“Hellooooo,” he called into the hunched man’s ear, “anybody home???”
Gene looked up suddenly, startled that he wasn’t still alone.
“Oh, uh, sorry,” he started. “Hey guys. When did you get back?”
Bill and Wyatt exchanged glances.
“Well, we just got in, but we radioed an hour ago telling you we were coming!” Wyatt began to smile. “I knew you loved that sonar, but wow, that takes the cake.”
“You don’t understand,” Gene said and grinned like a kid on Christmas Eve. “You have no idea what this thing can do.”
Wyatt laughed and Bill just rolled his eyes and sat down at the table.
“Actually, I know quite well what it can do.” Wyatt stepped over to a nearby counter and poured himself a not-so-fresh cup of coffee.
He didn’t mention that the C.I.A. had provided the sophisticated sonar to him as a means of keeping an eye on the waters around Cuba. He didn’t think the waters around Cuba were that important, but apparently, someone at the C.I.A. did. Only much later would he learn that someone at the highest levels of the C.I.A. was using the data he was providing to his covert contact, Stingray, to look for something very important on the floor of the gulf.
“Okay, look at this.” Gene pulled out the familiar printout of the moment they lost the Wy Knott.
“Yes, yes, very impressive,” Wyatt said and moved closer to the table, sipping his coffee.
“But look,” —Gene flipped the page back to reveal a similar image, but something was different— “I found a function that allowed me to see three dimensionally… below the gulf’s bed.”
“What do you mean?” Wyatt looked closer at the page.
“This is a picture of the next five hundred feet down,” Gene said and tapped the table, “and this…” He paused and flipped another page. It was dramatically different. It looked as if a black hole had been drawn in the center of the grid. “… is the next five hundred feet.”
Wyatt’s mouth dropped open. “What is that?”
Gene stood up and went over to a nearby computer keyboard. “It’s under a salt bed.” He turned to look at them as the computer screen resolved into an almost photographic three-dimensional rendering of the printouts they were looking at. “It appears to be a reservoir.”
“A reservoir?” George was stunned. “A reservoir in less than sixty feet of water?”
“Yup.” Gene tapped the screen. “And it looks huge.”
“How huge?” Bill stood up to get a closer look at the monitor.
“Troika huge,” Gene said in a whisper.
“Holy mother of…” Bill just blinked at the screen.
George Wyatt fainted.
32
An Odd Bowl
Shortly after her release from the Lower Keys Medical Center at sunrise, Megan Simons arrived at the Dolphin Research Center to find R.B. and Chelsea huddled together, asleep, or more accurately passed out, on a lobby couch.
She shook her head and walked back to the lab. Troy had gone to see if anything was left of his beloved houseboat, but she was excited to get to work on the items they had recovered from the shipwreck before they’d been…
She suddenly stumbled in her thoughts. So much had happened that she hadn’t stopped to fully appreciate the fact they’d been shot at; someone had been willing to commit murder to get their hands on that shipwreck… or to keep them from bringing anything up.
It was a chilling thought, one she would have to discuss with Troy later, but it also piqued her curiosity. What had they found that would inspire someone to kill them? Surely gold or silver alone wouldn’t be enough for that.
She clicked on the fluorescent lights in the lab to find that Chelsea had done a good job preparing the items in a saltwater bath to keep them from decomposing. At first glance, most of them appeared to be metal objects, rusted and heavily barnacled. She would have to be extremely careful not to damage them in cleaning.
Megan opened a cabinet and prepared a solution of dissolved chlorides and sulfates to saturate the artifacts. She randomly picked up an item from one of the saltwater tubs and dipped it into the solution. Amazingly, this particular artifact did not crumble under her tongs. She continued to move the pieces into the new solution. It would take some time for the chemicals to evaporate and leave behind semi-clean pieces. She then planned to use electrolysis and perhaps some other chemical baths to further remove salt and smaller debris.
