Wayward Sons

by Wayne Stinnett

  I dug my old cell phone out of a drawer. Most of my contacts would be on it, but it had gotten wet and I’d replaced it with the sat phone. The SIM card was still locked in its slot. I slipped it out.

  On my way up to the salon, something else grabbed my attention. A black rectangle about the size of a file folder sitting on my desk. In all the troubles I’d stumbled through today, Dr. Markel’s laptop had completely disappeared into a misty corner of my mind.

  I tucked it under my arm and brought it, and the new cell phone and charger, with me to the flybridge. I put the SIM card in the phone, then plugged the charger into a USB port near the helm. After turning the phone on and doing a couple things for the initial setup, it was ready to dial.

  All of Gene’s numbers had been committed to memory a long time ago. On my first deployment, I had problems getting a region-free phone to work in Afghanistan, so I always ended up buying one from a local and dialing numbers from memory. I put in the number for her office and hit send.

  “Snyder Commercial Real Estate Group,” her secretary, Olivia, answered.

  I remembered Olivia well. She’d come on when Dad still ran the show. Whenever I was deployed, she sent me a care package about halfway through each tour, like clockwork. Always stuffed with homemade cookies and instant coffee that came with self-heating pouches.

  God, I loved those instant coffees. I always kept one on me, in a little pocket on the upper arm of my cammies. That way, I always had one when I was sure to get an undisturbed half hour. I’d sit back in whatever FOB dug into an Afghan hill I’d been stationed in, dump that stuff in a spare canteen, and savor it. Or eat the granules of coffee straight-up when I needed a boost of energy on the move.

  Thinking about the grit of those freeze-dried grounds between my teeth made the hair on my arms stand on end as I sat down in the helmsman’s chair.

  “Olivia? It’s Jerry.”

  “Jerry!” she squealed. “How are you! I haven’t heard from you in so long! How’s married life? How’s the Caribbean? When are you coming back to visit?”

  I smiled. Olivia’s enthusiasm was infectious. It would not be denied.

  “Married life is good; the Caribbean is beautiful as ever. Things here are great. Couldn’t be better. Hey, is Gene in? I had a couple things I needed to ask her.”

  “Oh, sure!” Olivia said. “I’m gonna put you on hold. And tell Alicia I said hi!”

  “I will.”

  The phone clicked. Jazz fusion music played over the earpiece for a few seconds, then it clicked again.

  “Jerry?” My sister, Gene, sounded perplexed, like I’d been launched to the moon and left behind, alive, and forever unreachable.

  From her end of the call, I heard laughing. Not polite laughter like a dinner party or a group of friends—it was the rude, combative howling of old men in suits with their shirt collars buttoned up so tight, they had to force the air through their throats like a jackhammer.

  Cigar smoke and scotch practically leached from my phone.

  I pictured my sister with them. She was tall, like me, with the same runner’s build Dad had given both of us. But where I had Dad’s hair with Mom’s face, she was the opposite. She looked like our father—sharp chin, long nose, an intelligent, but empathetic quality when she looked you in the eyes, paired with our mother’s dark, straight, Italian hair.

  She stood apart from all the old businessmen I’d ever seen her with—even when Dad was still around—and they wouldn’t let her forget that she was different, not for too long. But Gene was never intimidated by them. She got that from Dad too.

  We both did.

  “I’ve been meaning to call you,” I said.

  “You better have,” she said with a big laugh. “Living it up in the Caribbean. So, what’s new down there? Any cults try to kill you lately?”

  “Not lately,” I said. “But I’m nibbling at the edges of something.”

  “If you get in too much trouble, I’m only a plane ticket away. I’ll be down there as soon as you need me, ready to kick the ass of whoever’s bugging my baby brother.”

  “They wouldn’t know what to do if you came down this way.”

  Another round of laughter rattled out somewhere near Gene. Somebody shouted her name.

  “These guys are animals, Jerry. Every time I lie down, my liver feels like a bowling ball pushing on my spine. I think you did the right thing by choosing to go live your own life down there.”

