In alignment with wind and waves, boating was not so much dangerous as battering. Sailing around the world in a one-woman boat, never high on Anna's list, was dropped from adventures she would like to have before she died. The bow broke through the uppermost part of oncoming waves, then fell to the trough and again began to climb. Anna didn't sit, bent her knees and every other trick she could remember from years back. Still she was jarred to the marrow. She'd once met a ranger from St. John National Park in the Virgin Islands who'd broken vertebrae in his neck in just such water as this. The bones had cracked from the pressure of being jammed repeatedly.
What with other matters clogging her mind, a piece of key information had gotten by her. Or she hadn't had a context in which it would show as important.
Patrice had radioed. A red go-fast boat had passed Loggerhead heading east.
East Key was Anna's bet.
In the Dry Tortugas nothing that wasn't man-made stuck up much above sea level. Even the few trees tended to be stunted, low to the ground, evolved to withstand the hurricanes that blew each summer and autumn. East Key had no trees, just a courageous collection of salt scrub bushes circled between the dunes like a wagon train in Indian Territory. The waves were higher than the sand dunes on the tiny key, and Anna watched from the crest of each as she breached, looking for the small island. Possibly the key was underwater in storms. She'd not served at this posting long enough to know. The park was mostly shallow water. In rough weather, when the water was scraped into mountains and the valleys were hare, some of the coral reefs were too close to the surface to pass over in a boat.
When she knew she was almost upon it, East Key chose to reveal itself. The Reef Ranger rose on a crest and ahead less than fifty yards was a wave of another color. Not awash, Anna noted and wondered if her hoped-for hurricane would have drowned it.
Wind shifted from south to southeast. It was safer to land on the windward side in the natural sandy scoop of beach. Not only was the wind direction right but Anna had beached in this spot before. Today was not the day to learn new terrain. She waited for a lull, then powered the Boston Whaler in, letting the wave she'd ridden lift her onto the sand. Having pulled anchor and chain out of its nest in the bow, she threw it as far up on the sand as she could. Not far. Anchors were not made for small women to use as projectile weapons.
When she jumped the few feet from the deck to the beach, she fell on hands and knees. The ride over had altered her perception of fixed. A part of her reptilian brain expected the beach to rush up to meet her as the deck had for the past twenty minutes. She dragged the anchor to high ground-high ground on East Key being about three feet above low ground-dug it deep into the sand and hoped for the best. What she needed to do wouldn't take long.
Rain pelted her in dime-sized drops. Wind pushed and snatched at her till she felt as beleaguered as if a pack of children attacked her. The lee side of the key behind the largest dune, running the length of East Key-sixty or so feet-was the most likely place. That shore was almost on the park's boundary. Beyond it the bottom of the ocean fell away abruptly into the deeps of the Atlantic. Using hands and feet, a low profile to the prevailing wind, she scooted crablike over the ridge and slid down the other side where the courageous shrubs dwelt.
There she began pawing about, a dog in a field of bones. It wasn't long before she found what she knew must be there. She wasn't exactly searching for a needle in a haystack.
Bright blue fuel containers had been buried up under the dune. Not buried precisely, but shoved with a camouflage netting and sand thrown over them.
East Key, then, was where the first go-fast boat, the Scarab piloted by Ramon Diego, had been headed when Bob had happened upon it. After it, along with its cargo, exploded, a new fuel cache had to be put in place. Fuel caches discovered on remote keys weren't unheard of. Smugglers using the fast boats with their powerful engines and tremendous fuel consumption would often leave diesel or gasoline to refuel after a run so they could get back to their homeport in Cuba, Mexico or Central America, where the coast guard couldn't reach them.
East Key, though not often visited, could in no way be considered abandoned. In the summer the pleasure boats frequenting the park occasionally beached there to picnic and swim. At least once every couple of days a ranger came by on patrol. Unless they noticed something untoward, she and Bob never landed. There was no need. The entire key could be seen from the deck of the boats. A fuel cache would probably be safe enough for a few days or a week. By the hasty and slipshod nature of the sand-and-camo hiding place, Anna guessed the people who put it there planned on using it soon. The amount of fuel suggested a much bigger operation than Anna had envisioned from the piecemeal information she'd waded through.
Rocking back on her heels, she turned her face into the wind, hoping the rain would clear her vision. Bad idea. There was simply too much water in the world. Anna wished she had swim goggles or a wide-brimmed hat.
Weather permitting, Mack was due back to the fort on the morning ferry. The fuel cache, Theresa, Lanny's mental collapse, fort personnel in conference in Homestead, Mack's timely departure and return: the event was probably planned for tonight or tomorrow night. Tonight the weather would be on their side.
For once crime in the park was not Anna's problem. This fell under the coast guard's jurisdiction first. Immigration and Naturalization was the second line of defense. Anna's only job was to holler for help.
She scrambled back up the side of the dune. "Shit," she whispered and flung herself backward, landing hard on the wet sand. Air flew from her lungs and she suffered that horrific moment when it feels as if they will never remember how to breathe again. Breath returned. She rolled onto her belly and crept back up to peek over the low crest.
