"Yeah," Miguel said. "But O'Toole and Ryan don't know that. They're still running around loose, even though their SpecCorp buddies paid the price."
"This isn't why we let them slide," Contreras said. "We wanted the rest of O'Toole's drug runners. What's Ryan want SpecCorp to do for them this time?"
"Keep an eye on Oscar Jefferson and his people so they don't implicate O'Toole in this bribery deal. Plus, he's hoping they'll find Canaday before Jefferson does."
"Find Canaday?" Contreras said. "He's missing?"
"According to Ryan, yeah," Jorge said.
"Stay on O'Toole. It would help if we could tie him to SpecCorp. That would let us nail him for that last mess he slipped out of. The SpecCorp troops that got busted didn't know who they were working for. If we can prove it was O'Toole, we've got him."
"That looks like a good spot," Paul said, pointing at the western part of the anchorage in Prince Rupert Bay. "You take us in. I'll go get the anchor ready."
Connie nodded and put the transmission in gear, easing the throttle forward. She was careful not to accelerate too quickly; Friday was working on the coachroof, covering the mainsail. They had just entered the bay from the northwest, rounding up into the wind and dousing the sails.
As Paul went forward, Friday finished and returned to the cockpit. He stood next to Connie, studying the anchored boats in the distance. "So, this is Dominica," he said.
"This is it," Connie said. "We're going right in there." She pointed toward a dock that extended out from the shore. "About where that big sloop is. Looks like they're leaving."
"It's almost dark," Friday said.
"It is. I didn't think we'd get here this early. We made good time," Connie said.
"Yeah," Friday said, "but why would anybody leave this time of day?"
"Depends on where they're going, I guess," she said.
Friday stared at the sloop. They were within a few hundred meters of the other vessel now. There were two people on deck; one was at the helm and the other was crouched on the bow.
"Can I use the binoculars?" Friday asked.
"Sure," Connie said, taking them from their rack on the steering pedestal and handing them to him. "What do you see?"
He shrugged as he took the glasses from her. His gaze remained focused on the big sloop. He raised the binoculars to his eyes and adjusted one eyepiece without answering her.
"Windsong," he murmured, as they drew closer to the other boat. He swung the binoculars back and forth, looking first at the bow, and then at the person at the helm.
"What?" Connie asked, but he didn't respond. She watched him for a moment and then shifted her attention to the other vessel. They were close enough now so that she could see the man on the bow, stowing a hank of line. At the helm, an attractive blonde woman raised an arm, giving Connie a friendly wave as they passed within 100 meters.
"Marian," Friday muttered.
"What did you say?" Connie asked, raising her voice this time.
"Huh?" he asked, lowering the binoculars and turning to face her.
"What did you say?" she asked, again.
He frowned and shook his head. "Nothing. Just mumbling to myself." He handed the binoculars to her and went below deck.
Connie raised the binoculars and turned to look at the stern of the vessel that was moving away from them on a course to the southwest. After a moment, she turned back to the helm and put the binoculars away. She throttled back, watching Paul as he began gesturing, guiding her to the spot he had picked out to drop the anchor.
"Did you talk to Sharktooth?" Connie asked, her head on Paul's shoulder. They had gone to bed early, tired by the long day's sail.
"Yes. He'll come by in the morning around nine. He wanted to give you time to handle our inbound clearance first. He's going to take Friday to the hospital in Roseau."
"Not the local clinic, then?"
"No. He talked with them. They recommended Princess Margaret Hospital; it's better equipped for head trauma."
"Think I'll have trouble with immigration?"
"He didn't think so. He dropped in and talked with them. They still won't budge on requiring us to accept the responsibility for Friday, but they understand what's happening. They've made arrangements for the police to meet him at the hospital for photos and fingerprints."
"That's good," Connie said. "I didn't get a chance to say anything before, but he spooked me a little when we were coming in."
"What happened?"
"Relax," Connie said, feeling Paul's muscles tense. "It wasn't alarming; just odd. That's all. Did you notice the big sloop that left as we were coming in?"
