A Cold Copper Moon (The Cooper Series Book 3)

by Richard Conrath

  “Below,” corrected Huck, focusing on the sea tossing waves over the deck. He was fighting to keep her steady.

  “How much longer?”

  “Maybe a half hour,” said Huck. “Why don’t you go below. I got this bronco under control.” He swung a light over the sea ahead, the beam hitting the blackness like the high beams of a car on a deserted highway. Nothing anywhere except waves beating at them and a black sky.

  “Might be a storm comin’, amigo,” said Huck, looking up at the blackness.

  Richie looked worried.

  They were within sight of the rig, maybe within twenty minutes, the lights from the Zhi Zhu Nu dim in the distance—no competition from stars. They were hiding.

  “I’m gonna rein it in,” said Huck, and he cut the motors to a low idle, letting the boat drift with the motion of the water.

  After about a half hour of staring at the rig, Richie moved out from the helm and leaned over the gunnels. He pulled a pair of binoculars up to his eyes—the ones that Jack had stored in the cabin.

  “Not a fucking thing moving. Whaddya wanna do?” Richie complained, still staring through the binoculars.

  “You hear that?” said Huck, silencing the Yamahas and ignoring Richie’s question.

  They both leaned into the sound. A slight murmur at first, a susurration, then a more distinct whine, and they stared off in the direction of the noise, riveted by it, turning into it, trying to make out what it was. The sound was like a swarm of bumble bees, then a steady, pulsing vibration that ran through the Canyon, a thirty-foot boat that doesn’t disturb easily, and the vibration turned into a beat, then into a rumble, and then a roar, and with the roar, a fast boat, running straight at them…

  “Jeez,” said Richie. “What the hell is that?” as he stared at the lights rushing toward them.

  As Huck revved the motors, the Yamahas tossed water a good ten feet high over the stern, the approaching boat now almost on top of them.

  “Damn,” yelled Huck as he swung to the starboard side to avoid a collision. “Hang on, buckaroo,” and they bounced over the waves like cowboys on a wild horse.

  Someone from the fast boat fired at them as Huck veered away and headed for open water. If there were more shots, they were lost in the wind and in the scream of the motors.

  “What the hell?” said Richie, reaching for his gun beneath the wheel.

  Chapter Fifty

  The Boy and the Man

  The Man was back and the Boy, who was now fifteen, was growing to dislike him more and more. First, he was, in reality, a prisoner in the Man’s house. For almost eight years now. And home-schooled. He knew that he should be in a regular school—so he could meet other kids—maybe some girls. He had seen what that would be like on television—when he was able to watch it—mostly when the Man wasn’t home. And sometimes he had tried to leave the house, but he didn’t know where to go and when he did get away, either the Man or his bodyguard found him—on the road, or at a gas station—because really, if you think about it, he didn’t have any money, or any plastic to charge things—he had thought about that—and he didn’t have any parents—they were both dead. He didn’t know about uncles or aunts, or cousins, or grandparents. He wondered about the grandparents and had asked the Man about them, but the Man wouldn’t talk about any of those things.

  And he frequently asked the Man what he did—for a living—and the Man said he had a consulting business, and not to worry, he made plenty of money to support them both, and the housekeeper, and the goon, who looked like the Asp in Little Orphan Annie. And the boy thought the Man kind of looked like Daddy Warbucks in Little Orphan Annie.

  “Don’t you ever…try…to leave again!” the Man had said, after one of his escapades on the road. “Your parents have entrusted you to me and I take my job seriously!” The Boy thought he might hit him, or turn him into the police—as a runaway—he had said that once. So he didn’t try again, nor did he even think of it again after that—until just a few weeks ago when the Man said he was going away on a trip—for two weeks. Then the Boy thought about running.

  Again.

  This time for good.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Huck And Richie

  “Hang on,” yelled Huck and pushed the throttle forward, aiming the Canyon at the fast boat only a hundred yards away.

  Richie ducked as shells peppered the water, missing them and the boat, then he leaned over the gunnels and fired as Huck veered only yards away from the shooters, throwing a wake that almost swamped them.

  “Take the wheel,” said Huck. He moved quickly below, grabbed his alligator gun, took the ladder back to the deck in one leap, and fired at the fast boat as Richie pulled away. “I’m gonna sink that boy before he gets his senses back and tries to follow,” and he fired four more rounds as the boat roared away.

  “Let’s get us the hell out of here before they come back,” yelled Richie, handing the wheel back to Huck.

  Huck opened the throttle and the Canyon tore through the Straits, the prow rising and falling as it beat through waves, slamming hard as it fell from a swell, rising to meet the next wave. The pounding went on like that for what must have seemed an eternity to Richie who hung onto his seat like it was the coming of the Savior.

  Finally, Huck eased up on the throttle and looked behind them. Nothing but sea and a path of light thrown across the water by the moon.

  “I’m guessing that was the same boat that fired on us before,” said Huck, checking out Richie who was stretched out on the seat behind him like a landed fish.

