Too Much Stuff lam-5

by Don Bruns

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  We walked almost half a mile, the humidity so thick you could cut it with a knife. I’d worked up quite a sweat when we finally arrived.

  “They could still identify the truck,” James said. “I think it’s best that we parked way back there.”

  So far no one had noticed the plate. I mean, how often do you check your license plate? The guy we took it from had a white truck, we had a white truck. He had a Florida plate, we had a Florida plate. Unless we got stopped by the sheriff for some violation, we were good. And the other guy, whoever he was, would never be the wiser. Until he went to register for a new plate.

  “Em, are you sure you want to be a part of this?”

  “I’ve told you before, Skip, you need someone to bail you out if you get in trouble. I’ve kind of grown used to the job.”

  In the dim light, I saw James frown. At least he didn’t agree with everything she said.

  “It’s just three o’clock. Three o’clock, it’s lines up.” Em walked down the tree-lined street looking for clearances we could see through. “The boat should be here soon.”

  “This isn’t private property, correct?” James was right in checking.

  “Shouldn’t be. It’s a public street that runs right down to the water. And this is the public sidewalk that runs along this short section of the street.” I was pretty sure about this.

  “So no doctor or guy on a golf cart can run us off?”

  “I suppose they could, but we can stand our ground.”

  “You guys have binoculars,” Em said. “I’ve got this.” Reaching into her purse, she pulled out the Colt.38 snub-nosed revolver.

  “Preparation gets the job done.”

  “And we’ve got the tools.”

  We knelt across from a cement block house, a dim porch light eking out a meager halo. The rest of the street was dark and the moon was barely evident in the cloudy sky. Perfect for our hiding.

  Talking in hushed voices, we swatted at mosquitoes and made plans if someone saw us.

  “The dogs, what if they recognize the smell? What then?” James was thinking of those bare fangs.

  “They didn’t bother any of the passengers. I think they only attack when they’re told to.” Em had already figured it out.

  The night was deathly silent, only an occasional vehicle humming along back on the highway. I thought about the sound of a steam locomotive and the long blast of the engine’s horn as it traveled down to Key West. Chugging along, some of the cars would have carried the common folk, Skip and James. Crowded together with screaming children and their parents.

  Then there would have been cars for the wealthier set, like Em and her dad. And finally there would have been cars for the railroad execs and the superrich. Must have been quite a time.

  We heard the truck, the muffler maybe a little loose. The beams swung from the main road and even though we couldn’t see it, we knew someone was pulling into the motel. Or the suites. Or whatever they were. And I could hear high-pitched whines, like someone almost crying.

  “What?” I whispered.

  “Doesn’t sound human,” James remained kneeling, staring through the break in the hedge and trees.

  Again I could hear it. Like a little baby just starting to cry.

  There was a rattling of metal and I put the glasses to my eyes, scanning what I could see of the vacant lot.

  “Over there.” James was pointing to the northeast corner of the fencing. The same place we’d climbed over yesterday and landed almost in the lap of Dr. James O’Neill and his sidekick.

  I looked and saw the gate opening. It could have used a little WD-40 as it squeaked and groaned, the hinges rubbing metal on metal.

  “There are the whiners.”

  Sure enough, two dark dogs-I would have guessed Dobermans-came parading through the entrance. Short ears and a stub for a tail, they whined, straining at the leashes that one man held in his hand. I was pretty sure it was the guy that James laid out when he hit him with the palm of his hand.

  “What if they-”

  “They won’t, Skip. Anyone could walk this street or sidewalk. They can’t just attack everyone.”

  I just prayed that those two dogs didn’t have a good memory of our smell from two nights before.

  As I reflected on that spirited evening, I saw the pinpoint of light maybe half a mile out on the water. It got bigger by the second, and I was sure it was the boat.

  Em strained to see it without the glasses. She kneeled down beside me and tapped me on the shoulder. “Want to share?”

  What the heck, she’d let me drive the Porsche.

  “It’s a big boat, maybe bigger than the other night,” I said.

  The boat slowed, and I could hear the twin props kicking in to slow the vessel. The captain had probably thrown her into reverse. The vessel was now almost coasting to the dock. The man with the dogs tied the leashes to a post, then threw a rope to someone aboard.

  And the cast of characters got larger as Em handed me the glasses. I observed another person walking in from the Ocean Air gate. Magnified and in the light of the boat, I could make out his stiff appearance, and what appeared to be salt-and-pepper hair, a beard, and mustache.

  “Can’t prove it, but I think it’s Dr. Malhotra.”

  “Guy who shares the building with O’Neill?” James peered into the darkness.

  “The same.”

  “The plot thickens, grasshopper.”

  I just nodded, not understanding any of it.

  “So those two guys are partners in whatever venture this is.” James spoke softly, still watching through his new binoculars.

  “It would seem.”

  The boat’s light went out, plunging the property into darkness. Now a flashlight played on the deck as passengers disembarked. As before, they had suitcases and this time I noticed there seemed to be a mix of women, men, and even some children. All of them carried luggage.

