The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel (28 page)

a boat too big for these waters that no competent back-country fisherman would buy. Which was the main reason he remembered it. and associated it with Sutter.

Ford stopped once more, standing in the pouring rain. Then he turned his skiff toward Blind Pass, gunned the throttle forward, thinking:
Dewey...
.

The door to the carport opened so slowly that Dewey thought Bets must be having trouble with a package or something. Probably had a suitcase in each hand. So she reached to help, calling. "How'd you do at Wimbledon?" and, like an explosion, the door flew open, smacking her on the shoulder and the side of the face. It didn't knock her down; just drove her stumbling back a few steps, where she caught herself on the wall.

Dewey looked up dizzily, still expecting to see Bets.

Maybe the storm wind had caught the door and thrown it open.

But Bets wasn't there. Instead, a huge male shape filled the doorway: a meaty face with jowls, yellow rain jacket the size of a tent, sopping blond hair, and eyes like tiny shards of blue ice looking out from folds of skin. Pointing a great big gun, too; a strange-looking platinum thing with odd tubing, like a pistol from space.

Kicking the door closed behind him, the man said, "Well, well, well ... looks like I found my port in the storm."

Dewey felt the control mechanism in her snap; an immediate rush of anger, like heat, and she was yelling, "Who the hell are you? And what right do you have to come charging in here? This is my
house,
goddamn you!" Confronting him, standing in his way so he couldn't come into the kitchen—ready to slap the hell out of him, if need be. Then, as if in a dream, she saw his huge fist orbiting toward her. Couldn't even duck, the surprise of it so hypnotized her....

Then she was on her back, skidding across the linoleum of the kitchen floor. Didn't even feel the punch; just a withering pressure on the side of her face, and she couldn't breathe through her nose because there was fluid in it. It was difficult to see, too. In a panic, she touched the left side of her face—maybe he'd knocked her eye out.

No, the left eye was there. She couldn't see out of it, but the eye was there. Blood all over the place: on her hands, on her face, on the floor.

The man was coming toward her, a mild smile beneath the mustache on the light little mouth. "Don't try to get tough with me again, you rich bitch. See—I'm not like the rest... your little yuppie sweethearts. I don't take shit off women.
Comprendo?"

Dewey lay there unable to take her eyes off the man, unable to move as the man touched his wet shoe to her bare foot, a kind of kick.

"Understand me?"

She watched him, thinking.
This is the guy Doc warned me about, and he's going to kill me. This is him. Sutter. He's going to shoot me with that pistol.

"Understand?" He was standing over her, yelling down. "Say it!"

"I ... understand."

"That's better. Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"If you're lying. I'll kill you."

"I'm not; I'm alone."

"Your dark-haired friend with the big tits, she's not here?" Looking around like he was hoping to see Walda.

"She just left."

"When's she coming back?"

"She's flying to London."

"Too bad. The three of us coulda had some laughs." The man was looking at her. studying her—legs to face, then he motioned with the gun. "Get on your feet." He was holding his hand out to her, huge fingers spread wide. He wanted her to take his hand.

He was saying, "First thing you and me are going to do is get to know each other better." His face was getting closer and closer as he reached down. "Then you're going to help me get off this island. Use that fancy talking car of yours. Or your buddy Ford's boat. Mister Smart Ass." So close to her now that she felt the nearness of him would smother her.

Dewey tried to edge slowly away ... heard a
clank
on the floor and realized that she still had the tea mug. The tea had spilled, but she still bad the mug, and as he leaned closer, she swung it around with all of her strength— making a heavy crockery thud as she cracked Sutter hard behind the car. Instantly, then, she lunged away, scampering on her knees; got to her feet and ran.

In a terrible voice, the man cried, "Ouch! You hurt me!" Bellowing like an outraged child; a sound so grotesque that it frightened her as much as the pistol did.

Then he was running after her, making a ponderous, lumbering noise only a few paces behind. So close, she could hear his big lungs sucking air; feel his weight shaking the house; expected him to reach out and touch her at any instant. Once he did touch her—his huge hand sliding down her back, unable to gain a hold.

"When I catch you, you bitch!"

