Now You See Him Read Online Free Page B

was off to one side, talking to a man she'd never seen before, a huge black man who looked more like a football linebacker than the fishermen on St. Anne who'd come to her rescue.
    Michael's instincts were lightning fast. His eyes met hers, seconds after she glanced his way, and he started toward her, leaning heavily on his cane. "I've got us a ride home."
    "This is a small island—most of the villagers don't own cars. You did get a ride in a car, didn't you? I can't say I fancy a ride on a motorbike. Or a mule."
    "Sort of a car," he temporized. "A delivery truck, to be exact. Cecil has offered his services." He gestured toward the linebacker, who smiled and nodded, flashing his white teeth in the moonlight.
    "Who is he? I've never seen him before."
    "Neither have I," Michael said wearily. "Do you know everyone from around here?"
    Francey couldn't fight her guilt. Here she was quibbling over strangers when Michael was almost dead on his feet. "Of course not," she murmured. "I just thought I would have noticed him if I'd seen him before. He's awfully big."
    "Shall we take the ride or not?" Michael swayed slightly, and his color had bleached back to a sickly white.
    "We'll take the ride," she said, taking his arm in hers and helping him over the uneven rock-strewn beach. She could feel him tremble slightly from the exertion, and she held his arm more tightly against her, close to the side of her breast. He was harder, more muscular, then she would have thought beneath the baggy suit. At one point in his life, before the car accident, he must have been a fairly strong, well-built man.
    The delivery truck was a silver Ford in surprisingly good shape. The three of them squeezed into the front seat—no mean feat, considering the sheer size of Michael's new acquaintance, Cecil, but apparently the back was padlocked and filled with whatever it was Cecil delivered. There was no identifying sign painted on the truck, and somehow Francey couldn't figure out a polite way of asking. Reaction was beginning to set in. Her own limbs were trembling when she climbed into the front of the track, and for the time being all she wanted to do was crawl into bed. Once she made sure Michael was comfortably settled, she reminded herself.
    She felt very tiny, squashed between Cecil's impressive bulk and Michael's bony frame. Leaning her head back, she shut her eyes, waiting to be transported home. When nothing happened, she opened them again.
    "Where do you live?" Cecil asked in a pleasant voice with just a trace of island hit. He must have spent most of his life off-island. Playing football?
    "Sorry," she said briefly, giving him directions. St. Anne was a small, social island—everyone knew everyone's business outside the rush of tourist trade. Cecil should have known where she lived, just as she should have been able to identify him.
    It didn't matter, she thought, closing her eyes again. She'd been through too much in the past couple of hours to make sense of anything. In the calm, clear light of day, after a good night's sleep, she would be able to place him and these nagging inconsistencies would make sense.
    Like where had their huge black savior come from? Like why Michael Dowd, instead of being terrified by their near brush with death, had merely been exhilarated by the experience. Like why the brakes had failed on a vehicle that had just been checked.
    But for now all she had to concentrate on was holding together long enough to get her frail companion settled for the night. Then a good strong dose of Scotch and she might be able to sleep herself. After she gave in to the strong case of shakes she was busy fighting.
     
    Cecil was damned good; Michael had to grant him that. He'd objected to having him around at first, saying he could handle things better without backup. The more people who were involved in a situation, the more likelihood that things would get cocked up. But right now Cecil's buddies would be stripping the Jeep, and if they