. I guess at some point we'll get them in the hands of the cops. But not just yet."

"What about Jennifer?" she asked.

"What about her?"

"Do you think she had anything to do with the murder."

"I don't think she's capable of killing anybody. Then again, I wouldn't think she was capable of doing what we saw her doing, either. Who knows why she did it? David must have done something to entice her or had something over her. The fact that she hasn't gone to the police bothers me. So what if they found out about her and Mindy, if it meant finding the killer. She knew David was obsessed with her and hasn't said a word to the police."

"Oh, but she did go to the police."

"Say what?"

"Yeah. Remember that day we met at the Taco Bell?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I talked to her that night and she said that she told the cops that she thought you might call her, so they traced the call you made to her the next day."

"From the marina?"

"Yeah. Apparently there were a bunch of cops and stuff down at the marina not long after."

"That's weird. You'd have thought they'd have gone after Sam's boat. We sailed off like one minute after I made that call. And there was no one near us and no one followed us."

"Well, Jennifer's mother writes for the newspaper, so, of course, she knew about this inside and out. She said the police got stonewalled by some guy at the marina."

"Really? I bet I know who. This guy, Johnny, who runs the marina, also deals drugs. He set up the whole Mexico thing. He probably thought they were after him or something. Sam said he's real paranoid. I guess that was good for us."

"So, what do you want to do now?" Elizabeth asked as she cleaned up the remains of lunch.

"Want to strike the iron while it's hot?"

"What do you mean?"

"School lets out in about an hour. If we confront her before David gets hold of her, we might catch her off guard and maybe learn something."

"Can you handle that? I mean, she is your friend and all."

"Was my friend," Elizabeth corrected. "Mindy was my best friend, and that's all that matters."

"Well, OK then. But after that, I'm not gonna let you get any more involved. You've done way too much already. Get Jennifer's story, then leave the rest to me."

"I'm not making any promises."

Chuck hid in the trunk of Elizabeth's Celica as they waited in the parking lot of the high school for Jennifer to emerge. He had taped the latch to prevent it from trapping him inside. He did not want Elizabeth to go alone and wanted to eavesdrop.

"Jennifer! Jennifer! Hey, Jennifer!" Elizabeth yelled to get her attention.

Chuck heard the giggles of teenage girls through the small crack in Elizabeth's trunk. He was still young enough to know that life changes quickly in high school and the tragedy of Mindy's murder was now old news. Christmas holidays were not far away and it was never too early to start thinking about ensuring a date for Valentine's Day and the prom. They had all loved Mindy, but that was just a blip on the radar screen of life. They had most of their lives ahead of them. That's what Mindy thought, too.

"Yeah, Elizabeth." He recognized Jennifer's voice. "I'm kind of in a hurry."

"Does your mom still work for the paper?" Elizabeth asked.

"You know she does."

"Well, I've got a story idea for her. And I think you might be interested, too. It's huge."

"Really? And what's that?" Chuck detected the insincerity in her voice.

"Well, I found out who killed Mindy."

"Chuck killed her, Elizabeth. And they're gonna catch him."

"No. There's this guy David who works at the hotel where Mindy worked. He knows the whole story."

"Did he tell you this?"

"I can't tell you. But that's not all. Apparently, Mindy was also raped at the hotel long before and I've got it all on tape. And you won't believe this. It was another girl and Mindy was drugged. Can you believe that? David was taping it, too."

"What do you mean you've got the tapes? Where are they?"

"I can't tell you. I've got to be extra careful with them, you know, before I hand them over to the police and stuff."

Chuck knew from the ensuing silence that Elizabeth and Jennifer were staring each other down.

"What do you want from me, Elizabeth?"

"I want to know everything. I want to know how come you never said anything to the police about this David guy. I want to know everything you know about Mindy and the night she got killed and everything leading up to it. I want the whole truth."

"What about the disks?"

"You can have them after you tell me everything."

"OK, but not here, not now. Meet me somewhere tonight."

"Where?"

"Behind the old Stork Ice Company warehouse on the bay. About nine o'clock. And bring the tapes."

