The Water Keeper

by Charles Martin

  She tilted her head to the side. “You ever going to tell me your real name?”

  “It’s better for you if I don’t.”

  “And when this is over, will I ever see you again?”

  “That’s probably more up to you than me.”

  Chapter 23

  We overnighted the drives to Colorado and drove the boat mechanic’s Tacoma to the hospital, where I heard laughter. Clay was sitting upright in his room. Clear fluids dripping into his left arm. A beautiful nurse taking his blood pressure. He was reclining slightly, legs crossed, a plate of hot food in his lap. Living the good life while entertaining Ellie and his new girlfriend with stories from prison. He looked better. And his laughter was not accompanied by a cough, which meant the steroids had reduced the swelling. Hopefully the antibiotics would work next.

  Gunner saw me and launched himself off the ground where he’d lay in vigil next to Clay. The old man looked at the bruising on my face and the stitches on my neck and arms. He sat upright and actually set one foot on the floor as if he were going to a fight. “Looks like you been tangling with some of my friends.”

  “They had definitely done time.” I patted his shoulder and he relaxed. I asked him, “You good?”

  At this moment, his twentysomething nurse walked back in carrying another IV bag of fluids. “Yep, I’m about to take my nurse dancing.”

  I’m not sure of the reason, but people who spend an extended amount of time—and specifically hard time—in prison have an uncanny sense of humor that makes light of even the heavy stuff. It’s a beautiful gift. And Clay had it more than any man I’d ever met. Which spoke volumes about the hardness of his time.

  I spoke to Clay. “When you finish with your great-granddaughter there, get some sleep. You’ll need it. I need to check out an address, but when I return, I’m heading south. You be ready?”

  He nodded, laid his head back, and patted the bed next to him where Gunner immediately appeared and curled up into a ball. “I’ll be waiting on you.”

  I look at both Summer and Ellie. “Any way I can convince you two to hang here? I’d better do this alone.”

  Summer stood. “Not likely.”

  “How’s this going to work if you don’t ever do what I ask?”

  She put a hand on her hip. “You stop asking and I’ll stop telling you no.”

  Ellie stood next to Summer. “I’m with her.”

  We returned to the Best Western where my lack of sleep caught up with me. I’d had no rest for a couple of days and been in a pretty good fight, and my body was feeling it. I knew I needed to check that address, but I also knew I’d be no good if I didn’t get some sleep. I spoke to the two of them. “I can’t keep my eyes open. Maybe sleep an hour or two.”

  They nodded, but something told me their nodding had less to do with them and a whole lot more to do with me. I rented a second room next to the first, told them good night, and closed the door behind me. I set the thermostat on snow and lay down on the bed. My body hurt, the stitches hurt, and I’d taken more licks in that fight than I cared to admit.

  I don’t know how long I’d been asleep, but somewhere in the dark someone slid under my sheet and wrapped an arm around my chest, nestled her foot around my leg, and rested her head alongside mine. I woke but didn’t stir. I was reminded of that scene in The Once and Future King where King Arthur climbs in bed with his wife to celebrate their wedding only to find out the next morning that he’d been tricked by a different woman. My fears were laid to rest when she spoke softly. “Remember how I told you there was more to my and Angel’s story?”

  I’d had a feeling this was coming. Just not at this moment. “Yes.”

  “Remember my pharmacist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Over the months, he let me buy on credit. Every three weeks, I’d go through the drive-through, wave, and he just added it to my bill. I told myself I’d do that just until I got my feet back under me. But I’d shredded some ligaments and my pain was high and I needed more than my doctor would prescribe. So one day I said something to him, and he told me he could get me as much as I wanted but the price was a lot higher. And since he was the middleman, he couldn’t do anything about that. So the price went from six dollars per pill to sixty dollars per pill, and at this point I’m eating them like Skittles and trying to pay the rent.

  “Before I knew it I owed twenty thousand. The interest alone was more than I could service, and his dealer was putting pressure on him. But for months I kept buying. Kept medicating. Kept lying.” She made imaginary quotation marks with her fingers. “Just until I get back on my feet. Or my foot.” She shook her head. “I was never getting on my feet. That train had left the station.

