Mortal Dilemma Page 2

  This time, it was different. We were in our seventh day, and Jock had cracked open another bottle of Maker’s Mark before I left for my morning jog. So far, he’d refused to talk about what had sent him into his special hell. This was the worst I’d ever seen him.

  Every time I asked if he were ready to talk, he’d say, “Not yet. But soon. I promise.” And he would disappear into another bottle of good bourbon. I was concerned, but not yet worried. He’d always pulled out of it before, but I had long harbored the fear that there would come a time when he could not walk back from the abyss. Maybe we were approaching that time, but I had decided to give him another day or two before calling his boss at the agency.

  J.D. understood Jock’s need to find some solace, and my need to help him maintain, or possibly regain, his sanity, to be the friend who stood close, listened to the horror he had experienced, and let him know that at least someone understood his pain and did not judge him for his actions. J.D. would leave us to work through the healing time, and she, in turn, stood nearby to prop me up as I slogged through the miasma of Jock’s life.

  I was nearing the North Shore Drive crossover that spanned the dunes, hoping that Jock would be a little better when I got home. I had slowed to a walk when my phone rang.

  “Good morning, studmuffin,” J.D. said.

  “Wow. ‘Studmuffin?’ Are you a bit randy?”

  “Not at the moment, but I’ll be thinking about you all the way home. Might help.”

  “We’ll see,” I said, my voice surely dripping with hope. “Are you on your way?”

  “As soon as I finish up with the sheriff. It’ll probably be close to noon. I’ll grab a Big Mac and eat in the car. I should be home by six. What are you doing?”

  “Just finishing my run. I’m going to check on Jock and then go to The Pub for a grouper sandwich and a beer.”

  “How’s Jock doing?”

  “About the same. I’m a little worried about him. He’s usually coming out of it by now.”

  “Has he told you what’s bothering him?”

  “Not yet, but he keeps telling me we’ll talk soon.”

  “Hang in there. I’ll be home by dark.”

  “Drive safe.”

  “Bye, sweetie. I love you.” She was gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30

  THE RUN DOWN from Carrabelle in Florida’s panhandle had been rough. The sea was unseasonably agitated, large swells rolling off the starboard quarter, the boat yawing, her bow dipping into the waves as she tried to climb the walls of water the stiff wind flung at her. She was constantly pushed toward the shallows that guarded the big bend area of Florida, that desolate part of the state that the tourists and snowbirds never see. The captain had furled his sails early in the trip, and relied on his sturdy little Yanmar diesel engine to push him through the Gulf of Mexico.

  The man was a seasoned sailor, knew his boat and trusted her. Still, there were moments during the trip to Cortez when he’d questioned his sanity in heading out into a sea that was so uninviting. But he was under orders, orders that superseded his wants or even his safety. So he sailed on.

  On Wednesday morning, just at daybreak, he’d received a phone call from his principal, a shady private investigator from Tallahassee, telling him to go to Cortez and tie up at the Seafood Shack. He would be contacted and given further instructions in the next day or two. He knew the trip involved killing somebody, because that’s what he did for a living. He killed people. The name of the doomed person would be part of his instructions. That was it, a milk run, easy as pie, and a lot of money for his effort. The man from Tallahassee had hinted that he would be killing a police officer, a detective on the Longboat Key police department. He would be paid a premium for killing a cop. The sailor knew that a detective from Longboat, a woman, had been in Franklin County investigating a murder and was trying to tie it to a murder that had occurred on Longboat Key three years before. His source in the Franklin County sheriff’s office told him she would be finishing up and returning home on Thursday.

  He had set sail immediately from Carrabelle, running into the teeth of the storm moving northeast across the Gulf from southern Mexico, beating his way south through Wednesday and Wednesday night. He stayed well offshore, fighting the vicious sea, intent on not being observed. When his GPS system told him he was off Longboat Pass, he turned eastward, hoisted the Mexican courtesy flag, and sailed into the sunrise and under the Longboat Pass Bridge. His boat bore the evidence of a rough crossing, and the flag would indicate that he’d come from Mexico, not the panhandle.