  “That was a go-fast boat,” continued Huck, his eyes on the expanse of black sea in front of him. “Can reach 100 miles per hour, easy. They’re mostly used for running drugs in and out of the Everglades.” Then, “My daddy used to see them down by Chokoloskee—I seen a couple myself few months ago—”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell anyone?” said Richie, sitting up.

  “Hear how quiet it is in the Big Swamp at night, city boy?” Huck said, looking sideways at Richie for a reaction.

  “You tell me,” said Richie, working to keep his temper.

  “That’s the quiet you get when you have information. You talk. You get your tongue cut out—or someone takes you out into the swamp and feeds you to the alligators. Then I catch the gator and find you in its stomach.”

  Richie rested his chin against his fist. Thinking it over, maybe.

  Huck continued, “Take Everglades City. It’s a quiet city.” He paused. “You talk, you’re off the Res.”

  They rode in silence for a while—just like in the Big Swamp. The only sound, the steady push of the Yamahas against the water.

  “So, you think those guys are running drugs?” mused Richie, staring into the darkness.

  “Yeah. Maybe. And maybe the rig is the home of their Big Chief.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The Mysterious Substance

  Late Afternoon, Wednesday, December 7

  We were at the spot where we found Jack’s boat, the branches still broken where the boat had beaten back the mangroves. The yellow tape was still there, stretched awkwardly between whatever it could catch. Who they were trying to keep out? Gators? Pythons? Panthers? There were few bugs to bother us this time of year. In the summer they will eat you alive.

  “Over there,” said Louise, pointing to a stain on the water off to starboard, about twenty feet from Jack’s boat. It winked at us as the late rays of the sun caught it. We pushed over to it carefully. I dipped my finger into the water. An oily-like substance, just like Huck had said. I stared at it for a few moments then looked at Louise who was staring at the residue also.

  “Engine oil?”

  I put my finger to her nose.

  “Ugh! What the hell is that?” she said, backing away and pushing my finger to the side.

  I had brought along an evidence jar I had kept from the time I worked homicide. I scooped the surface of the gooey stuff into the container, trying to get a
s big a sample as I could, sealed it, and wiped the outside of the jar on my jeans.

  “Eeeuuu! Why would you do that?”

  I shrugged. “It works.”

  “Right. And I get to smell you all the way back. You’re going to shower on the boat, sunshine.”

  A tremor shook the water as she was talking. “You listening to me?” she said.

  “You feel that?” I said.

  She looked puzzled. “No. What?”

  “That,” I said. “The noise.” And I put my head down to the water. A thud, dull, barely discernible, but I was hearing it regularly now. “Listen,” I said, my head almost touching the water, soft and calm in the late afternoon.

  She strained, then leaned down next to me so that we both had our ears close to the water. I splashed a little of the gunk on her arm.

  “Yuck!” she cried. “Don’t get that fricking crap on me!”

  “Listen,” I said, wondering if I was imagining it. She listened.

  A hum and thump. Hum and thump. Regular, soft, dull, as though coming from far away. But consistent and regular. Hum, thump. Hum, thump. Hum, thump.

  “That’s the damnedest thing,” I said, more to myself than to Louise. I could feel the heat from her body as she leaned further out over the water to listen. I brushed against her breast as I did the same.

  “Save that for later,” she said.

  “All work and no play…” I said.

  “Makes for a good boy,” she finished, and placed her hand against the surface of the river, avoiding the goo that slid along its top. “I can feel it,” and she motioned for me to do the same.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Definitely. Something’s disturbing the water.” As if a gator—or a bunch of them—were beating their tails, way upriver, I thought.

  “If you look carefully, you can see a few ripples,” I said, pointing to a slight movement in the water. Almost like the tide moving in. And it stirred the gunk, and the gunk moved with the sound.

  Hum, thump. Hum, thump. Hum, thump.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Another Rig… This Time…

  “I wonder what’s going on down there,” Louise muttered, looking into the blackness below. “We’ve either discovered the Loch Ness monster or the Creature from the Black Lagoon,” and she looked downstream as though one of them might be sloshing toward us.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said, and cranked up the motor.

  We slid out of the narrow waterway and back into Shark River. We loaded the dinghy back onto the Canyon and headed for Ponce de Leon Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. Louise was driving and she was racing with the oncoming darkness and with a storm that was brewing out at sea. The sun was hovering over the horizon and sinking rapidly as we drove through the bay and into the waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

  “I never noticed that before,” I said, pointing to what looked like the tip of the Eiffel Tower far out in the Gulf—maybe two or three miles away. “An oil rig?” I wondered if it was the one Jack had taken shots of.

  “I don’t think the Feds allow drilling in this close.”

  “It’s clear of the boundary line of Everglades National Park. If that’s a rig...”

  “There’s a company that purchased the rights to drill offshore decades ago. But I think the Florida Legislature shut them down,” she said.

  “Yeah, but I think the President opened that door again.” I began to wonder just how open that door was. The thumping, the substance we had just sampled, Jack’s killing not too far from here.

  “We should check it out. Another time,” she added quickly and steered the boat for home.

