I set my iPhone down on the table where the display eerily illuminated a polished conch shell. ‘Do you have pencil and paper?’
Molly rose from her chair. ‘I’ll go get it.’
‘My inclination is to hop in Pro Bono and toot on over there,’ I said, only half in jest.
‘Oh, that would be a grand idea!’ Molly scolded. ‘They’d hear us coming the minute we left your dock!’ She returned a few minutes later with a candlestick, balanced it carefully on the porch rail and settled into her chair, the notebook on her lap. ‘When did you first notice the lights?’
‘Ten fifteen, or thereabouts.’
Molly’s pencil moved across the page. ‘How many lights, and what did they seem to be doing?’
As Molly wrote, I tried to recall everything I’d seen from the porch of Windswept before coming over to wake her up. Between the two of us, we recorded a timeline all the way up to 11:08 p.m. at which point my cellphone battery died and the digital clock on its face winked out.
So I’m not exactly sure what time it was when we first heard the drone of an engine.
I picked up my binoculars, ready for action. ‘Here comes the plane!’
The hum of the engine became a thrum. From the volume and direction of the sound, I figured the pilot was navigating along the island chain, aided by lights in the settlements below. I wondered if he depended on those lights, or if he had a GPS. If not, his job would be tricky, as large portions of the islands would be darker than usual tonight.
To be on the safe side, I blew out the candle just as the airplane buzzed the tops of Molly’s trees, aiming for the makeshift runway less than half a mile away.
‘Damn! I wish these things would stop wiggling.’ Molly leaned forward, elbows propped up on the porch rail, trying to stabilize the binoculars. ‘What are they doing now?’
‘The plane’s on the ground. Wait a minute! They’ve started up some sort of portable generator light. I can almost make out . . .’
‘I got it now. What are those people doing?’
We watched, transfixed, as six or seven men swarmed over the runway removing packages from the airplane, loading them on a dune buggy, and driving them down to the beach.
‘It is drugs,’ I said. ‘Gotta be. Cocaine, most likely. Hell! I wish I had a night-vision camera!’
‘Shouldn’t we call somebody?’
‘Even if the power were on, we couldn’t use the radio, or we’d tip them off.’ I reached for my iPhone. ‘Oh, damn. Not much use without a charger.’
‘What are they doing with the packages?’
‘They’re stashing them underwater.’ I told Molly about my visit to the pier, and about the rectangular impressions I’d seen in the sea grass.
‘How on earth do they keep the drugs dry?’
‘I’m certainly not an expert in that department, Molly. Wrap them up good in plastic, I guess.’
‘What happens next?’
‘I don’t know. You’d think they’d fly the cocaine straight into the States without stopping here first.’
‘Maybe it’s easier to fly a plane into the Bahamas than it is into the States. DEA and the Coast Guard have really been cracking down if what I see on CNN is true.’
‘Maybe they’re putting drugs on the plane!’
We watched all the to-ings and fro-ings, taking careful notes.
By midnight, whatever they’d been doing was finished. The dune buggy disappeared, the lights were extinguished, and everything was as it had been before. Dark and quiet.
‘Let’s go over in the morning. Check out the pier.’
‘We can take my boat,’ Molly said.
‘I don’t mind driving.’
‘My outboard is quieter than yours,’ she said, sealing the deal. ‘When do you want to leave?’
‘Can you be ready at dawn? I’d like to get over there just as the sun is coming up. There’ll be less chance of being spotted.’ I grinned. ‘Especially since everyone seems to have been up partying so late.’
‘We need to tell Gator what we’re doing.’
‘We’ll tell Gator after we check it out.’
I was awake before the sun, stunned into consciousness at five thirty a.m. by the squeal of my wind-up alarm clock. The power was still out, but at least I could see in the gray light of dawn.
I got dressed, fed Dickie, then went over to wake up Molly. She was already up. When I entered her kitchen the aroma of fresh coffee nearly made me swoon. The woman was a magician. ‘How did you do that?’ I asked.
‘Gas stove.’
She handed me a paper cup. ‘So you can take it with you,’ and poured a cup for herself. She opened the refrigerator, grabbed the milk and closed the door quickly, so that as little of the cool air would escape as possible. ‘I’ll run the generator when I get back. It’ll be fine,’ she said, and repeated the procedure to put the milk back in.