"I'll be there."

"Be there alone."

Elizabeth drove Chuck past the old Stork Ice Company before sundown. There was a narrow, winding dirt driveway to the warehouse off Highway 98. About a quarter mile down the road, was a dirt parking lot, enough room for a couple dozen cars maybe. Elizabeth knew little about the place, only that it had been closed for as long as she had been alive, and perhaps for decades before. The wood was worn to a dark brown by years of neglect and exposure to the harsh Florida sun and salty gulf air. On the left side of the building was a loading dock for trucks. In the back, a rickety dock reached about 30 feet into the bay. It was one of those old Florida structures that defied Mother Nature. It should have been blown away by a hurricane decades ago, but kept hanging on while newer, sturdier buildings were battered to bits by the regular tropical storms and hurricanes that lash northwest Florida on an almost yearly basis. There were plenty of fresh tire tracks in the dirt. Elizabeth said she sometimes saw people hanging out on the docks and an occasional boat docked behind it on the bay, but she knew of no official purpose for the building.

"Jennifer wants me to come alone," Elizabeth said.

"I don't see any reason for you to come at all."

"What? This is our chance, Chuck. In fact, we can get the whole story, switch these disks with fake disks and give the real ones to the police."

"I bet this place is kind of spooky at night, you know, probably not well-lit."

"So?"

"So, do you feel comfortable coming down here all by yourself after dark?"

"No, but what choice have we got?"

"I don't think Jennifer would come down here by herself at dark, either," Chuck explained. "You bring the disks, she has someone jump you, and we never learn what happened to Mindy. Worse yet, something could happen to you. You've done your part. It's my turn."

"What can you do?"

"Not much unless I've got something to bargain with. We're supposed to be here at nine, right?"

"Yeah."

"I want you at the police department at nine -- no sooner, no later. Give them the disks and those drugs we found. Tell them I broke into David's trailer and stole them. Tell them I think he killed Mindy. And tell them I'll be giving myself up late tonight. But tell them I'm going to find out the truth about what happened to Mindy before I give up. I'm going to find out tonight. One way or another, I'm going to find out tonight."

"And what if something happens to you?" she asked.

"It won't matter. The police will have a real lead to go on. You can tell them what we found out, just so long as you tell them that I told you, not that you were with me at the time. That could get you into a lot of trouble. If nothing happens to me, maybe I'll find out the truth and forward it to the cops or something. If something does happen to me, that ought to be a clear sign to the police that somebody had a reason to kill me. Between that and what's on those disks and everything you can tell them now, they ought to be able to put it together. It's gonna come down to what David and Jennifer know."

"I don't want anything to happen to you, Chuck."

"Yeah, well that makes two of us. But I've got to do this. I'll be as careful as I can. But I've got to be here tonight. Something tells me that whoever killed Mindy is going to be here. Maybe it's David, maybe not. But one way or the other, I bet you the killer's gonna be here. I've got to face him."

"So, I guess me and you'll be hanging out together until then," she said.

"Yeah, I reckon. You're not going to get into trouble with your folks, are you?"

"Who cares? But I'll call and leave a message on the answering machine so they'll know I'll be home late and not to worry. I'll explain it all later. Where do you want to go now?"

"Well, after you call your house, would you mind taking me back by the cemetery?"

"Sure."

Elizabeth rested her back against the trunk of a magnolia tree about twenty yards away as Chuck knelt at Mindy's headstone. She was close enough to hear every word as he spoke resolutely.

"I just wanted to tell you, Mindy, that I'm real sorry. And I know that in a way, I guess I'm sort of to blame. But I really did care for you, and I can see how much everybody else cared for you, too. I'm a little bit scared about tonight, but I know I've got to do this for you. I'm hoping you can give me the strength to face this like a man and find some justice for you."

