“Natural resources?”
“Not bad. Fresh water from highland streams, coconuts, edible plants, and fruit trees that Prescott planted. And chickens. Lots and lots of chickens.”
“Prescott bred chickens on the island?”
“They sure as shit didn’t fly there.” Marty said.
Frank stared hard at Marty.
“I want to see it.”
Chapter 21
Frank sat outside the beach house and stared at the breakers as the tide rolled in. He thought about Willie Sutton, the field mouse, and wondered how he was acclimating himself to his new environs. Scenes from his earlier visit to the pet store popped in his head like short television clips.
One of the pet store clerks held up the Humana trap.
“ ... the doors at each end close. Then you can do what you want to with the little culprit.”
A second clerk stepped into the picture.
“Fighting gerbils. They won’t live in community with the other gerbils and have to be isolated.”
The small island off Long Beach came into view. Frank set the mouse free on the island. His words from that day returned.
“Well, Willie, this is home now. Enjoy the food and the crops that come up later on ... ”
Frank revved the boat engine and sped away.
“Have a good life, Willie Sutton,” he heard himself saying.
One of the pet store clerks came back into focus and chanted, “ ... they won’t live in community ... .and have to be isolated ... they won’t live in community ... and have to be isolated ... they won’t live in community ... and have to be isolated ... ”
The voice trailed off as Frank broke from his dreamlike trance and glanced at the deck below his right shoulder and saw a pair of fashionable high heel shoes. As his eyes moved upward, Charly Stone’s stare bore down on him.
“You okay? I’ve been standing here for over a minute. You seemed to be in another world.”
“Yeah. For a moment, I was. Sorry.”
“Maybe you should install an alarm system for this place?”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“I mean, I just walked up to the back of your chair and could’ve popped you in the head, if I were so inclined.”
“Yeah, I got a little lax there for a minute,” Frank said, rising from his chair and facing the house.
“Rico Guzman’s not going to go away because the election’s over,” Charly said. “He’ll try you again.”
“I figured without his pocket cop, Graham, he’d back off for the time being.”
“Don’t count on that. He’s got lots of torpedoes in his sub. Men who would take any job for a mere pat on the back from El Jefe.”
“I’ll be more vigilant. I promise.”
“Marty’s going to Washington this week to get sworn in. He’s going to have Senator McCallister’s crime proposals dumped in his lap. The anti-crime campaign he waged to get elected is going to top his agenda. Got any cannon fodder I can give him to help the cause?”
“You mean like a miraculous new weapon against the underworld?”
“That would be well received, I’m sure.”
“I have something I’ve been working on that may light a fire under our legislators.”
“Any idea of a timeline on that?”
“Soon. What I have in mind will either hit the wall and stick, or make me wish I was never born.”
Charly lowered her sunglasses and stared at Frank.
“Going to let me in on this plan?” she asked.
“If you can take a couple of days off, I’d love for you to accompany me on a little trip.”
“Where are we flying?”
“No flying,” Frank said. “Sailing.”
“Charly raised an eyebrow and said, “Sailing … as on a cruise ship?”
“A little less large.”
“How less?”
“Maybe a thousand feet less.”
“You want me to go sailing with you in a dinghy?”
“I finally sold my house and my Boston Whaler,” Frank said. “Made out okay. Took out a few bucks and bought a forty-foot Irwin sloop in Playa del Rey. Not new, but Irwin’s a fine manufacturer and it’s in like-new shape. Doesn’t appear like it was used much.”
“Well, you know what they say about the two happiest days you own a boat—”
“Yeah, I know. The day you buy it, and the day you sell it.”
“Now the big question: you know how to sail this not-much-used sloop?”
“I learned to sail on the Chesapeake Bay and in the Atlantic off Maryland. I’m a pretty damn good sailor.”
Charly ambled toward the narrow walkway next to the house. She turned to face Frank.
“I’ll go, but I wear only the best life jacket money can buy, and you’d better have a marine radio and disaster gear onboard. Even the best equipped boats can get into trouble. Even experienced men like Ed Smith.”
“Who’s Ed Smith?”
“The captain of the Titanic.”
Chapter 22
The July sunrise promised a warmer day than the breezy cool morning had brought to the Playa del Rey marina. A pleasant 84 degrees had been predicted on Frank’s cabin radio as he stepped to the short gangway and cast his glance down the pier in time to catch Charly Stone striding her long legs along the quay toward the sloop. He watched her tilt her head toward the aft section where the stern of the sleek vessel displayed a single word in dark blue lettering:
Esperanza
Charly had decked herself out in khaki Bermudas, a yellow tee, and blinding white tennis shoes. A red sweatshirt clung to her back with its arms tied around her neck. Dark sunglasses, a designer shoulder bag, and a golfer’s crush hat gave her that celebrity-in-hiding mystique. Her shapely tan legs drew Frank’s eyes and reduced his estimate of her age by a decade.
“Wow,” Frank said, “I’m going sailing with a movie star.”
