Deadly Pursuit Read Free Page B

this vantage point he could look down unobtrusively over Pice’s shoulder and read the tachometers and oil-pressure gauges on the control console. He watched the tach needles climb to 2,000 rpm as Pice opened the port and starboard throttles a little wider. A light spray misted the windshield; the wipers beat briefly to clean it.
    Ahead, a boiling cloud of gulls flocked over a fishing boat as it steamed toward the Gulf Stream beyond the reef. To the south lay Indian Key; at their backs, Upper Matecumbe. Both receded, leaving Pelican Key to its—how had Pice put it—its “blessed isolation.”
    That isolation was perhaps part of the reason why the place had never been developed into a resort hotel complex or a tournament golf course. Route 1, the elevated highway that played connect-the-dots with most of the islands, had missed Pelican Key by three miles. Henry Flagler’s railroad, built years earlier and demolished in the hurricane of ’35, had come no closer. No bridge or causeway linked Upper Matecumbe to Pelican Key. The only access to it was by boat, helicopter, or seaplane.
    Nobody had ever much desired to go there anyway. Compared with most other local islands, Pelican Key was small—only three-quarters of a mile long and a quarter-mile wide—and a good part of its hundred and twenty acres was taken up by mangrove swamp. Hardly a developer’s dream.
    A lime plantation operated on Pelican Key during the early years of this century; the Depression shut it down. After that, the island remained unwanted until Donald Larson bought it in 1946. Larson was a young man who’d already made a great deal of money in aviation and was destined to make much more. His dream was to restore the plantation house, a victim of time and storms, and retire to it someday.
    Someday didn’t come until 1980, when Larson, no longer young, finally began the renovations planned decades earlier. In the interim he’d fought a fierce, protracted battle with the state government, which had wanted to purchase Pelican Key and preserve it as a park.
    Larson held on to the property and forestalled an eminent-domain ruling only by guaranteeing that no further development would be attempted there, either in his lifetime or afterward. The house and other features already present would be repaired, modernized, and maintained; otherwise, Pelican Key would remain as the coral polyps and red mangrove had made it.
    He was true to his word. And from 1981 onward he lived in the big limestone house on the island’s south end, enjoying, no doubt, his blessed isolation.
    When he died two years ago, in 1992, his heirs faced the dilemma of what to do with Pelican Key. A considerable tax write-off could be realized by donating it to the state of Florida. But some residue of the elder Larson’s stubborn pride and sentimental attachment to the island had prevented such a move.
    Instead the estate continued to maintain the house and pay the property taxes, offsetting part of the costs by renting out Pelican Key to vacationers as a private retreat, on a monthly basis in season, with biweekly deals available during the hot, wet summer months.
    Steve had found out about the vacation rentals in March. The need to return to the island had been driving him like a quiet frenzy ever since.
    “I see it,” Kirstie said suddenly, leaning forward.
    Steve craned his neck, following her gaze, and picked out a smear of tropical verdure against the blinding sun.
    Close now. Unexpectedly close, appearing out of the dazzle like a vision in a dream.
    Down in the cockpit, Anastasia barked, as if in confirmation of the sighting.
    “There’s the house.” Pice pointed. “See the windows shining like coins?”
    Steve nodded eagerly. “Yes. I see.” A broad tile roof was visible now, partly screened by branches. “Larson must have gone all out on the restoration. The place was a ruin when Jack and I used to come here.”
    “Could you go inside?” Kirstie asked.
    “Oh, sure.