Deadman's Cay

by Boyd Craven

  He smiled. “We also got ice cold beer, snacks and other stuff in the store,” he said, nodding to the building on the edge of the dock about a hundred feet away.

  “Thanks. I think I might need to refill the cooler,” I grinned back.

  I went in and bought two cases of beer and, almost as an afterthought, two cases of pop and a case of Gatorade. I had a water maker, but if we found the kids, who knew what kind of shape they would be in? Maybe a cold pop would be exactly what they wanted. Maybe a Gatorade would be what they needed? I knew Irish John had also stocked the boat full of food, but what would a nine-year-old to fourteen-year-old girl eat? I wasn’t sure the fish, beans and rice were fare I could get them to eat easily. That was when I ended up investing about two hundred dollars in beer, nonalcoholic drinks, chocolate and chips. My cart was overflowing and, as I pushed it down the dock, I saw Donnie jump up and start jogging my way.

  “Dude, you’re kinda hangry, huh?” he said with a grin.

  “The beer’s for us, I figure the rest is whoever wants it, and the kids.”

  “You’re pretty positive we’re going to get them, aren’t you?” he asked, a smile on his face as he walked down the dock beside me.

  “Failure isn’t an option,” I said simply.

  “You served?” he asked suddenly.

  “No, I heard it on tv somewhere.”

  He chuckled and helped me lift the cart over the fuel line. Irish was supervising that, so Donnie and I started handing over bags of chips, then cases of the drinks.

  “Where you want this stuff?” Serf asked.

  “The cooler that isn’t bloody. We’re not savages, we gotta have our beer cold,” I said.

  “Just be careful of the sheriff department’s boats,” the fuel jockey said, “unless you got an alcohol permit.”

  “We’re just out fishing for pleasure,” I told him.

  “But it’s a commercially registered boat, right? Trust me bro, lots easier if they don’t see you with a beer in your hand driving this thing.”

  “Point,” I said nodding to him as the last of the supplies were loaded.

  I turned and ran the cart back up to the store, leaving it in the little cart corral, and jogged back down to my boat. It needed a new name, but I still hadn’t been struck by lightning.

  “Almost done,” Irish John called to me.

  “I thought you filled it last time?” I asked him.

  “I ’tought I did too, but must have bigger tank ‘dan ‘da gauges show. I can still hear… Okay, stop fuel, ’dat’s it,” he called, making a cutoff motion to the jockey.

  He handed the gas handle back over, making sure to keep the long hose from sliding into the water between the boat and the dock. I waited, figuring it would be easier to pay up at his level. He told me the price and I gulped. I peeled off a significant amount of money and paid the man.

  “Get a receipt,” Serf called. “It’s all tax deductible and you’re getting reimbursed.”

  I nodded to the man who was waiting for the answer and he penciled one out in a receipt book, and then gave it to me. I slipped him some money in the way of a tip, and jumped over.

  “Food and drinks too,” Serf said, taking the receipt.

  “Seriously?” I said.

  “Having your own business is always an amazing opportunity to prevent the federal government from taxing you unnecessarily,” Donnie said with a grin.

  I expected the cops to have frowns, but they were laughing, stuffing the beers into the third cooler on top of the pop and Gatorades, covering all with the ice Irish had thoughtfully gotten as part of our cover. You would think going on a boat ride into uncertain danger with barely a plan would have bothered them as much as it did me, but maybe they were just going along with it the same way I was. The whole child trafficking angle complicated things, but if working with them got me to Eduardo, I would be along for the ride for the rest of things, helping however I could.

  “Thanks!” I called to the gas jockey who tossed me the lines.

  Irish motored us away from the marina traffic, and out into the big blue ocean.

  “Go wake da boys,” Irish said, nudging me.

  I turned and patted Serf and Donnie’s feet as they swung in the hammocks, both of them immediately coming awake. I headed below and found both Mark and Charles playing cards at the small table that had been put back into place.

