Blackwater Sound

by James W. Hall

  Alexandra pushed herself to her feet. She wore a knee-length denim skirt and a long-sleeved white jersey. Unsure of local fashion, she’d dressed as blandly as possible, trying to strike a balance between casual and professional. Her leather sandals had rubber soles that squeaked faintly when she crossed the deck.

  As she looked around, deciding where to begin, she tried to clear her mind. Stay positive, even though she was certain Lawton was long gone by now, off on the next phase of his inexplicable odyssey. But she couldn’t let her expectations cloud her sight. She had to see what was here, not what she hoped or expected.

  Usually she didn’t have to summon such discipline. After ten years on the job, exercising a rigorous detachment in every kind of circumstance, grim and chaotic, risky or routine, Alexandra liked to believe she’d absorbed into her very marrow the lessons of her work. In those ten years she had purified her senses. Learned to see without the interference of ego or bias, to strip away her own point of view and become sublimely neutral. A tough, scientific mind recording in precise detail the bedrooms and alleys and backyards where rage and frenzy had torn apart lives and left behind wild montages of blood and gray matter, body parts and mangled corpses.

  But tonight there was a shiver in her blood. Just as there had been a faint tremolo in her voice when she’d spoken to Granger a few moments ago. For this was not just another crime scene. As far as anyone could tell this boat was the last place her father had been seen. Dispassion was out of the question.

  She looked over at the two cops trading their joint. Beyond them, moonlight quivered on the lapping waves. And in the heights of the sky, the million stars trembled like the glittering eyes of soldiers on the nervous eve of their first battle.

  Alex drew a breath and clicked on the flashlight, held it near her right cheek, and fanned its light slowly across the cockpit deck. She stiffened and the air clenched in her lungs. For a second such a powerful wave of wooziness passed over her, she thought she might faint.

  Before her, coating nearly every foot of the deck, were spatters of blood and fine red cobwebs and bloody footprints, large and small. Like some appalling work of extemporaneous art, with blood slung randomly here and there, loops and swirls, dots and smears, more blood coating the chrome rail and ladder up to the flybridge.

  She swung the flashlight away from the deck and shined its beam out into the dark, where it was swallowed by the gloom. And held it there till she managed to bring her pulse back under control.

  When she was ready, she turned back, steadied her light, and washed it again over that gory canvas. She kept her teeth clamped, breathed through her nose, managing a cold, bitter calm. There would be time in the daylight to photograph and study the patterns of the blood, to draw orderly conclusions.

  The night was clear, no sign of a thunderstorm that might destroy this evidence. She could simply stay on board for the rest of the night, safeguard what was here. There was no hurry, nothing driving her to decode this mess right now.

  She found a bloodless path to the door of the main cabin, turned the handle, and stepped into the living area. In the faint moonglow the leather upholstery was yellow and the barstools had legs of gleaming chrome. There was a flowery chemical taste in the cabin, some air-freshening device that Arnold must have used to combat the inevitable mustiness.

  She stood for a moment in the center of the room and passed her light over the furniture, holding briefly on a shelf of mementos that Arnold had accumulated. Photos of a young, dashing Peretti standing alongside a variety of sleek and sporty women. On the bar she found a ceramic ashtray and a matchbook from Churchill Downs. And a wadded bar towel from the Doral Hotel, a couple of glass trophies from marlin tournaments, both of them fastened tightly to the shelves behind the bar. She scanned the room methodically, working as she’d been trained, breaking down the space into quadrants, exploring with her flashlight every surface, every crevice.

  The décor was understated but classy. Cherry-wood cabinetry and mahogany trim, a light tan wall covering. Full-length tinted windows running down either side, an L-shaped coffee table with silk flower arrangement fixed neatly in its center. Pale yellow leather settees surrounded the table. She found some broken glass behind the bar, old-fashioned and martini glasses shattered on the parquet. No doubt flung from their shelves during Lawton’s wild ride across Biscayne Bay.

