IT DIDN'T GO down the way I thought it would.
I figured the two tough guys would overlook the rope, climb in the booth, and start threatening me. While they talked, I'd work my right hand down to the rope around my ankle, get it into my lap, switch hands, loop the rope around the highest part of the base of my table, and, when I stood to leave, I'd pull the rope tight with my left arm to trap them in the booth. By then the switch blade in my right hand would be open and I'd slit their throats before they had time to react. I'd go in the kitchen, avoid the pot head's attack, and kill him quietly. Then I'd decide whether to kill the kid out front or just make my escape. I'd probably just go, unless he spotted me and tried to stop me.
That was the plan, and I thought it was a good one.
Only like I said, it didn't go down that way.
I was right in thinking the gang bangers would come in the diner. But I didn't realize they'd come in the diner with the Sheriff and three deputies, all of whom held shotguns aimed at my face. They fanned out to give themselves a clean shot and limit any damage I might be able to do.
"Keep your hands on the table," the Sheriff said, "and without moving them from the table, get slowly to your feet."
I did as he said, and the shotguns moved to within five feet of me.
"He's got a blade on the seat," a deputy said.
The Sheriff moved in for a closer look.
"Why'd you tie yourself up?" he said.
The gang bangers and two of the deputies started laughing, the rest of us kept still. The Sheriff got to one knee and slowly reached for my switchblade. Once he had it, he backed away, stood, and tossed a pair of handcuffs on the table.
"Put these on your wrists, but keep your elbows on the table the whole time," he said.
When I'd done that, he told me to stand and ease my way out of the booth slowly. Then, with the shotguns surrounding me, the Sheriff fitted me with leg cuffs, and secured them to my handcuffs with a chain.
They shuffled me out to a police van and closed the door. The deputy who hadn't laughed at me in the diner climbed behind the wheel, and the Sheriff rode shotgun.
Literally.
They took me south on A1A, a few miles past Amelia Island Plantation, and turned into the scrub area surrounding a gravel road that had been virtually invisible from the highway. The car slowed and dipped and I noticed a sign that said, "Site of the Little River Crossing, 1684 – 1758." Just as quickly, the front of the car raised and I guessed we'd crossed the river that used to be there.
No one was talking, but I wanted to plant a seed in their heads. I said, "Killing me might prove harder than you think."
They remained silent and stared straight ahead as they drove through the thickets and pine knobs. When they got to the base of a huge sand dune, the deputy put the wagon in park and the Sheriff turned around in his seat and looked at me.
"We got a problem," he said.
"Want to talk it out?" I said.
The Sheriff was a balding man, barrel-chested, powerfully built. He had pale blue eyes and looked like he might have wrestled in college.
"How much do you know about the history of St. Alban's?" he said.
"Depends on how far back you want to go."
"Tell me what you think happened here three hundred years ago."
"Ah," I said.