She pushed a box across the counter. ‘Cinnamon bun?’
‘Where did you get them?’
‘Lola’s. Made a trip over to Man-O-War the other day.’
Lola’s cinnamon buns – and her bread and her rolls – are on everyone’s Best Of list. Heaven is Lola’s buns and coffee. We walked down the dock, sipping coffee and munching.
Good Golly’s white rubber hull glistened with dew. Molly grabbed a towel and dried our seats, then I hopped down and joined her. She started the engine, backed slowly out of her slip, and soon we were on our way toward Hawksbill Cay.
Molly didn’t approach Poinciana Cove directly. We aimed for the settlement, then slowed the engine almost to an idle as we eased around the point, cutting as close to shore as possible.
Although the beach was deserted, we could see the plane still sitting on the runway. ‘It’s a Haviland, I think. A six seater.’
‘How do you know so much about airplanes, Molly?’
‘My late husband flew a Piper Cherokee.’
We passed the end of the runway, approaching the dock. The Zodiac drew only a few inches of water, so we could get up as close as the propeller of the outboard would allow. At the dock, Molly killed the engine, and we worked our way silently towards shore, using the oars.
‘What’s that?’
Intent on paddling, Molly said, ‘Where?’
‘Under the water. Looks like a torpedo from here.’ I told Molly about the object I’d noticed in Henry Allen’s slides.
Raising her oar out of the water, Molly peered down. ‘Could be some sort of water-sampling device.’
I shook my head. ‘I think it’s a submarine.’ I leaned way over until my face was almost in the water. ‘A real do-it-yourself job, too, like they put it together out of a plan in Popular Mechanics.’
Although my iPhone was dead, I’d remembered to bring my camera along. I snapped a picture of the object. Molly sculled, edging the dinghy a few feet closer and I shot another one, hoping the pictures would turn out in the flat, early-morning light.
‘Hey!’ someone shouted. ‘Private property! Get away from here!’
I snapped a few more pictures before turning around. ‘Is that the same guard that tried to run us off the other day?’
Molly squinted toward the beach. ‘I think so. Just ignore him. We’re not on private . . .’
Bloof-phoom! The side of the Zodiac I was sitting on exploded. A split second later, I heard a gunshot. ‘My God! He’s shooting at us.’
Molly and I dropped to the floor of the inflatable trying to put the tube between our bodies and the shooter. Foomp! Another bullet zinged into the section of the tube nearest the outboard engine. Air didn’t hiss out of the tube compartments, it exploded with a foosht like a balloon being let go, propelling poor Good Golly sideways.
Molly had been flung to the hard floor of the inflatable. I leaned over her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I think I broke my butt bone.’
‘Can you start the engine?’
It was impossible to keep her head completely down, but Molly
eeled her way into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine cranked, caught, and Molly began to back us away from the dock.
This seemed to be the desired result, because the shooting stopped. When I dared to look toward the beach, the guard still stood there, holding his gun sideways like Brad Pitt in Seven. ‘We’re looking for sand dollars, you asshole! Are you trying to kill us?’
He lowered his weapon. ‘If I were, you’d be dead.’
That was probably true. In spite of his gangsta-style shooting posture, he’d been remarkably accurate. With a silent apology to Molly I yelled, ‘I’ve got an elderly lady with me here. We’re sinking! Call somebody!’
The guard turned, holstering his gun at the small of his back. ‘Sorry, don’t think I can hear you.’ And he disappeared over a dune.
As Good Golly limped toward Hawksbill settlement, I noticed that one of the guard’s bullets had passed completely though the starboard side tube, missing my leg by inches, and plowed into the port-side tube, deflating it, too. Only one of the four ‘air-tight’ compartments in the Zodiac was holding air. In less than five minutes, Good Golly had been transformed from a perky little wave-dancer into a flaccid cushion of uncooperative rubberized fabric.
Baling was useless. So was calling nine-one-one. We were in no danger of drowning in only four feet of water.