  She held the flashlight beam on the sparkling shards, then kneeled down and pinched up the edge of a small square bar napkin with an advertising logo. A blue dolphin rising from the waves to smile up at a bright golden stylized sun. ABACO BEACH RESORT was printed in blue below the surface of the sea.

  She tucked the napkin in her skirt pocket and stood back up. She glanced around the room a moment or two more, but nothing struck her as the slightest bit out of the ordinary. Then she angled over to the window for a peek at her guardians. Their joint no longer glowed and both Granger and Darrell seemed to have dropped off to sleep on the flat rock. She was about to turn away when a blur of movement caught her attention. A shadow within the shadows moving along the sand halfway between the boat and the rock on which the two cops reclined.

  She cupped a hand around her eyes and pressed her nose to the glass. But whatever had moved out there was motionless now. She shifted her gaze back to the sleeping cops. She could see the shine of Granger’s forehead, and a couple of the gold buttons on his uniform. Sprawled beside him, Darrell was on his back, both arms flung over his head like a man trying to backstroke across solid stone.

  She walked to the door and stepped outside, and held up the flashlight, pressed the button and trained it on the two men, first Granger, then Darrell. The beam was beginning to fade. Old batteries, rarely used.

  Alexandra was about to call their names when she spotted the dark shimmer on Granger’s neck. She focused the failing light on Granger, squinted through the dark, and made out a ragged gleam beneath his chin. Something that looked a great deal like the slow ooze of blood.

  Seventeen

  Alexandra staggered sideways, a gasp catching in her throat.

  She cut off the light and swung around to the side where she’d come aboard. But as she was lifting her foot to mount the gunwale, she heard the scuff of a clumsy step in the grasses nearby.

  She stepped back, took a tight grip on the base of the flashlight. Black aluminum with four full-size batteries, heavy enough to serve as a nightstick for Miami patrolmen. She edged to the starboard rail, drew a breath, and peered over the side.

  A man in a white shirt was smiling up at her. His hair was long and blond. His right arm hung casually at his side, the dark shine of a blade in his hand.

  “Boo,” he said.

  She cocked the flashlight back out of the man’s sight.

  “Drop the knife,” she said. “Right now. Don’t think about it, just do it.”

  “Hey, lady. Who are you and what’re you doing on my goddamn boat?”

  “This isn’t your boat.”

  “Yeah, it is. See, here’s my certificate of title.”

  He raised the knife, and thrust it at her face. Alexandra ducked to her side, then lunged forward and clubbed him above the ear with the flashlight. He yelped and jumped back, then stumbled backwards into the shadows. She stood at the rail and aimed the flashlight into the darkness but could see no movement. She was passing the beam across a clump of bushes when behind her she heard a loud huffing, and whirled in time to see the man scaling the transom. Got just a fleeting glimpse of his round face and the blond hair swinging wildly as he hauled his bulk over the side.

  By the time she was inside the cabin, he was on the cockpit deck, gliding past the fighting chair, heading her way. In his right hand was the long blade. Fumbling with the door handle, Alex watched him approach. She was trying to find a deadbolt, a lock of any kind, but there was nothing.

  She swung away and sprinted across the living room, slipped into the narrow hall and slammed the mahogany door behind her. Next to the lever sh
e found a small chrome bolt and shot it home. Hardware too flimsy to hold back the heavyset guy, but it would slow him down, give her time to find a more potent weapon. Give her time to hide. Trapped now. No way out except through that door. A stupid move going inside, bad instincts. But it had happened so goddamn fast.

  She flung open the first stateroom door. Scanned the space but saw only the twin bunks and a small locker. Nothing in the head. Even the medicine chest was empty. Arnold Peretti’s spartan life at sea.

  There was a knock at the door she’d locked. A polite tapping, four raps, then four more as if she might not have heard. As if she were napping and he was apologetically but insistently waking her.

