“How did you know I wasn’t much of a swimmer?” she asked.
“It’s no big deal,” I said. “Anyone can swim, it’s as natural for us as walking. Babies can learn even before they can walk.”
We sat on the blanket and I took the bowls of fruit out of the cooler, along with two bottles of water and a shucking knife. I quickly opened the little clam Finn had left, just as he dropped another one. We ate the fruit, and I even got Devon to eat one of the clams.
“It feels gross in my mouth,” she said. “I don’t get the attraction.”
“Most shellfish are aphrodisiacs for one thing,” I replied with a wink. “Great source of muscle building proteins and amino acids, for another.”
Reaching up, Devon untied her bikini top and tossed it aside, then stretched out full-length on the blanket. “You hardly need either, Jesse.”
When we arrived back at the Anchor at noon, Rusty met us at the dock and helped tie off. I could tell by his expression that he had news for me.
“Thanks,” I told him, as Devon and I climbed out of the Grady.
“I really have to get going,” Devon said. “I barely have time to get home and get a shower.”
“Drive careful,” Rusty said, “damned cops are working Big Pine pretty—oh, never mind.”
“I’ll catch up to you in a sec,” I told Rusty, then walked Devon to her car. When she opened the passenger door and I leaned in to put her bag in the seat, the heat coming out of the car almost knocked me over.
Our kiss lingered, and I was missing her before she even got in. “I’ll get half a day off sometime this week,” she said, sliding in behind the wheel, and starting the engine, “to make up for today. I’ll call you when I know what day, and maybe you can come down for dinner.”
“I’ll keep my phone on,” I promised.
She backed out and drove slowly through the canopy of trees that covered the long driveway. I looked all around the parking lot. Again, it was nearly empty.
Stepping through the door, I waited a moment until my eyes adjusted, then walked over to the bar. Rusty had a Red Stripe waiting for me.
“He’s here,” Rusty said—again, picking up on a day-old conversation, as if he’d served a beer to someone down the bar and just returned.
“Who’s here?” I asked, looking around. We were the only two in the place.
“Not here here,” Rusty replied. “Here in the Keys. The archaeologist guy I told you about. And you’re not gonna believe this.”
I took a long pull from the beer bottle and set it on the coaster. “Never known you to lie, bro. So, what is there not to believe?”
“The Widgeon you saw? King Buck owns it.”
“King Buck?”
“Sort of a nickname,” Rusty said. “Only lately he’s been having a lot of money trouble. He owned eAntiquity.”
“Never heard of it.”
“That’s ’cause you live up on an island and don’t read a paper, or watch the TV. Man, eAntiquity is—or was—worldwide. Buck Reilly has found at least as much treasure as Mel Fisher.”
“Him, I’ve heard of,” I said. “Think this guy’ll see me and be able to identify the source of the stone?”
“His plane’s easy to find,” Rusty said. “And yours draws about equal attention, with that big-ass radial engine. You fly around Key Weird and then land at the airport, and odds are he’ll find you if he’s on the island. As far as helping you—if he can’t, then nobody can.”
The back door opened, and we both turned to see who it was. A couple of local fishing guides came in with two sunburned men.
“Y’all just belly up to the bar and order what you like,” Dink Wilcox told the two men. “We’ll get your catch cleaned and have it ready in a few minutes.”
The two tourists came over to the bar, both anxious to shake Rusty’s hand. “Those two guides you recommended are the bomb,” the taller man said. “We both got our limit.”
Rusty produced a pair of long-neck Buds and slid them across the bar. He had an uncanny knack for matching faces to names and drink orders. “Beer’s on the house, gents. Glad you had a good time.”
After the two men went over to a table by the window, Rusty leaned forward. “I also found out a little more about Carmichael. He’s having the work on the boat done up in Miami. Left Ramrod yesterday morning to run her up there. By now, he’s sure to be at least halfway.”
“All the way, if he went on through the night. What’s the name of the boatyard?”
“Mistrall’s Boat Works, in Coconut Grove.”
I took my phone out and called Deuce at his new office in Islamorada. We exchanged greetings, then I said, “Can you spare anyone to go up to Coconut Grove and check if a boat has arrived at a marina?”
“Well, sure,” Deuce replied. “Tony’s not doing anything but sucking up the A/C. What’s it about?” I heard Tony laughing in the background.
“Just doing a favor for a friend,” I replied. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.” I gave him Carmichael’s name, described the boat, and the work that was going to be done. Deuce said he’d have Tony call as soon as he found out something.
Ending the call, I turned back to Rusty. “You think this King Buck will be around this evening?”
“Not right away,” Rusty said. “I haven’t talked to him. He’s keeping a low profile. But I talked to Ray Floyd, at the airport. He said that Buck took his plane up this morning with a couple of fishermen. Probably won’t be back until dark.”
“I’ll wait until morning,” I said. “Give me an excuse to get in the air after my swim.”
I finished my beer, said goodbye to Rusty, and slapped my thigh as I headed toward the door. Finn rose from his spot in the corner and trotted along beside me back down to the Grady.
