She sat it down on another pad and had trouble getting it to sit upright. Finally, she gave up and let it rest gently on its side. She turned back toward the tubs and took out a new piece, another cup, she thought.
When she went to place this new one on the table, she stopped suddenly and dropped the cup. It clanged to the floor, but she didn’t even watch it as it rolled around noisily. From this distance, she realized that the large object she’d just cleaned was no bowl at all. It was a bell; she’d been holding it upside down. She ran back to the table and turned it right side up. The indistinct markings suddenly became an inscription.
“Oh, my God,” she said out loud.
She frantically flipped open her phone and dialed Troy.
33
Don’t Lose Your Head
Joe Bond steered the Key West P.D.’s new Nimbus 250 Nova R westward toward Fort Jefferson. The wind was dying down and a brighter shade of gray was forcing its way through the stinging mist hitting him in the face. Once again, his island town had survived a brush with devastation. Hurricane Daniel had climbed to a category two storm, which meant evacuations and such, not to mention flooding and major property damage. But the warm waters of the gulf had pulled it farther west, missing the island altogether.
Steve Haney, his partner, rode beside him in silence and gripping his orange poncho hood tighter around his neck. He stood when the fort finally rose up on the horizon and pointed.
“Got it,” Joe nodded.
He pulled the boat up to a small pier and Steve hopped out to tie it off. He noticed the fort’s resident boat pulled up on the sand nearby… an odd way for it to be parked.
Joe pointed to it. “Check that out.”
“Roger that,” Steve said, and carefully picked his way across the damp beach toward the boat.
Joe put his hands on his hips and looked up at the high brick walls of the fort. He looked around trying to get the lay of the land. It certainly was an imposing sight.
He made his way up the path toward the fort, holding the railing to keep his balance on the wet and slippery stones. He stumbled slightly once and had to stop as the jarring sent a sharp pain into his back.
“Oh, Damn,” he gasped as his ancient wound stabbed him, taking his breath away.
He raised his hand from the rail to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead and noticed the slightest trace of red on his fingers. He sniffed it and immediately recognized the coppery smell of blood. He gingerly knelt to get a closer look. There were definitely a few dried blood droplets. Someone had come through here with a cut after the storm had passed. He had three possibilities in mind; James Howard, Natasha Wainwright or Vince Pinzioni. All had apparently been here within the last day or two. He made a mental note to get a sample on his way back.
His shoes clicked loudly against the new concrete floor as he entered the fort.
“Hello?” he called into the dark hallway.
Nothing. He suddenly felt something seemed off, and un-holstered his gun. He slowly made his way through the massive stone arches toward what the rangers here called the back of the house. Nothing was on, no lights, no fans, nothing. As he moved closer to the rangers’ quarters he heard a faint whirring sound and could see a dim flicker from below one of the bunker doors.
“Hello?” he called again.
He inched his way toward the door, his breath becoming shallow. It was just this sort of moment that panicked him into remembering that day in the New York alley. It was a cold fear that somehow made his back ache, as if the bullet left in his spine was made of ice. He leaned against the wall next to the door and knocked. The sound echoed loudly down the hall.
Nothing, no response, no sound, no movement of any kind. He reached over and slowly turned the knob. When he felt it click, he flung the door open wide and stormed in, gun pointed in front. The smell was acrid and filled the dark room. He could barely see that a computer was running, which explained the whirring sound and the flickering light of a screensaver. His hand fumbled around on the wall before finding the overhead light switch.
When his eyes finally adjusted to the suddenly fluorescent room, the horrible scene made him turn away. James Howard, one of the park rangers (and apparently C.I.A. agent), was slumped over in his chair. Gore and blood were spattered against the wall behind him and his neck was a gaping wound.
Joe grimaced at the scene as he clicked open his cellphone. “Jill, it’s Joe, we’re gonna need a full C.S.I. team out to Fort Jefferson.”
He noted the gun still dangling from James’ hand, and added, “Possible suicide, maybe homicide… at any rate, we’ve got a body.”
He closed his phone and moved closer to the bloody desk. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully shuffled the mouse around a bit and waited for the computer screen to come back to life. As he did, he accidentally nudged the ranger’s chair and his head lolled to one side, spilling more blood from the hole in his neck.
“Oh, God.” Joe cringed.
Oddly, there were bruises on the lower part of James’ jaw. His mouth fell open with the movement and Joe caught a glimpse of something strange there as well; a tiny bit of flesh was hanging from one of the ranger’s teeth. Joe leaned over to get a closer look.
“Hey!” a voice called from behind him.
Joe whirled around, drew his gun, and ducked behind the desk.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Steve Haney shouted and threw his hands in the air, “it’s just me, it’s just me, don’t shoot!”
“Jeezus Criminy,” Joe gasped, and lowered his gun, “you scared the shit out of me.”
Steve didn’t answer, suddenly stunned by the brutal bloody scene in front of him.
“What the…”
“Yeah, I dunno.” Joe holstered his gun and stood up. “A team is on the way to check it out.”
