The Sail

by Landon Beach

  The illegitimate side of the family business also allowed drugs to be smuggled aboard a small percentage of their vessels. In the early days, it was Livingston’s father’s trucks that did the main distribution. The product would travel the classic route from Colombia to Tijuana to Los Angeles and straight up the west coast to Vancouver. Here, his father’s trucking business would swing into motion and take it wherever in Canada that the cartel wanted. However, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in conjunction with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration started cracking down, and Vancouver soon lost all of its attraction as a distribution center. His father cut a deal with the cartel to remove the product from his company vehicles on the Canadian side of the border, and Livingston Trucking continued to operate as if nothing had ever happened.

  The operation shifted to the Midwestern corridor: Colombia to Laredo to Houston to Dallas to Chicago to Minneapolis. From there, the product would be driven to Duluth and loaded onto Livingston’s merchant vessels, which would travel across Lake Superior, drop off some of the product at Livingston’s main house on the eastern shore of Lake Superior, which was still in Canada, where it was then distributed all over Ontario. The rest of the shipment traveled through the Great Lakes Waterway: Superior to Huron to Erie to Ontario and finally to the Atlantic Ocean via the St. Lawrence Seaway. In the beginning, it was easy. The DEA and Feds were always looking for ships coming up the east coast of the United States from the south. Livingston’s ships always dropped off shipments to Boston and New York from the north and went unnoticed. Then, the agencies started figuring out that fighting the war on drugs was akin to plugging one hole in a sinking ship, thinking they had saved the ship, only to find out there were other holes where water was rushing in.

  However, more and more holes were now starting to be plugged. For the past five years, Livingston had had to alter the route again to avoid suspicion. Small cabin cruisers rendezvoused with the merchants just north of Oswego, New York—Buffalo and Rochester were too closely watched. After picking up their shipments, the cabin cruisers would pull up to the dock, get loaded onto boat trailers, and then get driven to a warehouse where the product would be loaded onto harmless moving trucks and then down to Syracuse, over to Albany, and then south to New York City.

  The traditional route south through the Atlantic Ocean only made one stop nowadays: a luxury yacht from one of the Hamptons’ estates would travel offshore and meet up with one of Livingston’s merchants once a month, which would keep the rich and famous hopped up in between shipments. Money was never an issue, for it oozed out of the city and danced all the way to Montauk.

  If there was ever an emergency, then Livingston’s main house on Lake Superior had enough personnel to offload and distribute the entire product—it would just take longer to get south.

  ✽✽✽

  “How are things at the house?” Livingston said.

  Sanders took a drag on his cigarette and then exhaled. “The renovation was completed three weeks ago. The communication room is completely secure, the passage from the basement to the cave has been updated with a stainless-steel staircase, and a false back has been installed to disguise the sea cave, which can now hold the two cabin cruisers, the jet skis, and the new slip can accommodate a yacht up to one hundred feet if we need to keep an unwanted visitor’s boat out of sight. It’s more like a hanger now.” Sanders took another drag, and then went into a coughing fit for almost a minute. He sucked down his entire glass of water, and then continued...after lighting up another cigarette. “The master bedroom now has an additional two hundred square feet, and the elevator in the master closet now stops at the sea cave. And,” Sanders paused, “an extra guest suite has been built in the cave for security and your...your hobby.”

  Finally, the relevant part. “Is the room secure?” Livingston asked.

  “Completely soundproof.” He looked Livingston in the eyes. “No one can leave.”

  Livingston twirled the stem of his wineglass, watching the dark red liquid circle around the bowl. “Good,” he said. “I had heard, though, that there were problems with the hydraulics that raise and lower the false back of the cave.”

  “Who told you that?” Sanders said.

  Still so nervous. “No one important,” Livingston said.

  Sanders inhaled. “The hydraulics are fine. The false back raises and lowers in less than a minute.”

  “Excellent. And it lowers all the way to the lake bottom, correct?”

