Richie grunted an approval.
We cleaned up the 306 and checked the lines on both boats to make sure they were secure. Hurricane season might be over but storms blow up all the time in the Gulf.
Then we headed for the parking lot.
The sun was starting to break through the clouds when we pulled onto Midnight Drive. Another long night. And we looked like it. Lucky nobody was at my house to see us when I pulled in—except...
Sammy who was sitting on the porch like a ceramic cat in a china shop, his eyes fixed on us. “Look at that guy! Should put him on TV—damn cat’s got ESP,” Richie said, his palms turned up like I don’t believe this.
I’m convinced Sammy does, in fact, have ESP, that it’s built into his DNA and informs him of my comings and goings. Either that or my secretary—whom I haven’t hired yet—calls and tells him I’m on my way and better clean up. Anyway, he’s always there—on the porch—waiting, when I get back from wherever I am. I stood there watching Sammy’s routine as he carefully stepped down each of the three steps from the porch, made his way circuitously toward me—stopping momentarily when Richie piled out of the back of the Volvo, slamming the door—and rubbed against my leg. That meant food.
Louise, who has known Sammy now for over a year, jumped in. “Let me,” she said, and climbed the steps. Sammy circled slowly behind her, as she headed for the fridge where I usually have an opened can of Friskies.
“Where do you keep the cans?” Louise called from the kitchen.
“In the cabinet near the fridge,” I yelled back, looking over at Richie who was glaring at me.
“She don’t know where you keep the cat food?” he complained. He could have said, What kind of a girlfriend don’t know where the cat food is? Because Richie does know: on the second shelf from the bottom of the pantry. And Richie, shaking his head in disgust (because, really, he wanted to feed Sammy), headed back to the Volvo to help Huck unload our gear. I grabbed the bottle of gunk we had gathered from Shark River, brought it into the house, and laid it on the kitchen table.
Louise gave me a look.
“You don’t know what kind of crud that is, and you’re going to lay it on the table?” she protested, shaking her head. “Where we eat?”
Louise dug out a spoonful of tuna and placed it in Sammy’s special bowl. “At least I know what this is,” she said, continuing her complaint.
“Good point.” And I carried the mysterious substance to the back porch and placed it on a table there where we could pore over the contents—talk about them really. No one was going to open the jar and take the chance. You know—maybe Kryptonite.
Then everybody joined me in staring at the jar—even Sammy. After a few moments Richie and Huck continued their story.
“Fuckin’ Chinese almost ran us down. So, this cowboy throws the boat into high gear—last minute—and they just miss us,” he said, nodding at Huck who was staring at the ceiling.
“Boat stopped about fifty feet from us, city boy,” Huck said, leveling his gaze at Richie.
“What did the boat look like?” I said, ignoring their crap.
“It was dark. But it was a go-fast boat,” Huck said. “Inboard motors, long and shiny-like. You know, same as the ones I told you about in Chokoloskee,” and he waited for me to react. “The kidnappers…the ones we tracked through the Everglades,” he explained.
I nodded.
In a prior case Huck had spotted several go-fast boats at a dock near the Smallwood Museum on Chokoloskee Bay, south of Everglades City. We traced those boats to smugglers who were running a sex-trade business from a house in Chokoloskee where they shipped their victims out to clients in South and Central America. They used the go-fast boats. And from there, God only knows where the kids went: Europe? The Middle East?
“So where was the boat coming from?” I said.
“From the north,” Huck said. “Maybe making deliveries for the Big Chief. I’m thinking drug runners. I mean who else is out when the wolf howls?”
“Why don’t you talk English,” grumbled Richie. “But he’s right about one thing,” he added, nodding at Huck, “they didn’t shoot at us because we were trespassing. They got something to protect—“
“I bet that’s what got ol’ Jacko shot,” finished Huck.
So we sat in silence around the table on the porch, watching the sun push toward the west over the mangroves. It was a long night and Louise suggested we take a break.
