Blood island mrm-3

by H. Terrell Griffin

  "Are you going to stick around for tomorrow night's festivities?"

  "Wouldn't miss it. I made a couple of calls. Logan is going to meet one of my colleagues at the dock at Moore's Stone Crab Restaurant at first light. He'll load the boat with some more firepower in case we need it. Logan will shove off as soon as the weapons are aboard. He said he should be at Faro Blanco by noon."

  "I thought you'd retired from all this."

  "I did, but I was called back on a special mission. One of our guys was killed in Sarasota. The agency found me playing golf in Australia, and told me to get to Miami. They've got some leads."

  "Why you?"

  "Because of you."

  "I don't get it."

  "You found our guy's body. My boss knows we're friends, so here I am."

  "The man in the vulture pit?"

  "Yes."

  "You know where the body is?"

  "Buried in his family plot in Iowa."

  "The Sarasota cops know about this?"

  "No," he said. "We take care of our own."

  "So, that's the reason his fingerprints weren't on file."

  "Yes. But when the local cops ran the prints, we were notified. We took it from there."

  "What's in Miami?"

  "Probably nothing. I was supposed to meet one of our agents tomorrow and get completely briefed. Until today, I didn't know what our man was doing in Sarasota, or what kind of case he was working on."

  "Do you need to get back to Miami?"

  "No. I needed to talk to you anyway."

  "I really don't know anything, Jock. I just found the body."

  "When I called to get Logan set up, I was told that you might have stumbled into something that's related to what our agent was looking into."

  "What?"

  "The Reverend Robert William Simmermon. Get some sleep. We'll talk more tomorrow."

  I looked at my watch. Almost four a.m. "We can count on a two-hour drive to Marathon," I said. "The traffic is always terrible on U.S. One. Wake me up in a couple of hours."

  He nodded his agreement.

  "I'm glad you're here, old friend," I said, and fell onto the bed and into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I was dreaming of Laura. She was in a casket, a white one with walnut trim. I didn't want to look at her. Jock was pushing me forward, telling me I had to say good-bye. I moved toward the front of the room where she lay. Lilacs were stacked around her bier, and the air was suffused with the smell of fresh vanilla. I could see her face, thin now, the color leached out of it, diminished by the absence of her soul. A single tear leaked from her right eye, and a smile played at the corner of her lips, as if her death were a sad joke.

  I awoke with a start. Sun was cascading through the window, and the confounded chickens were clucking in the yard. Relief chased the agony of Laura's death from my consciousness. Jock was asleep in the chair, his pistol in his hand

  I didn't want to startle him. I lay still for a moment, and then said softly, "Jock."

  His breathing didn't change, but his eyes popped open. He surveyed the room without moving. His pistol was in his lap, safety off. He knew exactly where he was and what he was doing. Then he stretched in the chair and said, "Good morning, podner. Good nap?"

  I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes after eight. I'd slept the better part of five hours, and I felt like a new man. I got up and padded down the hall to the bathroom. I washed my face and brushed my teeth. Life was looking up, but I couldn't shake the feeling of dread left by the dream. I hoped it wasn't a portent, some sort of augury seared into my unconscious by that part of me that was connected psychically to the woman I loved above all people. The thought of losing Laura was too much to bear, so I tried to put it out of my mind. I knew I'd be less than successful, and that the apprehension would ride with me until I found her.

  When I got back to the room, Jock took my place in the bathroom. I called Debbie.

  "Don't you ever sleep?" she said, mumbling into the phone.

  "The sun's up, and I need information. What've you got on Simmermon?"

  "You're going to owe me a lot of quarters. I found out a lot about him, but the story doesn't hang together too well. I don't understand it all."

  "Talk to me."

  "He was born in Troy, Alabama, graduated from high school there, and went to Troy State University. He dropped out during his freshman year, and then disappeared for a time.

  "Two years later, he shows up living in Key West, working on a shrimp boat. Two years after that, he shows up in Boulder, Colorado. The odd thing is, there's almost nothing on him in Key West. He didn't have a phone, utilities, apartment, car, credit cards, none of the things we need to live. All I could find on him was some taxes withheld by a fishing company that's no longer in business. And, there's no record of a job in Colorado."