  “On the sides, yes. But there is about two feet of clearance underneath the middle—a section of only about ten yards.”

  Livingston raised his eyebrows.

  Sanders spoke reassuringly. “What you have to remember though is that it is thirty feet deep at that point.”

  Livingston relaxed. “Still, I want the area outside the cave patrolled.”

  “We have been and will continue to,” Sanders said.

  A buzzer rang next to his chair, and Livingston pressed a black button on a console underneath the table.

  The door to the dining room opened and the waiter brought in two plates of roasted duck, sautéed vegetables, and another bottle of wine.

  The waiter left the room again, and the men started their dinners. Sanders picked at his food.

  “Something wrong?” Livingston said. “I’m okay with the cave door.”

  Sanders set his fork down. “It still bothers me.”

  Something else...the room—or twenty years ago? “What?” Livingston said.

  Another coughing fit.

  “I’m going to die soon. We both know that,” Sanders said. “And I can’t forget that we never found the cargo, and we never found those two employees.”

  “It wasn’t because we didn’t search.”

  “Do you know how many times I’ve sat looking at a map of the northern United States and Canada trying to deduce where they could have gone? There is still a part of me that thinks they are on some Caribbean island kicking back and laughing.”

  “Not much of a chance. We’d have known if they’d tried to pawn off the goods. They’re at the bottom of one of Canada’s three million lakes—and we’re never going to find them or the shipment.”

  “We should have never hired them,” Sanders said.

  Still hanging on to the pilot fault theory. Probably the only way he lives with himself. Livingston adjusted his tie, and then leaned forward. “We didn’t hire them, remember?” Livingston sat back. “Dai, you recovered from it. We’ve made millions since then.” He took a sip of wine. “And my father and I never thought you were to blame.”

  ✽✽✽

  They were seated in the den smoking Cuban cigars from a box that had arrived last week. Livingston opened an eighty-year-old bottle of scotch and poured two glasses. Sanders did not take his eyes off the bottle as Livingston smelled the cork top before putting it back on. Sanders licked his lips as he accepted the glass.

  “I’ve decided on your replacement,” Livingston said.

  “Keach?” Sanders said.

  “No,” Livingston said. “Bannon.”

  Sanders looked puzzled, and he took his first glorious sip of the aged single malt. “But, he’s your—”

  “Yes. He’s my bodyguard. But I need someone I can trust at that position.” Livingston took a sip of scotch, let the flavors roll over his tongue, and then swallowed. “And, you know how often I visit.”

  “He doesn’t have much experience. Keach knows the merchant captains, and that’s a must.” Sanders lowered his voice to a whisper. Christ, does he think the house is bugged? “Plus, he’s also been in the room the few times we’ve had to meet face to face with the folks from down south.”

  “All true. But I’ve made up my mind. You and Keach will bring him up to speed.”

  Sanders tapped his fingers on the table. “That could take some time.”

  “Nonsense,” Livingston said.

  Sanders began to cough again. “When do I start my turnover?”

&n
bsp; “I’ll notify Eric tonight. He’ll fly out with us tomorrow.”

  “When will I move out?”

  “We have a shipment coming in next week, right?”

  Sanders nodded, still hacking.

  “I think that should be sufficient to show Eric what you do. Then, you may move to the house we have set up.” It was a one-story stucco on the beach in Boca Raton that Livingston planned on leveling and then building something bigger after Sanders passed away.

  Sanders crossed his legs and relaxed. “It will be nice to leave Lake Superior.”

  “Tired of freezing from December to March?”

  “I was a moderate drinker until I got put in charge of the main house and cave.” Sanders raised his glass. “The past forty winters have turned me into a certified alcoholic.”

  Livingston looked at his glass of scotch. What does someone say to that? “Is there anything else to discuss?”

  Sanders drained his glass. “No.” He stood. “I think I’ll turn in.”

