Bluewater Voodoo: Mystery and Adventure in the Caribbean (Bluewater Thrillers Book 3)

by Charles Dougherty

  Initially, she had intended to blow the Senator’s cover straight away. Now, she contemplated the latest poll results and realized that he actually had a chance at the presidency. The current, unstable liberal administration coupled with growing unrest among the underclass in America was increasing the appeal of O’Rourke’s hard-line approach to government. She tried to visualize what it would mean to her to have the kind of dirt she had on him if he made it to the White House. She could have a quick boost in ratings by exposing him now, but the odds looked better than even that by waiting, she could have the President of the U.S. at her mercy. She was leaning toward deferred gratification. Her ratings after this morning’s show were solid, and her contract still had two years to run. She could own the President by the time she had to renegotiate her employment agreement.

  ****

  Captain Gomez was locked in a small, grimy room, staring at the cinderblock walls with their peeling, pale green paint. He sat in one of the four steel chairs that were bolted to the bare concrete floor around a scarred steel table. The air hissing from the grill high in the opposite wall was cold and musty smelling, but the room had its own overpowering aroma: a blend of stale sweat, old urine, and ancient tobacco smoke, he thought. The federal agents had impounded the Santa Magdalena as soon as she was secured to the dock in the Miami River. He had no idea where his crew was, nor did he know exactly how long he had been locked in the small room. No one had spoken to him since the man in the suit had told him he was under arrest. Based on his empty belly, he thought it must be near lunch time. He had eaten breakfast as the ship was entering the harbor, and they had tied her to the dock at about 7 o’clock this morning, so he thought he must have been held for about five hours. He had occupied himself by visualizing what they would find when they searched his ship. There was the Ativan, and some of the paperwork for the rest of his cargo wouldn’t stand vigorous scrutiny. He knew it could be a long time before he saw home again, and he wondered what had caused the authorities to single out Santa Magdalena on this particular trip. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock.

  The man who had arrested him entered the room, accompanied by an older, heavy-set but fit-looking man. O’Brien, he thought the man who arrested him had called himself.

  "Captain Gomez, this is Paul Russo. He’s a Deputy U.S. Marshall. He works with us sometimes on cases down in the eastern Caribbean. We’d like to ask you some questions."

  Gomez gazed at the two men and said nothing, waiting.

  "You’re under arrest on some pretty serious charges, Captain. We read you your rights earlier; you know you can have a lawyer. You want to call somebody?" the man named O’Brien asked.

  Gomez shook his head.

  "We found drugs concealed in your cargo, and part of your shipment of appliances matches merchandise stolen from a warehouse in Puerto Rico a few weeks ago. The shipping manifests are forged. There are explosives aboard, as well – enough plastique to blow half of Miami off the map. You’re in trouble; the explosives put you in the category of a terrorist. You got anything to say?"

  "Maybe, señor. The drugs and the stolen stuff, I know about. The other is nothing to do with me. I am forced to do this by some people who will hurt my family in Venezuela. I must not go free, or they will think I have talked and they will kill my family. Maybe you can punish me just a little bit, if I help you, yes?"

  "Tell us what you know, and we’ll see what we can do," O’Brien said.

  "I don’t know about the explosives until they blow up the yacht. Then they are upset and they leave quick."

  Paul Russo and Dan O’Brien exchanged glances at the mention of the yacht.

  "Who were these people?" Russo asked.

  "I don’ know much. One is Martinez. He is high in the government; everyone does what he says, even my bosses, the people who own the ship. He has with him Moraga, and a bokor called Giscard, and …"

  "What’s a bokor?" O’Brien interrupted.

  "He is one who does the black magic; this bokor, he had a zombie with him."

  O’Brien and Russo exchanged skeptical looks.

  "Tell us about these people, and maybe we can work something out on the other stuff, Captain Gomez."

  Chapter 32

  "I don’t understand, Jer. Who is this Greg Elliot, anyway?" Carmen was sprawled on the rumpled bed, Jerry Smith’s head on her shoulder as she played idly with his ear.

  "Just a guy. He’s part of that bunch I drink beer with every so often; we swap war stories and help one another out when we can. You know, little bits of code here and there. Nothing major."

  "Why would he hack into my stuff?"