  “Irish says we’re getting close,” I said.

  They folded their cards and came up, leaving their long guns near where I had left mine, out of sight. We all wore big loose Hawaiian shirts to cover our pistols except me. I was in my regular white tank top, the gun belt and pouch out in the open, a sight Irish John said wasn’t unusual out here. By the time I got back out on deck, Serf had a pair of binoculars going, and Donnie was getting some lines in the water. I dug into the cooler and grabbed a Doctor Pepper and cracked it open.

  “I see it. Small sand bar with a stilt shack above it. There’s a dingy tied off. When the tide is high, that sand bar would be completely under water.”

  “How the hell did Eduardo get all the way down here in that little boat?” I asked anybody who would listen.

  “Could have driven down and then motored out,” Mark said without turning, pretending to fish now.

  “It might not even be him there,” Donnie said. “We’re just going to have to see.”

  “Without giving ourselves away,” I said, grumpily.

  “Yeah, no cover, so we’ll have to go right on by it. It’d be damn helpful if we started catching fish as we went by,” I said softly.

  “Tony, can you hand me my bag?” Irish John asked.

  “Sure?” I said, figuring he wanted another drink. I went below and got the small black canvas bag he had brought and went up top and gave it to him.

  He adjusted the steering a bit, then zipped it open. A black pistol gleamed back from within, but it wasn’t what he had been looking for. He pulled a diving knife, probably six inches worth of blade with a sheath from inside, and then zipped it back up, tossing the bag into the storage shelf to the right of the wheel.

  “That thing registered?” Detective Terrey asked.

  “Did your momma register when Irish John rock her world?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

  For a second, I thought both of them were going to throw down, but then the detective bust into surprising laughter. Irish strapped the diving knife to his left forearm and watched the GPS as we came close.

  “Fish on!” Donnie called loudly, his rod tip bent over.

  “You’ve got to be kidding—” Serf started to say, when another rod bent over.

  “It’s a double!” Mark screamed loudly. “Wooohooooo!”

  I knew what they were doing, and although being loud and obnoxious kind of went counter to what a secret mission was all about, they looked and sounded like drunked-up fishermen on a boat ride after a long morning in the sun. That was exactly the only play I figured we could pull off.

  “Tony, see how da water gets deep around ‘dis sand bar here and here?” he asked as the guys out back half watched the stilt structure come into sight as the others fished. “See, the GPS and sonar?” he drew my attention back to him.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Troll ‘dis area, make a big circle. Be loud and obvious.”

  “What are you going to do?” I hissed as the rest of the guys in back were clueless about our conversation.

  “Irish John knows what he does. Irish John is ‘da best at ‘dis,” he spoke as he stripped out of his shirt and tossed the bowler hat on the ledge behind the steering wheel.

  “You’re going now?” I asked him, before he could make a step.

  “Yes, trust Irish John. If your man is in ‘dere, I will not kill him.”

  “What if he kills you?” I hissed.

  “Irish John an old man, who lived very good life. What the ocean gives, the ocean can take. See you soon my boy,” he said, drifting to the far side of the boat.
r />   I took the wheel and followed the color of the water for a second, and when I turned back, Irish had slipped into the water without any of us seeing him. I followed the deeper water and scanned the surface. I had no clue how he thought he was going to avoid the hooks trolling through the water behind him, or if he had swum under or… I didn’t know. I was almost starting to panic.

  “Hey, where did John go?” Serf asked loudly.

  “Hit the head. You guys want another beer?” I called back at the same volume.

  “Sure,” they all chorused.

  I made sure we were on course and went to the cooler and pulled five out. Three in one hand, two in another. I handed them over and went back to the steering wheel and cracked mine open while two fish were landed, a beautiful snook and something that Donnie immediately tossed back before I could see what it was. They all cracked their bottles of beer as we all tried not to stare at the stilt structure we were passing twenty yards away. I got ready to make my turn when a figure appeared in one of the window cutouts; a Hispanic looking face looking out past the sheets of plywood. I started my turn.

