Gone by Randy Wayne White Page B

paid, of course, because she’s a lot older—and she’s rich.” Nathan looked at the photo again. “Or Mickey, maybe. Which at least rhymes with Ricky, so it’s the sort of fake name a guy would use.”
    I said, “You can’t be sure from just looking at one picture,” which I didn’t believe but, suddenly, I felt uneasy because so much good luck was piling on me all at once.
    “Nope, it’s him all right.” Nathan turned to me. “You’re doing some kind of reverse jinx thing, right? Hannah, how can someone smart as you be so damn superstitious?”
    I replied, “I just want you to be sure, that’s all. Plus, you have to sign that confidentiality form before I can even let you see those papers.”
    Captiva Island, less than five miles long, isn’t much more than an ancient sandbar built up over centuries, shaped by current and waves. Now it’s rooted to the Gulf of Mexico by multimillion-dollar properties, sea oats, palms, and a couple of bayside marinas. We were approaching Jensen’s Marina now. Nathan’s photographer friend, Darren, lived to my right in a house with a pool and studio so beautifully designed, they blended into the island’s foliage like elegant, storm-tossed shells.
    Darren had gotten famous in New York, photographing rock stars and actors, but now he mostly lived and worked on the island. He was a handsome man, willowy as a fashion model, and always had a whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other. We’d spoken only a few times, but Nathan liked Darren a lot, and his self-confidence had improved a bunch since they’d met. My friend seemed happy, and that’s all I cared about. When we were close enough to Darren’s dock, I reversed my engine . . . popped it into forward, spinning the wheel . . . then I switched off the key, and let my skiff drift itself to a stop, nudging the pilings as if it belonged there.
    That’s when Nathan, his shyness showing, patted my shoulder and assured me, “I might be wrong about the guy’s name. But not about him and Mrs. Whitney. I remember ’cause the dude’s so mean-looking. He, uhh . . . it made my hands shake sometimes when I waited on their table. Nervous, you know?”
    Nate is the size of a pro wrestler, but he’s timid as a bird, so I tried not to smile as I stepped out and tied the boat.
    Ricky Meeks—the name I associated with the photo after studying it—was indeed a scary-looking man. The photo had been taken outdoors at a place where there was snow and a parking lot, possibly backdropped by a bar or strip club. Nothing in the picture to prove it, just a feeling I got. The man’s sleeves were rolled tight, biker’s tats and muscles on display like trophies, a deliberate spit curl calling attention to a face that leered at the camera as if he’d just insulted the photographer and knew the guy was too scared to fight.
    “He has kind of a dirty redneck look,” Nathan said, handing me the photo. “You think? And smelled bad, too. Sweat and cigarettes, but mostly this terrible, cheap aftershave. The dollar-a-gallon stuff you buy at Walgreens. Like limes mixed with cough syrup.”
    I asked, “What in the world was Mrs. Whitney doing with a man like him? I’ve never met her, but I know she’s wealthy. It’s the same family that started the cereal company, right? That’s what I’ve heard, anyway . . . and they own a place—”
    “Right there,” Nathan said, pointing toward a screen of hedges a hundred yards down the seawall where there was a dock that was boatless, some busted planks hanging in the water. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Whitney for a while. Months, probably. A lot of the owners are seasonal, so maybe she went north for the summer. I can ask Darren.”
    In my head, my courage was having an argument with my brain, saying it was too early to begin questioning people and that I hadn’t done the proper research. But then my eyes swiveled toward Mr. Seasons’s dock, a quarter mile away, where the Marlow