Nightbred(64)

“I will go with you,” Jamys said.

She shook her head. “We can cover more bases if you follow the map and I check out the journal.”

“Is that the only reason?” he asked gently.

“No.” She unfastened her seat belt and faced him. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. I was a really messed-up kid, and after my mom died, I didn’t really care what happened to me. I just . . . shut down, you know?”

“I did the same when I learned how my mother had betrayed us to the Brethren.” He took her hand in his and stared out at the bay. “Alexandra Keller said I was catatonic, but she was wrong. I was aware of everything. My shame kept me locked inside myself.”

Chris had known street kids who had done that, withdrawing into themselves so far they became like ghosts. “When I was in school, I used to wish I could take an eraser to myself, rub out all the mistakes, and do things over the right way. Life would be so much easier if you could do that.”

“Only if you live in the past.”

“Which we don’t.” She forced a smile. “Come on, I’ll program the navigational computer with the map’s course.”

“Christian.” He waited until she looked at him before he said, “There is nothing you could do that would make me think less of you.”

Jamys said such beautiful things, as if he knew exactly at the right moment what she needed to hear. He probably even believed some of them. “Thanks.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek before she climbed out.

It appeared as if all the dockside fisherman had called it a night, and most of the boats moored near theirs looked likewise unoccupied. Chris almost started to relax when she spotted a figure sitting in the shadows at the edge of the dock. He had a line in the water, but no tackle box or bait bucket, and had pulled the hood of his jacket up over his head. As they drew closer, she spotted the black gloves on his hands and stumbled.

Jamys caught her arm, his gaze also on the hooded man. I see him. Get on the boat and go below.

Chris took out the gun in her purse and concealed it and her hand in the side pocket of her jumper. No, I’m not going to do that.

The man’s back straightened, and he reeled in his line before standing and turning toward them. “Evening.”

The voice wasn’t Lucan’s, but Chris didn’t relax. “Howdy.”

The fisherman walked toward them, still holding his pole, and then stopped beside the sailboat. He inspected them and the boat with casual interest. “This yours?”

Jamys shifted in front of Chris. “Yes.”

“Beautiful craft.” He pulled back his hood to scratch at his close-trimmed beard, which looked like snow against his dark complexion. “You run charters?”

What Chris assumed was a glove was just the natural color of the islander’s dark skin. “No, sorry.”

“Truly a shame. I imagine she flies over the waves.” He nodded to Jamys and walked on.

Chris thumbed on the safety before returning her gun to her purse. “I don’t know about you, but I feel like an ass.” She glanced at Jamys, who was still watching the fisherman depart. “It’s all right. He’s not a threat to anything but the fish around here.”

“As you say.” He still waited until the man disappeared from sight before he followed her onto the boat.

Chris charted a course on the nav system and chose a small marina where they could meet when Jamys reached the Keys. “I’ll probably get there first, so I’ll take care of renting a slip for the day.” She saved the data and checked the maritime weather forecast feed. “You’ve got clear skies and calm seas, but if you run into any problems, just give me a call on the mobile.”

He switched off the equipment. “You have not told me about the man you are going to meet.”

Chris didn’t like to think about Stryker, much less talk about him, but she could give him the edited version. “His name is Leonin something long and Russian, but he goes by Stryker. He operated some specialty nightclubs and private party houses in Fort Lauderdale, until the city got tired of his activities and invited him to relocate anywhere else. He moved his entire operation down to Key West, where the locals aren’t nearly as judgmental.”

“Why would they judge him?”

“Stryker collects old books only as a hobby. His real business is the personal fantasy trade. He dabbles in fetish and same-sex clubs, but the big money comes from his private parties. He rents houses and sets them up as theme scenes for swingers.”

Jamys looked perplexed. “Swingers?”

“They’re people who like to have sex with multiple partners,” she explained. “He throws orgies for the ones who like to dress up in costumes and role-play.”