A Cold Copper Moon (The Cooper Series Book 3)

by Richard Conrath

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Eight Years Later

  It was eight years—the Boy had counted them—since the men had brought him to his new home. The Man lived in the big house alone—except for a man-servant who seemed to double as a driver and a butler. He always wore black: black jacket and black pants, like a tuxedo. The manservant was always formal. Distant. And he had an accent, like the bad guys on X-Files.

  One day the Boy spotted a gun in the man’s jacket tucked under his arm. In a black holster. The Boy had watched detective shows with his dad on TCM. The cops and the bad-guys always wore guns like that. But he didn’t know which one the manservant was—cop or bad guy. And the manservant always called him boy—never by his right name.

  And it was this man—the manservant with the gun—who drove him everywhere, not that the Man who lived in the big house didn’t want to drive him. He was “Just too busy,” he always said. “My driver will take you wherever you want to go,” he would explain.

  Instead of going to a regular school, the Boy would go to a private home and get tutored, and the driver—the man with the gun—would always be with him—like a guard—so that the Boy wasn’t sure if the man was really protecting him or if he was guarding him—to keep him from running away—or to watch him when he talked to people. And he rarely did that.

  He never seemed to be alone—like normal kids—like back home. He was always with the man with the gun—except when he was in his room and playing with the games the Man had bought him when he got him the new computer.

  The Man warned him not to go on the internet. He wouldn’t give the Boy the password to get on the wireless—though the Boy tried to steal it. “Too dangerous for you,” the Man said. “There are a lot of bad people on the internet. I promised your mom and dad that I would protect you from them.”

  And the Boy wondered why, if the Man was a friend…why had he never told him his name? He only knew him as Sir.

  He liked the house, the island where the house was situated, the moss that hung on the oaks, how it felt so soft, even the odor that hung in the air, especially in the summer months, that smelled like rotten eggs or cabbage that had spoiled. He hated it at first. Then, he learned that the odor came from the paper mills nearby and that it resulted from the chemicals used to make pulp out of wood chips from which paper was made. He learned this from his tutor, a young woman from the local college. She was pretty. And the Boy liked her—a lot. After all he was fifteen years old now—just turned this past summer. And he still had the memories of summers in another home—far from where he was—and his mother and father—but he had trouble remembering what they looked like—no pictures—and the Man said he didn’t have any pictures but he would try to find some somewhere—but he never did. Yet the Man did show him a letter from someone who said that his mother and father had died.

  The Boy being older now had questioned the Man more and more about his parents: details about the accident, and things like when they had asked the Man to take him. And he wondered about his old home, his old town, his old school, his old yard where he played ball—he remembered them more vividly now—and he thought to himself, Maybe I’ll go back there sometime—maybe sometime soon.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  No! No! No!

  Early Tuesday Morning, December 6

  We were all up early, Richie frying eggs and bacon, Louise, Huck, and I around the kitchen table, watching him flip the grease from the bacon over the eggs.

  “Make mine over hard, amigo,” said Huck.

  Richie turned and shook his head.

  My cell played out its tune again. Chimes. I thought about assigning rings to various people. An irritating one to Wong. Wong because that’s who this call was from.

  “Cooper?”

  “Yeah?” Small talk.

  “The answer is, no. No from me. No, from the Coast Guard. No, from everybody else. It was crazy for me to even consider it. I don’t know why I did.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “All right. So, no help.”

  “Not with any invasion force. And that means you don’t go out there with your little band of commandos and attack a rig in foreign waters like you did that Russian boat. Is that clear?” That was a statement put like a question.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  Silence. “Don’t do it, Cooper. We’ve been through this before. You get into hot water this time, no one comes to rescue you.” Silence. I could hear the anger.

  “I got it,” I insisted. “I got it.” And I saw Richie, Huck and Louise looking at me puzzled, like What’s up? I shook my head. The call was over.

  “What was that all about?” said Louise.