  Early Thursday morning, he moored at the Seafood Shack Marina at the mainland end of the Cortez Bridge about two miles north of Longboat Pass. He checked in with the dockmaster, set his alarm clock for three hours, and fell exhausted into the bunk in the boat’s bow. He’d rest up and stay ready to complete his mission. He’d been told that he would be there no more than a couple of days, three at the most. Easy money. Make the kill and get out. No sweat.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30

  I WALKED OVER the dunes and up Broadway to my home. Jock was in his bedroom, asleep and snoring. I didn’t know if he was sleeping it off, or just catching his breath before digging into the next bottle. I found the one he’d been sipping from when I left for my run, sitting on the kitchen counter. It was three-quarters full. I thought that was a good sign.

  I spent the rest of the morning tidying up my cottage, getting rid of the detritus accumulated by a week of bachelor living. J.D. and I did not live together. She had her own condo a mile or so from my house, but we spent more nights together than apart, and I tried diligently to hide from her the fact that I was an inveterate slob.

  When I finished with the house, I washed my boat. She was a twenty-eight foot Grady-White named Recess, and was waiting patiently at her dock behind my house. I wiped her down, showered and changed, checked on Jock, and walked the two blocks to the old restaurant squatting on one of the choicest pieces of real estate on the key.

  It was nearing one o’clock when I walked into the Mar Vista, known to the locals as The Pub. The place was empty except for Anthony, the manager, standing behind the bar, and my buddy Cracker Dix on his usual stool. The tables on the outside deck were full, diners finishing lunch and lingering over their drinks, enjoying the pleasant weather and the view of the bay.

  “Hey, Matt,” Anthony and Cracker said simultaneously.

  “Hey, guys,” I said. “Did you get demoted to bartender, Anthony?”

  He laughed. “Not yet. Deke called in sick. Sheila should be in soon. You want a drink?”

  “Got a Miller Lite and a grouper sandwich?”

  “On its way,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Somebody was just here looking for you,” Cracker said.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know. He just asked if I knew Matt Royal. I told him I did, and he asked where you lived. I didn’t tell him.”

  “You didn’t get a name?”

  “No. I asked, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t have much of a personality and what I saw was plain nasty.”

  “How so?”

  “Hard to say, but you wouldn’t call him friendly.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “About six foot two or three, rangy, ropey muscles, gray scraggly beard, deep water tan, wearing one of those sleeveless t-shirts, the kind they call wife-beaters, very dirty jeans, and boat shoes that were falling apart. The t-shirt had the logo of a bar in Panama City on the back.”

  “You’re very observant,” I said.

  “It’s early yet, and I think Anthony is watering down the wine.”

  Cracker was an expatriate Englishman who’d lived in Longbeach Village on the north end of the key for thirty years. The locals knew the area simply as “the village,” and it was the neighborhood that included my home and Mar Vista. Cracker was in his late fifties and, because of his vast network of fri
ends, he knew everything that happened on our island. He was an extremely intelligent man who’d never lost his distinctive English accent, and often regaled us with outrageous stories of his youthful travels around the world seeking hippie nirvana.

  “I always get a little nervous when somebody I don’t know is looking for me,” I said. “He didn’t give you any indication as to why he wanted to know where I live?”

  “Nope. But it’s no big secret, you know. If he asks around enough, somebody’s going to point him in the right direction.”

  Anthony brought out my lunch and the three of us talked about things of little consequence, whiling away the afternoon and drinking a little beer. I was concerned about a stranger looking for my home, but it was probably nothing. I thought briefly about going back to the house to check on Jock, but if anybody was intent on harming me, they’d be very surprised to run into Jock, who is more dangerous drunk than most men are sober.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30

  J.D. DROVE SOUTH on Highway 98, turned east on Highway 27, and stayed on it until it intersected with Interstate 75. She turned south and headed for home. There were shorter routes, but the Interstate was the quickest. It saved her fighting the traffic as she neared Clearwater and St. Petersburg.