Steve didn’t move. A fine sweat popped up on his brow and his face went pale.
“Alright!” Joe jumped up and moved toward him. “If you’re gonna throw up, leave the room.”
Steve shook his head and seemed to regain his composure. “Nah, I’m fine.”
Joe stared at him until he was sure the big man wasn’t going to be sick. He pulled a notepad out and jotted down a few things for the C.S.I. team that was on the way: check outside railing and possible DNA sample from victim’s teeth.
“Wow,” Steve said, now seemingly back to himself, “what in God’s name happened?”
“Well, as you can see, he shot himself,” —Joe motioned to the desk— “but he’s struggled with someone and possibly bit them.”
Steve just stared at the body.
“Anyway, there’s a lot of evidence and we—”
Joe was interrupted by a chirp from James’ pocket. He looked at Steve.
The big man shrugged. “Cellphone?”
Joe went around behind the desk and realized that the sound hadn’t come from his pocket, but his lap. A cellphone was lying in between his legs, propped open and blinking with a new message. Joe picked it up with his handkerchief and tapped one of the buttons. The screen had a one word text:
-REPORT.
Joe wrapped the phone in the cloth and stuck it in his pocket. “We’ll check that out later,” he said. “Let’s get back to the boat.”
“Oh, by the way, about the boat,” —his partner seemed to snap back to life— “I found something interesting.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a baggie containing three rifle shells. “Somebody’s been shootin’ at something.”
Joe nodded back at the desk. “Seems that’s going around.”
That’s when he noticed the rifle propped up against the side of the desk. “What the hell?”
Steve shrugged. “You’ve got me, man.”
34
Ocean Blue
Megan Simons could hardly keep from gasping as she waited for Troy to answer his phone. Two rings, three… no answer.
“Dammit, Troy,” she said, and waited for his voicemail. “Call me back
, it’s important.”
She hung up and turned her attention back to the bell they’d brought up from the bottom of the gulf. It was most certainly a ship’s bell, but it didn’t belong to the Señora de la Muerta. The inscription on the inside of the bell was clear.
She continued to clean it gently. Though badly corroded, she could still make out what appeared to be two round holes about the size of a quarter on one side and a crack connecting them. The bottom lip of the bell was badly distorted on the opposite side. It looked like melted chocolate. She polished the inscription with a swab and read it again; it was right there, no doubt about it.
She picked up her phone to dial Troy again but stopped short. The puzzle pieces she had in her hands didn’t fit together. She clicked open her laptop and waited for it to connect to the wireless broadband. She opened a browser and googled a few key words.
“Haiti,” she muttered to herself, “this thing is supposed to be near Haiti.”
Opening a few more browser windows only proved to be even more mysterious although somehow enlightening as to why it might not have finally rested in Haiti.
She was startled by her phone beeping loudly. Glancing at the caller I.D., she saw it was Troy.
“Hey you,” he said.
“Troy, listen,” —she was borderline hysterical— “you are not going to believe this.”
“Okay,” he said slowly, “what is it?”
“This stuff isn’t from the Señora de la Muerta.” She paused.
“Dangit!”
“No no,” she continued, “it’s even better than that.”
“Better than tons of silver and gold?”
“Yes.”
“Well…?”
“Troy, I don’t know how to tell you this,” —she could feel her heart pounding— “but you’ve found the wreck of the Santa Maria.”
For a long minute, he said nothing.
“The Santa Maria,” he said, “as in, Christopher Columbus’s ship that sailed the ocean blue in 1492.”
“Yup,” she answered, “that’s the one.”
“Wait, that can’t be right,” he finally said. “The Santa Maria didn’t go down there. She ran aground off the coast of Haiti. And besides that, most of the salvaged material from the ship was supposedly used to build a colony there.”
“I know that, but I’m telling you, Troy,” —she motioned toward the bell, though he couldn’t see it— “I’m looking at the inscription right now.”
“What does it say?”
“La Gallega,” she read, “and underneath that, Juan de la Cosa.”
“Okay… um, I’m lost.”
“Well, that’s the original name of the Santa Maria and her owner,” she said, laughing. “I can’t believe it. This is so much more important than anything we could have ever found on the Muerta!”
She could almost hear him shaking his head on the other end of the phone. “I still don’t get what it’s doing at the bottom of the gulf at Key West.”
“I don’t know either. Maybe a storm or current carried it here,” she said, “but it doesn’t really matter. Aren’t you excited?”
“Well, yeah. Yes, I am; that’s great news,” —he didn’t sound convinced— “but listen, stay right there, I’m on my way. Be there in an hour.”
“Troy, trust me. This is the wreck of the Santa Maria,” she said. “It doesn’t make any difference how it got here; you found it!”
“I guess you’re right,” he said. “I’m sure there’s some reason for it.”
He paused for a moment and she could tell he must’ve thought she was mistaken.
“Anyway, you just sit tight and wait for me.”
“I will… bye.”