She decided to get some breakfast while giving the solutions time to do their work. She exited the lab and clicked off the lights.
As she walked into the lobby, Chelsea stirred and looked up through groggy eyes. “Oh, hey,” she said, suddenly awkward and shy.
“Don’t mind me,” Megan said with a wink, “I’mjust heading down to the Seven Mile Grill for something to eat.”
R.B. raised his head quickly. “Ahhh, that sounds terrific.”
“Sheesh,” Megan said, sighing. “Okay, you’ve got five minutes to get ready.”
R.B. flipped his Tortuga Adventures cap over his tussled blonde hair. “Heck, I’m ready now!”
Chelsea shrugged and stood up. “Yeah, me too, I guess.”
Ten minutes later, R.B. was drooling over the three egg omelets listed with various combinations of unhealthy ingredients. Megan ordered her usual; fresh fruit and a bagel. Chelsea laughed at her and ordered French toast with apple topping. R.B. ordered the same, plus a Keys Omelets with ham, tomato, peppers, onions, cheese and potatoes.
“Hungry?” Megan raised an eyebrow.
“What?” he smiled sheepishly. “I haven’t eaten a decent meal since before…” He stopped short.
“I know,” she said, nodded.
An awkward silence fell over their plastic outdoor patio breakfast table.
“So, how ‘bout those Seminoles,” Chelsea chimed, in trying to change the subject.
The horror of their experiences from the last few days was still fresh.
“You know,” Megan said, ignoring the dark-haired intern, “I’ve been wondering about something.”
“What’s that?” R.B. doodled with his finger on the table.
“Who shot at us?”
He stopped doodling and looked up at her. “I’ve been wondering that too. I mean, who could have—”
The waitress interrupted them, setting their food on the table. As she left, he continued his thought.
“… who could have known where we were?” He sat up a little straighter. “We didn’t tell anyone where we were going.”
“Maybe you were followed.” Chelsea didn’t look up and took a bite of her French toast.
Megan and R.B. stared at her and said nothing.
“What?” She realized they had stopped talking. “Well, that only makes sense… right?”
R.B. looked at Megan. “She’s got a point.”
“They could’ve followed us,” —Megan tapped her fork on her plate— “or they could’ve followed Natasha.”
R.B. nodded in agreement. “But who?”
“I don’t know,” Megan said, “but whoever it was probably thinks we’re dead.”
“We need to lay low until we know what’s going on here.”
She nodded and put her fork down. “I’m not really hungry anymore.”
“Yeah, me neither.” R.B. slouched back in his chair.
Chelsea looked at Megan and then back at R.B. while chewing on a bite of apple. “Well, heck. I still am!”
After dropping Chelsea off at her apartment, R.B. returned Megan to the research center, then headed back to Key West, leaving Megan to finish her work on the artifacts. He promised he would keep Troy out of trouble; Megan was sure that was an empty promise, but she didn’t see much she could do about it.
Megan clicked on the lights in the lab. She was pleasantly surprised to see that some of the items were readily identifiable. Many were even showing metallic luster and looked pretty well intact.
She carefully pulled an item fr
om the chemical bath with the tongs and laid it on a soft pad on the table. It was an iron cup, and it was fairly ordinary. Something she’d long since pushed to the back of her mind resurfaced; what did a ship carrying the dead need with an iron cup… clearly not the cup of the wealthy. The crew on board would’ve sipped from bottles of rum.
She shook her head and put the cup down on the pad to continue drying. She turned her attention to the biggest piece they had recovered. It appeared to be a bowl about ten-inches deep and it was heavy, maybe thirty pounds.
It hadn’t fared as well as the cup. It was badly corroded and had several holes in it. It had an odd loop in the bottom that was broken, maybe an attachment for mixing the bowl’s contents; another odd find for a boat full of dead people. There were a few markings on the side, but they were indistinct, probably just scratches from the disaster that must have sunk the ship.
