Stop at Nothing

by Michael Ledwidge

  Ruiz brought his right fist up onto the table, walking the quarter back and forth over his knuckles. He spun the quarter on the tabletop and then slapped it flat and peeked at it.

  “A local must have taken it,” he said. “Saw the wreckage, grabbed a bobbing suitcase before the coast guard found it. A fisherman or a sailboater.”

  “A local civvie,” Reyland ruminated, taking out his phone as he watched Ruiz spin the coin again.

  They really would have to do it the hard way, he thought.

  22

  Sergeant Jeremy made a funny humming sound as he bumped along the uneven field with his grandkids at his farm in Greencastle.

  There were six of them altogether stuffed into the tiny cab of the old blue Ford tractor. The two older boys were hanging out the open left side and the two girls out the right. The littlest one, three-year-old George Junior, sat in his lap laughing as Sergeant Jeremy hummed and let him steer.

  As usual on his day off, Sergeant Jeremy was “tilling the earth,” as his wife sarcastically called his on-again, off-again interest in working their ramshackle farm. He had exchanged his uniform for a T-shirt and jeans and a Miami Marlins baseball cap, and he and the grandkids were coming back from spreading compost at the top field. Now after helping Pawpy, they were taking the long way back before Granmama’s Bible class.

  He saw the man as they arrived at the end of the field. He was standing in a patch of sunlight a hundred feet down the old cow path. The man was white and tall and was wearing a dark polo shirt and business khakis.

  “Run along now, children,” Sergeant Jeremy said as he stopped the tractor and ratcheted on the hand brake.

  “Hi, there. Are you Officer Jeremy Austin?” the visitor said as the children jumped down and started running past him for the house.

  “I’m Sergeant Austin,” Sergeant Jeremy said as he cut the engine altogether and came halfway out of the cab without stepping all the way down. The man was bald and so tall they were still almost eye level. He looked into the man’s pale gray eyes.

  Like a wolf’s, he thought.

  “I hear you’re the man to talk to in these here parts,” the white man said.

  “And you are?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m from the FBI.”

  “Ah, an American,” Sergeant Jeremy said as if this delighted him.

  “Yep. All the way from the US of A,” the large bald man said, grinning. “We’re looking into that plane crash that happened north of Little Abaco a few days back.”

  “Oh, I see. We haven’t heard much about it after the initial report. Your navy is handling it, I believe.”

  “Yes, my navy is taking care of it, but you see, we’re looking for information, Sergeant. Information about anyone you know who might have been out on the water that evening.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes. I know there are a lot of boats on the island, but everybody down here is pretty cozy, aren’t they? Especially the fishermen and workers on the boats. Everybody has his personal little fishing spots here and there. At least that’s what I hear.”

  Sergeant Jeremy kicked free a clod of mud that had gotten caught up in the huge tread of the tractor’s tire.

  “What is it you’re trying to find out?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. We’re just looking for the names of anyone you can think of who might have been out on the water when the crash occurred.”

  Sergeant Jeremy toed loose some more soil with his boot.

  “Which night was this, now? Monday?”

  “Yes. Two days ago. Monday night.”

  Sergeant Jeremy looked as the bald man pulled free a strand of tall dried grass and spun it in his fingers. He was comfortable, serene. Not a care in the world. Like he was on his own land, Jeremy thought. Like everywhere belonged to him.

  “What time did the crash occur?” Jeremy asked.

  “This would have been probably, oh, around seven or so,” he said.

  Sergeant Jeremy pursed his lips as if deep in thought.

  “No one comes to mind right off. Folks around here rarely go up that far. Even charters. Most of the locals around here are pretty stingy with the gas.”

  As if I would tell you anything, you arrogant American prick, Sergeant Jeremy thought.

