Now You See Her - Michael Ledwidge [32]
Oddly enough, this was the way most Key West conversations went.
“I know this sounds weird,” I said, “but I was wondering if you could buy something for me.”
“Drugs?” he said, looking at me suspiciously.
“No, no,” I said. “Nothing like that. I need you to buy me some cord.”
“Cord?” he said, eyeing me. “Like rope? You gonna hang yourself? I don’t go for that kinky stuff.”
“Of course not,” I said. “It’s nothing like that. I need paracord. It’s a special kind of rope for parachuting. I use it in my parasailing business, and I’m out. My ex-husband owns the only marina supply store on the island that sells it, and I don’t want to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction of going in to buy it myself.”
I needed the cord for my escape plan, of course. The ligature was linked to several of the Jump Killer cases.
I knew the request and my explanation sounded fishy, but I also knew it didn’t matter. Despite its small size, Key West had a healthy big-city, screw-the-cops, left-wing street vibe. Even if this stoner put two and two together after my disappearance, there’s no way he’d go anywhere near the cops. Who better than some burnt-out street kid to be a go-between?
“What do you say?” I nudged him.
“Paracord, huh? That does sound pretty weird,” the kid said, adjusting his dreads as he stood. “But I’ve been down here for a month now and have heard a lot weirder. I happen to be in the cord-buying business this morning. Ten bucks do it for you?”
“Ten bucks, it is,” I said, waving him toward my scooter.
Chapter 39
AFTER MY YOUNG ZEN-COWBOY FRIEND scored the paracord for me, I hit a vintage clothing store in Bahama Village and then a CVS. A thin, homeless, twenty-something girl with sun-and-drug-wasted eyes holding a baby asked me for money as I exited the pharmacy, carrying two brimming bags.
Though I could hardly spare it, I stopped and gave her a dollar, praying that I wouldn’t be her pretty soon.
I took the Vespa back over to Flagler Street and stopped at my favorite bodega for lunch. I ate my cubano slowly as the sun crested almost directly overhead.
I figured it would take until probably midnight for Peter to come looking for me. If I was lucky, he might even wait until morning.
After I finished lunch, I drove back to Smathers Beach, which ran along the southeast side of the island. Near its most deserted end, by the airport, I pulled over and got off the bike and stepped across the sandy path to the dunes.
I walked along the beach to where the beach grass grew about chest high and hunkered down.
There was no one on the beach, no one in the water.
It was time.
The first thing I did was upend my fanny pack, which contained my keys and wallet. Then with a pair of scissors that I’d bought, I cut a length of the paracord and dropped it on top of my CD Walkman.
The next part of the plan was the one I’d been dreading. It was also the most crucial. I took a small package out of the CVS bag and opened it.
It contained razor blades. They flashed like mirror shards in the bright light as I retrieved one and looked down at myself, debating. I swallowed as I finally decided on the back of my left calf.
I bit my lip as I lowered the blade down and sliced myself open. I hissed as I started the incision a little down from the back of my knee. Then teared up as I dug in harder with the blade, parting my skin.
At first, only a little blood dribbled out of the wound, but after I began to flex my calf over and over again, more came until I had a nice red stream going. It began to drip down my leg and off my heel, darkening the sand. I hopped around on one foot, flicking the blood on my fanny pack, the sand, the sea grass, the piece of paracord.
After about ten minutes, the area looked perfect, a total bloody mess.
Why not? Peter had shot himself to make his crime scene look good. The least I could come up with was a bit of self-mutilation.
I hopped back a few feet and sat down in the sand. I cleaned and bandaged myself carefully with peroxide and gauze and bandages that I’d