Just Different Devils

by Jinx Schwartz

  I turned my back to him and took a peek at my GPS tracker. Jan mouthed, "No change?"

  I shook my head; Nacho's boat remained right where it had been since last night.

  Jan stood next to Javier, he pretending to let her show the way, she pretending to show him where to go, and me pretending I didn't long to pull Nacho's 9mm from my backpack, stick it in his ear, and force him to tell us everything he knew. I hummed a few bars of, "The Great Pretender" by the Platters. Jan gave me a thumbs up.

  "There!" Jan yelled, pointing to Nacho's boat.

  Po Thang scrambled out of a deep sleep to bark in that direction. The boat looked ominously deserted, no movement on board I could discern. There was, I knew, a very small cuddy cabin under the steering console one could, in case of extremely violent weather, cram into, but you wouldn't want to stay there for long. And there certainly was no room to lie down.

  Javier skillfully brought us alongside. The deck was deserted and the little cabin door had swung open. There was obviously no one aboard.

  I caught my breath when we saw the mess. "Oh, hell, Jan. Please tell me that blood is left from when you guys caught the fish on the way in yesterday."

  "You know it's not. Nacho scrubbed the boat down."

  I started to board Nacho's boat, but Javier grabbed my arm, holding me back. "No!"

  "What's wrong?" I said, a pretty stupid question in light of blood all over Nacho's decks. And just as I said it, something moved, and what looked like a huge worm writhed its way in our direction. All three of us jumped back in alarm, knocking Po Thang, who'd seen the thing and lunged toward it, for a loop.

  It stopped coming at us, but still squirmed, contorting as though in pain. Not a worm, I realized, but an eight-foot tentacle, leaking blood and what looked like ink from where it had been crudely hacked off.

  Jan scooted as far away as she could, dragging Po Thang by the collar. He, too, squirmed, but only half-heartedly tried to get away after he got a good look at that horror on Nacho's deck.

  Javier unclipped his boat hook and prodded the tentacle, which wrapped itself around the handle and jerked. Throwing hook and all at the monstrous thing, he joined us on the other side of his boat. With three adults and a dog huddled on one side of his panga, we listed dangerously close to the water. Water I had no intention of getting dumped into.

  If I was as pale as Jan, I figured we were both in shock. Javier was a couple of shades of brown lighter himself. Po Thang knew something was drastically wrong, and whined in sympathy.

  I said it first. "You don't think Nacho...." I couldn't finish.

  "Oh, god, I hope not. What are we going to do?"

  We both looked at Javier, who picked up his radio. Now that we were out of the anchorage, he could reach La Paz. "Capitanía del Puerto la Paz, Capitanía del Puerto la Paz, este es Treinta."

  When they answered almost immediately, he told them, in lightening fast Spanish, of a deserted boat found anchored on the bajo.

  He did not mention the still squirming tentáculo.

  And I tucked away, in my still fear-numbed brain, the number identifying his boat, Treinta. His boat was La Paz Thirty. Sounded official, but what branch of official?

  The rest of our morning was rife with officialdom, several members of which looked at me with suspicion, as this was the second time in just a few days I'd been associated with a boat abandoned under mysterious circumstances.

  Heck, I was feeling guilty myself.

  They bagged the tentacle, which had finally quit moving, swore each of us to secrecy about its existence, and finally, around one, we were allowed to return to Raymond Johnson. We diverted straight for the nearest beach for a way overdue potty stop for dogs and humans alike. We could have jumped in the water for a pee, I guess, while we were out there by Nacho's boat, but what with that tentacle as evidence of very large Red Devils about, no way.

  We didn't talk much on the way to Raymond Johnson even though Javier wasn't running full speed, and we could hear each other. What could we say? Nacho had most likely met a grisly death out there, and there was no explaining it. What was he doing at the bajo last night, and why did he go without telling us? Or at all. And even more confounding, why did he tow Full Kilt Boogie from the anchorage, and just where were Mac and his boat anyway? All questions we had no answers to.

