Key West Connection

by Randy Wayne White

  The door to the forward salon swung back and forth in the wind. The cabin was empty. I moved across the color-coordinated carpeting to the forward berth. It was jammed with the boxes I had seen the men carrying. With my knife, I cut through the plastic and the cardboard to find a paper bag which read “North American Sugar, Inc.”

  Sugar?

  I ripped the sack open, the white powdery contents spilling down on my rubber dive boots. I touched my finger to my tongue: an odd numbing flavor with the texture of baking soda. Cocaine or heroin—I didn’t know. We hadn’t covered narcotics in SEAL training. But it sure as hell wasn’t sugar. I stuck three bags of it in my knapsack and then went through the drawers beneath the bunks. Clothes and food and supplies. That wasn’t what I was looking for. I checked to see how the Senator’s little army was doing. They were still busy. Real busy. The thermite had spewed over onto the main house when it exploded, and now that was on fire, too; the roof of the north wing was aflame.

  I ransacked the galley and ripped the seats of the kitchenette open: nothing but foam rubber.

  It had to be there someplace—but where?

  It took me awhile, but I finally found what I was looking for. A metal waterproof case, shoved way back beyond the twin engines, in the bilges. I pulled it out, foul and dripping, busted the lock, and opened it wide. Neat bundles of cash, sealed in brown wrappers. Twenties, fifties, and hundreds. Used bills. I thumbed through two stacks. A little over a thousand in one, a thousand even in the other. There were more than fifty stacks. I stuck thirty of the stacks in my knapsack, resealed the rest in the metal case, and tossed it back into the bilges.

  I was safely away when I blew up the boat. I had run along the pier, across the clearing to the covering mangroves. I flipped back the spring-lock cover of the detonator, pressed the button, and, after a microsecond pause, there was a tremendous ka-a-BOOM that shook the little island so completely that, for a crazy moment, I thought it might sink beneath me.

  I put the detonator away. I took the Cobra crossbow off my shoulder and crouched there in the shadows, waiting.

  I doubted if the sinking Independence would bring Ellsworth out of hiding, but I hoped the money might.

  But it didn’t. Oh, it brought the others on a run. They came wheeling down the mound like kids on an Easter-egg hunt.

  “Shit, man, what the hell’s goin’ on here?”

  “Goddam place goin’ nuts—hey, gotta be some cash on that tub!”

  “Screw the cash, Jack. Save some o’ th’ stash—we all gonna be rich. Ain’t nobody around to stop us!”

  The Independence lay stern to bottom, bow high in the air, and the men swarmed aboard. She looked sadly like a huge dying animal.

  If the sinking sportfisherman didn’t bring Ellsworth on the run, then he knew. He knew that the thermite explosion was not an act of God and lightning; he knew that the floundering boat was not the victim of a poor fuel-ventilation system. He knew that something or someone was after him. And to find him, I would have to hunt him down.

  I watched for him as I ran back up the mound toward the burning house; watched for the dark trousers and blue foul-weather jacket he had pulled on after raping Bimini. I strained to see through every flash of lightning, but he wasn’t around. The roof of the house was burning merrily, popping in the weakening shower of rain. No one guarded the doors now. The men were in happy revolt, each trying to salvage his own future from the sinking boat. I kicked open the front door, went in, and switched on the lights. The ceiling steamed above me, the acrid odor of thermite and burning shingles everywhere. I went through the house a room at a time, one by one.

  Nothing.

  In the Senator’s study, I took special care. I opened the drawer with the false bottom, stuffed in the sacks of drugs, and added ten stacks of cash. Stormin’ Norman could run him down on income-tax evasion if nothing else. The desk was built of sleek metal, and the stone walls of the house would never burn. The federal boys would find evidence enough—if they looked for it.

  After checking the cellar, I ran back up the steps, outside.

  Where? Where?

  I had decided to check the old caretaker’s cottage when I heard the roar of the racing boat being started. I couldn’t believe it. I ran around to the front of the house and, from the high vantage point of the Indian mound, I saw it: somehow the boathouse had protected it from the brunt of the explosion.

