The Water Keeper

by Charles Martin

  I made one pass. Saw nothing. Then circled again. Still nothing. Gunner whined. The black boat was becoming a speck in the distance. I screamed at the dog. “You see her, boy?” I pointed to the dock, which was appearing and disappearing with every wave. On my third pass, Gunner stood on the console, bringing his eyes near shoulder level with me. As I turned to follow the boat, he barked. Then again. I didn’t know if he saw something or he was just angry at the storm, but since he was the smartest dog I’d ever met, I whipped the wheel 180 degrees and pushed the throttle to fifty percent.

  A body lay on the dock.

  Somehow either the current or a wave had spit her up on the floating dock. She’d wrapped herself in a mooring line and clung to a piling. When I approached, massive waves threatened to rip her from the dock’s surface. I knew I had one shot. Gauging the current, the wind, and the time between the waves, I rode down one wave, up another, and throttled up to almost ninety percent, shooting me nearly airborne onto the floating dock. The hull landed hard, and the solid surface of the dock listed the boat violently, nearly tossing me and Gunner overboard.

  I saw the girl. Reached. But she wouldn’t let go of the piling. A wave crashed over the bow and caught the center console in the middle, catapulting Gone Fiction off the dock and back into open water.

  The girl was weakening. She wouldn’t last another wave. I slammed the throttle forward, broke the bow through the next wave, rode the incoming wave up onto the floating dock, and banked the gunnel off the piling. The girl extended a hand, and I grabbed it as the next wave shot us off the dock and back out into the ocean.

  Gunner had squatted below me. Whining. The girl flew across the space between us and I caught her with one arm while turning the wheel with the other. The wave landed over my shoulders and caught Gunner square in the chest, dragging him out from underneath me. I had one hand on the girl and one hand alternating between wheel and throttle as I watched the water drag him out the back of the boat. Water had filled the boat, and I’d lose the engine if I didn’t throttle up right now.

  I screamed, “Gunner!” but there was no response.

  He was gone.

  With the girl latching on to me with a terrified death grip and another wave towering down on us, I swore, gave it all the throttle it could handle, and cursed myself for bringing him.

  Chapter 33

  We rode southwest. One minute passed. Then another. The water drained out the back as the engine steamed and smoked amid a deluge of salt water. I turned west-southwest and put the wind directly behind us, hoping to use the T-top as a sail. We picked up speed, banging from one wave crest to the next wave trough.

  The loss of Gunner cut me deeply. I aimed my anger at the boat.

  Ten minutes in, we’d crossed half the bay. In the distance, I could see the lights of the Card Sound Bridge, but there was no sign of the transport vessel. I had to choose. Black Point Marina or bridge. He went one way or the other. Given a boat that powerful and cargo that expensive, I figured he’d race under the bridge, hit the clear waters of Barnes Sound, and turn west for the Gulf, finding a channel through the flats. My guess was that he was either connecting with another larger yacht nearby or making for Key West tonight to make the transfer.

  I chose the bridge. Despite the fact that we’d fueled up yesterday, my fuel gauge read less than 10 percent. I’d spent so much time throttling up and down waves, much of the time near full power, I’d burned through much of my fuel. The boat drained but conditions did not improve. Waves tossed us about like a rag doll. Five minutes in and my passenger was vomiting on the deck beneath me. Every time she did so, a wave broke over the gunnel and washed it out. This happened more than I cared to count. Finally, she just knelt on the floor next to me, dry heaving.

  What should have taken twenty minutes took closer to forty. When we finally reached the bridge, my hands were cramping on the wheel and the girl lay beneath me, clinging to my legs, screaming. When we passed beneath the bridge, the Key appeared on our left and blocked the wind. The surface of the water changed from violent and full of rage to placid and almost peaceful in less than a quarter of a mile. Soon the water turned to glass.

  I pulled the throttle to neutral, turned on my interior LED lights, and helped lift the girl to her feet. She had lost all control of her emotions and was screaming and beating the air wildly. I grabbed her hands, wrapped my arms around her, and held her. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re going to be okay. I won’t hurt you.”

