Skinny Dip - Страница 4

So she'd been eager, if not reckless, for steady companionship. The courtship had been a whirlwind campaign of roses, love letters, candlelit dinners, whispered endearments-Chaz had been relentlessly smooth, and Joey had melted with minimal resistance. Her most distinct memories of their first twelve months of marriage were scenes of reliably torrid sex, which turned out to be Chaz's singular shining talent. It was also his obsession. During their more revelatory second year together, Joey came to realize that she'd mistaken her husband's indefatigable urge to rut for ardor, when, in truth, for him it was no more personal than isometrics. She also became acutely aware that Chaz did not regard matrimony as an exclusive carnal arrangement.

Other wives might have bailed out, but Joey was too proud and competitive. She resolved to immerse herself avidly in all aspects of her husband's world, and to become what the self-help books called "a true life partner." Her plan was to make Chaz need her so fervidly that he'd knock off the bullshit and clean up his act.

The anniversary cruise seemed like a good opportunity to put her plan into action, so Joey had accepted the invitation with high hopes. She had looked forward to "re-connecting" with her husband, as the relationship experts advised. The biggest challenge would be engaging Chaz in at least one intimate conversation that did not concern the peerless durability of his erection.

Once at sea, unfortunately, the breakthrough moment had never presented itself. Or perhaps it had and Joey had found herself not sufficiently motivated. Except for the sex, Chaz simply wasn't a very compelling fellow. The more Joey had listened to him-really listened-the emptier she'd felt. For a scientist, Chaz seemed dishearteningly blithe, self-centered and materialistic. He rarely spoke of his work in the Everglades, and he seemed largely unfazed by the rape of the planet. He displayed no anger about the push for oil drilling in an Alaskan wildlife refuge, yet he bitched for a solid hour, spewing half-masticated shreds of clam, upon hearing from another cruise passenger that Titleist was raising the price of its golf balls.

It had struck Joey that she could spend the rest of her life faking enthusiasm for her husband's interests, and that he wouldn't care one way or the other. So, why in the world had he married her? Joey had intended to pose that very question during their late-night stroll on the Sun Duchess, but then she'd changed her mind. The slate clouds and the drizzling rain had depressed her, and all she'd wanted to do was go back to the room and crash.

She'd been staring off toward Africa, thinking of God knows what, when Chaz bent down to pick up something he'd dropped on the deck; a key, he'd said. Joey had been perturbed to feel his moist hands closing around her ankles-she'd figured he was about to spread her legs so he could slip her a fast one, Chaz being keen on outdoor quickies. The last thing she had expected him to do was throw her overboard.

The worthless shithead, Joey thought.

Because here I am, parched and delirious and half-blind, clinging to the same fucking shark that tried to eat me.

Which is absolutely ludicrous, so I must either be dead or getting damn close…

He knew he couldn't get his hands on the money, even if something happened to me. He knew from day one that my inheritance was untouchable. So why did he do this?

It made no sense to Joey Perrone. Nothing did.

Not Chaz; not the lazy, sweet-smelling, rough-skinned shark; not the seagulls piping excitedly overhead-can't a person even die in peace?

Not the low chug-a-chug of an outboard engine, growing louder; not the slappety-slap of the waves against… what, the hull of a boat? Don't believe your ears, Joey told herself. What would a boat be doing all the way out here?

Didn't make sense. Neither did the faraway voice calling to her, a man's voice urging her to hang on, honey, just hang on for another minute.

Then the same voice saying it's okay, I've got you now, so let go, come on, let it go!

Something lifted her as if she were as light and free as a bubble. Glassy droplets streamed down her bare legs as she rose from the water, her toes brushing the foamy tips of the waves.

Then came a huddled warmth, the smell of dry linen and a sleep nearly as deep as death.

Three

"Don't move," the man said.

"Where am I?"

"Safe. Try to lie still."

"What about the shark? Did I get bit?"

"What shark?"

"The one I was hanging on to when you found me."

The man laughed softly. "That was a bale of grass."

"Don't tell me," Joey said.

"Sixty pounds of Jamaica's finest."

"Terrific." In her delirium she had mistaken the burlap wrapping for shark hide. "Where am I?" she asked again. "I can't see a damn thing. What's wrong with my eyes?"

"They're swollen shut."