Beached beside the Reef Ranger was a sleek torpedo of a machine, the red go-fast boat Donna had seen; the one that brought and cached the fuel.
There were two men onboard. Two more stood on the beach, their backs to her. Mack was on the Reef Ranger. For a moment the men shouted at each other, trying to be heard over the wind. Then the two on the beach turned. Anna slipped down but not before she saw that both carried automatic weapons. Uzis, maybe. Something small and evil looking.
They'd killed Theresa. God knew why. Maybe love had turned her and she'd threatened to tell Lanny. Men who carried automatic weapons weren't famous for their mercy. Chances are they'd chosen a less violent alternative with Lanny because a dead ranger would cause an investigation. A crazy one wouldn't.
Me they'll kill, Anna thought and wondered what the hell she was going to do about it. Rain pounded her face and chest making it hard to see, to think. The sand spit had no cover, no hiding places. For an instant she considered burying herself but knew there wasn't time.
A shoot-out was doomed from the start. She would probably kill the two walking in her direction. As satisfying as it might be at the moment, it would only add to the death toll. The other three, undoubtedly armed as well, would kill her sure as hell.
As if to ratify her worst fears, the rattle of automatic weapons fire raked the dune just above her, the force exploding sand out and down. Shouting followed. Ears ringing and blood pounding, Anna couldn't make out the words. She chose not to hang around and try.
Belly down on the sand, she crawled for the sea. What she would do there wasn't clear in her mind. Only that it's warm embrace and the company of sharks was suddenly the lesser of evils.
The surf met her in a smothering crash. She pushed on, her vest and gear keeping her belly to the sandy bottom, waves breaking over her back. Shouting followed but not gunfire. Taking a last breath she dove under. The water was but two or three feet deep. Blind with sandstorm winds churned into the water, she swam till her lungs felt close to bursting. When she could stand it no longer, she came up. The water was still no more than three feet deep. Poking her head out, she let the air explode from her lungs, sucked in fresh breath laced with salt water and fought not to cough. No way could she surviv
e in the open sea unless she dumped her gear. Using all her strength and an aching lungful of air, she'd traveled less than the length of a standard gym pool.
The two men with the automatic weapons had followed. One was on shore, the other, waist-deep in the waves, was less than forty feet away. His face was turned from her, searching the place where she'd gone under.
"There." The man on the beach had spotted her.
He raised his weapon but didn't shoot; afraid he'd hit his companion as well as his prey. The Uzi-or whatever it was-he held at his hip like a movie gangster. Evidently he'd never learned to aim but only to spray bullets. Anna took little comfort in that. Close as she was, even in an undifferentiated hail of bullets, one or two would probably hit her.
Anger so hot it surprised her the ocean didn't begin to boil and so intense it burned away fear rose from the depths of her soul. For a year after her husband Zach was killed, Anna had wanted to die. For a time after that she'd chosen to live only to keep Molly happy. Then she'd chosen to stay alive out of sheer spite. Now, when she'd finally realized she didn't want to die because life was so damn good, some son-of-a-bitch was going to shoot her.
The gunman in the water was turning. Anna fought to unsnap the keeper on her holster. Rain and salt water had swelled the leather. The automatic rifle was coming up. She threw herself back, felt the water close over her, her feet rising off the bottom. Her SIG sauer broke free. Without waiting to surface she fired two shots, hoping she wouldn't blow off her own foot. Underwater, unable to see or breathe, her belt pulling her down, her legs rising buoyantly, she felt thrust back into the insane grip of the acid trip. In seconds she found the bottom, pushed off and rose out of the waves, still firing, Venus on a shell casing, she thought idiotically.
The man in the water was screaming, bent over. He yelled: "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" not at Anna but at the man on the beach who'd gone into panic mode, spraying bullets perilously near the wounded man.
Anna neither dodged nor dove. Feet planted against the waves slamming at her back, she took careful aim at the gunman on the shore. Before she could squeeze off a round she heard the crack of gunfire. It was as if she'd been hit between the shoulder blades with a baseball bat.
Helplessly she watched as her service weapon flew out of her hands, watched it disappear beneath the sea taking its own sweet time obeying gravity's laws. She was following it, pitching forward. The man on the shore quit firing. The gunman in the ocean stopped screaming. Weather roared ever so discreetly and there was a moment of utmost peace in the world. Water engulfed her. Again the baseball bat smashed into her. Hands filled with sand; the bottom.
Anna's life retreated into the confines of her skull. The light of her mind was shrinking to a pinpoint. She was blacking out. Pass out and you die. The tiniest part of her welcomed that darkness. It seemed comforting somehow. That which has kept the human race procreating for two million years overrode it.
She concentrated on that pinpoint, willed it to grow brighter.
The light dimmed. Heavy with gear, Anna was sinking. In a last effort she tried to remember where her legs were, tried to get them beneath her, but up and down had become meaningless. With a suddenness that increased the disorientation, she felt herself being pulled. God or the devil seemed in an inordinate hurry to claim her soul.