  “Sometimes I wonder,” I said.

  “I thought you had it all figured out—is that oceanography job not working the way you thought it would? What could go wrong with it? Sunburn? Eat the wrong kind of oyster? A pod of dolphins break some of your stuff in half?” She paused for a second, then followed up with, “That’s what you call a group of dolphins, right? A pod?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said.

  “Some scientist you turned out to be.”

  “I’m not a scientist, Gene. I wouldn’t know the first thing about doing oceanographic research. Look, I gotta get this out right now: I’m not sure what oceanography even is. If somebody from NOAA came down here and put a gun to my head, I couldn’t tell them which way the wind usually blows around St. Thomas.”

  She said nothing. I heard her name being called by a gravelly, male voice, but she didn’t answer it. She couldn’t answer it. The pieces were coming together in her head. The little brother who’d bowed out from the family business, the jock, the veteran, the ex-cop, the guy who’d had his life threatened on his honeymoon, but, somehow, didn’t find that threat compelling enough to turn around and never come back to the Caribbean—he was up to something.

  “Jesus,” she finally said. “I thought those army ads about getting a job after leaving were all bullshit. Anybody with their head on straight knows being in the army doesn’t make you qualified to run a bank—but here you are. Working for an oceanography company. They really are hiring ex-army guys just because, aren’t they?”

  “Not exactly.” And she knew that—she had to know that. Gene was doing her Gene thing, teasing me. “I was Air Force, Gene.”

  She laughed.

  “My job isn’t what I told you,” I said.

  “Of course, it’s not. And just so you can keep your cover story straight, Jerry: oceanography is exactly what it sounds like. The study of the ocean. Of all the plants and animals and everything else inside it. It’s an interesting job. Even a guy as addicted to adrenaline as you might want to give it a legitimate shot.”

  I snorted and shook my head.

  “Come on,” she said. “Did you think I believed you were going to give it all up to live the quiet life on a boat? That’s not you. I know you’re keeping your blood pumping. Whatever Arlen has you doing, you know you can always come back here to be safe.”

  My back snapped upright. “You think I’m working for Arlen?”

  “Jerry, you can drop the—” then she went quiet. “Are you saying you’re not?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Why would I work for Arlen?”

  “Well, I assumed,” she said. “You had that meeting with him after you came back from your honeymoon—what was that about?”

  “I was telling him off, Gene. Just like I told you I did.” I threw my head back against the top of the chair and stared at the bottom of the Bimini. “But that didn’t do a whole lot of good.”

  A pregnant pause came across the phone. She knew more than she let on—Gene always did. “Has he stopped by in person yet?”

  “You knew he was out here? Are you working with him now?”

  “No, no, I would never risk my reputation. A Snyder working with Arlen Burkhart brings bad memories for a lot more people than you, me, and Mom.”

  “Even ten years after the big breakup?” I asked. I hadn’t kept up with the family business since my enlistment. Partly because I had too much to handle, partly because I didn’t want anything to do with Snyder-Burkhart Holdings. The more completely I removed myself
from it, the better.

  “Old men have long memories. Most of the developers I’ve met are still living like it’s the 80s. More than a few are surprised they have to shake my hand. A couple of the senile ones still ask me how Dad’s doing. I’ve told them that they won’t have to wait much longer to find out for themselves.”

  I laughed. My sister’s caustic wit always got me.

  “You didn’t,” I said.

  “Of course, I did. These people are a captive audience. They want my money. I can insult them for days on end, but so long as I sign the checks, all is forgiven.” She chuckled softly. “It’s sad, really, what they’ll take for the chance at a buck.”

  “Anyway, what do they have you doing there?” Gene asked. “Fighting terrorists? Blowing up cars in Cuba? Waiting offshore for the Venezuelans to invade?”

  “Christ, no. It’s nothing like that. I’m an investigator. I’m working with another guy out here, and we’ve been trying to help the Puerto Rican Police solve a murder.”

