Salt River Page 9

No Más had still not returned. Now I was thinking about Deville and the Scarab go-fast boat I’d seen earlier. Twice I hailed my pal on the radio without results, then tried his cell. Next, I made an apologetic call to aviation mechanic Ricky Hilton. My Maule amphib was still waiting on parts, but, tomorrow, he had to deliver a Cessna to St. Pete.

  “The owner will be with me,” he said, “and needs the hours. I don’t think he’d mind flying a grid while I look for Tomlinson’s boat. Any distinctive markings? Even at five hundred feet, you know those damn things all look the same.”

  I had already consulted a chart and extrapolated the probable course and speed. “I’m not really worried,” I said. “He and his daughter probably ran aground or fell into the Heineken trap and anchored for the night. But, yeah, if you don’t mind, they’d be somewhere between Captiva and Boca Grande Pass. Unless . . .” For the first time, it crossed my mind that the duo might have decided to sail to St. Pete, where Delia lived. It didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense, but the girl had said she liked taking off on a whim. “Even if they sail all night,” I amended, “the farthest north they could be is somewhere off Sarasota.”

  “Think you ought to call the Coast Guard?” Ricky asked. Then changed his mind, and said, “No, definitely not.” We both knew what the Coasties might find if they boarded No Más. A drug stash.

  I had already thought it through. A better choice, if law enforcement was needed, was Chris Bannister, a deputy sheriff stationed on Captiva Island. Chris was a good man. Almost everyone on the island had his cell number, including me, and he had quick access to a patrol boat.

  Ricky had another idea. “Hey, how about I call one of the Sundown Patrol guys and see if they noticed anything unusual this afternoon. You said Tomlinson left around seven? He would have been on their route.”

  The Sundowners Flying Club is a local institution. They are civilian pilots who every day around sunset fly a coastal loop in search of vessels in distress.

  “I’d appreciate that,” I said, then described No Más. It was a nondescript vessel save for the Conch Republic flag Tomlinson sometimes flew off the stern. Oh, and the yellow inflatable dinghy he used as a tender.

  “If you have a picture, text it,” Ricky suggested. “I’ll send it along to a couple of Sundowner guys I know.”

  I did, and was going over charts when I heard the first purring alert that Baby Izaak was about to awake. Breast milk was in the fridge. It was time for a diaper change. I lifted the warm density of my son and not for the first time marveled at the infinite possibilities encased in a body so tiny, so fragile.

  I touched my lips to his cheek. The boy balled his fists, yawned mightily, and was soon asleep. I was stretched out beside him and had nearly dozed off myself when, half an hour later, Ricky called back. His Sundowner pal had seen a vessel similar to No Más inside Captiva Pass. It had been anchored in a shoal area where sailboats that size seldom ventured.

  “That’s the only reason he noticed the boat,” Ricky said. “Do you have a chart? You know the area, but I can pinpoint it for you.”

  “What about people aboard?” I asked. “That yellow dinghy would’ve been easy to spot.”

  “I don’t know,” Ricky said. “The boat didn’t appear to be in trouble, so they didn’t circle back. I can call him again, if you want, but, like you said, if it was Tomlinson, they probably had a few beers and anchored for the night. He knows the waters around here better than most.”

  I carried the phone to the desk and marked a spot on the chart. It was twelve miles north of Dinkin’s Bay and only a few miles west of Hannah’s home in the fishing village of Gumbo Limbo. I knew the area well—Captiva Shoals, it is called, a tricky waterscape of cuts and oyster bars. Six old empty fish houses similar to my own stand in the shallows. They are weekend retreats for locals who hold the leases, but since there’s no freshwater or electric, the cabins were usually empty and locked tight.

  At first, the scenario made sense. Hole up for the night. Have dinner and a long, private talk. Then it didn’t make sense because of what I saw on the chart and a mosquito buzzing around my ear. This was deep summer, the hot, muggy reminder that Florida is a hostile host and damn near uninhabitable without the modern niceties we have imposed upon it.

