by Dan Alatorre
As the cab drove off, Kitt walked to a row of bushes, rubbing her arms. Helena stood next to her. “Take your coat back, dear. You’ll freeze.”
Kitt shook her head. “Keep it. I’ll be all right for now.”
Nodding, Helena looked toward the hospital loading dock. “Doesn’t security see what’s going on? I’m sure they have cameras.”
“I think he pays them to not see him out here.” Kitt shrugged. “That’s good for us. We don’t need to be getting spotted.”
“I should say not.” Helena glanced around. “I hope—”
“Shh.” Kitt pointed. “See the boys going out of their hiding spot? He must be coming.” She took Helena’s hand. “Let’s head there. If we stay along the bushes and fence, we shouldn’t be too obvious to anyone. Hurry.”
Helena rushed along the sidewalk. “These old bones don’t move as fast as you do, dear. Especially in cold weather.”
“You’re doing fine.” Kitt kept her eyes on the rear of the hospital. “We need to get there before he finishes and goes back inside.”
A blonde man in hospital scrubs walked toward a cluster of several shorter boys, his coat slung over his shoulder. They grouped together, looking around as they spoke.
One by one, each of the smaller boys peeled off and disappeared behind the dumpsters.
“Hurry, ma’am.” Kitt walked faster, letting go of Helena’s hand. “He looks like he’s finishing business.”
“Run on ahead, doctor. I’m right behind.”
They neared the end of the hedge row and a set of several dumpsters. The last of the boys finished interacting with the blonde man and walked quickly across the lot in the opposite direction. The blonde man counted his money and shoved it in his pocket, looking around the back lot.
“Go on, Doctor,” Helena said. “Before he goes back inside.”
Kitt walked faster. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, dear. Please.”
The blonde man turned and headed toward the large steel doors.
Kitt broke into a run. “Attendez!” She waved her hand, sprinting past the dumpsters. With his hand on the door latch, the blond man stopped and peered over his shoulder. She waved again, crossing the lot to him.
He let go of the handle and turned to her. “C'est à moi que vous parlez?”
“Oui.” When she reached him, she stopped and put her hands on her sides, gasping. “S'il vous plaît, j'ai besoin de vous parler.”
“Then we speak in English, Docteur.” He chuckled. “Your French is very hard on my ears.”
Kitt inhaled deeply, trying to catch her breath. “You know me?”
“Oui. You work here. Or, you did. I think I saw an email earlier saying you had been terminated. Insubordination, I believe.”
Kitt shook her head. “That figures.”
Helena walked up, her hands clasped in front of her.
“This is my friend,” Kitt said. “She needs help, too.”
“It will be my pleasure, madame.” He smiled broadly, putting on his red and black plaid coat. “My name is Jules. How may I be of service?”
* * * * *
The ship’s medic lowered his stethoscope from Trinn’s chest. “She’s in a bad way, friend.”
Jaden’s face was nearly white as she lay on a cot in the lower deck of the Defense Force boat. An IV tube dangled from her arm, running to a saline bag clipped onto the boat’s ceiling. A crewman with a rifle stood guard at the front of the berth.
Still dripping, DeShear held on to a cabinet, a towel around his shoulders. He was exhausted physically and mentally, but his mind raced with information about Constantine’s abductors. The red boat. The faded paint. The faces of the crew—any details could be crucial.
But the sight of Trinn, unconscious and weak, blurred his thoughts.
He swallowed hard, unable to speak, staring at her face as the medic tucked a blanket around her and dabbed her face with a damp cloth.
“Some blood loss, and very dehydrated. We have a helicopter standing by at the dock.” He faced DeShear, sweat glistening on his forehead. “What about you, friend? How you come to be swimming today?”
The boat sped through the water, jostling Trinn’s IV line and heart rate sensor.
DeShear shook his head, trying to focus. “I—I told you, we hired a fishing charter, and the captain met a friend of his to get bait.” He pressed the towel to the side of his face, his stomach in knots. “Next thing I know, our little girl is gone and the boat’s on fire. You have to send a boat or a plane to scour the area, please. They can’t be too far yet.”