  Lightning broke over the Gulf then the distant sound of thunder seconds later. The gods were at work already. I took the wheel. Louise doesn’t like to drive in the rain.

  We hurried through rough water as the wind out front of the storm stirred up waves. I fought off the spray and pushed the Yamahas as hard as I dared. No rain as yet but the sky grew as dark as midnight.

  “Think we’ll beat it home?” asked Louise. I was busy skirting the crab traps and coral reefs off port.

  “Probably not.” I could see the outline of Cape Sable. A few lights gave away its location. That’s a little less than two hours from the Pilot House—in good conditions.

  She leaned against me, finding shelter against the spray and the beginnings of rain. It took us over an hour to slog our way through choppy water. I stayed well off-shore trying to avoid the myriad of crab traps that lie in wait in the waters off Cape Sable. They would eat the Canyon’s motors. By early evening, we had cleared the Cape and crossed the imaginary line that separates the Gulf of Mexico from Florida Bay. Once we were free of the traps, I pushed the throttle forward, skirted Club Key and Triplet Keys, and then headed across the bay toward Islamorada and Snake Key. The storm still had not hit us. It was beginning to look like it would pass over. Louise took the wheel. I went below to get us some coffee.

  The storm never developed and the moon was visible once again. It hung low in the sky as we passed Snake Key Marina, a few lonely lights backlighting piers where boats were tied down. Nobody else on the water. Only crazy people are out late on the water.

  “We’re almost there,” said Louise, leaning against the wheel, sounding tired.

  “I’ll take over.” I put my arm around her, pulling her in close. “You’re cold!”

  She was shivering as though she were fighting off the cold. Her sweater and jeans were wet from the spray.

  “You need to go below and get out of these clothes. They’re soaked!”

  “Should have brought a windbreaker.” She held onto me tightly as we bounced over some suddenly harsh water.

  “There’s one below—in the closet near the bunks. And change into something dry while you’re down there.”

  She ducked through the hatch and appeared minutes later with a jacket pulled up over her ears. “The Hurricanes,” she said, turning so I could see the green and orange ’U’ of the University of Miami on the back.

  “You a fan girl?” I said.

  “Nope, but it keeps me warm.”

  “I hope you changed.”

  “Nope, again. Still the same sweet girl.” She smiled—wickedly—and bumped against me.

  “Uh-oh,” I said.

  “You better believe it, dick,” she said.

  “Private Investigator,” I corrected, and bumped her back.

  She stayed with me looking out over the shore as we passed Plantation Key where lights from several hotels were visible, and then Tavernier. Key Largo was only a few kilometers away.

  “I wonder if Richie and Huck are back?” she said.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Back Home

  Early Thursday Morning, December 8

  We pulled into the dock at the Pilot House Marina a little after midnight. I called Richie—not expecting him to have service in the Straits.

  He answered immediately. “Where are you guys?”

  I told him.

  “You missed it, bud,” he said, sounding angry, out of breath. “Damn guys shot at us. Same boat!” He was breathing hard.

  “Where are you?”

  Silence. I figured he was talking to Huck. Then, “The cowboy says an hour away. Where are you?

  “Waiting on the dock. You’ll tell us the whole story when you get here.”

  “Yeah,” he said, and signed off.

  “What?” said Louise as I ended the call.

  “Apparently, Richie and Huck ran into trouble. And he’s mad.”

  Louise nodded. “Of course. They okay?”

  “I guess,” I said. “We’ll see.”

  We cleaned up the Canyon while we waited. I washed down the hull, deck, and console, Louise worked on the cabin. When I finished clearing salt off the boat, I went below to give Louise a hand. She was stooped over the fridge and pulling out some drinks. She had read my mind. She handed me an opened bottle of Chardonnay and pulled out a couple of Sam Adams for h
erself.

  We took the drinks topside and settled in the forward lounge. Soft leather seats there, wide enough for three or four people. That’s the Grady White 376 for you. So we talked about what we had found and what it might mean, and drank. Louise went below for more beer. Pretty soon the motion of the boat and the drinks rocked us to sleep.

  Someone shook me. “Hey, love birds! You guys drink all the beer?”

  I rubbed my eyes and tried to focus on who it was. “Richie?” I said.

  He was standing over us. My wine glass was empty. That’s because it had spilled and my jeans had soaked it up. Empty bottles were lying on the deck.

  “What time is it?” I said, looking around like there was a clock nearby.

  “Time to rise,” said Huck. “Breakfast is a-calling, ladies and gents.”

  I slid off the lounge and steadied myself, trying to shake off the drowsiness that came from too little sleep and too much wine.

  “So, what happened?” I said, as I struggled to step off the boat.

  “Same damn go-fast boat,” said Huck, running a hand through his wet hair. “I’d love to feed them boys to some gators.” And I didn’t think for a minute he wouldn’t, given the chance. He’s done it before. That’s justice in the Everglades.

  “And no doubt, same bozos who shot at us yesterday,” said Richie, shaking his head, disgusted. “What the hell. We get close to that damn rig and somebody shoots at us.”

  “Let’s head to my place where we can get a drink,” I said. “It’ll be easier to talk there.”