“I got to get some sleep,” she said, and headed for the bedroom.
I didn’t particularly care what Huck and Richie did. They could stay on the porch and keep Sammy and Herman company for all I cared. I was just a few minutes behind Louise in falling on the bed and crashing.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Henry and Jillie
“Hi Jillian, it’s Henry.” The voice firm, yet casual, like they talked together all the time. But it’d only been a week or so since they began seeing each other. But what the heck, she thought, Coop is seeing someone—a cop, and she was sure they were sleeping together. So, she was lonely, missed the feel of a man, the smell. Coop was perfect—if they could manage not to hurt each other. But every time she saw him, she was reminded of Maxie. They looked so much alike, so much so it made her stomach hurt, and then she hurt for Maxie, and saw his face, that beautiful face, every day, in her thoughts, in her dreams, in every young boy she saw on the streets.
She had made a mistake several times, thinking that she saw him, and she would run up behind him—but it was not him. She remembered the embarrassment. The boy’s mother would be startled, looking at Jillie like, What are you doing? But the mother obviously didn’t know what it was like to lose a child—or to lose a husband, for that matter, because of the child—because if she did, she would understand a mother thinking she had found her child, she would understand if it had happened to her, and she would have hugged the mother instead of giving her odd looks—like she was crazy—and maybe I am, she thought.
“Jillian?” The voice.
“I’m here,” she said quickly, wondering how long she had been drifting. She was doing a lot of that lately. And she kind of liked how he called her by her full name, Jillian.
“Great. I hope you enjoyed our time together last night.”
“I did,” Jillie said, and she really did. It was her first time out since she and Coop had broken up, and she had really enjoyed it. Henry. The Inn. The wine. The...
“What’s your weekend like?” he said, breaking into her thoughts. Then, in a hurry as if to cut off any objections, “I’ve got some plans I think you’ll love.”
“Oh?” she replied, open to hearing. Why not? She dismissed thoughts of Cooper that crept in to talk her out of it. No, she thought. No. This is my time.
“Are you free?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, not wanting to ask what he had in mind, willing to go along—anxious to get out—even forgetting to ask what day or what time.
“I thought you might enjoy visiting the Cleveland Museum of Art. It would be a nice drive—weather is supposed to be good—cold, but no snow. And if it does snow, I hear that the new Atrium looks magical.” And he paused, hope riding on his words. Jillie could hear it.
She didn’t pause. “I would love it. And to be honest,” she hated herself for using that phrase, “I need to get out of Muskingum for a while. This place is driving me crazy.”
“Good! I’ll pick you up Friday morning... at nine?”
“It’s a date,” she said and almost kicked herself for saying it. “I mean…”
“I know what you mean. Either way is good with me. Tomorrow then,” and he ended the call.
“Tomorrow?” she said out loud. “My God,” and she checked her calendar and saw that Friday was tomorrow!
Chapter Fifty-Six
Thoughts of Escape
It was time. The Boy, a young man—fifteen years old, eight years now since his parents had died—had made up his mind. It was time. He would lea
ve this home, this place that was not like his home in Muskingum, and leave this Man who took the place of his father—and his mother—who said that they had asked him to take him away. For a long time now he wondered about this Man—whose first name he didn’t know—and what kind of father would leave a boy with the creep who was his valet when he was gone, a man who carried a gun concealed under his coat? This man who was more like a jailer than a friend.
The Man refused to take him anywhere. “There are a lot of bad people out there, boy,” he would say. “And, you have a good life. You never have to leave here, where you are safe. I will get you anything you want. Anything!” And, strangely enough, the Boy believed him, as though maybe he was a real—though substitute—father. Someone who really did care.