  “So, you’re a cop again?”

  “As close to one as I’ll ever be. And that’s why I called. I need a sounding board, Gene.”

  “Well, Jerry, I’m—I’m honored that you’d think of me. But what about Alicia?”

  “We talk,” I said. “She’s the one who recommended I call you.”

  “She did?” I could practically hear Gene thinking through the phone. What can I do to help?

  “I’m not a detective or anything,” she said. “I don’t even like those cop TV shows about forensics or whatever.”

  “That makes you an even better candidate,” I said. “You’ve always been good at seeing all the moving pieces, like Dad.”

  “Please. As if you’re somehow worse?”

  “I do okay. Anyway, wanna hear it?”

  She waited a moment to answer. Thinking more, which surprised me. Gene always ran on instincts, always had a decision conjured at the snap of her fingers. Maybe she was trying to think of a polite way to say no.

  “Well, Jerry, I don’t have all day. Lay it on me,” she said.

  That’s what I did. I laid it on her. As much of it as I could, starting with our initial meeting with Detective Collat, to my visit to Luc’s boat and Nick Garner’s free-love paradise, to the VA, the double murder, then turning in Gabriela, to now.

  I tried to include everything—including the inaccessible laptop sitting within my reach.

  “Have somebody crack it,” she offered, instantly.

  “Have somebody what?”

  “Crack the laptop. Get into it without using the password. Hack it.”

  I scratched my eyebrow, feeling the skin pucker next to it. “You can do that?”

  “I did. And you would’ve seen it happen if you hadn’t already flown off. Which was probably better, because everyone knows you’re a squealer and the kid who did it charged me an embarrassing amount of money.”

  “A kid did it?”

  “He was a teenager, I guess, but you know how it is, Jerry. The next generation is always better with technology than the last. For him, getting through a computer password was no sweat.”

  “How’d you find him?”

  “Olivia.”

  Her secretary, Olivia. Instant coffee, Olivia. That Olivia knew a kid who could break into computers, no sweat.

  “I don’t think he can help you. He’s Olivia’s nephew from Calabasas, so getting him out to Newport Beach was a little bit of a deal. St. Thomas seems like a big ask.”

  “That’s fine. I think I’ve got someone who can cover it for me.” Armstrong had to have somebody on staff, or at least know of a person who could crack Dr. Markel’s laptop.

  “Well, Alicia was right again. You’re a hell of a sounding board, Gene.”

  “Glad I could help.” A new voice bled into the call. “Christ, Snyder, what’re you talking to your secret boyfriend back here?” one of the businessmen groused.

  “Why?” Gene replied. “Jealous I’ve got a boyfriend and you’re still looking?”

  He let out a long, cigar-stained laugh.

  “All right, are we square here?”

  Took me a second to realize she was addressing me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for the help, Gene.”

  “Any time, baby brother. And can you not wait three months to call me next time? I know you’re busy, but come on, Jerry, you’re breaking my heart. I want to hear about island life—about catching dinner, drinking rum out of coconuts, and hot, bronze natives. Invite me to the next luau.”

  “That’s Hawaii.”

  “All right, well whatever they do there, invite me?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Love you.”

  “Love you too.” She hung up.

  The phone number for Jack Armstrong’s boat, Ambrosia, buzzed in the back of my head.

  I went straight into my next call.

  Set on getting into Dr. Markel’s computer, my phone call to Jack Armstrong’s boat, Ambrosia, was all business. An operator named Chip directed me to a freelancer out of Vieques, Puerto Rico: a woman named Macy Lane with some kind of cybersecurity background who had worked with Armstrong in the past.

  Her name sounded fake, but I didn’t care for details. Her name could have been the Hacker Formerly Known as Macy Lane. Armstrong’s endorsement was good enough for me.

  Once I got her number, I sent her a text—per Chip’s instructions—and we got the ball rolling.

