Rising Moon: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 19)

by Wayne Stinnett

  Flo did the same. “All three of us.”

  I put my hand on theirs and nodded at Tank.

  “Sure,” he said. “But you don’t have to get all mushy about it.”

  The four of us laughed.

  Finn raised his head and looked up at me, cocking it to the side.

  “He said he would, sleepyhead,” I told him.

  His fat tail thumped on the deck.

  I felt the hint of a breeze on the side of my face. “The fog will lift soon. We’d better get ready to go.”

  Savannah and Flo nodded, having felt it too. “It’ll be gone in half an hour,” Flo added.

  “Oh, you’re all meteorologists now, huh?”

  “When you live on the sea, you learn these things,” I said.

  We split up to gather what we were bringing, and when I stepped back outside, ten minutes later, the fog was beginning to blow out to sea.

  I slung my pack over one shoulder and hefted a small box under one arm as Savannah and I started down the back steps.

  “You should let me carry something,” she said when we reached the bottom.

  “I got it,” I replied. “You don’t mean it, anyway.”

  “Do too,” she said, punching me playfully on the arm.

  “You just keep me around as a pack animal.”

  She took my free right arm in her hands and leaned into me as we crossed the clearing toward the bunkhouses. “That’s not the only thing.”

  To call the clearing a yard would be a misnomer. It was over an acre, with a fringe of mangroves all around the water’s edge, a few palms, gumbo limbo, even a bay rum tree among them. The interior was mostly sand, with clumps of sea oats scattered about and paths between them. Beach morning glory vines reached for the sun, stretching out onto the sand from the edge of the mangroves. Here and there, gardenia and hibiscus grew, along with night-blooming and confederate jasmine. But mostly sand.

  Behind and above the trees, the four small houses were on stilts, affording a view unparalleled. Altogether, the island was about two acres; plenty of room for everyone.

  Tank was coming down the bunkhouse steps with a small satchel that looked heavy in his left hand.

  “What’s in the bag, Tank?” I asked.

  He knew Rusty, but not well, having only served in the same unit with him for a few months. And he’d only met Deuce one other time since he was a kid. Outside of them, he’d only been introduced to a couple of people here. Nobody expected him to bring gifts.

  “Challenge coins,” he said. “Might be a Marine or two there. I remember Thurman being pretty impressed when I gave him one all those years ago. Thought he might like to have the rest. I like the idea of my coins being handed to Marines who visit a bar down here.”

  “Why’s that?” Flo asked, joining us.

  Tank and I looked at one another and shrugged. “Tun Tavern,” he told her.

  I nodded and added, “The Marine Corps was born there.”

  “The toughest branch of the military was created in a bar?” she asked.

  “Where else?” I replied. “The Anchor’s a lot like the taverns back before the revolution—a meeting place for locals to discuss matters of the day.”

  We loaded everything into the luggage compartment, and I held the door for Savannah and Flo to get in. The dogs jumped in after them and got into the aft-facing forward seats. Savannah and Flo reached across and buckled them both in.

  “That’s a pretty good trick,” Tank said. “They must fly with you a good deal.”

  “They’re great on trips,” Savannah said.

  “Mind getting the lines, Tank?” I asked, as I climbed into the copilot’s side, then shifted over. “Leave the stern line looped over the pontoon cleat and be ready to throw it off when the engine catches.”

  “Right,” he said, moving forward and untying the bow line.

  I turned on the batteries and started my preflight.

  Tank stepped onto the pontoon, holding the stern line. “You gonna do that thing with the prop?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “I’ll yell contact when I turn on the mag. But wait a second after that until the engine actually fires up. The prop wash won’t be much, but it’ll try to blow the door closed.”

  “Got it.”

  “Clear prop,” I yelled and hit the starter button.

  After four revolutions, I yelled, “Contact,” and turned on the magnetos.

  As always, the engine caught and belched smoke, and just as Tank flicked the line loosing us from the dock, it settled into a steady idle.

  “That’s pretty exciting,” he yelled, before putting his headset on.