  “Well, if you can think of anyone, give me a ring, would you?” the bald man said, smiling as he offered a business card. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we’re giving out grants now. Expanding our network here in the Caribbean. I would love to get some of those Washington grants out here to you to help you and your station. You could always use new equipment, yes? New vehicles? Perhaps even a boat. We can always use good partners.”

  Sergeant Jeremy took the card and beamed down at it exaggeratedly. The fake smile on his face like he’d just won the lottery.

  Reyland, the card said under the FBI logo. Deputy Assistant Director Robert Reyland.

  “If I hear of anything, Mr. Reyland,” he said, giving the arrogant American official his best vacant welcome to the Bahamas, mon grin, “you’ll be the first to know.”

  Reyland stood there for a moment staring at him, staring at the empty field around.

  “Can I give you a lift back to the road?” Sergeant Jeremy said, stepping up into the tractor cab.

  “No, thanks,” Reyland finally said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You can go ahead now, Sergeant. I’ll find my own way out.”

  23

  There were about a dozen fat gulls atop Mama Lizbeth’s grocery store’s dried wood awning, and they all seemed to give Gannon the stink eye as he jogged in off the beach the next morning at a little after 8:00 a.m.

  As he caught his breath, he spotted an old red Toyota sedan with missing hubcaps and tinted windows at the other end of its sandy asphalt lot.

  Gannon smiled as the island beater gave off a brief honk.

  As he stepped over, its driver’s door swung wide. A thin, smiling, mischievous-looking young black man with long dreads stepped out and gave him a funny little bow. His white wifebeater and khaki shorts were immaculate, pristine.

  “Oh, so you really are still alive,” Gannon said as he came over and gave his on-again, off-again first mate, Little Jorge, a hand slap and hearty man hug.

  Little Jorge laughed.

  “Alive and kicking, Captain Mike, always,” he said in his musical island drawl.

  Gannon shook his head at him.

  When he first came down to the islands, Gannon took an instant liking to the cute, funny, hustling kid who hung around the docks with his older brothers. He’d actually been pretty good buds with Little Jorge’s whole large family ever since he had taught the motley lot of them how to dive free of charge in an effort to keep them out of trouble.

  The sun caught the glint of gold in Little Jorge’s pirate’s smile.

  Gannon definitely had his work cut out for him there.

  Little Jorge wasn’t exactly what one would call a reliable employee, but when the wiry twenty-two-year-old showed up for work, he was actually top-notch. He knew the waters around the Bahamas better than anyone and was one of the most skilled, natural fishermen Gannon had ever seen.

  “How’d your, um, vacation go?” Gannon said.

  “Just got back this very minute when I saw your text,” Little Jorge said.

  “Three weeks this time?” Gannon said.

  Little Jorge shrugged and laughed again.

  His family was originally from San Andrés Island in Colombia, and sometimes, he and his brothers—like other reckless young island men—would try to make a quick and extremely dangerous buck by acting as pilots on the Picuda go-fast drug boats that played cat-and-mouse in the Caribbean with the coast guard from South America to Miami Beach.

  Gannon had tried to talk to him about it, about what a .50-caliber bullet c
ould do to a young man’s future, but every time he would explain how unwise it was, the amiable young man would just giggle until he stopped.

  Little Jorge was giggling now.

  “I was actually starting to get a little worried this time,” Gannon said.

  “Worry? No, no, Captain Mike. About me? Never. Like the man says, ‘Don’t worry. Be happy.’”

  Gannon rolled his eyes then laughed himself at the goofy, crazy kid as he shook his head.

  “So tell me, did you replace Buster yet?” Little Jorge said.

  “No,” Gannon said. “I keep forgetting.”

  “I miss watching the lines with old Buster,” Little Jorge said. “So what is it, Captain Mike? Where are we heading out this morning? The resorts? Is it diving or fishing or both?”

  “No, I’m heading to the States for a bit, but I have some fishing appointments coming up, and I was hoping you could cover for me.”

  “You mean you want me to go out on the Rambler on my own?” Little Jorge said, blinking at him in shock.

