“They’re people who like to have sex with multiple partners,” she explained. “He throws orgies for the ones who like to dress up in costumes and role-play.”

“What do they pretend to be?”

“Ancient Romans. Movie stars. Anime characters.” She sighed. “And vampires.”

Chapter 14

Chris made sure she would reach Key West before Jamys did by driving there as fast as she could without stopping or getting caught in any of the tourist speed traps. Crossing the Seven Mile Bridge that connected Marathon with the Lower Keys was considered passing the halfway mark, but she wouldn’t relax until she hit mile-marker zero.

She hadn’t lied to Jamys about Stryker; she simply hadn’t volunteered certain details. While she didn’t know exactly where Stryker himself was, she knew precisely how to find out.

Once Chris drove into the downtown area of Key West, she parked the Lexus in a metered lot and from there walked three blocks past the open bars and the closed gift shops to Free Wheeling. Although the front windows of the garage were dark, and the doors locked, she knew the owner kept the place open twenty-four hours a day.

Chris made her way around to the back lot, where rows of cars and bikes in various stages of repair sat parked behind a razor-wire-topped chain-link fence. The warped sheet of plywood that currently served as the garage’s back door hung slightly askew on its hinges, but it opened shortly after she rapped out an SOS on it.

The grizzly bear of a man who peered out at her didn’t offer a welcome. He did take a pull from his beer bottle before he demanded, “What the fuck you want?”

“It’s me, Bug.” When he didn’t react, she added, “Chris Lang.”

“Well, well. Little Christi Lang, all growed up.” He drained the bottle in his hand and tossed it in the garbage barrel to her left. “Your old man owes me two hundred bucks.”

Good luck collecting, she thought. “I need to find someone, and I’ll pay you four hundred to help me.”

“Cash?” When she nodded, Bug shoved the plywood out another foot. “Come on in.”

Chris followed him through a dirt-and-grease-encrusted labyrinth of car parts, toolboxes, and motors to a card table with four folding chairs, two men inspecting the cards in their hands, and several mounds of poker chips.

“You remember Cody,” Bug said, nodding to the rail-thin mechanic in filthy coveralls on one side of the table. “Loot you don’t.”

Chris eyed the man in the polo shirt, whose appearance was so clean and neat that next to Bug, Cody, and the garage around him he resembled an alien life-form. “Hello.”

“I’ll see the cash first,” Bug said.

As a gesture of good faith, Chris took out her wallet and counted out eight fifties onto the table. That left her with a couple of twenties and change, but if she needed more money, Jamys could convince a mortal to donate to their cause.

Bug picked up the bills and held each one up to the light to see the embedded security strip before he shoved the money into the front pocket of his bib overalls. “Who’s worth this much to you, little girl? Not your daddy.”

Chris tucked her arms around her waist. “I need to find Stryker.”

“Shit, no, you don’t.” Bug went over to an ancient cooler and rummaged around in the floating ice until he pulled a fresh beer bottle from it. “Here.” He held it out to her, but when she tried to take it, he pulled it back. “You old enough to drink this, now, right?”

“You got wasted with my dad at every one of my birthdays,” Chris reminded him. “So, what, you can’t count now?”

Bug chuckled and gave her the bottle. “Still a mouthy little twerp. I always liked that about you, Christi. Forget about that ass-peddler and play some cards with us.” He sat down and picked up his hand. “Go on. Deal her in, Cody.”

“Bug.” Chris sat down in the chair beside him. “I’m not a little girl anymore. A lot is riding on this. Tell me where he is.”

Bug regarded her over the fan of his cards. “I’ll tell you after you play a hand. Bitch, and you’re outta here.”

Chris took a swig of the icy beer and sighed. “Deal me in, Cody.”

She hadn’t played poker since Frankie had taught her how during one of the summers they’d spent in the Keys. Still, it was like riding a bike, and in no time she had assembled a full house.

“I’m done.” Loot tossed his cards down. “You’ve known Bug for a while, Christi?”

“It’s Chris.” She parked the rest of the chips they’d fronted her in the pot. “And yeah, I’ve known him since I was in diapers.”

Loot leaned forward. “Do you know how he got his name?”

“No one does,” Cody put in. “But they think it’s because he won’t wear a face shield when he rides.”