She clicked her phone shut and turned to look at the bell. It was kind of odd for it to show up like this. She tilted it back upright and polished it gently. Funny how uniform these two holes are, she thought, and traced a finger along the melted portion of the edge of the bell. Melted portion?
The more she studied it, the more she became convinced this bell had seen some sort of battle: two holes from a musket or something, and a melted edge from some intense heat, maybe a fire.
But nothing like that ever happened on the Santa Maria, she thought.
“Or did it?” she muttered to herself. She turned back to her computer and clicked back to a few of the web pages she had opened.
“Cristóbal Colón,” Megan read to herself, “born in the Republic of Genoa, started sailing at ten, blah blah blah.”
She scrolled down to the details of the fateful voyage of 1492.
“Hmmm…” She traced her finger along the screen. “First petitioned John the Second, turned down. Second petitioned Henry the Seventh of England via his brother, turned down… already committed to Spain.”
She skipped down to the portion that revealed that Ferdinand the Second of Aragon and Isabella the First of Castile had finally awarded him the right to make the voyage, though it was mostly private financial backing that made it possible. He was to be made Admiral of the Seas and given an unusually large portion of the profits.
“Strange,” she muttered.
After reading further, she discovered that most scholars thought this large percentage of reward was probably given, thinking that he would never return from the voyage.
“Ah,” she said, nodding, “makes sense.”
She continued to read information about the ships and the first voyage. The Santa Maria was owned by Juan de la Cosa; she nodded toward the bell. The Niña and the Pinta were owned by Martín Alonso Pinzón and Vincente Yáñez Pinzón, who coincidentally captained these two ships on the voyage.
“Hmmm, brothers,” she said aloud, “I never knew that.”
She read further, and learned that most historians agreed the journeys of Columbus involving the Pinzón brothers were not happy ones. Many reports showed them to be mutinous, to the point of leaving Columbus and striking out on their own as they approached the New World. Martín Alonso Pinzón had apparently heard from a native guide that there was much gold on the island of Babeque, and left the convoy of ships without permission to find it.
“Never knew that either.”
The more she read, the more it became clear there was no love between the captains of the three famous ships.
She clicked open a new page and was stunned by what she read. “Fierce storms separated the ships on their return to Palos from the newly discovered lands. Each captain, Martín Alonso Pinzón and Christopher Columbus, believed the other to be lost at sea. Pinzón arrived shortly after Columbus to find that he was being hailed a hero. Pinzón, expecting to be similarly exalted, found the honor already proclaimed on Columbus. Bitterly angry and jealous, he died alone under mysterious circumstances just days later.”
She sat back in the chair at her desk. “Weird.”
Rubbing her eyes and stretching her arms over her head, she found herself amazed at how little she really knew about these incredibly famous ships and their captains.
She looked back at the bell. “So, we’ve got a couple of mutinous brothers on the Pinta and the Niña and a battle-scarred bell from the Santa Maria…”
She stopped short. Sitting up quickly she scrolled back to the webpage concerning their return from the New World.
She scrolled through the pages until she found the sentence she was looking for; he died alone under mysterious circumstances just days later.
On a hunch, she clicked back to Google and typed in Christopher Columbus’s body.
One million, eight hundred thousand results came back in less than two-tenths of a second. Of the first ten or so, all seemed to have the same theme. Apparently, Christopher Columbus’s body had been moved several times and its exact location was under much contention.
Spain claimed to have it and the Dominican Republic (or Hispaniola in Columbus’s day) also claimed to have his bones.
Megan Simons, whose mind was well suited for analyzing information of this nature,
took out a pad of paper and jotted down the facts.
Three Ships leave Spain for the new world
Christopher Columbus captains the Santa Maria
Martín Alonso Pinzón captains the Pinta
Vincente Yáñez Pinzón captains the Niña
The Pinzón brothers are heavy investors in the voyage
The Pinzón brothers are widely regarded as mutinous
Two ships return from the New World; the Pinta and the Niña
Christopher Columbus’s bones might be in the Dominican Republic
“Three ships leave for the New World and only two come back,” she said aloud.
She looked at the broken, melted bell again. “They sunk her,” —she sat back slowly in her chair— “and probably killed Columbus and left his bones in the Dominican Republic.”
“Oh, my God,” she gasped. “What have we uncovered here?”
The conversation was meticulously recorded, saved and delivered via secure hard-line e-mail to the man sitting in a large office at the top of the glass tower. His computer pinged to let him know he’d received the communiqué. Gently tapping the end of a lit cigar on the granite ashtray at the corner of his desk, he opened the file. He listened quietly as the two voices rose out of his computer speakers:
“Troy, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’ve found the wreck of the Santa Maria.”
“The Santa Maria,” the male voice said, “As in, Christopher Columbus’s ship that sailed the ocean blue in 1492.”
“Yup, that’s the one.”
The man in the high-backed leather desk chair swiveled around and opened his cellphone. He scrolled down through the numbers and tapped out a message. He pressed the send button and waited. It wasn’t long before he had a response.
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 36
