Mystery of the Tempest

by Sam Cameron

  “Who’s following us?” he asked loudly.

  “You could be more subtle,” Denny complained.

  “It’s not my style.”

  A man turned toward them from the window of a jewelry shop. “Obviously not,” he said. He was an Hispanic man in his early thirties, swarthy and athletic. He was dressed casually in gray slacks and a white polo shirt, with expensive gray shoes.

  In the Secret Yearbook—or whatever it was now, since graduation—Steven tagged him as Most Likely to Waste His Money.

  “Can we help you with something?” Steven asked.

  The man closed the distance between them. His hands hung loose at his sides and his shoulders were relaxed, but he looked like the kind of man who’d hit fast and hard in a fight.

  “I heard some guys were asking questions about a friend of mine,” the man said. “But you’re just teenagers.”

  Denny bristled. “We’re older than we look.”

  “I doubt it,” the man replied. Cool, calm. Steven didn’t see a gun on him, but the possibility certainly existed. The man asked, “What do you want with Nathan Carter?”

  “Who’s he to you?” Steven asked.

  “A friend. What do you want with him?”

  Denny said, “He saved my life. That inspires a little curiosity.”

  Something flickered in the man’s eyes—amusement, maybe. “He likes to save lives. But he doesn’t like questions. My advice to you is that you stop.”

  “My advice is that you don’t worry about it,” Steven said.

  The man smiled slightly. It was the smile of a man putting down a winning hand at poker.

  He said, “Or maybe you’d like me to confiscate those fake IDs of yours and give them to your dad up in Fisher Key. Is Captain Anderson a big fan of underage drinking?”

  *

  Brian had never been to the gay bars of Key West before that weekend. He’d only been to one gay bar in his whole life, in fact, and that had been a depressing hole-in-the-wall in New Hampshire full of middle-aged men and weak beer. So the Priscilla Ann Saloon was an entirely new experience: murals of drag queens on the wall, tropical drinks with obscenely shaped straws, and boisterous street signs behind the bar such as “Drama Queen Lane.” Loud music—tech, disco, and tech-disco combined—pounded through the speakers and over the thick crowd.

  It was the kind of place where you could shove your tongue down another man’s throat and get cheered, not jeered.

  Which is why he was standing in the corner, thumbing through pages on his phone. Christopher was off dancing with anyone he could snag.

  Christopher was always off dancing, Brian thought with a sigh.

  “Hey, baby girl,” said the bartender. “Don’t just stand there! Get your groove on. Don’t surf the net when you’ve got the real thing in front of you.”

  Brian hadn’t been able to replace his waterlogged phone before leaving for Key West, so Henrik had loaned him his spare. It had a much better Web browser. He was looking up newspaper accounts of Denny and Steven Anderson, Fisher Key’s homegrown heroes.

  “I’m fine,” he told the bartender, meaning Leave Me Alone.

  “Sweetie, you’re very fine, but get that ass out there. Don’t gloom up the place.”

  Brian stepped outside instead. It was cooler out there and a lot quieter. This was the third bar they’d been to tonight, plus two they’d visited last night. Bars were not Brian’s style. Christopher called him “repressed,” but Brian preferred “serious.” Or maybe “cautious.” Or maybe just “boring.”

  He texted Christopher that he had a headache and would meet him back at the hotel. The walk was only a half-mile along the pleasant streets. Gay and straight couples passed by, nuzzling each other’s necks and drinking from each other’s cups. He imagined what it would be like to walk with a lover, the two of them young and invincible against everything the future held.

  His lover would look just like Denny Anderson. Denny, with his dark hair and dark eyes and way of looking right into you, like he knew your every secret.

  Did Denny close his eyes when he kissed?

  Brian had always been good at torturing himself.

  His phone buzzed. He hoped for a reply from Christopher, but instead it was his mother: Having fun? Love you. Call in the morning.