  "What about his evangelical organization?" I asked. "When did he pop up with that?"

  "About four years after he dropped out of sight in Key West, he began preaching in a small church in Anniston, Alabama. He preached at a number of small churches for about a year, but he never stayed in one place for more than a few weeks.

  "About three years ago, he bought a big tent and began his revival meetings, traveling mostly in Alabama, Georgia, and Florida."

  "Thanks Deb. I don't know what all that means, but I appreciate your getting it for me."

  "You owe me, loverboy," she said, and hung up.

  That was interesting information, but my first order of business was to get to my boat and Logan. I wasn't sure how we were going to get to Marathon. If I went back to the rental boat, somebody would probably be watching it. I'd rented it before my photo was broadcast around town, but they'd be watching all the rentals now. Jock could rent a car using one of the bogus IDs he always carried, but I'd have to ride in the trunk to be safe. That was probably our best bet.

  Jock returned, and I told him what I was thinking.

  "I don't know," he said. "Yesterday, when I came in, I asked the old woman who runs this place what your room number was. She's already ratted you out once, and now she knows what I look like. It wouldn't take much for Simmermon's men to put us together."

  "I've got an idea. Let's get out of here."

  I was dressed in typical tourist clothes, cargo shorts, Hawaiian shirt, and Reeboks. I put on the sunglasses and pulled the ball cap low on my forehead. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I led the way down the stairs and out the door. Thankfully, the old lady wasn't in sight.

  Jock stood six feet and was lean and fit. He had a Houston Astros ball cap covering his bald head. The fringe of black hair that still clung to life was getting streaks of gray. He wore slacks, loafers, and a designer T-shirt. He was carrying a small suitcase that sported the logo of a Hawaiian Country Club. He looked a little too elegant to be with me, but people would probably think I was his valet or something.

  "Where are we going?" Jock asked.

  "Breakfast at the Hyatt."

  "Isn't that a little conspicuous?"

  "Not at all. I don't think Simmermon's people would be looking for us at a tourist hotel. Besides, we need to see somebody."

  The hotel sat near the foot of Duval Street, next to the water. The superb views commanded a superb price from the guests, but the place was always booked.

  We entered the lobby and went through to the restaurant. I saw a big table surrounded by senior citizens. Austin Dwyer sat among them, facing the dining room.

  I asked the hostess to seat us at the table next to them. Austin looked up as we were escorted to the table and given menus. As soon as the hostess left, he came over.

  "Ben," he said. "Nice to see you again."

  I introduced him to Jock, who was sitting with a bemused look on his face, wondering, I thought, whether the old man was dotty or if I'd given a false name.

  "Please sit down, Austin. I have a favor to ask."

  He sat. "I owe you big time. What can I do for you?"<
br />
  "I have a very delicate situation, and I need your complete confidence. Can you give me that?"

  "Certainly. Mum's the word."

  "First, my name isn't Ben Joyce. It's Matt Royal. I'm a lawyer from Longboat Key, and I've been doing some undercover work, trying to find a young woman who has been kidnapped. Jock here is an old friend who's lending a hand."

  "Can't say I'm surprised, Matt. I thought you were too well spoken to be a transient. How can I help?"

  "Jock and I need to get to Marathon this morning, and for reasons I can't go into, we can't rent a car. I was wondering if you might have room on your bus."

  "We do. I'll make it right with the tour director. Get your breakfast. We're leaving as soon as everybody gets through eating. Our bags are already loaded."

  I thanked him, and he went back to his table to finish his meal.

  "Who is this guy?" Jock asked.

  I explained how we met, and told him about the altercation two nights before. "We can trust him," I said. "And the bad guys aren't going to be looking for us on a senior citizen's tour bus."

  "If you say so."

  "Bring me up to speed on your agency's connection to Simmermon."

  "Another agency, Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms was tracking some C-4 and other explosives that were stolen from a National Guard Armory in Macon, Georgia. Turns out that Simmermon was running a revival in the area at the time the stuff disappeared. Apparently, this wasn't the first time that weapons disappeared when he was in the area.