Starting my Monday as I always do, I walked across the clearing in bare feet toward the north pier. The sun was just starting to peek through the mangroves along the east side of the island. I carried only a towel and a pair of clear goggles. I never used to wear them for swimming, but they provided much better visibility in the water and were nowhere near us cumbersome as a scuba mask.
Finn trotted along beside me as I walked out onto the floating north pier. I draped the towel over the rail and squatted down in front of him. “You stay here, boy. I know there’s nobody here to play with, but stay anyway.”
He sat down, cocked his head, and watched as I pulled the strap over my head and fitted the goggles in place. With just a little pressure, they sealed around my eyes nicely, and I began stretching—flexing and straining the muscles and joints in my arms and legs.
The tide was rising, but high water was still several hours away, later than yesterday’s high. It would be deep enough to swim around the little island to the northwest, though.
Swimming in the little cut around the island is always fun. Nurse sharks often lay on the bottom there, sometimes in pairs, and let the current do the work of moving water across their gills. Once I saw three lying side by side on the bottom of the cut.
Jumping off the pier into waist-deep water with a sandy bottom, I found the water was chilly, probably in the low eighties. I struck out at a fast pace, following a path that I’d come to know by heart. When I reached the edge of Harbor Channel, I turned and followed it, staying in about six feet of water, and breathing easily with every other left stroke.
Off to the left, the bottom rose gradually to about three or four feet, just twenty yards away. To my right, it dropped to more than twenty feet in some spots. The steeply sloping bottom on that side was covered with gorgonia and other soft corals, as well as an occasional outcropping of hard corals. These attracted the beautifully colored tropical fish that you see out on the larger reefs to the south. The cracks and crevices in the rocky limestone at the bottom of the channel housed quite a few lobster and big grouper.
The scenery was mostly the same, day in and day out, and I knew where I was and where I was going all the way. But there was al
ways something new to see. Just the week before, a cownose ray had cruised past me in the channel. Just over a year before, I’d found a severed arm on the flats to the north.
Always something new to see.
Maintaining a fast, smooth pace against the current, I soon came to the shallow trench that leads to the turnaround island. As I turned into it, I continued to be amazed at the number of brightly colored fish I saw.
As I rounded the east side of the island, turning my head to take a breath, something caught my eye. I stopped suddenly, and lifted my head, treading water. I could easily stand in the trench, but didn’t want to disturb the fish or harm the soft corals.
A rigid inflatable boat had been pulled up under the dead, brown fronds of the palm tree in the little cove, and other palm fronds had been placed over the exposed stern of the little boat, in a poor effort to hide it.
Moving to my left, out of the trench, I crouched low, my feet spread wide on the sandy bottom and only my eyes and nose above the surface. I moved further to my left, away from the cove and the dinghy. I’m a very light sleeper, and I knew there was no way this boat had arrived under power without waking me. Sound travels great distances over water. It had a small outboard, but there were oars in the oarlocks. The name on the side was Salty Pup.
Whoever it was, they came here stealthily. Or maybe by accident. People are always going aground out here, or running out of gas when they got lost. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen a boat beached in the Contents. It’s not a favorable place for novice boaters without a GPS.
Seeing movement at the edge of the trees, I held my breath and sank lower. Water covered the bottom half of my goggles, leaving only the top of my head above the surface.
Someone stepped out of the trees, pulling a dried palm frond. She was silhouetted by the rising sun, but the shape was unmistakably female. She placed the palm frond over the port side of the boat, wedging the base of the frond among those still attached to the dead tree.
Suddenly, she froze. Then, slowly, she stood straight and turned directly toward me with her hands on her hips. “Jesse?” she whispered.
I recognized her voice instantly and stood up in the waist-deep water. “Charity?”
She splashed across the little cove as I made my way toward shore, then, picking up her pace, she ran toward me in the shallows and leaped into my arms, clinging to my neck like an octopus.
Hugging her, I couldn’t help but notice she was wearing only a bikini top and shorts. The warmth of her bare body against my own wet skin gave me a rush. I lowered her and pushed her away by the shoulders.
“I wasn’t sure if you understood my message,” I said.
Charity looked around, scanning the horizon in all directions.
“I’m alone,” I said. “Nobody on the island, either. In fact, there’s not another soul within five miles, except Finn.”
“Who’s Finn?” she asked, her eyes moist with tears but suddenly wary.
“He’s my dog.”
“What happened to Pescador?”
“I found his original owner some time ago,” I replied. “How’ve you been?”
“Worried,” she replied, her forehead wrinkling slightly.
I looked around as we waded to shore. “Well, you don’t have to worry that anyone knows we’re meeting here.”
“Are you certain, Jesse?”
“Absolutely. Not a soul. Where’s your boat?”
She stopped and looked deep into my eyes. Finally, she said, “My boat’s somewhere in the Virgin Islands. The boat I came here on is anchored beyond the three-mile limit, north of Bluefish Bank.”
I glanced off to the northeast, though I knew Bluefish was a good fifteen miles away, far beyond line of sight. “You rowed all that way?”
“Motored the first five miles,” she replied, as we reached the tiny beach. “I rowed the rest since about midnight.”
