by Paul Levine
"Any boats capsize? Any rescues in the area? Maybe there was a rogue wave. A mini-tsunami."
"A mini-tsunami? Why not Moses parting the Gulf?
You want to add another improbable? I know you're
trying to help, Steve. Sorry if I'm being bitchy." "No problem." She took the briefcase from his hand. "Thanks. I've
got to go. Meet-" "Junior for lunch," Steve said. "I know."
Forty-three
LOOKING INTO THE PAST
"The Coast Guard rescued a couple fishermen off Raccoon Key, but nothing else that day," Bobby said.
"The fishermen report any rogue waves?" Steve asked.
"They reported drinking a case of Bud and one guy hooking the other's ear with a shank barb." The kid gave him a told-you-so smirk. "Then they ran the boat onto a sandbar."
"It was worth a shot."
They were aboard Herbert's sagging houseboat, Bobby working at his laptop computer, a printed map of the Eastern Gulf spread in front of him. As soon as Steve stepped onto the creaky deck, Herbert took off, claiming he had to run errands. Steve wondered if his father was avoiding him, but in truth, the cupboards were bare of Bacardi.
"I checked the satellite photos, Uncle Steve. No tidal waves, no tsunamis, no flying saucers."
"Don't you start with me, too. Victoria already gave me grief."
"So maybe Mr. Griffin just fell down the ladder."
"Dammit, don't give up so easily."
"You mad at me about something, Uncle Steve?"
"Sorry. I missed lunch. I'm just hungry."
"You're horny. You miss Victoria."
"Mind your own business." Steve leaned over Bobby's shoulder. "What's that on the screen?"
"A shot from the NOAA Eastern Gulf satellite. The day of the boat crash." Steve peered at the monitor: green islands in a turquoise sea. Bobby pointed to a white speck on the screen. "There's the Force Majeure."
"No shit?"
"Cool, huh? I followed it all the way to Key West, except for when it got cloudy around Big Torch Key."
"The picture on the monitor now. Where is that?"
"Just west of Black Turtle Key. The island there…" He pointed at a tiny green speck.". . it's got no name. That's where Mr. Griffin stopped to pick up the lobsters."
"And the money. Don't forget about the money." Steve studied the image. There was another boat visible on the screen. Thinner and nearly as long as the Force Majeure. "How far away is that boat?"
"Little more than a mile. You can tell from the grid lines."
"Can you back up the pictures? Follow the Force Majeure all the way from Paradise Key?"
"I know what you're thinking, Uncle Steve. Did that other boat trail them out there and somebody come aboard and shoot Mr. Stubbs. But that boat got there first, then just sort of stayed in the same spot for a while."
Steve strained his eyes, staring at the long thin boat, a blade in the water. It wasn't a typical fishing boat. More like a speedboat. A Fountain Lightning, or a Magnum, or a Cigarette. Capable of astounding speeds. What was it doing anchored or idling in the middle of nowhere? Of course, the answer could be innocent. The occupants could have been having a picnic or a nap or an orgy.
"Where'd the boat come from? Did you track it back?"
Bobby shook his head. "I told you, it got there before the Force Majeure, so I didn't think it meant anything."
"Do it now."
Bobby made a face, hit some keys, and the screen flicked with dozens of images. Time was being reversed, the long skinny boat heading back to wherever it departed shore. The photos finally stopped at an overhead view of scores of boats lined up at several parallel docks.
"Where are we?" Steve asked.
Bobby checked the coordinates against his map. "A marina on Lower Matecumbe Key."
"What time is it?"
In the corner of the screen was the digital readout: "15:51 GMT."
"Ten-fifty-one a.m, our time," Bobby said.
"The Force Majeure left Paradise Key fourteen minutes earlier," Steve said. Remembering the time code on the security cameras. "Start it up again, Bobby. Let's see how close the mystery boat comes to Paradise Key."
The images clicked by again, the boat nearing the tip of Griffin's island.
"Does it stop anywhere?" Steve asked.
"I don't know. I just speed-clicked through these before. I mean, it didn't seem important. There's no way it followed the Force Majeure."