He paused, not really knowing what to say. He hadn't rehearsed any speech, and his Southern Baptist-based spirituality had been thrown into flux by his time with Sam and her own special mix of Santeria, yoga, Taoism, paganism and just about every other ism on the planet. The strangest thing about her one-person religion, though, was that it all seemed to make a lot of sense to Chuck. He wasn't sure if there was a heaven and hell anymore, unless he was already in hell. But even Sam believed in some form of an afterlife, and he did, too. But whether or not Mindy could hear him was a mystery, a mystery far more complicated than who killed Mindy.

"I want you to know that I'm never gonna forget you. And in spite of everything that's happened, I know I'm a better person for having known you. And I hope you'll understand that when the truth comes out that I go find Sam. I don't know whether you can look down from wherever you are and see what's happening, but Sam and I have a bond, too. Still, I wish with all my heart that we could have had our chance. I think we could have really been something, you know. I hate that I didn't get a chance to say good-bye. That's the main reason I'm here. Good-bye, Mindy."

He stood and just stared for a moment at the grave. He knew there was no way Mindy's indomitable spirit was stuck in the ground below him. Perhaps she was now some sort of goddess, one with the ocean that brought Chuck to her. The awe and wonder inspired by the turbulent water was their common bond. He recalled the magical feeling of his first day in Crescent Beach when he and Mindy sat in the cool sand outside the Seabreeze Inn and watched the sun set together. He never met anyone before her who appreciated the beauty of it as much as he did. And she was every bit as alluring. If only he'd known how it would have turned out, he would never have acted on his romantic impulses. Something inside had warned him that anyone so tempting should be left untouched. He'd dared to lay his hands on a goddess, and that never goes unpunished by the fates.

Elizabeth placed her arm around his shoulder and wiped away a tear. He turned and hugged her and began crying. For the first time since he heard the news of her death from Sam at the marina, he let it all out. Elizabeth said nothing, just rubbed his back as he sobbed. After a couple of minutes, he dried his tear-soaked face on his shirt and caught his breath.

"Do you think she could hear me?" he asked.

"I believe it."

"I guess I'll believe it, too. I have to."

"Do you believe in Heaven and God, Chuck?"

"In a way. I was raised in the church, but even through all of this, there's this weird sense of enlightenment, like I've made some sort of spiritual connection I've never had before. I guess I don't believe in God the way the preacher talks about it. God to me is in the sunset, the lightning. It's the warm breeze. It's the birds singing and the storms raging. It's Mother Nature, Father Time, Jesus, Buddha, the Orishas and Santa Claus all wrapped into one. It's all around us. There's no book on it. There's no set of rules. It's just there, and I'm not sure it's to be understood. Maybe it's just to be respected. And I don't claim to understand it, but I sure as hell respect it. I do believe in fate now. And I believe in an afterlife. I've always had a hard time comprehending that you can just die and be buried and that you just cease, you know. That you cease to ever have another thought. That it all just goes blank. No, now more than ever, after the people I've encountered over the past couple of months, I know the spirit can't be squashed that easily. There's no way."

"So, are you saying you do believe Mindy's in Heaven?"

"I believe Mindy's still Mindy, that's all. Maybe we just don't recognize her anymore. So, are you a Christian?"

"Yeah," she responded.

"I didn't know. You were kind of wild when we first met, you know."

"True, but I did feel guilty about it. Well ... a little." The comment was followed by a sly smile. "I guess even a good little Christian girl can have a naughty streak in her."

"Sure. I will tell you this. If I'm wrong, and all the Christians of the world are right, then 'yes.' I do believe Mindy's in Heaven. No matter how you look at it or what you call it, yeah, Mindy's in Heaven. We're the sorry fools stuck in hell."