A lieutenant climbed down the ladder to where DeShear stood. He pulled his uniform collar away from his neck and wiped the sweat with a white handkerchief. “But we don’t find your captain. This . . . Laquan fella. Not a hair.”
“When I came above deck,” DeShear said, “he . . . was gone.”
“And your woman.” The lieutenant narrowed his eyes. “She is shot and bleeding on the deck. Unconscious, and covered in gasoline.”
“That’s right.”
“So, nobody left on board unharmed—except you.”
DeShear frowned. “Look, I told you, the crew of the Autolycus II shot our boat up. I was just lucky.”
“Lucky. Hmm.” The lieutenant stroked his chin, stepping toward Trinn’s stretcher. “When we dock, we go talk to Magistrate. We see how lucky he think you are.”
“Send another boat out,” DeShear said. “Laquan’s out there somewhere. They escaped on a boat with a red hull—the Autolycus II, about thirty-five feet long.”
The lieutenant’s eyes stayed on Trinn. “We already sent another boat to your wreck site, mister. And a third.” He wheeled around, glaring at DeShear. “They found some charred fiberglass from the boat’s hull, but they don’t find your Captain Laquan. Maybe the sharks get him—like they almost get your lady friend.”
“I don’t know.” DeShear swallowed hard, sweat forming on his brow. “I was doing my best to keep us from getting introduced to the sharks.”
“My man says when he spotted you, you were not close to the woman. You swam up next to her only after we saw you.”
“I was holding her. But . . . we got knocked apart.”
“By the shark.”
“That’s right.”
“Yes. You already tell me that story upstairs.” The lieutenant walked past DeShear. “I think my boss, he needs to hear it. About how we found a man in the water, his woman almost dead, his little girl gone and his captain missing, his boat all burned up . . . and a magical story about guns and kidnapping and mischief.” He faced DeShear again, leaning close, his voice a whisper. “That is some wild story.”
“I—I’m telling you the truth.” A bead of sweat rolled down DeShear’s cheek. He leaned on the cabinet, his head buzzing. “We . . . we went fishing, and—”
“Fishing!” The lieutenant pointed out the hatch to the open sea. “This is Bahamas, man! We don’t get no trouble like that. I worked on this ocean fifteen years. When we find a wreck, we find supplies from the boat. Life vests, fishing gear, coolers, trash, shoes—but not when we found you. We didn’t see no bait cooler in the wreckage, no beer cooler. We didn’t find no trash, we didn’t find no sail.”
“The kidnappers took the sail.”
“You said your charter was supposed to go all day, but my men didn’t even find your picnic lunch.” He paced back and forth, stroking his chin. “Maybe the fire got it, mister. That fire sent a column of thick black smoke into the sky and burned everything up—all the evidence that supports your story.”
“Maybe it . . . floated away.” His shoulders slumped. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe.” The lieutenant nodded. “Maybe it burned, maybe it float away—you think so? But I think maybe you killed the captain and the little girl. And maybe you shot the woman and burned the boat, but she didn’t die yet. Maybe my men found you on the water right before you finished her off.”
DeShear balled his
hands into fists. “No.”
“Tell me now!” He pounded the wall. “Make it easy on yourself.”
“We were attacked!” DeShear shouted. “They shot at everyone.”
“Not the child.”
“They kidnapped her! They called me on the ship’s radio.”
“A ghost ship!” The lieutenant’s forehead glistened with sweat, a vein throbbing in his neck. “No one ever heard of this ship, Autolycus II. But it called you on a radio that burned up in the fire? Either way, nothing exists now. No radio, no ghost ship.”
“Why would I put myself in the water with the sharks?”
The lieutenant gritted his teeth, jabbing DeShear in the chest. “You watch yourself, mister. You are not in United States now. Here, on the water, I am the law.” He looked DeShear in the eye, lowering his voice. “I think there a reason this all happened, and I think I’ll keep looking until I find out what it is. Maybe you knew a big smoky fire would get seen quick-quick from my men and you only jumped in after you saw them coming.”