  She was passing through Gainesville on I-75 when she noticed a low-slung black Chevrolet Camaro following close behind her. She was in the right lane, her cruise control set to seventy miles per hour, the limit on this stretch of road. She kept her eye on the car, waiting for it to pass.

  As she got south of Gainesville and was driving on the causeway that crossed Paynes Prairie, the Camaro made its move, crossing into the middle lane of the three southbound lanes, moving up on her very slowly. He seemed to be hanging back in her blind spot. She looked over her shoulder and saw that the car had darkly tinted windows, much darker than the law allowed.

  She checked her rearview mirror. Another car, a minivan with New York plates on the front, had slipped in behind her, taking the place of the Camaro, keeping closer to her bumper than was prudent.

  The Camaro started to speed up and the right passenger window slid down. She saw a shotgun barrel poke out of the opening. Instinct took over and she slammed hard on the brakes. She heard the squeal of tires behind her. The minivan. The Camaro shot ahead and braked. The shotgun fired, the slug passing over her hood. In the same second J.D. hit the gas and accelerated into the middle lane, winding up the Interceptor engine in her unmarked police car. She was going to ram the Camaro, but the driver must have seen her move into his lane. He accelerated.

  J.D. pulled her pistol from the equipment belt on the front passenger seat. She didn’t know what was going on, but she was pissed. She would take her shot if she had a chance. She was closing on the Camaro’s rear bumper when she felt a hard impact on her right rear quarter panel. The rear of her car was pushed to the left. She steered in the same direction, trying to regain control, but she was hit again in the right rear.

  She straightened out the front wheels and found herself headed directly into the low land of the prairie. She slammed on the brakes and fought to bring her car under control. She saw the minivan in her peripheral vision. Its front end had sustained severe damage and it had crossed the berm. It was out of control and was starting to roll over as it continued down the steep slope that defined the edge of the highway.

  J.D. had regained some control and turned the front wheels slightly to the left, trying to stay on the shoulder. The brakes were gaining traction on the grass berm when her car seemed to teeter on the decline that sloped down to the prairie. It slid right and began to roll. It turned all the way over and came to rest on its wheels, finally coming to a stop. J.D. took stock of herself. Nothing broken. No pain. She’d have a bruise on her left shoulder where the seat belt strap had dug into her flesh as the centrifugal forces tried to throw her out of the vehicle. The device had done its job and held her in the cruiser.

  J.D. let herself out of the car, pushing the crumpled door with her feet. She was still holding her pistol as she ran back toward the van. The Camaro was nowhere in sight. The van was upside down laying just off the road’s shoulder, several feet down onto the prairie. Was the driver part of the attempt to kill her? Was he working with the people in the Camaro? She didn’t know, but she had visions of a family trapped in the vehicle. She approached at a run, her pistol still in her hand. As she neared, she saw a man crawling out of the driver’s side door.

  “Are you all right?” she called to him. “Anybody else in the car?”

  The man was beginning to stand upright. She was about thirty feet from him when she saw the pistol he was holding. Her brain automatically assessed the situation. The pistol was a semiautomatic, a nine-millimeter perhaps, or a forty-five. Very dangerous, either way. The man was raising the pistol in her direction. Her brain was telling her to react, raise her weapon, defend herself.

  The man took his first shot as J.D. was moving to her left and dropping to the ground, aiming at the man. “Police officer,” she said. “Freeze.” The man shot again, the bullet kicking up dust a foot to the left of J.D.’s head. She shot him. Twice. In the middle of the chest. In less than a second. He fell and she got to her feet and ran to the man, now lying on his back, his gun still grasped in his right hand. She picked up the pistol by its barrel and placed it on the ground out of reach of the shooter. She checked his pulse. Nothing. He was dead.

