Deeper Than The Ocean by Julie Ann Walker

 

 

Chapter 3

 

8:38 PM…

 

“I’m having an existential crisis.”

Chrissy looked at Winston seated on the barstool next to her and smirked. “Well, that’s self-indulgent of you.”

His mouth thinned into a straight line. “I’m serious,Chrissy. I’m thirty-one years old and I have no romantic prospects on the horizon.”

She let her gaze take a circuit around Pepe’s Cafe. The rickety-legged tables were filled with sunburned tourists. Most of the folks lounged around the bar were locals. “Don’t tell me your biological clock is ticking too.”

Winston frowned around his cocktail straw as he sipped morosely at his Rum Runner. “I don’t think it’s so much my biological clock as it is my lonely heart. Don’t you want to fall in love?”

“Now you sound like my mother,” she said distastefully.

Winston sighed. “I miss Josephine every day.”

A steel spear of pain stabbed into Chrissy’s heart. For all of her mother’s terrible taste in men and even worse taste in drinks—Who puts ice in their rosé, I ask you?—Josephine had been a good mom. Quick to laugh. Quick to play. Quick to kiss a hurt away.

“I miss her too,” Chrissy admitted freely before adding, “And to answer your question, no. I don’t want to fall in love. Saying you want to fall in love is basically announcing to the universe there’s something missing inside you. A hole only another person can fill. You remember how Mom was constantly hunting for ‘the one’?” Chrissy made air-quotes. “Then when she couldn’t find him, she settled for bastards unworthy of her big, squishy heart?”

“Nuh-uh.” She shook her head. “I swore from a young age I wouldn’t fall in love. That I wouldn’t need to fall in love. That instead I’d focus my energy on the world around me. Appreciate each sunrise. Be thankful for a cold beer at the end of the day. Enjoy the genuine smile of a stranger. And when it came time to choose a partner, I’d do it with my head, not my heart. That’s the mother effin’ key to true happiness. Not falling inlove.”

Winston narrowed his eyes. “You really believe that?”

She squared her chin. “Did I stutter?”

“Oh, no. Your monologue was clear, and peppered with just the right amount of pseudo-obscenities to make you sound certain.”

“But?” she prompted, sure she’d heard that unspoken word tacked onto the end of his sentence.

“But how do you square that with your burning desire to have kids? Isn’t that a hole you’re trying to fill?”

“Are you being intentionally obtuse? The urge to have children is biological. It’s what we were born to do. To procreate. To proliferate. Romantic love? Pfft.” She waved a hand. “That’s a human construct.”

“If you say so,” he demurred. She could tell he was humoring her.

“I do say so.”

“Or…” He lifted a finger. “And hear me out. What if the urge to have children and the urge to fall in love are the same thing?”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re both part of our desire to know the full gamut of life’s experiences.”

“I could buy that”—she nodded—“if I wasn’t convinced that some of life’s experiences are vastly overrated.”

“Maybe that’s true. Or maybe you’re simply in denial.”

She sniffed. The couple at the table behind them had ordered a dozen raw Gulf oysters, and their briny scent tunneled up her nose. “Denial is underrated. Besides, it’s only denial if you end up being wrong.”

“Good god.” Winston groaned. “Now I remember why we broke up. You’re as stubborn as a mule.”

“That’s not why we broke up. We broke up because you went to school in Miami and got all googly-eyed over some girl named Rosa.”

He had the grace to wince. And if she wasn’t mistaken, maybe blush a little. It was hard to tell given the depth of his tan. “Rosa was a symptom of our breakup. Not the disease.”

“Oh? And what was the disease?”

“You didn’t want me,” he said simply. “Not like that anyway.” Now it was Chrissy’s turn to wince and blush. To which Winston added, “Don’t feel bad. The chemistry wasn’t there.”

She leaned back on the barstool and wiggled her eyebrows. “But it was there with Rosa?”

“Oh yeah.” His expression went dreamy. “I buttered that biscuit so many times I’m surprised Rosa—”

She lifted her hand. “Please spare me another trip down memory lane where you rhapsodize about you and Rosa’s sex life. I get it. You two were crazy hot for each other.” When Winston gifted her with a half smile that was wholly amused, she cocked her head. “Whatever happened there anyway? You never said.”

“What happens to so many college sweethearts.” He hitched a shoulder. “She got a job in Tallahassee, and the Keys are in my blood.”