At 8:45 that evening, Elizabeth dropped Chuck off about a quarter-mile from the ice company in a dark alley between a bait-and-tackle shop and a liquor store. He walked at a steady, though not hasty, pace. He checked repeatedly for his knife. There was no strategy, no plan. Could it be that Jennifer would indeed show up alone? Or maybe a whole gang of thugs? He had no idea. But Jennifer's evil streak seemed to be more personal, so he was not expecting a crowd. Still, there was no way to prepare himself. To ease his fear, he told himself that he was probably going to die in less than an hour. Being resigned to the fact gave him a sense of inner peace. Jennifer was not going to stand idly by and see her life crumble. And David would have no doubt been told about the theft of the tapes and would be furious. They both had secrets to protect. And they were expecting Elizabeth. How might they react to his surprise visit? It was a combustible mix of circumstances, but there was no more time to ponder the possible outcomes of the confrontation. The dark silhouette of the Stork Ice Company appeared in front of him. He stopped, took a deep breath and proceeded around the left side of the building. All he was seeking anyway was the truth. Elizabeth was en route to the sheriff's office with the evidence that would lead to justice. What would happen to him was irrelevant.

Sitting on the truck-loading dock was a scrawny man casually smoking a cigarette. He wore a cap low over his eyes. There were no lights, only the orange glow of the cigarette between the person's fingers. Chuck paused about fifteen feet from the dock.

"You looking for somebody?" queried a gruff male voice from behind the cigarette.

"Yeah."

"Can I help you?"

"Not unless your name's Jennifer," Chuck retorted.

"Ahh, so you must be Elizabeth? You don't look much like a Elizabeth. I figured you more for a Mary, maybe a Sue." The glow of the cigarette did little to illuminate the man's face as it dangled from his lips while he spoke. "Look, buddy, if your name ain't Elizabeth, then get the fuck out of here before I kick your ass. This place is reserved tonight." He didn't raise his voice. He issued the warning matter-of-factly, then took another drag of the cigarette and removed it from his lips.

"Tell whoever's here waiting for Elizabeth that I'm here in her place. I'm the person they really want to see anyway. Tell them Chuck is here and that if they want to see the disks again, all they have to do is tell me what happened to Mindy. If they don't want to talk, that's fine. But if they don't, those disks and everything else I found at that trailer is gonna be turned into the police tonight."

"Of course, if I killed you right here and now, you wouldn't turn anything into the police, now would you?" The man jumped off the dock, but did not charge. He was ready, though.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. I didn't bring the stuff with me. It's all in a safe place and will be turned over to the police whether you kill me or not. Then the cops would be on the trail of two murders. Now, are you going to tell whoever is here that I'm here, or should I leave?"

After a long pause, the scrawny shadow said, "Follow me."

Chuck maintained a 15-foot lag behind the shadowy man, who flicked his cigarette into the sand during the walk to the back of the ice company toward the water. At the end of the dock reaching into the bay stood another man. A few feet behind him, a boat gently bobbed in the light waves of the bay. It was a sailboat, but Chuck could tell little else with the only light coming from distant hotels and the well-lit Highway 98 bridge between Full Moon Harbor and Crescent Beach. The man who had met Chuck on the loading dock walked to the end of the dock for a consultation. He nodded. They motioned for Chuck to come closer, but he held his ground on the shore.

"You know," said the first man as he lit another cigarette, "there's a big reward out for your ass. I could really use the cash."

"Are you the guys who came looking for me last night?" Chuck asked. It was met with a simple nod from the cigarette smoker. The other man remained motionless.

"Where's my stuff?" the second man at the end of the dock asked.

"Ahh, David. It's so good to see you again."

"Give me the stuff, kid."

"First, you tell me what you did to Mindy that night. And why."

"I didn't kill her."

"Who did? Jennifer?"

"No."

"But you were obviously obsessed with her."

"I loved Mindy," the man insisted. As sinister as the standoff on the dock was, there was sincerity in his voice.

"Well, you sure as hell got a strange way of showing it."

"I never got a chance to tell her. And then you came and fucked everything up."

"Well, if you didn't kill her, then who did?"

The man with the cigarette took a long drag and then turned to Chuck. "I did."

"And who the hell are you?"

"You don't remember me, pal? I'm the guy who stole your money from under that rock back at the cove. Of course, it wasn't really stealing. After all, it was my money in the first place. Maybe I can refresh your memory. Notice anything familiar about this boat over here?"

Chuck studied it more closely. His heart dropped to his knees as he recognized it as the vessel he and Sam purchased in Mexico.

"You son of a bitch! Where's Sam?"