  "Why do we hack into stuff? Most likely he’s just curious; could be somebody’s paying him. Who knows?"

  "I’ve gotta tell Martinez. This could be a serious problem if somebody’s paying him. If he figures out what he’s seeing, he could blow the whole thing."

  "You mean this homeless thing?"

  "Yeah."

  "I don’t get it, Carmen. Why does a guy who’s looking for zombies want to stir up imaginary trouble with the homeless? And what does Senator O’Rourke have to do with anything?"

  "I don’t know. Martinez isn’t the kind of client who tells you any more than he has to. When I first started working for him, I dug up everything I could find on him. He’s kind of scary."

  "Yeah. You said that before. Why is he scary, though? What’s he do?"

  "He’s connected pretty high up in the Venezuelan government. Best I can tell, he does odd jobs for Chavez. Want a shaky government toppled? He might be the guy to do it. Need a rival’s refinery shut down? Shit happens when Martinez is in the neighborhood, but you can never tie him directly to anything. Too much coincidence to believe he’s not responsible for at least some of it, though."

  "You think he might hurt Greg?"

  "Screw Greg. He’s the guy poking his nose in stuff. I’m worried about us."

  "You said the other day there was no us," Jerry said, a smile on his face.

  "Don’t press your luck, lover boy," Carmen said, sticking her tongue in his ear as she rolled on top of him.

  ****

  "Racine wants us to visit," Dani said. She sat in Vengeance’s cockpit with Liz and their guests. Phillip had come out to join them, bringing a bag of fresh pastries from the patisserie in Ste. Anne. "I put her off until tomorrow morning, to give us a chance to recover from the sail and figure out what’s going on."

  "I’d like to touch base with RDF before we go to see her," the professor said. "I’m hoping I can steer him away from the zombie thing into a broader series on Voodoo. Figure I’ll tell him we can start with zombies. That’s a good hook to attract viewers, and then move on. Think Mambo Racine would go for that?"

  Dani shrugged. "She’s got more on her mind than the show. She heard from a mambo in Îles des Saintes while we were gone. Giscard was there, with a guy who fit the description of Martinez."

  "How did this woman know it was Giscard?" Liz asked.

  "He introduced himself, and mentioned Racine as a way to prove he was legit, apparently. Or maybe he figured word would get back to her through the grapevine. He was looking for herbs; some specific ones that he asked the mambo about. He told her that he was caring for a sick crewman on their ship, but you can’t hide much from the locals in a small town. The mambo found out they were staying in a guest house on the beach, and they had arrived in a big rigid inflatable boat. They left in the RIB after a day or two; I’m guessing that was the RIB you saw off Terre-de-Haut right before the explosion," Dani said, looking at Phillip. "They apparently left the ship to look for herbs, but they also went fishing a couple of times, and then they tried to buy puffer fish before they left."

  "Could have been the same RIB," Phillip agreed, "but Santa Magdalena’s in Miami. The Feds impounded her – found a bunch of contraband and a big lot of military grade explosives. Paul’s going to be there when they interrogate the captain – the lead agent�
�s a friend of his, and Paul tipped them off about Martinez using the ship to kidnap the houngan. Of course, Martinez and Giscard weren’t aboard, but Paul’s tip was cause enough for them to search the ship. The captain said he had put them off in a RIB that belonged to Martinez a few miles from the Les Saintes, along with another guy named Moraga. The captain figured Martinez ordered up another little Venezuelan freighter – seems they have a fleet of ‘em in the islands."

  "So we can guess that Martinez and Giscard are somewhere in the neighborhood, aboard another rust-bucket. We just don’t know which one. No mention of Moraga being with them in Les Saintes," Dani said.

  "I’ll get Sandrine to check with Immigration," Phillip said. "Maybe Moraga left Guadeloupe on a commercial flight or a ship; could be a paper trail if he used the same name. It’s worth a shot. What would they want with puffer fish, by the way? They’re poisonous."

  "Racine said that the bokors have a way of extracting the poison from the liver of the fish. They use it in a potion that’s used to turn people into zombies."

