Ten thousand isles df-7

by Randy Wayne White

  He almost certainly wasn't unconscious. It is a predictable reaction: twice clubbed, a man feigns unconsciousness so that he won't be clubbed a third time.

  I closed the door, hit the light switch and picked up the crowbar he'd used to jimmy the door. A big man with dark, hairy hands, wearing tan coveralls and a green ski mask.

  I nudged him with my foot. He didn't move. I stepped on his fingers, increasing the pressure until he finally yanked his hand away.

  He was conscious, all right.

  "Take off the ski mask, but stay on your belly."

  He did.

  It was Frank Rossi.

  Twenty-one

  "You pull this shit on me, pal, you don't know who you're dealing with." Rossi had a voice like his son, only a stronger New Jersey accent. Same mindless vocabulary, too.

  I'd used the duct tape to tape his arms behind him. Now I was taping his legs, but only temporarily.

  "You don't let me go right now, asshole, I know people. Important people. I'll have you killed."

  I said, "Gee, that's the first time anyone's ever said that to me. In English, anyway."

  "That some kind'a joke? A funny boy, real funny. You'll see. You'll see what happens to you after you let me go."

  The color of his face changed slightly when I said, "Frank, I'm not going to let you go. I'm going to kill you. Any advice on how to get a tub like you to sink?"

  I dropped the weight of my knee onto his neck. When his head arched upward, I taped his mouth. As I did, I thought of the way he had manipulated Delia Copeland, stealing the medallion, then getting her drunk and forcing her into bed.

  I made several more wraps with the tape, intentionally sealing off one side of his nose.

  He began to wiggle, fearing that I was going to suffocate him. I had no intention of doing that. But I wanted him to experience the fear. I wanted him to know what it was like to be overpowered and controlled.

  "Save your breath, Frank. You'll need it."

  I went through his pockets. I found a length of woven cord-apparently, he'd planned to tie me up-along with Win-stons, car keys bearing a Mercedes's logo, billfold and a palm-sized Colt Mark IV. 380. A nice little weapon. I popped the clip. Fully loaded, too. One round already in the chamber.

  "Frank, how'd you know? It's exactly what I wanted."

  I took the car keys and went out the glass doors, swung over the railing and dropped down to the ground. If someone was out on the street, waiting in Rossi's car for him to return, I didn't want them to see me coming.

  No, he was alone. I found his car on Marina, pulled off the side of the road. What a dope. That was like advertising, telling the cops he was sneaking around.

  I drove the car to Shell World's deserted parking lot, left the keys in the ignition, opened the hood as if it were broken down, wiped off my prints and jogged back to the Mandalay.

  I cut the tape binding Rossi's legs, got him to his feet and said, "We've got about an hour before first light. What you say we go for a boat ride, just you and me?"

  His eyes grew wide and he began to shake his head furiously.

  I added, "You're right. I almost forgot. I need to take along an extra anchor. A belly like yours, you're going to be really buoyant."

  There was less than a quarter moon drifting through clouds above a black, windy sea. Lots of wind and getting worse.

  The moon made me think of the wooden totem, the designs on it. The gold medallion, too, though I'd never seen it.

  Once I'd gotten Rossi into the boat, I taped his legs again. Now he was lying on his back, head at my feet, squeezed in between the console and the gunwale. I had the bow trimmed down, running as smoothly as a small boat can run in a rolling sea. Even so, big waves caused his head to bang on the deck.

  "Kind of rough out here tonight, Frank. Look on the bright side. You don't have to make the trip back."

  I ran out the mouth of Rock Harbor, almost due south. Ronrico Key was a dark elevation against a black sky. Out on Hawk's Channel, I could see the green four-second light off Mosquito Bank and the red flasher off Hen and Chickens Reef. Beautiful place to dive, all those big corals. Hit either reef and you'd kill your boat. Even a skiff that ran as shallow as mine.

  But I wasn't going nearly that far.

  I ran in darkness, seeing only the reddish glow of my compass. I turned on my VHF radio as I did; switched down to Weather Channel 2, Key West, where I heard a computerized voice say: "… small craft warning is now in effect for Dry Tortugas to Key Largo and Florida Bay. Waves inside the reef, two to four feet; eight to ten feet outside the reef."

