Turning into the wind, I powered up. The Hopper did its magical transformation from boat to plane again and I was quickly in the air. I circled the little island, low and slow, watching Charity pull the palm fronds off the dinghy.
When I saw that she’d pushed it out and climbed in, I banked and flew west past my island. When I banked again for an upwind approach to the shallows north of my island, I could see her little dinghy skipping across the wave tops.
Charity was already on the pier, when I idled up to it, her dinghy pulled up on the sand at the foot of the pier. She ducked easily under the wing as I killed the engine and looped a dock line around the aft cleat of the pontoon. Letting the Hopper’s momentum slowly drift her up against the fenders, Charity quickly had the bird secured to the pier’s T-dock. Unlike the south pier, this one floated. Built on thirty-gallon plastic drums up in Homestead, it was brought out to me in several pieces by barge when I built the bunkhouses.
Finn was waiting on the pier as well, and acted like I’d been gone for months. I didn’t leave him alone very often, and though he was physically full-grown he still had the mind of a pup.
“Hi there, Finn,” Charity said, squatting down to greet him face-to-face with a double ear scratch.
I suddenly felt kind of self-conscious, remembering her showering naked and realizing we would be the only two here, at least until tomorrow.
“I got him up in South Carolina earlier in the year. We’d better hurry, fifteen miles by dinghy and then another fifteen in a sailboat will take us until almost dark.”
Telling Finn to stay ashore once more, we stepped down into the little dinghy. It had a single bench seat at the console—not quite wide enough for two, but Charity shifted over and I sat next to her.
The ride was bouncy, and I couldn’t ignore the proximity with her thigh crushed up against mine. It was also a long ride, fifteen miles across open water in a twelve-foot boat.
Charity’s hair was longer than it had been the last time I’d seen her. It was past her shoulders now, pulled through the back of a Nike ball cap. If anything, she was even more tan, but her face was still unlined and smooth.
Soon, the sailboat came into view. Even at a distance, I could tell it was larger than the average sailboat. A lot bigger than Deuce and Julie’s Whitby.
“You sailed this here alone?” I asked, as we slowly came alongside.
Charity smiled. “Yeah, it looks intimidating and it did take a little while getting used to adjusting more sails. She doesn’t handle as well as mine, but it was easy enough.”
I grabbed the painter as Charity brought the dinghy up to the boarding ladder, and climbed quickly up to a neat, orderly cockpit and deck space. Once I was on board, she killed the engine and I held the little boat in place so she could climb up.
“Tie the dinghy off to one of the stern cleats, Jesse. I’ll get the engine started.”
I tied it off with enough scope to keep it close, but not so close that it would get in the way of docking. Somewhere below decks, I heard the engine rumble to life, and a moment later Charity climbed up from the cabin.
“There’s an electric windlass,” she explained, “but no control back here. I’ll idle forward while you work the windlass from the bow.”
I nodded and started forward. The pilothouse cabin top was the only obstruction on the white Awlgrip-painted deck, and it rose only a foot above the deck. No clutter of equipment, propane tanks, water tanks, or even fenders—just open deck space forward of the cabin, and wide side decks with several dark-colored plexiglass deck hatches.
Releasing the brake on the windlass, I activated it. As the rode slowly came aboard, I could hear the chain rattling as it descended into the anchor closet below. After a few minutes, the windlass began to strain a little as it pulled the anchor loose from the sandy bottom. I waved back at Charity, and she shifted to neutral while the last of the chain came up. Once the anchor was seated in the pulpit, I set the brake and safety chain and returned to the helm.
Charity spun the wheel and pushed the throttle forward to slightly higher than idle speed. “If you’ll take the helm, I’ll run up the main and genoa.”
“Aye aye, Skipper.”
She grinned and left the helm.
Stepping behind the large stainless-steel wheel, I glanced at the antique-looking compass. I turned the wheel slightly to starboard, and lined the boat up on a course that would keep us in deep water and take us toward Harbor Key Light and the entrance to Harbor Channel.