  Gannon blinked back. He was a little wary about it himself, but he wanted things to seem as normal as possible while he was gone.

  And who knew? Maybe the responsibility would do him some good, Gannon thought.

  “First time for everything, Little Jorge. I thought you could take Peter with you.”

  “No, my brother Peter is away, but Andre is here.”

  “Go with Andre, then,” Gannon said. “The boat’s at Davis Head. We need everything. Water and gas and bait. Oh, and a new radio antenna. I left some money under the seat with the schedule.”

  A touched expression crossed the young man’s face when Gannon handed him the boat keys.

  “I’ll take good, good care of her, Captain Mike,” Little Jorge said, looking down at his hand.

  “You damn well better,” Gannon said, giving the kid another clap on his back before he went up the steps for the store.

  24

  Inside the store, Mama Lizbeth’s grown daughter, Joni, was manning the cash register. Gannon waved, but as usual, she ignored him as she turned to the little TV that perpetually played from the edge of the beat-up Plexiglas counter.

  Joni was usually all smiles with everyone, the locals and the day-tripping boaters who came in on their grocery store’s dock, but for some reason, she seemed to hate Gannon’s guts with a fierce-burning passion.

  Why? he thought for the millionth time as he passed down into the aisle.

  What had he done? Run over her dog and not noticed? Looked like someone who’d robbed the store?

  He could never figure it out.

  He walked to the back. On the shelves, products were laid out in no particular order. Soup cans next to paper plates next to shaving cream.

  He saw there were some packages of Oreos on a shelf.

  When was the last time he had eaten one? he thought as he picked them up. But then he checked the date on them and put them back.

  On the shelf below, there was a box of some desperate onions and a dwindling tray of sorry yams. Getting produce out here in the island sticks was the absolute worst.

  He found what he was looking for in the center aisle. A jug of Tide and some Clorox bleach and a package of sponges. He wanted to get his laundry done and tidy up before he left on his afternoon flight.

  When he came back up the aisle, Joni was turned almost fully around now, seemingly absorbed in some news on her little TV. He tapped his foot to get her attention, but that did no good, so he watched with her for a minute.

  She was watching the BBC broadcast. There was something about a British singer who had OD’d and then something about protests in London over the latest computer hacker, and then there was a lager commercial that made her finally turn around.

  He was coming out of the island bodega, blinking at the sunlight, when he saw Sergeant Jeremy. It would have been hard to miss him. His Jeep was parked almost butt up against the bottom of the grocery store’s sandy steps and he was sitting on its hood.

  “Hello, Michael, my friend,” he said.

  “Hey, buddy. How’s the crime rate?” Gannon said, smiling broadly as he came down the steps.

  “Everyone’s still looking into that plane crash. I actually got a visit from a US official about it. He came by the farm.”

  Holy shit, Gannon thought.

  “Yeah?” Gannon said, shifting his bag to his other arm. “Somebody from the coast guard?”

  “No,” Sergeant Jeremy said, folding his arms as he looked him in the eye. “It was a man from the American FBI.”

  “No way. An actual G-man, huh?” Gannon said, nodding like a fool as he tried to hide his awe and shock.

  “Yes. They’re asking around about anybody who might have come across anything. They wanted a list of anybody out on the water Monday night.”

  “Is that right?” Gannon said.

  Sergeant Jeremy took off his hat and wiped his brow with a neatly folded white handkerchief he took from his pocket, then meticulously squared his hat back on his head again.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “I thought about you and your fishing trip, but you already told me you were far away from the crash site that night, so I said I couldn’t help him. He said he wished to speak to anybody at all out that evening. But he was a very pushy, very arrogant man. I didn’t think you wished to speak to him, so I left you out of it.”

  Gannon let out his breath as he began to nod.

  “Well, thank you for that. I’m glad they got to the man who knows how to, um...properly handle things around here.”

