that Ray suffered an abrasion when the bullet hit him from the judge's gun. Sometimes bullets ricochet off the very bodies they're intended to hit. This was what both paramedics believe happened, because they didn't observe an actual hole in his chest where the bullet struck him.
If that's true, Ray is not only gone, he's healthy, and certainly in much better shape than his victims. The police have already pieced together what happened next. He ditched his bloody shirt in a trash bin. He ran down to the New River, which flows through downtown, not far from the courthouse. There, he stole a life jacket from one of the boats that's permanently moored on the river. He may have washed his face and arms in the river. Then he made his way back up to Bahia Boulevard and boarded a free trolley for tourists.
The small skinny guy in the running shoes, dark trousers, and orange life vest looked a little odd to the out-of-towners on the trolley. But he didn't look all that odd compared to other weirdos they'd seen on their vacations in south Florida. Probably wore swimming trunks under those trousers, and just would rather wear the bulky life preserver than carry it. He smiled at them. Uneasily, they smiled back. How old was he, anyway"? Old enough to be out of school for the day? Strange-looking little person, they hoped he wouldn't ask for money. After a moment, as the trolley continued to fill up, they stopped staring, and ignored him in order to continue their sight-seeing.
With all of the tourists, Ray stepped off the trolley at the beach. He joined the mob of pedestrians strolling on the boardwalk. The last anybody saw of him, he was slipping into a public men's room.
And that is "the last known whereabouts" of Ray Raintree.
I get up from my desk again, and walk to my windows.
A guilty verdict, a shooting, an escape.
I decide to forgive myself for feeling a bit overwrought.
My sliding glass doors are open, and my air-conditioning is turned off so I can defrost after all the hours in Judge Flasschoen's frigid courtroom. I put my hands up to the screen, and feel the mesh on my palms. I can only imagine how the jurors are feeling. One of them told me that after the verdict Ray stuck his tongue out at them, obscenely miming a French kiss in their direction. That's why they looked so upset and repulsed before the shooting. As undone as I feel on this night, I picture them prostrate in their beds, staring at their ceilings.
Poor things, are they nervous with Ray loose out there?
I slide open the screen door, and step outside into my backyard.
I live on the west bank of the Intracoastal Canal, on the southern edge of a private, gated cul-de-sac just north of the Bahia Boulevard Bridge. From any spot on the water side of this five-room house, I can pull the drapes to get a floor-to-ceiling view of the canal and bridge traffic. At night, with the lights from the bridge, the boats, and the houses across the canal, it looks like Christmas all year-round, and I feel very grateful.
Fifteen feet below my backyard, the turbulent waters of the canal slap violently and constantly against the seawall, precluding any safe harbor for my own or anybody else's boats.
I chose this site with an eye to security, front and rear.
At the entrance to the cul-de-sac, a round-the-clock series of armed guards courteously requests identification from visitors. Nobody drives in unless the guard has their name on a list, or verifies their welcome with a phone call. There is no access at all from the water, not unless intruders are willing to risk getting their boats battered to pieces against the seawall. The cul-de-sac property owners with boats moor them elsewhere, in private marinas with their own armed guards.
The developers named this enclave Isle d'Bahia, even though it isn't an island at all, and hardly even qualifies as a peninsula, being more in the nature of a gentle outcurving of land around a point of the canal. My neighbors jokingly call
If that's true, Ray is not only gone, he's healthy, and certainly in much better shape than his victims. The police have already pieced together what happened next. He ditched his bloody shirt in a trash bin. He ran down to the New River, which flows through downtown, not far from the courthouse. There, he stole a life jacket from one of the boats that's permanently moored on the river. He may have washed his face and arms in the river. Then he made his way back up to Bahia Boulevard and boarded a free trolley for tourists.
The small skinny guy in the running shoes, dark trousers, and orange life vest looked a little odd to the out-of-towners on the trolley. But he didn't look all that odd compared to other weirdos they'd seen on their vacations in south Florida. Probably wore swimming trunks under those trousers, and just would rather wear the bulky life preserver than carry it. He smiled at them. Uneasily, they smiled back. How old was he, anyway"? Old enough to be out of school for the day? Strange-looking little person, they hoped he wouldn't ask for money. After a moment, as the trolley continued to fill up, they stopped staring, and ignored him in order to continue their sight-seeing.
With all of the tourists, Ray stepped off the trolley at the beach. He joined the mob of pedestrians strolling on the boardwalk. The last anybody saw of him, he was slipping into a public men's room.
And that is "the last known whereabouts" of Ray Raintree.
I get up from my desk again, and walk to my windows.
A guilty verdict, a shooting, an escape.
I decide to forgive myself for feeling a bit overwrought.
My sliding glass doors are open, and my air-conditioning is turned off so I can defrost after all the hours in Judge Flasschoen's frigid courtroom. I put my hands up to the screen, and feel the mesh on my palms. I can only imagine how the jurors are feeling. One of them told me that after the verdict Ray stuck his tongue out at them, obscenely miming a French kiss in their direction. That's why they looked so upset and repulsed before the shooting. As undone as I feel on this night, I picture them prostrate in their beds, staring at their ceilings.
Poor things, are they nervous with Ray loose out there?
I slide open the screen door, and step outside into my backyard.
I live on the west bank of the Intracoastal Canal, on the southern edge of a private, gated cul-de-sac just north of the Bahia Boulevard Bridge. From any spot on the water side of this five-room house, I can pull the drapes to get a floor-to-ceiling view of the canal and bridge traffic. At night, with the lights from the bridge, the boats, and the houses across the canal, it looks like Christmas all year-round, and I feel very grateful.
Fifteen feet below my backyard, the turbulent waters of the canal slap violently and constantly against the seawall, precluding any safe harbor for my own or anybody else's boats.
I chose this site with an eye to security, front and rear.
At the entrance to the cul-de-sac, a round-the-clock series of armed guards courteously requests identification from visitors. Nobody drives in unless the guard has their name on a list, or verifies their welcome with a phone call. There is no access at all from the water, not unless intruders are willing to risk getting their boats battered to pieces against the seawall. The cul-de-sac property owners with boats moor them elsewhere, in private marinas with their own armed guards.
The developers named this enclave Isle d'Bahia, even though it isn't an island at all, and hardly even qualifies as a peninsula, being more in the nature of a gentle outcurving of land around a point of the canal. My neighbors jokingly call
Similar Books