  Why hadn’t they sailed a mile or two farther to Cabbage Key or Useppa Island? This time of year, both were like ghost towns. Plenty of privacy, and, on Useppa, awaited the advantages of a graceful old inn for dinner, with a full bar, screened porches, and AC.

  Well . . . Tomlinson was a minimalist. Maybe Delia was, too.

  This seemed reasonable until I reviewed details about the attacks. The first was two weeks ago in Charlotte, North Carolina. Five days later, a clinic in Peachtree City near Atlanta was the target. Both attacks had occurred shortly after closing time. Two RNs, two clinicians, and a doctor had been hacked to death with an axe. No witnesses, no video cam footage, and the lone survivor had not lived through the night.

  Then, two days ago, it was Boca Raton, north of Miami. The perpetrator had become more sophisticated. He had sent or planted a bomb, and added two more scalps to his belt.

  This target wasn’t a Mensal clinic. It was owned by Preferred Cryobank. Was that significant? I thought about it while also trying to recall the name of Tomlinson’s biological son, the minister in North Carolina. Cryobank could not have been chosen randomly. Unlike an axe, a bomb requires expertise, planning, and time.

  This suggested that maybe two or more people were involved, united by a mutual obsession. And the time line marked their route from North Carolina to Georgia, then into Florida.

  North Carolina.

  What the hell was that kid’s name? Chester something, Tomlinson had said. The Right Reverend Chester . . . The minister of a small church, Delia had said.

  My mind blanked on it. So I went to the computer and tried a backdoor approach by typing in all the little threads. This was diversion enough to free my memory, and the name came to me even before I hit the search button.

  Rev. Chester Pickett smiled back from his church Facebook page—Friendship Baptist, a congregation of fewer than a hundred—All Faiths Welcome.

  The man was angular, gaunt, and distinctive, with his long red beard and hollow eyes. Pickett was a former Marine who’d seen action in Afghanistan. That explained the beard, which hid facial scarring, but also the wheelchair and what might have been a prosthetic hand. The church activities calendar proved that as of two days ago, at least, he had not left his home region near the Pee Dee River.

  Rev. Pickett was not Mack’s Sasquatch—the man who had called himself Deville.

  It was 11:15.

  I got busy. I texted Tomlinson’s cell with the info Ricky had provided and said I was on my way. The message might interrupt whatever was going on and scare off an attacker—if there was an attacker. By the time an electronic alarm announced Hannah’s return, my boat was iced and provisioned with equipment I might need . . . And a few items I hoped I would not.

  Our exchange was awkward. She spoke of how nice the service was. Her “friend” wasn’t mentioned. I described my evening as uneventful with a breeziness that only magnified the tension we felt.

  It got worse when I offered to follow her home by water. It was a reasonable offer, I thought, and also a good excuse. The woman came and went by boat, seldom drove her SUV. I’d be heading that direction anyway the moment she took off.

  Hannah is not the chatty type, but articulate in a comfortable, Southern way. Never had I seen her struggle to find the right words. “Well . . . thing is, Doc, I, uhh . . . I won’t be . . . See, we are going home, Izaak and me—of course we are—but I’m leaving my boat here tonight . . . Now, don’t get the wrong idea . . . I mean, really, you know better than anyone how I am when it comes to that sorta thing . . .”

  This attempt to poke fun at her own cautious sexuality fell flat, and Hann
ah knew it. “I’m sorry,” she said, and began gathering Izaak’s things. “I don’t blame you for thinking what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. I wouldn’t do that to you or our boy. What happened is, my friend offered to drive us because there’s a chance of rain tonight. It seemed like a good idea, so I said yes.”

  On this evening of clear sky and moonlight, I hadn’t thought to check the weather. To check now, in Hannah’s presence, was to risk humiliating us both.

  A step to my left provided a view of the mangroves that hedge the parking area. A fragment of headlights pierced the foliage. A car was waiting for her. The decision had already been made.

  “That’s smart,” I said. “Keeping you two safe is all I care about.”

  She declined my offer to escort her beyond the mangroves, and it was a relief to be in my boat, alone, cruising through darkness, attached to nothing but water and a swath of moonlight.