  She gave me coordinates for a public mooring field in a bay near the town of Isabel Segunda on Vieques. Wayward’s GPS said the trip was about sixteen miles, including a small bend in our course around the South Chinchorro Shoal.

  We covered the distance in less than two hours. Alicia tended to Flor on the way, and I kept to the helm, motoring us toward a mooring ball rolling with the gentle waves. I’d already rigged two dock lines to the forward cleat on both bows but would need help. I called out to Alicia.

  “Just steer where I point with this,” I said, holding the boat hook. “You might have to shift in and out of gear to keep us steady until I get the lines tied. Ready?”

  She nodded and I went forward on the starboard side. We’d talked about this maneuver before but had never really done it yet.

  When I reached the bow, I chose one of the buoys right in front of us. The mooring line coming off it was trailing at an angle to our approach.

  “Turn right,” I yelled back. “We need to line up with it in the current.”

  Alicia did as I said, and I pointed toward the ball with the hook. “Back to the left now,” I shouted.

  We were coming up to the line and I got into position, pointing the hook in the direction for Alicia to steer. I reached for the line near the ball and yelled over my shoulder. “Neutral!”

  I quickly tied the two dock lines through the loop at the end of the mooring line with a bowline knot and tossed the slimy mooring line over the front of the trampoline. The current was light, and it took a few seconds for the lines to become taut.

  We’d done it.

  Once Alicia shut down the engines, she went into the salon to check on Flor, while I worked on getting Wayward’s dinghy ready to take us to shore. I stepped onto the swim platform and worked at the dinghy’s stern line. I’d never launched a dinghy before, but the salesman said all I had to do was take off the line, hit the button, and let the hydraulic arms lay the dinghy in the water.

  Before I had the line untied, I heard Alicia opening the door to the salon. I looked over my shoulder to see my wife coming out, wearing a loose, light dress, with matching sunhat, holding onto a blue and white striped bag, ready to depart.

  “Are we doing a little shore excursion?” I asked.

  “It’d be smart to look like it.”

  She had me there. “What about Flor?”

  “She’s fine,” Alicia said with a knowing smile.

  “We can’t leave her here alone.”

  “I’ve been monitoring her. She’s been eating well; she’s
been moving around on her own. We won’t be gone too long, right?” Alicia said.

  “I’m not sure. Hopefully no longer than an hour, but I don’t want to leave her on Wayward alone.”

  “She’ll be fine, Jerry, really. Just look at her.”

  From my position on the steps leading to Wayward’s stern, I turned back and looked through the salon door. I could just make out the upper-half of Flor’s head, a paisley bandanna holding back the last scraps of her dark hair. Her eyes turned down, studying something in her lap.

  “What am I looking at?”

  Alicia opened up a compartment under the cockpit couch and pulled out a pair of sandals. She slipped them on.

  “You’re looking at a beautiful thing. A kid just being a kid.”

  As soon as she said it, I caught a glimpse of the top edge of Alicia’s laptop screen. The computer rested on Flor’s lap. Light played across Flor’s face, and she smiled. My stomach untangled. It wasn’t until I felt my gut soften that I realized how on edge I’d been in—I couldn’t begin to guess how long.

  The brief tour I’d had of Gabriela’s apartment spoke of an existence of subsistence. In the living room, only a couch, a TV and Flor’s hospital bed. Now that I thought about it, Gabriela had only packed two bags between herself and her daughter that night, and one carried solely medicine.

  On the couch in the salon, Flor smiled for the first time I’d ever seen.

  “What if something happens while we’re gone?”

  “She’s been walking on her own this morning. She has plenty of food, plenty to do. The boat is quiet, she can sleep if she’s tired. She can stay up if she’s not. Jerry, she asked me if she could stay here alone.”

  “She did?”

  Alicia nodded. “She just wants some time to be alone and relax. I left my phone for her, and told her how to find your number, just in case. We can give her an hour, right?”

  “I can’t even imagine the things that kid’s been through already,” I said with a heavy sigh. “What’s she going to do without her mother?”