Tall, lean, maybe dark-haired. That was about all she could tell for certain.
The two men joined her. “Y’all know she’s not going to get very far,” the attendant said. “That runner was just returned and I didn’t have a chance to gas her up yet.”
Megan shifted her focus back to Lucy who was bent over the controls of the runner but it was slowing, losing momentum as the boat wake tossed it. Then she looked back at the boat. The driver was making a sharp turn, aiming right for Lucy.
“He’s going to run her down. Mom!” she shouted. Not as if Lucy could hear her.
“Oh damn. I’m not responsible for this,” the attendant said as the boat headed at Lucy.
The all leaned forward, straining to see everything. The boat sped up, its bow rising in the water as it charged over its own wake. Lucy’s wave runner slowed, floundering in the choppy water. She kept working the controls, trying to maneuver out of the way.
Megan held her breath as the boat got closer and closer. “Mom!” This time it wasn’t a shout but more of a gasp. The boat looked so much larger compared to Lucy on the small wave runner.
Finally, at the last moment, Lucy dove off the wave runner just as the boat sped over it, raising enough white water that Megan lost sight of both the runner and Lucy. She gripped the binoculars tight, straining to see Lucy come up out of the water.
The boat sped away but still no Lucy. Megan stifled a sob but it caught in her throat, making it hard to breathe. C’mon, Mom, she urged the empty water.
Behind Megan, Mr. Romero and the attendant got a flat-bottomed boat ready to take out. “She has a vest, I made sure of that,” the attendant was saying. “I’m not liable for any of this.”
“Shut up, Freddy,” Mr. Romero said. The sound of an engine roared to life just as Megan saw what she’d been praying for. A spark of orange. Lucy bobbed up out of the water, coughing, waving a hand.
“She’s okay!” Relief broke through her dam of fear. Megan dropped the binoculars to wave with both hands. The wave runner floated on its side in the choppy wake. The boat was in the distance, skimming over the water, almost out of sight.
Sirens sounded behind them in the parking area, but Megan ignored them as she watched Mr. Romero skillfully maneuver the flat-bottomed boat out to where Lucy was treading water. He helped her in and began heading back to shore.
“Could’ve at least towed my runner for me. Now I’m gonna have to go after it myself.”
Megan handed the binoculars back to the attendant with a glower. “That’s my mom who almost got herself killed trying to save two men. I think your wave runner can wait a few minutes.”
“She’s really FBI?”
“She really is.”
He hooked his thumbs in his waistband. “Well, okay, then. Guess the FBI can pay for this mess.”
Megan restrained herself from slapping him. As the adrenaline fled her system, anxiety took its place. Lucy hadn’t saved anyone’s life. The bad guys got away. They’d lost Pastor Fleming and Mateo.
If they were even still alive.
***
Mateo woke to darkness. And strange smells: gasoline and salt water and sweet, too sweet, lilacs. The world churned around him, bouncing up and down, side to side, but he couldn’t see why. Everything was black.
Nausea gripped him and he clenched his jaws to hold it back. He was lying—no, that wasn’t right—he was sitting on a rough floor. Scratchy like sandpaper against his jeans. If only it would stop moving.
A violent roll tossed him onto his side. He tried to brace himself but his hands were caught behind him. Handcuffs? How the hell… Why couldn’t he remember anything?
Panic dulled by a weird sense of lethargy made every thought a struggle, as if his mind were caught in the pluff mud that acted like quicksand in the island’s tidal marshes. When trapped in pluff, you couldn’t struggle. The only way out was to relax to try to float free or to have someone help pull you out.
Help. That’s what he needed. He tried to call out, but his mouth was dry and only a cough emerged. Drugs. Someone must have drugged him. Was that why he was handcuffed? Was he under arrest?
Then why couldn’t he see? He rubbed his face against the rough wall beside him. Felt cloth. That’s where the sickly sweet lilac smell was coming from. Okay. Not blind. Just in the dark with a pillowcase or something over his head.
Cops didn’t do that. What happened?
He tried to stretch his body out to explore his prison but couldn’t. The walls weren’t far enough apart for him to roll over without banging his shoulders and the length barely allowed him to curl up or sit halfway up, legs bent. He couldn’t tell where the ceiling was.
Another sudden lurch, as if the entire vehicle—he was moving, moving fast and there was an engine roaring above the pounding in his head—had jumped a curb. Not a curb. Waves. Boat. Water.