  At the mouth of Dinkin’s Bay, an easterly flare of lightning was a comfort, not a concern—Hannah had not been lying about the weather. It also illuminated an unexpected hazard ahead—an empty kayak, so low in the water that I wouldn’t have seen it otherwise. I dropped off plane and used the spotlight. Reflective letters told me it was from the marina.

  Odd. Mack, Nick, and Figgy were fastidious when it came to storing and logging the comings and goings of rental boats.

  I got a line around the thing, secured it in the bushes, and got under way again.

  An oversight, I told myself. The other possibility was too troubling to entertain. Someone—Deville, possibly—had stolen the kayak, then abandoned it after flagging down Tomlinson and Delia as they had exited the bay aboard No Más.

  EIGHT

  No Más was where Ricky said it would be, two miles inshore of the Gulf, near a row of stilthouses. Viewed beneath stars after midnight, the structures resembled skeletal birds that had no eyes. Without directions, I might have missed it. The boat was far off the main channel, no lights showing, not even the required white anchor light atop the mast.

  Tomlinson isn’t fussy about his own well-being, but he never would’ve put the life of a passing boater at risk.

  Something else was amiss—the little yellow outboard dinghy was gone.

  I slipped the 9mm Sig into a holster belted to the small of my back. The NVD monocular was in a console drawer. It snapped securely onto a headband that positioned the lens over my left eye. With the moon, I hadn’t needed it despite hillocks of squall clouds over the mainland.

  Flick a switch, nighttime through a green lens became high noon. Overhead, stars multiplied by the tens of thousands. Satellites sparked thin robotic threads, and the flickering distant storm became volcanic, boiling with electricity.

  There was no sign of life aboard No Más.

  On the T-top of my boat is a wireless LED Golight, military-grade. An infrared cover makes the beam invisible to those not equipped with night vision. It could light up a stage, yet actors would believe they were in total darkness.

  I used the Golight to scan. The sailboat’s cabin door had been left open. As I idled closer, I probed the length and breadth of her. Still no hint of human activity. I knew I’d have to step aboard eventually and dreaded what I might find.

  I tied off. Inside the cabin, there was no blood, no bodies, no obvious signs of chaos aside from what is typical on a boat that is used as a floating home. Delia had left her computer bag, with her purse and laptop inside. Tomlinson had left his biker’s wallet and cell phone. Surprisingly, his cell was on. I swiped it open and searched for unchecked messages. There were none, which meant the text I’d sent had been read.

  Why hadn’t my pal responded?

  The forward berth was empty. Sheets had been ripped off the bed. There was also a roll of duct tape—a disturbing find—which went into my small tactical bag. On the chart table were rolling papers, a bong, and an open Ziploc filled with weed. The scent of patchouli was overwhelmed by recent marijuana musk.

  Delia hadn’t struck me as the smoker type. And it wasn’t likely my pal had revealed this personal weakness to a woman already spooked by the genetics of her biological father.

  Where had they gone?

  Topside, a mile away, Useppa Island was a dome of black trees sprinkled with a few lights. In winter, a hundred vacationers might be staying there. In July, there are only a couple of full-time residents, and most of the restaurant staff are ferried back to the mainland after it closes at 10.

  Closer—much closer—were the old fish houses.

  I returned to my boat and deployed the electric trolling motor. With the wireless remote looped around my neck, I started toward them under the cover of rumbling distant thunder. A century ago, before refrigeration, the Punta Gorda Fish Company had built similar houses along the coast. They chose shallow-water spots with a channel. After jetting in pilings, a platform was constructed. On the platform, two small cabins were bolted fast. One cabin was to house fishermen. The other was insulated with double-thick walls to store fish.

  The cabins ahead were battered remnants of what they’d once been, reduced in size, patched with plywood, all windows shuttered. Because they’d been built in a wobbly row, two of the cabins were blocked from view until I rounded an oyster bar that shielded them to the west. One by one, I painted them with infrared. White birds, unaware, roosted in nearby mangroves. No sign of Tomlinson or his dinghy. Before speeding off to check the docks at Useppa, I gave the cabins a last try by switching to thermal vision.