As Charity hauled up the mainsail, I noticed that she’d already let out the main sheet for a broad reach. Unusual for this time of year, the wind was out of the southeast, off our starboard quarter. The sail began to fill as it went up, in short four-foot bursts. Charity had a foot braced against the bottom of the mast, hauling on the halyard for all she was worth. The boom swung out over the port side and the boat began to heel a few degrees, as it accelerated slightly.
“Kill the engine,” Charity shouted, returning from the main mast. “The geny will get us there even faster.”
She opened a hatch behind the cockpit, revealing a very large lazarette, and took a winch handle from inside. She quickly tailed the genoa sheet around the port winch and began pulling, unfurling the large foresail. She then used the winch handle to snug it in the position she wanted. The boat heeled over even more, and sped up to what I guessed to be close to six or seven knots.
I started to step away from the helm, but she stopped me with a hand on my arm and sat on the bench next to it. “You should take up sailing, Jesse. You look good there.”
“When I need to get somewhere, I usually need to get there fast.”
“And when you don’t need to get anywhere?”
I glanced over at her. She looked completely relaxed, one arm draped casually over the side deck. But I knew that just below that serene surface was a violent side, which she could turn on and off at will.
“When I don’t have anywhere to be,” I replied with a shrug, “I relax wherever I am.”
“When sailing, the journey is the destination. It’s all about relaxing. You’ve sailed before, obviously.”
“Some,” I replied, remembering my last Christmas with my parents. I’d been about eight when Dad and Mom had borrowed Pap’s boat for a week-long sail, before he had to go to Vietnam. I’d grown up sailing. Dad had a little day-sailer that he took me out on every weekend we were together.
He was killed in action just a few months after that Christmas, and Mom committed suicide a few days later. I was raised by his parents, Mam and Pap.
“Did a little sailing as a kid,” I said. “I even built some sailboats with my grandfather.”
Standing, she moved toward the cabin hatch. “Would you like a beer?”
“Sure,” I replied.
While she was below, I studied the minimalist panel. There was a compass mounted on a pedestal just in front of the helm, with a knot meter on one side and an inclinometer, which measured how much the boat was heeled, on the other side.
Ahead of the compass pedestal was a long narrow cabinet with storage on either side. The first drawers on both sides were well below the top surface, which was hinged in the middle, so I reached around the wheel and lifted it slightly. The top moved easily, so I raised it farther. A large screen came up with it and when the top locked into position, the screen activated.
The only thing shown on the screen was a menu list across the top, but no buttons. I touched the word radar and the screen came to life, showing a radar display with green and red echoes indicating the islands around us. When I touched the word sonar, a dialogue box appeared, asking if I wanted a single or split screen. I touched the word Split and the radar display shrank to half the width of the total screen and a sonar image appeared to the right, showing nineteen feet of water under the transducer. But I had no idea whether the transducer was mounted on the stern, or on the bottom of the keel, or if had been zeroed to the keel depth or the surface.
> I touched the little cog to access the settings, and saw that there were two depth alarms. One was set for ten feet and the other for seven. The second was probably set very near the maximum draft, to warn the captain to stop before running aground, so I assumed it had been zeroed to the surface and the keel was somewhere less than seven feet below. Good to know.
I didn’t know what the draft on this boat was, but I was pretty certain it was less than ten feet, and probably six. I knew the water ahead like most people know the streets of their hometown, and there wasn’t anything shallower than about fifteen feet between here and Harbor Key.
Charity had been gone several minutes. Finally, she appeared at the hatch, lifting a small cooler up to the cockpit deck ahead of her. She’d changed into a bikini.
“I see you found the nerve center,” she said, opening the cooler and taking two bottles out. She opened them both, handing me a bottle of Kofresi.
