Not Named Yet

Cassie took a seat on one of the Prindle's pontoons. The beach rental shop packed up their cabanas, chairs, and other rental equipment around five o'clock. Most of the tourists were gone from the beach by then, preparing for dinner and an evening's entertainment in sunny Florida. A melancholy mood came over her when she purveyed the surrounding area. High rise condominiums and hotels lined the coast as far as she could see. Looking just to the north, she remembered Sand Key before the development, rather in her opinion the destruction of it, when the area was thick with tall pines and empty with quiet beaches. She was a teenager then and she and her friends would pile into her '69 Pontiac and head for a full day in the sun. The water was so clear back then, she reminisced. You could see the bottom of the Gulf floor as far out as you could swim. Nice memories of her and her friends.

Cassie brought herself back to the present. The sun was beginning to drop quickly now. Several people were at the water's edge also watching it set. The beach was quiet but for the small gentle waves and the occasional gull's cry. The wind was picking up and getting cooler, too cool for the damp bikini she wore under her shorts and tee shirt. "It's the end of May and it's still chilly!" she thought to herself. "This has been a long cool season. I wonder when it will start feeling like summer?" Sitting on the pontoon by herself, she felt lonely and she ached for a man to wrap his strong arms around her and watch the sunset with her. All she wanted was a companion Not marriage, no babies, no major commitment. At least for now.

The sun was low in the sky when it broke through the hazy cloud cover. It was bright red and big. A cloud cut jaggedly through the center of it. As it dropped lower, it became clearer and more whole. Dolphins appeared close to shore. Three of them showed their magical selves by jumping in unison for the people watching on shore. They continued surfacing now and then, heading north toward an unknown destination. Flocks of waterbirds began their southern route to their estuaries for the night as the sun melted below the horizon, the warm glow still comforting the sky, caressing the surrounding clouds.

Chilly and damp, Cassie got up and headed back to the parking lot where her car was waiting. Sunday night, she had to get home and get a good night's rest for work tomorrow. It would be a busy, hectic, and disillusioning day at the law firm where she worked as a paralegal. She was assisting her boss with research and investigation work in a murder trial. A grand jury had handed down an indictment on their client for the murder of a prominent area business man named Gaspare Paisani. It was a brutal murder. Paisani's arm, with the hand still attached, had washed up on the shore of Tampa Bay by the Gandy Bridge which connected the two cities of Tampa and St. Petersburg. The medical examiner's report stated that it had been severed with a sharp instrument just above the elbow. The thought of it turned Cassie's stomach and it appalled her deeply that she had no choice but to work on the case, but it was a case that couldn't be turned down. The publicity from such a high profile case, let alone the fees they would receive, was exactly what the small firm needed. The recession and bad economy was knocking most firms and solo practitioners right out of the sky, so many of them were closing shop. The law firm of Glisson, Stahl & Ferry could very well be saved by this very case. "Don't think about now, it's not Monday yet," she said aloud but no one was around to hear.

The parking lot was almost empty but for a couple of cars and hers. Her car was the only "real" car. The others appeared to be rentals. She could tell by looking at the license plates. Most rentals had plates that began with the letter "Z". Ambling past the two other cars, she came upon her dusty, battered Volkswagon. Lowering her lean, over-thirty body into the driver's seat, she was disgusted at how filthy her car was. Her life was so busy she hadn't found the time to clean it in months. When she did have a little spare time, she usually opted to watch the sunset, like tonight, or take a walk with her black labrador, Max.

She slipped the key into the ignition and went to turn it when suddenly a hand was over her mouth and nose. It jerked her head back hard against the headrest. There was cold steel against her throat. A knife. Sharp. Immediately she thought she was going to be beaten and raped. She screamed but it came out muffled from the gloved hand smothering her. She was too frightened to struggle, the knife was straining at her throat. She thought she was bleeding already. If she moved it would cut her further and she would feel pain, maybe die.

"Start the engine and drive!" a dark, dusky voice commanded. "Don't look back, don't scream or try to get away or I will slice your neck wide open." She thought of removing the key and hurling it backwards, maybe she would hit him in the eye, but didn't. She was too frightened. She turned the key and the engine chugged to life.

"Go out to the road and turn right", the intruder ordered.

The sky was growing darker and there were so few cars on the two lane road. She was doubtful that anyone would notice her abduction. Ideas of escaped raced through her mind but none were feasible. She mumbled something incoherent even to herself and the man took his hand away from her mouth. She gasped and finally breathed, not realizing how close she had been near to suffocating. "Panic gives us strength," she thought coherently.

"What do you want from me?" her voice sounded as if it were coming from outside of herself.

"I want you to tell me everything you know about Carlton Ramage."

Stunned by the mention of that name, she instinctively turned her head around. She saw him. It was just for a brief second but she saw his dark, thick wavy hair, his thick, broad body hunched over and cramped into the back seat. She saw his pitted face outlined from the street lights. Then, with one swift swoop, he slashed at her throat. Cassie gasped for air but couldn't get any.

This isn't real, she thought. This isn't real! Blackness came at her from the corners of her eyes, her hand fell from the stickshift. This isn't real ... then the darkness wrapped itself around her like a warm sticky blanket.

The man reached over and around her slumping body and grabbed the wheel, turning the car off to the right shoulder of Gulf Boulevard. Cassie's foot had fallen off the clutch and car sputtered and died. He got out on the passenger side of the car and walked calmly around to the driver's side. Opening the door, he slid a hand inside to hold up the body. When he got the door open, he saw there was a lot of blood, but this he had expected, after all there was a gaping split in the woman's neck. The blood throbbed out of it with each heartbeat. He lifted and shoved the body over to the passenger seat and climbed in behind the wheel. He pushed the seat back as far as it would go, he was a big man, he needed the leg room.

For the next twenty minutes or so, the man drove east, unnoticed, and parked the Volkswagon in front of Cassie's two-story townhouse overlooking Tampa Bay. He didn't waste any time, walking casually but quickly down the road to where a shiny black sedan, and driver, was idling and waiting for him.

Carlton Ramage was seated in a dark brown, almost black, oversized leather chair, behind an antique gold trimmed desk that was topped with a half inch thick slab of unsmudged flawless smoky glass. The desk had one slim drawer, which ran the full length, and the top was always kept impeccably clean and clear except for a sleek black telephone. The drawer contained one microcassette recorder and four blank tapes readily at hand. The telephone's buzzer alerted Ramage of his expected visitors. Heber Bodden, the driver of the black Jaguar, and Ace Cuerto, Ramage's son from a short and bleak affair with a Haitian woman twenty-seven years ago, entered the windowless and silent room. Ramage scanned his son's face for a sign, whether it be a sign of victory or trouble. He had difficulty reading the broad, acne-scarred face.