"Don't get defensive. You're doing a great job, kiddo. Now, please slow it down."
Bobby hit more keys. On the screen, the boat remained in the same place inside one of the grids. Then it started moving again. "There, Uncle Steve. It's stopped, but only for like thirty seconds."
"And that's Paradise Key." Even from high altitude, he could spot the lagoon with the huge house on the small island. "Maybe two miles away, right?"
"I know what you're thinking, Uncle Steve."
"Oh, you do?"
"Yeah. You think Junior Griffin swam out to meet the boat. It picked him up and took him to the no-name island. He waited for the Force Majeure, sneaked aboard, and shot Mr. Stubbs with the speargun."
"The thought crossed my mind." He gestured toward the screen. "Keep going."
Bobby clicked to fast-forward mode. After a blur of images, the photos slowed to a crawl. Now both boats were on the screen. "This is where the speedboat passes the Force Majeure."
"How fast they going?"
"Really fast. Like maybe fifty knots."
"In a big hurry to go nowhere."
The mystery boat slowed as it approached Black Turtle Key. Precisely where Griffin's lobster traps were submerged just offshore a no-name island. Bobby had been partly right. The boat hadn't followed the Force Majeure. It didn't have to; it got there first.
"Look at that." Steve thumped the monitor with a finger. "The bastards stopped. Just like they did off Paradise Key." He watched the seconds tick away on the digital clock on the screen.
Twenty-three seconds.
Long enough to let somebody slip into the water. Somebody like Junior Griffin, who could wait for the Force Majeure to arrive. The mystery boat moved away from the no-name island, then stopped about one mile away. The Force Majeure came into the picture and neared the island.
And suddenly, Steve knew. "Oh, shit!"
"What?"
"Junior didn't swim out there to meet the fast boat. He's not the one they picked up. He's not the one they dropped off."
"But you said-"
"I wish the son-of-a-bitch was the guy, but he's not."
"How do you know?"
"Because Junior didn't know the Force Majeure was stopping there. Griffin swears he never told Junior. And there's no reason to lie about it. Four people got off the Force Majeure before it left Paradise Key. They all knew the boat was going to Key West. But only one knew it was stopping to pick up lobsters and money."
"Who?"
"The guy who baited the traps and put the money in the pots. The guy who's in love with a woman who sautes snapper with bananas. The guy who could get off Paradise Key without being seen, riding his underwater chariot."
"Clive Fowles? Are you sure, Uncle Steve? Maybe Junior and Fowles did it together. Remember when you got thrown out of the hospital?" Bobby held up his right hand and spread two fingers, just as Stubbs had done in the ICU. "Two men attacked Stubbs. Isn't that what he meant?"
"Higher."
"What?"
"Stubbs was trying to raise his hand higher, but he
couldn't." Bobby raised his hand over his head. "Like this?" The boy didn't look exactly like Winston Churchill,
but close enough.
" 'V for Victory,' " Steve said. "The British submariner's favorite expression. Stubbs was trying to tell me Fowles killed him."
"Wow," Bobby said. "What now?"
"I've got to see a man about a chariot."
Forty-four
THE HUMAN TORPEDO
The device looked like a to
rpedo with two seats cut into it. Horace Fowles' sixty-year-old underwater chariot. His grandson, Clive Fowles, was hoisting the rusty cylinder onto the platform at the stern of his sparkling new dive boat.
"Need a hand?" Steve walked up to the dock on Paradise Key.
"Thanks, mate. Wouldn't hurt."
Steve hopped onto the rear deck of the boat and put both hands on the nose of the chariot. Fowles turned a winch handle, and two ropes unfurled from a double-sheaved block, lowering the old contraption toward the dive platform.
"Easy now," Fowles urged, giving up a little rope as Steve guided the chariot into place. The craft settled into an indentation in the dive platform, as snug as a gun in a holster.
"Pretty good fit," Steve said.
"It better be, after what Mr. G spent customizing the boat to my specs."
"And your grandfather's specs." Steve pointed at the lettering on the stern of the dive boat: "Fowles' Folly. Wasn't that the name of his midget sub?"