“Yeah,” I replied, taking a long pull from the bottle. “And I see you stopped in Puerto Rico on the way. Old Harbor makes a fine stout.”
“Hope you don’t mind,” she said, stretching out on the long bench. “I like to get some sun at least a few times a week and haven’t had much of a chance in a while.”
Charity had spent nearly a month aboard the Revenge as we went from one port to another, searching for Jason Smith all over the western Caribbean. We’d shared a lot of words, slowly opening up to each other. In the end, we’d become very close friends. But in all the time I’d known her, she’d always been the consummate professional, always dressed for the job at hand. This was a side of her I’d never seen before—and a side that was very distracting.
“So, this is Rene’s—er, Victor’s boat?” I asked.
“He’s aboard Wind Dancer,” she replied, not looking up. “We didn’t want to take the chance that there was a hidden tracking device on board, so we switched boats.”
Ahead lay nothing but water for more than an hour. Far in the distance, I could just make out the flash of green light at four second intervals from Harbor Key. Aboard the Revenge, we’d have been there in just a few minutes. The light was low on the horizon, so I knew it was no more than ten miles away.
I tried to remain focused on the horizon. It wasn’t easy, with five-feet-ten-inches of beautifully tanned and shapely blond femininity just feet away.
Charity still hadn’t explained why she didn’t trust Stockwell, but I knew she’d get to that in her own time. She’d sailed over a thousand miles to get here.
“I can find out,” I offered. “In a back-handed kind of way, of course. What’s this boat’s draft, anyway?”
Arching her back so she could turn and tilt her head back to see me, she said, “Six feet. Can you do that? Without anyone knowing why you’re asking?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. Next time I talk to Stockwell, I’ll just ask him how long it’ll be before you get here. If he has any kind of tracking on your boat, he’ll tell me. And if that doesn’t get me anywhere … well, Chyrel works for Deuce now.”
“She’s ex-CIA,” Charity said, turning her face forward again. “I like her; she’s always been very nice toward me. But with them, you can never tell where their allegiance lies.”
I left that alone. Chyrel Koshinski had worked for the Agency, that was true. But she’d been with Deuce’s team for several years now, and I had no doubt at all where her allegiances were. There were few people I trusted more.
“Then I’ll see what I can find out, just fishing around.”
We talked about other things as the boat gently knifed through the waves, which were moving only slightly slower than the boat. Riding up the shoulder of the small waves, the boat would slow a little and heel more, like a big draft horse leaning into its harness. It would push on through the wave until the crest was amidships, then tilt forward ever so slightly and slowly accelerate as we rode gently down the smooth, glassy face. I had to admit, I was thoroughly enjoying it, having never sailed a boat this large.
After a quarter of an hour, Charity turned over and lay on her belly, her head turned, facing me, eyes closed. “You trust him?” she asked without opening them.
The same question, I thought. She isn’t finished with the trust issue yet.
“Who? Stockwell?”
“Yeah.”
I gave the question some thought. “When I first met him, yeah. But being in DC changed him some, I think. There are things people in high places can’t share, and I think it’s a pretty easy step from keeping secrets to telling lies. That aside, he’d be someone I’d want beside me in a bad situation—and I’d trust him completely, there.”
“And the others?”
That, I didn’t have to think about. “A hundred percent in any situation. And that includes you.”
She didn’t talk any more. My eyes, behind the safety of my wrap-around sunglasses, shifted over to her occasionally. The smooth curve of her lower back, rising to her bikini-clad rump and back down to long tan legs, was a major distraction.
I’ve always been a one-woman man, dating rarely until I found someone interesting enough to go out with more than once. But the eyes do stray sometimes. It can’t be helped.
Still a few miles from the light, Charity rose, and without a word, went down into the cabin. She’d been gone a while, and we were nearing the entrance to Harbor Channel. I was about to call down to her, when I heard the engine start.