  “To make matters worse, he got transferred and my sweet deal with the pharmacy got noticed, not to mention my bill. Now I owe a lot of money to two people. The pharmacy and the dealer. Neither of which I could pay. The pharmacy passed me off to a collection agency who started calling nonstop and talking about garnishing my wages, and I’m thinking I’m going to lose my studio. And all this time he kept supplying me and never asked me for anything. I mean physical. He was a real gentleman when other guys wouldn’t have been. He showed up for his lessons and left the bottle and the payment for his lesson on the counter when he left. Always cash. He was a good bit younger than me, but then he invited me to this get-together with some friends, and when he saw Angel’s picture on my desk, he asked if she might like to go. I thought, Why not? He was successful, kind, pretty good dancer. Hadn’t laid a hand on me. Maybe he had nice friends. What could it hurt?”

  She paused as the memory returned. “Pretty soon we were doing dinner, bowling, whatever. Angel would tag along. He was ten or twelve years older than her, and they became friendly but it wasn’t like a dating thing. It was more like he became an uncle. Least that’s what I told myself. Angel’s always had a thing for older men, but I didn’t worry too much about him. He was a standup guy. Never laid a hand on me or her. It seemed natural when he started inviting her to parties. He was just including her in a good time. I could tell she was growing to like him, but he looked out for her. She met a lot of his friends. There was always a party. And how could I tell her to lay off the drugs when . . .

  “Anyway, he told her about this boat trip he’d been planning for years. He had this rich buddy who had this boat, and they were inviting whoever wanted to come with them. An Endless Summer sort of thing. Spend three months in the islands. Scuba. Sun. Sail. Bahamas. Cuba. Wherever the wind blew. I thought it sounded like a great adventure, and I certainly couldn’t afford to pay for her to do anything like that.

  “They kept hanging out, but then some strange things started to happen. Like she had a personality transplant or something. I couldn’t seem to find my daughter. I mean, there was somebody who looked like her living in my house, but her heart was someplace else. Half the time Angel was screaming at me and it was almost as if something had turned her against me. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I was telling her to be careful and she was accusing me of being a helicopter mom. Then we had a fight ’cause I was getting cold feet about her boat trip and she’d made plans to go and these new friends were expecting her—and then the next week, without explanation, this guy, he just canceled my bill. All of it. Zero. Problem disappeared. With both his dealer and the pharmacy. Told me he had several friends who were in the same boat, and this wealthy friend of his didn’t want any of the parents of the kids on his boat to worry about their kids while they were gone—that somebody had done him a favor one time and he just ‘took care of it.’ Called it ‘debt forgiveness.’”

  “How much?”

  “Not quite forty.”

  Her hand was trembling. I let her talk. “And if I’m being honest . . .” A moment passed. “I knew when he came to me and said he’d canceled my bill that it was payment. Payment for Angel and the summer and the boat trip.”

  She whispered, “I sold her.” She waited a second, then said
it again. Punishing herself even more. “I sold my own daughter.” She was quiet for several minutes before she continued. “Can you believe a mother would do that? That I’m so demented and desperate that I’d sell my own daughter to pay my drug bill?”

  I lay on my back and put my arm around her while she sobbed on my chest. After several minutes, she sat up cross-legged. She wiped her face and turned to me. “Is there a special place in hell for people like me?”

  I turned on a light. “Tell me how you hurt your ankle.”

  She looked surprised. “I was getting in my car at the grocery store. Sitting in the driver’s seat, one leg sort of hanging out the door while I set the bags on the passenger seat. A lady’s cart got away from her, slammed into my door, and the door closed hard on my ankle. It swelled up like a cantaloupe.”

  “And when did this guy come to your studio for lessons?”

  “That afternoon.”

  “And when did he happen to mention that he worked for a pharmaceutical company? That his area of specialty was pain management?”

  She nodded. “Said he had worked in physical therapy before going back to pharmacy school. He looked at my ankle. Gentle. Caring. Gave me something for the pain. Didn’t charge me.”