She sat it down on another pad and had trouble getting it to sit upright. Finally, she gave up and let it rest gently on its side. She turned back toward the tubs and took out a new piece, another cup, she thought.
When she went to place this new one on the table, she stopped suddenly and dropped the cup. It clanged to the floor, but she didn’t even watch it as it rolled around noisily. From this distance, she realized that the large object she’d just cleaned was no bowl at all. It was a bell; she’d been holding it upside down. She ran back to the table and turned it right side up. The indistinct markings suddenly became an inscription.
“Oh, my God,” she said out loud.
She frantically flipped open her phone and dialed Troy.
33
Don’t Lose Your Head
Joe Bond steered the Key West P.D.’s new Nimbus 250 Nova R westward toward Fort Jefferson. The wind was dying down and a brighter shade of gray was forcing its way through the stinging mist hitting him in the face. Once again, his island town had survived a brush with devastation. Hurricane Daniel had climbed to a category two storm, which meant evacuations and such, not to mention flooding and major property damage. But the warm waters of the gulf had pulled it farther west, missing the island altogether.
Steve Haney, his partner, rode beside him in silence and gripping his orange poncho hood tighter around his neck. He stood when the fort finally rose up on the horizon and pointed.
“Got it,” Joe nodded.
He pulled the boat up to a small pier and Steve hopped out to tie it off. He noticed the fort’s resident boat pulled up on the sand nearby… an odd way for it to be parked.
Joe pointed to it. “Check that out.”
“Roger that,” Steve said, and carefully picked his way across the damp beach toward the boat.
Joe put his hands on his hips and looked up at the high brick walls of the fort. He looked around trying to get the lay of the land. It certainly was an imposing sight.
He made his way up the path toward the fort, holding the railing to keep his balance on the wet and slippery stones. He stumbled slightly once and had to stop as the jarring sent a sharp pain into his back.
“Oh, Damn,” he gasped as his ancient wound stabbed him, taking his breath away.
He raised his hand from the rail to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead and noticed the slightest trace of red on his fingers. He sniffed it and immediately recognized the coppery smell of blood. He gingerly knelt to get a closer look. There were definitely a few dried blood droplets. Someone had come through here with a cut after the storm had passed. He had three possibilities in mind; James Howard, Natasha Wainwright or Vince Pinzioni. All had apparently been here within the last day or two. He made a mental note to get a sample on his way back.
His shoes clicked loudly against the new concrete floor as he entered the fort.
“Hello?” he called into the dark hallway.
Nothing. He suddenly felt something seemed off, and un-holstered his gun. He slowly made his way through the massive stone arches toward what the rangers here called the back of the house. Nothing was on, no lights, no fans, nothing. As he moved closer to the rangers’ quarters he heard a faint whirring sound and could see a dim flicker from below one of the bunker doors.
“Hello?” he called again.
He inched his way toward the door, his breath becoming shallow. It was just this sort of moment that panicked him into remembering that day in the New York alley. It was a cold fear that somehow made his back ache, as if the bullet left in his spine was made of ice. He leaned against the wall next to the door and knocked. The sound echoed loudly down the hall.
Nothing, no response, no sound, no movement of any kind. He reached over and slowly turned the knob. When he felt it click, he flung the door open wide and stormed in, gun pointed in front. The smell was acrid and filled the dark room. He could barely see that a computer was running, which explained the whirring sound and the flickering light of a screensaver. His hand fumbled around on the wall before finding the overhead light switch.
When his eyes finally adjusted to the suddenly fluorescent room, the horrible scene made him turn away. James Howard, one of the park rangers (and apparently C.I.A. agent), was slumped over in his chair. Gore and blood were spattered against the wall behind him and his neck was a gaping wound.
Joe grimaced at the scene as he clicked open his cellphone. “Jill, it’s Joe, we’re gonna need a full C.S.I. team out to Fort Jefferson.”