  They shook hands, and Sanders left. Livingston punched a button on his intercom. Eric Bannon’s voice answered, “Yes, sir?”

  “I need to see you in the den,” Livingston said.

  “On my way.”

  9

  LAKE SUPERIOR, AUGUST 1985

  Richard and Evangeline Bertram made sweaty love in the salon of their brand new forty-six-foot custom made sailboat. It was taking time—it always took time when Bertram loved Jim Beam as much as her.

  He lay on top of her pounding away like the waves on the hull, moaning, and disregarding her. He’s worse than usual tonight. She brought her legs up and tried to fake the sounds that announced she was in ecstasy. Now he noticed her, and things soon began to happen. Thank. God.

  Bertram rolled off and gasped for breath. The cushions were soaked beneath her and she could taste his sweat on her lips.

  “Want a drink?” he said.

  Those were his first words? No post-coital cuddling or chat to make up for the performance? Of course not, it was back to the bottle. “I’ll pass,” Evangeline said. “Someone’s got to steer the boat tonight.”

  “We’ve got autopilot, kiddo,” said Bertram, rubbing her inner thighs.

  “We had autopilot,” she said. “Have you forgotten already?”

  The automatic steering mechanism had failed two days ago, almost running them into a moored Bayliner while they were at it in the master stateroom.

  Since then, they had been alternating shifts at night, midnight to six a.m., while the other one slept. If it became too much—or they were going to have sex—they would anchor; the incident two days prior had scared her. She imagined the boat hitting something, poking a hole in the hull, and she and Richard scrambling naked to get into the lifeboat.

  Bertram had offered to anchor every night, but she had insisted that they circumnavigate Lake Superior as quickly as possible. Why they had started the voyage on the western side of the lake made no sense to her, but they were now off the eastern shore and headed north. She liked the new boat, but she liked getting rich more. And the sooner Bertram returned to his millionaire client in the multi-million-dollar case against a Detroit auto company, the better. She was thirty, he was north of fifty. How many more suits like this would there be to cash in on? Not enough.

  “All right,” Bertram said. “I’m gonna have one more, help you get the anchor up, and then hit the sack.”

  She watched as he stood and then swayed toward the galley, grabbing the shelves on the port bulkhead to steady himself.

  He was clumsy even without the help of Mr. Beam, but somehow he was still loveable. Despite being a terrible lay.

  ✽✽✽

  It was nearing two a.m. and Evangeline stood in the cockpit to check her course. The sky was a mesh of clouds that hid the moon, making the water even darker. Her face glowed above the amber light of the binnacle. N/NE. Good. Bring it a bit closer to shore. The wind had almost died to the point where she would have to motor, which might wake him. Even though the master stateroom was forward, he was a light sleeper, even laced with booze.

  She looked up at the mainsail. Just before midnight, she had reefed it because the winds were too much for her to handle. Now, if the wind didn’t pick up, she would take it down. She decided to go below and plot her two a.m. fix early and lay out her next Dead Reckoning plot. She did a 360-degree survey of the horizon with the binoculars like he had told her to do any time she left the cockpit—to make sure they wouldn’t hit anything. They were less than two miles offshore and she could see lights dotting the coast. There were no navigation lights off the bow, to port, aft, or to starboard. Taking the two pieces of line he had rigged when the autopilot broke, she secured the helm on its current course. She hung the binoculars around the binnacle and then descended the steps into the salon.

  The smell of wood was pleasant to her now that the boat’s cabin had cooled from a flow of night air through the open hatch. During the day, it smelled like a hot, wet, pile of lumber and was too much. She had tried squirting some perfume here and there, but it had made it worse.

