Sail (19 page)
IT’S GOING TO BITE ME. I know it’s going to strike any second. I feel the panic surge through my bloodstream as I try to stand again. I can’t get up. It’s as if my body and brain aren’t connected anymore.
The only thing I can manage is thrusting my palms against the sand and pushing away. I’m scooting backward as fast as I can.
It’s not fast enough.
The snake is inches from my foot, its head suddenly rising. I’m thinking that any moment I’ll see its fangs, then
feel
its fangs.
But I don’t. The huge snake doesn’t lunge or strike. Instead it crawls slowly, powerfully—
oh my God, no!-
—over my legs.
That’s when I realize what’s actually happening.
This diabolical snake wants to do more than just take a bite out of me. It wants
all
of me.
I scream again for the kids as the reptile travels past my thighs and coils around my waist. Even before it completes the loop I can feel the immense pressure, like a fleshy vise slowly closing. The snake wraps itself around my chest as I empty my suffocating lungs for one last scream, which finally comes out as a gasp.
I thrash, trying to get loose. It’s too powerful. The more I push, the tighter it squeezes. I can’t breathe!
It’s up to my shoulders, the scales cool and dry against my skin. I catch a glimpse of the snake’s eyes as the head passes in front of me again. The eyes are jet black. They’re lifeless and seem not to see me at all. Oh God, it’s ugly!
The thought of dying takes over, shooting another wave of panic through my body. This one is off the charts; I’m whipping and writhing what few parts of me can still move. This is not the way to die.
“HOLD ON!”
I hear.
Mark runs out of the brush and scoops up the four-foot hunk of driftwood in front of me.
“Stay still!”
he yells.
Gripping the driftwood like a sledgehammer, he raises it above his head.
Whack!
Again he swings, even harder.
WHACK!
He’s aiming for a narrow stretch of the snake above my left kneecap. If he misses I’ve got another broken leg, but I don’t care so much about that. Not right now, anyway.
Mark doesn’t miss. One brutal swing after another.
In the corner of my eye I can see Carrie and Ernie, too stunned to do anything except stare. Their brother keeps swinging away, not letting up.
Neither is the snake, though. The pain it’s causing is excruciating. I feel like I’m about to burst wide open.
“Hurry, Mark!” I plead.
Finally the moment he’s waiting for comes. The snake fights back, its head darting toward Mark with a piercing hiss. The beast’s jaws are open, the fangs on full display.
“
Thatta boy!
” Mark beams.
“You dumb shit!”
In a flash the driftwood sledgehammer turns into a baseball bat. The snake’s head is away from my body, giving him a decently clear shot.
Mark unloads on the snake’s head as if it’s a hanging curveball. Once, twice, three times he swings, each blow more vicious than the last.
The viselike grip around me starts to loosen. The snake no longer fights back, and its head is falling toward the sand.
Going.
Going.
Gone.
“TASTES JUST LIKE CHICKEN,” says Ernie, grinning as he chews.
“Not.”
That gets a good laugh from the rest of us as we sit around the fire at dusk, dining on the last thing any of us thought would be our next meal: grilled snake on a stick.
“I can’t believe I’m eating this thing,” says Carrie.
But she is. We all are. A lot of it, too. Of course, with the size of that snake there’s a lot to go around.
“Hey, it was either this or nothing,” says Mark. “Guess we’re snaking out.”
Their rabbit hunt was an exercise in futility. Or should I say, the three of them got a lot of exercise while chasing but never catching the few rabbits they saw.
“You know, there are some cultures that think of snake as a delicacy,” says Ernie. “It’s true.”
“Yes,” says Carrie right back, “and those people usually have bones through their noses.”
“Actually, I remember reading that a couple of restaurants in Manhattan serve rattlesnake,” I say. I can’t believe I felt the need to contribute that grotesquerie.
Carrie shakes her head. “Not any restaurants I’ve been to. Now that you mention it, though, what I wouldn’t give to be eating at Gramercy Tavern right now.”
I can’t say I blame her—I feel the same way. Only what I’d really kill for would be a big, thick New York strip.
“What about Flames, up by the country house?” I say. “In fact, when this whole ordeal is over, I’m taking you all out to dinner, soup to nuts.”
“Soufflés too?” asks Carrie.
“You bet! Soup to soufflés.”
I look at Mark and Ernie. I’m not expecting cartwheels, but I hardly expect their sullen stares back at me. Especially Ernie’s.