  Sergeant Jeremy looked at him very closely.

  “Tell me, what are your plans this week, Michael?”

  “Plans? Oh, I was thinking of giving my boy a visit. I’m flying to the States this very afternoon, in fact.”

  “Oh, yes, your son. What’s his name? David? No, Dean, is it?”

  “Declan. Yeah. Haven’t seen him in a while, so I’m going to hang out with him for a few weeks.”

  “That’s sort of sudden,” Sergeant Jeremy said.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t get a chance to see him over Christmas.”

  “But the tourist season is just picking up for you, yes?” Sergeant Jeremy said, peering at him.

  “I’m going to have Little Jorge take out the boat.”

  Sergeant Jeremy gaped at him for a beat. Like everybody else on the island, he knew all about Little Jorge and his family’s sketchy reputation for going on sudden “vacations.”

  “Time to give that boy some experience out on his own,” Gannon added. “Do him some good.”

  Sergeant Jeremy hopped down from the Jeep’s hood.

  “That’s a good plan, Michael. At least the part about you going away for a bit. That’s probably best.”

  “Best? What do you mean? Why’s that?” Gannon said to the sly old codger.

  Sergeant Jeremy winked as they shook hands.

  “We can never spend enough time with the ones we love,” he said.

  PART TWO

  Give My Regards to Broadway

  25

  Up on the wall behind the counter was the lineup of all the usual suspects. There was Elmo, of course, and Dora and several of the Power Rangers. There were also a few newcomers since last time, a Wonder Woman and PAW Patrol dog and one of those yellow one-eyed Cheez Doodles Minion things.

  Then Ruby saw it and smiled because there was obviously no contest at all.

  “I’ll take that one,” she said, pointing at the giant inflated pink baby bootie balloon that said IT’S A GIRL! across the incredible length of it.

  “Oh, and one of these as well,” she said with a yawn as she picked up a bottle of 5-hour ENERGY from the display beside the register.

  “Actually, make that two,” she said, cracking open the one in her hand and g
rabbing another.

  What a day! she thought.

  She’d gotten back to Pensacola at eleven at night, and at a little after three, her sister Lori’s water broke. With the jet lag and panic, she’d driven like a nut to Sacred Heart Hospital, almost breaking the mechanical stick that blocked the parking lot entrance.

  But it had all worked out. Seven hours later, at 5:11 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, her first and only niece, Alice Wells, a brand-new, healthy tiny human, had arrived on earth only slightly before her scheduled due date.

  Lori and Ally were doing great, thank God, and her husband, Mitch, had been able to watch it on Skype from Afghanistan on her phone. If Ruby hadn’t already been crying in the delivery room, the enormous roar of Mitch’s fellow marines when he screamed “It’s a girl!” at them would have done the trick.

  Now, exhaustion or no exhaustion, it was crack-of-dawn victory lap time. In addition to the balloon, Ruby was going to grab a bottle of champagne and Lori’s favorite roast beef hero from Firehouse Subs and then swing by Lori’s neighbor’s house to grab her nephew, Sean, so he could meet his little sister.

  No rest for the weary, she thought, yawning as she came out into the early morning Party City parking lot.

  Or for sisters slash aunts of the year.

  She’d just managed to get the hatchback of her Kia Rio down over the pink blimp when her phone rang. She fished the phone out of her purse and checked the caller ID as she pulled the driver’s door open.

  Wally Derwent? she thought, dropping behind the wheel. He was her cubicle buddy from the naval safety office.

  “Hey, Wally,” she said.

  “Hey, Rube. Sorry to bug you on leave, but I picked up your phone here a minute ago. Some guy is real frantic to get into contact with you. He called yesterday, too.”

  “That right?” Ruby said, bleary-eyed, as she slammed her door. “Did he leave a name?”

  “No, he wouldn’t say. All he said was he knew you from the Surmount, and he left his number and said he really, really, really needed to get into contact with you.”