He noted the gun still dangling from James’ hand, and added, “Possible suicide, maybe homicide… at any rate, we’ve got a body.”
He closed his phone and moved closer to the bloody desk. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully shuffled the mouse around a bit and waited for the computer screen to come back to life. As he did, he accidentally nudged the ranger’s chair and his head lolled to one side, spilling more blood from the hole in his neck.
“Oh, God.” Joe cringed.
Oddly, there were bruises on the lower part of James’ jaw. His mouth fell open with the movement and Joe caught a glimpse of something strange there as well; a tiny bit of flesh was hanging from one of the ranger’s teeth. Joe leaned over to get a closer look.
“Hey!” a voice called from behind him.
Joe whirled around, drew his gun, and ducked behind the desk.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Steve Haney shouted and threw his hands in the air, “it’s just me, it’s just me, don’t shoot!”
“Jeezus Criminy,” Joe gasped, and lowered his gun, “you scared the shit out of me.”
Steve didn’t answer, suddenly stunned by the brutal bloody scene in front of him.
“What the…”
“Yeah, I dunno.” Joe holstered his gun and stood up. “A team is on the way to check it out.”
Steve didn’t move. A fine sweat popped up on his brow and his face went pale.
“Alright!” Joe jumped up and moved toward him. “If you’re gonna throw up, leave the room.”
Steve shook his head and seemed to regain his composure. “Nah, I’m fine.”
Joe stared at him until he was sure the big man wasn’t going to be sick. He pulled a notepad out and jotted down a few things for the C.S.I. team that was on the way: check outside railing and possible DNA sample from victim’s teeth.
“Wow,” Steve said, now seemingly back to himself, “what in God’s name happened?”
“Well, as you can see, he shot himself,” —Joe motioned to the desk— “but he’s struggled with someone and possibly bit them.”
Steve just stared at the body.
“Anyway, there’s a lot of evidence and we—”
Joe was interrupted by a chirp from James’ pocket. He looked at Steve.
The big man shrugged. “Cellphone?”
Joe went around behind the desk and realized that the sound hadn’t come from his pocket, but his lap. A cellphone was lying in between his legs, propped open and blinking with a new message. Joe picked it up with his handkerchief and tapped one of the buttons. The screen had a one word text:
-R
EPORT.
Joe wrapped the phone in the cloth and stuck it in his pocket. “We’ll check that out later,” he said. “Let’s get back to the boat.”
“Oh, by the way, about the boat,” —his partner seemed to snap back to life— “I found something interesting.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a baggie containing three rifle shells. “Somebody’s been shootin’ at something.”
Joe nodded back at the desk. “Seems that’s going around.”
That’s when he noticed the rifle propped up against the side of the desk. “What the hell?”
Steve shrugged. “You’ve got me, man.”
34
Ocean Blue
Megan Simons could hardly keep from gasping as she waited for Troy to answer his phone. Two rings, three… no answer.
“Dammit, Troy,” she said, and waited for his voicemail. “Call me back, it’s important.”
She hung up and turned her attention back to the bell they’d brought up from the bottom of the gulf. It was most certainly a ship’s bell, but it didn’t belong to the Señora de la Muerta. The inscription on the inside of the bell was clear.
She continued to clean it gently. Though badly corroded, she could still make out what appeared to be two round holes about the size of a quarter on one side and a crack connecting them. The bottom lip of the bell was badly distorted on the opposite side. It looked like melted chocolate. She polished the inscription with a swab and read it again; it was right there, no doubt about it.
She picked up her phone to dial Troy again but stopped short. The puzzle pieces she had in her hands didn’t fit together. She clicked open her laptop and waited for it to connect to the wireless broadband. She opened a browser and googled a few key words.
“Haiti,” she muttered to herself, “this thing is supposed to be near Haiti.”
Opening a few more browser windows only proved to be even more mysterious although somehow enlightening as to why it might not have finally rested in Haiti.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 43