  We had not informed the authorities, or Javier, about Mac. Why complicate the whole thing and involve a guy who probably had nothing to do with Nacho's disappearance? Or did he?

  Javier came aboard for a sandwich when we got back, but said he had to leave almost right afterward for La Paz. His cell phone had pinged a signal just as we were about to turn into the anchorage entrance, so he slowed the boat and made a quick call. He repeated to someone (the Captain?) exactly what he'd told the police and navy dudes, but this time he mentioned the tentacle. He quickly held the phone away from his ear as we all heard a blast of cursing from the other end. He listened until the guy calmed down, and told him he'd be back in a couple of hours.

  As I made him another sandwich to go, Jan gave him a Coca-Cola Light and tried to convince him to show us what was in the packet still tucked into his shorts pocket, the reason he came out in the first place. We'd concluded that Nacho was our friend and perhaps whatever was in there might help find his...him.

  Javier steadfastly refused to give it up.

  Okay, it's not like we didn't try.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Pantsing, or debagging, had it's origins at Oxford University when students wore loose fitting slacks called Oxford Bags. They became the target of pranksters.

  It was still practically Dorm Pranks 101 when Jan and I went to college, despite being labeled a form of sexual harassment back in the seventies. The seventies? That decade was reputed to be a cesspool of free sex, drugs, and debauchery, which Jan and I lamented not being old enough to participate in. Seems like a little pantsing was fairly mild by comparison.

  So, along with Jan's goat roping and hog tying skills left over from a misspent youth in 4H, she'd refined the art of the pants. However, now that we knew we were dealing with a trained soldier of some sort, we had to be fast. And devious.

  Jan opened her arms wide to hug Javier goodbye, much to his surprise. He stood with both arms hanging down, looking at a total loss for what to do when she captured him in a bear hug not unlike some chick in a World Wrestling Entertainment's Diva Division match. As soon as she had him fast in an iron clutch, I stepped around them and yanked his cargo shorts down around his ankles.

  Po Thang, liking the looks of this new game, lunged, clamped his teeth onto the shorts and proved to be a pretty slick yanker, as well; he threw both Jan and Javier off balance. Both went down cussing to beat the band while Po Thang held fast and continued to play tug of war. I, on the other hand, filched the pouch from Javier's pocket, ran into the cabin and locked the door behind me.

  We'd already placed my computer right inside the door, so within seconds I downloaded the thumb drive from the pouch into my computer, and was back on deck, winded but chuffed with success. The man/woman/dog pile was still untangling themselves—mostly due to Jan, who was watching for my return—so I grabbed a joyously cavorting Po Thang by the collar while stuffing the pouch back into the shorts my dog had pulled completely off Javier.

  I handed Javier his cargo shorts, which he snatched and shimmied into while grumbling and hopping on one foot, then the other.

  "Gringas! Gah!" he spat, and jumped into the boat and escaped.

  FYI, Javier is a tighty whitey guy.

  "So what next?" Jan asked as Javier left the anchorage, shooting us a one-fingered salute on the way out.

  "I dunno. I guess becoming best buds with Javier is out."

  "We'll be lucky if he doesn't come back and slit our throats in the dead of night."

  "The man has no sense of humor."

  "Let's take a look at that thumb drive. Maybe it will give us a clue as to our next move."

 
The thumb drive was identical to the last one we stole, with much of the same content. After comparing the screens side-by-side on our computers we were no more enlightened than before. We even slowed it down, synchronized the shots on both our computer screens, but saw little change. Maybe a few white caps that were not present in the sister screen, but nothing else jumped out at us and yelled, "Aha!"

  Jan went to the galley and returned with two iced teas just as I finished going over those videos for the fourth time. "Anything?"

  "Nope."

  "Not even a panga?"

  "Not even." I took a sip of tea and stood to stretch my neck. I'd been hunched over the screen for over an hour, playing with the images any way I could.

  "So, what should we do? Stay put and hope Nacho surfaces?"