"From the salt? Please tell me that's all-"

"And jellyfish stings," the man said.

Joey reached up and gingerly touched her burning eyelids. A Portuguese man o'war must have brushed against her face while she was drifting.

"You'll be okay in a day or so," the man told her.

Joey groped under the covers. She was wearing what felt like a fleece pullover and light cotton sweatpants.

"Thanks for the clothes," she said. "Or I should say, thank your wife."

"Actually, they belonged to a friend."

"Is she here now?"

"Hasn't been for ages."

So they were alone in this place, Joey and the stranger who had rescued her. "I can still hear the ocean in my head," she said.

"It's right outside your window. You're on an island."

Joey was too worn-out to be afraid. She liked the man's voice. He didn't sound like a psychopath or a sex criminal. Then again, she had a history of getting first impressions wrong.

"Sit up," she heard him say. She smelled lemon and tasted strong hot tea when he held the cup to her lips. She drank every drop. Next there was vegetable soup and she finished that, too.

"I wish I could see what you look like," she told him, "since you've seen all of me."

The man said, "Sorry, but that's how I found you." Stark naked on a bale of pot, Joey thought ruefully. She shivered from the flooding warmth of the soup, and for a moment she feared she might throw up. The man took the cup and lowered her head to the pillow.

"Back to sleep," he said. "I swear I smell a wet dog."

"You do. He's a pain in the ass, but he almost never bites women." It hurt when Joey smiled, her skin was so taut and raw. "What kind is he?" she managed to say.

The man whistled and Joey heard the brisk click of canine toenails on a wooden floor. A clammy nose poked against her neck. She patted the animal's head before the man whistled it back to its unseen corner. "He feels like a bruiser," she remarked.

"Doberman. Can't swim for shit," the man said. "Joey, are you feeling well enough to tell me what happened?" "How'd you know my name?"

"It's engraved on the inside of your wedding ring. I took it off before I put you in the bathtub." "You gave me a bath?" "No offense, but you stunk like a bong."

Joey checked her left hand-the platinum band was still there. The man easily could have stolen it, but he hadn't. He could have made her believe that she'd lost it in the ocean, but instead he'd returned it to her finger. By now she was ready to believe he was a decent guy. The early signs were promising.

"I was thrown off a boat," she told him.

"What kind of boat?"

"One of those giant cruise ships. The Sun Duchess."

The man sounded doubtful. "You'd need fifteen-foot seas to get pitched off a cruise liner. It wasn't nearly that rough last night."

Joey said, "I didn't get thrown off by a wave. I got thrown off by my husband."

"Oh."

"You don't believe me?"

There was an unreadable silence in the room. Joey raised her head and turned toward where she thought the man was sitting. "I didn't just fall overboard, okay? The bastard pushed me."

"That's a shitty move," the man said.

Joey told him exactly how Chaz had done it.

"But why?" the man asked.

"I don't know. I swear to God I don't."

She heard him rise and slide his chair away from the bed. She asked where he was going.

"There's no phone in the house. I've been charging my cell off the boat's battery," he said.

"Wait a minute. Who're you going to call?"

"First the Coast Guard and then the cops."

"Please don't," Joey said.

"Why not?"

"Tell me your name."

"It's Mick."

"Mick, please," she said, "don't call anybody. Not yet, okay? I need to sort this out in my head."

"Let me help. What your husband did is called attempted murder, and I'm pretty sure it's still against the law."

"Please wait."

The man said, "Fine. Whatever you say."

His voice came from farther away, and Joey knew he was standing in the doorway. She figured that he was humoring her. "You're gonna call anyway, aren't you? Soon as I'm asleep, you're gonna sneak out to your boat and phone the cops."

"No, I won't. That's a promise."

"Then where you going, Mick, huh?"

"To take a leak. That okay with you?"

She sagged back on the sheets and laughed to herself, thinking: Sometimes I'm such a pill, I swear to God.

The Coast Guard expanded the search to almost three thousand square miles, though most of its effort focused on a trapezoidal sector off the northern Miami-Dade coastline that corresponded to the false information provided by Chaz Perrone. He remained confident that the searchers wouldn't find Joey, but he held a secret fear that if the sharks were negligent, her body might wash ashore somewhere down in the Keys. That would poke a gaping hole in his fictional chronology, and serve to energize the annoying Broward detective.