But then he remembered what his dad had said, Never get into a car with a stranger. But he had. He disobeyed. Maybe he was being punished. Punished for disobeying. Maybe this was where he should stay—because he had disobeyed. And maybe, worse yet, because he had disobeyed, his parents had died. The thought haunted the Boy as he tried to go to sleep. This night. When he had thought of escaping. He lay awake for hours, even though the sun had gone down long ago, worrying about how he might have killed his father—and his mother. And he stared into the darkness and wondered about what he should do.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The Plan
So, the Boy lay awake, his mind running through the ways he might escape if he decided to. Hitchhike. No, take a bus—that made more sense—then get off at the nearest town and make a phone call. He remembered his home phone number—his mom and dad had gone over it with him endless times—until he got bored with it. But he remembered it now. He wondered if it still worked and, if it did, who would answer it. Maybe a relative, an aunt or uncle who had moved in after his parents were killed in the automobile accident. Sometimes he wondered if that were true—you know, the accident— if the Man was lying to him, the Man who had him taken away by two men, whom the Boy never saw again. He thought about it all until his mind got confused. Then he finally fell asleep, late in the morning, just before the sun rose, just before his tutor was due to give him his lesson. And he would be too tired to do the work, and the tutor would chide him about falling asleep while she was teaching him.
The Asp—that’s what the Boy called him—woke him at 10:00 a.m. and told him his tutor was in the study. The boy called him Asp—not really, only in his mind—because he looked like an asp: sneaky, eely, oily, snaky, just like the bodyguard in Little Orphan Annie. Like a killer. And the Boy looked for the bulge in the Asp’s jacket where the gun was. The black gun and it was there—always there. The Boy wondered what the Asp would do if he ran away. Would he chase him and shoot him? The Asp watched him as he got up, and he stayed with him while he dressed, and he led him to the study where the tutor was, and showed him a breakfast that he had made—that was the good thing about this killer—he was a good cook.
“So how are we today?” said the tutor who also had food in front of her. Each morning they would eat together. This morning they had crisp bacon and eggs, wheat bread, butter and jelly, and orange juice—always orange juice. It’s good for you, the Asp would say, as though he were trying to keep him healthy before he killed him. Then the tutor, who looked about twenty or so, would brush back her hair—she had a lot of it, ash brown and wavy, like a movie star—and open the first book, usually English lit, saving math and science for later when the Boy was fully awake.
The Boy wanted to tell the tutor about his plans because he trusted her, he liked her, this tutor—whose name was Angelika. German, she had told him. It means angelic, she had said. Just like me, and she laughed. He liked her because she smiled when he did well on a project. But he didn’t tell Angelika his plans—it would have to be a surprise. Someday I will not be here when she comes, the Boy thought. And he was a little sad at that thought—because he liked Angelika, and he would miss her. But I will be on my way home, he thought. To my real home.
After a while the Asp interrupted them to say it was time for lunch. The Boy hoped the Asp couldn’t read minds as part of his many skills—and the Boy knew he had many. He looked at Asp, but there was no sign that he knew anything—nothing at all. So, thought the Boy, maybe it will be this week. Maybe this week.
At that moment he saw Asp turn around and look at him as they walked toward the dining room. The Boy wondered if he could read minds after all.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The Visits
Thursday Night, December 8
Louise was already up when I woke.
I heard her call out after she turned off the water in the shower: “What’s up next, doc? You got a plan?”
“I’ve got one,” I said without thinking. My mind is blank in the morning, until I get my first cup of coffee.
“So…?” Louise said, coming out of the bathroom, massaging her hair with a large bath towel—and nothing else on. “Are you going to reveal what you’re talking about. Or is this, I’ve Got a Secret? and she sat on the bed next to me and wrapped the towel around her head like a turban. I moved over to allow room. She snuggled up against me.
“It’s time to make two visits, after we drop off our collection sample with a biologist.”
“Visits?”
“To those two rigs…” I said.
“Again?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe overdoing it a little?” she said, giving her head a massage with the towel.
“Principle number one of Cooper Investigations...” I said.
“Do everything Cooper wants to do,” she finished.
“When you don’t know what to do next, revisit the scene of the crime.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” she said.
