"Did you ever hear of Blood Island?" I asked.
"Sure. It's down in the Mule Keys."
"Where is that?"
"Just a few miles west of here. They're part of the Key West National Wildlife Refuge."
"Does anybody live there?"
"A couple of park rangers on Mule Key. That's about it."
"I heard that somebody lives on Blood Island."
"Maybe so. That's a private island that's not part of the refuge. I used to fish out that way."
"What can you tell me about it?"
"Back in the Teddy Roosevelt administration the government decided that all the islands between here and the Dry Tortugas would be part of a wildlife refuge. That includes the Marquesas Keys, which lie between the Mule Keys and the Dry Tortugas. But, as often happens, politics got involved. It seems that one of old Teddy's big financial supporters owned Blood Island on the western edge of the Mule Keys, out past Boca Grande Key. It's about twelve miles from here, not far.
"A deal was struck, and the supporter was able to hold on to Blood Island. It's the only island west of here that's not part of the Refuge," Dwyer said.
"That's an odd name for an island."
"Like everything down here, there's a story attached to it. Do you know about the Nuestra Senora de Atocha?"
"Sure. That's the Spanish treasure ship that Mel Fisher found."
"Right. But he wasn't the first to find it. She went down in a hurricane in September of 1622, near the Marquesas. Of the two hundred sixty-five passengers and crew aboard, only five survived, three crewmembers and two black slaves. Another ship, the Santa Margarita, grounded on a sandbar about three miles away, and a large number of her crew and passengers were rescued. The surviving fleet returned to Havana.
"A Spanish captain named Gaspar de Vargas found the Atocha within about three weeks of her sinking. Unfortunately for de Vargas, another hurricane hit in early October, and completely hid the wrecks of the Atocha and the Santa Margarita. He spent months looking for them and finally gave up.
"Four years later, a Spaniard named Melian found the Santa Margarita. He and his crew salvaged a great deal of its treasure and thought they knew where the Atocha lay. They set up camp on one of the Marquesas and worked for four years on the salvage operation. They never found the Atocha.
"Indians lived in the Marquesas in those days, and they sometimes helped the Spaniards and sometimes fought them. A crew in one of the small boats used in the salvage operation was blown east during a major thunderstorm in the summer of 1627. They ended up on the eastern side of what today is called Boca Grande Channel, and the sailors took shelter on a small island.
"A few days later, a search party located the beached boat and went ashore. They found the twelve men dead, their throats cut. They were lying on the beach, and their blood had soaked into the sand. They called the little island Isla de Sangre, Blood Island."
"That's quite a story."
"The Keys are full of grand and bloody stories," he said.
Over dinner, he regaled me with tales of bad men and good who had made the Keys what they are today. We finished our meal, and he thanked me again for helping him out of a bad situation. He stood to leave. I told him I'd stay for one more beer.
"Let me know if I can ever return the favor," he said, as we shook hands. "I'll be here another couple of days. We head north the day after tomorrow." He walked out the door with a group of people headed his way.
I sat quietly for a while, thinking about my day. My fear for Laura was escalating. I had to control that. I couldn't let my love for Laura and my fear for her safety cloud my judgment. This was just another battle in another war. I had to take charge of my emotions. I knew Laura wouldn't do anything foolish. She knew I was looking for Peggy. If she'd decided to take steps on her own, she would have let me know. She would never have left Jeff and Gwen alone and worried. Something bad had happened to her. Maybe Peggy was the key to Laura. I grabbed desperately onto that thought and banished the fear. For now.
I looked at my watch. It was nearing ten o'clock, and I still had to check out the massage parlor. I needed to find out who lived on Blood Island, and I thought I knew how to do that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I walked back toward Old Town, and on a little side street off Simonton, I found the Heaven Can't Wait Spa. It was housed in a Victorian mansion, its white paint gleaming in the reflected glow from the nearby streetlights. This was a more upscale part of town than where Crill lived, and the city had provided illumination more fitting to its wealthy citizens.
