Baja Florida

by Bob Morris

  The three-seater golf cart sat at the foot of the dock. Hatchitt pointed Curtis and Edwin into the middle seat. He stood on the rear platform, one hand on the roof of the golf cart, the other keeping the shotgun on Curtis and Edwin.

  Kealing sat Jen Ryser down on the passenger side, then slid behind the wheel. The golf cart lurched away, up the rutted road toward the house, disappearing behind the trees.

  From where I stood, the house was almost a mile away. Down the hill, the dirt path winding through the swampy lowlands and around the brackish pond, before hitting the long grade that led up to the house.

  Impossible to beat them there. But I started running anyway.

  48

  When I reached the edge of the clearing that circled the house, the golf cart was parked at the back door. No sign of anyone. They were all inside.

  I hung back behind thatch palms and tall brush, scoping out the property, trying to figure out the best way to approach the house without being seen.

  What to do, Chasteen, what to do?

  Try sneaking into the house, getting the drop on them somehow?

  A big somehow. More like a no way. They had guns. And I’m not the stealthiest guy on the planet. Things could get ugly quick.

  Still, I needed to get an idea of what they were up to in there before I could figure out a plan of attack.

  The clearing was wide—about forty yards on every side of the house. A forty-yard dash. My best time ever just shy of five seconds. More than twenty years ago at the NFL trials, right before the Dolphins drafted me. I flattered myself to think I could make it in seven or eight seconds now. Plenty of time for someone to look out a window and see me.

  Where in the house were they?

  They had entered through the back door. Figure they found Miss Rose in the kitchen. Maybe Octavia was in there, too. They had hustled them along at gunpoint with the others, looking for Mickey Ryser.

  Edwin telling me earlier: Mr. Mickey, he’s in his office doing work.

  Had he still been there when they arrived? And having found him there were they all now in the office?

  As good a guess as any. Go with it. No time to sift through all the options.

  Mickey’s office sat on the first floor of the house, the side with a view of the dock and the beach. I moved through the trees and brush until I reached the opposite side of the house, the ocean and rocky bluff at my back. From there, I could see across the broad deck and into the living room. No sign of movement in there. All the doors and windows closed, the AC compressors droning.

  I studied the best way to cross the clearing—a straight shot to the deck. The deck sat on low four-by-four posts, maybe two feet of elevation. Enough for me to squeeze under the deck and crawl through to the other side. I’d see how things looked on the other side when I got there.

  I took off across the clearing, crouching as low as I could while still hitting stride. Five yards out from the house and I dove, landing in the sand by the deck, next to a bougainvillea bush. I lay there for a long moment, hearing nothing but the AC compressors.

  I flattened out, slithered my way under the deck, peeked out to the other side of the house. Mickey’s office had a big ceiling-to-floor window that offered a magnificent view to the west. The sun was high and there was a glare off the window, but not so much that I couldn’t see inside.

  Mickey on the far side of the room, sitting behind his desk, both hands on the desktop, facing the window. Justin Hatchitt on the other side of the desk, shotgun cradled in an arm now. He was doing all the talking. Jen Ryser sat on the floor at his feet, arms still tied behind her.

  Torrey Kealing sat on a corner of the desk, back to Mickey, her pistol pointing across the room. I couldn’t see the others, but I remembered the layout of Mickey’s office. A couch, two chairs around a coffee table. That’s where the four of them—Curtis, Edwin, Octavia, and Miss Rose—were sitting.

  I strained to hear what they were saying inside, but the compressors drowned out everything.

  Justin Hatchitt telling Mickey, “It’s all up to you now, mister.”

  Mickey saying, “How much do you want?”

  “What ever you got. The quicker we get it, the quicker we’re out of here.”

  “And nobody gets hurt? My daughter stays here with me?”

  “Yet to be determined. For all I know you don’t have jack-shit. In which case…”

  “I’ve got money,” Mickey said.

  “Let’s see it.”