  Ellsworth was at the controls.

  His men were yelling at him. I couldn’t make out the words. A lanky kid with long, long black hair tried to jump aboard, and Ellsworth shot him down. The kid had his arms full of drug sacks, and the white powder spilled over his bloodied face. The rest of the men stepped back in horror—and then ran, none of them taking the time to drop their booty.

  The boat was already in motion when I shot. He was more than two hundred yards away, through the trees and down the hill. The stiletto-shaped boat wallowed as if about to sink as he pulled out, then he jammed the throttles forward and it struggled to plane—so, it had been damaged by the explosion.

  I lofted the arrow. A tough shot—but I had killed men with tough shots before.

  But I didn’t kill Ellsworth.

  The arrow left with a hiss, and, a second later he stiffened, sagged momentarily, and then disappeared into the darkness. I had wounded him. But how badly? No way of telling.

  But there was one thing I knew for sure. I would find him. Maybe not on this night, maybe not the next. But his time would come. If he wasn’t dying now, he would; die by my hands.

  “I’ll hunt you down like a dog, Ellsworth,” I whispered, my words lost in the storm wind. “I’ll hunt you down and make you beg—that I vow.”

  Bimini had followed my orders well. She didn’t sit up until I called her name through the darkness.

  “Let’s get out of here, lady. I want to get you to a hospital,” I said as I threw my gear into the little Whaler.

  “Did you . . . did you kill him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so—but I wounded him. I don’t know how badly. He just took off in that big powerboat.”

  She put her arms around me and pulled herself close. Warm little island woman; the fear in her voice edged the brave front. “Are we going after him . . . now?”

  “No. No way we could catch him. Another day, Bimini. I’ll meet Mr. Benjamin Ellsworth on another day—if he lives.”

  It wasn’t my imagination. She sagged with relief.

  I pulled the stern-well plug, running the rainwater out as we went. Bimini snuggled close beside me while, behind us, Cuda Key burned. It threw an eerie light across the water: green and bile-like, as if all the evil of that place were being leached out by the August storm.

  We talked softly together as we banged through the choppy night seas.

  “I’m so sorry, Dusky. So sorry about what he did to me. I wanted it to be you.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me, Bimini. Not a bit. When we’re sure you’re well, maybe we can take a little cruise. A . . . a sort of friendship cruise. I can’t promise you love or lovemaking. I just know I need to get away. And I want someone along. Someone who isn’t afraid to speak up when there’s something to talk about, and who isn’t afraid to say nothing when talk is unnecessary.”

  She kissed me softly on the cheek. “I would like that. And I understand. You need time, Dusky MacMorgan. That’s what we both need—time.”

  XVIII

  By the time we got back to the Sniper, Bimini had even managed to laugh a little. I wanted to cheer her up, to get her mind off what had happened. And trying to cheer her up actually cheered me up.

  She didn’t ask me what had happened back on Cuda Key. And I didn’t tell her. A strange thing about war—and that’s what my attack had been, war. It draws on a human psychological reserve that is buried deeply within us all. It has something to do with the kick of adrenaline, the sudden, insane dissipation of all reason. It prowls the dark side of our brains like a benign t
umor, only to leap alive and to the forefront when the provocation is sufficient. And when that creature, war, comes to life, it brings us face to face with a being so malevolent, so horrifying, as to render mere words not only useless but loathsome. It brings us face to face with ourselves.

  I knew the horror. I knew it well. And when the killing is done, I had learned to let the warrior in me return to its terrible and temporary grave.

  So I talked and joked, anxious to get that good woman to the hospital; to steal her away from this awful night.

  The Sniper lay nearly invisible in the dark distance. And then it became a shadowy form. And then I could hear the gentle roll and smack as she danced on her ground tackle.

  I brought the little Whaler up smoothly and lashed it to the boarding platform.