  She looked into the van. Nobody was there. The dead man had been driving alone. Was he part of the group in the Camaro? No way to tell. She needed the local law to figure all that out.

  J.D. pulled out her phone and dialed 911. “This is Detective J. D. Duncan of Longboat Key PD. I’ve been involved in an incident on I-75 in the southbound lanes near the north end of Paynes Prairie. I shot and killed the driver of one of the cars involved. Please send the highway patrol and sheriff’s detectives. The other car involved was a new Camaro, black, very dark tinted windows, Florida license plate. I didn’t get the number. The men in the Camaro are armed and dangerous. It was headed south at high speed about five minutes ago.” She hung up before the operator could start asking a bunch of useless questions.

  Cars were pulling to the side of the road and several people were walking toward the wrecked van. J.D. held up her badge and called out, “Police. Please back away. This is a crime scene. The highway patrol will be here shortly.” They complied.

  Her next call was to Chief Bill Lester at the Longboat Key police station. She told him what had happened and assured him that she was okay.

  “Did you get an ID on the guy who took the shot at you?”

  “No. I didn’t search him. I’ll let the detectives do that. I don’t want to corrupt the scene.”

  “Good thinking. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, Bill, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll call Matt. You need somebody with you.”

  “Don’t do that, Bill. You know how he is. He’ll be on his way up here to take care of me. I don’t want that. I’ll call him when I have a better handle on what’s going on.”

  Lester chuckled. “Okay, but make it soon. I don’t want him to think I’m holding out on him.”

  “I will. I’m afraid the cruiser is a wreck. I’ll rent a car and drive home as soon as I can get away.”

  “I can send one of our guys up to get you.”

  “No. Just pay for the rental.”

  “The department will take care of it. Be very careful, J.D. Somebody’s trying to kill you.”

  “Yeah, I got that,” J.D. said, and closed the connection.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30

  I GOT BACK to my house at three, carrying a large juicy hamburger and fries from Mar Vista. I heard the shower running when I entered the cottage. Jock was up. A few minutes later he plodded into the kitchen. He’d shaved, but not well. He’d nicked himself several times, and little bits of tissue were affixed to his face in an att
empt to staunch the blood flow. His eyes were bloodshot, little ribbons of red running through the whites. “How’re you feeling?” I asked.

  “About like I look, podna.”

  “Your eyes are so bloodshot you look like you’ll bleed to death if you open them too wide. Here. I brought you some food.”

  “Thanks.” He dug in, ripping big bites off the burger, going at it like a starving man.

  “Slow down, Jock. You’re going to choke yourself.”

  He nodded and took a smaller bite. I’d put a glass of water on the table, and he gulped it down. I refilled the glass. “I’m sorry to be such a piece of shit,” he said.

  I waved the apology away. “You want to talk about it?”

  “The thing I value most in this world is your friendship and your opinion of me. Next in line is J.D.’s. I can’t lose that.”

  “You’re family, Jock. There’s nothing you can do or say that will ever change that.”

  “But J.D.’s become part of that family,” Jock said. “You love her. She loves you, and she’s the best thing that ever happened to you. She hasn’t lived through what you and I have. I’m not sure she understands our relationship, or how we depend on each other. She may think the whole thing a little odd. And I know she doesn’t approve of what I do for a living. I don’t think our relationship, hers and mine, will survive this one.”

  “You know I won’t tell her anything you don’t want me to.”

  He shook his head. “She has to know what you know. If you, or we, start hiding things from her, all the relationships start to fray. I won’t be a party to anything that causes a rift between the two of you.”

  “You’ve been called on to do some terrible things, Jock, and you did them for all the right reasons.” And he certainly had. J.D. had shied away from that at first, but she’d come to understand that there’s a jungle out there where laws and rules and ethics mean nothing. She came to realize that without men like Jock, the ones who took out the predators, the jungle and the people who thrive there would overtake us all, and thousands of years of civilization would disappear.