  “No deal on the free trip to the rig with the Coast Guard—or Homeland Security.”

  I stared at the table for a moment. The bacon smelled like it was burning.

  “Shit,” said Richie and hurried the bacon out of the pan onto a paper towel to soak up the grease. The eggs were already on four dishes. Then he turned to me. “So…?”

  “So, we’re on our own,” I said.

  “Meaning…?” said Louise.

  “Meaning we’re on our own,” I said. “Detecting on the high seas. Hell, we can go where the Coast Guard can’t. Wong knows that, so does the Coast Guard.”

  Nobody said anything. We had done this before. And I knew it was not only crazy but dangerous. But these days, I didn’t give a damn. I hadn’t found Maxie. And life was meaning a lot less to me the longer he was missing. So, the hell with it!

  .

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Cooper’s Plan

  “So, okay…” Louise started and there was doubt in her eyes as she studied me. I knew what she was thinking. Like she could read my mind. “Let’s talk about this…plan…” she said, pausing and reaching for my hand. She could have said crazy plan. But she didn’t. She continued, her mouth taking on a firmness she rarely shows, “Right now, you’re upset. You’re not going to make up for not finding Maxie by boarding an oil rig and getting us all killed.”

  “I’ve been dreaming about him,” I said, quietly. I looked over and Richie had stopped cooking and was staring at me. So was Huck. Shit. Richie cleared his throat, embarrassed.

  “We done everything we could. Hey, whaddya expect. We got nothin’ to go on,” said Richie. Trying to share the blame. “What?” he continued as I shook my head. “We had a lead on a gangbanger in Miami. That went nowheres. Some retard in Muskingum thinks he mighta seen the car. What the fuck you supposed to do with that?” Then he turned back to the bacon forked it harshly onto our plates to keep the eggs company and sat down.

  “Every night. It’s like I’m reliving his whole kidnapping,” I continued. “I mean it’s like I’m watching what’s actually happening to him,” and I could feel the whole nightmare and picture it all over again.

  “I know,” said Louise. And I stared at her.

  “You talk in your sleep,” she said. “And you’ve told me a little of this before.”

  “I talk in my sleep?” I had forgotten about telling her before.

  Huck had a slice of bacon half in his mouth and stopped to listen, looking embarrassed.

  Richie got up and pulled him away from the table. “Come on, bud.” Mother Richie.

  When Richie and Huck settled in the living room, Louise pulled my hands toward her. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”

  So, I did—again, I guess: about the man pushing Maxie into the black sedan; about the two men in the front seat—and Maxie searching the road behind, looking for me. “It makes me sick to my stomach that I wasn’t there—to help!” I told her. “I mean, what the hell is going on? It’s crazy Stephen King stuff.” I paused to catch myself. “Is this some kind of freaking revelation? I mean…”

  Her grip was firm on my hands, like she was trying to hold me together.

  And I wondered if I was having a kind of metaphysical experience, like one of Jung’s so-called “mythic dreams�
� where the dreamer has a cosmic experience, tapping into what the psychologist would call the “collective unconscious.” In this case into Maxie’s thoughts, his lived experiences: you know, the kidnapping, the men, the house. Or was I just reliving my worst fears? Following Maxie in my imagination in a belated effort to save him? And I watched Louise—for her reactions. She looked sad as she ran her fingers across my face.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “You’ve been carrying this around with you for a long time.”

  I nodded.

  “You have to let it go and focus on the present. This plan to visit the Chinese oil rig is crazy,” and she pulled her hands away.

  “I know. But it’s the only way.”

  “I’m in this with you, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I say we don’t do this thing.”

  “I’m in it more than you are. Got more years in,” and I pointed to some gray I had found in my hair.

  “I see one,” and she pulled it out.

  “Wow! That hurt, babe!”

  “It’s a love pull,” she said.

  Chapter Forty

  The Alternate Plan

  We were all back around my office desk—that would be my kitchen table, which serves as my dining room table, which serves as my office table, Richie and Huck looking at me.