I walked up the wide front steps to the veranda that ran the width of the house. A porch swing hung from its chains attached to the ceiling. A discreet sign was fastened to the wall next to the door that announced the establishment's name and hours of operation. HEAVEN CAN'T WAIT SPA. OPEN UNTIL. MIDNIGHT. Beneath the words was a logo of some sort, a Greek cross encircled by flowers.
I looked at my watch. Almost eleven. I could hear traffic a half block away on Simonton, not heavy this time of night, but steady. Cicadas hummed in the shrubs on either side of the porch steps. Otherwise, there was quiet. No noise escaped from the house.
I opened the door and stepped into a large foyer. The hardwood floors gleamed with fresh wax. Expensive Oriental carpets broke up the space. A wide curving stairway rose to the second floor. Off to my right I could see through open double doors to what must have been the parlor when rich people lived here. On my left was a formal dining room with a crystal chandelier hanging low over a long table surrounded by chairs with carved backs.
The foyer extended past the stairway into the back of the house. There was a Queen Anne desk sitting on a large Oriental carpet next to the stairs. A young blonde woman rose from behind the desk as I entered.
She was wearing a white gown of some light material. It covered her from neck to ankles. Her hair fell straight to her shoulders. She wore no makeup that I could see. Eyes of deep blue. Her smile was perfect. A typical white bread girl from the Midwest.
"Can I help you?" she asked in an accent of the Deep South. Alabama maybe, or Georgia. Certainly not the Midwest.
"I was told I could get a massage here," I said.
She wrinkled her pretty nose at me, assessing my shoddy attire and perhaps my less than optimal body odor. "Yes, but it's three hundred dollars for an hour," she said, her smile displaying less wattage than before.
I pulled three one hundred dollar bills from my pocket and lay them on the desk. "Okay."
She smiled again, a little less dubiously, I thought, and pointed toward the parlor. "Have a seat in there," she said, "and someone will be right with you."
"I've never been here before."
"I didn't think so."
"Is this the only place you have like this?"
"No, sir. We have branches all over the Southeast."
"What other cities?"
"Many of them. Please have a seat, sir," she said, pointing again to the parlor.
I sat. I was tired. It had been a long day, and the beers I had drunk over dinner were making me sleepy. My eyelids were drooping, and I startled myself awake. It wouldn't do to crash here.
In a few minutes another young lady came into the parlor. She was wearing the same gown as the receptionist, and looked so much like her they could have been sisters.
"Come with me, sir," she said. "I'm Sister Amy."
SisterAmy? What was this?
I followed her up the stairs, getting another smile from the receptionist as we passed her desk. Sister Amy led me into a large bedroom, with a massage table on one side. A king-size bed with a canopy took up the other side of the room. I saw a large mirror attached to the underside of the canopy, angled to give the occupants of the bed a bird's-eye view of themselves.
A door, recessed into the wall near the massage table, led to a bathroom. Sister Amy pointed toward it.
"You may take a shower, if you like," she said.
"I think I'll pass f
or now."
"Would you like to pray?"
"Pray? No." This was weird. "Why would we pray?"
"This is a Christian house, sir."
"No. No shower and no prayer."
"Suit yourself," she said, and undid some sort of fastener on the gown. It fell to her feet, and she stepped out of it. She was completely nude. She stood quietly, as if waiting for inspection. I complied.
She was beautiful. Her breasts were full, but not large, her stomach flat, tapering down to a thatch of blonde pubic hair. Her body was without scar or blemish, except for a small tattoo at the top of her left breast; a Greek cross in a circle of flowers.
There was something not quite right about the way she looked at me. Her blue eyes seemed dilated, and were fixed on a spot above my head. Her face and voice were devoid of animation. It was almost as if I were talking to a robot.
"Do you really want a massage?" she asked. "We can just fuck if that's what you want."
"I really don't want either," I said.
"You don't like me?"
"It's not that. You're beautiful, but I'm really looking for someone else."