"Yes," he said. "What about it?"
"I think he recognized it." She told him about Friday's behavior. "He muttered a couple of words, too, but he didn't answer when I asked him about it."
"That's a little out of character for him, isn't it?" Paul asked.
"Yes. Before we passed it, I could have sworn he mumbled 'Windsong.'"
"That was its name," Paul said. "I noticed that after they passed. Pretty boat; nice looking woman at the wheel. I saw her wave at you. He probably read the name then, too."
"No," Connie said, shaking her head as it rested on his shoulder. "The timing was wrong. I didn't see a name anywhere except on the transom, and he said it while we were still approaching one another."
"Okay," Paul said, shifting his position a bit. "That's odd. And you asked him about it?"
"Yes. He acted like he didn't hear me."
"Hmm," Paul said. "You said he muttered a couple of words."
"Yes. It sounded like he said, 'Mary Anne,' or 'Marian,' maybe. Like he recognized the woman. I asked, 'What did you say?' in a much louder tone. He said, 'Nothing. Just mumbling to myself.'"
"Could you read anything from his body language?"
"No. No change. And he went below right after that, so I couldn't pursue it. Do you think we should confront him?"
Paul was silent for a few seconds, then he asked, "How sure are you about what you heard?"
"I'm not certain. He was muttering."
"If you're not sure what you heard, and he wouldn't talk about it, we should probably let it go. That may have all been subconscious. We might do more harm than good by pressing him on it. I've run into that kind of thing before, with witnesses. Trying to force his memory is no good. Let's see what happens tomorrow. Maybe whatever you saw was the beginning of some kind of recovery. At least the boat provoked a response from him."
"I see what you mean," Connie said. "I wasn't sure what he said, and then I saw the name on the transom and decided it was Windsong that he mumbled."
"I didn't mean to imply that — "
"No, it's okay," Connie said. "You've told me about the problems with eyewitnesses before. Now that I think about it, I don't trust my recollection. But he did respond to that boat by muttering something. That's a change in his behavior."
"Yes. And the fact that he wouldn't talk about it could mean anything, or nothing at all, if he didn't realize he was speaking. Let's get some sleep, skipper."
"Who are we going to call, Marian?" Bert asked. They were motor-sailing down the west coast of Dominica, dodging the small, unlighted fishing boats.
"You mean to report Steve's falling overboard?"
"Yeah."
"The Coast Guard, I guess," she said, frowning.
"Yeah, sure. But which Coast Guard? French? Or somebody else?"
"I guess whoever answers on the VHF radio," Marian said. "What are you getting at?"
"Neither one of us speaks French," Bert said. "Have you thought of that?"
"They'll have somebody who speaks English," she said. "Martinique's a big island — half a million people. They've probably got a much better equipped search and rescue operation than the other islands nearby."
"Maybe, but I don't like that. Too much opportunity for confusion, with the language problem. And having a better search and rescue group's not necessarily a good thing. It's n
ot like they're going to find him, and the longer they spend looking, the longer we'll be in limbo. Besides, I always heard the French are a pain in the ass when it comes to bureaucracy."
"Do you have a better idea?" she asked.
"How about somewhere they at least speak English? And with a tourist economy."
"A tourist economy? Why?"
"Well, I was trying to imagine dealing with Steve's disappearance in Dominica, for example. It seemed like such a small-town kind of country. Everybody probably knows everybody else's business, you know?"
"And you think that's bad?"
"Yeah, it could be. They might put more effort into it than we want them to."
"Why would we care, Bert? It's not like they're actually going to find him, you know."
"That's not it. I'm thinking about how long we'd be tied up, and how much red tape might be involved."
"What's your point. Do you have somewhere in mind?"
"I've read about St. Lucia. Steve was always talking about it. He even said something about doing a timeshare project there someday. Did you guys go there once, maybe?"