  "Oh, Jan, that was such an inappropriate choice of words," I scolded, then in spite of trying to maintain some modicum of decorum, burst into laughter, which devolved into deep sobs. Tears brought on by unfitting laughter, sadness, or just plain old hysteria, I wasn't sure. "God, I'd kill for a Valium or three."

  Jan patted my shoulder. "Hetta, Nacho isn't the kind of guy who ends up dead at the tentacles of a giant squid."

  I wiped my eyes, and took a ragged breath. "You're right. He's almost surely destined for a firing squad."

  "See? Always look on the bright side."

  "What time is it?"

  She glanced at her bare wrist. "Five o'clock somewhere."

  With our master mixologist missing, we reverted to plain old wine before dinner. The way I was feeling it might be instead of dinner.

  We watched pelicans diving for their own evening meal, gliding in circles, their bellies glowing green from a reflection off the turquoise water, and marveled at a National Geographic moment when an osprey dive-bombed the surface and scooped up a large pipe fish. It was touch and go for awhile, with the fish thrashing wildly while the bird fought to gain altitude. The bird won.

  The anchorage had cleared out some, and I counted only six boats besides us. We listened to the Happy Hour on ham radio to find out what the weather guessers had to say, and learned we might get a pretty good blow in a couple of days.

  "I guess we'd better make a decision before the blow if we're going to move."

  Jan, who was trying to capture action shots of the Pelicans downing fish nodded. "Yep. Once the wind starts we're stuck. If you can call anchored out in paradise, stuck."

  "Right now I'm a little skeptical about the paradise thing. Shall I recap?"

  She put down her camera and grabbed her wine. "If you must."

  "This is such a hot mess I hardly know where to begin."

  "Never stopped you before. How about starting on that day you had the harebrained idea to buy a boat? Or then take the boat to Mexico? Or—"

  "Wontrobski!"

  "Bless you."

  "Smarty pants. We need to call Wontrobski. He's the one who started this whole thing."

  "Actually your parents did, much to their dismay, I'm sure. But right now I think you're right. After all, he's the one who set up this charter."

  We went to the Satfone and called the Trob. He and his wifey poo, our friend, Allison—along with a wee one I secretly called a Trobite—were preparing to debark for their new home in Dubai, where Jenks was doing the ground work for relocating Baxter Brothers Corporation, my former employer, from San Francisco to the Middle East.

  "Yo, Trob," I said when he answered from his office high atop the Baxter Brothers building in downtown San Fran.

  "Hetta, Jan, what can I do for you?"

  The Trob is a man of few words, and even fewer social skills, so no small talk necessary. "You can tell us about this freakin' charter you arranged."

  "What's wrong? You run out of wine?"

  Jan and I exchanged a look of amazement. Was that a joke? Good grief, fatherhood must be working miracles. But then again, I'm sure the little tyke was uninterested in discussing algorithms with her dad, the genius.

  "Wow, a touch of humor. I'm dumbfounded."

  "Hetta, why did you call?"

  So much for chitchat. "Nacho is missing, his boat has been towed into La Paz by the Mexican Marines and several federal agencies, it looks like he might have been attacked and killed by a giant squid, and we don't know what to do next. We're anchored north of La Paz where he wanted us to be before he went missing. Do you think we should stay here and wait, or return to La Paz?"

  "Who is Nacho?"

  "Houston, we have a problem," Jan drawled after we moved back outside to watch the sunset and discuss this surprising, and possibly really ugly, turn of events.

  "No kidding. At least the Trob is on the job trying to follow the money, but without a client telling what he wants, what are we to do?"

  "I vote we sit tight until after the blow. If we haven't heard from Nacho or who ever the hell set this charter up, we go back to La Paz, run him to ground like a feral hawg, and beat the truth out of him."

  "I like your style, Miz Jan. Okay, doing nothing is up for a vote. All in favor say Aye. All opposed, find another boat."

  We clinked glasses.

  "However, there is one thing we have to do that cannot wait much longer. We gotta dump our holding tanks, and we'd better get 'er done early tomorrow in case the wind gets here before the weather guessers think it will."