She frowned slightly, as if not sure what to make of this.
"There are other girls," she said. "I'll tell Sister Barbara to send someone else up."
"No. I don't want any services."
"But Sister Barbara said you asked about a massage."
"Sister Barbara?"
"The receptionist."
"I'm looking for a girl named Peggy Timmons. Do you know her?"
"No. Is she in the Circle of Lilies?"
"Circle of Lilies? I don't understand."
"Who are you, sir?"
"I'm just a guy trying to find his daughter."
She bent to pick up her gown and wrapped it around her. I had enjoyed the scenery, and I was a little disappointed that it was now covered up.
"I'll see what I can find out," she said, and walked over to the bed and sat down. She was still, her hands folded in her lap, as if waiting for something.
I stood there for a minute, wondering what to do now. The door from the hall burst open, and a man rushed in. He was about my height and had a shaved head. He was barefoot and wore a pair of chinos and a white T-shirt that clung to his muscles. He was a weight-room freak. Probably worked out several hours a day. I wasn't in the mood for another fight.
I pulled the pistol from my pocket and pointed it at his face. He stopped in his tracks, his momentum almost pushing him forward onto his stomach. He put a foot out to catch himself. He was about six feet from me.
I said, "I don't know who you are, but you'll be dead if you take another step."
I backed up so that I had a view of the girl and the bruiser. She'd apparently activated some kind of emergency call button that had brought a bouncer on the run.
Sister Amy hadn't moved. "Bruce, he's looking for his daughter," she said.
Bruce looked at me. "What's her name?"
I shook my head. I didn't want anybody getting rid of Peggy because I was trying to find her. Bruce looked at Sister Amy.
"He said her name, but I forget," she said in that flat tone she'd been using all evening.
I lowered the pistol so that it was pointing at Bruce's chest. "Forget it pal. Just move out of the way so I can leave."
"That's not going to happen, buddy. You won't shoot me."
I shot him in the foot. He screamed in pain and fell to the floor, grabbing his bloody foot.
"Wrong," I said, and ran for the door.
As I reached the stairs, doors to other rooms were opening. Men and women in various stage of dress peered out. I took the stairs two and three at a time. As I got to the bottom, another weight lifter came out of the parlor. I pointed the gun at him, and he backed up, holding his hands in the air. I hit the front door, bounded down the porch steps, and ran toward Simonton.
I heard footsteps on the sidewalk behind me. At least two people were chasing me. I was running flat out, hoping to reach the major thoroughfare before they caught up with me.
I was fit from running on the beach, but they were in better shape. The footsteps were getting closer. I was breathing hard, used to jogging, not sprinting.
The sound of a pistol shot cracked the air. A bullet gouged a chunk of cement from the sidewalk near my left foot. I dove to my right, into the hedge that lined the sidewalk.
I could see my pursuers through the leaves of the bushes in which I landed. There were two of them, the one from the parlor and another brute. They were still coming, running. I had the.38 in my hand. I raised it and shot the parlor guy. He grabbed his gut and fell to his knees. His buddy dove into the shrubs less than twenty feet from me. Lights came on in the house behind the bushes.
I took off again, rounding the corner onto Simonton, where I saw two bicycles propped against a low wall. A young couple was sitting on the nearby grass, holding hands, talking quietly. I grabbed the closest bike, a girl's model, jumped aboard, and pedaled off. The young man hollered at me, but I didn't look back. I didn't think he'd leave his girl to chase me.
I headed southeast on Simonton, riding the sidewalk, staying in the shadows of the trees lining the road. I was passing city hall when a police cruiser pulled into my path. I came to a stop as the patrolman got out of his vehicle. I waited, straddling the bike. He walked toward me, his hand resting near the gun holstered on his equipment belt.
Oh, shit, I thought. Oh, shit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The cop walked up to me. "Good evening, sir," he said. "Are you visiting with us?"
"I am:'
"Then you're probably not aware of the city ordinance against riding a bike on the sidewalk."