  Taking a seat behind the mahogany desk, she took a drink from her coffee mug and then turned the knob on the Loran. A soft green glow lit the workspace—destroying her night vision—and she took a pencil and entered the boat’s latitude and longitude into their log book. Then, she took a pair of dividers and marked off their position. The fix was right on top of her last DR. And he had said that this would never happen. She’d show him in the morning. With no adjustment to their course needed, the new plot would be easy. Using a parallel ruler, she walked their course over from the compass on the chart and extended a line from their position. She looked at their speed, and after adjusting her dividers swung an arc fifteen minutes out and then another fifteen minutes past that. She turned the VHF volume up, listened for their agreed time of one minute, and after hearing nothing turned the volume back down.

  “Nothing happens up here in the summer, kiddo,” he had said.

  She had replied with, “But what if someone needs our help?”

  “Fuck ‘em. We’re on vacation, remember?” The conversation had ended there.

  Satisfied that she had met the requirements of her half-hour routine, she turned the knob on the Loran and the green glow vanished. She allowed her eyes to regain their night vision and decided to make a head call before going up.

  The toilet seat was cold on her bare bottom, and she had to spread her legs to support herself as the boat rocked with the waves. She couldn’t flush because that would wake him. She watched as her urine sloshed back and forth and she lowered the lid back down with care. He had it easy—could just pull it out and pee over the side on his watch. As she left the head, the boat heeled to starboard. If she had not been holding on to the hatch handle, she would have fallen over. Did they hit something? Should she wake him? She stood motionless for a moment and nothing more happened. Just confused seas, or maybe one of the lines she had secured to the helm had slipped off. Before getting him up, she would check to see if this was the case. Embarrassment at two in the morning was not something she needed. Plus, he was an asshole in the middle of the night after drinking. She headed toward the hatch.

  As she emerged from the cockpit a hand went over her mouth and she was picked up off the deck. Her eyes went wide and she struggled to break free. It was no use. She was about to scream when another figure stepped in front of her and put a knife to her throat. The man was huge, at least six inches taller than Richard and outweighing him by fifty pounds.

  “How many else onboard?” The man whispered.

  She stood motionless.

  He took the knife and pushed the point into her neck, just breaking the skin.

  She winced in pain, and then held up one finger.

  “Man or a woman?” The man said.

  All that could be heard from behind the hand over her mouth was “Mmmmm.”

  “Just like we thought.” The large man looked her up and
down. “She’s even better up close than what we saw of her through the binoculars today.” The man reached out his hand and rubbed Evangeline’s breasts in slow circles, looking into her eyes. “Now listen, you cunt. You’re going to sit in the cockpit and call your man up here. If you even look like you’re going to warn him, we’ll kill both of you. Nod if you understand?”

  Evangeline started to tear up.

  He motioned to the man holding her, and the man tightened his grip.

  “I said nod if you understand.”

  She nodded.

  They positioned her behind the wheel and then headed forward of the hatch.

  On her fourth call, there was movement in the salon as Bertram moved toward the cockpit.

  His head appeared below and he locked eyes with Evangeline. “What in the hell is it?”

  She looked at him but said nothing.

  He started up the steps.

  “What the fuc—”

  The large man picked Bertram up and then slammed him to the deck, cutting Bertram’s head. The lawyer struggled, sort of. The other man grabbed Evangeline and wrestled her below. Bertram went to speak, but was quieted as the large man on top of him took out a revolver with a silencer attached, pressed it to Bertram’s head, and fired. Blood, skull, brain, and hair sprayed onto the white leather cockpit bench.

  The man below came to the steps. “She’s subdued. Let’s have our fun with her first before we tow the boat in.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “That body is really something too. We won’t get another chance after we turn her over. Guaranteed she’ll be big boss’s favorite.”

  The large man leaned his head into the hatch opening. “No. We were given strict orders.” The man at the bottom of the steps sulked. The man topside jerked his hand behind him. “Come up here and load him on the boat, drive out a few miles, dump him, and then get back here.”

  The man below nodded and then turned toward the v-berth where the woman was unconscious and naked on the bed. He paused, and then turned around and headed up the companionway steps.