“That’s not it.” Chris glanced at Bug, who threw his hand down in disgust. “You never told your friends?”

“No one’s fucking business.” He grinned as he looked over her head. “Your old man owes me two hundred bucks, though, Christi.”

“I heard you the first time.” Chris turned to Loot. “It’s not because of the bugs he eats on the bike. He’s named after the letters B-U-G, for—”

“Christi?”

The sound of the voice behind her made the cards fall out of Chris’s hand. She gazed over her hand-winning full house at Bug. “You knew he was coming here?”

“Whose chair do you think you’re sitting in, sweet cheeks?” Bug jerked his head as he stood up, and Cody and Loot followed him outside, leaving her alone with the man behind her.

“Christi. Jesus. What are you doing here, honey?”

“Buying information.” Chris waited as he moved around to face her. “Hi, Daddy.”

He stared at her before he headed for Bug’s cooler. “I need a drink.”

Chris watched him. Over the eight years since the last time she’d seen him, Frankie Lang had put on fifty pounds, tanned himself to a muddy bronze, and lost most of the hair atop his head. He wasn’t fat, exactly; she could still make out some of the muscles in his arms and chest, and his surf-god face hadn’t bloated too much. Older chicks in dimly lit bars were probably still receptive to his bullshit.

But here under the naked bulb hanging over Bug’s card table, Chris could see that the booze had busted a hand’s width of capillaries on and around his nose. He’d always loved Southern Comfort, and from the faint yellowing of the whites of his eyes SoCo had returned the favor by fucking with his liver. She saw a scar on his chin she couldn’t remember, and the sulking droop of his mouth that she’d never forgotten. Unlike her, Frankie Lang had never growed up.

“Bug tell you to come down here?” her father asked as he sat down across from her. “I’m fine, you know. I laid off the hard stuff last summer.” He lifted his bottle and drained a third of the contents before taking a breath. He seemed to realize then that she hadn’t said anything, and tried again, this time with a wavering grin. “So, how have you been, kid?”

“How have I been?” She pretended to think. “When you didn’t come home that night, I was confused. When Mom started to fall apart, I was scared. Hungry, too—the food started to run out right after you and the money did. When the bank foreclosed on the house and kicked us out on the street, I was terrified. When they put Mom in the nuthouse and me in foster care, I was a basket case. But then, so was Mom.”

“That’s too bad.” He reached across the table and tried to take her hand. “Your mom’s doing okay now, though, right?”

Chris couldn’t believe it. Could not. “Mom killed herself two years after you bailed. Exactly two years to the day.”

He drew his hand back. “Sorry to hear that. Adele never was right in the head. Hey.” Frankie jolted back as Chris shoved the table into his chest. “It’s the truth, Christi. And it wasn’t because of me, either. She’d been seeing shrinks all her life, long before me.”

“So, what, you think she was better off slitting her wrists and bleeding out in the bathtub?” Chris demanded.

Frankie swallowed. “They told you how she offed herself?”

“I know how she did it because I’m the one who found her.” She wanted to describe every horrific detail so he could enjoy a few nightmares, but if she did, she’d puke up the beer. “After the funeral my grandmother blamed me for Mom’s suicide and turned me over to the state. I went back into foster care. Don’t you look at me like that. Like you’re sorry for me.”

“Can’t help it,” he muttered. “I am. No kid should have to deal with what you been through. If I could go back and change things, Christi, I would.”

“The hell.” The laugh that tore out of her hurt her throat. “I can’t believe you’ve been here in the Keys, all this time. I should have guessed. Drinking and screwing around were the only two things you were ever good at. Well, at least now I know.” She gestured at the door. “You can run away again now.”

He started to get up, and then dropped down. “I got one thing I gotta say.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’ve heard all I ever need to, Daddy.”

“It’s why I took off,” he snapped, and then looked immediately ashamed. “The night before, Adele got drunk and we had a fight about you. She said you weren’t my kid. That some other guy got her pregnant.”

“Mom told you that you’re not my father?” Chris asked, to be sure she hadn’t heard it wrong.

“Yeah.” He moved his shoulders. “I always suspected anyway. You don’t look nothing like me. When you were born, she swore you were two months early, but the doctors didn’t put you in that baby microwave thing after you came out. You were just little.”