"I'm sorry, Officer," I said, breathing a sigh of relief, "I wasn't."
"That's why we painted a bike lane on the major streets," he said, pointing to the now obvious bike lanes that ran on either side of Simonton. "We don't want you running down our old folks."
"You're right. I'll stay off the sidewalk."
"Have a good evening, sir," he said, and climbed back into his patrol car.
I moved into the bike lane and a couple of blocks later, turned left off Simonton and rode to within a couple of blocks of my rooming house. I left the bike on the side of the road leaning against a pole topped by a bus stop sign. It probably wouldn't be there in the morning. I felt bad for the kid who owned it, but sometimes one has to improvise.
I went to my room, got my shaving kit, and walked down the hall to the bathroom. Nobody was using it. I climbed into the shower stall and turned on the water. A trickle of cold rust colored liquid sputtered out of the showerhead. It'd have to do. I was too tired and dirty to worry about what kind of crap had taken up residence in the old pipes.
I crawled into bed, but couldn't sleep. The mattress was lumpy and the pillow hard as a rock. My mind was churning with images of young blonde nudes and shot-up bad guys. I hoped the one on the street didn't die, but I'd taken the only shot I had. I wondered what the hell Peggy had gotten herself into.
What was the connection between a high-class whorehouse in Key West, a place called Blood Island, and a student at the University of Georgia? What kind of joint called their whores Sister and prayed before copulation? Did Sister Amy's tattoo have any significance? It must have, since it was identical to the logo on the front door sign. Was any of this connected to the deaths of Wayne Lee and Clyde Varn? To the shootings at Coquina Beach and Hutch's? To the vulture pit guy? To Laura's disappearance?
I fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed of dead Spaniards and sunken ships and tattooed blondes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I awoke the next morning, still tired. A dream lingered for a moment in my consciousness and then slipped away, as elusive as a handful of fog.
Sunlight was streaming through the dirty window into my room. I'd left it open during the night to catch what little breeze came by. I could hear birds trilling in the trees of the backyard, and the blasted c
hickens clucking on the grounds. In the distance, a rooster crowed, perhaps calling his hens for a little morning delight.
I stumbled to the bathroom just as a desiccated man was coming out. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, went back to the room and dressed in fresh clothes. It was a little after seven.
I stopped by the desk on my way out and gave the elderly woman thirty dollars for another night. I passed the bus stop where I had left the bike the night before. It wasn't there.
I walked a block to a small cafe that hunkered under a gumbo-limbo tree, its reddish bark the color of a tourist too long in the sun. There was a small grocery store attached to the restaurant, and I went in.
In Key West every kind of store carries nautical charts and gear. I bought a large-scale chart that covered the Lower Keys out to the Dry Tortugas, and a book of aerial photos of the Keys. I also picked up a copy of the local newspaper. I took them with me into the restaurant and ordered breakfast. I scanned the paper for any news of the shooting at the Heaven Can't Wait Spa, but there was nothing. My breakfast came and I ate while studying the chart.
I found Blood Island just where Austin Dwyer said it would be, out on the edge of the Boca Grande Channel. It was small, perhaps a half mile square. It was shaped like a crab, with a lagoon almost enclosed by arms of the island encircling it on either side. The water around the island was very shallow, and the only deep channel was the one that ran from the channel into the lagoon. The controlling depth was twenty feet in the protected area of the lagoon and less than ten feet in the entry channel. A big boat couldn't make it in without running aground.
I opened my book of photos and thumbed to the pictures of the Mule Keys. There was one that took in Woman and Boca Grande Keys and Blood Island. The colors of the water were stunning, showing all the shades of a tropical sea. I compared the photograph with the chart, and could see the turquoise shallows fading to the azure colors in the deep channel.
Blood Island had no beach, except in the lagoon. Several varieties of palm trees and Australian pines blanketed the island and mangrove forests ran right down to the water. They would be almost impenetrable to anyone trying to sneak ashore.
Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island Page 10