"Maybe he did, with one of his investors. I didn't go, though. It could have even been that guy whose office called. But his trip there wasn't recent. Why do you ask about St. Lucia?"
"It's a bigger country than Dominica, and they're seriously into the tourist trade," Bert said.
"Why do you keep bringing up the tourist thing?"
"I figure they'll want this over and done with as soon as possible. People getting lost at sea's gotta be bad press for a tourist place. Besides, from what I've read, if we've gotta be stuck somewhere for a while, St. Lucia sounds like a better place than Dominica or Martinique. There's a lot to see and do there."
"Okay. If you want to go to St. Lucia, why didn't you just say so? Why all the b.s.?"
"You're the one who's going to have to put up with the most crap over this, Marian. I'm just a passenger. You're the widow."
She shook her head. "You're losing me."
"I'm trying to look out for you, that's all. Make it easy on you."
"Okay," she said. "So we wait until we're in St. Lucia's waters to discover that Steve's fallen overboard. That make you happy?"
"I think it'll work better. How long before we're there?"
"Sometime tomorrow, probably," Marian said. "We need to slow down, I guess. I think it would be more convincing if we missed him at a watch change at night, don't you?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow night. After we report him, we can go into Rodney Bay. I was looking at the cruising guide; that's the big yachting spot. There's a marina there with all the amenities, and a customs and immigration office. Once they decide they can't find him, it should be a good spot to take care of the legal details back home."
"All right. We've got around 80 miles still to go, if we head straight there. Let's kill the diesel. With this south-southeasterly wind, we can beat. That'll add several hours to our trip, and if we get way out to the west on one long tack, we can drag things out."
"Is that plausible, or will they think it's suspicious?" Bert asked.
"We'll make it plausible. We'll tell them we had the autopilot on and Steve didn't wake us up for the watch change, so we went way out of our way. Once we're far enough out to the west, our course to St. Lucia will be dead into the wind. From out there, the current will be against us, too. Besides, there's no record of our departure time from Dominica."
"Hey, you're right," Bert said. "We can fudge some logbook entries."
"Yes, if we need to. I'm not sure we will, though. If we work it right, we can be like 60 miles west of Martinique by tomorrow evening. That'll leave us with a 70 mile beat to windward to get to Rodney Bay. Sometime after midnight tomorrow night, we'll put out our distress call."
9
“What are we going to do about this, Paul? I'm getting worried, now." Connie and Paul sat in Diamantista II's cockpit, sipping coffee. Sharktooth and their erstwhile guest had departed moments before, bound for the hospital in Roseau.
"What worries you most about it?" Paul asked.
"I keep imagining what could happen if they can't identify him," Connie said, picking up the thermal carafe and adding coffee to their mugs.
"That could be a problem, but it's not likely. Most people are in a database of some kind, these days. Don't borrow trouble. Let's see what happens."
Connie took a sip of coffee and swallowed, looking at the remains of their breakfast on the cockpit table. She shook her head. "Sorry, but I've got a bad feeling about this."
"Why's that, do you think?"
"I don't know, exactly. Probably from the woman in immigration when I was clearing in. Humor me, okay?"
"Of course, skipper. That's my job. What can I tell you?"
"Give me a cop-type answer. I know it's remote, but what happens if nobody figures out who he is?"
"Okay," Paul said. "Assuming Interpol comes up with nothing, and he's not in the NCIS database, and he can't remember his name, he's got a pretty serious problem. No passport, no driver's license, no Social Security number. We don't even know what country he's from, right?"
"He sounds American," Connie said.
"Yes, but that's not enough. Lots of people sound American who aren't. The next question's going to be whether he really has amnesia." He grinned at her. "Believe it or not, scam artists fake amnesia from time to time."
"Now you're starting to worry me."
"Sorry, but you asked for a cop-type answer."
"Okay," she said. "So how can they tell if he's faking?"
"Well, I'm no expert, but I've run across the question a time or two in my former career. There are a whole bunch of theories and tests and 'expert' opinions, but my own conclusion is they can't tell. Not if he's half bright."