  “Does any of this strike you as coincidence?”

  She thought about it. “Not really.”

  “That’s why people like them prey on people like you. ’Cause you don’t think like them. You believe people are good and so are their intentions. Let me ask you this—if you were a bad person, looking to lift little girls, and you wanted to reduce the number of parents who were looking for them, would you do what he did? Remove suspicion and cause them to feel somehow indebted? Guilty even?”

  “You think—”

  “You were set up. Happens all the time. It’s all part of the emotional warfare that takes place prior to the abduction.”

  For the first time, anger swept across her face. “You mean—”

  “It was never about you. It’s always been about Angel. You just fit the profile. They’d probably been studying you for weeks. And they sure as shooting slammed the car door on your ankle when the opportunity presented itself.”

  She sat back as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. She shook her head. “What kind of sicko—”

  “The kind that trades in people.”

  Moments passed. “Why?”

  “There is no good answer to that. They’re just evil.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “I need to know if you think worse of me. Am I defective goods?”

  The question did not surprise me. I’d heard it before. More than once. “Why?”

  “’Cause I’m a good mom. Not perfect, but I love my daughter and—”

  “My answer will only convince your mind. Not your heart. And that’s the answer that matters. So give it time . . .”

  “What happens when we find her?”

  “That will go one of two ways. We snatch her back, which will be more difficult now that they know we’re looking. Or we are willing to pay more than someone else.”

  “You mean like actually pay money?”

  I nodded.

  “What will that cost?”

  I stared at her. Then out the window. “Everything.”

  Chapter 24

  My phone rang. My faceplate read “1:47 a.m.” I tried to answer it, but even though it was ringing, no one was calling. That’s when it occurred to my foggy brain that my other phone was ringing. I answered the sat phone. “Hello?”

  Her voice was loud, obnoxious and slurred. “Padre! Whussup?!”

  Summer heard Angel’s unmistakable voice and sat upright. Eyes wide.

  I tried to get her talking. “I was hoping you’d call. You having fun?”

  “You should see this place. It’s off the . . . off the train.”

  Evidently the pharmacist was keeping her highly medicated. “I’d love to see it.”

  “You should come join us. I’m a good kiss . . .” She trailed off.

  With my other hand, I dialed my cell phone, and when he answered in Colorado, Summer gave him the number Angel was currently using to call me. I tried to keep her talking while he located it. “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s this cabin.”

  “You’re not on a boat?”

  “No. We got off the boat.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. What is this? Twenty Questions?”

  “No, I just thought the boat was the place to be. You know, the bomb.”

  “No, no, no. Thiz place is the bomb. Out here in the Neverglazed. We rode an airboat with a big-a— Oops. Sorry. Forgot you wear the collar. Gotta clean up my mouth. Anyway, this boat had a huge plane propeller on the back. Looked like something out of Indiana Jones. Then we saw some alligators with some big fri— I mean big teeth, and then we rode on a truck, like the monster kind, tires bigger than me. This is the party of all parties.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  I could hear her making noises with her mouth again. “You should meet my momma. She’s one he—” She swallowed. “She’s a good dancer, but you might have to wait ’til her ankle heals ’cause it’s been hurting for a while and she tried to hide it from me. I said some things to her I shouldn’t have said.” She paused. “Padre? You ever said stuff you wish you hadn’t?”

  The words returned. “Yes.”

  Summer covered her mouth to prevent herself from crying out. My cell phone dinged with a text message showing coordinates and a location pin. The text read, “Tough to get to, but it can be done. A little over two hours from where you are now.”

  I returned to Angel. “Sounds like you’ve had quite the adventure. Where are you headed next?”

  “I don’t know. Keys. Islands. Wherever. Why do you care?”

  “You called me, remember?”

  More mouth noises. “Padre, I’m a good . . .”

  Her voice trailed off but the connection stayed live for another few minutes. I could hear her snoring. Other people talking in the background. Music. Laughter. This young girl was in a bad way, and as much as she didn’t want to admit it, I think something in her knew she was in over her head.