  “Change of plans,” I said, and looked over at Louise who had folded her arms over her breasts, watching me.

  “Uh-huh,” said Richie. “And that would be?”

  “We’re going to drive out to the derrick at night and see what happens. Watch from a distance.”

  “We’re going to do surveillance?” said Richie. I couldn’t believe he got the word right.

  “And if nothing transpires?” said Huck. My pals were showing their literacy. Huck actually has an excellent command of the English language. He pretends not to. An English major at the University of Miami. Got a master’s degree and worked part time as a teacher on the Miccosukee Reservation. Still does.

  “Then we think,” I said.

  “Like a fucking philosopher,” Richie said.

  “There are women present,” I said.

  “Who don’t care,” said Louise.

  My cell went off again—a cricket sound. I had assigned an annoying ring tone for Wong.

  “Cleveland,” I said, sliding the bar to answer.

  “That’s right. You see the paper this morning?”

  “No.”

  “Get a copy. Damn client of yours is all over Homeland Security. Didn’t say anything about the Coast Guard.”

  “Lucky them,” I said. “Cynthia is a reporter. I warned you.”

  “All right. You tell her we’ll pay a visit. But you and your friends stay the hell away. You hear?”

  “I can feel your anger,” I said. Wong ended the call.

  “What?” said Louise.

  “Homeland Security is going to help. Without us. So…”

  “So…?” said Richie.

  “We’re going to do some investigating,” I said.

  “Surveillance,” Richie said.

  “Uh-huh. We’ll bring plenty of coffee.”

  “And donuts,” said Richie.

  “And some Captain Morgan,” said Huck.

  “All right. I can do this, Cooper. But surveillance is as far as it goes,” Louise said.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “What do we do if they shoot at us?”

  “Shoot back,” she said. “Part of surveillance.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Girls with Guns,” and she smacked me on the arm.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The Night Watchmen

  We packed like we were going on a five-day camping trip, only on a boat instead of in a tent: cans of food, bacon, eggs, bread, and lunch meat for the sandwiches, along with pickles, mustard, mayo, beer, and wine. I threw in a bottle of. Captain Morgan for Huck and me.

  We checked our guns and ammo. And I packed my night vision glasses: Armasight PVS Gen 2s. A military grade night vision goggle that can operate under zero light conditions. It would be useful in the event the moon went into hiding. I figured we would need to hang out about a half-mile from the rig, give or take, depending on the mood of the moon.

  We had loaded the Volvo and were on the road to the Keys by nightfall, the moon hiding behind clouds. A good sign. By 9:00 p.m. we were pulling into the marina and heading for the boat. Huck was first on board and reached down for Louise. She was wearing khakis, her Glock strapped to her shoulder. Richie and I handed up the supplies, the guns and the ammo. Enough for a small invasion. The wind was picking up. I looked at Huck, our Native American weatherman.

  “Feels like storm. Not big,” said Huck, “but a storm for sure,” and he put his finger in the air. “Coming from the east.” I wondered if he was kidding with the finger. Can’t tell. He’s so straight. I don’t remember him ever laughing.

  I drove the boat over to the pump and filled up the tanks. Two hundred and three gallons—at 4.59 a gallon. You figure it out. I didn’t want to read the numbers. My expenses were climbing.

  We were in the channel leading to the Straits by 9:30 and in the open water and out of the No Wake zone by 9:45. The wind was pushing us toward the Pourtales Terrace, a platform of seabed that’s about 180 meters below the surface. From there we would drive over the Pourtales Escarpment where the seabed descends slowly to a depth of 450 meters. Plenty of water to drown in. Richie knows all about it. He will be asking me about depths as we proceed, nervously watching the weather. He should have learned to swim. Water. His one fear, as I’ve said before.

