Part 17 (2/2)

”No, silly,” Darla said. ”This is my boat. My place is over there.” She pointed to Holiday Isle, and Rick couldn't help but smile. The day just kept getting crazier and crazier.

Son of a . . .

Bone started walking when he saw them step onto the boat. Then he broke into a run, knowing he would be too late.

A boat. The stripper had a boat. How could that be? He'd seen her enter the restaurant from the parking lot. How could he possibly have known she'd have a boat?

He ran down the dock, holding the gun at his side, his eyes darting in every direction. The other boats appeared to be empty. As the boat with Drake and the stripper left the dock and began to merge into the harbor, Bone pointed his weapon at them. With the silencer he might still be able to . . .

”Mr. Wheeler!”

The killer spun around at the sound of his name and saw a man with a salt and pepper beard wearing a black cowboy hat who was pointing a pistol at his chest.

”JimBone Wheeler, I presume?” The man was walking toward him. ”Put the gun down and get on your knees.”

Bone cut his eyes wildly to his left and right.

”Nowhere to go, JimBone,” the man said. ”Or do you prefer Bone for short?”

How could anyone possibly have found him? Bone wondered, forcing his mind to remain calm. ”Who are you?”

”Wade Richey, Tuscaloosa County Sheriff's Office,” the man said, holding up a badge. ”And you're under arrest.”

As the man stepped into the light, Bone saw that Richey resembled the actor Sam Elliott from his Tombstone and Roadhouse days.

”Not today, friend,” Bone said.

And then he jumped into Destin Harbor.

39.

”I think I may have hit him,” Wade said, talking rapidly into the phone. ”I got two shots off, and I think I may have nicked him on the leg.”

”Are you sure it was Wheeler?” Tom asked, his voice barely registering under the hum of police sirens. Twenty-five minutes had pa.s.sed since JimBone Wheeler took a dive into the harbor, and the place was now crawling with officers from the Destin Police Department and deputies from the Okaloosa County Sheriff's Office.

”Positive,” Wade said. ”I called him by his name, and he spun around immediately. He looked the part too. Same height. Had a beard. I didn't get a good view of his eyes because he had his hat pulled down low, but it was definitely him.”

Out on the water, three police boats were moving slowly up and down the harbor. Officers on board were s.h.i.+ning lights in every direction, and one man spoke into a bullhorn. ”Mr. Wheeler, get out of the water. Mr. Wheeler, you are surrounded. Get out of the water now.”

”All right, keep me posted, Wade,” Tom said. ”Wheeler survived a jump off the Northport Bridge last summer and was able to make it out of the Black Warrior River alive. He's a survivor.”

Wade watched as police lights continued to flood the harbor in every direction. ”I don't see how he makes it out of this harbor, Tom. It's covered with cops on both sides. Unless the son of a b.i.t.c.h is half fish, I just don't see it. We'll either apprehend him, or his body is drifting along the floor of the Gulf.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line as Tom took in the information. ”What about Rick?” he finally asked.

”He left the harbor by boat with the stripper. They were out a ways when I shot at Wheeler, so I doubt they heard it.”

”He left with her by boat?”

”Yeah,” Wade said.

”Find him, Wade. If Wheeler somehow did survive . . .”

”Ten-four,” Wade broke in. ”I'll have him before the sun rises.”

40.

As the sun began to peek its head above the eastern horizon, Rick Drake's eyes shot open, and both hands grabbed for his left calf muscle. Cramp, cramp, cramp, he thought, holding in a scream of pain as he twisted and rolled off the cus.h.i.+oned seats of the boat and onto the floor. He tried to straighten his leg, but the muscle had completely seized up on him, and he writhed on the floor of the boat in pain.

”Kid, are you all right?” a voice came from behind him in the dark, and Rick turned, eyes wide, as adrenaline poured through his body. What . . . ? Who . . . ? He squinted, seeing a dark shape on the dock above, crouching to look at him as he lay on his back, holding his calf. He rubbed the muscle hard, but it was still seized, and Rick bit his lip.

”Cramp?” the voice asked.

”Yeah,” Rick managed, continuing to rub furiously on the calf as his leg slowly began to relax, the cramp gradually easing. Rick sucked in a quick breath. ”Who are you?”

”Wade Richey,” the man said, flas.h.i.+ng his badge. ”Detective, Tuscaloosa County Sheriff's Office.”

Rick creased his eyebrows. ”Tuscaloosa?”

Wade nodded. ”Our office has escalated its investigation into the whereabouts of JimBone Wheeler.” He paused. ”Your partner suggested that he thought JimBone was following him and you, so I trailed you last night to Destin and”-he sighed-”I think we got him.”

”My partner?” Rick scratched his head and tried to stand, putting both hands on one of the seats and pulling himself up. He stumbled when he tried to put any weight on his left leg. ”The Professor asked you to trail me?” Rick blinked his eyes, adjusting to the dark, which was becoming lighter by the second as the sun slowly rose behind them. Peter Burns was still pa.s.sed out on the seat across from him, snoring loudly and oblivious to anything that was going on.

”Yeah, it was Tom's idea. And it worked. Wheeler was here, and I . . . think we got him.”

Rick felt his body go cold. ”He was here. You mean . . . ?”

”He was watching you and the girl. When y'all stepped into the boat, he ran down the dock and was about to shoot at you, but I got there first.”

”Jesus,” Rick said. ”I didn't have a clue. I . . .” He felt his calf begin to seize again, so he plopped down on the seat below him, rubbing the muscle with both hands. ”JimBone Wheeler was here,” Rick said, still not believing it.

”He was.”

”How do you know it was him?”

”Because I called his name on the dock and he turned around. I spoke to him using his name, and he didn't try to correct me.”

”What happened? Where is-?”

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