“You must be worn out,” I said. I took her hand and led her toward the base of the fallen coconut palm. “Come with me. I have something for you.”
Dropping to my knees, I quickly excavated the spot where I’d buried the box. “I didn’t know when or even if you’d get here, so I put this out here several days ago.”
“What is it?” she asked, as I lifted the watertight box from the hole.
I looked up at her. Physically, she hadn’t changed a bit in the year and a half since I’d last seen her. If anything, she was more fit and tanned than ever. But there was something to her eyes—some emptiness, like you see in old folks who are just counting the days until they die.
“I don’t know your situation,” I replied, opening the box. “Stockwell told us a little about what you were doing, after I figured out what was going on. All I know about the present is that he ordered you home, since the whole team is being deactivated. I read your reply and gathered that you don’t trust him for whatever reason.” Removing a carton from the watertight box, I handed it to her. “This is a sat-phone, brand new, never used. I turned it on once and saved the number of a second one I bought at the same time and will keep for myself. If you feel the need, you can call me anytime. Neither has ever been turned on anywhere near my regular phone, or any other phones for that matter.”
She took the carton and stared down at me. “Jim Franklin’s little black box?”
Franklin is a retired spook that worked with Deuce on occasion. He’s also an electronics tech and one of the best surveillance guys in the business. He invented a machine that would scan a given cellphone’s location and track any other phones in its vicinity. Over time, it would report multiple close geographic contacts between the target phone and any other. His thinking was that bad guys usually associate with other bad guys, and whenever the bad guy in question was with another person more than once, they were probably meeting; he could then track two bad guys’ phones.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Don’t turn it on anywhere around here, though. If you’re that worried, I mean.”
“Do I have reason to worry?” she asked. “And what’s this about the team being dissolved?”
“I’ll let you figure out the answer to the first question. Ask me anything you want, and if I know, I’ll tell you. You can decide for yourself about whether you should worry about anything.”
“And the team?”
“There’s an election next month,” I replied. “Stockwell says that no matter who the next president is, the team will be pretty much broken up immediately, and everyone sent back to their parent commands. He’s gone above and beyond to make sure everyone lands on their feet, even arranging early retirement for Deuce and a couple of others. Deuce opened a security firm, and a few of the team have already left DHS and are working for him. I helped fund it a little, so I guess I’m on the payroll, too.”
“And Stockwell?”
“Unknown. He came here about three weeks ago, to ask for his old job back, and—”
“His old job?” she interrupted.
“For a while there, he stepped down as director, though it turned out to be a ruse. Deuce filled his position in DC, and Stockwell worked for me as first mate. But really, it was so he could be seen by the public as retiring, while he was really working as your handler. Plausible deniability, he said.”
Charity dropped to her knees beside me; her eyes searched mine, shifting from one to the other. “Do you trust him?”
I considered it a moment. He’d lied about retiring and lied about what Charity had been doing, though he did come clean when I confronted him about it.
“Mostly,” I replied. “He’s lied about some things, and withheld information about other things. But he assures me that if I were in his position, I’d have done the same thing.”
“Which is why men like you and Deuce will never be in his position.” She turned her head to stare out over the Gulf, appearing deep in thought. I let her think. “Would you trust him with your life?” she asked, still gazing out over the water.
“Absolutely,” I repl
ied, without hesitation. “A person’s words and actions are two different things sometimes. The man’s a fighter and he has very strong moral convictions which are closely aligned with my own. Maybe it’s just been his exposure to the Puzzle Palace in DC that’s made him less ethical. But, in a fight, there aren’t many others that I’d rather have watching my six. What’s he done to make you distrust him so much?”
“I met someone,” she replied. “He’s been on the run for a while, and planted the idea in my head that the government might want me dead for what I know now.”
“I seriously doubt that’s the case. Why’s he on the run?”
“You’ve met him,” she said, smiling at my surprise. “Victor Pitt.”
I’d met Victor in the Bahamas some time ago. He’d been living on Andros Island, going by the name Rene Cook and working for an old friend of my grandfather. Chyrel had recognized him as a former CIA field operative.
“Where’d you meet him?” I asked. “Do you know his whole story?”
“Probably more than you,” she replied. “We first met in the Caymans, a year and a half ago, then again on Trinidad a few weeks later. I was there on a mission and he helped me out a little. Then we found each other again last month. He was with me when I got the message from Stockwell ordering me home. I had assumed Stockwell was monitoring me somehow, maybe with the satellite. I was involved in something I shouldn’t have been, and thought he was calling me in because of that. It was Victor’s boat that I sailed here. He’s on my boat.”
“What are you going to do now?” I asked. “I’m sure you have a lot more questions.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’d rehearsed everything I was going to ask you, but right now I can’t think of them.”
“There’s no hurry,” I said. “The Trents are off the island for a week; there’s nobody there but me and Finn. Will your boat be okay where it is for a while?”
“Are you inviting me to stay with you?”
“For as long as you need to,” I replied. “If you want, we can move your boat to the south dock. It’s deep enough. But I have to fly down to Key West today.”
Rising Storm: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 11) Page 5