  Darkness took over the moon as the wind drove a cold spray over the gunnels. I was hoping to be in place—and no moon was ideal—before any kind of storm hit. We cleared the Escarpment around 10:30 p.m. and were heading west-southwest at about 30 knots and were about 30 kilometers from the Zhi Zhu Nu when I cut back the motors. Tip-toe in.

  The silence didn’t last long. A noise—a low whine—coming from the northeast, from the Keys, and it came over the wind that had gathered force, and over the sound of the waves hitting the hull, and it was growing in intensity as it neared. I strained to see the source. But it was dark, the December Moon still in its hidey-hole behind the clouds. And the noise slowly became a roar, Richie now next to me—I could feel his shotgun nudge against my leg—and then Louise, leaning over the starboard gunnel, and Huck with her, staring into the same dark hole I was staring into. Then a faint light appeared, and I remembered that we were running dark, so I flipped on the lights just as a fast boat broke into view. And the moon slipped through the veil of clouds, throwing a path of silver across the water, and the fast boat skidded to our starboard side, missing us by maybe fifty feet. The men in the boat screamed at us as the fast boat slowed and crossed our bow. But their voices were lost in the noise. And then the boat turned, the prow high in the air as the driver opened up the inboards, and roared into the darkness.

  “What the hell!” said Richie as he dropped the Mossberg to his side. He had raised it as the boat flew past us, blowing water over the deck—and us.

  Our boat had swung around so the four of us were looking out over the Yamahas that were still purring in the water. The sound of the go-fast boat finally died in the distance. It was headed toward the oil rig.

  “What was that about?” said Louise, staring into the darkness where the fast boat had disappeared.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “A drug run? Only thing is their lights were on. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Want me to take the reins?” said Huck. The boat bounced as the wake from the fast boat washed against the Canyon.

  The motors were still at idle as Huck swung the Canyon around, heading south-southwest once again. Then I sighted it, about fifteen minutes after the incident with the go-fast boat. I focused in with the Armasight. The powerful glasses brought the image of the rig into plain view, even with the moon in hiding. It sprawled over the water like a monstrous spider, towers risi
ng from its back, belching light as a drill in the belly of the beast worked through the darkness punching a hole into the floor of the Straits and looking for a cache of oil where twenty billion gallons are supposed to lie. A river of oil, rolling somewhere down below. In Cuban waters. All being done with the help of China and Venezuela, no more than sixty miles from the U.S. mainland.

  I handed the glasses to Louise. “The water under the rig is over a mile deep. And—believe it or not—from what I’ve read, the Zhi Zhu Nu can drill as deep as 49,000 feet—that’s a little over nine miles.”

  “My God. How far down is the oil?” she said, her glasses still locked onto the giant rig.

  “Three or four miles below the surface of the water—my guess.” I paused. “I figure that’s what they’re doing now—trying to find out.”

  Huck cut the engines, and we rested in the now calm waters, waiting for something to happen. It was close to midnight, the sky completely black from storm clouds. No rain…yet. And we waited. At three o’clock I decided we should do something. The lights on the rig had been extinguished, only a few blinking on the top of the tower. I decided to take a closer look and motioned for Huck to bring us in. He brought the motors up to idle speed again and, between the drift of the water and the soft movement of the Yamahas, we soon closed in on one of the massive legs of the Zhi Zhu Nu. And there was the go-fast boat that nearly hit us, tied to a caged orange ladder that scaled the leg of the rig like a giant centipede writhing its way to the top,

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Did You Ever Try Boarding an Oil Rig?

  Late Tuesday Night, December 6

  You know when you are doing something dumb, but you do it anyway. Why we persist when warning signs are there, I don’t know. Well, that’s what we did. Despite the fact that the go-fast boat was docked at the rig—the very boat that fired on us—the boat that probably reported the incident to those on board the rig—to the very people who might even now be waiting for us. Despite that, I told Richie and Huck and Louise that I was going to board the rig. And they all looked at me like this was not smart—more like crazy-dumb. But I eyed the ladder anyway.