“If I drown, I want to look my best when they recover the body,” Charly said as Frank took her free hand and guided her onto the aft deck of the boat.
She studied the boat’s layout, her eyes dwelled a moment on the open cabin companionway.
“Is the potty down there?” she asked.
“And so much more,” Frank said. “A galley, bunks, and even a salon with a TV.”
“You can get TV at sea?”
“Well, this one’s not exactly equipped for that at the moment. But we can play DVDs.”
“Watching a good movie can make floundering in a typhoon so much more bearable.”
“Charly, Charly, how you do go on.”
Frank handed Charly a life jacket.
“Put this on,” Frank said. “One size fits all.”
Charly futzed with the straps on the foam-filled vest until it fit her snugly.
“And where do we go on?” Charly asked.
“That way, about a hundred miles,” Frank said and pointed northwest.
“Drop me off at Santa Catalina. I’ll catch you on the swing back.”
* * *
The waves lapped against the gently heeled hull as the Esperanza cut smoothly through the dark blue water of the Pacific, her wake a ribbon of frothy white. At the helm, Frank kept the boat steady on the wind and noted on his instrument panel that they sliced through the gentle swells at better than seven knots.
“Look, you asked me a while ago,” Frank said, “what I was going to do to keep hardcore criminals from coming back into society. Well, I’ve finally got an answer: an island.”
“Marty mentioned an abandoned island out this way. Shrouded in a famous murder tale. Once owned by these zillionaires… the Peacocks?”
“Prescotts. Although I’m told there are peacocks running wild on the place.”
“Okay, you’ve got yourself an island paradise for the little reprobates. And I get to go onshore with you to check it out and make suggestions for the architectural design.”
“It’s too danger
ous. You stay on the boat. Marty said the water’s so shark infested that, even after all these years, no one’s ever offered to buy it. You go in the water there and you’re not a bather, you’re an appetizer.”
“What about you?”
Frank stared out at the horizon for an uncomfortably long moment. Charly moved closer.
“Sharks don’t bother me,” he said low.
“You mean you’re not afraid of them?”
“No. They scare me plenty, but for some weird reason, they don’t attack me. They’ve come up to me in the water and touched me; brushed right against me, but never hurt me. It’s like I’m one of them. Maybe my smell. I have no idea why.”
“That’s the most bizarre thing I ever heard. Think it’s your cologne?”
“What kind of world do I live in? People want to kill me and sharks are my friends?”
“Do we have to anchor the boat and swim to this place?”
“We could go in on the inflatable lifeboat,” Frank said and turned on the auto-pilot.
“How far in? Inflatable sounds a lot like bitable,” Charly said.
“Marty said the Prescotts had a pier for their cabin cruiser. Had to be in deep enough water for us to dock to. If it’s still there. It’s been a long time and many storms ago.”
“How deep do we need?”
“Five feet under the keel is our absolute minimum,” Frank said.
“Deep enough to force one to swim.”
“Even three or four feet wouldn’t allow you to wade in safely.”
“Why not?” Charly asked.
“Most shark attacks occur at that very depth.”
* * *
Frank studied a chart, then panned the distant ocean, his hands shading his eyes from the glaring sunlight. Off the port bow he spotted a thin strip rising above the horizon. He checked his chart plotter next to the wheel.
“Land ho,” Frank yelled into the companionway.
Moments later, Charly emerged and joined Frank at the helm.
“We’re here?” Charly said.
“About an hour out, if Marty’s co-ordinates are correct.”
Frank dropped his eyes to Charly’s feet.
“You bring anything hardier than those designer tenners?”
“You mean like mountain boots with spikes?”
“A pair of cross trainers would do.”
“Got ’em in my bag, sarge.”
Charly watched Frank staring at the sunlit ocean ahead.
“How far?” Charly asked.
“I judge it’s ten miles.”
“Suppose someone’s living there?” Charly said.
“Like unfriendlies?”
“Yep.”
“We’ll have to take care … and this,” Frank said and patted the Browning on his belt.
“Where’s mine?”
Frank ignored her question and prepared to put the Irwin on starboard tack as the wind picked up.
“Ready about,” he said, then yelled, “Hard alee.”
The sloop rolled as the main boom swung to the opposite side, shuddering the boat with a jolting thunk. Charly extended an arm to the side of the cockpit, grabbing for a support strut of the bimini to steady herself.
“Sanford Prescott built his compound on the opposite side of the island,” Frank said. “Seems stupid to me. Takes another half hour to get around to it.”
“That where we’re going?”
“Yeah. I want to see what a few million bucks could buy back in 1932.”
“I’ll go below and change my shoes,” she said, steadying herself. “If I can make it there without going over the side.”
* * *
Fifty-five minutes later, Frank dropped the sails, scrambled back into the cockpit, and engaged the inboard engine to make just enough headway to maintain steerage. The island sat ahead less than 300 yards. Charly scanned the beaches with binoculars. After struggling to use the heavy glasses over her designer shades, she ultimately abandoned the sunglasses. Frank scribbled figures in a notebook, and took the wheel.