  "I’ve read about that," the professor added. "It’s tetrodotoxin – a really potent neurotoxin. One average fish has enough of it to kill 30 people. The Japanese call the puffer fish fugu, and they consider it a delicacy. Some sushi chefs train for years, specifically to learn how to prepare slices of the fish that contain just enough of the toxin to make you high. They lose a few people a year to it. The bokors apparently learn to use some other herbs to control the absorption of the poison. It’s the main ingredient in the initial potion, and they administer enough so that the victim appears dead, even to a medically trained observer. The daily maintenance potion given to the zombies may contain traces of the tetrodotoxin, as well, but nobody really knows, aside from the bokors."

  "Fascinating, and scary," Dani said. "Professor, you need to talk to RDF before we go to see Racine. Phillip, I want your help. I know already that Racine thinks we need to free Giscard, one way or another. She talked to Papa about it and he called me. He’s with us, whatever we decide."

  "You know I’m in, Dani. Whatever you need," Phillip said.

  "I’m pissed that Martinez tried to blow up Vengeance. I didn’t take it personally when he sent his thugs aboard to kidnap the professor, but I won’t rest easy now until he’s out of action. The son of a bitch tried to kill me and Liz; you know how I was raised; I want him put away."

  Seeing the expressions on Lilly’s and the professor’s faces, Phillip nodded. "I’ll talk to Clarence; we may need Midnight Thunder."

  "Great," Dani said. "Call Sharktooth, too. See if he’s busy."

  "What’s Midnight Thunder and Sharktooth?" the professor asked.

  "Oh, it’s a fast boat. Sharktooth’s a friend in Dominica. We need some help to find Martinez and keep an eye on him until we convince the authorities to handle this," Dani said.

  Chapter 33

  Martinez was seated at the desk in his cabin with a pad of paper in front of him, doodling obsessively as he talked on the satellite phone.

  "So you and Smith figured out who this guy is?" he asked.

  "Yeah. He’s just another hacker. His name’s Greg Elliot," Carmen replied.

  "Who’s he working for?"

  "We don’t know, but we found some connections between him and Living Dead Productions earlier, remember. We just didn’t know who he was back then. Jer set some traps there; we’ll let you know what we learn. We already broke into their mail server; nothing interesting there, except that professor that we talked about sent ‘RDF’ at Living Dead Productions a long report this morning."

  "This morning? You sure about that?" she had Martinez’s full attention, now; he put his felt-tipped pen down beside the pad of paper.

  "Yeah. It’s all time-stamped; came from a server that belongs to a company that provides marine Internet access over satellite. It originated in the eastern Caribbean, but that’s all we can tell from the satellite footprint. We hacked into the account profile, though. Looks like he’s on a vessel named Vengeance."

  Martinez picked up the felt-tipped pen and broke it between the fingers of his right hand, releasing the sharp smell of acetone and getting ink all over his hand. "Shit!" he exclaimed, flinging the wreckage of the pen into the small wastebasket by the desk and opening the drawer to rummage for a replacement. "Did you read the email?"

  "Oh, sure. The professor said somebody tried to blow up the yacht near Guadeloupe after they picked up the zombie. The zombie was unconscious when they picked him up, and he died while they were on their way back to Martinique. He’s planning to call this ‘RDF’ later today to talk about where to go from here. Said he had some ideas on how to broaden their program, and some contacts who were inside the whole ‘Voodoo and zombie thing,’ whatever that means. You want me to send you a copy?"

  "No, just keep me informed on whatever happens with Living Dead and the professor." He disconnected the phone and began scribbling furiously, working to calm down before he confronted Moraga. Just as he began to get a grip on his emotions, the phone rang again.

  "Yeah?" he growled.

  "It’s Valdez. Who’s that?" the voice on the phone said.

  "You got the right number, Valdez. What’s wrong now?" Moraga’s men in the Everglades would never call Martinez unless there was a crisis. He wondered why Valdez had not called Moraga.

  "Couldn’t reach Moraga; no answer on his sat phone. I think Pancho and José got busted."

  "Busted? How?"

  "Don’t know. Pancho called from the van. I heard sirens and gunshots in the background. He said there was a roadblock ahead and hung up. I been trying to call him back, but it goes to voice mail."