  My friend the mechanic was asleep on a cot in his office. When I walked in, he sat up and wiped his eyes. His hands were paws with layers of muscle. He stood, and I followed him to an enclosed boathouse. Gone Fiction sat floating beautifully. An aqua teal color. He had yet to wrap the T-top and motor, but he was close. He’d be finished by morning.

  I pointed at his truck. “I need another lift.”

  He tossed me the keys to his Tacoma. “It’s yours. Take it.”

  “Not sure when I’m getting back. And I don’t want to hold you up. You mind chauffeuring? I’ll pay.”

  He laid down a box cutter he’d been using to cut the wrap around the motor housing, rubbed his eyes, and smiled. “You’ve paid me enough. I’ll drive.”

  He drove us five miles and dropped us off at a secure storage building. The kind where you plug in your code to get in, another to get through a second door, and a third to ride the elevator. Summer watched me punch in the numbers at three different points of entry, and then a fourth as I entered the combination to my climate-controlled unit. I swung the door open, she walked inside, and I clicked on the light, locking the door behind me.

  Summer stared at the contents with an open mouth.

  Scuba gear, clothing, costumes, weapons, ammunition, fishing gear, medical and trauma supplies, a couple paddle boards, two motorcycles, a Toyota truck, a mountain of tools, and a small skiff called a Hell’s Bay. I also kept a cot. Having a safe place to sleep could be a comfort sometimes.

  She slowly scanned the inside. When her eyes came to rest on the weapons hanging on the wall, she asked, “What are you doing with all this?”

  “For a multitude of reasons, South Florida is a launching point for both human and sex trafficking. Water ports, international airports, density of population, and o
therworldly wealth are just a few. Because of this, I’ve worked a lot down here. Hence the storage unit.” I paused. “I have five others scattered up the East Coast. A couple more dotted around the country.”

  She turned in a circle and said nothing.

  The BMW 1250 GS is an adventure bike, made famous in several extreme documentaries for its abilities under any condition. Bikes such as this one have crossed continents, mountains, deserts, and rivers—all under the worst conditions possible. A chameleon on two wheels, it’s meant for both highway and off-road use—which I had a feeling would come in handy. Truth be told, I’m not a big fan of motorcycles, but they do serve a purpose. If we found Angel, we would need the truck, but I had a feeling that to get where we might need to get, we’d need the motorcycle.

  I rolled the bike outside and gave her a helmet. She pointed at my phone. “What about . . . ?”

  “You should probably listen to him.”

  She strapped on the helmet and swung a leg over. “Not likely.”

  Five minutes later we were rolling west on 98 to the southern tip of Lake Okeechobee. Just south of the lake, we turned due south on 27 to the Miccosukee Casino and then west on 41. The road is bordered on either side by canals, which are part of the intricate network of the more than eight hundred square miles called the Everglades.

  Had it not been so dark, Summer would have seen some of the thousands of alligators floating at surface level, or possibly a few of the hundreds of thousands of pythons and boa constrictors that now fill the Glades. The alligators are native; the snakes not so much. In the last few decades, a couple of hurricanes have leveled parts of Miami and the surrounding areas. Including pet shops. When rising storm waters filled the shops, the snakes slithered out and found a natural home in the Glades’ eternal sea of grass, where they have repopulated with a vengeance. Some are now large enough to eat an entire deer. Whole.

  We passed Everglades Safari Park, and then the somber reminder of the ValuJet Flight 592 Memorial. We passed through the Miccosukee Indian Village and then north onto the limestone road paralleling the L-28 Canal Eden Station. We traveled on the limestone-dusted road for nearly thirty minutes when both the road and the canal abruptly ended. A thin trail with fresh four-wheel drive tracks continued northeast. In winter, the Glades are a markedly different place than spring or summer. The normally wet ground dries up to a hardpack surface. Much of the actual surface is limestone. It’s tough, unforgiving, and will cut right through a shoe or a motorcycle tire. Winter also means the mosquitoes have taken a nap. Albeit brief. They don’t really go anywhere; they’re just not as angry as in the summer months when it is literally impossible to stand outside at sundown.