  After a few minutes, the reality of her situation sank in, and she must have believed me because screaming turned to whimpering to her collapsing in my arms. I set her on the bench, pressed her hair out of her face, and said, “I know you’re probably scared out of your mind, but do you know where that transport vessel is going?”

  She shook her head.

  “You sure? Anything you can tell me? Did you overhear anything?”

  Another shake.

  We were running on fumes, so I steered to a marina and a fuel pump protected in a cove on the north end of Key Largo. A Mexican restaurant next door. While she sat on the deck of the boat and cried, I filled the tank and studied the dark skyline for any sign of a moving boat. I also glanced behind me, looking for any sign of Gunner. But I knew better. We were seven miles or more from where he’d flown overboard. In a torrential sea.

  Gunner was gone.

  I tried not to think about the conversation with Clay.

  I hugged the coastline. In the distance I could see the lights of the top floor of the resort. I wrapped a towel around the girl, throttled up to plane, and covered the few miles in just a few minutes. Rather than docking in my slip appointed by the check-in clerk, I circled southeast and came up inside the beach area. It was nearing four o’clock in the morning. The beach was lit, and all the lounge chairs were empty save one. I eased the bow up into shallow water, trimmed the engine, and came to a stop when the bow gently touched sand.

  Summer stood from the chair, wiped her eyes, and saw me step from the boat carrying a female. She sprinted into the water, but seeing that I wasn’t carrying Angel, she grabbed a towel and covered the girl after I set her on a chair.

  The girl was blonde. Cheerleader looks. College age. Maybe a sophomore. Doubtful she was a senior. Dressed in Daisy Dukes and a T-shirt, she wore a bathing suit underneath, which suggested she’d been taken from somewhere near the water with the intention of getting into it. A quick examination told me she was unhurt save her emotions and mental capacities, which might take a while to heal.

  Once she quit sobbing, I knelt and said, “I need you to tell me what happened, and I need you to do it quickly.”

  Summer tapped my shoulder. “Where’s Gunner?”

  I shook my head.

  She covered her mouth with her hand.

  The girl was unable to speak. I held her hand and waited while her eyes focused on us. When she finally made eye contact, I asked the question differently. “Did you know the other girls?”

  She shook her head.

  “Sorority? Class?”

  A single shake. “We responded to a model call. Photo shoot. First the beach. Then a yacht. Five hundred dollars if they chose you. They chose the ten of us, loaded us onto a small boat, maybe about the size of yours, and then dropped us at that house.”

  Clever. “How many days have you been there?”

  “Five. I think.”

  “Any idea where they were taking you?”

  “No.”

  I returned to the boat, pulled my dry phone out of the OtterBox, clicked to Angel’s picture, and held it up. “Do you recognize her?”

  She looked and shook her head.

  “You sure? Look closely. Please.”

  She looked again and shook her head one final time.

  I looked at Summer. “Call 911. Tell them what you know. Anything and everything she can tell you.” I climbed back into Gone Fiction.

  Summer grabbed me by the arm and wouldn’t
let go. When I turned, she didn’t speak. She just stood there. Hopelessness screamed at me from behind her eyes.

  “Give me a couple hours. I’ll be back at daylight. If I don’t find anything, we’ll be in Key West by lunchtime.”

  Tears appeared. She wouldn’t let go. “Summer. I—”

  She pulled me to her and kissed me. When finished, she looked at me, pressed herself to me, and kissed me again. This time longer. Her lips trembled and tasted salty. The tears broke loose, trailed down her cheeks, and hung on to her chin.

  I thumbed away each, speaking softly. “I’m coming back. I promise.”

  She let go and began dialing her phone. From the helm, I glanced in the direction of the bay and Gunner’s watery grave. “Better let me tell Clay.”

  I reversed out of the private beach, turned due west, and began studying the charts for channels that led out into deeper water. While the transport vessel had certain advantages out in the bay, back here, in shallow water, I could navigate easier. She probably needed three to four feet to draft. And at least four to get up on plane. I only needed two. Sometimes less. That meant I could go places she could not.