“Why’d you come back home?” Chrissy remembered asking him over beers while helping him move into a one-bedroom apartment above a souvenir shop on Duval Street. “Won’t you miss the bright lights of the big city?”

“Miami was a ton of fun, but it was too noisy,” he’d told her. “There are too many cars. Everyone seems pissed and in a hurry and lays on their horns. I missed the quiet here. The slower pace.”

She certainly understood that. Conchs—the nickname given to people native to Key West—only ever honkedto warn other motorists of the chicken, scooter, or drunk guy crossing the road. There was no road rage on the island. In fact, the concept was inconceivable.

In her estimation, Key West was paradise. And not only because of the sand and the sun and the palm trees swaying in the wind. It was because the locals didn’t look up or down on anyone because of what they had or wore or drove. The idea of “whatever makes you happy” was pretty much the philosophy folks lived by. And most Conchs accomplished less by Friday than mainlanders did by six PM on a Monday.

“You should look her up,” Chrissy told Winston now. “Maybe she’s through with north Florida. Maybe she’s still single and ready to mingle and—”

Her phone screen lit up with the reminder that it was time to meet Wolf for drinks. For some reason, the whitefish she’d had for dinner reanimated inside her stomach and started swimming around.

“Speaking of someone who’s single and ready to mingle.” Winston glanced pointedly at her phone.

“I told you this isn’t a date.” She wagged a finger. “Wolf and I are friends.”

He laughed. “If by friends you mean horny as hell for each other, then sure.”

“I might want his hot bod, but come on. Give me some credit. The last thing that man is is relationship material.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You can’t judge the guy by that one night.”

She frowned. “Sure I can. He’s a tomcat, a player. But even if he wasn’t, can you see him settling down here with me in the Keys when his whole life has been one grand adventure? No.” She shook her head vehemently. “Wolf isn’t the one.”

Funny. She wasn’t certain who she was trying to convince more. Winston? Or herself?

He stood from the barstool and offered her a hand. “Come on, then. I’ll walk you over to meet your…friend.”

She decided not call him on his total misread of the situation. He’d simply accuse her of being in denial again. Instead, she looped her arm through his and breathed deeply of the island breeze after they exited the restaurant and strolled down the street toward the marina.

Cloud cover made the night inky black. The air felt close, like invisible hands were pressing against her skin. It gave her an uneasy feeling.

“Storm’s moving in,” Winston observed as the wind picked up and tousled his curly brown hair. He had one of those classic profiles that shouted boy-next-door—which he’d quite literally been when they were young.

Too bad he was right about their lack of chemistry. He was exactly the kind of guy who’d settle down with the house and the wife and the kids. The kind of guy to coach soccer and drive to dance lessons. To be blissfully middleclass and live the American dream and—

He interrupted her thoughts with, “Want to cut through the old warehouse?”

Obliterating the view to the water was a large metal building that had once been the spot where shipping vessels stored their wares after offloading them onto the island. It had been abandoned years earlier when the big docking stations for the cruise ships—along with their high-tech, machine-operated warehouses—had been built. Tourists avoided the place now because of its menacing air. But the locals knew it was a shortcut to the bars and restaurants along the waterfront.

“That place gives me the creeps after dark.” She shuddered.

“Oh, come on,” Winston cajoled. “Some of the best times we ever had were in that building after sunset. Remember the rave Eddie Johnson hosted there our senior year?”

She flattened her mouth. “I remember you took Molly and spent half the night staring at the glitter on your arms and the other half asking to braid my hair because, quote, ‘It feels like corn silk, Chrissy!’”

He laughed. “Whatever happened to Eddie anyway? He was the only guy I ever knew who could pull off wearing a conch shell necklace un-ironically.”

“Last I heard he was doing a dime after getting caught trying to sell the grouper he found on the beach outside his folks’ house.”

Drifting microwave-size packages of cocaine were known locally as “groupers.” After being jettisoned by smugglers fleeing the authorities, the packages sometimes washed up on the beaches or else were found floating out at sea by fishermen. No one knew exactly how many drugs were recovered. The mishmash of agencies, from the DEA to the Coast Guard to the local cops, didn’t tend to share information with each other. Also, a good number of the found drugs never made it into the hands of the authorities.

A lot of locals sold their “catch” on the streets. Despite the risk of prison time, one grouper could net an islander more money in a week than they could make in a year from their fishing boats or T-shirt shops.

