3 Crystal Blue

by John H. Cunningham

  “What? Why the hell would he send you?”

  I pulled the FAA fax from my breast pocket.

  “Read this,” I said.

  His forehead tripled over with furrows. I hadn’t noticed when we met before, but his eyes were hazel, rare in black men. He shook his head.

  “Water landings are illegal outside of Charlotte Amalie and Christiansted Harbors.” He sat down and handed me back the fax. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m assisting the FBI in their search for John Thedford and Mike Kuznewski, a.k.a. Stud Mahoney.” I loved saying a.k.a. but managed not to grin.

  “Why you? From what I’ve read, you’re under suspicion for enough crimes to be locked away until you’re a senior citizen.”

  “You’re welcome to call Special Agent Booth.” I pulled out the cell phone and handed it to him with Booth’s name and number on the screen. “I’m not here to discuss anything sensitive, just to alert you that I’m headed to the BVI and that I’m allowed to make water landings around the USVI.”

  “That’s fine, but has he alerted the Royal—”

  “Duncan Mather’s expecting me.” I held out the letter addressed to Mather with the FBI seal on top. I held my breath.

  “Dunk’s a good man,” White said. “Bit of a tight-ass, but hey, that’s the Brits.” He sat back in his chair. “So what can I tell you?”

  “Booth’s getting a rundown from the Task Force on the spike in gang activity and whether or not any of them could’ve been involved in the kidnappings, but I’m supposed to get your thoughts on other suspects.” Sweat had started to drip down my back and I felt my forehead beading. “Are there any radical fringe pro-life or pro-choice elements?”

  White rubbed his chin, shook his head.

  “Things are different here than on the mainland. Not as many abortions, but nearly sixty percent of kids live in single-parent homes. Cheaper for women to have the kids, safer too I suppose, but the majority of fathers don’t offer any support.”

  “So you think it might be a different angle?”

  “There’s a power struggle brewing that could result in a gang war. Not sure how that would be connected, though.”

  “What kind of power struggle?”

  He rubbed his eyes. “We’ve had reports of a major international cartel making moves to overtake and consolidate criminal activities in the northern Caribbean.”

  Diego and Boom-Boom’s comments came to mind.

  “You said international. From where?”

  “That we don’t know, only that it’s an organization with tentacles all over the world. Drugs, prostitution, human trafficking, arms, numbers—you name it. A conglomerate of sorts.”

  “So, what’s any of that got to do with adoption?”

  “I didn’t say it did.” He waved a hand. “There’s no evidence tying these missing people to a turf war.”

  I didn’t say anything, knew he had to have more.

  “There are some quasi-religious kooks the adoption issue might have set off,” White said. “But I don’t see a connection to the actor.”

  “Ahh, you mean, like…” I closed my eyes for a second and rummaged in my brain for the name. “Reverend Hell No?”

  “Hellfire.” He smiled. “Yeah, he’s a candidate. He’s against anything he considers contradiction to God’s will—”

  “God as in the Christian God?”

  “I’m not sure he can tell you exactly what God he’s talking about. He’s been known to quote the Bible, the Quran, the Talmud, Jah, and a lot of other stuff he makes up, on top of what he claims to be divine whispers ‘from above.’

  “Bottom line is he vehemently opposes man changing the course of what he considers destiny. Every now and then we send a plainclothes officer to one of his sermons. Last week he spoke out against abortion and adoption, said that if a woman gets pregnant, no matter how, there’s no choice but to carry and raise the child. That’s the lot you were given, he says, so you don’t turn your nose up at it.”

  “And what does he say about people who do?”

  “That they don’t deserve to live.”

  Interesting.

  “Hellfire’s not his real name, I take it?”

  “Nah, he was born in Christiansted to a missionary woman from Germany. Father was a native but never had much to do with him. His legal name is Randy Jaegle.”

  The door opened behind me. Officer Fingernails poked her beehive inside.