  “First you untie my daughter. Do it now.”

  “You aren’t calling the shots here, pal.”

  “You give me something. I give you something. It’s how things work.”

  “How about I give you…” Hatchitt uncradled the shotgun, pointed it square at Mickey’s chest, aiming from his hip.

  “You shoot me you won’t get the money.”

  “If it’s in this house, I’ll find it. Or one of these others will find it for me.”

  “It’s in a safe. I’m the only one knows how to open it.”

  “Show it to me.”

  “Untie my daughter.”

  A burst of static from the radio that sat on the table behind Mickey’s desk.

  “Bama Tiger calling Instigator. Instigator come in…”

  Hatchitt said, “Who the fuck’s that?”

  “Just boats talking to other boats,” Mickey said. “Nothing to do with us.”

  But Hatchitt came around behind the desk, kicked the table, and knocked the radio onto the floor. He stomped down on it, cracking open the case, then stomping on it some more.

  “That’ll take care of that,” he said. “Now show me the money.”

  Mickey stepped out from behind his desk. He went to a corner of the room and peeled back the sisal rug. He knelt and began punching in the combination on the metal safe built into the floor.

  49

  I’d seen all I needed to see. Busting into the house and going straight at them wouldn’t end in anything but disaster. But I couldn’t just stay under the deck watching everything go down, letting them get away.

  What if…

  Just the seed of an idea. Not a solution, but a stopgap maybe. Something to stir the pot, throw them off balance. And maybe give me an opening.

  I scooted back under the deck and hightailed it across the clearing, the exact way I came. I ran through the tall brush, circling back and finding the rutted road well below the house.

  I ran down the road, all the way to the dock. I stopped halfway out, where the dinghy for Radiance was tied off at a piling. I untied it, gave it a big push, and the little skiff glided away from the dock.

  The Albury 27 was in its slip on the other side of the dock. I untied it, held the bowline as I walked it out to the end of the dock, and gave it a good push, too.

  That left the big blue-hulled boat, the one Hatchitt arrived in. I let loose its lines and pushed away from the dock, hopping aboard.

  I went to the helm. The key wasn’t in the ignition. That was OK. I wasn’t going anywhere in the boat. I just wanted to put it well out of reach.

  And the radio. I needed to get on it.

  It sat in a console to one side of the helm. I didn’t need the keys to turn it on. It was hardwired to the electrical system. I flipped a switch, saw it light up. I heard static, some voices talking. I grabbed the handset.

  “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is Lady Cut Cay. Emergency. Send help. Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”

  I was pretty sure that a Mayday signal was typically reserved for boats and ships and planes. Screw it. This was an island in peril.

  And with the radio now out of commission in the house, I could make the call without alerting the others to what I was up to.

  But there was no response. I called again.

  “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”

  No response.

  The boat was only about ten feet out from the dock. It had stopped drifting. The wind was out of the west and light, but the boat had a lot of br
oadside and it was being pushed back to the dock.

  I tried one more time with the radio. Again, no response.

  The boat was bumping against the dock now. I stepped away from the helm and gave the boat another shove out. Then I slipped off my shoes and shirt and went forward onto the bow. I grabbed the bowline and dove into the water with it.

  I tied the line around my waist and swam out, pulling the boat behind me. It started off slow, but I got it turned, pointing straight into the wind, getting a little momentum. I did the breaststroke and then the crawl, mixing it up.

  I pulled the boat out past where Radiance was anchored. I didn’t want the wind to blow the boat back to the dock. I began swimming toward its transom, thinking I would pull myself aboard and toss out the anchor, hold it there while I swam back to the dock.

  Then two things happened:

  I heard the radio crackle and a voice say, “Lady Cut Cay. This is George Town police dispatch. Please switch to Channel 11. Lady Cut Cay, do you read?”

  And I looked ashore to see the golf cart coming down the road and stopping at the foot of the dock. Three people in it—Justin Hatchitt, Torrey Kealing, and Jen Ryser.

