It was sundown by the time he dragged all his things down the serpentine path, then, wearing only his shorts, boots, and a knife about his waist, he grabbed a johnny mop from his kit and went back to the beach. He removed his boots and walked into the warm water.
“There are definitely things to recommend this place,” he said aloud, remembering the cold Maine water of his hometown.
When he was in water to his chest, he dove and easily swam underwater to the nearest bit of wreckage protruding from the water. Unfortunately, the war had left the shallow water near Key West littered with debris. The water was dark but J.T. could see the deeper shadows. He stuck the mop into a hole in what had once been part of a ship and twisted. When he pulled the mop out, the antennae of four lobsters were entangled in the threads of the mop.
One lobster got free before he got it to shore but he quickly pegged the claws of the other three and carried them back down the path.
Moments later he had a fire going and a pot of water boiling. Deftly, with a practiced gesture, he pierced the spine of each lobster before dumping it into the water. These lobsters were different from the ones he had grown up with, smaller, with spotted shells, but they turned red when cooked just the same.
An hour later he tossed the empty shells into the water and smiled as he climbed into his hammock strung between two trees. The air was balmy, the wind just barely moving. The water was lapping at the shore and his belly was full. For the first time since he had left home, he was at peace.
He slept soundly, more soundly than he had in a year, and dreamed of mounds of shrimp for breakfast. For the first time in weeks he didn’t dream of the night he had been burned, didn’t dream of being surrounded by fire.
The sun rose and J.T. kept sleeping. Somewhere his mind was rejoicing that there were no starched nurses shoving stainless steel trays under his nose at five A.M. and saying, “And how are we this morning?” He smiled in his sleep and dreamed of yellowtail snapper roasted over an open fire.
When the shots came, he was too deeply asleep to even hear them, much less recognize them. He had slept knowing that he was safe and now he somehow knew the shots were not aimed at him.
When he did awake, it was with a jolt, sitting upright. Something was wrong, he knew it, but he didn’t know what it was. He leaped from the hammock, ignoring the pain on the left side of his body, pulled on his boots, laced them as fast as possible, grabbed his rifle, and left the clearing, wearing his shorts and knife.
When he reached the beach and he still had heard or seen nothing, he began to laugh at himself for being skittish. “It was a dream,” he muttered, then started back toward the path.
He heard another round of shots before he could take another step.
Crouching low, staying at the far edge of the beach, he began to run toward the sound. He had not gone far when he saw them. Two men were in a motorboat, one sitting by the motor, the other standing, aiming a rifle at something in the water.
J.T. blinked a few times then saw the dark, round shape in the water dive. It was a human head.
J.T. didn’t consider what he was doing. After all, it was wartime and perhaps the head in the water was a German spy who deserved to die. All he thought was that two against one was unfair. He put his rifle behind a tree, flung off his boots, and eased into the water.
J.T. swam as quietly as he could, trying to watch the men and the head. When the head went down and didn’t surface, he dove, swimming under the tip of the boat and heading downward.
“There!” he heard above him just as he dove. Moments later bullets came zinging through the water, one of them cutting into his shoulder.
He kept diving down, down, his eyes wide as he searched.
Just when he knew he was going to have to resurface for air, he saw the body, limp, bent over, and floating downward. He kicked harder as he dove deeper.
He caught the body about the waist and started clawing his way upward. He could see mangrove roots to his right and tried to reach them. His lungs were burning, his heart pounding in his ears.
When his head broke the surface, his only concern was air, not the men. Fumbling, he grabbed the hair of the person he held and pulled the head out of the water. As he tried to determine his position, he knew he heard no gasping of air from the body he held. The men had shut off their motor and were now only a few feet from J.T. but their backs were to him.
Silently, J.T. swam into the tree roots. Involuntarily, he gasped as a razor clam clinging to the roots cut into his burned side. But he made no more sound as he backed further into the roots, the clams cutting into his skin. The men used oars to maneuver the boat.
“You got her,” one man said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I just want to make sure,” the man with the rifle said.
Her? J.T. thought, then turned to look at the face of the head lolling on his shoulder. She was a delicate-featured young woman, quite pretty actually—and she didn’t seem to be alive.
For the first time J.T. felt anger. He wanted to attack the two men in the boat who would shoot at a woman, but he had no weapon except a small knife, his body was covered with half-healed burns, and he had no idea how deep the bullet wound in his shoulder was.
Impulsively, he pulled the woman closer to him, shielding her slim body from the razor clams, and encountered the curve of a female breast. He suddenly felt even more protective of her, holding her to him in a loving way.
He glared at the backs of the men who searched the water.
“I hear something. It sounds like a motor,” the seated one said. “She’s dead. Let’s get out of here.”
The other one shouldered his rifle, sat down, and nodded as the first man started the motor and they sped away.