  He was halfway through the handsome lobby of the Casa Marina when he almost bumped into an elderly lady who was talking on her cell phone. “Sorry,” she said, giving him a little pat on the arm.

  At the same time, a gray-haired man in a suit rose from a chair by the elevator and asked, “Brian Vandermark?”

  “Yes.”

  The man flashed a badge. “I’m Agent James Prosper, Miami FBI.”

  Brian’s heartbeat quickened. He’d never talked to the FBI before. “Kind of late hours for the FBI, isn’t it?”

  “You’re telling me.” Prosper chuckled. His clothes were rumpled and circles hung under his eyes. “But if I can grab some moments of your time now, I can be home when my kid wakes up in the morning. It’s his birthday.”

  “Okay,” Brian said. “Should we talk in private? My room?”

  “No. We can do it here.”

  They sat on two sofas not far from the front desk. Prosper took a moleskin notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I talked to your parents and they said you were here. They’re still a little shaken up by what happened the other night.”

  “It wasn’t much, really. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “If you could tell me the story in your own words, that would be great.”

  So Brian retold the tale, trying to think of any details that he might have left out in the police report at Fisher Key. Prosper nodded and took notes and occasionally stifled a yawn.

  When Brian was done, Prosper said, “You have a friend staying with you. He saw the explosion from shore?”

  “Christopher Morgan. He’s not here right now.”

  “But he saw it?”

  “Yes. Him and some others. They were at Beacon Point.”

  “And they found a suitcase of some kind?”

  “A duffel bag, I think. You’d have to ask him.”

  “It might be a clue,” Prosper said. “Any little thing might help. This Christopher Morgan…he’s your boyfriend?”

  The words were casual, but a little forced.

  “Not right now,” Brian said.

  Prosper sounded rueful. “I know how that goes. My wife, twelve years we’re together. Then she leaves me for our kid’s orthodontist. Your parents are okay with it? You being gay?”

  Brian stared at him. “I don’t see what—”

  “It’s just that my kid? Plays with dolls. He’s seven. Dresses them up, changes their diapers, puts them down for naps. My ex-wife says it’s a stage. I say we have to get it out of him now, before it’s too late. It’s not like when you have two sons, and one can carry on your legacy while the other does what he wants. Right?”

  The words “get it out of him now” made goose bumps rise on Brian’s neck. Maybe Prosper didn’t realize what it made him sound like. Maybe he was tired, words slipping out before he could really think about them.

  Or maybe not.

  “Just one kid, but he’s mine,” Prosper continued. “I’d kill for him if I had to. Nothing I wouldn’t do. Your dad probably feels the same way.”

  “Henrik’s my stepdad.”

  “Would he protect you?”

  “Protect me from what?”

  Prosper smiled crookedly. “Everyone needs protection from something, kid.”

  Brian was suddenly glad he hadn’t brought Prosper up to his room. He stood up. “It’s kind of late. I need to go now.”

  “Sure, kid.” Prosper tucked his notebook away. “I’ll come back in the morning to talk to your friend.”

  Brian nodded and left him there by the sofas. He could feel Prosper’s gaze on him all the way to the elevators, and how creepy was that? He listened for footsteps on
the tile but heard only the ringing of a phone at the front desk and the muted TV hanging in a lounge area. His hand went to his pocket and touched the reassuring weight of his cell phone. If something happened he could call 911—

  Nothing happened. He got onto the elevator and punched the button for the third floor without looking to see if Prosper was still watching him. The closing of the doors brought enormous relief.

  Get it out of him.

  Would your parents protect you?

  The long hallway on the third floor was empty. Brian felt for his key card, but his pocket was empty. What? He checked his other pocket. It held only his phone and small wallet. Damn it. He must have dropped the card at the gay bar or somewhere on the way home.

  He’d have to turn around and get a new one.

  Then he saw that his door was open, wedged ajar by the deadbolt. Light spilled out from inside.