“ESP,” I said.
“Just like Sammy,” she said.
“Okay, what am I thinking now?”
“You’re going to call your friend the biologist even though it’s almost midnight—and then we’re going to bed.” She winked. “Did I get it right?”
Graham Bell roams the Everglades like a hunter, only what he’s looking for are poachers, polluters, illegal fishermen, in short, anyone who is threatening his precious Swamp. And he’s a fanatic: never married, doesn’t date—though he’s only thirty-five years old—and he doesn’t sleep much—which is why I can call him this late at night—and he will love to get my sample, put his PhD research degree from Duke to work and tear that sample apart with a fury that would match a man who was out to find a terrorist who’s carrying around a nuclear weapon. Because the Everglades is his family, and any threat to his beautiful River of Grass deserves to be punished—or killed.
“Fuckin’ midnight, Cooper!” was his answer.
“You don’t sleep.”
“Hey, for once I was asleep.”
“Uh-huh. On the couch? Watching TV?”
Silence. “Whaddya need?” Graham wasn’t happy with me. Normal for him.
“I’ve got something you’re going to want to see.”
“Uh-huh. At midnight?”
“Yeah. A sample that I took from Shark River.”
“And why would I want to check out a water sample from Shark River?” he asked with a well-honed edge to his voice. I figured I had to be clearer.
“This isn’t a water sample. It looks like oil or some kind of gunk-like substance, like oil. A non-biologist’s assessment,” I said.
“In Shark River? Probably motor oil.”
“No. Not motor oil. There’s a derrick up there—as you know—about a mile or so out in the Bay. I was just wondering...”
“If it might be leakage from a drilling.”
“Maybe.”
“Unlikely that far from a drill site, but...”
“You’re going to want to see this stuff,” I said.
“Okay.” Reluctance all over his words. But, “What time are we looking at?”
“About a half hour.”
Bell lives in Ocean
side, near the University. He doesn’t teach there. He never applied, even though the chair of the Science Department has bugged him about teaching ever since he moved into the city. Graham is a loner, enjoying his canoe trips into the quiet of the swamp, studying the wildlife, including the gators, crocs, and pythons. I don’t think he ever shaves—his beard growing wild like the wilderness he explores.
My baby keeps me too busy, he says—his baby being the Everglades.
We were at his house at 12:45 a.m. He was at the door as we pulled in.
“Where is this sample?” he said, coming out to the car before I could climb out. “Come on in—got some coffee ready,” and he waived us toward the open door. He seemed cheerier. “You brought your whole posse?” he said, nodding at Huck and Richie. He knew Huck. I told him about Richie.
“Protection, huh?” Bell observed. Richie gave him his usual stare when he doesn’t want to reply. “No offense intended,” Bell said, apologetically.
“Yeah,” Richie said as he hunched through the door, checking out the room.
It was an outdoorsman’s place: tropical deep green plants spread around the walls and on the sills of two windows fronting the road; a well-worn dark green leather couch that should have been replaced a long time ago; a fabric love seat that hadn’t seen much love; and two bamboo floor lamps, one painted a soft aqua and the other left in its native state: a light shade of cinnamon with darker streaks running vertically from top to bottom.
Graham jumped in: “Coffee’s in the kitchen. Cups, milk—no cream, gents, I mean…”—Louise waved him off—“So, honey or sugar, if you must—your choice.” Graham was a real naturalist. Hated sugar. Can kill you.
Richie, Huck, and Louise went for the coffee. I followed Graham into his den that’s in the back of his house—I should say his lab. A stainless-steel table sat in the center of the room. Cupboards with glass doors lined the walls and were filled with beakers, jars, scales, petri dishes, Bunsen burners, tubes curling in and around each other, and boxes and bottles of what I figured were chemicals. It smelled like a lab—sulfur and alcohol burning my sinuses.
A Cold Copper Moon (The Cooper Series Book 3) Page 17