  “I feel so good with you, Dusky. I don’t think I need a doctor; honest.”

  “I won’t hear another word.”

  “Maybe we could just rest here awhile.” Her mouth opened in a wide yawn, and then melted into a sleepy smile. I could see her face clearly now. The storm had all but passed, and a flickering moonlight spread across the water and lay milky on her skin.

  “You go below. There’s a blanket in the port locker. Get it out, take your clothes off, and get dry. And then get yourself some sleep. I’ll run us back.”

  “I might need some help—getting dry,” she said, kittenlike.

  And I knew what she was doing; what she needed. After her terrible experience with Ellsworth, she needed someone to show her that it could be good, that it could be right. Someone to show her the love of it before memories of her rape hardened in her brain and spoiled all bedroom love for her forever and ever. She needed me now, to love the nightmare away; now before it began to feed on her.

  “Are you sure, Bimini?”

  She fell against me, looking up into my face. “Are you? The time we need, Dusky—the time we both need is now.”

  I bent to kiss her full lips and felt, beneath the wool sweater, that her nipples had already hardened, protruding through the wide weave of the garment. Perhaps she was right. They had killed a part of me, and I had killed many of them. Maybe this was the way to say yes; to affirm my own existence.

  I kissed her again, harder, alert for any sudden recoil or revulsion within her.

  There was none. She pressed hard against me, finding the entrance beneath my watch sweater and sliding her hands over my wide chest.

  “Dusky, are you sure?”

  I lifted her up in my arms, my left hand on the firm mound of breast. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  What happened then occurred so quickly that I doubt if I will ever get it straight in my own mind. Flickering images tainted with fear and awful, awful disbelief. And the dreamlike quality of a nightmare.

  Kisses and laughter interrupted by the unexpected flare of cabin lights.

  A pallid, haunted face.

  A gun.

  A leer.

  Ellsworth!

  “My, my, my, aren’t you two quite the romantic lovers this evening!”

  I dropped Bimini to her feet. I kept shaking my head. It was the concussion, the dizziness. I had to be having a hallucination.

  But I wasn’t. Lieutenant Benjamin Ellsworth stood before me. With a gun. Again.

  I had wounded him all right. The aluminum arrow protruded through his thigh. His wet pants looked even darker for the blood. His face was blanched. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  “What are you staring at, MacMorgan?” Ellsworth laughed crazily. “You’re the ones who should be gawked at. The thought of it: a pathetic circus orphan and an uneducated nigger whore exchanging sweet words of love. It makes me want to puke.”

  Shakily, he climbed the two steps to the fighting deck. Blood gushed from his shoe when he moved.

  “What would your late wife say about that?” He threw his head back, cackling like a maniac. And he leveled the gun at my head when I took a step forward. “She wouldn’t like it, would she? Nor would your two boys.”

  “Don’t!”

  It was Bimini. She wasn’t trembling now. I had never seen a look of such stark hatred on any woman.

  Ellsworth smiled at her. “Don’t or you’ll what?”

  “Don’t talk to him that way!”

  He turned to me. “Look at this, will you? The big man is letting a colored woman do his talking. How about that, MacMorgan?”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you, Ellsworth. If you’re going to kill us, get it over with. But you’d be smart to let the woman live. You’re going to need someone to take care of that leg—or you’ll bleed to death.”

  “Oh, this?” He motioned grandly toward the arrow in his leg. “I assume this was a little present from you.” He coughed and wiped the sweat from his face. “I must say that I was surprised to find your boat out here. I can’t imagine how you escaped our last encounter. My own craft was sinking—damaged by another little gift of yours. I thought it wise to abandon it and take this vessel. And I would have—but for one thing. No keys. Hand them over, MacMorgan. Now.”

  He wasn’t thinking clearly. It was a mistake no pro would have made. No healthy pro, anyway. Had he been thinking clearly—thinking like the SEAL he never really was—he would have killed me and then taken the keys off my corpse. Only he wouldn’t have found them. They were under the starboard berth. Back in the corner. Where I always hid them.