"How can that be?" Connie asked.
"I'm a cop, not a shrink or a neurologist, but my understanding is that unless he screws up and reveals something damning, they can't know. Not definitively. I guess every case is a little different."
"That's not comforting. You're the suspicious one. Why aren't you worried?"
"About him faking?" Paul asked.
Connie nodded and took another sip of her coffee.
"Because of the situation," Paul said. "People who fake amnesia have a motive. I don't see one here. This poor bastard washed up on an uninhabited island a hundred miles from nowhere. He's got enough problems right there. Why would he fake amnesia?"
"Well," Connie said. "I don't know. Why does anybody fake amnesia?"
"They're trying to avoid being held responsible for something — a debt, a crime, something. It's not always obvious, I'll grant you. But in this case?" He shook his head. "I don't see any reason for him to fake it."
"So my worries are unfounded, then. Is that what you're saying?"
Paul shook his head again. "I'd like to say that, but whether he's faking or not isn't the only thing that could cause us trouble, since you want to explore the possibilities."
Connie frowned. "What, then?"
"If he's not faking," Paul said, "and we can't identify him, what happens to him?"
"Exactly," Connie said. "But I'm more interested in what it means to us. Not to seem heartless or anything, but ... "
"Uh-huh," Paul said. "But what?"
"The immigration officer referred to him as a 'stateless person.' She said they normally would hold us responsible for keeping him aboard the boat 'at all times.' Because he needs medical attention, they're making an exception. And that is only if Sharktooth accompanies him while he's ashore. Thank goodness Sharktooth's a Justice of the Peace, or whatever."
"Did she say what would happen if we declined to accept responsibility for him?" Paul asked.
"Yes. The only way they would grant us clearance to enter was if we agreed to keep him aboard except when he was in Sharktooth's custody. What would happen if we took him back to the U.S.? I mean, like the USVI or Puerto Rico?"
"I think we'd have a litt
le more leverage, since we're citizens and Diamantista II's U.S. flagged. They'd probably detain him, though — lock him up somewhere while they tried to figure out what happened to him."
"That's kind of a harsh option," Connie said, "but it beats keeping him aboard for the rest of time."
"Uh-huh, it does," Paul said. "That's a last-ditch plan, though. Let's hope we can identify him somehow."
"Why are you called Sharktooth?" Friday asked, as he buckled his seatbelt. They were in Sharktooth's car, having left his water taxi at the mouth of the Indian River.
The big man grinned at him and shrugged. "You saw the dried shark's jaws on the bow of the boat. It's my trademark. Aroun' the waterfront, it's not unusual to call a man by the name of his boat."
"That's the name of your boat, then?"
"Mm-hmm. Name jus' a word. Like Connie an' Paul call you Friday. You know they talkin' to you. You say 'Sharktooth,' I answer. Who needs more than that?"
"But you must have a real name," Friday said.
"Sharktooth," the giant answered, in a tone that told Friday the topic was closed.
"How long will it take us?" Friday asked.
"To drive to the hospital?" Sharktooth asked.
"Right."
"Take 'round 45 minutes, depending on traffic. It's about 30 kilometers."
"I don't have money."
Sharktooth glanced at him. "No problem. Connie and Paul are my friends."
"Thanks, but I was thinking about for the hospital."
"Don't worry, mon. You need help; we take care of you. That's how t'ings work in the islands."
"Will I be able to stay somewhere here? I mean, until I get this sorted out, like."
"Mm," Sharktooth said. "We see. Take one step, then the next. First, we make sure you okay wit' the bump on the head, yeah?"
"I'm okay, except that I can't remember stuff from before."
"Before the bump?" Sharktooth asked.
"Right."
"How long ago was that?"
"I don't know. When Connie and Paul first found me, I was having trouble remembering stuff even for a few minutes, but I'm better, now."
Under Full Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 7th Novel in the Series - Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean (Connie Barrera Thrillers) Page 6