those wings and carrying him away. Far away from this moment and himself. From his sickness and the creature who had fed it.
In the next second, Larry Bernhardt imagined nothing at all.
CHAPTER 4
Saturday, November 3 9:30 a.m.
Rick’s Island Hideaway was the quintessential Key West bar: Jimmy Buffet on the sound system; killer frozen margaritas; a friendly clientele whose attire never veered far from shorts and Hawaiian-print shirts; walls hung with maritime paraphernalia, including a stuffed sailfish and a signed photo of Key West’s most famous onetime resident, Ernest Hemingway. It was the same photo that could be found in about ninety percent of the Duval Street drinking establishments.
And last but certainly not least, a bartender who could charm the skin off a snake.
The ability to do just that came as naturally to Rick Wells as breathing. It was an ability, a gift, really, that Rick depended on but didn’t pride himself in. There were many ways to hide from life, he knew. On a bar stool was one way. Behind a killer smile was another.
“What can I get you?” Rick asked the man who slid onto the stool in front of him. Judging by his starched and pressed shirt and obvious hangover, he was a tourist. And not one who had stopped in for a cup of coffee.
“Uncle Jack, black. Straight up.”
Jack Daniel’s, black label. At only 9:30 a.m., the coffee would have been a better choice, Rick thought. But he wasn’t this guy’s mother, wife or pastor. Rick poured the shot and slid it across the bar. “Big night last night?”
The man nodded, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “This place is all right.” He brought the glass to his lips. “You don’t happen to have a New York Times I could buy?”
“Tough to get the current Times here. They sell out fast for an exorbitant price. It’s a matter of geography, my friend.”
The tourist swore. “Great. My wife’s going to be more pissed at me than she already is.” He shook his head. “The older wives get, the less of a sense of humor they have.”
“Couldn’t say, my friend. That’s not my area.”
The man shot him an envious glance. “Not married, huh?”
“Not anymore,” Rick responded, forcing a light tone, cursing the sudden tightness in his chest.
“Well, take it from me, it’s true.” The man downed the shot, then nudged the glass back to Rick for a refill. “No Times. Imagine that.” He shook his head, his expression a cross between disbelief and bemusement. “You seem like a pretty with-it guy, how do you manage?”
“I don’t mind giving up a few conveniences to live in paradise.” Rick refilled the glass, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Besides, the news isn’t going to change if I don’t read it today. It’ll be just as screwed up tomorrow. Or the day after.”
“You’ve got a point, man. September eleventh fucked everything up.”
“If you want news, I suggest the Miami Herald.”
The tourist downed the second shot. “You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?”
“Sure do.” Rick reached under the bar for his copy, which he had already read, cover to cover. He laid it on the counter. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks, I—
“Marty,” a woman called from the bar’s open doorway, her tone disgusted, “I thought you were finding me a paper?”
The man rolled his eyes at Rick and stood. “Got it, sweetheart.” He tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar, scooped up the papers, then hurried toward the door.
“Nice talking to you,” Rick called after him, then smiled as Valentine Lopez strolled through the bar entry. Valentine—Val to everyone but his mother and the priest who had baptized him—was Rick’s oldest friend.
“Well, if it isn’t Key West’s own version of Dick Tracy. I’m honored.”
“You should be, buddy,” Val responded, crossing to Rick. “Still wasting away in Margaritaville, I see.”
“Everybody’s got to have a talent.” Rick grinned and motioned to the stool in front of him. “Take a load off.”
The two men were “conchs,” the tag given to Key West natives, though they came from very different backgrounds. Rick’s family was a Key West import, his father a doctor, his mother a socialite from West Palm Beach. On a vacation to the island, his parents had caught what the locals called the “Key West disease.” Before their week-long vacation ended, they had decided they never wanted to leave. His father had sold his Tampa practice and opened one on the island.
Val’s family, on the other hand, descended from some of the original Cuban inhabitants of the island. His ancestors had been involved in both the cigar-making and sponging industries. Val’s father—now deceased—had been a shrimper. A noble occupation though not a particularly lucrative one.
The two boys would probably never have met, let alone become as close as brothers, if they had grown up anywhere else. But despite their disparate means and backgrounds Rick and Val had fallen into an unshakable friendship. A friendship tested only once: when Rick married the girl of Val’s dreams.
Val sat. “Got any coffee back there?”
“The best café con leche on the island.”
“My mother would argue with that.”
“Second best, then. No way I’m getting into a pissing match with that little woman. She’s tough.”
Rick went about preparing the Cuban espresso and hot milk. “How are things down at the department?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the espresso machine.
“Let me put it this way, when you decide to grow up, let me know. I could use you.”
The Key West Police Department consisted of eighty-one sworn officers and twenty-two civilian personnel. Val was the ranking detective on the force and one of five officers who reported directly to the chief of police.
“Use me? Geez, things must really suck.”
Val sobered. “I mean it, Rick. You’re a cop. One of the best I’ve ever—”
“Was a cop,” Rick corrected. He set the con leche in front of his friend. “A long time ago.”
“Are a cop,” Val repeated. “It’s in your blood. It’s what you—”
“Joke’s over, Val,” Rick muttered. “I suggest you not go there.”
“It’s been more than three years. You need to let them go.”
Emotion rose up in Rick, nearly strangling him. “Don’t tell me what I need. Don’t you … dare tell me that I need to do that. I’ll never let