“No!”
“I think yes. The woman, she is in bad shape. All dehydrated. How did that happen to her and not you?”
“She hit her head.”
“Yes. Very bad luck happened to everyone—everyone but you. But now you listen to me. I know these waters. I’ve lived on these waters my whole life. If the sharks didn’t eat that captain and little girl, we’re gonna find them. They’ll come floating up, bloated and nasty, and drift into the shipping lane or catch on the reef at low tide . . . but we’re gonna find them, mister. Then we’ll see what kind of story you tell.” He looked at the crewman at the front of the berth. “Put the handcuffs on him. Lock him to the rear deck.”
“No,” DeShear shouted. “I didn’t do anything!”
The crewman stowed his rifle and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
“We’re gonna take you to the Magistrate,” the lieutenant growled. “See what he thinks of your story. Me, I’m done with you. My guess is, he sends you to Pearl Island. Twenty years of busting rocks for the new road from Freeport to East End Lodge.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Then you will fit right in.” He sneered. “Every man on Pearl Island is innocent. Just ask them, they’ll tell you.” Laughing, the lieutenant climbed the stairs to the mid deck. As the boat lowered its engines, he looked over his shoulder at DeShear. “Pray your lady doesn’t die from her gunshot, or Pearl Island gonna be a sweet dream compared to where the Magistrate sends you.”
The boat sidled up to a dock at a large marina, and the crewman brought DeShear up from below. A helicopter sat waiting on a field in front of a resort, its blades chopping the air
As Trinn was loaded onto a stretcher, two police officers stepped forward.
The lieutenant glared at DeShear. “These bobbies take you to tell your story again, mister lucky man. Maybe you convince the Magistrate your fairy tale is true.”
The police officers grabbed DeShear by the arms, pulling him toward a waiting squad car. DeShear yanked an arm free, turning toward the helicopter. “Trinn!”
The medics opened the helicopter door, collapsing the folding legs of the stretcher and lifting it onto the edge of the cargo bay.
“Trinn!” DeShear strained against the officers.
“Hold him.” One of the officers reached for his baton.
DeShear jerked his arm free again, twisting away and falling to the ground. He rolled away, putting his hands on the grass and thrusting himself to his feet.
The officer unclipped his baton and raised it over his head. “Stop!”
DeShear raced for the helicopter. The medics slid Trinn’s stretcher into the cargo bay and secured it. The pilot stood behind them, holding the cargo bay door.
Lowering his shoulder, DeShear rammed the pilot and knocked him to the ground. The door bounced into the medics. Grabbing it, DeShear heaved the door open and shoved the medics aside.
“Jaden—you have to find the old woman. You know the one I mean.” The medics grabbed DeShear. “You have to get to her,” he said. “If they found Constantine, they’ll find her. She’s not safe. None of us are.”
The medics pulled him away from the door.
“Trinn, can you hear me?”
As the officer with the baton reached DeShear, the pilot joined the fray, wrapping his arms around DeShear and dragging him away from the helicopter.
“Trinn!”
The pilot drove a fist into DeShear’s gut as the baton cracked against his skull. He fell to the ground, peering into the cargo bay door.
As the door slid shut, Trinn’s hand lifted from the side of the stretcher. She gave him a thumbs up.
The police and crew of the Defense Force boat descended on DeShear, beating him until he stopped fighting.
Chapter 9
The Honorable Charles McCullough swept through the hot, humid hallway, the dark robes of the magistrate flowing behind him. Outside, the setting sun cast long shadows over the grounds. “Lieutenant Moray. A word, if you will, please.”
The Defense Force lieutenant jumped up from the wooden bench in the hallway, leaving a bloody DeShear on the floor at the feet of two armed crewman.
As the door shut to the Magistrate’s tiny stuffy office, he stepped behind his cluttered desk, eyeing the second door to the anteroom. It moved slightly in the breeze as the magistrate’s small fan spun near the window, exchanging the stale office air for the cooler breezes that came with the sunset.