‘Keep her near the shore, Molly. Let’s try to make it to the beach this side of the marina. If we have to abandon ship, at least we’ll be able to walk.’
Molly managed to coax another ten yards out of Good Golly before the weight of the wooden floor and the outboard motor defeated her. We rolled out of the boat and dug our feet into the sand. Using the ropes that were looped on each side of the boat, we started hauling her ashore.
‘I hope my camera isn’t ruined.’ I huffed, tugging on the rope. Good Golly’s propeller was dragging, making our job even harder.
‘Your camera? Boo hoo. How about my boat?’
‘Sorry.’ We were standing in water up to our ankles. A few more yards, and Good Golly would be beached.
‘Hannah?’
While Molly tilted the outboard up and out of the way of the bottom, I gave the boat a final tug. ‘Ooph!’
‘If that submarine thingy is related to the activity we saw last night, and if someone is running drugs out of Tamarind Tree Resort, why aren’t we dead?’
‘Maybe that guard wasn’t involved with anything that went on last night. I don’t have a lot of experience in running a drug cartel, but I imagine it’s pretty much “need to know.” All he needed to know was “Hey, Joe, keep everyone off that beach.”’
‘He could have killed us.’
‘I know. And he’s not going to get away with it.’
Although it would have taken a team of X-Men to steal Good Golly at that point, we tied her carefully to a poisonwood tree, nevertheless. While Molly shook sand out of her tennis shoes, I tucked my soaking-wet T-shirt into my shorts and tried to look halfway presentable.
‘Where to?’ Molly asked.
‘First we’re going to see Gator. Then, I’m going to make sure you get your boat back.’
SEVENTEEN
ANY PERSON WHO PURCHASES, ACQUIRES OR HAS IN HIS POSSESSION, USES OR CARRIES A GUN WITHOUT A LICENCE THEREFOR SHALL BE LIABLE . . . TO IMPRISONMENT FOR A TERM OF TEN YEARS AND TO A FINE OF TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS.
Commonwealth Of The Bahamas, Statute Law,
Chapter 213, Part IV, Section 15(2)(a)
CONDITIONS AT FOX HILL PRISON, THE COUNTRY’S ONLY PRISON, REMAINED HARSH. THE PRISON REMAND AREA, BUILT TO HOLD 300 PRISONERS, WAS INSUFFICIENT TO HOLD THE 650 PRISONERS AWAITING TRIAL, LEAVING MANY PRE-TRIAL DETAINEES CONFINED IN CELLS WITH CONVICTED PRISONERS [WHERE THEY] WERE CROWDED INTO POORLY VENTILATED CELLS THAT GENERALLY LACKED REGULAR RUNNING WATER, TOILETS, AND LAUNDRY FACILITIES. MOST PRISONERS LACKED BEDS, SLEPT ON CONCRETE FLOORS, AND WERE LOCKED IN SMALL CELLS 23 HOURS PER DAY, OFTEN WITH HUMAN WASTE.
Bahamas, US Department of State, Country Reports
on Human Rights Practices, 2006
It wasn’t even eight o’clock, but I felt like I’d lived a whole lifetime since dawn. Leaving the ruined Zodiac behind us on the beach, Molly and I trudged over the dune and on to the Queen’s Highway. Wet, disheveled, my hair and clothing stiff with salt, I hoped we wouldn’t run into anyone we knew. On Hawksbill Cay, that simply wasn’t possible.
At the Pink Store, the generator was working overtime, keeping the lights and refrigeration running. Winnie had just opened her doors, so we bought bottled apple juice out of the cold case and had to explain to Winnie why we looked like objects the cat dragged in – ‘damn dinghy overturned’ – before being allowed to sit outside on the bench to drink it.
I was relieved to find Gator in his shack, getting his equipment ready for the day. ‘Morning, ladies.’ It took a moment for our appearance to register. ‘Jesus, what happened to you?’
I was in no mood to mince words. ‘We took Molly’s boat over to Poinciana Point this morning where one of Rudy Mueller’s goons pulled a gun and shot Molly’s Zodiac out from under us.’
From the look of astonishment on Gator’s face, I knew there were a lot of things about that statement that didn’t exactly fit with laid-back island life. ‘He pulled a gun?’