  “Keep those lines in the water boys, looks like the fishing here is good,” I said loudly, taking another swig.

  Serf walked up to me. “What are you doing?” he asked quietly, taking a pull from his beer.

  “Irish went over the side already,” I said. “He was gone before I could do anything.”

  Serf nodded and went to the back and quickly told the others in hushed voices. Two of the rods were reeled in and the two that had just caught fish were tossed back out. Serf and Donnie made a show of going through the topwater baits as I found the deeper water and turned the boat again to make a pass on the other side of the shack. It’s construction seemed simple. Posts in the water with criss-crossed supports. A platform had been built there, and a crude shack built on top with a shed roof, and window cutouts on each side, except what I assumed was the front, where there was a doorway and a ladder beneath it running down to the sand.

  We could all see movement within the shack itself, but it was what was coming out of the water that had me doing a double take. Irish John, wiry thin, emerged from the surf, was quietly padding to the opposite side the boat was on, and beginning to climb the ladder. While whoever was inside had eyes on us, we were pulling him and his eyes away from the doorway.

  “Son of a…” Serf muttered as we turned again.

  I watched as the face moved to a new window cutout, staring at us. I saw movement and a flash, and realized it was the sun, reflecting off binoculars. I turned to the face in the cutout and flipped it off with both hands. The binoculars dropped as the the noise started from within. A loud shout went out and something black arced out the side window. Then a man began pleading in a Hispanic accent.

  “You dummy assholes, does Irish John have to do every ‘tings hisself?” The new shout came from the shack.

  “Shit…” Donnie undid his gun belt and dove into the water.

  We were not far from shore, and Serf was already putting his and Donnie’s gun belts in a dry bag, and then he was over the side himself. They made it to the sand at different points at more or less the same time. Serf opened the bag and handed Donnie his gear, while he donned his own. Together they drew their weapons and moved to the ladder.

  “How many, John?” Serf asked.

  “Just da one, unless you count old Irish John, ’den ’dere be two of us! Ha!”

  “You know, we should probably be…” Charles said, but Mark was shaking his head, “We’re in international waters. That sand bar probably doesn’t exist in another hour. This is just a no name shack in the middle of nobody’s land. Let’s let the kids do what they gotta do.”

  “You know we’re probably going to be hung out to dry for this, right?” Terrey asked.

  “Yeah, well, if we pull this off, neither of us will have to worry about that, now will we?” Mark shot back.

  I only half listened as the two cops argued over who was the worst screwed career-wise, and I watched as Serf and Donnie climbed that ladder like cracked out monkeys with their dealer’s Rottweiler coming to sic ‘em in the ass. After a few minutes, there was a loud cry in Spanish, and some grunts. Irish John emerged in the doorway, putting the diving knife back on the sheath on his forearm. He began climbing down.

  “You trow ’em, Irish John catch,” he said, starting to untie the dingy.

  “No, you won’t,” Donnie shouted back.

  “You right. Irish John looking for big rock to put in spot you trow ’em down!” He laughed.

  “Is it him?” I shouted hoarsely.

  “Yeah,” Serf said, emerging with a bound man over his shoulders.

  His body was limp. For a moment I worried he was dead - I wanted to be the one to do that to him - then I saw his leg twitch a little bit. Maybe that whole thing Irish and Donnie were doing was a charade to keep him from fighting too much, because they could have just dropped him the eight odd feet to the sand below. I reversed the engine to stop my movement, then cut it.

  We waited and could hear the three of them talking, when they literally dropped Eduardo into the dingy. They didn’t bother starting it, but Donnie rode with the prisoner while Serf pushed it out, swimming behind it. The sheriff grabbed the rope from the front of the dingy when it got close and waited as Donny moved forward, dragging Eduardo to his feet. I was the biggest guy in my boat at the moment, so I walked over.