Lieutenant Moray stood at attention in front of the desk.
“I have a concern, Lieutenant.” McCullough removed his white wig and placed it on the stand on his credenza, rubbing his ebony scalp. “You have brought me an issue that would be best not to deal with at the moment.”
Moray remained at attention. “Sir?”
“Your prisoner. This . . . Hamilton DeShear.” He fluffed his robes, fanning himself. “Our immigration records show he is in our country under a provision of the British and French governments—a matter of some secrecy that I am not fully privy to and that he may not even be fully aware of. However, the issue is before us nonetheless.”
“I don’t follow, sir.”
“No, I suspect you don’t.” McCollough tilted his head back, taking a deep breath. “What is your reckoning of this man—this Hamilton DeShear?”
“He says he was in a boating accident, your honor. I have reason to believe otherwise.”
“Based on what evidence?”
Moray frowned. “His story is so full of holes, it is more like swiss cheese than an alibi. When his woman regains consciousness, she’ll tell us what happened. Then we hang that mister by the neck from the yardarm.”
“Hang him?” Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, McCollough wiped his brow. “That’s what you think we should do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s because you’re a bloody fool, Moray!” The Magistrate threw his handkerchief onto the desk. “Did you not listen? The man is on the island at the request of—and as a favor to—the governments of Great Britain and France!” He pointed to the door. “And he’s in my hallway, beaten to a pulp. This is quite a mess you’ve created and brought to my door.”
Moray shifted on his feet.
“I think you should clean up your mess, Lieutenant.” McCollough glanced at the anteroom door. “I think this whole unfortunate incident would be better if it had never happened—do you take my meaning?”
“I do, sir.” Moray swallowed hard. “But how?
Folding his arms, the Magistrate paced back and forth in the tiny office. “Have you filed a report?”
“Not yet, sir. We came straightaway after subduing the prisoner at the port.”
“Subduing.” McCollough snorted, putting a hand to his lips. “Here is what I propose. I shall call your superior and have the crews of the three boats split up and reassigned. From there, it will be a simple matter of getting rid of the final piece of . . . evidence.” He glanc
ed at the lieutenant. “A man goes on a fishing trip, he gets lost at sea, and no one knows what happened. But he never came here, understand?”
The lieutenant shifted on his feet.
“Do you understand me, Lieutenant?”
“I do, your Honor.”
There was a knock on the door. The magistrate’s clerk stuck his head in. “Sir, I have the information you requested.”
“Good, Prenley. Come in.”
A petite man with round spectacles entered the office. “My associate at the customs house says the passports were for three people—the man, the woman in the hospital, and a small child.”
“We already knew that, you imbecile.” McCullough waved a hand. “What is the reason for their special provision?”
“I haven’t learned that yet, sir.” Prenley adjusted his glasses. “But I was able to gather something else that may be of interest to you. It seems the girl is the benefactor of a legal trust.”
The Magistrate eyed his clerk. “Is that so?”
“And I found this next bit to be especially intriguing,” Prenley said. “According to my man, there was quite a good bit of paperwork filed in London. The net of it seems to be that in the event of the child’s death, the new benefactor is the current executor of the trust. A Mr. Hamilton DeShear, of Tampa, Florida, in the United States of America.
McCullough’s jaw dropped. “Cor, blimey.”
“He killed the lot to take the girl’s inheritance!” Moray pounded his fist into his hand. “I knew it.”
“Prenley . . .” The magistrate looked at his clerk. “How much?”
“The filings are a bit dodgy on that, sir.” The clerk adjusted his glasses again, peering at a piece of paper in his hand. “The price of stocks fluctuate, you know. But I was able to get an estimate from a friend at the London Exchange.”
“And?”
“In U.S currency, the girl is worth approximately . . . three billion dollars, sir.”
“Three . . .” The magistrate collapsed into his chair. “Blimey.”
The lieutenant winced, sweat rolling down the side of his face.
“Three billion dollars.” McCullough stared at the ceiling, but his focus seemed far way. His hands fell to his sides. “All entrusted to a little girl.”