  To my way of thinking, the captain of that transport tender had two options: deliver the girls to a larger yacht anchored somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico and then make a slow overnight to Key West while they took on clients, or make a fast run down the calm waters of the inside en route to Key West, where a larger vessel and clients awaited. Either way, I felt Key West was the destination and that there was some urgency to it; otherwise they never would’ve risked the Stiltsville pickup.

  The Keys of Florida separate the sometimes angry waters of the Atlantic Ocean from the relatively calm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. There are obviously exceptions, such as when hurricanes roll up from the south, but on the whole the Gulf is far calmer than the Atlantic. At times, it’s more lake than ocean. The Gulf is also much shallower.

  The exposed ocean floor around the Keys is limestone dusted with sand, where depths range from a few inches to a few feet. Safely navigating this to the deeper waters of the Gulf requires local knowledge of channels, or something akin to underground rivers that have been marked over time to allow larger vessels access to deeper water.

  These channels are easier to see from the air and tough to find from the waterline. A good chart is a must, as is local knowledge. Whether the black boat transporting nine girls was taking them a short distance to a larger boat or a longer distance to Key West, the captain had to know these waters. Meaning he’d done this before.

  I throttled to full, trimmed the engines, and navigated via chart southwest through skinny water past Plantation, Islamorada, Lower Matecumbe Key, Duck Key, and finally Marathon. I thought if I could race down the inside, I could hop in front of him because he would have to divert due west to find safe passage, whereas I could skim over the top. From Marathon, I turned northwest and rode seven miles out into the Gulf, where I anchored and stood on my T-top staring through my Leicas as the sun broke the skyline east of me. Theoretically, this gave me at least fourteen or fifteen miles of perspective—probably farther. If any vessel traveled north or south along the inside, I’d have a good chance of seeing her.

  My problem was sleep. Or lack of it. I’d not slept in at least a day, and I couldn’t remember when I slept more than four hours in a stretch. I was exhausted and could barely hold my eyes open. Between my stitches, deep bruises, and the stress and pounding of last night’s bay crossing, my body hurt everywhere. I knew if I sat down, I’d sleep several hours I could not afford.

  I lit my Jetboil and made some coffee. It helped. Coffee can be a comfort when comfort is hard to find. As the sun rose higher, I stood and studied the edge of the world. Boats passed, but not the one I was looking for. I must have missed her.

  At noon, I climbed down, pulled up the anchor, and set a course for Key Largo. An hour later, I tied up at my slip. Clay, Summer, and Ellie were sitting on the beach. I knew my conversation with Clay would not be easy.

  Summer informed me that the girl we rescued from the water last night had been evaluated by the paramedics and—other than the trauma of being kidnapped and the shock of nearly drowning and the horror of learning she’d almost been a cog in the sex-traffic wheel—she’d be fine. Turned out she was the daughter of a wealthy tech manufacturer out of Miami with friends in government. Summer and Clay had spent all morning talking with agents, and up until a few minutes ago, this place had been crawling with men wearing guns—all of whom wanted to talk with me.

  That meant the satellite, radio, and telephone chatter had increased a hundredfold and whoever was currently transporting girls knew it. Guys in that business always had an ear to the track, and they could feel when heat was closer. They paid well for that kind of information, which might explain why we didn’t intersect last night or this morning.

  Clay listened as I told him the story, his wrinkled face growing more wrinkled as I spoke. When I finished, he nodded and stared north toward the bay. Finally, he sucked through his teeth and put his hand on my shoulder.

  I knew we needed to push south, but I was fighting a weariness I’d not known in some time. I told them to grab their bags and we’d shove off. If I quit moving, it’d be some time before I got going again. I was afraid if I closed my eyes I wouldn’t open them again for twenty-four hours. Ten minutes later, we were loaded up and shoving off. Everyone was quiet. The loss of Gunner had hit us hard. I thought through the events of last night for the ten thousandth time, wondering what I could have done differently. The only answer was not to bring him, but then he’d been the one who saw her. Without Gunner, I never would’ve found that girl.