  I opened the window to let the prop wash pull the smoke out of the cabin as we idled forward. Once clear of the dock, I turned toward the northwest and entered 1200 in the transponder, the standard VFR code for low altitude when no other squawk is assigned.

  Reaching my downwind marker, a red and blue lobster trap float anchored in five feet of water, I turned upwind and we were soon airborne.

  It was too early for commercial flights into Marathon Airport, but they do happen sometimes. Probably not on Christmas day, but staying well to the west of the airport and below the glide path would only take a few extra minutes and ensured we wouldn’t get in the way of any incoming private aircraft.

  I’d become adept at flying low and slow and kept Island Hopper just a little above the mangrove patches that dotted the backcountry. We skirted west of Big Torch Key and I picked up Niles Channel, dropping down to just fifty feet above the water. I pulled up as we approached the bridge between Ramrod and Summerland Keys, then banked to the left as we climbed to five hundred feet.

  Less than fifteen minutes after boarding the plane, the pontoons were again in the water and we were idling toward Rusty’s channel.

  We had to wait a bit while a couple of locals pulled their boat out before we could use the ramp. Quite a few weekend anglers used Rusty’s ramp and kept their boats on his concrete pad. Trailering a boat anywhere meant driving on the Overseas Highway with a thousand tourists hellbent on reaching Key Weird. And leaving a boat in the water meant monthly bottom cleanings and repainting every few years. What Rusty charged to store a boat was easily worth it to avoid either hassle.

  Finally, the ramp was clear, and I lowered the landing gear. Island Hopper’s engine roared as we rolled up out of the water onto the ramp. At the top, I angled toward my tiedown, then gunned the engine with my foot hard on the right pedal to get her turned around.

  “Y’all go ahead,” I told the others after I’d shut off the engine. “I need to fill the tanks.”

  The truth was, we were flying on just the forward tank the whole way from the island. Not that we were in danger of running out. The Hopper had five tanks—one in each wingtip and three in the belly. During the previous day’s flight, I’d burned through the forward tank, then transferred fuel back into it from the smaller wing tanks before we’d even left Miami’s airspace. Then I’d used up all of the aft and middle tanks flying to the Tortugas and home. What was left in the thirty-five-gallon forward tank would have kept us in the air for at least another hour, had it been necessary.

  Tank hung around to help with the hose. I kept a five-hundred-gallon tank of aviation gas next to a small tool shed near my tiedown pad and it was more than half full. He pulled the hose over as I got my ladder out of the shed and climbed up to remove the port wing’s cap.

  “How much does she hold?” Tank asked, handing the nozzle up.

  “A hundred-and-thirty-eight gallons,” I replied. “With a twenty percent reserve, that’s enough to fly about six hundred miles.”

  “That’s a long way,” he said.

  “There’s a forty-gallon collapsible fuel bladder in the shed there. It fits snugly between the aft seats and extends her range to over eight hundred miles.”

  “Is that right? You ever fly it that far?”

  I handed the nozzle down after filling the tank. “Not quite,” I r
eplied. “The longest non-stop flight I’ve made in her was to Cozumel; a little over five hundred miles, going around the western tip of Cuba. I had the bladder installed during that one but didn’t need much of it.”

  Carrying the ladder around to the other wing tip, we repeated the process, then filled the three big belly tanks. It took just under one hundred gallons.

  I saw Manny approaching as we were putting the hose and ladder away. “Hey, Jesse,” he said, nodding at the two of us.

  “Hey, Manny,” I said back. “Meet a friend of mine, Owen Tankersley. Tank, this is Manny Martinez. Manny’s also a Nam Marine. He owns a little resort up island a ways.”

  Manny stopped short and looked at Tank. “I’ve heard of you, sir. Honored to meet you.”

  “Just Tank,” he said, extending his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  The two shook hands, then exchanged the usual information about units they’d served with in country.

  Then Manny turned toward me. “Have you found out anything about…” His eyes shifted from me to Tank.