  There was an electronic pause.

  "The latest advisory issued by the National Hurricane Center at Miami places the eye of Hurricane Charles slightly south of Isle of Pines, Cuba, at latitude 17.6 degrees north, longitude 85 degrees west, moving northwesterly at thirteen knots. Winds have been measured at one-hundred-twenty-five knots and gusting stronger, barometric pressure at 27.80 and falling. Charles has been upgraded to a Category Four hurricane on the Safir-Simpson scale. Computer analysis projects that it will follow a low-pressure system through the Yucatan Channel into the Gulf of Mexico where it will be driven eastward by a ridge of high pressure. The Center expects to issue a 'hurricane watch' within the next twenty-four hours for the west coast of Florida, Cape Sable to Tarpon Springs. Be advised that a 'hurricane watch' is defined as …"

  I punched off the radio.

  It was coming.

  About a quarter mile from Ronrico Key, on the bay side, I dropped down off plain and switched off the engine. I found the duct tape and began to tape my extra anchor to Rossi's head. As I did, I said, "We need to make this quick. There's a hurricane out there."

  His eyes were wide in the moonlight, terrified.

  "Frank, I've got good news and bad news. The good news is, you're only a couple hundred feet from land. The bad news is, it's straight down. But there's one other option. Maybe you'd rather talk for a while?"

  I only had to thump Rossi twice with the sap before we developed a pattern. I'd ask him a question. When I had the tape recorder going, he would then repeat the question with robot precision, and answer the question fully and honestly.

  My voice would not be on the tape.

  The first time I caught him in a lie, I lifted him by the belt, got him up onto the casting deck as if to throw him in. He began to beg. Then he began to cry, his whole body shuddering.

  Despite what Tomlinson says, I am not without feelings. It is a pathetic thing to hear a mature man cry. But when I began to feel sympathy for Frank Rossi, I reminded myself what he'd done to Delia.. and then to Dorothy.

  Rossi did not lie to me again.

  With me holding the small tape recorder near him and out of the wind, I listened to him say, "Did I dig up the grave of Dorothy Copeland? The answer to that is yes. I didn't see the harm, she's dead, right? I had one of my men drop the backhoe near the cemetery. We had some sewage pipes in the area to replace anyway-I'd been awarded the city bid on it- so I decided to get to it a little earlier, that's all. I was aware that my primary employer was interested in purchasing a wooden carving that was buried with the girl. I mean, who's it gonna hurt? The carving wasn't doing her no good. If the cops hadn't come, I'd a buried her back, no problem. It's not like I was being disrespectful. The thing about breaking into the gal's trailer, I didn't do that. It was probably the big colored guy, the football player, or one of his other flunkies. Oh, something I forgot… Ivan Bauerstock, he's my primary employer."

  I listened to Rossi say, "Did I steal the gold Indian medallion? Did I rape Delia Copeland? Well… look, those are really strong words. Now, I did con her out of the medallion, I admit that. You grow up the way I grew up and, hey, it's a tough world, pal. People dumb enough to get conned deserve it in my book. So the woman's not real bright. Who you gonna blame for that? Me?

  "About the other thing, the rape thing, definitely no. I wouldn't say what I did can be called rape. Yeah, I got a
bot-de of wine down her. Maybe I put some grain alcohol in it, I really can't remember for sure, but who hasn't done that, pal? It's true she kept telling me no when I tried to get her dress off. Kept saying she didn't want to. But lots of times I've had women say no, but then they end up saying yes. How's a guy supposed to know?"

  I found his nervous, locker room laughter nauseating.

  A few moments later, I listened to him say, "No, I don't have the medallion. I sold it to my primary employer, Mr. Ivan Bauerstock." Then: "Look, pal, I can't talk about that. I really can't. Believe me, you don't want to know the truth, 'cause they'll come looking for you. Seriously. You talk about political juice, pal? Fucker's got tons of it."