  “Your conference call with the Task Force’s starting. Do you and Agent Booth want to dial-in from here?”

  My stomach clenched as if it were a sponge someone just squeezed. I wiped the sweat from my brow as White’s eyes met mine.

  “Shall we?” he said.

  “Before you do that, have you made any connection between John Thedford and Stud Mahoney?”

  “Aside from Adoption AID?”

  I nodded. His face showed nothing.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he said, “but we can ask Special Agent Booth.”

  I glanced at my ancient Rolex Submariner.

  “I have to get to Tortola. Dunk’s expecting me.” I stood up fast and nearly caused my chair to fall over. “Give Booth my regards.”

  Lieutenant White had already turned on the speakerphone and was pressing numbers.

  “Tell him yourself before you leave,” he said.

  He glanced up as the connection beeped. A number of voices could be heard on the speaker. I scooted for the door, saluted White, mouthed “I’ll call you,” and left.

  Inside her glass box Fingernails was delicately peeling a banana, which took incredible coordination. I pulled at the handle but the exit door wouldn’t open. I heard White’s voice rise from the conference room.

  “Do you mind?” I nodded toward the door. Fingernails slapped her hand down on the button like it was a game show and she had the winning answer. I scurried out and all but sprinted across Julian Jackson Drive toward the airport without a glance back. I dashed down the road into the airport’s General Aviation driveway, managing to get honked at by a van overloaded with tourists destined for Bolongo Bay, according to the sign on the van’s grill. Why hadn’t Booth told Lieutenant White about Crystal’s connection to Stud Mahoney? Was he hoarding clues for his own gain, as usual? Or was he telling him on the call now? I hoped I wouldn’t need White’s help any time soon, because he was sure to mention our meeting to Booth.

  And why hadn’t Crystal told me about her relationship with Stud?

  I finally stopped to catch my breath and glance at my watch. I was ten minutes late to pick up Avery Rose.

  WHEN THE CELL PHONE buzzed on my hip, I figured it was Booth. Ready to press END, I saw the number on the screen and smiled.

  “Tell me something good, Ray.”

  “We’re refueling on Providenciales—be there in an hour and a half.”

  I paused outside the entrance of the General Aviation building and pumped my fist.

  “Terrific! What plane did you charter?”

  “Charter my ass, I borrowed it,” Ray said. “Spottswell’s Baron.”

  “The drug plane? I thought that thing was jinxed.”

  Ray shared details of their first leg, including Lenny’s initial terror of flying, which he cured with a political rant. One debate and he already fancied himself the next Barack Obama.

  I heard rustling in the background, an unmistakable voice.

  “Who the fuck you talking to? That Buck? Give me the damn phone—”

  By the noise that followed, Lenny must have ripped it out of Ray’s hand.

  “What kind of shit you getting me into, man? I got a constituency to fight for, a campaign to run—damn, Ray, you see the legs on that fine island honey? I may have to make Provo a sister city to Key West and have a junket here—”

  “Lenny! I’m late to pick up a bona fide country music star!”

  “You can keep all of them, Buck. I want me some adopted mothers, like Charlize Theron and Sandra Bullock. Not
a bunch of boring-ass writers and Supreme Court justices, man. Ray promised me some primo honeys and maybe a politician, like Bill Clinton or John McCain. I may not agree with all their shit, but hey, I get them to endorse my ass, sky’s the limit.”

  The grin on my face had people staring at me. It was so good to hear Lenny’s voice.

  “I’ll leave you guys a list and a schedule at the concierge desk here at the Private Aviation terminal—some by plane, some by boat. You can split ‘em up.”

  He handed the phone back to Ray.

  “And if something goes wrong or you have any trouble at all or if you can’t reach me, let’s make the Beach Bar on St. John our rendezvous point every night.”

  “Trouble, what kind of—”

  “I’m late, gotta go.”

  “Wait, Buck, before we left Key West we heard news reports that Islamic terrorists kidnapped Stud Mahoney.” Ray went on to explain that Mahoney’s captors were demanding the release of prisoners from Guantanamo. “I don’t want to get caught in the middle of that.”

