As they walked over to the main house, Dix asked, “Why do you think our guides aren’t available. Maybe they’re sick.”
Petersen grinned. “Maybe they were murdered.”
Dix shook his head. “No shop talk. They’re probably just sick.”
The guys arrived in the private dining room to find Martin, dressed in a neatly pressed print shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. He waited for them at a massive oak table, looking relaxed and slightly intoxicated.
Martin smiled. “Well, you want the good news or the bad?”
Dix spoke first. “I like to hear bad news first. It makes the good news, even when it isn’t that great, seem better.”
“And I like the good news first. That way the bad news doesn’t seem so bad,” said Petersen.
“How about I tell them?” Suzie suggested as she joined them. She looked stunning in a long, light green floral-print dress. But her eyes appeared to be red and puffy as though she’d been crying.
Dix clenched his jaw. Martin better not have put a hand on her or I’m going to personally kick the crap out of him.
Martin looked at this wife. “No. I’ll do it. My closest friends, and the best two guides on Andros Island, Sean and Preston Smith, were found dead just offshore this morning. They’d been missing for three days. Suzie and I were questioned at length by Superintendent Charles Taylor from the Royal Bahamian Police Department.” Suzie began to cry and Martin put his arm around her as tears ran down his own cheeks.
Their pain was hard to watch, especially since Dix and Petersen had lost far too many close friends and knew the terrible feeling that came with it.
“Martin, I am sorry for your loss,” Dix said. “We had no idea. Otherwise, we’d have canceled the trip.” His beer buzz disappeared immediately.
Suzie sniffled. “It’s okay guys. You couldn’t have known about any of this. It happened so suddenly. We know how much this trip means to you, and we want you to have a fantastic time. Martin has been trying to replace your guides since you arrived.”
Of all the dumb luck. Dix had been amazed by the beauty of the island and was captivated by the atmosphere of the lodge. Now he felt like he was plunked in the middle of another criminal investigation. He wanted to help Suzie. It really bothered him to see her suffer.
Petersen spoke for both of them. “Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, we can come back here another time. Maybe things need to calm down a bit.”
Martin replied, “Nonsense. Sean and Preston would have wanted you two to experience this opportunity in their honor. I have secured the services of two well-qualified Bahamian guides for you.” He’d stopped crying and seemed more in control of his emotions. Suzie still wept quietly.
“Fellas.” Dix motioned to the outside. “I’ve lost my appetite. Let’s go out for some fresh air.” He patted his chest pocket. “Maybe we can see if these authentic Cohibas were worth fifteen dollars each.”
Shortly after they left the main house, Dix noticed a red Subaru station wagon speeding toward the lodge. It was occupied by two men. The vehicle leaned heavily to the right, almost hitting the ground on the passenger side, and it had some minor front end damage.
As the car passed, Dix saw it was also missing a rear bumper. In Miami, this type of vehicle screamed, “Please pull me over.” In the Bahamas, it was known as a “work vehicle.”
The Subaru skidded to a stop a few feet beyond where they stood, and the driver quickly exited. He was handsome, probably in his forties, with a dark complexion, about Petersen’s height, but leaner. He immediately approached the men.
“Hello, mon. My name is Wilfred Jones. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He spoke with a subtle British accent.
Dix and Petersen shook Wilfred’s hand.
Their attention was drawn back to the vehicle. The distinctive tilt had Dix curious about the person who occupied the passenger seat.
A loud creaking noise emanated from the beat-up car as the door swung open. One leg emerged, and the whole vehicle began to clank and bang. As the man stepped out, Dix could almost hear the car whisper, “Thank you.” Dix figured the guy was about six feet six inches tall, with a muscular build, probably weighed over 250 pounds. He seemed to be a local, and bore a faint resemblance to Wilfred.
“Wow!” exclaimed Petersen.
“I hope this guy’s a friend of Wilfred’s,” said Dix.
The passenger slowly and deliberately walked over to them, said something to Wilfred neither American could understand. He spoke in the thick British dialect of the island. Then the new arrival extended his massive hand to Petersen.
