Surface Tension - Kling Christine - Страница 45
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“Are you gonna be okay?”
Nodding, I answered, “Yeah, now I am. Thanks to you. I don’t know how much longer I would have lasted out there.”
“What happened to you?” he asked.
Even with only half my wits about me, I knew better than to try to explain the whole story. This guy’s son would really think I was crazy if I tried that.
“I fell overboard,” I said.
“Where’s your boat?”
I pointed out to sea. “I think she went down. She was taking on water, and when I went up forward to get an extra pump, I fell overboard. I guess I kinda panicked.”
“Well, you’re mighty lucky we came along.”
“I sure am.” I smiled at him. I meant it.
Then we were approaching the Top Ten, and I craned my neck to see over his shoulder. The interior lights were all on, and I saw several uniformed police officers in the main salon.
“That sure is a pretty vessel, isn’t it?” the man said, turning to look at what was distracting me.
On the swim step I saw a black shadow against the glistening white hull.
“Hold up,” I said. “Could you swing by there so I could pick up that bag?”
The kid driving looked where I was pointing, then to his dad for permission. The man nodded.
“Sure,” the kid said, and spun the wheel.
The father reached down and picked up my back
pack. “Oof, this thing is heavy. Better not be cocaine or some damn thing in here.”
I smiled at him and unzipped the top of the pack, revealing the contents. “No, just my roller skates.”
Father and son exchanged a look that seemed to say, Son, you’re right—she is nuts.
XVII
Commuter traffic was thick on Federal Highway. Driving with my sore shoulder and wrist was difficult, but I was relieved to see that I was starting to get some mobility back in both—that apparently nothing was broken or permanently damaged.
By the time I got back to the Paradise Hotel, the sun was well up. Checkout time wasn’t until eleven, though, so I closed the drapes and slept for three hours.
When I woke up, even blinking hurt. Every muscle and tissue in my body screamed for me to stop when I tried to roll off the bed. Getting up into a sitting position felt like a major accomplishment.
I looked up and saw my reflection in the mirror over the dresser. God, what a sight. No wonder that fisherman and his son thought I was a crazy lady. Most of my hair had come loose from the rubber band, and it stood out around my head in sticky, salty clumps. There was a nice purple bruise around the hairline on the right side of my face where that fire extinguisher had managed a glancing blow on my head, and my T-shirt was now stiff with salt and blood. My forearms were laced with bloody scratches, and the dark circles under my eyes may have been from the bang on the head or just pure exhaustion, I wasn’t sure which. One thing I knew: I needed a nice long clean shower. The hell with it all. I was going home.
I didn’t see any suspicious dark-windowed cars parked along the road anywhere in my Rio Vista neighborhood. Nobody was following me, either. I drove around the block a few more times just to be sure. It felt a little odd driving barefoot, but I’d left my sneakers somewhere on the bottom of the Port Everglades inlet.
Abaco was beside herself when I came through the gate. She jumped and whirled and yelped. I sat down on the grass and held her scratching her ears while she moaned and rolled her eyes back in pure canine bliss.
I kept the dog inside the cottage with me when I got into the shower. It’s bad enough feeling like somebody’s out there gunning for you, but to have to climb into the shower after growing up watching Psycho on the late show was really nerve-wracking.
Even the lousy pressure in my shower hurt as the jets of water hit my aching body. The barnacle scratches on my arms and belly stung as the salt washed off, and I could barely lift my left arm to lather my hair.
I was wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around my head, and had just finished drying off my legs, when I remembered the book with the drawings in my backpack. I went out in the front room, pulled the stuff out of my slightly soggy backpack, and set the papers and photos out to dry on the bar. I was studying the photo of Neal and me in the Tortugas when I heard the knock at the front door. In an instant, my heart rate doubled. Abaco barked once, and then started whining. My great protector.
I felt naked. I was naked. I wrapped my hair towel around me, sarong style, and looked around the living room. There was nothing remotely like a weapon anywhere in sight.
Another knock. The dog should have been barking her head off, but she just sat there looking at the front door, smiling and panting. I picked up the cordless phone, ready to bean somebody over the head with it if necessary, and went to the door.
“Who is it?” I asked, face to the crack in the door.
“It’s B.J.”
“Shit.” I twisted the dead bolt and swung open the door. “Sorry. I thought you were one of them.”
He looked at my face, then at the phone gripped in my white knuckles, and then back at my face. “What were you going to do? Talk me to death?”
“It’s not funny,” I said, motioning for him to follow me inside. “You don’t know what I’ve been through in the last few days.”
“How’d you get that bruise?” He pointed to his own forehead.
I fingered the spot I knew was purple. “This ... ow. Got hit with a fire extinguisher. That was before I was thrown overboard and nearly drowned.”
“Seriously?”
“What do you think, I’m doing a stand-up routine here?”
“You sure don’t look good.”
“Thanks. Just what a girl wants to hear. You have such a way with words, Mr. Moana.”
As I was speaking, he went into my bedroom, pulled the quilt off the bed, and with a big flourish, spread it out on the living room floor.
“Lie down.”
“What?” I said clutching at my towel. “B.J., last night somebody tried to kill me. And they came damn close.”
“Facedown.” He picked up a pillow off the couch and set it on the floor. “Put this under your neck and let your head hang off the other side.”
“I don’t have time for this ...”
He put his hands on my shoulders and pressed down. I resisted at first, but the weight of his hands suddenly felt overpowering, and I bent my knees and spread out on the quilt.
“Take off the towel.”
“Why?” I lifted my head and looked over my shoulder at him.
A faint smile lit his eyes. “Just do it, Seychelle. Trust me.
I hesitated only a fraction of a second after looking at the familiar planes and angles that made up his face. “Oh, B.J. I’m just so tired.” I unwrapped the towel, and he slid it down so that it was draped across my butt.
“Shh. I know. Just try to empty your mind.” He knelt on top of my back with a knee on either side of my rib cage and began to knead the muscles in my shoulders. His hands dug deep into the fibers of that damaged left muscle, and it felt as though electricity coursed through his fingers. A very real and palpable heat penetrated from his skin deep into the pain-wracked tissue. It hurt, but there was an exquisite pleasure in the pain.
I closed my eyes and surrendered my consciousness to the world of sensation. Explosions of color lit up my inner eyelids. But before long, my memory kicked in and a montage of memories played in my mind without plot or destination, the way dreams sometimes jump from image to image with no discernible connection.
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