  “Yes, we did,” I replied, as the three of us fell into step, walking toward the deck behind the bar. “Actually, a good bit. Mostly names of drug dealers, though. Nothing solid about Cobie’s disappearance. But they’re connected some way.”

  “Connected to drugs? How? Cobie wasn’t into that. Not even grass.”

  We sat down at a table on the deck and I explained about meeting with Sampson and how I thought some of the questions I asked had shaken him up. Then I told him about the phone calls and how these people might be connected.

  “I knew he wasn’t telling all he knew,” Manny said. “So, the first person he called after you left him was a Miami drug dealer?”

  I nodded. “One who just happens to drive a car identical to the one on Kmart’s security cam that pulled into the parking lot behind Cobie’s.”

  “What? The police didn’t say anything about that.”

  So, I told him about seeing the same car right there at the Anchor and that Rusty had recognized it from the security video. “But I don’t think she was driving,” I cautioned. “The seat was pushed back too far. The police are following up on that now.”

  “Do I want to know how you found that out?” Manny asked.

  “I wouldn’t tell you even if you asked.”

  “What’s your involvement in this, Tank?”

  “Just along for the ride,” he replied. “But if there’s any way I can help, I will.”

  “That’s where I saw you headed yesterday?” Manny asked me, jerking a thumb toward the plane. “When you flew over Grassy Key?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, then explained about the three drug deals we watched and how they were connected to Sampson, including what I knew and suspected about the Blanc family and the fact that Willy Quick had a woman with him.

  “So, what’s next?” Manny asked.

  It was the question I’d been hoping he wouldn’t ask. It’d already been five weeks since Cobie disappeared. Any cop would say that if she didn’t leave of her own accord, she was likely already dead.

  And today was Christmas. As cold as it sounded, I wasn’t doing anything today but enjoying life. Ridding the world of smug drugglers and killers could wait until tomorrow.

  “I plan to lean on Sampson again tomorrow,” I replied. “See if I can’t make him rabbit and see where he runs.”

  Manny looked down at his hands, clasped together on the table. “I know it’s Christmas and all, but…”

  “There’s little he can learn today,” Tank stated calmly. “Jesse stirred up the hornet’s nest good yesterday. Now, he’s gotta give them all time to get back to the hive and compare notes before going at it again. They’ll be lulled into a false sense of security. What’s your tie to the girl?”

  “Her mom works for me,” Manny replied. “And her late father was a good friend. I’ve known Cobie since she was a baby. But it’s a little beyond that. We’re all family at the resort.”

  Rusty came out and joined us. “Hey, Manny. I didn’t even see you come in.”

  “I just got here,” Manny replied. “I saw Jesse’s plane returning when I pulled in and went straight down to the ramp.”

  “Here,” Tank said, lifting a box out of his bag and placing it in front of Rusty. “I want you to take care of these for me.”

  “What is it?” Rusty asked, sitting down in front of the box.

  Tank looked at me for a second and seemed to come to a decision.

  “I’m dying,” he said flatly. “Maybe a couple months, maybe a year.”

  Before Rusty could say anything, Tank opened the box and took one of the coins out. It was wrapped in a plastic sleeve and had the gold chevrons of a master gunnery sergeant on the dark blue lower half and a pale blue banner above, with thirteen white stars depicting the Medal of Honor ribbon. Tank’s name and the date of the action, January 31, 1970, arced across the top and bottom. I had one just like it in a shadow box in my bedroom. Typically, you’d always have your challenge coin with you, but that one meant a lot and besides, I had good reason to retire it to the box.

  Tank handed the coin to Manny. “By stepping up to help others, you show great spirit and compassion, Marine. Never lose that. This coin means you drink free, whenever challenged, unless someone has a POTUS or SECNAV coin.”

  “Is this a challenge?” Rusty asked.

  “Why not?” Tank replied, digging into his pocket as I dug into mine.

  We both placed coins on the table with the seal of the President of the United States. Rusty produced one from the commanding general of the Second Marine Division in 1982, Al Gray, who later became Commandant of the Marine Corps. In most bars, in most places, Rusty would be drinking free, but not today. His only chance had been if I’d left home without my POTUS coin.

