 |
No Place to Hide
By Donald Sullivan
Only one more day and Mary Spencer's vacation would be over. It had been a great vacation, but Mary was ready to get back to work on her job as receptionist for Keller Engineering. For the past five days, she had done absolutely nothing but spend her days lounging on the beach, listening to her favorite music on CDs, and reading novels.
Mary had chosen the tiny island of Seagull Cay off the Gulf coast of Florida. It wasn't a popular vacation spot, offering only a good beach. There was a small second-rate hotel with a bar, a gift shop, and a restaurant--all owned by a firm in Tampa. There were twenty inhabitants on the island, all employees of the firm. The island, a quarter mile in diameter, was inaccessible except for one daily boat run to and from Port San Marco on the mainland.
Mary wanted to get away from the rat race for a while--and try to forget her recent divorce from Clifford. Her boss, Joe Keller, had told her about Seagull Cay. "It's off the beaten path," Joe told her. "Nice and quiet. Hotel's small but comfortable. No luxuries, but a great place to get your batteries charged."
This was fine with Mary; she wasn't looking for excitement, but just to relax and catch up on her reading. She even unplugged the TV set the first day she entered her room, and had left it unplugged the entire five days. She wanted no depressing world news to ruin her vacation.
But now she was ready to go back to work. Tomorrow she would catch the boat at 11:00 AM to Port San Marco; from there she would fly to Tampa and then on to Atlanta. She left her room and descended the stairs to the restaurant for dinner.
There weren't many people in the dining room; she was a little later than usual. Two men were sitting in a booth talking quietly. A quick glance told her that one of the men was bald, and the other had a crew cut.
Although the men looked vaguely familiar, she hadn't seen them around the hotel before. Probably new arrivals. She chose an adjoining booth, sat down and studied the menu while awaiting the waitress.
She couldn't help but overhear the conversation in the next booth. The men were speaking in hushed tones, but there weren't many customers and it was fairly quiet in the dining room.
"Stabbing her with a knife wouldn't be a good idea. Keep in mind that we've got to think of a way to make it look like an accident."
Mary almost dropped the menu. My God, she thought, were those men plotting a murder? Her booth was out of sight of the men, and apparently they hadn't noticed her come in.
"Her ex-husband doesn't say that it should look like an accident--he merely wants no evidence that points to him. They've just divorced, and if there's the slightest suspicion about her death, he'll be the number one suspect."
Just divorced? An odd coincidence, she thought. These men were talking of someone in a situation similar to her own.
"Okay, a knife, then. We'll make it look like she surprised a burglar in her room. When they find her body, they'll find her room ransacked and her money and jewelry missing."
"Agreed. Sounds good to me."
Nagging thoughts began to stir in Mary's mind. These men were hired by a man to murder his recently divorced wife. As far as she knew, all of the guests were either couples or families; she was positive that there were no other single women in the hotel. My God, she thought, could she be their intended victim?
She must notify the authorities, but she would have to be very careful. These men weren't ordinary hoodlums; they were obviously professional hit men. They were discussing murder as though they were discussing the weather.
The men got up to leave. She hid her face with the menu, but they didn't pass by her booth. As they walked away, she caught a comment by one of the men. "We'll have Clifford to deal with tomorrow night." She did not hear the reply.
The blood drained from her face and she felt faint. Clifford--the man had named him. That left no doubt. She was certain now, and the reality of it was frightening.
But why would Clifford want to have her killed? Sure, they hadn't parted on friendly terms; she had divorced him because of his affair with another woman. But it was all over now, and Clifford was free to go his way. But he was the vindictive type. Nasty things always happened to people who he imagined had crossed him, after which he would boast about getting even.
At times she suspected that he was mentally unstable. She shuddered as she remembered that once, during a drunken rage, he had threatened to chop her body into little pieces and feed her to the sharks. She had attributed it to drunkenness at the time. But to be honest with herself, she was secretly glad about his affair. It had given her a good reason to leave this cruel and unpredictable man.
