Enduring Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 4)

by Wayne Stinnett

  John studied the document carefully. “All I can do is allow yuh to go aboard di boat,” he said. “But I will have to go wit yuh, and yuh cannot sell it until di police tell me.”

  “I don’t want to sell it,” she said, taking the document back and returning it to her wallet. “I just want to find him.”

  Together, they walked toward the Salty Dog. Charity immediately sensed something wrong. There were far too many lights on inside.

  “Allow me to go up first,” John said, starting up the ladder.

  Charity followed right behind him. When they reached the cockpit, she knew something was wrong; the companionway hatch was open.

  “Rene never leaves his boat unsecured,” she said.

  “Perhaps I should call di police,” John said, looking down into the cabin. “I don’t like to go in someone’s boat without permission.”

  “His boat’s here for repair,” Charity said. “You’ll be going aboard sooner or later, right?”

  “Yes, miss,” he replied, looking down into the cabin again. “But dis is a bit different.”

  “Then step aside,” Charity said, forcing her way past the man. She descended the steps quickly.

  The lights in the galley-up pilothouse were on and several drawers and cabinets were open. She crossed quickly to the navigation desk and looked back toward the hatch. The man was holding back. She depressed the underside of a bookshelf and a false panel opened just below it. Inside were neatly stacked bundles of hundred-dollar bills, part of the stash of cash they both carried. The cash had come to them from a land developer turned money launderer named Brad Whitaker. He’d no longer had a need for it when his yacht burned and sank.

  She closed the panel and started to go toward the aft stateroom, but something out of place caught her eye in the lower salon. A can of green beans. Going down the forward companionway, she saw more, scattered across the deck. The dry goods storage hatch was open.

  Retracing her steps and crossing the pilothouse, she went down the aft companionway. The stateroom hatch was wide open, and she could see that the bunk hadn’t been made and was completely disheveled. Victor was fastidious about neatness.

  When she stepped through the hatch, she knew instantly that whoever had been aboard had found the watertight cash box under the engine. The matching one, which Victor kept his false identities in, lay open on the bunk. A small stack of passports was in the box and several more were scattered on the bunk. She quickly counted them; three were missing along with Victor’s Kimber .45 caliber handgun.

  She put them all together, and carried them to the engine room, leaving the empty box on the bunk.

  It was a long reach under the engine, Charity had to lay on her side by the engine to get her arm and shoulder under it, but she managed to get the passports inside the hiding spot and put the false panel back in place. The police would arrive soon, and she didn’t want them to find Victor’s fake papers.

  Returning to the hatch, she climbed up. “Call the police,” she told John. “Rene’s boat has been ransacked, and his money is gone.”

  The police arrived within minutes. They immediately went aboard Victor’s boat to make sure it was secure. Then one of the policemen, a short, squat man of about forty wearing sergeant’s chevrons, motioned for Charity to climb up. When she reached the cockpit, two other officers went down the ladder and waited.

  “Mistuh Brown say dat you know di owner of dis boat?” the sergeant asked.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Charity replied with a slight Cuban accent, as she handed the man her own fake passport. It had been created by the best — the American government — so she knew it wouldn’t be a problem in any way.

  “My name is Gabriella Ortiz Fleming,” she said, perching her sunglasses on her head. “I am a Cuban-American citizen, and this is my boyfriend’s boat.”

  “I’m told dis boat belongs to, uh,” the sergeant flipped a page in a small notebook, “Mistuh Rene Cook. Is dat right.”

  “Yes,” she replied, taking back her passport, and handing him the power of attorney. “Rene and I have been sailing together for some time. We each carry one of these, in case something happens to the other.”

  The sergeant studied the paper. “We are not at dat point yet,” he said, handing it back. “How do you know dis boat has been robbed?”