  I had to get Rossi up on the casting deck and nearly rolled him into the water before I taped him saying, "How did I become involved with my primary employer, Mr. Ivan Bauerstock? Just for the record, in case the wrong person hears this, I got the whole story written down at my attorney's office, and he's been instructed to mail my sworn statement to the DA's office if anything weird ever happens to me. Like if I just disappear. Keep that in mind."

  I had to thump him a third time before he said, "Okay, okay, the way I got involved with the family is, I like to collect Indian artifacts. Bauerstock, he's the same, only I didn't know that at the time. This was like fifteen years ago. The Bauerstock family, they got a lot of property on Marco and back in the 'glades, Indian mounds all over the place. The estate on Marco-it's called Indian Hill-I'd go up there and dig. Not with permission, understand. I'd climb the fence. If they'd seen me, they'd of called the cops. It was no skin off their nose, but property owners, they're bastards like that.

  "This one afternoon, it was about the same time of year, October, I climbed the fence like I always did, and I was digging and sifting on the highest mound when I heard a girl's voice out of nowhere say, 'You won't find anything there, mister.' Turned and here's this teenage girl standing there looking at me. Kind of a pretty girl with blond hair. She's dressed up like she's going to church. Yellow dress, white gloves. In fact, that's what I figured 'cause it was a Sunday. She says, 'You're digging in the wrong place.' Something like that, and I figure she's being a smart-ass, so I tell her to fuck off, get the hell away from me. So what's she do? She smiles at me and drops this beautiful little Spanish chevron bead into my hands-had to be four hundred years old and worth a hundred bucks even then. She says, 'I hope this makes you happier,' or words kind'a close. Then she walks away."

  I listened carefully, trying to remain relaxed and in control as Rossi continued, "Next time I see her, it's like half an hour later. I'd walked to the top of the highest mound, and I was looking down through the gumbo trees and there she is again. Only this time, Bauerstock is with her. He was doing something to her. It looked like he was hugging her, but from behind. I couldn't figure it out, so I kept watching. There was something weird about it, almost like they were dancing, kind of swaying back and forth. Then I realized, the girl was tied to a rope. It was tied around her neck, and Bauerstock was holding her arms down, using his weight. What he was doing was killing her. And he did. He murdered the teenage girl, then he started to play with her a little bit. Reminded me of a cat. But then his old man come along and stopped him. I watched for a while, then I left."

  I punched off the recorder, my hands shaking, "It was Ted Bauerstock."

  "Hell yes, it was Ted. He's a freak."

  "Then say it. Say his name!"

  Rossi had played ^ 1 it smart and cool. After watching the murder, he'd backtracked, climbed the fence and returned to the cheap motel where he was staying. He got a pen and paper and wrote down everything that he'd seen. He made copies at a Winn-Dixie, stopped at the first law office he came to, sealed his statement in an envelope and got a signed receipt for it.

  He waited a couple of days before he telephoned Ivan Bauerstock.

  "What got me was, the old man was like, it's no big deal. Like it was just another business matter he had to take care of. He's always treated Ted like something in a trophy case. I asked him once how much he figured he'd paid out to keep the kid's record clean. The way Mr. Bauerstock looked at me, I knew I better never ask him anything like that again. Ted does something, it's never mentioned, so it's like it never happened. One thing I learned early on, pal, money's all that matters in this world. Money and power. You got money, you can get away with anything. Murder, drugs, you name it."

  Rossi went for the money: a long-term deal. If Ivan Bauerstock set him up in the contracting business, guaranteed him work, Rossi would never mention what he saw that day.

  "It's played out good for both of us. I worked my ass off, pal. I made a bundle and I made it on my own. Old man Bauerstock, he couldn't have gotten better or for less. Then it turns out I got the thing in common about hunting artifacts. We get a new development project, first thing we go after is the burial sites. See? Kind of adds a little fun to the job."

  I switched off the recorder before I asked, "Ivan Bauerstock is the collector?"

  "No. Well, he buys stuff for his kid, but Teddy's the one. He's crazy about artifacts. His dad says it's 'cause he used to screw their colored maid, who was like a voodoo woman or some such thing. She had a big influence on him. Teddy collects artifacts like he's starving for the stuff. Wears the shit, prays to it for all I know. He's nuts.