  We decided to pass by the bajo on our way to dump our black water tanks, a necessity of boating in Mexico that would give the United States Coast Guard a heart attack, but there is no choice.

  Unlike many boaters in Mexico who don't even have holding tanks or have the annoying habit of dumping into an anchorage or even marinas, I have steadfastly done my best to go out at least three miles, on a strong outgoing tide, to dump mine.

  Raymond Johnson has two heads, and two holding tanks. Normally I use one for pee, which is highly diluted with water and I have no problem dumping overboard, and the other for #2. No toilet paper goes into either system.

  What with Nacho staying in the guest cabin, both heads were used for both functions, so it was time to go out to sea and purge the tanks. My waste management system uses only fresh water, and I treat the tanks with an additive that kills bacteria, so what it left is a brownish liquid that doesn't smell wonderful, but is designed to do no harm except to the sensibilities.

  I know, way Too Much Information!

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  We headed out for our black water dump just after first light, hoping to avoid those first swells from the north that show up before the real wind actually arrives in the southern area of the Sea of Cortez. We had already listened to an early ham net that had boaters reporting winds picking up overnight in San Felipe, in the far northern section, so we knew we only had a few hours at best before things started getting lumpy.

  Even though we steered for the bajo as soon as we rounded the north end of the island, as expected, there was nothing to see. Evidently the powers investigating the strange disappearance of Nacho had done everything they intended to and left. Had this kind of thing happened in the States, there would still be divers down and boats stationed on site for days, but this is Mexico. 'Nuf said.

  After the dump, we returned to the bajo and lingered long enough to drop a couple of treble hooks to see if we could snag any of the brown stuff we tried to get the last time we were here in my pangita. On her third try, Jan yelled, "Hetta! I've got something!"

  I'd been holding the boat in position as best I could in a growing swell and running tide, so I couldn't leave the bridge. "Whacha got?" I asked, leaning over the rail to see.

  "A piece of something we've seen before. I'll bring it—Oh, hell!"

  While I wasn't paying attention a williwaw out of nowhere caught my boat, and a large swell hit us right on the beam. The boat took a big enough roll that I worried we hadn't secured for sea like we're supposed to, and the entirety of my fridge's contents were splattered all over my galley floor. Po Thang would be delighted.

  I quickly ste
ered into the swell, stabilizing the boat, and looked back to see that Jan had grabbed a railing. Po Thang, however, who had been leaning over the gunwale watching Jan try to bring up what he hoped was a fish, was gone. Jan's cursing and calling his name raised my worst fear; he was overboard, and visions of that tentacle flashed into my mind.

  "Where is he?" I yelled.

  "I'm on it. I'll get him. I've got a visual!"

  "Dammit I should have tied him up here. I'm going to neutral so we don't hit him with a prop. Hold on tight, cuz we're gonna roll for a few minutes!"

  I took the engines out of gear, deployed the anchor from the bridge, and let it run out faster than usual in my haste to get us stopped, but I knew the wind was pushing us back fast enough for the chain not to foul the anchor. We were only in twenty-five feet of water on the sea mount that rises from hundreds of feet under the sea, so I stayed put at the steering station, playing out a hundred feet of chain before stopping the windlass. The anchor bit firmly and we swung bow-in to the swell with a satisfying tug. As least something was going our way for the moment. Grabbing two life jackets, I went down to help Jan.

  She'd already pulled the pangita to the swim platform in case she had to go after Po Thang. Since we were securely anchored, I lifted the dawg overboard life sling from its stanchion mount while Jan kept an eye on Po Thang, just like they taught us in Coast Guard classes.

  Holding the 150' of looped line in one hand, and the horseshoe shaped floatation collar in the other I asked, "Where is he?"

  "There!" Jan yelled, pointing about three boat lengths behind us. I'd trained him to swim to the float, making a game of it. So Po Thang, looking totally unconcerned at his sudden dunking, paddled happily towards the yellow collar against a strong current and wind. He's a powerful swimmer and had on his life jacket, so I wasn't worried he'd drown; my worry was a monstrous slimy Red Devil that may have already devoured Nacho was looking for dessert.