  “I offered it only as evidence of our relationship,” Charity replied, folding the document, and putting it away. “Rene had a charter arranged so he could meet me at Hoffman’s Cay. When he didn’t arrive, I started this way, looking for him. The man who owns the charter boat said that Rene never arrived for the charter. As I said, we’ve been together for some time; I know the man. Things down below are in disarray, and his hatch was left open. Rene is fastidious about maintenance and keeping his boat neat and orderly.”

  “Do you know what was stolen?”

  “I haven’t looked thoroughly, but I know cash is missing. Did you see the watertight box on the aft bunk?”

  “Yes. It is a cash box?”

  “It held over one quarter million dollars, Sergeant.”

  The cop’s eyes came up. “How much?”

  “We’re both semi-retired professionals,” Charity said. They both maintained and developed their cover stories, sometimes just out of fun. “Rene is a shipwright. He owns a very successful business in the States that does quite well without him there. He always carries cash in case he comes across a boat he thinks might be worth salvaging.”

  “And you?”

  “Owner of a not-so-successful travel magazine,” she lied. “One that gets smaller and smaller the longer I’m away from it.”

  “Are you comfortable doing a quick inventory on dis boat?”

  “No need,” Charity replied. “The guard pointed out to me that I’d passed the man who was posing as Rene. He was carrying a suitcase just big enough for Victor’s cash.”

  “I see,” the sergeant said. “My men checked di marina where Caleb said di man and woman went to. A boat dere recently left, and witnesses say dat di man and woman hired di boat to go somewhere.”

  “A man named Beaux Chapman and his boat Dripping Wet?”

  The sergeant removed his sunglasses and looked Charity in the eye. “Di same witnesses say dat just minutes before dat, a blond woman in sailing clothes roughed up dis Mistuh Beaux Chapman. Would you know anything ’bout dat?”

  “That was me,” Charity admitted, unfazed. “The man made a lewd advance and grabbed me. I have every right to defend myself.”

  He put his sunglasses back on, producing a business card from his shirt pocket. “I am Sergeant Bingham. Dis Chapman character is known to us. Do not worry ’bout it. My men are checking our logs and di hospital. Dat is my cellphone numbuh on di card. Call me if yuh remember anything else. How can I reach yuh?”

  Charity gave him her own card, embossed with the logo of her phony business, Tropical Luxury Magazine. “That’s my cell number. Call me as soon as you hear anything?”

  He agreed and held the ladder as she climbed down. John Brown was waiting at the bottom. “I’ll make sure di boat is secure when di police are finished, Miss. I am very sorry dis has happened and hope dey find Cap’n Cook very soon.”

  With nothing else for her to do, Charity started across the yard. She wanted to get aboard her boat. Maybe she could use her laptop to learn something. One of the policemen got out of his car as she approached. He tipped his hat as he walked past her toward the sergeant. A moment later Sergeant Bingham called out to her.

  The sergeant’s face was grave, as Charity approached. “Dere is a man at Doctor’s Hospital, just a few blocks from here. He was brought dere with no identification, late in the evening, two nights ago. He was mugged and beaten. Dis man matches di description dat Mistuh Brown gave us. I can take yuh dere and find out if it is Mistuh Cook.”

  “He’s not conscio
us to say who he is?”

  Bingham took her arm, guiding Charity toward his police car. “He is hurt bad. Di doctors are keeping him mostly sedated. He was hit in di head with something very hard and has lost his vision and his ability to speak.”

  “Blind?” Charity asked, as she got in the car.

  They arrived at the hospital ten minutes later, and Charity was rushed to the room of the unknown man. A doctor was just coming out as they approached.

  “How is he, Doctor?” Bingham asked. “Dis young lady may know who your patient is.”

  The doctor looked solemnly at Charity. “He is badly hurt and may not survive. He has a broken jaw from a dreadful beating. There are multiple fractures of the cranium, along with swelling of the brain. The swelling is most intense around the occipital and left temporal lobes, where he was struck at least twice by something round and very hard. This is the part of the brain where vision and speech reside. He’s heavily sedated, but awake. I think he can hear, though he isn’t responding to questions.”