  She fled across the corridor to the next stateroom, threw open the door. A larger cabin than the first one. Probably the master suite. A king-sized bed with a red satin cover. Red pillowcases. A photograph on one wall of three racehorses in full gallop, one of them finishing a nose ahead. But what seized her attention was the couch.

  The black leather sofa appeared to be molded into the cabin wall. Its seat was tilted up on hinges to reveal a narrow passage down into the bowels of the ship. She shined her light down the narrow tube on the chrome ladder that ran eight or nine steps to a fiberglass tunnel. Some kind of storage area or crawl space for working on the engines or air-conditioning.

  Alex peered into the passage but didn’t move. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but she doubted she’d gain any advantage by squeezing down that ladder. It might be better to stand and fight, take her chances right here. Hope that her years of karate training would still be alive in her muscle memory, even though she’d neglected it these last few years, going soft and lazy as her spare time was consumed more and more by the care of her dad.

  Down the hallway the knocking had ceased. A moment of silence, then the door exploded. It sounded like it had splintered in half. She heard the man’s heavy tread in the corridor.

  Without another thought Alex tucked the flashlight into the waistband of her skirt and ducked inside the passage, took three quick steps down the ladder, and shut the hatch above her. There was no locking mechanism on the underside of the lid. She had to hope her pursuer wasn’t familiar with this aspect of Arnold’s boat. Perhaps it was a custom feature. Something that could take hours to discover. That was her best chance, that Granger’s and Darrell’s disappearance would set off alarms and a posse would be dispatched. Though from the little exposure she’d had to the Bahamian police so far, such hope seemed a bit far-fetched.

  She tried to keep her breathing quiet as she eased to the bottom of the tunnel. She switched on her flashlight, trained it on the wall beside her, but the dim light faded and was finally gone.

  She patted down the wall on both sides of the ladder, searching for a light switch. Almost at the base of the ladder she located a small toggle. She had to hope the tunnel was thoroughly sealed and no light would escape above deck. But her choice seemed clear, either take the chance of being seen or try to find her way through the total darkness. She drew a slow breath, then flipped it on.

  A few feet away a single fluorescent bulb sputtered. The light was so dim, there seemed little chance it would leak beyond that narrow space.

  She settled herself on the floor and got her bearings. The passageway seemed to run the entire length of the boat. It was about six feet wide, but the ceiling was so low she had to kneel. There were open niches on either side where she saw insulated duct work for the air-conditioning and PVC plumbing pipes. There were other open areas that appeared to be storage bins filled with rudders, bilge pumps, an array of electronics parts sealed in plastic. Down the center ramp, the fiberglass floor was smooth and finished to a high gloss.

  A ribbon of sweat tickled down her cheek and fell from the tip of her chin. Alexandra wiped it away, then dropped into a crouch and crawled toward the stern, listening to the tromp of the big man’s feet on the deck above. It sounded like he was working his way down the starboard side, searching the two rooms opposite from the master stateroom. Only a few seconds away from entering Arnold’s cabin.

  At the third open compartment she found a set of wrenches clipped to the wall. She unsnapped the largest one, gripped it, swung it, but it didn’t even have the heft of her flashlight so she put it back on the rack and scooted on down the tunnel.

  As she was approaching the solid bulkhead, the fluorescent bulb fluttered and went out. Darkness thickened around her. A pang of dread fired through her chest. Why in God’s name had she crawled into this place, this burrow, this mummy’s tomb?

  A silent scream grew inside her. She shut her eyes tightly, made a fist, ground her knuckles against the cool fiberglass floor, felt small grains of grit break her flesh.

  And then the anger swelled. A sharp blast in her lungs. She opened her eyes and looked around her. Face hot, fury trembling in her muscles. More sweat slid down her temples, across her cheeks. She licked her salty lips and blew out a breath.