A moment later, Charity came back up on deck, wearing khaki shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt unbuttoned over her bikini top. Again without saying anything, she went forward and lowered the mainsail, then returned to the cockpit and furled the genoa.
She seemed sullen as she sat on the bench beside where I stood at the helm. She stared forward past the bow. “Why didn’t you even look at me?”
The boat began to drift slightly, and I realized the transmission wasn’t engaged. I moved the shifter forward and as the boat began to move, I steered into the channel.
“It was impossible not to,” I said.
“You don’t find me attractive?”
What the hell? I thought. Was she testing me. I looked down at her face, her usually bright eyes dull, and I realized there might be something wrong, some sort of psychological imbalance, where it came to the opposite sex.
“Are you nuts?” I asked. “You’re a strikingly beautiful woman, Charity, but I can’t see you that way. We’re friends, and good friends are hard to find.”
The sun set just as we arrived at the south dock, seeming to light the mangrove island to the west of mine ablaze. The little channel I’d dug was plenty deep enough to dock the sailboat, but not very wide. Charity backed the boat into my channel, which was no easy task. The sand and rock that I’d excavated in digging the short channel was piled up alongside it, and the pier was built on top of the spoils. With the sailboat tied up to the pier, my two bigger charter boats might not be able to get by. But I didn’t have any charters scheduled for a few days.
“I can cook,” Charity said, as we walked up the steps to my deck. “You know, for putting up with me.”
Stopping in the middle of the deck, I waited until she turned around. “I told you, you’re a friend. Mi isla es su isla. No strings, no judgments. Anytime you need a place to stay or someone to talk to, the island isn’t going anywhere, and I’m right here.”
She came to me and hugged me tightly. The warmth of her bare skin had no trouble penetrating my tattered Rusty Anchor tee-shirt.
“Thanks, Jesse,” she said. “You’re about the only person I really trust completely. But I want to pull my weight. I’m well stocked. Dinner aboard in an hour?”
“I’ve never been known to turn down someone else’s cooking.”
“Good,” she said, turning and going back down the steps.
Entering my little house on stilts, I went to my bedroom in back, and picked up my satellite phone from where I’d left it on the dresser. There was a text message from Tony.
; Subject arrived at 1920, stayed for an hour, then left in a cab. Followed to Courtyard on Bayshore. Observed subject enter with luggage. Waited ten minutes, then went in. He paid cash for four days.
The fact that Tony learned how the man had paid and how long he was staying didn’t surprise me. He could play many different character roles quite convincingly. If he didn’t have such a straight moral compass, he’d have had quite a future as a con-man.
So now I knew where Wilson Carmichael was staying, and for how long. I struggled with the little keypad and replied, thanking Tony for the intel.
Stripping off my shirt, I tossed it in the basket in the corner, then pulled off my shorts and skivvies. I grabbed a clean towel from the little linen closet and went into the head, switching on the light as I stepped into the shower.
That was when I heard Charity gasp.
I spun toward the open window, which looked out over the island’s interior. And the outdoor shower on the deck. The light from the window shone fully on Charity’s face and body. She was naked, and it was obvious she had no tan lines anywhere. She was standing as close to the window as I was, right where the valve was strapped to the outside wall to turn the water on for the outdoor shower.
Realizing that she could see just as much of me as I could of her, I stepped away from the window, nearly slipping again. “You could warn a guy,” I said through the open window, over my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding a little flustered. “You’re right. It’s just that the water tank on the boat is empty.”
“I’ll run a hose from the cistern in the morning. Meantime, give me a second to get dressed and you can shower in here.”
“I don’t want to put you out, Jesse.”
“Not a problem,” I said, switching off the light and stepping out of the shower, my clean towel around my waist. “There’s hot water in here.”
I dressed quickly in my old clothes and went to the front door. When I opened it, Charity was standing there with a towel wrapped around her, which barely reached the top of her thighs.
Rising Storm: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 11) Page 9