  "Okay. Get rid of the cell phone you used to call him. In fact, gather up all the cell phones in the camp. Pull the SIM cards and sink the phones and the cards as far away from the camp as you can get in an hour. Moraga will be in touch. Don’t use anything but the encrypted sat phone from now on until you hear from him. Got it?" When he heard Valdez acknowledge his orders, he hung up and went looking for Moraga.

  ****

  Pancho sat on the hard chair in the small, overheated interrogation room. He thought he was at the police station in downtown Miami, but he wasn’t sure. He remembered arguing with José as they drove north on the Interstate earlier.

  "We gotta stay away from that Rescue Mission place. I told you takin’ guys from somewhere like that would attract attention," he had grumbled, glancing over his shoulder as he changed lanes.

  "Goin’ all the way to Lauderdale’s crazy," José complained. "Plenty of bums in Miami."

  "You were the one said that guy was a cop," Pancho pointed out. "We get mixed up with the cops, Moraga’ll have our ass."

  "Moraga ain’t gonna know, ‘mano. He layin’ on some beach down in the islands while Martinez an’ that witch doctor make zombies. You believe that shit, Pancho? Zombies?"

  "You don’ know nothin’ ‘bout what Martinez doin’. Where you getting’ this zombie stuff?"

  "I heard ‘em talking on the phone before we took Moraga to Bimini. He tol’ Martinez he was bringin’ two men down for the witchdoctor, and Martinez yelled at him ‘bout don’ call him a witch doctor; they gotta keep him happy if he gonna make more zombies," José had said.

  "How you hear Martinez on the phone?"

  "Don’ need no phone, Martinez yell so loud."

  "Shit!" That was when Pancho had seen the blue lights flashing in his rear view mirror. "Cops." He had floored the accelerator.

  José had scrambled into the back of the van, pulling out his pistol. Crouching in the back against the double doors as Pancho drove wildly, zigzagging across three lanes of traffic to the sound of blaring horns and screeching brakes, José had peered from one of the back windows to see a patrol car a scant two car-lengths away. He took aim and fired at the police car, shattering the windshield. The patrol car dropped back, swerving wildly as Pancho continued to accelerate.

  He had lost consciousness in the wreck when
he tried to crash through the police roadblock. He had vague memories of being dragged roughly out of the wreckage and beaten severely by several irate cops, one of whom kept threatening to shoot him. He was finally saved from further abuse when a sergeant appeared on the scene and took charge of him. As he had been cuffed and shoved into the back of a patrol car, he had seen a body being loaded into an ambulance with a sheet over the face. He asked about José but no one would answer his questions. He was in a great deal of pain from his broken arm, and he noticed that the cast was cracked. He guessed that happened in the wreck, but he wasn’t sure. The cops had ripped his sling off and pulled the arm, cast and all, as far behind his back as it would reach, stretching his other arm to handcuff him behind his back. No one had removed the cuffs, so he couldn’t sit comfortably. The best he could manage was to perch on the edge of the chair and lean his chest against the table in front of him.

  The door opened, interrupting his recollections, and an overweight, unkempt Hispanic man in an ill-fitting, rumpled suit came in. As he sat down at the table across from Pancho, Pancho noticed grease stains on the tie that hung loose, the knot even with the second button on the man’s dirty white shirt.

  "You got a name, you sorry piece-a-shit?" he asked Pancho.

  After Pancho glared at him without answering for a moment, the man slammed one of his ham-like hands down on the tabletop with resounding force, missing Pancho by a fraction of an inch. Pancho flinched and tried to back away, but his chair was bolted to the floor and his agility was limited.

  "The patrolman you shot’s in critical condition. He dies, somethin’ bad probably gonna happen to you. You could disappear, like. That’s why we ain’t rushed to book you, see. Or maybe if he lives long enough, we’ll have to book you, but we got some ol’ boys we can put you with, make you wish you was dead. ‘Course, they’ll kill you, after they mess with you for a while, and then we’ll discover they was crazy and shouldn’t a been in a cell with nobody. The other asshole with you in the van, he’s smarter’n you. Singin’ like my abuela’s canary. Says you shot at the patrol car. You an’ me, we know that’s a lie. You were in the driver’s seat with a belt on, like a good citizen, an’ him, he bounced around in the back of that van like a fly in a bass drum. Wonder he lived."