  He pushed away from the table and opened the back door to yell inside. “Amy! Four glasses and the Pusser’s red label.”

  He sat back down and looked at Tank. “Cancer?”

  Tank nodded. “We all die sooner or later. I cheated the Reaper one too many times and now my hourglass is almost empty.”

  Amy Huggins came out carrying a silver tray. On it was a corked, nearly full bottle of fifteen-year-old Pusser’s Royal Navy rum and four highball glasses. She saw the four coins on the table and silently placed the tray between them, not questioning why we were drinking before noon.

  Amy was an Army widow and knew about such things.

  Rusty stood, poured a shot into each glass, and passed them around. Then he lifted his high. We all stood.

  “To the heroes of the Corps!”

  We clinked our glasses together and tossed the rum. I could feel it burning down my throat and into my stomach, leaving a hint of island spices and caramel in my mouth.

  We put our coins away and Amy took the tray back inside.

  Nothing more was said about Tank’s illness or the missing girl for the rest of the day. I introduced Tank to Jimmy and Naomi, Rufus, and Dink and Ash, a couple of the guides who came early to help Rufus in the kitchen.

  Sid assigned chores and in no time at all, the place was ready, and Jimmy was dispatched to open the gate at the driveway. It wasn’t really a gate; just a length of half-inch anchor chain stretched between two posts. It didn’t stop everyone from arriving early, as a good many came by boat and also pitched in.

  I watched Tank throughout the day as we helped get things set up. He moved more slowly than I remembered, as if he were consciously pacing himself, squeezing every last drop out of each minute and taking time to talk to everyone he came in contact with.

  As more people arrived, bringing gifts to place under the tree, he moved around the place, helping where he could and continuing to talk to people. I heard him introduce himself as Owen. That was it. The happy, smiling, old man moving about the place didn’t look like a Tank.

  Nobody there knew who he was, but he seemed to put a smile or grin on the face of each person he met. He was there and
that meant he was part of the Rusty Anchor family, and everyone accepted that.

  One of the guides, a guy named Jim Merlo, whom I knew to be a Marine during the latter part of the war in Afghanistan, arrived with his wife and two kids. Tank squatted down to say hi to the kids first, before introducing himself to the parents. Even from across the bar, I could see the look of recognition in Jim’s eyes.

  During the Second World War, Korea, and Vietnam, when recruits were moved through the receiving portals at Parris Island and San Diego at record paces, some parts of basic training were shortened or dropped. But not the classes on the history of the Corps, its leaders, and its heroes. It was such an integral part of becoming a Marine, and still essential today.

  The legends were brought to life in the hearts of the recruits, creating that bond, that esprit de corps, that absolute knowledge that you were becoming a part of something much larger than yourself, and that in doing so, it became a part of you.

  Tank was older, but his features were still recognizable from the photos in the history books and on barracks walls. There wasn’t a Marine alive who didn’t know the names Chesty Puller, John Ripley, Smedley Butler, John Basilone, or Tank Tankersley.

  Jim recognized him immediately. I could see it in his body language as he practically snapped to attention to render a salute. In no time at all, word spread among the Rusty Anchor family, and soon everyone not only knew who Tank was, but what he’d done.

  It’s hard to hide a real-life hero, and in my book, none were more noble than the old man laughing and talking with my friends.

  David arrived just in time for the feast, as did Deuce and Julie and Chyrel. Tank seemed a bit smitten with Chyrel and spent a good bit of time with her at Deuce and Julie’s table. But she couldn’t stay long and left an hour before we did.

  Later that evening, Rusty and Sid walked with the seven of us down to his boat and we loaded our booty into it with the dogs.

  The festivities would go on throughout the night. There were people on the deck, friends laughing and talking, all illuminated by tiki torches and table fires as the sun started slipping below the tree line. The bar lights were on, and through the windows I could see everyone having a good time. But we needed to get home. I wasn’t a fan of dodging lobster trap buoys in the dark.