  Brian opened the door carefully. “Christopher? Did you—”

  He didn’t finish. The room was empty. The pillows and bedsheets were on the floor, all twisted up. The drawers of the bureau had been pulled open and the clothes torn out. All of their toiletries had been dumped on the bathroom counter and some bottles had fallen to floor, spilling blue and green gel on the white tile.

  He stared in disbelief.

  They’d been robbed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sleeping on the dojo floor wasn’t fun, but with some mats for padding it wasn’t all bad.

  “I can’t believe that guy was a cop,” Denny complained in the darkness.

  “Notice he didn’t show us his badge,” Steven said. “He could have been anyone.”

  “I think he was telling the truth.”

  “I think he was a jerk.”

  In the morning, fifteen Okinawan kenpo students showed up in their white gi uniforms for class. Some adults, some kids, three women. As the most senior brown belts, Steven and Denny took their places in the second row. Steven watched himself constantly in the mirror, checking his form. Ninety minutes of push-ups, kicks, punches and blocks left him drenched with sweat, just the way he liked it.

  The regular class ended, but the black belts stayed around for more sparring. At the end of it, Steven, Denny, and Sensei Mike went to breakfast at the Cuban diner down the street.

  “So when do you go to the academy?” Sensei Mike asked Denny.

  “Next month for training.”

  “And boot camp for you, Steven?”

  Steven swallowed some scalding hot coffee. Of all the people he hated to lie to, Sensei Mike was high on the list. “September.”

  “He’s worried about BUD/S,” Denny said.

  “You’re stupendously wrong. I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  Sensei Mike forked some of his ham croqueta. “Bravery is one thing, bravado is another. If BUD/S doesn’t scare you, either you don’t know what you’re getting into or it’s not worth going.”

  Steven watched a dark-haired waitress bend over at the next table. He liked the way her white blouse pulled across her chest, and looking at her was easier than looking at Sensei Mike.

  “Maybe I’m just ignorant,” he quipped.

  “I’ll second that,” Denny said. “Don’t worry. When you wash out, maybe they’ll keep you around to swab the decks.”

  Steven decided to change the subject before he felt even guiltier about lying. “Can we test for black belt before we go?”

  Sensei Mike studied them both. “You think you’re ready?”

  “Never more ready,” Denny said.

  “I could do it today,” Steven added.

  “Oh, to be eighteen years old again,” Sensei Mike said with a laugh.

  Steven’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Um, hi. This is Brian Vandermark. I was looking for Denny.”

  Steven passed the phone over and said, “What am I? Your secretary?”

  Denny asked, “Hello?” and listened intently for a moment. Then he said, “Okay, stay there. We came down for karate class, so we’ll be right over.”

  When he hung up Steven asked, “We’ll be right over where?”

  “Casa Marina,” Denny said, frowning. “Someone broke into his room last night.”

  “Sounds like your kind of case,” Sensei Mike said and signaled for the check.

  *

  Brian and Christopher’s room at the Casa Marina was nicely furnished with modern furniture, sleek lighting, and a king-sized bed. Denny tried not to think about the bed or what they’d been doing in it.

  “Swank,” Steven said. “How much does it cost to stay here?”

  “Ignore him,” Denny told Brian. “This was ransacked?”

  Brian pushed his glasses up on his nose. He was wearing a thin blue jersey and swimming trunks, although he looked too worried to be considering an afternoon by the pool. “No. They moved us here last night after Christopher threw a hissy fit. Our original room is on the third floor, but I don’t know if we can get in it.”

  “You said the door was open when you got back. No signs it was forced open?” Denny asked.

  “No. The manager said whoever got in must have had a key. I must have lost mine, but how would someone know what room to use it on? They’re not marked.”

  Steven plopped down in an armchair by the balcony doors. “You lost it, or it was stolen?”

  Brian look confused. “I was pick-pocketed?”

  “Maybe.”

  Denny poked his head into the hallway and looked for security cameras. None.

  “So where’s Douchebag?” Steven asked.

  Brian winced. “Please don’t call him that.”