  "It also looked as if Simmermon had ties to some pretty bad folks. He was connected to a bunch of right-wing nuts who want to overthrow the government, and maybe some Muslim groups with the same idea.

  "My agency tried to put a man into Simmermon's organization. I don't know what went wrong, but somebody must have figured it out, because our agent ended up as buzzard food."

  "Do you know who killed your guy?"

  "We're pretty sure it was the jerk you shot at Hutch's."

  "I don't get it. How did I get caught up in this?"

  "You went looking for Peggy and turned over the hornet's nest. We think that when Simmermon's people heard that you had discovered our agent's body at Pelican Man's, they decided that you were one of us. They had to take you out."

  Austin came back to the table. "You ready to go?"

  We were.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The fifty-mile ride to Marathon was uneventful. Jock and I sat near the back of the bus. Austin sat in a facing seat. I explained to jock that Austin had been a history professor and had once lived in Key West. I told Austin about my meeting with Abraham Osceola, and asked him if any of that made sense.

  "Actually," he said, "it does. The Tequesta ruled the Keys for many generations, and we think they paid tribute to the Calusa, who substantially outnumbered them. The blacks who were part of the Seminole tribe were called Seminole Negroes by the whites in the area. Abraham is a historical character, and was part of every treaty effected between the Seminoles and the American government during the years between the First and Second Seminole Wars."

  "What about the Tequesta connection?" I asked.

  "Your friend has his history right. The remnants of the Tequesta intermarried with the Seminoles and became part of their tribe. The Tequesta, as a tribe, had ceased to exist by the middle of the nineteenth century. But their blood runs through a lot of Seminole veins today."

  "The Abraham I met is a Bahamian. How did that happen?"

  "Like he told you, at the end of the Second Seminole War, a large number of the black Seminoles migrated in dugout canoes to Andros Island in the Bahamas. Over the years, they became indistinguishable from the islanders in speech and looks, but they maintained their Indian culture and their Seminole names. They always, to this day, refer to themselves as Seminoles."

  Florida is full of historical oddities, I thought. Maybe I'll turn out to be one of them.

  At noon, we crossed the Seven Mile Bridge onto Vaca Key, the island that held the town of Marathon. The bus dropped us off at the Faro Blanco Resort. I gave Austin one of my business cards and invited him to visit Longboat Key. He said he would.

  Jock and I walked past the restaurant to the marina. I saw Logan at the fuel dock looking out over Florida Bay as he filled my boat with gas. The boat was a Grady-White twenty-eight foot walkaround. It was made for fishing, with a large cockpit and wide gunwales, made so that the fisherman could easily walk around the cabin trunk to the bow if he had a fish on the line. It sported twin 250-horsepower Yamaha outboards that would push it through the water at almost fifty miles per hour. I had not scrimped on electronics, and it was equipped with the latest radar, chart plotter, fish finder, and radios. She was my love, and her name was Recess.

  Jock and I walked down the dock toward the fueling point. Logan finished the fueling just as we reached him. He put the hose away and turned to greet us.

  I stuck out my hand. "How was your trip, Captain?"

  Logan grinned. "Smooth as glass. I made it in less than seven hours. How're you doing, Jock?"

  "Good, Logan. I do believe you've gotten me into a mess, though. Did my man meet you this morning?"

  "He did. I think he may have knocked over the National Guard Armory on his way to Moore's. I've got more weapons aboard than I've seen since I left Vietnam."

  Jock laughed. "Better to be overarmed than underarmed."

  I said, "Let's get some lunch and some rest before we head back to Key West. We've got a big night ahead of us."

  We ordered lunch and a bag of sandwiches to go. That would serve as our dinner that evening before we launched onto Blood Island. It was going to be a long day.

  I brought Logan up to date over lunch, telling him everything I knew. When we finished, I walked out onto the patio and called Jeff Timmons.

  "Any news?" I asked.

  "Not a word, Matt. I'm worried sick. She's been gone four days."

  "I don't know what to say, Jeff. Has there been any activity on her credit cards, bank account, anything?"