Dewey led him flying through the living room, her bare feet tracking well on the carpet. Then she caught the wall lip of the recreation room and catapulted herself into the dining room, gaining ground.

I've got to put some space between us—and get outside. I can lose him outside. Think of something....

When he was close behind her again, Dewey did a stutter step, as if about to turn ... then collapsed abruptly in front of him and arched her back to create a higher hurdle. She braced herself for the impact of his knees and rolled into him.

Because he was going too fast to stop, Sutter pitched forward with a wild cry, flying over her, out of control. There was a tremendous thud; the sound of shattering glass—and, in the same instant, a deafening
whap
of thunder as all the lights in the house went out, abandoning them to heavy gray dusk.

Dewey was instantly on her feet, reaching the front door in a few long strides, turning the doorknob frantically, but it wouldn't open: kept slamming back each time she ripped at it—because she had chained the door on the inside, just as Ford had wanted her to do.

Damn!

Fumbling with the chain, Dewey had a woozy, surreal feeling, as if she was living out a slow-motion nightmare. Her hands shook. Couldn't make them work on the lock fast enough. Her brain felt as if it had been drenched with cold ether.

This can't be happening.

Behind her, she could hear the man wheezing, out of breath. Making a strange noise, too—like a bear might sound if it could laugh. Making that noise, but no effort to come after her.

Why?

His voice was terrifyingly calm: "Crazy woman ... thinking you can get away from me! You don't have the
brains,
baby." Spoken like a growl, followed by that strange chuckling sound again.

Fighting with the chain. Dewey glanced over her shoulder at the huge shape on the floor. It wasn't moving. Just sat there beneath the broken window through which wind and rain gusted. But a strange beam of red light was coming from the shape; a beam so bright and well defined that it was like a tube of glowing plastic; a thread of light that extended clear across the room.

Dewey thought.
The space gun....

The man turned the beam of light toward her and painted it across her belly, then her breasts, then held it steady on her face, so that she had to block the light with one hand, it was so bright.

"Whatever I touch, whatever I touch, whatever I touch
—I can kill.
Stupid little bitch...."

PLAP
...

Dewey dropped to her butt, frozen by the noise and the sensation of hot needles on her cheek—the bullet had gone through the door, just over her head, peppering her face with wood fragments.

"You shot me. you bastard!" Screaming at him, holding her face.

The huge figure was moving now ... standing ... rising to his full height before the broken window. In the pewter light that filtered through the window, she could see that the man's face was dark on one side, probably bloody from crashing into the glass. But then she couldn't see him at all, because he was shining that red light on the bridge of her nose, blinding her.

"Come here!" he ordered.

"I can't see."

"You better move, damn you! You have about three seconds to live."

Dewey got to her feet and went slowly toward the sound of his voice.

"Closer!"

She took another step.

"Closer, damn you. Get over here in the light so I can see what you look like! And strip those clothes off!" Waving the gun for emphasis.

The man stood before the window and yanked her to him, positioning her only an arm's length away. He reached out and squeezed her left breast hard, then ripped her T-shirt down—and laughed when she slapped his hand away.

"Man, you could play a tune on knockers like yours. That's just what I'm gonna do."

"Keep ... your ... filthy hands ... off me!"

"Big temper, huh? Fiery, yeah—like that night at Cabbage Key. That's right, I saw. Fact. I saw more of you and your friend than you two realized." Laughing, like he'd said something funny, enjoying some private joke.

He was taking something out of his pocket; leaned over momentarily and lit a cigarette, cupping it to get it going in the wind from the window. "Here," he said. "Have a drag."

In the light of a sudden lightning blast, she saw him clearly for a microsecond, deep cut above his eye, face bloody, cigarette braced between the big sausage fingers.

"Smoke it," he said, pushing the cigarette toward her. "I want you to." With his other hand, he was doing something with his pants.

Dewey took a step toward him. hoping he would back up a little, trying to catch her breath, trying to do what was smart, trying to maintain—because she had seen something else in that abrupt flash of white light.

Just outside the window, directly behind Sutter and close enough to touch him, stood Ford.