  Part of me wanted to climb aboard the boat and grab the radio.

  The other part knew the only thing I had going on my side was that they didn’t know I was out there.

  If they wanted to leave the island, they had to come get the boat. And I’d be ready when they did.

  50

  I hung off the far side of the boat, holding on to the bowline, peeking around the bow toward the dock.

  The three of them walked to the end of the dock. Hatchitt with the shotgun in one hand, a duffel bag in the other. The woman carried a second duffel bag and held a pistol at Jen Ryser’s back. Jen’s hands were still tied, but she seemed steadier on her feet.

  It must have spooked them a little to see the three boats adrift. The dinghy had floated far to the south and was circling in an eddy well off the beach. The Albury had floated in the other direction. It was about the same distance from the dock as the blue-hulled boat, but there was no reason for them to go after the Albury. They didn’t have the key to it.

  They had to come here. To me.

  They stood there, thinking it over, talking about it. Then Hatchitt put the shotgun and the duffel down on the dock. He slipped off his shoes and dove in.

  He was a good swimmer with a powerful stroke. No wasted motion, efficiency of breath. He was making good time. Another minute or so and he’d be here.

  I had to figure out a way to do this. He would board the boat over the transom. Should I grab him while he was still in the water at the stern of the boat? Should I wait until he had his hands on the transom rail and was occupied with pulling himself up? Or should I wait until he got on the boat, then slip aboard behind him while he was focusing on cranking the engine?

  He was closing in. Another thirty seconds maybe…

  I didn’t like the idea of grappling with him in the water. He’d be winded from the swim, but I was pretty winded, too. From running across the island, crawling under the deck, running down to the dock, swimming out to the boat. I still had some kick left in me, but I liked the idea better of confronting him on the boat.

  I pulled back from the bow and began working my way toward the transom.

  Could I make it up behind him without him hearing me? The top of the transom was at least four feet above the water. Without a swim ladder down, you had to put a foot on one of the outdrives and boost yourself up. If he managed to get to the helm and crank the engine before I got on board…or while I had a foot on the outdrive. Not a pretty picture.

  I could hear his final strokes now as he approached the boat, heard him slap a hand on the hull. I looked around the side and there he was, catching his breath for a moment, then putting a foot on the outdrive, starting to pull himself up…

  An instant decision: I couldn’t let him get on the boat.

  I thrust up from the water, got both hands on one of his feet. I pulled, thinking he would fall backward into the water. But he managed to get a grip on the edge of the transom and held tight.

  I wrapped myself around his leg, pulling down with all my weight. He was on his stomach. He couldn’t see me. But his free foot found me—a heel to my throat. He kicked again and again—my mouth, my nose. I tasted blood. Another kick and I loosened my hold. He squirted out and onto the deck.

  I was fast out of the water and onto the outdrive. I raised myself up onto the transom. And there he was—throwing open a long lazaret near the helm, pulling out a shotgun, wheeling around on me.

  Momentum was carrying me onto the deck, but I kicked to my left off the transom in the instant the gun fired.

  I felt the sting in my right thigh as I hit the water. I dove and kept going down. Above me I heard the concussive boom of another shot in my direction.

  Trying to get my bearings. Which way to go? The water was clear and he could easily spot me. I hadn’t heard the sound of the engines turning over yet. Had to put distance between us.

  Radiance was somewhere to my left. If I could make it there…

  I turned, lungs already tightening. My thigh burned. I put a hand to it, felt the hole in my shorts, a fleshy lump of me. Saw pink streaming from the wound as blood melded with salt water.

  Needed air, needed air bad. I told myself: Five more strokes. I crunched them out and surfaced…

  Another boom and pellets pinging the water all around me. A quick gulp and on my way back down I spotted Radiance still another thirty yards ahead.

  I made it halfway and came up for air again. Another shot, this time wide to my right, the pellets farther apart.