  “Okay. Where’s Mr. Personality?”

  A sigh. “Down at the pool. Working on his suntan.”

  Denny wanted to wipe the strained expression off Brian’s face. No, what he really wanted was to give him a reassuring hug.

  But not in front of Steven.

  “Did the hotel report it to the police?”

  “No. They apologized and offered us a few extra nights if we stayed quiet,” Brian said. “Wanted to avoid the publicity, I guess. All they got was about a hundred dollars in cash.”

  “So why’d you call us?” Steven asked.

  “Everyone says you help solve crimes,” Brian said. “A second opinion would be nice.”

  “It could just be a crime of opportunity,” Denny said.

  “And nothing to do with the boat that blew up?” Brian asked.

  Steven put his feet up on an ottoman. “Nah. Just a lot of bad luck.”

  Brian sat on the edge of the bed. “There was an FBI agent here last night, asking about it. Agent Prosper. He wanted to know about Christopher and the bag that was found at Beacon Point. He was kind of a creep.”

  “How much of a creep?” Denny asked.

  “Said some weird things about his own son, and if he was gay he was going to have to ‘get it out of him.’ Like, I don’t know. An exorcism? A beating? Then he asked about my stepfather. And was just weird.”

  Denny asked, “Did you get his name? See his badge?”

  “Yes, he showed me his badge. James Prosper from the Miami office. Why?”

  “If he was a real jerk you could complain to the field office,” Denny said.

  “I don’t think I want to do that. But he was supposed to come back this morning, and he hasn’t shown up yet.”

  “Maybe we’ll stick around,” Denny said. “See how much of a creep he really is.”

  “Stick around?” Steven protested.

  Brian looked relieved. “Can you do that?”

  “Sure,” Denny said. “Class is over, and we’ve got nothing better to do all day.”

  Steven said, “I might have better things to do.”

  Denny gave him a pointed look and put his best effort into twin ESP.

  Steven looked mutinous.

  Brian spoke up. “They have WaveRunners we could rent. And there’s a reef trip for snorkeling. Plus windsu
rfing.”

  Denny admired Brian for knowing exactly what would appeal to Steven. Steven glanced between the two of them and then shrugged.

  “You had me at WaveRunners,” he said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Christopher didn’t seem pleased to have company, and it didn’t help that he kept dumping his Runner into the ocean. Denny didn’t worry too much about Christopher, though. He was having too much fun speeding along the coastline. Steven went full-out, daring the waves and his machine both. Show-off. Denny hung back and taught Brian how to jump some of the smaller waves. Every time Brian laughed or smiled, Denny felt equally happy. Sun, water, and a cute guy by his side. It was like Denny had won the jackpot.

  After a few hours they circled back to the resort to have lunch in the hotel restaurant. While serving up their hamburgers, the waitress mentioned there was a snorkeling trip to the reef leaving at three o’clock.

  “Sunset tour,” she promised. “Very pretty. You can sign up at the front desk.”

  She was an attractive dark-haired woman, and Steven watched her walk away with obvious interest. Denny ignored him.

  “I’ve never snorkeled,” Brian confessed. “Don’t you need to be certified?”

  “Not for sticking on a mask and a plastic tube,” Steven said. “It’s easy.”

  Christopher said, “Rubber makes me itch.”

  Steven opened his mouth as if to say something. Denny kicked him under the table.

  “You’re getting a little sunburned,” Brian told Christopher. “Do you feel it?”

  Christopher touched his nose. “Maybe. We should stay here, out of the sun. We could go to the movies or something.”

  Steven said, “No one comes to Key West to go to the movies.”

  Denny didn’t like the cheerful tone of his voice. Yes, it was clear Steven didn’t like Christopher much, but something else was going on. His twin was scheming about something.

  “What do you think?” Brian asked Denny.

  Denny didn’t want to be part of Steven’s machinations, but he couldn’t lie. “Sure. A day like today? Great visibility. It’ll be beautiful.”