  That thug was more than likely the same man who’d stabbed her father, sent him fleeing for his life. And here she was running from him, scuttling around in the absolute dark, flustered, confused, teetering on the edge of panic.

  On her knees, she lifted her head, straightened up. Goddamn if she was going to keep running. She was going back and face the bastard, no more of this cowering bullshit.

  But as she was turning, her sleeve snagged on the bulkhead and she halted, then swung back, smoothed her hand across its surface from one end to the other until she came to a straight seam in the fiberglass.

  She ran her fingertip along it, tracing the cutout of a narrow hatch, no wider than an ironing board. She patted the wall until she located a simple lever recessed in the door.

  Alex cocked the lever open, then put her shoulder against the fiberglass and nudged the hatch inward until it swung open onto an even darker space, fragrant with engine oils and gasoline and the thick fumes of stagnant bilge water.

  She duckwalked sideways into the dark engine compartment. Warm water sloshed over her feet, her sandals soaked. She halted and listened but could hear nothing in that soundproofed room. She shut the hatch behind her and moved forward blindly, her hand outstretched. Her knee bumped hard against an unforgiving angle of steel. She stifled a cry and then, moving more carefully, she discovered a narrow aisle between the two giant engines, a gangway that led to the rear of the ship.

  This had to be another exit. She’d been aboard enough boats to remember seeing engine room access hatches up on the deck of the cockpit. She clicked on the flashlight, tapped it hard on the side, focused its feeble beam on the overhead shadows, but the batteries gave her only a second of useless light.

  As she was edging back toward the tunnel-hatch, she heard a voice through the hull, then a subtle shift in the boat as if the big guy had jumped back down to the ground.

  Alex inched sideways along the narrow path between the engines, her feet soaked now, sandals squeaking. When she reached the tunnel-hatch, she patted down the walls on either side of it, and yes, there was another ladder fixed to the wall.

  Peering up at the underside of the deck, she thought she saw the dim outline of the cockpit access door. There were no more voices outside, no vibrations through the deck. Maybe the big man was mystified by Alexandra’s disappearance and had abandoned his search. Or maybe he was outside with his knife cocked, simply waiting for her to pop into view.

  She climbed the ladder and turned the silver knob and lifted the hatch an inch. Felt the night air rush across her face.

  “We meet again,” the big man said.

  She caught the quickest glimpse of him, kneeling at the edge of the hatch, peering through the narrow opening, stringy blond hair framing his round face. She slammed the lid shut and fumbled with the latch until she had it locked.

  Alex stared up at the door.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” the man said. “I just need to find something on this boat. It belongs to me. I gotta check it over completely and you�
��re down there where I need to search.”

  “So we have a problem,” Alexandra said.

  The man was silent for a moment.

  Alex shifted the flashlight to her right hand, got the grip she wanted, maximum leverage, wiggled her arm to keep it loose, relaxed, get that extra whip and snap in her motion when the moment came.

  “Who are you?” Alex said.

  “I’m nobody.”

  She stared up at the hatch.

  “You’re an employee, a hired hand.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  She could feel him shift his weight on his haunches.

  “I need to search down there,” he said. The hardness coming back into his voice. “One way or the other I got to search.”

  “Is it so important that you’d hurt me? Stab me if I’m in the way?”

  “ ‘Do what I tell you and don’t make no fast moves—there’s a lot of dead heroes back there.’ ”

  “What?”

  “A crazed killer said that in The Hitch-Hiker, 1953.”

  “Is that what you are, a crazed killer?”

  Alex shifted on the ladder. She eyed the latch. It was possible the guy was lulled by now, standing too close to the lid. If she exploded out, surprised him, she might have one good shot. Then again, the angles were awkward. She didn’t have much leverage on the top rung of the ladder. It would take two seconds, maybe three or four to get all the way onto the deck, find her balance, and be ready to fight. By then he’d have time to recover, maybe take a quick swipe or two with his blade.