"Right. After Horace graduated from chariots. You remembered."
"Hard to forget. A Norwegian fjord. Your grandfather captains a little tin can that takes on a massive German battleship."
"The Tirpitz."
"David and Goliath."
"It was a miracle he even got into the fjord. Did I tell you Grandpop had to crawl out of the sub and use his knife to cut a mine off the tow line? Can you picture that, Solomon?"
"Not without breaking into a sweat."
"The North Sea's got all these freshwater layers, so it's hard as hell to maintain a trim. The Folly keeps popping out of the water like a crazed porpoise. When she gets to the Tirpitz, there's my grandpop, in the water again, attaching explosives to the big bastard's hull with German sailors firing at him. How would you describe a man like that?"
"The words 'bravery' and 'courage' don't seem to do him justice."
"You're damned right, Solomon. You understand." He swung the block and tackle out of the way and offered a hand to Steve to pull him back onto the dock. "Some people, I tell the story and they don't get it at all."
"I guess I'm attuned to the legacies our fathers leave us. Grandfathers, too, for that matter."
"I tried to live up to mine. Did my part in the Royal Navy."
"But like you said before, the Falklands and the Argentines weren't exactly the North Sea and the Nazis."
Fowles sat down on the edge of the dock and pulled out a small cigar. He put it in his mouth but didn't light it. "What are you getting at, Solomon?"
Steve sat down next to him. "Yesterday, when I was coming out of the courthouse, you wanted something."
"A Guinness Stout. The Green Parrot, mate."
"You asked about the case. You seemed worried about Griffin."
"Sure, I am. I hope he gets off."
"Because you know he's innocent."
Fowles took his time lighting the cigar. A breeze whipped off the water and the flame wouldn't catch. "I think Mr. G's innocent, but how would I know?"
Steve nearly said it then. Nearly said: "You know because you headed underwater on your chariot just like your grandfather in his midget sub. You know because someone in a fast boat picked you up and followed your directions to a nameless island just off Black Turtle Key. You know because you were there."
But Steve's instincts told him not to attack this battleship head-on. Another problem, too. This decent man who worshipped the memory of a courageous grandfather seemed to regard Hal Griffin as a father figure as well as a generous boss. While admiring Griffin, Fowles despised the Oceania project. But would the boat captain, a man who loved all the fishes in the deep blue sea, kill someone and frame Griffin for the crime?
"I think you're a good man," Steve said.
Fowles laughed. "And how would you know that?"
"It's what I do for a living. I make judgments about people."
Fowles tried to light his cigar again. Steve leaned over and cupped his hands, creating a windbreak. The flame caught. Fowles inhaled deeply and looked out over the Gulf.
"If you'll excuse me, Solomon, it's my day off, and I'm gonna take my boat out."
"To the reef?"
"Thought I'd scoot around it a bit."
Steve gestured toward the chariot. "On that human torpedo?"
"Once the Folly gets me there, yeah, I'll take the chariot down. Want to go along?"
"Me? Underwater?"
Fowles blew a trail of smoke into the humid air. "Not scared, are you?"
"No way. I love the ocean and everything in it. Except sharks."
A white heron with matchstick legs strutted along the dock and watched the Fowles' Folly head out to sea. After the boat cleared the dock, a brown pelican dive-bombed just off the port side, flipped over backward, and hit the water with a resounding splash. The bird scooped up a fish and swallowed it whole.
The cigar clamped in his teeth, Fowles manned the wheel, his thinning blond hair whipping in the wind. Steve stood alongside, watching the diamond-studded sea, the sun sparkling off the waves.
"You scuba, right?" Fowles shouted above the wind and the twin diesels.
"Don't worry. I'm certified."
"One of those two-day wonders in some hotel pool?
Arse-over-tits a couple times and you think you're Jacques Cousteau?"
"Hey, c'mon. I've dived the Little Bahama Bank. Maybe I'm a little rusty, but so's your grandfather's chariot."
Fowles laughed and nodded toward a cooler. "Beer if you want it."