"I've got the whore on the boat."

"Let her go! She doesn't have anything to do with this!"

"No, but she screwed me over. That whole run to Mexico was just a test to see if I could trust her. Didn't you think that was a pretty small amount of cash for a long run?" Chuck refused to answer. "Anyway, I knew every step you two took. I was watching when she picked you up at the cove. And I've got friends in Mexico, too. You know, if it hadn't been for you getting in the way, Sam could be in a very lucrative business right now."

"Then let her go, Johnny! Everything was my fault, not hers!"

"Well, I don't have any use for her anymore, that's true. I was only keeping her as bait to help catch you for the reward money. But, now, since you know too much, I've got to kill you." He reached into his pocket, but David grabbed his arm.

"Wait!" he said. "Not until I find out what happened to the disks and stuff he stole from my house."

"I'll tell you when I get the full story," Chuck said.

"You're not in a position to bargain," Johnny said. "Tell him where those tapes are, or Sam gets it."

"No," said David. "I'll tell him. I don't want you to hurt her."

"Why not?" asked Johnny. "It's not like anybody's gonna miss her. She ain't got nobody. She's just a useless whore."

"I don't want to see anybody else get hurt ... except him. And I wish we didn't have to do that." He was pointing at Chuck. Chuck knew it was the end of the line as Johnny began looking over his gun. "If the truth is all you want, I'll tell you. But you're not leaving here alive. It's not gonna do you any good."

"I know," Chuck said. He was prepared to run after he got the story, but knew his chances of outrunning a bullet were slim. "Spill it, you sick bastard."

Johnny walked halfway down the dock and pointed the gun toward Chuck. "All right, David. I guess everybody oughta get a last request. Tell him what he wants to hear and let's get this done and get the hell out of here."

"That night you dropped Mindy off at the hotel, me and Johnny were drinking and playing cards in the hotel office. We were drunk, and I was pissed because Jennifer had called and told me what was going on between you two. She wanted me to do something about it. I called Mindy's house and told somebody there that you had a flat tire and needed her to come back to the hotel to give you a ride home. When Mindy got there, I told her how I felt. She got mad and tried to leave, so I grabbed her and tried to keep her from going. I didn't hurt her in any way. She kicked me in the nuts and ran out. Johnny grabbed her by the hair, but she grabbed a vase and hit him in the face."

"The little bitch broke my tooth," Johnny added. "I grabbed a baseball bat out of the back of my truck and tried to hit her in the back, just to knock her down. I wasn't trying to kill her because I knew how my brother felt about her. Except I was so drunk, I missed and hit her in the back of the head. But it was quick. She never felt a thing. We tried to revive her, but it was too late."

"You killed her because she broke your tooth?" a bewildered Chuck asked.

"I told you -- I didn't mean to. She just sent me into a rage. I kind of have a bad temper. And I was wasted by that time."

"And then you planted the bat behind my apartment?"

"We both did," David said. "You were the reason all this happened. If you hadn't messed around with her, none of this would have ever happened. You destroyed my life."

"Destroyed your life? What about my life? More importantly, what about Mindy's life? You're sick, man."

"I am sick, but I was managing it before you got here."

"How did you know where I lived anyway? Did Jennifer tell you?"

"That's enough questions from you. Where's my stuff?"

"One more question," Chuck said. "What did Jennifer know about all of this?"

"Nothing." The voice wasn't Johnny's or David's. It was Jennifer's. She had just rounded the corner of the ice company behind him. "I'm sorry, Chuck. I had no idea."

"Now what?" Johnny asked David. "See what all that talking did for you. Now both of them know. I've got to kill 'em both."

"I think you better give it up now, Johnny," said Jennifer.

"And why's that?"

"Because I'm not alone."

"Drop the gun!" A swarm of cops raced around the right side of the dilapidated building, and Chuck heard guns cock all around him. Johnny fired, and Chuck fell to the ground as the right side of his body went numb. Jennifer screamed and lay in the grass as the cops mowed down Johnny with several shots. David leaped onto the boat as police sprinted down the dock, jumping over Chuck, who lay motionless. A couple of cops leaped onto the boat and were met with gunfire from inside the cabin. One of the cops fell to the deck. His comrades responded with merciless fury, riddling the boat with bullet holes.