Molly, her hands primly folded in front of her, said, ‘An automatic.’
‘Mueller’s people aren’t licensed for guns. Were you on Mueller’s property?’
She shook her head. ‘We were on the water.’
‘Unbelievable!’
‘That’s what we thought, too, as we were paddling for our lives.’
Gator put down the swim fin he was adjusting. ‘Which guard was it, do you know?’
‘He wasn’t one of the college kids. He’s older, in his thirties maybe. Blond hair. Wears one of those ridiculous soul patches on his chin, so he’s either a sloppy shaver, or going for a retro Frank Zappa look. Poinciana Cove must be his beat because we’d run into him there before.’
‘Before. What’s this before business?’
I bit my thumbnail and tried to look demure. ‘We were collecting sand dollars. There are a lot of really nice ones over there.’
‘Sand dollars! Give me a break. So you were trespassing?’
‘When that man accosted us,’ Molly insisted, ‘we were well below the high-water mark.’
‘And today,’ I hastened to add, ‘we were on the water. On public property, so to speak. That’s what we want to talk to you about.’
‘I think we better sit down.’
Gator retrieved a couple of plastic lawn chairs from underneath a tarp, unfolded them, and placed them side by side on the concrete apron that surrounded his shack. He pulled up an empty barrel, turned it over and sat down facing us. ‘OK. Shoot.’
‘Last night after dinner, Molly and I were sitting on her porch and saw some unusual activity going on over at the Tamarind Tree Resort. Near the runway.’ I went on to explain about the lights, the plane, and the mysterious packages. ‘Molly tells me that she observed similar activity approximately a month ago, around the time that Frank and Sally Parker went missing.’
Gator opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut.
Molly shot me a glance. ‘I think we’ve stunned him into silence.’
‘That’s why we went over there this morning,’ I went on. ‘The plane is still parked on the runway, at least it was about an hour ago, but it’s what we saw tied up at the end of the dock that was interesting.’ I stood and rooted in the pocket of my cargo shorts until I found my camera. ‘I took some pictures of it, but I’m afraid my camera got a good dunking.’
I pressed the ON/OFF switch on the camera but, as I had feared, nothing happened. ‘Damn! Must be the battery. I’ll dry it out, then see if it’ll hold a charge.’
I opened a compartment on the side of the camera and pulled out the tiny memory chip. ‘But there shouldn’t be anything wrong with this.’ I held it out.
‘Do you have something you can read it on?’
‘Have you seen my office?’
‘All right, then. I’ll take it back to the house, dry everything out, and see what we have.’ I tucked the chip back into the camera for safekeeping. ‘I can email it to you as an attachment.’
Gator raised both hands, palms out. ‘So, let’s cut to the chase. Tell me what you think you have on that chip.’
‘Frankly, Gator, I’m not sure. It looks like a World War II torpedo, except it’s painted blue. Rusty in spots, pretty banged up. It’s got this propeller thing on the tail.’ I demonstrated by rotating my finger rapidly in the air.
‘How long?’
I shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Thirty feet maybe?’
‘Could it have been a submarine?’
‘It didn’t have a conning tower, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Kind of small for a submarine,’ Molly interjected. ‘You could squeeze a couple of people into it, but there wouldn’t be room enough to swing a cat.’
Gator stood up, tugged at the waistband of his shorts. ‘I think I’d better have a look. Have you called the police to report the shooting?’
‘I would have, but we don’t have a generator, so my cellphone ran out of juice last night.’
‘That’s all right. We can use mine. Then, I’m going to get you ladies back to your cottages.’
For the first time since we set off on our morning adventure, Molly smiled. ‘Thanks. I’d forgotten for a moment that my boat is out of commission.’
Gator dropped me at my dock, then ferried Molly to hers. I dragged myself along the planking, the vision of a long, hot soapy shower shimmering like a mirage at the end of the sidewalk. I’d actually taken my clothes off and climbed into the shower enclosure before I remembered – no power, no water pump, no water. Stark naked, I leaned back against the wall and bawled.
I was taking a shower at Molly’s when the power came back on. After Molly cut off her generator, I did a little happy dance around her garden.
Without a Grave Page 18
