“Thank you for coming,” he said, when they parted.
“Does it ever piss you off, Thorn, what’s happening to it all? Losing these beautiful places.”
“Hell, yes,” he said. “But mostly it makes me sad.”
With her fingertips she brushed the stubble on his cheek, held his eyes for several seconds, an intimacy that gave him an uneasy buzz. Then her look dissolved, she turned, climbed into her skiff, started the outboard, and was off, her passenger’s hair blazing against the darkening sky.
Thorn stared out at his lagoon, at the cormorant still hunting minnows.
“How’d it happen?”
“Only witness was Leslie’s assistant, a guy named Cameron Prince. Spotlight failed. Leslie tripped, a croc went for her. Prince went for help, but it was hours before any arrived. They couldn’t locate the croc or Leslie. The animal dragged her off. Between the crocs, gators, and every other damn thing with teeth and claws out there, well, you know.”
“Leslie Levine, Jesus Christ.”
“I thought I should tell you.”
“I don’t believe it.” Thorn settled his butt against the seawall.
“I know. Everybody’s pretty shocked.”
“No. I don’t believe it could’ve gone down that way.”
“Nothing suspicious about it,” Sugar said. “It was dark out there, the mother croc was moving her babies, Leslie stumbled over the damn thing. Accidents happen. People get careless, even a pro like Leslie.”
Thorn shook his head. “Not her.”
Sugarman opened his mouth to say more, then shut it.
Thorn kept his eyes on the open water beyond the lagoon. His face was inert. Eyes focused inward. A fine mist sheened his forehead as if he had a low-grade fever. He didn’t believe it. Not her, not Leslie Levine.
THREE
AUGUST 8, TWO MONTHS LATER
FROM SEVENTY FEET UP, BALANCED on the narrow railing at the top of his cistern, Thorn could only make out the man’s general features. Bulky guy, pale-yellow hair parted precisely. Black cargo shorts and a camouflage T-shirt.
Ten minutes before, the man had parked in the gravel drive, gotten out, and started snooping around Thorn’s property as if taking an inventory, about to make an offer on the land. It wouldn’t be the first time Thorn had to chase off an overzealous Realtor.
Thorn dabbed the white plumbing grease into the fitting, smoothed it into the groves, then with his wrench tightened the two-inch pipe to the valve. Gave it one final crunching turn and wiped the excess grease away with the rag from his back pocket. He reached high and levered open the main valve, heard the squeal of water pressurizing the pipes, and watched for any leaks around the fitting. When he saw none, he wiped a fingertip around the joint to be sure it was dry. Praise the Lord, it was.
Scratch another chore off the unceasing list around his aging Key Largo home. Another finger in another leak in the ever-growing dike. Lately Thorn seemed to be running out of fingers. Barely staying ahead of the rising tide of decay.
Between the harsh subtropical weather testing every surface, the briny breezes off the Atlantic aggravating each patch of rust, the wooden house shifting restlessly on its foundation, the heart-of-pine planks shrinking and expanding with each twitch in the barometric pressure, he was spending half his waking hours staying even with maintenance. Precious time subtracted from tying his custom bonefish flies, the work that paid the bills, bought his food and an occasional luxury such as a six-pack of Red Stripe beer.
Twenty-five yards below, the man was still making himself at home, pacing the dock beside the lagoon, checking out Thorn’s sixteen-foot flats boat, and bending down to peer through the windows of the Heart Pounder, Thorn’s ancient Chris-Craft docked just forward of the skiff.
Arrogant bastard, not even going close to the house, knocking at Thorn’s door or calling out hello to see if anyone was at home.
But Thorn stayed put. He wanted to see what the guy was up to, and, hell, he was in no hurry to come down from his perch. It had been years since he’d climbed the cistern tower, and he’d forgotten the dazzling views. On such a cloudless day, he could see several miles east toward the blue slit of the horizon and make out the hazy outline of the Carysfort Reef lighthouse. Just beyond it a cargo ship was steaming north along the Gulf Stream.
Closer in, the swirls of sapphire water and bottle green and turquoise interlocked like thousands of intricate jigsaw pieces, and just off Thorn’s shoreline the shallow sea turned an eggshell blue where patches of white-sand flats lurked three or four inches below the surface. Just now it was low tide and a languid breeze was spreading riffles across the coastal waters, while farther out the ocean had a gentle roll.