So there, guys. Testosterone? Maybe. But Beth had been the one who had been worried sick about Mrs. Peterson. She had been worried sick again when he had left to retrieve Mrs. Peterson and the dog. She’d wanted to come; he’d convinced her that if she was home, he wouldn’t be worried about her in the storm as well.
He fiddled with the knob on the radio again, trying to get something to come in. At last, he did. He expected the news stations in the south of the state to be carrying nothing but storm coverage—even if the storm had lost momentum.
“…serial killer on the loose. Authorities suspect that he headed south just before evacuation notices went into effect…” Static, damn! Then, “Parker managed to disappear, ‘as if into thin air,’ according to Lieutenant Abner Gretsky, prison guard. Downed poles and electrical failures have made pursuit and apprehension difficult. John Parker was found guilty in the slaying of Patricia Reeves of Miramar last year. He is suspected of the murders of at least seven other women in the southeastern states. He is a man of approximately—”
Keith couldn’t believe it when another earful of static slammed him instead of statistics on the man. Headed south?
Not this far south. Only a suicidal maniac would have attempted to drive down into the dark and treacherous keys when a storm of any magnitude was in gear. Still, it felt as if icy fingers slid down his throat to his heart.
Beth was alone at the house.
He was tempted to turn back instantly. But Mrs. Peterson’s trailer was just ahead now. All he had to do was grab the old woman, hop back in the Hummer and turn around.
The first thing he noted was that her old Plymouth wasn’t in the drive.
He hesitated, then reached in the glove compartment for the .38 Smith & Wesson he was licensed to carry. He exited the car, swearing against the savage pelting of the rain.
“Mrs. Peterson!” he roared, approaching the trailer. Damn, the woman was lucky the thing hadn’t blown over yet. He could hear the dog barking. Yappy little creature, but hell, it was everything in the world to the elderly widow.
“Mrs. Peterson!” He pounded on the door. There was no response. He hesitated, then tried the knob. The door was open.
He walked in. Mrs. Peterson’s purse was on the coffee table. Cocoa could be heard but not seen. “Mrs. Peterson?”
The trailer was small. There was nowhere to hide in the living room or kitchen. He tried her sewing room, and then, not sure why, he hesitated at the door to her bedroom. He slipped the Smith & Wesson from his waistband, took a stance and threw open the door.
Nothing. No one. He breathed a sigh of relief, then spun around at a flurry of sound. Cocoa came flying out from beneath the bed.
The small dog managed to jump into his arms, terrified. As Keith clutched the animal, he heard a noise from the front, and headed back out.
A drenched man in what was surely supposed to be a waterproof jacket stood just inside the doorway. “Aunt Dot?” he called.
The fellow was about thirty years old. Dark hair was plastered to his head. He stood about six feet even. He saw Keith standing with the gun and cried out, stunned and frightened.
“Who are you?” Keith demanded.
“Joe. I’m Joe Peterson. Dot Peterson’s nephew,” he explained.
“How did you get here?”
“Walked.” The fellow swallowed. “My car broke down. Um…where’s my aunt?” he inquired.
“You tell me,” Keith demanded warily.
“I…I don’t know. I was on my way down here…the car gave out. Man, I went through some deep flooding…walked the rest of the way here. Um, who are you and why are you aiming a gun at me?” There was definite fear in his voice. “Wait, no, never mind. I don’t want to know your name. Hey, if you’re taking anything, go ahead. I’ll just walk back out into the storm. I’ll look for my aunt.”
“We’ll look for her together,” Keith said.
He indicated that Joe should walk back out. The fellow hesitated uneasily and then voiced an anxious question. “Aunt Dottie…she’s really not here?”
Keith shook his head. “Move.”
Joe moved toward the door. “Back out into the storm?” he demanded.
Keith nodded grimly. Outside, he put the dog in the car, stuck the gun in his waistband and opened the driver’s side. “Get in,” he shouted to Joe Peterson.
“Maybe I should wait here,” Peterson shouted back.
“Maybe we should look for your aunt!”
They both got into the car. Cocoa scampered to the back seat, whimpering. Keith eased the Hummer out of the drive. “Search the sides of the road, see if she drove off somehow!” Keith commanded.
“Search the side of the road?” Peterson repeated. He looked at Keith so abruptly that water droplets flew from his face and hood. “I can’t see a damn road! It’s all gray.”
“Look for a darker gray blob in the middle of the gray then,” Keith said.
The windshield wipers were working hard, doing little.
But then he saw it. Something just barely visible. Peering forward more closely, he saw the Plymouth. It had gone off the road heading south.
Keith stared at Peterson, drew out the gun and warned the man, “Sit still.”
“Right, yeah, right!” Peterson said nervously, staring at the gun.
Keith stepped from the car. He sloshed through the flooded road to the mucky embankment. He looked in the front and saw nothing. Why would the old lady, who always held tight to her handbag, have left the purse on the table when she was taking off in her own car?
Fighting against the wind, he opened the front doors and the back. No sign of a struggle, of a person, of…anything.
Then he noted the trunk. It was ajar. He lifted the lid.
And found Mrs. Peterson.
“So…you live out here, year-round?”
“No. This is just a vacation home.”
“Lonely place,” he said.
Beth shrugged. “We live in Coconut Grove, but actually spend a lot of time down here. My husband is a diver.”
“A professional diver?”
Beth could have explained that Keith’s work went much further than simple diving, that his contracts often had to do with the government or law enforcement, but she didn’t want to explain—she wasn’t sure why. Her uninvited guest had changed his clothing. He was warm and dry. She had given him a brandy, and he had been nothing but polite and entirely circumspect. The unease of having let someone into her house hadn’t