Her thoughts were interrupted when the waitress came to take her order.
"I won't be ordering just now," she said, "I've just remembered something I have to do. I'll be back later."
She left the dining room and made her way to the office. She found the desk deserted. There was a sign on the desk: "Will be back soon. Ring bell for emergency." She pressed a buzzer on the desk and waited. After no response in five minutes, she again pressed the buzzer. No one came, and after fifteen minutes and several more tries, she gave up.
She went to one of the public phones in the lobby--the only phones available for guests in the hotel. There was an emergency list by the phone listing the number for the Port San Marco police; she deposited the change and made the call.
She gave the sergeant who answered the call all the details she could remember and then answered his questions.
"Ms. Spencer, unless you can give us more to go on, there's nothing we can do. No one has directly threatened you. You can't describe the men except for a bald head and a crew cut. You don't even know their names. If you can give us more information, call back and we may be able to respond."
Frustrated and angry, she hung up. She found the number for hotel security. After several rings, a recording came on: "Hotel Security. I'm not available to answer the phone right now. Leave your name and where I can reach you. I'll get back to you shortly."
Mary left a brief message explaining her problem. "I'll await your return call in the restaurant." She said. She hung up and returned to the restaurant; it was now empty.
The kitchen was closed, so she ordered coffee and doughnuts. "What time do you close?" she asked the waitress.
"We normally close at eight-thirty, in about ten minutes."
"Look, I'm waiting on a return call from security--it's very important--could I ask you to stay a little later if they haven't called by closing time?"
"The night security guard is Andy Wiggins," the waitress replied. "All he does is strut around in his uniform trying to look important. He's probably with Alice right now, and the two of them are getting drunk. He won't return your call tonight."
"Alice? Isn't she the night clerk?"
"Yes, but she probably won't be around long. Andy either. They'll get fired when management finds out what they're up to. Hope you're not in trouble, Hon."
"I...I'm sure my ex-husband has hired a couple of men to kill me tonight. I need help."
The waitress was visibly shaken. She glanced toward the door, as if expecting it to burst open. "I don't want to get mixed up in other people's troubles. I can't stay past closing time. If I was you, Hon, I'd spend the night in the maid's linen closet--right under the stairway. It's a good place to hide."
"You said Mr. Wiggins and Alice were getting drunk. Would they be in the bar now?"
The waitress frowned. "Not hardly. They'll be in Andy's cabin."
"Who is his supervisor?" Mary asked.
"The hotel manager, who's on a business trip to Tampa. There's only two guards, and Andy is chief."
Mary left the restaurant and headed for the beach. The linen closet would be a dumb place to hide, she decided. When the killers didn't find her in her room, they would search all the obvious hiding places in the hotel. She must find a better place to hide. But maybe, just maybe, there might be a way to get off the island.
She remembered a cove on the eastern side of the island from her walks along the beach. There was a small pier there where several outboards were docked. She would have no trouble operating an outboard; she'd learned from her father, a boating enthusiast. It was less than a mile to the mainland, so she should make it easily.
She hurried to the beach and followed the moonlit shoreline toward the cove. When she reached the pier, she found that all the boats were missing but one. She was sure that she had seen three boats docked here. But one boat was all she needed and this one would do. As she stepped onto the pier, she saw headlights moving along the beach.
She ran up to the dunes to hide until the vehicle passed by. It would be a hotel vehicle, since the hotel owned all the vehicles on the island. But the vehicle did not pass by; it stopped at the pier. It was a pickup pulling a boat trailer. She watched as the trailer was backed into the water.
A man got out of the pickup and proceeded to pull the boat from the water and onto the trailer. What was going on? Was this one of the men? Could they have already discovered that she was on the run? Had they borrowed--or stolen--the pickup to remove the boats to prevent her escape?
She would have to find a place to hide on the island. There was a wooded area on the northern part of the island. It didn't cover a large area, but she hoped the thickets would provide a place to hide. The small island did not offer many hiding places, and she could think of no better.