  “This is not a fishing boat. You don’t take kids on a boat for tournament fishing.” I was sure of it.

  Em tapped me on the shoulder again. Whispering, she said, “But, you could use the timing of the tournament boats coming back to blend in.” She paused for a moment. “Lots of boats all coming to shore at three thirty. What a perfect cover, Skip, don’t you think?”

  “So no one would be suspicious of a boat landing at this hour of the morning?” It made sense.

  She nodded.

  But why would they want to keep it a secret? Smugglers? Something in the suitcases. Gold?

  “Drugs.” James said it with conviction. “They’re bringing illegal drugs in. Perfect. Two doctors are importing illegal narcotics.”

  “Doesn’t sound right, James.”

  “I’d bet on it, Skip.”

  And then we heard someone yell, and it echoed off the water.

  “Mas rapido.”

  And then another voice. “El barco esta saliendo.”

  There was a semi loud “Hush. Silencio.”

  Then, all you could hear were feet on the deck, on the dock, and we watched as the passengers disappeared into the trees.

  James stood up as the engines reversed and the boat backed out to sea.

  “I would bet you that someone rakes the sand over there.”

  “And I would bet that the cleaning service will have tomorrow off. Then they’ll have to come in the next day and clean all of those rooms from these late check-ins.” I remembered the conversation with our desk clerk at the Cove.

  “Damn. There’s something there we weren’t supposed to see. And maybe somebody tried to shoot us today because we did see it.” James stretched and we started walking the half mile back to the van.

  “Something in those suitcases.”

  We walked back in silence, each of us rerunning the scene we’d witnessed. Something worth holding us and threatening us with a gun.

  A night bird’s shrill call startled us.

  “What were they saying back th
ere?” James got into the truck and Em and I climbed into the passenger side.

  “Obviously it was Spanish.”

  “I hate to say it, Skip, but I think James may be right. They could be smuggling drugs. Using kids, men, women-”

  “Anybody remember high school Spanish?” I asked as James turned the key.

  And turned the key. And turned the key.

  “Guys, I think our battery just died.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  It turned out that Em had AAA coverage. They’d come, tow the truck, and drive us back to the Cove. So she called them on her iPhone. It also turned out that we had to wait two hours, so we walked. That only took about an hour and fifteen minutes.

  We crashed for three hours and then the phone rang. I was groggy, tired, and sore and not in the mood to talk to James or whoever was making a conscious effort to bother me.

  “’Lo.”

  “Skip, it’s Maria Sanko.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “I want to apologize for the way I acted the other night. The other morning. You probably had a right to accuse me of-”

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I actually appreciate the fact that you came out to see how we were doing. Looking out for us.”

  “I was out there because if you found gold, I wanted some.”

  I wanted to believe she actually cared about us, but then I remembered that we’d lied to her the entire time we’d known her.

  “So, what do you want now?”

  “First of all, did you find anything?”

  I was quiet for a moment. Lying to Maria was becoming a habit. I hated to do it, but-

  “No. We were chased by dogs the first night and the second time we went, well, you were there. You saw what happened.”

  “Yeah. What was that all about? I didn’t tell anyone you were going to be there. I hope you’ll believe me.”

  “Do you know those guys? O’Neill and the motel manager?”

  “I know who they are. And I’ve pitched Dr. O’Neill some property recently. There’s an old motel down where Zane Grey’s fishing camp used to be, south of here. It’s in foreclosure, and I was trying to interest him in buying it. Maybe fix it up, give it the Zane Grey western theme and, you know.”

  I didn’t. Zane Grey had been a western novelist, and I knew he’d frequented the Keys, but that was about it.

  “So, Maria, you know him, this O’Neill?”

  “He called me yesterday.”

  “Wants to buy your motel?”

  “No. That’s still for sale.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He knew I was the one on the Harley. He wanted me to give you a message. He said he wants you to stay off his property, stay away from the medical building, don’t go near the vacant lot, and, oh, he wants his gun back.”

  “Well, you delivered the message. Now, I’ve got to get back to sleep. It was a late night.” Lots of messages being delivered.

  “He was pissed, Skip. And he’s usually a very nice man.”

  He certainly hadn’t shown that trait to me.

  “I’ll take it under advisement. Thanks, Maria.”

  “Skip. If there’s anything else I can do-”

  I hung up. There wasn’t. At least not then.

  Em drove to the library, the three of us squeezed into her two-seat sports car. James cursed the entire two-mile trip.

  “Are you going to be able to squeeze a battery for your truck out of your employer, James?” Em asked. The spymobile still sat half a mile from the infamous vacant lot that we’d pillaged.

  “I certainly hope so, because I swear we’re not going back with Skip and me in each other’s damned laps.”

  She just smiled as she pulled into the library parking lot.

  “Guys, I have some good news for you.”

  Kathy motioned us into her office, the makeshift lab.

  “The paper has moistened considerably. I think we can make this thing work with a minimum of effort.”