  “Don’t worry, Ray. Got to run.”

  Good grief. I hung up, took a deep breath, and entered the Private Aviation building hoping Avery Rose’s plane was late.

  It wasn’t. And those pictures of her on the Five Sixes taxis had not been airbrushed. If anything, they didn’t do her justice. What is it about a tall woman in cut-off shorts and cowboy boots with long black hair and blue eyes and the world’s biggest smile?

  “You must be Buck Reilly,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s me.”

  She had to be 5’11” but with the boots came close to looking me in the eye.

  She eyed me up and down. “You’re cuter than I remembered from those pictures in the Wall Street Journal, King Charles.”

  Crap. But she winked at me.

  “Call me Buck.” She had three large suitcases. What everyone would need for a long weekend in the islands. “Is this everything?” I said. “We’re in kind of a hurry.”

  When I reached for one of her bags she took hold of my forearm and gave it a subtle squeeze.

  “I’m tired of flying, Buck. Don’t bother with that right now.”

  “But—”

  “I know you’re busy and I don’t want to throw a wrench in your schedule, but I had a concert in Dallas last night, flew home to Nashville, threw everything I own into these here bags, and barely made my flight to Miami, then to St. Thomas. I need a drink and to stretch my legs.”

  “I understand, but—”

  She pressed two fingers against my lips and held them there, gently. Her smile was mesmerizing.

  This is business, Buck. Focus.

  She said she was going to grab lunch with her manager here on St. Thomas, then take the ferry to Tortola, where the Peter Island shuttle would pick them up at Customs. I wondered if she’d seen the Beast and was just being kind.

  “But if you’d like to meet there for dinner later…”

  “Sorry, Avery, but I’m swamped.”

  “I’ll see you again, though, right?”

  I couldn’t decide if she was a major flirt, really sweet, or both.

  “I’ll be picking you up at Peter Island, unless you’d rather travel by speedboat—”

  “No, no, Buck—I’ll wait for you. I love seaplanes, saw yours out on the tarmac. Grumman Goose, right? I grew up in Fort Lauderdale and used to fly the Chalk’s Mallards to Bimini to go fishing with my daddy.”

  My, oh my.

  I left Avery Rose at the desk awaiting a car to take her downtown but carried with me the scent of whatever citrusy perfume, soap, or shampoo came off her as I walked out to the Beast. I was one-for-one with successful pick-ups, and since I’d assigned the rest to Captain Jeremy, Ray and Lenny, I had more time on St. Thomas to search for clues. That was both good and bad—good because I wanted to turn over some rocks here, bad because it left me exposed to the wrath of Special Agent Booth and Lieutenant White.

  A glance at the cell phone showed a missed call from Booth. The red light indicated I had a message. No reason to spoil the mood by listening to him rant. Instead I dialed Crystal.

  “Buck, is everything okay?”

  “So far so good. Met up with Avery Rose and we’re squared away.”

  “Thank God,” she said. “How will you get everyone from their airports to all the different resorts, then here to Jost Van Dyke? I feel so terrible putting all that on your back.”

  “Don’t worry, under control.” I explained that help was on the way.

  “That’s fantastic!” Her voice lifted. “We just might pull this off! Now, if they’d only find John….”

  “I met with Lieutenant White, and the FBI has sent their Special Agent in Charge of South Florida and the Caribbean Basin down. I met with him, too. They’re on the case, Crystal. They’ll check into every possibility.” I let my statement hang in the air.

  She was quiet on the other end.

  “Crystal?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Anything new to share?”

  “I got a phone call—it’s got to be the same man who called John before. We had a bad connection but he threatened me, Buck. He said if I don’t cancel the ‘save the children’ show, then I’d—and this where he lost me, but it sounded like he said I too would ‘eat shit.’”

  “Are you sure you heard him right?”