“Nice to meet you, sir. My name is Bobby Jones, but you can call me Bubba.”
Bubba shook Petersen’s hand, and then Dix’s. Dix wondered if he’d ever regain feeling after the vise-like shake.
Martin said, “Gentlemen, these are two more of my friends. They’re experienced fishing guides. I have asked them to take you on the world’s greatest saltwater fly fishing adventure. They’ve guided for me as side work from time to time over the years.”
Dix reached into his pocket and offered each of them a cigar, which they both accepted. As they lighted up, Dix asked, “Which species of fish do you think is the most difficult to catch?”
They answered in unison, “Permit, mon.”
Dix smiled. “Then let’s go after them last. How about it, Petersen?”
“Let me finish this cigar and see if Martin has some whiskey. Then I’ll agree.” The Jones brothers and the detectives discussed arrangements for the next day’s trip while they puffed away.
“We’ll pick you up at the lodge dock at eight in the morning,” said Will. “Bubba and I will take you to Fresh Creek first, then explore the rest of the east side of Andros.”
Dix and Petersen shared a grin. “That sounds awesome,” replied Petersen.
Martin returned with glasses of whiskey, and the men sat on the dock overlooking Elliott Creek, watching the sun dance on the ripples.
After they finished their cigars and said their goodbyes, Dix headed back to the cottage to discover his friend swinging in a hammock.
Dix obviously startled Petersen with his approach. “Hey man, you shouldn’t have smoked that cigar. You know those things make you sick.”
“I know. But I haven’t had one in so long. I figured I could treat myself.”
Dix noticed his friend looked somber and a bit shaken up. “You okay, buddy?”
Petersen didn’t answer right away. He gazed out toward Elliot Creek and shook his head. “I can’t get my mind off my ex. It’s terrible what she did, but I miss her.”
Dix nodded and knew he needed to tread lightly here. “That’s totally normal, Steve. No matter what happens down the road, I’ve got your back. Now, let’s hit the sack so you can sleep off that Cuban and we can get some rest for a kick ass day of fishing tomorrow.”
Petersen stared at Dix and replied, “I know buddy, I know. Thank you.”
Dix walked his friend to their cottage. They discussed how eager they were to go fishing, but each secretly wondered what happened to their original guides.
No matter where I go, I seem to get into some sort of mess, thought Dix.
CHAPTER FOUR
At seven forty-five, Dix shook Petersen until he woke up.
Petersen felt sick, and his head was pounding. Every second or so, Petersen felt his heartbeat at the center of his brain. He realized the glass of whiskey hadn’t done him in. It was the damn cigar.
“Man, take it easy on me. I feel like throwing up.”
Dix chuckled. “I warned you about the cigar. Now hurry and get up. I took our gear and food to the dock already.”
“Okay, okay, but could you stop yelling?” Petersen popped several aspirin and drank two bottles of water to try to accelerate the healing process. He threw on a flats fishing shirt, grabbed his hat and sunglasses, and followed Dix to the dock.
Two idling Maverick flats fishing boats waited for them at the dock. Petersen gra
bbed his head and gave Dix a God help me look.
“Don’t look at me, buddy. I thought maybe you’d learned your lesson about smoking cigars from the last trip. I guess not.”
Bubba stood next to the larger boat. He was wearing khaki pants, a long sleeve shirt and had an obviously too small, large-brimmed hat perched on his head. His shadow nearly covered the dock.
Wilfred stood with one foot on the dock and one on the smaller boat, motioning for Dix and Petersen to hurry. Dix noticed he wore the same clothes from the night before.
Dix whistled. He loved boats. “Man, is that a Maverick?”
“Sure is,” replied Wilfred.
“What kind of engine does she have? It looks huge.”
“It’s a four stroke Yamaha. Two hundred horsepower. Just came out last year. She gets up and goes,” said Wilfred.
Dix was impressed. He couldn’t wait to head out and see what the boat could do at top speed.
“Now don’t be bashful, Mr. Dix. Bubba promised to take it easy on you,” said Wilfred.
“That’s reassuring,” said Dix as he boarded the boat. “That leaves the drunken sailor with me.” Wilfred motioned for Petersen to board his boat.