  She had already removed the folded letter from the jerry-rigged humidor, and thankfully hadn’t opened it yet.

  “I’ve got the strips. We can paste this thing together and I will be happy to share it with whomever you want. But,” she hesitated, “I would like the permission to print the contents in our newsletter.”

  I shivered. The contents could be worth millions of dollars. Millions.

  “I’m afraid that we can’t promise that, Kathy.” I didn’t want any stipulations on what we had to do.

  She glanced at the damp piece of evidence. The piece of paper that could dictate our future livelihood.

  “It’s historic.” As if that gave her the right.

  “And, it’s private. It actually belongs to our employer’s great-grandfather and I’m afraid we can’t authorize that the contents can be made public.”

  She frowned. Librarians probably think that everything that is readable should be made public.

  “You’ll ask her?”

  “We will,” I said. But the answer was a given.

  She started unfolding the ancient piece, very slowly unwrapping it. With a damp sponge she moistened the creases, and sure enough, the paper responded. The first fold-over flattened out without any damage to the piece.

  The second fold was more troublesome and even with extra moisture it cracked.

  “You’ll have that,” she said, working with her hands like a surgeon.

  There were more cracks and it was obvious that some of the paper would need adhesive.

  Our archivist worked for forty minutes, slowly unwrapping the old message. When she was done, we had six pieces of paper. I’d tried to read some of it, but the way the letter unfolded, the writing was mostly on the underside of the paper.

  When she finally turned one of the six pieces over and we studied the words, I saw James with a big grin on his face.

  L dp vdih.

  With the first group of letters I knew we were safe. It was all written in code.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  She’d sprung for the new battery, and James was happy.

  Mrs. T. had the template and she worked on it at the desk as the three of us sipped mai tais on her balcony. Yes, we were guests at a resort. But there were certain levels of resort living and this lady was right at the top. The room was better, the view was better, the drinks, hand delivered from the bar, were better.

  “Kathy was disappointed.” James was leaning out over the railing, watching two girls in bikinis sunning themselves poolside.

  “First of all because she couldn’t read it and secondly because we wouldn’t let her make a copy of it.” She’d asked again if the contents could be kept at the library. I politely declined. The lady was nice and had seriously helped our cause, but-

  “It was truly impressive how she melted the Japanese tissue into the paper.” Em had been fascinated with the process. There was almost no sign of the breaks in the original manuscript.

  “Kids,” she called from inside.

  When we stuck our heads in the door, she motioned for us to come in.

  “Sit down.”

  “Good news?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She stood up and handed Em a piece of the resort’s stationery with the translation of the coded document.

  “This is from my great-grandfather, Matthew Kriegel. He was on the island when the hurricane hit. Please, read it.”

  Em nodded and read out loud from the translated version.

  I am safe. For the moment. As you know, I was entrusted with over 2,000 pounds of gold to be used in the purchase and upkeep of properties for the railroad. The future of the railroad at this point would appear to be in grave jeopardy. The rails themselves are twisted and uprooted everywhere you look.

  At this very moment there are crews arriving by boat to search the island for bodies, of which there are many, lying on the ground, hanging in the trees, their decay causing foul odors that spread for miles. There are hordes of
men coming in and looting what remains there may be of people’s homes and businesses, (although little remains at all) and there is utter chaos among the people who survived.

  Medical care is slow in coming and I myself am in need of someone to help mend a broken arm.

  That being said, I am still responsible for the gold that I brought with me. I trust no one, but must trust someone. Even if I were in excellent physical condition, I could not move the heavy crates. There is no one to take the gold back to the mainland so I am exploring several options.

  Em looked up. “I can’t imagine how bad things were. And to be reading a firsthand account-”

  James tapped his foot. “The gold, Em. He’s about to tell us what happened to the gold.”

  She glowered at him and continued.

  Miracle that it is, the cases are unharmed. Ten heavy wooden containers with the gold still inside, these wooden crates of riches are as sturdy as an oak. So, their being yet untouched, I can have them moved several places. Hiring a few good men, I can put them on small boats and drop them off at sea. I cannot get a boat back to Miami at this time. A good place would seem to be the rocks that are directly off the resort (which no longer stands) called The Millionaire’s Club. Corporate giants had built a spur off of our railroad to park their private railcars when they visited this fine establishment.

  I shook my head. “There were the regular railroad passengers, then there were these guys who had their own railcars. I can’t imagine what that would have been like.”

  Em continued reading.

  The other choice I have come up with is to bury them on land, although the chance of digging very deep is fraught with danger because we are only inches above the water table.

  I intend to explore both options. If I bury the gold, it will be on the property of The Millionaire’s Club. I will estimate the longitude and latitude of that location. The crates are 14? by 9? and 6 inches deep. They weigh approximately two hundred pounds each.

  I pass this information to you, my darling wife, and hope we are connected in the not too distant future. However, things are in upheaval and every minute brings a new disaster or gruesome discovery.