Heart pounding, she raced along the beach until she came to the wooded area. The area was made up of palms and a few scrubby sea oaks. Sufficient moonlight filtered through to illuminate the entire area. The underbrush of shrubs and palmettos was not as thick as she remembered. She was distraught; this was not a good place to hide. She was exhausted, and sat down to rest and try to think of a better place.
Maybe the linen closet might be better after all. Perhaps they'd already looked there, and if she sneaked back... Her eye caught a movement that interrupted her thoughts. A figure was walking along the beach.
She watched as the figure turned toward the wooded area, coming almost straight toward her. "Oh my God," she thought, "it's the other one, and he's been following me." She retreated deeper into the trees until she came to a path.
She ran along the path, hoping it would lead to someone who could help her. She stumbled over a fallen tree limb and fell, twisting her ankle. She got up and tried to run, only to fall again. With an effort, she picked herself up and hobbled along the path, trying to ignore the pain in her ankle.
She painfully made her way along the path. She looked back, and could barely make out the shadowy figure of the man, following the same path. He was gaining on her.
A passing cloud obscured the moon, bringing darkness. "Thank Heavens--about time I got a break." She left the path. She spotted a small thicket and dove in, suffering scratches from briars. She curled up into the fetal position, hoping that no part of her body was showing. Moments later she heard the rustling of nearby palmettos as the man came near her thicket.
She could hear him moving around the area near her hiding place. Her heart drummed so loudly in her ears she was terrified it would give her away. At one point he kicked his foot into her thicket, and she almost cried out when she saw his shoe no more than inches from her face.
As he moved away, she dared to peek out from her hiding place. He was going farther away from the path. When she could no longer see him or hear the rustling of underbrush, she eased out from the thicket and continued along the path.
As she made a turn in the path, she saw lights just ahead. A group of employee cabins! She made it to the nearest cabin and banged on the door. She turned her head and was horrified to see the man about a hundred feet behind her.
A middle-aged woman, whom she recognized as one of the maids, opened the door. Dirty, scratched, and disheveled, Mary was gasping for breath. "Please let me in. I need help."
"Why you're Ms. Spencer in room eight. Come in, come in." Mary hurriedly stepped inside.
"What's the matter, Ms. Spencer?"
"Please lock the door..." Before she could say another word, a bald-headed man stepped through the still open door. Mary gasped and stepped back. "It's only my husband, Jimmy," said the maid. "He's the hotel janitor. He's been out to secure his boat before the hurricane gets here."
Jimmy spoke up. "What's going on, Linda?"
"Ms. Spencer says she's in trouble and needs help."
"Then you're the one I saw prowling around outside? How can we help you, ma'am?" Said Jimmy.
Mary told them what she'd overheard.
Jimmy glanced at his wife, and then asked. "Can you tell me what these men looked like?"
Mary described the only thing she could remember: the bald head and the crew cut.
The couple looked at each other and laughed.
"Forgive us," said Linda. "But that description fits only two guests in the hotel. Those two men are William Cole and Jack Minsky, authors collaborating on a novel. It's a murder mystery that takes place on Seagull Cay."
Mary remembered that the men had looked familiar. "William Cole and Jack Minsky!" She laughed. "I just read a mystery by William Cole a few days ago, and his picture was on the back cover. But I heard them mention dealing with my ex-husband, Clifford. That's strange."
Jimmy chuckled. "Not your ex," he said. "They were probably talking about Hurricane Clifford. Guess you haven't been watching the news. We won't get a direct hit, but we'll get high winds. Ol' Clifford's due tomorrow night."
Mary joined them in their laughter. She had egg on her face, but she didn't mind. Not at all.
THE END
Comment on this story?
Please let us know what you think of the story. We appreciate your feedback. Thanks.
Home Page
Send E-Mail to: dhsully@gmail.com
Copyright © 2008 Donald H Sullivan. All Rights Reserved