  I could make out the hull of Radiance beneath the surface. It was swinging on its anchor line, nose to the wind, transom angled away from the blue-hulled boat.

  I came up, gasping for air. The first time I tried to pull myself aboard, I slipped back into the water. Second try I got my belly onto the transom, then flopped over onto the deck.

  51

  I checked out the wound in my thigh. Still bleeding, but not nearly as bad as I had feared. Some raw flesh, another trophy for the Chasteen scar collection. But nothing arterial. I’d been lucky.

  And now I could hear the engines cranking on the blue-hulled boat. I crouched along the gunwales and saw it turning toward Radiance, its bowsprit high in the air as Hatchitt bore down on the throttle.

  I headed for an aft ladder and climbed up to the pilot house. I ran to the helm, flipped on the radio, and grabbed its handset.

  “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is Lady Cut Cay! Come in…”

  The police dispatcher. What channel had he told me to switch to?

  But before I could do anything, I heard a voice: “Zack, come in. Zack, is that you?”

  Lynfield Pederson.

  “Yes, it’s me. Where are you?”

  “Little Farmer’s Cay, heading your way. What’s…?”

  His words lost as a gunshot shattered a pilot house window, just behind me. Hatchitt had pulled alongside Radiance and was running his boat from the flying bridge. It was open and gave him a perfect position for firing at me.

  Another shot tore through another window and I hit the floor. I crawled across it, taking the interior ladder down to the main salon. I stayed low, moving into the galley, its cabinets and cupboards offering some protection for any shots that Hatchitt might make through the salon windows.

  I could see his boat, circling Radiance, as he tried to figure out where I was. For all the cover the galley offered, I didn’t like being pinned down in it. When Hatchitt boarded Radiance and came looking for me, as surely he would, I’d be forced to go deeper into the boat, down to the cabins. A dead end, a trap. He would have me.

  Pederson said he was at Little Farmer’s Cay. Several islands north in the chain. At least twenty minutes away. Too much time.

  I pulled open drawers looking for something, anything, I could use as a weapon. But Mic
key had taken all nonessential items off Radiance before it went into the Nassau boatyard for repairs. It hadn’t been re-stocked yet.

  I looked outside. The blue-hulled boat was off Radiance’s bow, Hatchitt leaning over a rail on the flying bridge trying to figure out where I was.

  I couldn’t let him corner me in here. I needed to get on the deck, find a spot to conceal myself. That way, when Hatchitt boarded Radiance and headed inside to look for me, I might be able to slip aboard his boat and get away.

  Oh yeah, Zack. Simple as that. What a masterful piece of strategy. Still, it wasn’t like I had a lot of options.

  Once aboard his boat what would I do? Head back to the dock. Only…Torrey Kealing had a pistol and it was trained on Jen Ryser. How to get past that?

  I raised up behind the galley counter so I could get a look toward shore. Torrey Kealing had moved away from Jen, toward the end of the dock, straddling the duffel bags. The shotgun left behind by Hatchitt was at her feet. She was shouting something to Hatchitt, but I couldn’t make it out.

  The engines on the blue-hulled boat lowered to an idle. I figured Hatchitt would bring the boat alongside Radiance and board from the aft. I needed to do something.

  I crawled through the galley door onto the aft deck’s sitting area. I opened a storage locker near the bulkhead. Wasn’t nearly large enough to fit me inside.

  The rattan couch sat on high legs. I could squeeze under it, but I’d be easy to spot.

  I looked along the gunwales. The canvas chair covers were still stowed near the transom from our outing the day before. I could get underneath them. As good a hiding place as I was going to find at this point.

  I felt Radiance rock as the other boat bumped against it. Had to hurry.

  I lifted the canvas covers and stretched out beneath them, flattening myself against the gunwale. My hip was resting on something hard. I reached down to find the conch shell I had scrubbed clean and stuck it there to give to Shula. After the flare-up with Mickey, I had forgotten to take it off the boat.