All he was able to muster was, “Okay.”
Bubba grinned. “Mon, you’re a wreck. Let’s go look for some fish.” Dix shot Petersen a look of concern.
“I’ll be okay.” Petersen was lying, but he didn’t want any of the guys to give him crap about not being able to handle a glass of whiskey and a single cigar.
The flats boats began the hour-long journey through Elliott Creek to Joulters Cays in the search of trophy fish. Due to their design, the boats could easily maneuver over the emerald green, shallow water on the myriad of flats in the area. Yet, they were sturdy enough to take on some chop from the deep, blue Atlantic Ocean.
As soon as Wilfred guided the boat into the open water of the Atlantic Ocean, Petersen promptly vomited. That’s much better.
* * * *
Dix enjoyed the trip out to the fishing grounds. He saw small, colorful homes dotting the island and watched as a large stingray jumped out of the water near his boat. The trees and bushes seemed brilliantly green and the various island birds stalked the water along the shore looking for prey. The maze of shallow flats, intertwined by channels and into the open sea, looked like a jigsaw puzzle. Occasionally, Dix smelled cooked food in the air when the island jutted out closer to the channels. His stomach growled. When he envisioned Andros Island back in Miami, he couldn’t recall it being this amazing.
Bubba pulled the power back on the engine and the boat coasted onto a large flat. Dix thought he saw a sea turtle and was impressed with the abundance of wildlife and sea creatures in the area.
When Bubba grabbed his push pole from the inside railing of the boat, he labored to get up on the poling platform. Dix walked to the bow of the boat. He tied on a fly pattern that looked like a shrimp and worked out some line from his reel. His pulse accelerated, and he stared at the water hoping to see movement below the surface.
Bubba surveyed the water above the flat. “Should be some bonefish here, mon. Dey use dey noses to rustle out crabs and shrimp. Then dey tails stick out of the water ’cause the depth’s shallow on the flats. Dis is called tailing.” Bubba scanned the water intently. Then he pointed to three tails about thirty feet away.
He turned to Dix and whispered, “Get ready. They at twelve o’clock, moving right to left.”
Bubba slowly and quietly pushed the flatboat closer to the feeding fish. “Okay, get the fly right in front dey noses.” Dix whipped the rod back and forth and worked out some line. He placed the fly about three feet in front of the fish and was shocked he’d done such a perfect cast on the first try.
“Strip the fly. Okay, stop. Now, do it again.”
Dix moved the fly, and the lead bonefish inhaled it and took off in the opposite direction so fast Dix barely had time to react. The line pulled through the rod guides quickly as the fish tried to seek refuge in nearby mangroves. Dix set the hook and began fighting. After a few minutes, he brought his tiring prey close to the boat. Bubba retrieved it, and they gave each other high-fives.
Bubba laughed. “You can breathe now, buddy.”
Dix hadn’t felt excitement like that when fighting and catching fish in a long time. It reminded him of his younger days on patrol while chasing bad guys on foot. “Bubba, that was awesome,” he exclaimed.
Something had caught Bubba’s attention and Bill turned to see what it was. It looked like a red and white Coast Guard cutter, a helicopter, and a smaller gray boat. They seemed to be combing the water southwest of their location.
“What the hell are those guys up to?” he wondered aloud.
“Dey been out there since yesterday after dey found Sean.”
Dix heard a motor coming from behind him. He turned around to see Wilfred and Petersen heading toward him.
Wilfred coasted his boat to a stop near them. The two boats were within earshot of each other.
Dix became more alert as his mind began to wonder about what really was happening on the island. He figured someone had dedicated a lot of resources to the search. Knock it off. You’re on vacation. But his detective’s curiosity won out. “Could I ask you a few questions? You know, in an effort to figure out what exactly happened the other day.” Dix tried to sound casual, but the excitement of the day and of the possibility of danger probably came through.
A large helicopter flew toward them, and eventually directly overhead. The blade wash rippled the water, and the sound was deafening. It continued toward the open ocean. What are they looking for?