Amid the sirens of approaching ambulances, Johnny was squirming and screaming in agony on the deck. Two officers held him down, but he wasn't going anywhere. Chuck was turning pale, and Jennifer cradled his head in her lap. She stroked his hair, but got no response. As the ambulances raced down the dirt path to the Stork Ice Company, Chuck struggled to open his right eye, and then, slowly, his left. He was dizzy. He didn't know who was holding him.

"Where's Sam?" he whimpered.

"Who?" Jennifer asked.

"Sam. Make sure Sam's OK. Tell her I love her."

"OK. Keep your eyes open, Chuck. You need to stay awake."

Paramedics motioned Jennifer to the side. The commotion made Chuck dizzy and he closed his eyes again. There was no pain anymore, just a sense of motion he had never felt as his body was loaded into the ambulance, which then sped away to the local hospital with a police car behind it. He felt the hands of EMTs on his body. He felt his clothes ripped away. He heard voices and sounds, but nothing was distinguishable. Yet, he was aware of what happened just happened behind the ice company. In the midst of pain and commotion, he had never felt such a strong sense of awareness. He knew the bullet had struck something important by the panic in the back of the ambulance. He wished they would calm down. He wished they were as calm as he was.

"Chuck. Honey, he's awake!"

Chuck recognized the voice of his mother, but could not open his eyes completely in the bright light. He could feel wires and tubes attached to his body. Still, there was no pain.

"Mom?" he whispered.

"Just relax, baby. Everything's gonna be OK. You've got really good doctors."

"Son," his father chimed in, "why didn't you tell us what was going on? You had us worried to death."

"Couldn't," he said softly. He didn't have the energy to spit out a complete sentence.

"Honey," his mother continued, "we just want you to know how much we love you."

"And we're proud of you for helping find out who killed that little girl. We knew it wasn't you."

"Thanks." He closed his eyes and returned to sleep.

Chuck felt a soft hand on his.

"Chuck, it's Rachael."

"Hey."

"I'm sorry all of this happened. I'm sorry about everything," she continued.

"Me, too."

"I want you to come home and get away from here. Maybe we can't pick up where we left off when you get better, but we've been close for too long. I need you in my life."

"Can't go home," he groaned. Mustering three words in one breath nearly made him black out again.

"Why not? There's nothing for you here. Henderson is home. I need you there."

"No, Belize."

Rachael turned to someone else in the room Chuck could not see. He could barely see his former fiancée through his almost shut eyelids.

"I think he's delirious. He's saying something about Belize."

"Probably the drugs," a male voice responded.

"OK, Chuck. You just rest and get better. OK?"

"OK. Don't wait ..." He couldn't finish the sentence in one breath.

"For what?"

"… for me."

Before she could offer a retort, he closed his eyes firmly. Rachael brought his hand to her lips, kissed it and held it to her mouth.

"Please come home, baby."

"Belize."

"What's in Belize?"

"I promised."

Rachael looked back again to the other person in the room. It was confirmed again that the drugs were speaking for him. It was a reasonable explanation to her.

"May God be with you."

"Chuck? Chuck?" It was his mother's voice again. He could not respond verbally. He cracked his eyes to show his awareness of her presence. "Chuck. There's someone here to see you. Her name is Elizabeth. She said she's a friend of yours and the girl who got killed. Do you feel up to seeing her?"

He nodded. It made him dizzy. His mother opened the door and walked Elizabeth to Chuck's bedside.

"He's been mostly out of it the past four days," his weeping mother told her. "He's really gone downhill today. I hope you can get some kind of response out of him."