“That’s too bad,” Winston frowned as he pulled her toward the slightly ajar door on the side of the warehouse. The chain that had kept it locked had been cut years ago. Now the busted links lay on the ground in a rusty pile. “I always liked Eddie.”

He slid through the door, dragging Chrissy in after him. The air inside the warehouse was dank and foul-smelling. At night, the place was pitch black, the only light coming from the moon shining through the holes in the roof or from the flashlight feature on a cell phone.

Chrissy reached into her hip pocket to pull out her phone, but stopped when she realized one of the old cargo doors facing the water’s edge was open. The ambient glow from the lights along the wharf drifted into the warehouse, casting everything in shades of deep gray.

She blinked until her eyes adjusted. Once they did, she saw the dark shape of a pickup truck parked next to the open cargo door.

“What in the world?” Winston whispered as a diver climbed up the ladder leading down into the water. Sitting on the edge of the loading bay, the diver pulled off his fins and shrugged out of his tanks. Then he stood and dripped water onto the stained concrete floor as he walked to the back of the truck. The sound of him throwing his fins and tanks into the metal bed echoed around the empty space like a cannon shot.

Chrissy’s heart beat a fast rhythm. The hairs along the back of her neck stood up. Something wasn’t right.

“Let’s go.” She tugged on Winston’s arm.

“Way ahead of you,” he whispered, having already turned to herd her back through the cracked-open door.

“Who are they? Do you recognize them?” she hissed over her shoulder.

Winston didn’t have a chance to respond before a loud bang blasted through the warehouse. Instinct made Chrissy duck. When she turned back, it was to see a dark stain blooming like a fiendish flower across the front of Winston’s T-shirt. His eyes flew so wide the whites glowed in the gloom, beacons of disbelief and terror.

“Winston!” she cried and grabbed his outstretched hands. But his fingers slipped through her grip as he fell backward.

He wasn’t a small man, so he timbered like a redwood, hitting the floor and bouncing sickeningly.

Horror made her blood run thick and hot, and she instantly dropped to her knees. Which meant she saw Winston’s eyes roll back in his head and heard the long, rattling breath that exited his big chest right before he fell ominously still.

A noise like an animal caught in a steel trap pealed from the back of her throat. Abject terror had a sound, and she was making it.

Winston, no!

Another loud report reverberated around the warehouse and a neat hole opened up in the metal wall over her shoulder. The streetlight outside lasered its golden glow through the breach.

Her heart was the surf during a storm, crashing violently against her ribs. Her breaths were fast and shallow and seemed to bring no oxygen. But her brain was still functioning.

It screamed, Get out, get out, get out!

Grabbing Winston’s ankles, she heaved with all her might. Her heels scrabbled against the slick floor, and from the corner of her eye, she saw a man round the hood of the truck. Not the slightly built diver. No, this guy was big.

The end of the gun in his hand blinked bright orange a split second before another bullet whizzed by her, slamming into the door behind her and pushing it open another inch.

Fear was fuel for the adrenaline that scorched her veins. For a split second she was caught between the need to save her friend and the need to save herself. Instinct made the decision for her when she saw the huge pool of blood spreading from beneath Winston’s body. It was black and sparkled evilly in the dim light of the warehouse.

Winston needed help. Fast. There was too much blood.

With a sob that nearly choked her, she plunged through the door into the dark night. Her legs tried to buckle beneath her as she ran the length of the warehouse, heading toward the party lights strung along the back of Schooner Wharf Bar even as she fumbled in her pocket for her phone, needing to call 9-1-1. The street gave way to the worn boards of the dock built along the waterfront, but every stumbling step made her feel as if she was stuck in a nightmare. It seemed the faster she ran, the farther away her destination moved.

Bam!

This time she felt the air displace by the bullet as it blasted past her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the gunman racing along the dock at the back of the warehouse. He was nothing but a dark silhouette. The pistol in his hands was darker still.

There was something about the way the man moved that she—

Bam!

This time the flash of fire from the end of the weapon preceded an odd clinking sound. Searing pain ripped through the top of her shoulder and sent her stumbling off the dock, her phone smacking into the weathered boards on her way down.

Time stood still.

Or, at least it slowed. Because she was falling forever. Falling, falling, falling.

And then…water.

It smelled of anti-fouling paint and fish. But it was cool and dark and welcoming. As it closed over her head, she thought, My heart is full of longing for the secrets of the sea.

She’d heard Wolf quote that once. He’d said it was from a poem, but she couldn’t remember which.

Strange that the words should come back to her now.