  We idled out past the Mexican restaurant, the jet skis, and the sailboats tugging on their mooring lines. I was about to put us up on plane when Summer thought I might be hungry, which I was, so she brought me a sandwich. I paused long enough to open the wrapper and take a bite.

  One glorious, magnificent bite. Which gave me just enough time to listen to the world around me.

  Clay heard it too. I turned, and there it was again. The sound drew each of us to the gunnel, our eyes searching the waterline. Several hundred yards in the distance, coughing salt water, tired, and barking for all he was worth, paddled Gunner.

  Clay stood, slapped his thigh, and swore. “I’ll be a suck-egg mule!”

  I cut the wheel, throttled up, and closed the distance. When we reached him, Gunner’s paws were churning the water like pistons. I reached down, lifted him from the water, and set him on the deck where he shook and began licking my face, his tail waving at six hundred rotations a minute.

  It was a bright spot in a dark couple of days. We crowded around while Gunner licked the skin off our faces. He climbed up on Clay, spun around, barked, hopped down, ran once around the boat, then again, then tackled me. I had never been happier to see a dog in my entire life. He smelled my sandwich, sniffed it, and devoured it in one bite, only to tackle me again.

  I held him, pulled him to me, and said, “Forgive me?”

  He ran to Ellie, climbed up on her lap while she sat there and giggled, then Summer, then back to Clay—who laughed out loud. Finally, he lay down on the front casting deck and rolled onto his back, his tongue hanging out. I returned to the helm and spoke to him over the idle of the engine. “When we get to Key West, the steak is on me.”

  Chapter 34

  Our mood improved immensely. And the trip to Key West passed quickly. Tucked in behind the windshield, I dialed Colorado. He answered, and I updated him about last night, the girl, the investigation, and asked him to make some inquiries. He said he would. I also told him I needed a place for the four of us to stay in Key West. “Someplace that’s dog-friendly.”

  I was about to hang up when he said, “One more thing. Sisters of Mercy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Used to be a convent.”

  “What do you mean, used to?”

  “Women quit joining. Nuns grew
older. Started dying off. Only a couple left. If that. They own a compound, couple of blocks on the water. They get to keep it ’til the last one dies, then it reverts back to some entity that’s loosely associated with a church.”

  “Got an address?”

  We passed Islamorada, the fishing capital of the world, and then turned due west, putting Lignumvitae Key off the bow—a three-hundred-acre ancient island, accessible only by boat and named after a small, very dense tree that grows in the tropics. So dense, it sinks in water. At seventy-nine pounds per cubic foot, it’s strong stuff. In Latin, it means “wood of life.”

  Lignumvitae Key is Florida before people. Before machines. Before anything, save the breath of God. It’s also home to the exceedingly rare black ironwood—the densest and heaviest wood on earth. Eighty-seven pounds per cubic foot. The Calusa Indians once lived here. They fished, grew citrus trees, and swatted the mosquitoes that swarmed in the billions. Which might be why no one lives here now. The swamp angels have taken over.

  Despite my affinity for the untouched beauty of Lignumvitae, we would not be stopping there either.

  We followed the chart, turned southwest, and skirted around No Name, Big Pine, Middle Torch, Big Torch, Summerland, Cudjoe, and Sugarloaf Keys. All smaller keys connecting the southern tip of Florida to Key West. Finally, we skimmed across the Waltz Key Basin and into the waters surrounding Key West. Colorado had made reservations for us on the southernmost tip. Just north of Mallory Square at Pier House Resort and Spa. The location was strategic in that it gave us a view of every vessel that passed within eyesight.

  Two quiet days passed.

  I circled the island several times a day. A twenty-six-mile round trip, it took an hour or so. I was looking for anything. A large yacht. A blacked-out tender. Anything either flashy or subdued that caught my eye. Nothing did. The trail was cold.