  "After the thing with the girl, him killing her, the old man sent him off to some private loony farm. Then kept him in very strict private schools after that, making sure he didn't get into any more trouble. As long as Ted stays righteous, the old man gives him anything he wants. He made it through college okay, been practicing law for his dad's companies, no problems that I know of. So he's like rehabilitated. But he's still nuts. Lately, it's that wooden carving. Ted was putting all kinds of pressure on his old man. He had to have it. Their luck had been running kind of bad, the old man's businesses, too. We find them that wooden carving, or maybe another gold medallion, that was supposed to change their luck. Give them more power, whatever. Ted even tracked down the girl's father, thinking maybe he had the same gift for finding stuff. But Dart Copeland, he's a bum, a drunk. Talk about nuts? Ted hired him anyway 'cause the guy had unusual eyes."

  Still lying on the deck, Rossi stopped, tried to turn and get more comfortable, but couldn't. "So that's about it, pal. What you say, you cut me loose, then we go on back and have a beer? One day, we'll probably laugh about this shit, huh? A tough guy! Come down here to rough you up a little and I run into another tough guy. What're the fucking chances?"

  The recorder was off. I placed it in the black briefcase, stepped over Rossi and stored the bag in a dry locker. "Where's the Bauerstocks' ranch? How do you get there?"

  "Easy, only I don't try going in there without an invite. They got fences, cameras, the whole works. Security you wouldn't believe. You know where Port of the Islands is on the Tamiami Trail, east of Naples? They own about a thousand acres west of there, but that's the road you take in. Get within a mile of the mansion, though, someone will stop your car."

  "What about by water?"

  "Water? What'a you mean, water?"

  "How hard would it be to go in there by boat?"

  "By boat, yeah, I hadn't thought about that. The back way, you mean. They got water access. A river cuts in behind their place, and it's connected to the long canal that leads in from the islands. I can't remember its name. Hey, pal? You gonna let me go now, right? I cooperated. I'm gonna have to move out of Florida now that I spilled the beans. Maybe even outta the country, because of it. But, hey, I told you everything you wanted to know. I was honest."

  In the vertical rod holders bolted to the console, between my fishing rods, I keep a stainless scissors. I reached for the scissors now, held it for a moment, then touched the point to

  Rossi's neck. "You watched that girl die. You did nothing to stop it."

  "Hey! What was I supposed to do? The man was on his own private property with a girl I'd never even met. It wasn't none o
f my business."

  I said, "So she deserved it. That's what you're saying."

  "The girl who died? Who knows? Maybe she got smartass with Teddy. It ain't my problem." Rossi was looking up, into my face. There was more light now, a pale dawn rising, and he could see what was in my eyes. "Hey, wait a minute, pal. I don't like what you're thinking. Wait… don't. You got no reason to blame me. Really, I'm begging you. Don't kill me, please."

  With a slash, I cut the tape that bound him to the anchor, then I cut the tape around his legs.

  "Get out of the boat."

  "What?"

  I repeated myself.

  'Jesus Christ, you're not serious. It's gotta be a quarter mile to that island, and with my hands tied?"

  "Get out of the boat!"

  I grabbed him by the belt and throat, lifted him and threw him over. Watched him thrash and splash for a moment… until he got his feet under him, then he stood.

  "Fucking water's only three feet deep! You bastard, you fucking lied to me!"

  I said, "You got conned, Frank. So you're not very bright. Who you going to blame? Me?"

  I told him he could wade two miles to Key Largo where his car was waiting at Shell World. Or wade to the island and hope to flag down a boat. He was still screaming at me when I started my engine and left him.

  Back at the Mandalay, Reefer Vinny, one of the locals had already popped a sunrise beer. He was wearing a T-shirt that read, Think Globally, Drink Locally. When I told him I'd been out by Ronrico Key, he became concerned. "Watch your step out there, Captain. You didn't know? They should note it on the charts. Someone released a bunch of circus chimps there years ago when they got too big and mean. A deserted island, what's the harm? they figured. Plenty of wild monkeys around the Keys, islands full of them. But these chimps, they bred. That's why no one goes there. They're big. There's not much to eat, and they hunt in packs."

  Twenty-two