Arresting Developments

Dex twisted against the sheets, fighting through the darkness.

A delicate face leaned over him, her long, brown hair forming a curtain, her brow furrowed with concern.

“Sleep, Dex. Don’t worry. I’ll watch over you. You’re getting better.”

He reached for her. “Don’t go, Canoe Girl.” But she faded away like a ghost.

He cursed and tried to roll over, but every movement was painful. His entire body ached, as if he was back in college and had been in a drunken fraternity fistfight—and had lost.

A cool cloth stroked his arms, his forehead, driving back the awful heat that seemed to constantly surround him. Voices he didn’t recognize whispered close by. Footsteps echoed and a door slammed. A glass was held to his lips. He drank greedily and the cool water soothed his parched throat.

Canoe Girl leaned over him again. No, she was sitting this time, raising her arms, then lowering them, over and over, her muscles bunching with strain. She raised her hands, pulling something up into the air. Water dripped from it onto his pants. An oar? Why was she holding an oar? She moved it to the other side and dipped down again.

And then she was on her knees in front of him, her cool fingers brushing against his brow. That worried frown a constant twin to the look of concern in her eyes. Sad eyes. So, so sad.

She slid her arms around his neck and hugged him close. “Don’t tell them about me, Dex. Please. Don’t tell.”

“I won’t. I swear.”

He thrashed against the sheets, seeking relief from the heat. Hot. He was always so hot. He couldn’t remember not being hot.

The darkness called to him again and he gratefully surrendered.

* * *

DEX OPENED HIS EYES, blinking at the light.

“Well it’s about time you decided to rejoin the living. I was beginning to think the doc was wrong.”

He turned his head on the pillow to see a woman nearly as brawny as him, probably well over twice his age, with falsely bright red hair, sitting in a ladder-back chair beside the bed. He looked around the room but she was the only one there. “Where am I?”

“Callahan’s Watering Hole, in the extra bedroom in my apartment upstairs. I’m Freddie Callahan.”

“From Mystic Glades?”

“Either I’m famous and didn’t know it or our buddy Jake told you about me.”

He frowned. “How would you know that I know Jake?”

“I saw your last name on your ID, in your wallet. Figured it was too much of a coincidence for you to be named Lassiter and not be from Lassiter and Young Private Investigations. Called Jake—which was a pain since I had to leave town to get reception—and sure enough, he vouched for you.”

He started to scoot up in the bed but stopped when he realized he was naked beneath the sheet. He yanked it higher before sitting up. The room was small, with only the narrow bed, a dresser and a single window. A collection of shot glasses and empty whiskey bottles sat on a shelf along the far wall. And a pair of open doors beneath them revealed a closet and a small bathroom. He tried to remember how he’d gotten there, but his mind was a haze of confusing images and impressions.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I don’t—”

“Remember what happened?” Freddie patted his hand. “No worries. We pretty much pieced everything together with Jake’s help after I called him. You crashed your plane into the Glades. The airplane folks done packed up what was left of it onto some fancy barge and took it with them to Naples for some kind of investigation. You got an infection and have been unconscious for a while. I had Doc Holliday come out and check on you to make sure you were coming along okay. You’re gonna be just fine.”

“Doc Holliday?”

Her mouth cracked open in a gap-toothed grin. “I’ve called him that for so long that I don’t remember his real name anymore. He’s a city slicker, comes out to the Glades when we have an emergency. He wanted to take you back to town, but Jake and I told him you were family and I kept you here in Mystic Glades. Jake said he’d call your people in Saint Augustine and tell them where you were. Ain’t nobody been by to check on you yet, though, which just proves we made the right decision keeping you here.”

She crossed her arms and gave him a crisp nod, as if to let him know she wasn’t impressed with his family’s lack of concern. Of course, she had no way of knowing that the only reason his family would come was if they thought he was already dead and they stood a chance of getting their hands on his money.

A pounding started in his temple as he tried to think back to what had happened. Electrical tape. He’d found it in the engine compartment. Maybe it was a good thing that no one had shown up looking for him in Mystic Glades. Without knowing who’d tampered with his plane, he wasn’t sure whom he could trust.

Images of the crash and its aftermath filtered through his mind: cutting his leg, waking to find himself in a freezing cold spring, a beautiful young woman helping him out of a canoe and onto the bank.

“Don’t tell them about me, Dex. Please. Don’t tell.”

He scrubbed the stubble on his face and searched the corners of the room again, part of him hoping she’d be there even though he knew she wouldn’t be.

Freddie’s expression turned introspective as she studied him. “You’re looking for the woman who helped you, aren’t you? The one you call Canoe Girl?”

Canoe Girl. He squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered it all now. She’d put some kind of foul-smelling mud on his leg—to draw out the poison, she’d told him. And when he’d alternated between the fever and bone-rattling chills, she’d built a fire and sat with him all night, leaving only to bring him water and some kind of surprisingly delicious stew.

Every hour, without fail, she’d changed the dressing on his leg. And when he’d needed a moment of privacy and, to his shame, was unable to get up on his own, she’d helped him stand and limp to a clump of bushes. When he was done, she’d escorted him to their little campfire.

She’d entertained him with stories about the Everglades and made him laugh when she spoke about her childhood. He’d told her about flying and about later building his empire, only to become bored and start the PI firm with Jake Young for fun.

When the sun came up he’d awakened to find her curled against him beside the dying campfire. In awe of the beautiful creature, he’d tightened his arms, only to find her blinking at him in surprise and slipping out of his grasp. Far too soon, she’d deemed him strong enough to leave and had helped him limp to her canoe.

After taking him to the woods at the edge of town, she’d helped him sit on a fallen log and crouched down in front of him.

“We’re just a few feet from the main road,” she whispered. She pulled a whistle out of her pocket. “When I blow this, someone will come help you.” She slid her arms around his neck and hugged him close. “Don’t tell them about me, Dex. Please. Don’t tell. Make up some kind of story to explain how you got here, but never tell anyone that you saw me. It’s important.”

The fear in her voice had him clutching both of her shoulders and pulling her back so he could look her in the eyes. “What’s going on? Who are you afraid of?”

“It’s...complicated. Please. Just promise me.”

“Okay. Yes, I promise. But tell me why you’re afraid. I’m sure that I can help—”

She pressed her fingers against his lips to stop him. “No one can help me.” Her mouth quirked up in a rare smile. “Not even a sexy navy pilot turned billionaire financier private investigator.” She stood and backed away, then put the whistle to her lips.

The shrill sound shattered the morning, sending birds shrieking and rising from the trees around them.

“Remember your promise.” She turned and disappeared into the woods.

Dex shook his head to clear his thoughts. Freddie sat across from him, still waiting for his answer. A feeling of impending doom settled over him. If he’d kept his promise, then how did this woman know about Canoe Girl?

“My memory is still a bit...foggy,” he said evasively. “How long have I been here?”

“Three days. Doc said you wouldn’t have made it if Amber hadn’t helped you with that concoction she put on your leg. But still, it was touch and go.”

“Amber?”

“Amber Callahan. My niece, the one you called Canoe Girl when you were delirious. Pretending you don’t know who I’m talking about isn’t going to change the fact that you talked quite a bit about her.”

He fisted his hands in the sheets, guilt and shame settling on top of him like a heavy weight. Canoe Girl—Amber—had saved his life. And, in return, all she’d asked was that he not tell anyone about her. He’d betrayed her, whether he’d meant to or not.