  “How long will di swelling affect his ability to see and talk?” the sergeant asked.

  “If we can get the swelling under control, his vision and speech may return. We just don’t know the extent of the damage yet.”

  “Anything on di tox screen?” Bingham asked.

  “When he was first brought in, his blood panel showed mild intoxication. The only other thing the screen shows is a high level of methylenedioxy-methamphetamine, a drug commonly called ecstasy.”

  “Then that can’t be Rene in there,” Charity said. “He doesn’t do drugs, not even weed.”

  “This wouldn’t be di first time something like dis has happened,” Bingham said. “Dere is a high level of gang activity here in Nassau, and on other islands in di Caribbean. Dere has been a rash of tourist men robbed and killed, two women, as well. Dese gangs use women to lure di men into a trap. Sometimes, dey use ecstasy to make dem easier to control.”

  The doctor nodded to the sergeant and walked away. Bingham opened the door and motioned Charity inside.

  At first, Charity wasn’t sure if it was Victor or not. The man lying in the bed had a bandage around most of his head and face. The parts that she could see were purpled and swollen. He’d obviously been the victim of a terrible beating before the final blows to the side and back of his head. A nurse stood next to the bed, checking a chart.

  “Can you pull the sheet down a little?” Charity said.

  The man’s head jerked almost imperceptibly, as the nurse looked at the sergeant. Bingham nodded, and she folded back the sheet that covered the man up to his neck. On his chest was a tiny tattoo of a leaping dolphin.

  Charity had one just like it. They’d had them done together on Tortola, a symbol of their freedom after Charity had returned from Florida, having learned she wasn’t being sought after.

  Charity went quickly to Victor’s side and took his hand in hers. His grip was weak, but it was there. He was also lightly tapping her wrist with his finger; three quick taps, then three longer ones, followed by three more fast ones. An SOS.

  The nurse moved a chair over next to Victor’s bed. “I be right outside,” she said, herding Bingham toward the door.

  Charity sat down in the chair. Still holding Victor’s hand, she whispered, “Vic, can you hear me?”

  His index finger pressed against her wrist for a moment, then once more quickly, and twice more long. Charity recognized it as Morse code for the letter Y.

  “They said you were mugged by a gang,” Charity said.

  For the next several minutes, Victor slowly tapped out a message in code, first asking if they were alone. When she replied that they were, he continued, recounting what happened, using the antiquated language of dots and dashes to tell her that it wasn’t a gang but cruise ship people who’d drugged him, and that he was sorry.

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” she said, a tear streaking down her cheek. Though he’d been beaten nearly to death, he was more concerned that he might have let her down.

  She held him for a moment, then his hand found hers and he continued his tapping. He seemed agitated and hurried. After a moment the tapping stopped, and his hand gripped hers tightly.

  The machine that had been quietly beeping, showing a weak pulse on its screen, suddenly went flat and emitted a continuous, monotone sound, a light flashing on the screen.

  The nurse suddenly rushed into the room. She moved Charity out of the way. A stream of tears was already flowing from Charity’s eyes. The doctor came in, followed by several other technicians with a crash cart. Sergeant Bingham came in and pulled Charity to the side so the medical team could work.

  For several minutes, the technicians tried in vain, using the defibrillator several times, trying to restart Victor’s heart. Finally, the doctor stopped and looked up at the clock on the wall.

  “Time of death, sixteen-oh-four,” the doctor said, laying the paddles aside and pulling the sheet up over Victor’s ruined face.

  When Sergeant Bingham turned around, Charity was gone.

  Clive and Yvette Pence relaxed on the ship’s sundeck, a bright colored sunbrella blocking the early afternoon rays. Yvette couldn’t spend more than a few minutes in direct sunlight; her skin would become a bright pink. Being British, Clive wasn’t much of a sun seeker, either.