24
It has been three days and I have begun to despair. Regardless of why Tilly was taken or left, three days on the open sea in that small boat and they would be dead of thirst unless they'd thought to bring water. Joseph has forbidden me to run out on the quay and question sailors. "Unseemly," he calls it, but I feel somehow that he is afraid for me and so I obey. What else can I do? If I continued in the face of his orders he'd simply have me confined to quarters.
Since Tilly disappeared, Joseph's metamorphosis has become complete. What he has changed into I cannot say. The fire that has always been such a part of him has gone out. Where he once raged he is now querulous. The energy that permeated him, flowed from him to ignite men's passions (and, once, mine) has failed. He sits for long periods of time doing nothing. Sometimes it's hard to rouse him.
I spend my days on the third tier of the fort. Construction on that level has stopped. The engineer says this patch of sand cannot bear any more weight. Should they continue piling brick and cannon on it the fort will sink into the sea.
I wish it would.
Sergeant Sinapp, apparently on Joseph's orders, continues to forbid me seeing Sam Arnold or Dr. Mudd. I don't even know where they've been moved, though I suspect they are separated and one is probably condemned to wait out his time in the dungeon.
Joseph promises me that each boat that docks is questioned. None have seen a small sailing skiff either afloat or wrecked.
My thoughts keep turning on Dr. Samuel Mudd and the "proof" of his innocence that Tilly-in genuine innocence-boasted of in front of the soldiers. Whether Tilly could have proved anything is no matter-except, of course, to Dr. Mudd and possibly the other conspirators. Mudd seems to have held himself aloof from them. I believe he finally severed connections entirely when he fought with Mr. Arnold the day before Tilly disappeared. What matters perhaps is only that someone believed her.
I pray to all of the saints who owe Molly a small fortune in candles that if Tilly and Joel left not of their own will but were taken, they were taken by southern sympathizers, men who believe the conspirators should be released. If this is so, Tilly will be guarded, taken care of, treated-one could hope and expect-as a heroine of the confederacy.
Because Joel was taken (or escaped) at the same time, I allow myself hope. Why take Private Lane as well unless one's sympathies were with the south? The hope is small. Too many questions assail it. Why not take Mudd/Arnold? Why take Tilly and not merely the documents-if documents exist? Perhaps because they remain buried in the magazine and Tilly will be needed to testify to their existence?
Was Tilly taken from the fort for her own safety?
I'm sorry, Peg. It is as if I had a skull full of stinging hornets. I can neither eat nor sleep from the pain and the buzzing of questions.
More has happened here than Tilly and Joel's disappearance, though my worry over them was such I didn't notice for the first days. I've told you of Joseph but not of Sinapp. It's as if he has stepped into the captaincy and allows Joseph only the title while he wields the power. It's not just I who have noticed this. There's been grumbling among the men who have been put to extra tasks: cleaning the parade ground, bricking up the ruined cisterns and clearing out the powder magazine. Once I went to the magazine in hopes of having a chance to look for the mysterious documents, but he ordered me away as if I were his laundress and not the captain's wife. I said nothing to Joseph. There would be no point as he continues to ghost about as if his soul was taken along with the children.
I cannot but feel this topsy-turvy situation is in some way connected with Tilly's disappearance. Since I have been banned from the powder magazine and forbidden to speak with Arnold or Mudd, I turned my attention to what I might discover in my own house. Again I searched Tilly's room, looking this time for less obvious things. On her windowsill I found a broken bit of brick. There is certainly no shortage of this commodity on the island, but it has none of the charm of the pretty stones and shells she was in the habit of carrying up to her room. The only reason I can think that she might have such a bit of masonry is that it was thrown through her window, no doubt with the note wrapped around it that enticed her to put on her soiled dress of the day before and sneak out of quarters. The only message that could have induced her to do such a thing would have been from Joel or Dr. Mudd. As the latter is the only one remaining, I am ever more determined to speak with him.
Joseph keeps his desk locked. This is not new. I believe he locks it not because the correspondence of a prison warden-and that is what he has become though it shames me to say it in so many words-pertains to matters of such delicacy it must be secured, but because, having been left out of
the war, he needs to pretend to himself, and, perhaps, to me, that his work is of national importance.
A month ago I would not have dared it-indeed it would have been unthinkable-but I put a letter opener under the top and pried until the lock popped free of its latch. Joseph will see it is broken and will no doubt know that it was I who broke it. In this strange mood that's taken him, I don't think he will say anything. Among his letters I found one that was of interest though of no relevance to my present worries. Joseph has put in for a transfer to a small post in the west, in the Nevada territory. With the war over and the army letting men go, closing forts or leaving them with a skeleton garrison to man them, this is not a good time for a move. Should Joseph get this transfer, he will keep his captaincy but the pay will be that of a second lieutenant.
Joseph is running from something. From Sinapp, I think, though I cannot guess why. I believe Sinapp has found a weapon with which to threaten Joseph.
Reading the transfer papers, the in-all-but-name demotion, the remoteness of the post, the small number of soldiers stationed there, I knew that, should Joseph flee to this place that-surely not forsaken by God, but forsaken by water, green plant life and human beings not well-armed-I will not go with him.
Nevada Barr - Anna Pigeon 11 - Flashback Page 33