  The sudden change was remarkable. Stars, distant lightning, vanished. Thermal imaging is indifferent to light. It sees only heat. Internal circuitry converts degrees of infrared to colors. The spectrum ranges from heartbeat red, to orange and cold, cold blue. Tin roofs of cabins were a warm copper. Pine siding, an icy gray. The roosting birds appeared as vascular red specks.

  Nothing unexpected until I found the largest cabin. It was about midway down the row, capped with a wooden cistern. One of its shuttered windows was framed with thermal yellow.

  Body heat. Someone was inside.

  A splotch of red appeared in a silver frame that opened, then closed. The person had cracked the shutter to peek out. Bad timing for me. It was possible I’d been seen because of the moon.

  I motored closer. Tomlinson’s dinghy came into view. It was tied in the shadows of mangroves on the north side of the cabin. Its little 15-horse motor glowed with recent heat. There were other warning signs. A padlock and hasp on the cabin’s front door had been sheared away as if by the stroke of an axe. On the overhead lintel, a large human handprint was still visible. It was a ghostly, fading petroglyph shaded amber.

  That person inside, I realized, might be watching me. I tried to imitate a bumbling fisherman as I fired the outboard and roared away, my running lights bright. Halfway to Useppa, I stopped and called my deputy sheriff friend, Chris Bannister. As we spoke, I could look south and see the white glow of Captiva Island, where the man lived.

  “Just say the word,” he said after I’d explained my suspicions. “But Doc? Stay out of this if it turns out you’re right. Call me—I monitor VHF—or by phone.”

  I said, “If you don’t hear from me in thirty minutes, something’s wrong.”

  Using the trolling motor, I returned to the stilthouses—but this time, mangrove trees screened my arrival.

  * * *

  —

  Mosquitoes blossomed from the trees as I approached on foot. Roosting birds—white ibis and a great blue heron—flushed with the roar of lions. Until then, the cabin had resonated with a lone male voice that suddenly went silent. It wasn’t Tomlinson’s voice. Whoever it was had been lecturing in a feverish rage.

  I crouched, hoping the lecture would continue. It didn’t.

  At the side of the cabin, a shutter opened. A fragment of light speared out and searched the foliage a few yards to my right. When the shutter
closed again, I crunched my way across the oysters and ducked under the house. Water was up to my thighs. There was enough headroom to stand.

  Above me, inches away, heavy feet thumped their way to another window. A flashlight startled a cormorant, and nearly found my 26-foot Pathfinder. I’d left the trolling motor running because the remote around my neck allowed me to control the boat from a distance. With the wireless toggle, I canceled the electronic anchor command—Spot-Lock, it’s called. The touch of a button sent the boat gliding out of sight. Another button stopped the vessel and reengaged the GPS anchor system.

  After a long, quiet moment, I was relieved to hear Tomlinson speak. Muted by thick planking, he said what sounded like “Just birds, man. Come on, you’re all strung out.” Then something about “cut this shit out and let’s go back to the boat.” Or possibly “cut this shit off,” which suggested his hands might be taped or tied.

  The man thumping around above me had an oddly high, acidic voice. “I think your boyfriend ran away, Daddy-O. Goddamn it, I shouldn’t have waited.” More heavy footsteps, then I heard the bang of something metallic on the floor. “Too bad. I wanted him to be here for the weenie roast—get it?” The voice laughed and repeated the punch line. “Well, hell . . . the dude probably called the cops already—that’s on your head. Means I’ll have to split before the fun starts.”

  Delia spoke. I couldn’t decipher her words, only the phrases “You can’t do . . .” and “This doesn’t solve . . .” It was the voice of a reasonable woman about to succumb to panic.

  The man, still laughing, said, “Sister, I already have.”

  Drip-drip-drip—liquid began to drizzle down through the floorboards into the water. The drops followed a seam in the planking in step with shoes crossing the room above. Was the guy pissing?

  No. The familiar odor was an electric jolt to the back of my neck. It was diesel fuel. Tomlinson kept a spare can aboard for his underpowered little Yanmar engine.