“We’ll circle the island, check the depths, and hunt for that pier,” Frank said.
“Nothing’s stirring in my view,” Charly said. “No pier in sight.”
The Esperanza chugged around the island from a hundred yards out with Frank monitoring their depth as they went. The gauge showed an erratic range between twenty and fifty feet below the keel. At halfway around the island, on the west shore, Frank spotted an object protruding from the beach.
“Check the far left ahead,” Frank said to Charly, pointing. “Looks man-made.”
Charly trained the binoculars where Frank had indicated.
“Well … it looks like what used to be a pier,” Charly said.
“We’ll go once around and come back to it. We should be able to better determine its condition on a closer pass.”
They motored around until the damaged pier lay no more than seventy yards away. The weathered lumber was ash gray, and what had been a level walkway of about eighty feet was now spiraled into the water below like a twisted braid of thin sticks. Only the few feet anchored near the land stood erect and walkable.
“Water’s deep here,” Frank said. “Good reason to chose this site. We may be able to get close enough to use what’s left of the pier. Got to be careful we don’t get fouled in debris underwater.”
“I don’t see any sharks,” Charly said, studying the water between the boat and the beach.
“Trust me, they’re there. They have Ph.Ds in stealth.”
“You sure?” Charly said, her eyes narrowed.
“There’s a white cooler aft of the cockpit coaming with chum. I thought we could catch our dinner if we decided to go fishing. Scoop out a ladle and dump it off the stern. I’d clip that cockpit tether to your life jacket or at least tie a mooring line around your waist.”
Charly ducked out from the bimini, looped a line around her waist, and tied it off with a bowline as Frank looked on.
“Where’d you learn to tie a bowline so efficiently?” he asked.
“Been around boats all my life.”
“Never would’ve known that from that act you put on when you sashayed up the pier, all Hollywood.”
“I wanted to establish a few ground rules.”
“So, you’ve been around boats all your life.”
“But never around sharks,” she said.
Charly opened the cooler lid, picked up the ladle, and dipped into the maroon goo sloshing inside. Frank watched as she stared at the bloody stew she held and made a face like a kid served a plate of raw liver.
“Toss it off the stern,” Frank said.
Charly knelt and poured the chum into the shimmering mirror of sun-bright water at arm’s length and watched the bloody ragu of fish chunks and entrails splash and disappear beneath the surface. In seconds, the water erupted with violent sprays as conical noses and jaws with pearl white teeth burst above the surface, their bites snapping at the savory tidbits. Charly stumbled to her feet, reeled backward, and jettisoned the ladle, which danced across the stern deck.
“See any sharks yet?” Frank said, facing forward, suppressing a grin.
“Jesus,” Charly said. “I may need that potty.”
“We’ll sail around the island and get a look at the shoreline. I’ll bring us back here to go ashore,” Frank said, keeping a watchful eye on his passenger.
“Can’t wait to hit those beaches,” Charly said, holding firmly onto the gunwale with both hands, her eyes on the rickety vestiges of the pier.
“You’re only going to hit them if, and only if, that pier is sound enough to use.”
“Christ, I feel like I’m with Bogie on the African Queen.”
Frank throttled up the forty-four horse Yanmar inboard and powered to deeper water, then set the sails for an exploratory pass around the island.
“Marty said this was eight miles long by about four miles wide,” Frank said, “but it looks enormous when you see it like
this. No more than thirty-two square miles. I was concerned that it would be too small for a large population of convicts.”
“Manhattan Island is only thirty-four square miles,” Charly said, “and has more than a million and a half people.”
“That almost settles that question.”
“Why ‘almost?’”
“In Manhattan, they can build upward to the sky,” Frank said. “Here, we’ll be staying a lot closer to the ground.”
Moving around the island, Frank took in the beauty of the tropical hideaway with its long white sand beaches, green coconut palms, and mountainous terrain rising far behind and above the shoreline. On the east side, the center of the island angled inward like a giant, plump “V,” making for an ideal harbor site for the prison’s primary buildings and landing piers. The two wings sprouting from the “V” extended three to four miles on each side, creating protection from damaging winds coming from the north or south. The site would have easy shipping access, economical inmate transfer from the mainland, and shelter for the naval ships that would be guarding offshore.
After the Esperanza circled the boomerang-shaped island counter-clockwise and returned to the damaged pier, Frank puttered in toward the beach with a careful eye on his depth. When the gauge read ten feet, he reversed the engine until the boat stopped making headway, scurried aft, and dropped and secured an anchor off the stern to keep the boat from drifting shoreward. He stared at the pier only a few feet away. The few pilings that survived rose above the walkway by several feet and were embedded in the white sand below the surface. The good news was that they were the diameter of telephone poles and, unlike the walkway planks, still looked solid.
“Close as we dare go,” Frank said. “This is low tide right now. We’ll have deeper water soon.”
“We’re still several feet from the usable part of the pier,” Charly said. “What’s the plan?”
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 9