“What is it?” I ask him.
“You said
when
this whole ordeal is over. What if it never is?”
“It will be, honey, trust me.”
He can’t. Instead he turns to Mark. “You were right—that message-in-a-bottle thing was stupid. Dumb. No one’s going to find it, or us.”
I’m about to chime in again and assume my reassuring-mother role when Mark gives me a subtle wave of his hand. He wants to take care of this himself.
“No, it wasn’t stupid, bro. No way. You were just trying to help us,” he says. “I was the one being stupid, making fun of you.”
Ernie smiles as if it’s Christmas morning and he’s gotten everything he wanted. Meanwhile, I’m about to melt as I gaze at Mark. What happened to the spoiled prep-school stoner? He even
looks
different after battling that snake. A little taller, squarer in the jaw.
Mark turns and catches me staring at him. “And as for Mom treating us to dinner . . . I’m ordering the porterhouse, double-thick!” he says. “What about you, little man, you want one too?”
“Absolutely!” says Ernie.
“Good. Because Mom’s right, I can feel it.
We’re getting off this island—soon!
”
“DON’T WORRY,” said Peter, caressing Bailey’s smooth, soft cheek. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said. “You’ll find your family, be reunited with Doctor Katherine, and before I know it I’m yesterday’s news.”
Peter had yet to see this hidden side of the usually tough-minded, confident Bailey.
Vulnerability.
He had to admit, it was kind of sexy, and even sweet.
“Trust me, no matter what happens during this trip, I won’t be able to get you out of my mind,” he said.
Bailey liked the sound of that. She picked a plump strawberry off the room-service breakfast tray and gently wrapped her lips around it. Biting down, she winked at Peter. “I trust you, Peter. But is that wise of me?”
Their night of sex and champagne had been his idea, a proper goodbye before he left Bailey and headed for the Bahamas. He had chosen the swank Alex Hotel in Midtown for a couple of reasons, both geographic. First, it was close to Grand Central Station, where he could easily lose any paparazzi who might be following him on foot. Second, the hotel was close to the Midtown Tunnel, which would be his quickest route to Kennedy Airport. His flight out was in less than two hours.
“Oh, that reminds me,” he said. “I need you to do me a small favor if you can.”
Peter leaned over the side of the king-size bed and fetched something from his duffel on the floor. It was a FedEx box.
“I didn’t have a chance to drop this off last night before coming here. Would you mind doing that after I leave for the airport?”
Bailey eyed the shipping label. The box was addressed to Peter’s hotel in the Bahamas. “Sure,” she said, nodding, albeit with a slight hesitation.
Peter expected as much.
“Go ahead, you can ask me what’s inside,” he said.
“No, it’s none of my business.”
Peter feigned disappointment. “You call yourself an aspiring lawyer? What if what’s inside that box is something illegal? They rarely, if ever, x-ray them. You could unwittingly be an accomplice to a crime, lose your chance ever to practice law.”
Bailey reached for another strawberry and this time fed it to Peter. “I guess I’ll have to take my chances,” she said.
Again, Peter had expected as much.
She trusted him.
He bit down on the strawberry, returning Bailey’s wink. Then he eyed his platinum Rolex.
It was time to catch a plane and take care of some family business.
IT WASN’T QUITE the Beatles landing in the sixties at JFK, but for sheer media turnout it was close enough. Early in the afternoon, the plane touched down at Lynden Pindling International Airport on New Providence Island in the Bahamas. For the “benefit” of the other passengers—but really just to heighten the drama—Peter made sure he was the very last to disembark.
A black Tumi duffel slung over his shoulder, he approached the herd of reporters assembled behind a rope curtain on the tarmac.
Gee, all this for little ol’ me?
This was why Peter flew commercial. He wanted the publicity. He wanted the transparency. The press could and would question his bucking the Coast Guard and conducting his own search. He just needed to make sure they didn’t question his motive.
So with his courtroom-perfected poise, Peter made it clear. “I couldn’t live with myself if I thought for one second I didn’t do everything I could to help find my family. Especially since I’m a licensed pilot.”
The press ate it up. They always did when it was spoon-fed to them like this. Besides, it was too damn hot. Blistering, really. The sooner they could file their reports and get out of the sun, the better.
Peter thanked the reporters and promptly left them in the dust—literally. After cruising through customs and immigration, he exited through the front entrance of the airport in search of a taxi.