  "Nothing. Have you found out anything about Peggy?"

  "Maybe. I'll know a lot more tomorrow." I didn't want to give the man any false hope. We had a dicey night ahead of us, and a lot of things could go wrong. "I'll call you tomorrow," I said, and closed my phone.

  I turned to find jock and Logan standing behind me. "Nothing on Laura?" Jock asked.

  "No. This doesn't make any sense at all. I don't think her disappearance is connected to Peggy's, but it is one odd coincidence."

  "And you don't like coincidences," said Logan.

  I nodded my head, and we walked to the boat. We paid the fuel bill and boarded Recess. Logan hadn't been kidding. The cabin held three M-16 rifles with several extra clips, three shotguns, an M60 machine gun and tripod, a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, and a large box of assorted gear.

  "You expecting a war, Jock?" I asked.

  "You never know."

  "Damn," said Logan. "I hope not. I hadn't seen an M-16 since Vietnam. When that guy loaded them aboard, I told him I thought I'd go back to helicopters. Damned if he didn't bring out the M60. Our door gunners used those."

  Logan had been a helicopter pilot in Vietnam, but before he went to flight school, he'd been an infantryman, like me.

  We motored out of the marina, under the Seven Mile Bridge and around to Boot Key Harbor on the ocean side of Vaca Key. We dropped anchor, opened the hatches and turned on the fans in the cabin.

  There was just enough room in the small cabin for the three of us to sleep. We secured the boat, and took a nap.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Hawk Channel runs in a generally westerly direction along the ocean side of the Keys. It is well marked and bordered on one side by the Keys themselves, and on the other by reefs.

  At six o'clock, we weighed anchor and headed into Hawk Channel for the two hour run to our first destination. Sand Key lies just outside the Key West harbor on the Atlantic side. It's a po
pular dive spot, and on any given evening, there would be a number of boats anchored over the reef that surrounds the area. We'd be able to wait there until midnight, when we'd start our trip to Blood Island.

  The run along the Hawk Channel was pleasant, the sea calm, the sunshine bright. Jock spent the trip taking the sun on the fold-down seat in the aft cockpit. Logan helped me navigate and groused good-naturedly about the lack of Scotch on board.

  We arrived at Sand Key just as the setting sun painted the sea in red and orange. A slight wind was blowing from the Atlantic, just enough to cool us down without causing the sea to kick up. We spent the next three hours checking weapons and discussing a plan of attack.

  We were eating our sandwiches when my phone rang. Jeff Timmons.

  "Matt, I just got a call from the police. Laura's in a hospital. I'm on my way there now, but I wanted you to know. "

  "How bad?"

  "She's fine, I think. Thank God. She's been in a coma, and they couldn't identify her. She's awake now. Turns out her fingerprints aren't on file anywhere, and the Atlanta cops didn't make the connection between Laura and die woman in the hospital."

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I felt like I'd been holding my breath since I heard that she had disappeared. "That's great, Jeff. What happened?"

  "She went out for a walk and fainted. She apparently hit her head on a curb and was knocked unconscious. Somebody called an ambulance and they took her in. When she came to, she told them who she was. I'm on my way to the hospital now."

  "Is she going to be all right?"

  "I think so. She's awake and lucid. I'll let you know as soon as I know something more."

  "I'll be out-of-pocket tonight, Jeff. I'll call you in the morning."

  A sense of relief swept through me. The dream wasn't an omen. She was alive and well and would probably be her old self soon. I'd get Peggy back to her, and her life would pick up where it had stopped dead with Peggy's disappearance. I would lose Laura again, but I had no claim to her. She had loved me, and I had driven her away. She'd found happiness with a good man, and that was more important to me than having her back. Hell, I'd probably just disappoint her again, and she deserved better. And now, after all these years, we'd be friends again. She would be just a phone call away, and I'd have to be satisfied with that. It was more than I'd had for the past ten years, and it would have to be enough. Love, I think, the real kind, the bone-deep, tissue-pervading emotion that perhaps only comes along once in a lifetime, is controllable, if the object of that love is happy. Even if her happiness includes me only on the periphery of her life.