  His legs were bound together, and his wrists were zip tied behind his back. He saw me and went pale. I reached down and lifted him into the boat by his armpits, like he was a little kid who had done something naughty and daddy was about to give him an attitude adjustment. I carried him eye level with me across the deck and sat him down on the drink cooler.

  “If you move, I’m going to beat you to death. I can tell from your eyes you remember me, right?”

  “Si,” he said, looking for help that wasn’t coming.

  “You watch him, I’ll help the boys,” Charles said behind me.

  “That’s fine,” I said, showing Eduardo the smile that my ex-girlfriend had said curdled milk. If it was possible, he went even more pale.

  “What do you guys want us to do with the shack? Irish John is getting the map tacked to the wall down, but there’s some food, water, a sleeping mat, some fishing shit and a few keys of coke.”

  “Burn it?” I asked without turning.

  “I mean, that’s evidence.”

  “In international waters,” I said. “Honestly, I don’t want to leave that place standing, unless you think it’d give away our next move?”

  Eduardo looked at me funny, his head tilted.

  “How about this: we take the drugs as evidence to help make this bust more legit, then torch the place, and if the guy doesn’t talk, we can always toss the drugs in the same spot we leave his corpse.”

  “I like that plan,” I said after a second.

  Serf set off to make that happen while Donnie tied the dingy to a cleat in the back.

  “Noticed you didn’t have one,” he told me, then walked over. “Want him tied to something?”

  “I dunno. Will it make him break easier when I start asking him questions?”

  “Depends, bro. You want to bust him in the head, probably hurt you more if his head is stuck against a support pole.”

  “Yeah, and it might kill him instead of just making him wish I were killing him. Hm…”

  Donnie was grinning wickedly, then got some more rope out from one of the bumper lines and tied a quick noose. Then he attached it to one of the support poles. If Eduardo tried to jump overboard, he would be hanging himself. Nice.

  “It’s the little touches that make this so special,” Mark said.

  The four of us waited while me and Donnie debated loudly where and how hard we planned to beat him and break his bones while the policemen stood on, pretending to be deaf and mute. Eduardo said nothing but listened to everything. It wasn’t long until I smelled smok
e and then heard Irish John and Serf from the back near the dingy.

  “Need an extra hand, your boat’s too damned tall,” Serf complained.

  I reached down and pulled him mostly up until he could get his hands on either side of the transom and power himself over. I reached down for Irish John and was easily able to pull my friend up and into the boat.

  “You crazy son of a bitch,” I said with a grin.

  “Told you, son, Irish John ‘da best.”

  “The best at what?”

  “All ‘da ’tings.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Now, son, where are we wanting to go?” he asked the group who now stood around Eduardo.

  “Just about ready to get talking to him. I figured you’d want to be around—”

  “I’m not telling you anything,” he said, finding courage and spitting in my direction.

  I laughed as everybody else went silent. I laughed loudly, as fake as it was, and then bitch smacked the taste right out of his mouth, laughing in his face as his head rocked back so hard, he fell over backwards. I reached down and grabbed him by the throat and started lifting. I was sure it was painful, but Eduardo helped me get him to his feet very quickly, all the while I still laughed at him. Blood filmed his teeth, and his eyes were wide.

  “You’re not going to tell me anything?” I said, still laughing at him.

  “No,” he said quietly.

  “Irish John, find us at least three hundred feet of water, if you would, sir.”

  “Why three hundred feet?” Serf asked.

  “I’ve got three hundred and fifty feet of chain and rope. I figure if I tie the anchors to his ankles and drop him down, we can probably get him back up here, before he drowns. Maybe. Might blow out his ear drums, make his eyeballs pop out of his head, maybe…” the boat started, and Irish John gave it some hard throttle, “…he gets an embolism on the way back up. I don’t know. I figure I could also poke a couple holes in him before we drop him over. Nothing life threatening, but it’d make him interesting to any meat eaters down there.”

  Eduardo looked from me to the others.