An LCD display out by the curb put a number on the sweltering heat: 101°, the sign flashed. Next to it a Coppertone ad warned “Don’t Get Burned!” above a picture of a hapless, chubby man in a bathing suit. His skin was a decidedly nasty shade of lobster pink.
“Hot enough for you?” came a man’s voice just over Peter’s left shoulder.
A local? Another reporter?
Neither.
Turning around, Peter stared Andrew Tatem straight in the eyes. He recognized the Coast Guard officer from his televised press conference in Miami. Now here he was in the Bahamas, getting up close and personal with Peter. Why would that be?
“Mr. Carlyle, I’m —”
“Lieutenant Andrew Tatem—yes, of course,” said Peter. “Nice to see you. How are you?”
“Good, good. You look surprised to see me.”
Peter shrugged. No need to hide it. “I am. Didn’t you tell me you were staying in Miami despite the search effort’s moving down here?”
“Yes, that was my original plan.”
“What changed?”
“That’s easy, Mr. Carlyle.
You did.
”
“CAN I GIVE YOU a ride to your hotel?” asked Tatem. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine with a taxi,” Peter answered quickly. “It’ll get me there.”
“Really, it’s no trouble. In fact, it will give us a chance to talk. Come with me.”
Peter eyed Tatem. Clearly the guy had an agenda and wasn’t about to take no for an answer.
“Sure,” said Peter, relenting. “Thank you. It’s very kind. I’m at the Sheraton Cable Beach Resort.”
Before he knew it he was sitting shotgun in a black sedan that screamed government-issued.
“Mr. Carlyle, you really shouldn’t be down here,” said Tatem a few seconds after pulling out of the airport. He was hardly slow to make his point.
Ditto for his driving. For someone who spoke in such a measured tone, the guy sure knew how to let fly behind the wheel.
Peter watched the lineup of palm trees whizzing by his window.
Is there a speed limit in the Bahamas? Is this asswipe just trying to scare me?
Tatem continued, his gaze pinballing back and forth between Peter and the road. “I mean, I don’t care that you’re in the Bahamas, Mr. Carlyle. What I’m saying is that you shouldn’t be trying to conduct your own personal search effort.”
Peter rubbed his chin as if he were actually considering Tatem’s point of view. He wasn’t. Having the guy greet him at the airport might have been a surprise, but his “advice” wasn’t. Of course he didn’t want Peter doing
his
job. What good could come of that?
“Are you afraid that I might get in the way?” asked Peter.
“To be honest, yes.”
“It’s a big ocean out there.”
“I think you know that’s not what I mean.”
“Yes, you’re afraid that I’ll just fuel the media frenzy. Point taken.”
Tatem nodded. “It’s hard enough to oversee a search effort, let alone having to manage the press.”
“So don’t manage them,” said Peter.
“With all due respect
,
you of all people should know that’s not realistic.”
“
With all due respect,
I think what you’re really afraid of is that I’ll find my family first.”
Tatem shot him a steely look. “I promise you, that’s not the case. I’m not built that way.”
“Good. Then I don’t see what the problem is. I just want them found, Lieutenant, that’s all.”
“So do I. That’s what we’re trained to do.”
“Oh, I see,” said Peter. “You want me to leave it to the professionals?”
“For lack of a better phrase, yes.”
“You mean the same professionals who had already called off the search?”
That got Tatem’s goat. He bristled. “You know as well as I do that the boat’s coordinates —”
Peter cut him off. Enough was enough. “Listen, I’m doing what I came down here to do,” he said sternly. “If you don’t understand it, or don’t like it, tough shit.”
A silence fell over the sedan, and Peter loved every second of it. He figured that was the end of the discussion. What else could Tatem say or do, except drop him off at his hotel?
“As I said, I’m at the Sheraton Cable Beach,” said Peter. “Do you know where that is?”
Tatem answered with a clipped “Yes.”
They were five or six miles out from the airport now, speeding along a curvy stretch of road that hugged the coastline.
“Are we close?” asked Peter.
“It’s about a mile or so,” Tatem answered.
The car went silent again. A beige-and-tan sign for the Sheraton soon appeared, and Peter heaved a sigh of relief. The entrance was directly behind it. Lush tropical gardens, a spectacular white-sand beach, casuarina trees blowing in the wind.
But Tatem didn’t slow down.
Instead he sped up. Gunned it, actually.
Blowing right by Peter’s hotel.