  “I couldn’t tell if it was an island accent, or what. It happened so fast.”

  I told her I had some things to look into on St. Thomas. She mentioned that rehearsals started tomorrow, then said goodbye and hung up.

  I thought back over everything she’d said. It struck me that she sounded awfully calm for a woman whose husband was still missing, whose big charity event was still in trouble, whose relationship with a kidnapped actor was still (for all she knew) unknown, who’d just received a menacing threat by phone.

  REVEREND HELLFIRE’S CHURCH WAS up in the mountains, near Boom-Boom’s compound. I watched the taxi disappear and had serious doubts about how I’d get back to town.

  The church was an old stone building that had to be at least a hundred years old. It had the look of former respectability run afoul, amplified by the overgrown tropical forest that pressed up against its walls. There was no sign out front, nor anything to proclaim the name of the Assembly. Unless you knew what it was, there was no way to identify the building as a house of worship.

  Once at the rough-hewn front door, I did find a red cross painted on the wood—but it had three lines extending off the top, which reminded me of an old tattoo I’d seen on a paroled felon’s hand between his thumb and index finger. He bragged about being a former gang member when he loaded my ’72 Land Rover onto a flatbed truck when it broke down up on Sugarloaf Key a few months ago.

  Could Reverend Hellfire have gang connections?

  I tried the door but of course it was locked.

  I couldn’t see much through the dusty windows next to the door. I’d walk around back, but all the brush—

  “Who the hell’re you?”

  I jumped at the sound of the voice that boomed from behind me. I turned and saw a man in shorts and a black t-shirt, medium height but solidly built with light mocha skin and the piercing gaze of a wolverine.

  “Why you looking in my windows?”

  And an accent I couldn’t place.

  “I was looking for Reverend Hellfire. Do you know where I could find him?”

  “No need, he found you.” His eyes eased off their squint. “Who’re you and what do you want?” He made no move to approach me, shake my hand, or pass the collection plate.

  “My name’s Buck Reilly, and I… well, I’d like to learn something about you and your church.”

  He stared at me. I looked about as church-going as he did church-leading, so we were equally at a loss.

  “I was just going in,” he said. “Come on.”

  Hellfire brushed past me and used an ancient skeleton key to turn the lock. Once in
side he flipped a switch and a few naked bulbs lit the rafters. A quick look around revealed no flowers, plaques, candles, or vessels filled with holy water. The only thing on the wall was another cross, painted red, again with three lines above it. He marched up the aisle—at least there were pews.

  “Come on, boy, don’t fall behind.”

  He stopped at the altar and turned to face me.

  “So what do you want?”

  “Like I said, I’d like to know about you and your church—”

  He reached down inside his pulpit, and when he raised his arm he had a big revolver in his hand. A .357 magnum, if I had to guess.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Buck Reilly. You’re connected to that syndicate moving in on the people here. That’s what I hear.”

  “Hold on there, Reverend, I don’t know who told you that, but—”

  “Clarence Burke told me. Lives up the hill.”

  “Boom-Boom?”

  “Said you were setting up an introduction for him—”

  I held my hands up. “I’m just trying to help the Adoption AID folks find their missing people—”

  He waved the gun in front of my chest.

  “So you lied to Boom-Boom, not just me.”

  I took a step back. “I was trying to get to know you a little bit, thought you might be able to help—”

  “Why would I help a liar and criminal?”

  “I told Boom-Boom I was looking for John Thedford, the missing concert promoter.” I paused for a beat. “I came here to get your views on the charity.”

  “Don’t believe in it. A woman gets pregnant, she has to have the child,” he said.

  “What if she was raped?”

  He lowered the gun. “Don’t matter. God gave her a child, one way or another, and it be her job to take care of it.”

  “What if she had an abortion?”

  He grunted. “Eye for an eye.”

  “So why not put the child up for adoption?”

  “Same difference. That be your baby, your responsibility. You shirk what God blesses you with, you going to hell. Simple as that.”