Steve declined. He hated burping into the regulator.
"So, mate, why'd you really come see me today?"
"I told you. I thought there was something else you wanted to tell me. Something about you and Griffin. Maybe having a falling-out."
"Maybe you're not as good at judging people as you think."
"You were mad as hell about Oceania. I'm betting you did something about it."
"I made no secret how I felt. I told Mr. G that Oceania was a mistake."
"But you couldn't convince him not to do it."
Fowles checked the compass, turned a bit more northwest, and gave the throttles a little more juice. "Like I told you before, the boss heard me out. I asked him to consider scuttling the hotel and casino. Maybe just do a tour business. Glass-bottomed boats and catamaran trips to the reef. Mr. G said I was talking about a rowboat while he was building the Queen Mary."
"That had to piss you off."
"The man's been good to me." Fowles ran his hand across the polished teak wheel. "A custom forty-twofooter titled in my name. Everything state-of-the-art. I take Delia's coral kissers out to the reef for cleanups and census-taking. I got no complaints."
"Ever think Griffin was paying you off just to go with the flow?"
The boat passed through a channel between two small islands. "A man makes certain compromises."
"What'd Delia say when you told her about the new boat?" Steve asked.
"She told me to turn it down. We had a bit of an argy-bargy about it."
Not surprising. Delia Bustamante would no more take a bribe than cook her plantains in margarine.
Steve decided to cast a line in the water. "You violated your principles. Then you felt guilty, so you tried to stop Oceania."
"What in bloody hell are you talking about?"
They were in open water, the boat riding on plane, smoothly hopping the three-foot seas. Steve was amidships the Tirpitz with nowhere to go. "At the dock that day, after everybody got off the Force Majeure, I think you took the chariot out. I think you were picked up by someone in a fast boat, and you led them to that little island near Black Turtle Key where you knew Griffin would stop."
"What for? To kill Stubbs?"
"If you thought that would stop Oceania, maybe. Chances are, the next guy wouldn't be so easy to bribe. And with all the scrutiny he'd be getting, Griffin probably couldn't even try."
"You been in the sun too long, Solomon."
"Okay, how's this? Maybe you didn't shoot Stubbs.
Maybe the guy who picked you up was the shooter."
"Setting up my defense for me? Going to be my barrister?"
"C'mon Fowles. You want to tell me. Who'd you take out there? Who did the shooting?"
"You're cracked, mate." He slowed the boat as they neared a stretch of shallow water that shimmered red from coral underneath. "Maybe the reef will mellow you out."
Fowles cut the engines, opened a compartment, and began hauling out wet suits, masks, and fins. "The tanks are below. You gotta carry your own. I'm not your valet."
They slipped into the gear in silence. Fowles' demeanor had changed, Steve realized. Not so surprising. He'd just accused the man of being an accessory to murder, if not the murderer himself.
They were untying the chariot from the dive platform when Steve said: "No last-minute words of advice?"
"Watch out for sharks," Clive Fowles said.
SOLOMON'S LAWS
11. If you're afraid of taking a big lead, you'll never get picked off. . but you'll never steal a base, either.
Forty-five
DID YOU DO IT FOR LOVE?
Steve somersaulted backward off the dive platform and spent a few moments flutter-kicking along the surface, orange seaweed tangling in his fins. He hit a valve on the buoyancy compensator, deflated his vest, and let the weight belt take him under. Water trickled into his mask, tickling his nose. He exhaled through his nostrils, and the water drained through the purge valve.
Hey, I remember how to do this.
He listened to the sound of his own breathing, felt the bubbles rising around him, let himself relax. He descended to thirty feet, luxuriating in the water, warmed by his own body heat, encapsulated in the wet suit. And there it was, spread out in front of him, what Fowles wanted him to see.
Steve knew all the cliches. Coral reefs were stone castles. Cities beneath the sea. Underwater rain forests. Living animals, millions of them, growing on top of the limestone skeletons of animals that had come before, this reef perhaps twenty thousand years old.
He'd snorkeled the state park in Key Largo. He'd scuba-dived in the Bahamas and off the coast of Grand