  “That’s a pretty one,” Yvette said.

  The dark blue sailboat the woman he called his wife was pointing at was one of those older ones with a long pole at the front holding the front of the boat’s brown sails. As it went past, he could see the name on the back; Wind Dancer.

  “Clever name,” Clive said. “And yes, my dear, it is quite a lovely vessel. But it won’t be fast enough to suit my tastes.”

  “I’d expect that from one of my countrymen,” Yvette said. “But I always thought you Europeans were far too sophisticated.”

  “British, my dear. There is a difference. I just like fast things.”

  “Is that why you like me?” Yvette looked at him over her red-rimmed sunglasses.

  Clive chuckled. “You did set quite a pace that first time.”

  “Do you mean in picking your pocket?” she said, looking seductively at the man she called her husband. “Or how fast I got you into my bed when you caught me?”

  “Oh, absolutely the latter.”

  The two continued to watch the boats coming and going in the bay as they waited for the crew to fix whatever the problem was that delayed their departure.

  They’d only known one another for a few years, and though they called one another husband and wife, they weren’t married. Nor did they even know each other’s real names.

  Clive looked over at Yvette and smiled lecherously. She was a stunningly beautiful woman with skin like porcelain. Her thick auburn hair captured and refracted the sun’s light like a flaming halo. He knew that she only wore the bikini so others would admire her body. And why wouldn’t they? The woman had been a model and, later, an aerobics and fitness instructor. Not one of those anorexic-looking women one would usually associate with those occupations, but a curvy, full-figured woman with a narrow waist and washboard abs.

  One of their protégés approached.

  “What is it, Doug?” Clive asked.

  “Excuse me for interrupting, Mister Pence,” Doug Bullard said. “But Brent and Leilani haven’t returned yet.”

  Clive picked up his cell phone and touched a few buttons on the screen. “I told him to be back by one,” he said absently.

  “Yeah,” Doug muttered. “It’s after that.”

  Clive eyed the younger man. Doug wasn’t quite as bright as the others, and he lacked the guile to keep unspoken words from his voice. Clive ignored him and studied the tracking app on his phone. All the phones his people carried were tracked by GPS. The display showed that Brent’s cell phone was moving t
oward them at a fairly high rate of speed.

  “That one should be fast enough for your liking,” Yvette said, pointing to a brightly colored racing boat moving past the cruise ship. The boat’s engine nearly drowned out her voice.

  Clive looked at the boat, then looked at his phone. “Bloody hell!”

  Rising quickly from his lounge chair, Clive strode to the rail and looked down at the passing boat. He recognized Brent, sitting in the back of the boat with his head back on the rear cushion. A woman who looked a lot like Leilani was kneeling in front of him, her face buried in his lap.

  Brent looked toward the ship, right at Clive. He raised an arm high, extending his middle finger. Suddenly, Leilani sat back on the deck and punched Brent in the groin. The man fell out of his seat, gripping himself in obvious pain.

  “Bloody hell,” Clive muttered again as Yvette joined him.

  “I wonder what they found that they’d risk their lives for,” Yvette said, her voice cold and flat.

  Clive strode back toward Doug. “Get everyone together in Rayna’s room, Doug. Yvette and I will be there shortly.”

  The young man hurried off.

  “I bet it was that slut Leilani’s idea,” Yvette said, lifting her glass and draining it.

  “We’ll soon find out.”

  They left the sundeck and returned to their luxury suite to get a few things before going down to the lower cabins.

  Clive had gone to a lot of trouble finding the people for his group — not to mention the considerable time he and Yvette spent teaching them the subtleties of their new roles. Each of them had been hand selected.

  The first criteria he and Yvette had in selecting possible apprentices was their family situation. Early on, they’d found that men and women who’d been orphaned as adolescents were the most suitable candidates. They had no family. Any with strong ties to step- or foster families were immediately dismissed. They soon found that the best candidates were those who’d been abused in foster care.