Dewey took a slow, deep breath and said to the man, "Go piss up a rope, you bastard," and swung her fist at him, as hard as she could.

In all the rain, in all the wind, on the way to Dewey's house a lone bold voice from Blind Pass Bridge yelled at Ford to slow down, no wake zone.

"Ya driving too damn fast, ya bum!"

Screamed at him through the noise of the storm.

Who the hell would he fishing in weather like this?

Some tourist fanatic up there on the bridge, trying to squeeze the last drop of fun out of his vacation, worried about this speeding boat running over his fishing lines.

But Ford didn't slow until he swung up to the first free dock he found; tied his boat and sprinted through the mangroves toward Dewey's house. Halfway there, a lightning blast zapped a casuarina tree, rolling a ball of blue flame across the beach—an eerie sight.

Instantly, the lights in Dewey's house blinked off.

Ford was thinking as he moved.
I don't need this. If Sutter's in there. I can't let him see me before he sees me. He has worms in his brain.

At the edge of Dewey's lot. Ford stopped in the shadows. Took a good look around. Saw the red Vette in the open carport; saw that Wanda's rental car was gone. Not much else to see. Sandy yard, trees, screened pool, house with aluminum siding, beach.

A world of shadow, mostly. Through the squall haze, the sun was a pale disk in stormy eclipse, the sea a heavy gray presence without form or horizon. It was not yet dark, but there was no light.

Ford sprinted across the lot, and was nearly to the door when he heard
Ka-PLAP...

The muted popping sound of a gunshot inside the house, followed by a whimpering scream and a woman's words he could not decipher.

Dewey, hold on....

Ford was at the side of the house, rain drenching down off the roof as he crawled frantically beneath the side windows. One of the screens had been knocked out—he could see it just ahead. Glass was broken out, too. There were shards piled in the sand.

Above his head, through the window, he could hear the heavy rumble of Sutter's voice shouting orders.

And he heard Dewey: "Keep your filthy hands off me!"

She wasn't dead. And he sure as hell hadn't taken the spirit out of her.

Ford carefully peeked one eye over the sill and saw that Sutter's back was to him.

Just beyond, he could see Dewey.

There was an odd red light moving randomly around the room, and he could see her in that light. Her face looked strange. Not just bloody—but swollen and contorted. Her eyes seemed to be crossed, and her shirt was ripped so that one bare breast showed. She was trying to hold the tom material together with one shaking hand, a pathetic gesture.

Ford knew now-knew for the first lime—what he would do to Sutter.

Inside, Sutter was pushing something at Dewey, saying, "Smoke it!"

Ford stood. In a sudden flash of lightning, he was looking eye to eye with Dewey. He smiled at her—and had no idea if she had time to define the smile. But she saw him. There was no doubt she saw him. He could tell by the way she straightened herself:
"Go piss up a rope.
..."

In that instant. Ford reached for Sutter's belt—and was surprised to hear him grunt, as if something had hit him, driving him backward. Then there was a series of explosions.
PLAP-PLAP-PLAP
as Ford hauled the man back, first through the window, using momentum and adrenaline to force a big body through a small space.

Ford was already yelling as he wrestled Sutter to the ground. "Dewey, you okay?"

Nothing.

"Dewey!"

There was that beam of red light again—a laser sight, Ford finally realized. He dropped knee-first onto Sutter, one knee on his right wrist, the other on his neck. He twisted the pistol out of his hand, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled Sutter's face close.

Sutter's eyes widened in slow understanding, and he croaked, "Shit, it's you."

"If you shot her....
Dewey!

Finally, an answer: "Yes!"

"Dewey-?"

"I hear you. I'm okay."

"Dewey!"

"Yeah—I'm okay!"

"You sure?"

"That bastard!"

"I've got him; it's over."

"I'm calling the cops—he hurt me!"

"No, don't call. Don't call, not yet. I'm coming in. I'll do it." He was pushing Sutter ahead of him now, toward the door.

The way this guy was holding him, looking at him with those damn eyes...

Sutter's mind scanned frantically for a way to escape, but the only thought that solidified was:
This guy has something missing in him.