"Chuck?" He looked her in the eyes. It was obvious that he recognized her. "How are you?" He said nothing. "What do you know about everything?" He scrunched his eyebrows to convey his ignorance. "Johnny's gonna make it apparently. They charged him with Mindy's murder. You're not totally in the clear, though. According to Jennifer's mom, you may still face some kind of charges just for running away. Jennifer had a change of heart. She's cooperating with the police, probably to keep herself out of trouble. But she's the one who called the police to the ice house that night. I think her conscience finally got to her. David's dead. They shot up that sailboat pretty good."

He knew what she meant, but had to ask. With all his energy, he mustered a weak question. "Sam?"

"I'm sorry, Chuck." He closed his eyes for a moment, then returned to focusing on Elizabeth. He managed a half smile. It caught the attention of every blurry figure in the room and generated a wave of hope that he was coming around.

"Thanks," he said as he squeezed her hand with stunning firmness. After releasing it, he held it up to wave at whatever family members or friends might be in the room. Every face bore expressions of relief. They took it to mean he was OK. It's the way he meant it. He closed his eyes.

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah." Chuck sat up on the hospital bed like a kid who had a good night's rest and was ready to play. Sam wrapped her arms around him, and they simply embraced for what seemed an eternity.

"Well, come on then!"

She pulled him out of bed. The hospital gown had been replaced by his favorite tank top and blue jean shorts. Hand in hand, they walked out the open door to the intensive care ward. Down the hall, a man in a white coat walked with his arm around Chuck's mother as his father walked stoicly behind them.

"We’ll catch up with them later," Sam assured him.

They continued down a hall to the main entrance of the hospital, which was unusually empty. Even the main reception desk was vacant except for a black woman in bright African garb and a wreath of flowers around her head. She was not behind the desk, but sitting casually on top of it.

"I see you're doing much better, my dear," she said in an accent he could not distinguish. He thought it sort of Jamaican.

"Yes, ma'am."

"You two have fun. Bon voyage."

Sam led him through the main doors and Chuck immediately threw his arm up to shield his eyes from the bright sun.

"You OK?"

"Yeah," he responded. "I haven't been outside in a while. I don't remember the sun being this bright."

"You'll get used to it."

He felt the warm foam of a crashed wave at his feet. Bobbing in the waves before him was the Oya, the boat they had ditched on the other side of the Gulf.

"Cool, you got your boat back! How'd you do that?"

"Don’t worry about it. Feel like a sailing lesson? The seas are quite calm and there's a beautiful breeze."

"Sure."

Carefully stepping over the clear blue waves, they walked to the gently bobbing boat.

"I'll steer," Sam said. "You just kick back and enjoy the scenery? There's a margarita beside your chair."

Chuck sat back in the padded outdoor chair and reached his right hand down. He expanded his fingers and without looking placed them perfectly around the salt-laced rim of a margarita glass.

"Mmm, perfect," he noted. "You make it?"

"You ask too many questions, Chuck Carson. Just enjoy the ride and leave your worries behind."

"OK. But could you at least tell me where we're going?"

"Belize."

"Oh yeah. How long does it take to get there?" Chuck asked.

"I don't know for sure, but it doesn't matter. Getting there's half the fun. And you never know what we might see along the way. Besides, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do."

He never recalled such perkiness from Sam, nor the constant full smile. She even seemed younger. The tired eyes were refreshed. The optimistic eyes of the little girl whose Papa once told her she could be whatever she wanted were back. She was still confident, independent and strong, but no longer defensive and scared. She had never been so beautiful.

The wind filled the sails, and the Oya began to move steadily toward the sunset. Chuck looked back toward the shore, which was fading fast. There was no hospital in the background anymore. No hotels or condominiums. No restaurants or mini-golf places. Just a girl, with her blonde hair in a ponytail, waving at him. Beside her in the landscape of lush tropical flowers and palm trees, a puppy frolicked in the sand. He waved back. The return wave was met with a smile from the girl clad only in cut-off blue jeans and a loose white T-shirt. Then, barefoot and still smiling, she ran along the beach toward the other sunset. Chuck took another swig of the frozen margarita, another long glance at the Latin beauty at the Oya's helm and soaked up the warm breeze and salty air. He had always thought of the sea as where Heaven meets Earth.