Bubba appeared thoughtful for several minutes but didn’t say a word.
Finally, Wilfred said, “We heard some sip-sip.” Seeing Dix and Petersen’s confusion, he chuckled. “That’s Bahamian for gossip. But you can’t trust the island talk.”
Dix knew their guides weren’t aware his offer came from one of the top murder and narcotic detectives in Florida. He smiled. “Guys, I’ve had a lot of experience in this kind of thing. You want help, just let me know.”
Bubba rubbed his chin.
Dix was confused. “I can help.” Bubba did not respond.
Finally Bubba said, “Maybe dey looking for the boat.”
“Were Preston and Sean on a boat recently? Before their bodies were found?”
Bubba clammed up again.
“Only reason someone would look for a boat would be if the authorities thought your friends were on one when they were killed,” said Dix. “Or they got a tip they were in a boat, but there’s something on it… or in it.”
Bubba’s eyes flickered indicating to Dix he was on to something.
“Yup. Preston and Sean were in a boat. And, we heard there might be lots of cocaine in it.”
“Really? Who told you that?” “Just word on da street.”
“But do you think it’s true?” Dix was now excited. If the boat held cocaine, a great deal of what he’d observed since he arrived made more sense.
Bubba looked away. Dix had interrogated some great criminal minds in his career. He was excellent at extracting information. Bubba’s reaction indicated he had more to say. “Look, let’s just catch some fish. If you want to talk, I’m all ears.”
Petersen shot his partner a quick glance and shrugged.
Bubba didn’t reply. He fired up the engine, and they headed for the next fishing flat, followed by Wilfred and Petersen.
For the next four hours, the boats stayed relatively close to one another, so Dix and Petersen could watch as they each hooked and fought a fish. Dix would have preferred to be in a single boat. However, casting in fly fishing required ample room behind the fisherman. Most people fished the flats with a guide and single fisherman on each boat to avoid hooking themselves while casting.
At one point, Dix stopped to admire Petersen’s effortless and majestic casting stroke. He’d stopped fishing completely and watched Petersen with great int
erest. A few minutes later, Petersen and Wilfred grew very still. Dix wondered what was going on when he noticed Wilfred pointing at the water. Ah hah.
A few seconds later, Petersen set the hook and a wily bonefish ripped off the flat, looking for salvation in deeper waters. Man, this is gonna be the best vacation ever, he thought.
* * * *
Wilfred jumped down from the poling platform, located at the rear of the boat above the engine and secured the push pole in the railing mount to move to another flat. Petersen noticed the Coast Guard circus had cleared. Wilfred fired up the four-stroke Yamaha engine and headed directly to where the boats and the helicopter had been. Wilfred had a gut feeling Gray Ghost would be far south of where the Coast Guard had looked.
As a long time fishing guide and resident of the island, Wilfred knew the water very well. He was obligated to take his client to the best spot to catch fish, but he was also interested in the sunken boat. Knowing the local sip-sip often held elements of the truth, he pointed to the right. “We’ll start right over there. That’s where they think Sean and Preston’s bodies came from, based on the currents in the area. I don’t really want to go where my friends were murdered, but I also wish to pay my last respects. Besides, it’s a good place to catch fish.”
“Given the time, wind patterns, and ocean currents, it seems highly unlikely there’s anything remaining from the incident.” Petersen stared ahead.
“Light things, like clothes and life vests, would be gone. But the boat would remain if it’s in shallow water, especially a thirty-seven-foot speedboat loaded with 1,250 kilos of cocaine.” Wilfred looked at Petersen for a reaction. He got none.
Petersen cautiously eyed Wilfred. Large amounts of narcotics didn’t impress him, he’d seen his share. However, he began to wonder just how much these guides knew about what had happened to their friends. Wilfred had told him an exact weight of cocaine suspected to be in the speedboat. Was this the sip-sip Wilfred had mentioned? Wait. I’m supposed to be on vacation.
“How do you know?” His training took over.
“It’s too much weight and the current is slow here. The boat and the cocaine will be intact.”
Gray Ghost (The Bill Dix Detective Series Book 1) Page 2