  But he wasn’t thinking clearly. And he did make the mistake. I reached slowly toward the big right pocket of the commando pants where the Webber pistol was concealed.

  And by the time he realized his error, the dart gun was halfway up and out.

  If Bimini had done anything else, he would have recovered in time. If she had just stood by and looked on in horror—like most people—I would have died in my tracks; died with the satisfaction, at least, of knowing that Lieutenant Ellsworth was well on his way to bleeding to death. But she didn’t wait. She didn’t watch. She jumped toward him like a young lioness, her fingers raking even rows of flesh from his face.

  The .45 roared and Bimini jolted backward and landed on the deck in a heap. She rolled over once, blood dripping from her head, groaned, and then lay silent.

  Thud!

  Ellsworth stiffened in surprise, dropping his weapon. I had shot quickly, not waiting until the Webber was level and controlled. And I had hit him in an improbable place. He grabbed his groin, eyes wide and filled with wonder. He knew about dart guns. And what he knew frightened him.

  “What’s . . . what did you shoot me with?”

  I had him now. And I was going to make him suffer. “Poison, Ellsworth. The poison of a scorpionfish.”

  “No! You can’t . . . ”

  “I can and I have.” I took two steps toward him and kicked the automatic away. “I want to tell you about that poison, lieutenant. You’ll be feeling it soon. There will be a numbing pain. . . . ”

  “Yes!”

  “And then you’ll go into convulsions. And then the numbing pain will become unbearable pain. . . . ”

  “Please!”

  “Please what, lieutenant? I can’t save you now. No doctor on earth could save you now.”

  He crawled toward me, one hand still holding his groin. “You’ve got to do something, MacMorgan. Yes—you’ve got to . . .”

  He clutched at my pant leg like a little child.

  “Can’t . . . stand . . . pain. Please.”

  “What about other people, you bastard? You think my wife, my boys, my best friend, or this woman enjoyed pain? And you killed them, you bastard! You killed them all!”

  “Yes . . . I’m sorry . . . save me, MacMorgan . . . ”

  He stared up at me with horrible eyes. But I felt no pity. I kicked him away from me. “There’s only one thing I can do for you now, Ellsworth. I can put you out of your misery.”

  “No!”

  I turned away, as if to start the boat. “Then suffer, lieutenant.”

  “No! Y
es, I mean yes!” He was crying now, bawling like a child.

  “Beg me.”

  “My God!”

  I stooped and lifted him by his foul-weather jacket to his feet. And I looked into his appalling eyes, holding him tight. “There’s no other way, lieutenant. Two hours of dying or a split second of death.”

  He sagged, still crying. “Okay . . . I’m begging you.”

  The moment the words were out of his mouth, I shoved him back and then pulled him forward into the full force of the palm of my hand. It shoved his nose up into his brain, and he died as I had promised. Quickly.

  He was a foul and evil person, but still I felt sickened by it. Sickened by the sights and the sounds of death, and his last pathetic minutes. I dropped him down onto the deck and then, deliberately, I took the Webber pistol from my pocket.

  And then I fired it into the night, aiming at the blur of chaotic universe. It was the death dart, the killer. It was the dart with the real poison of the scorpionfish. . . .

  XIX

  On a Saturday in late September, I cruised the Sniper along the desolate point and white sweep of empty beach off Cape Sable. It was a flawless day: a world of soft blues and yellows; a world of sun and calm sea. And solitude.

  The southernmost west coast of Florida is unlike anything else the Vacation State has left to offer. It is vast mangrove forests, trees eighty feet high, and dark tidal rivers and uncharted oyster bars where the tides have ebbed and flowed for a thousand years, known only to the snook and tarpon and redfish which hunt there. It is an immense sea and backcountry wilderness unblemished by the scars of the Florida epic: billboards and trailer parks, condominiums and fast-food stands and roadside attractions—the hallmark of progress and the idiocy of the Florida businessman.