“Thanks for what you did back at the harbor,” she said. “With those reporters.”
“I don’t have fond memories of pushy newshounds.”
“Given that the other planes we’d hired are now grounded, I really need you to shuttle the talent around. Otherwise, this entire show’s kaput. We’ve put all our savings into this event, hoping to get reimbursed through advertising revenues, so if it fails, we’re broke. Of course none of that matters if we can’t find John.”
“Can you postpone the show?”
She shook her head.
“It was so hard to line the celebrities up for this one date—and we’ve already spent the money.” She sat up tall and took in a deep breath. “I have to keep everything under control and hope the authorities find John.”
I thought of Booth.
“I’m sure they’re doing everything possible. The VIPD works closely with the FBI, and the bomb threat brings additional attention to the situation.”
Her gaze drifted back out to sea. The sun hovered over Water Island to the west, and the sky’s colors elicited the standard oohs and aahs from others at the bar, along with speculation about whether there would be a green flash. It was a gorgeous Caribbean sunset and we had a ringside seat, but my mind was micro-focused on Crystal.
“They start arriving en masse day after tomorrow,” she said. “Of course they’re staying in different villas and resorts all over the Virgin Islands.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
She turned back to look straight in my eyes. I sensed a current between us. The hair on my arms stood up.
“I appreciate that, Buck. I need all the help I can get.”
“But for me to help you, I need to know more about whatever threats you’ve received and to be kept in the loop with any updates from the police.”
She turned toward the music as the steel drummer began Three Little Birds. He wasn’t singing, thank God. I didn’t think Crystal would agree that ‘everything was going to be all right.’
“I appreciate that.” She reached out, squeezed the top of my hand, and left hers there. I swallowed.
“So what can you tell me about the threats?”
She withdrew her hand. “Nothing we took particularly seriously—God, I can hardly remember what they said.”
“They, as in multiple? Were there letters? Phone calls? Emails?”
“Voice mails at our office, for one.” She leaned forward. “The first one was really strange—in fact I thought it was a wrong number. The voice sounded foreign. It said we should abandon our plans for the ‘save the children’ concert.”
“That’s it?”
“A few days later, John answered the phone—it was him again, the foreign-sounding guy. They had a brief conversation.”
Crystal suddenly slid off her seat, crossed her arms.
I waited.
“John never told me exactly what he said, but he was shaken, I could see it. I asked him what was wrong and he said nothing, then went for a long walk. I knew something was bothering him—I was afraid the network had cancelled their plans to carry the show or maybe one of the bigger names dropped out, but I didn’t find out until he got back that it was another threat.”
The drummer now started a version of No Woman No Cry.
“He said it was the same voice and he said if we continue with our ‘save the children’ concert, there’d be trouble. I pressed him for more, but he laughed it off, said we should ignore it.”
Not much to go on. The choice of words was odd, “save the children,” but if she was right and the caller was foreign, it could have been a translation disconnect—or was it some kind of philosophical statement?
“Is that it?” I said.
She sighed. She rolled her eyes. Finally she answered my question.
“We did get some posts on our website and Facebook page by what I would describe as religious extremists.”
I waited for more, but she just shook her head.
“You mean radical Christians, Jews, Muslims, what?” I’d have thought they’d support any alternative to abortion.
“Yeah, pretty much all of the above—some over-zealous types who think making it too easy to give up a child for adoption will promote promiscuity or may even threaten the institution of marriage.” She shrugged.
“Good grief,” I muttered.
I looked up. Crystal was signing the bill for the drinks. My beer had gone warm, but only ice remained in hers. We’d flown over a thousand miles today and I suddenly felt leaden in my seat, exhausted. Her revelations hadn’t helped.
“I need to get to Jost Van Dyke tomorrow to keep things under control, or the concert will fall apart,” she said. “Can you take me?”
“The BVI doesn’t allow water landings, but I’m, ah, trying to get a special permit. So we’ll need to take the ferry to Tortola, get our passports stamped, then take the ferry to Jost.”
When she nodded I noticed the dark circles—they accentuated her eyes, but she hadn’t been getting much sleep. She probably wouldn’t sleep tonight, either.
An idea had been gnawing at me since I spoke with Booth.
“If you’re okay with it, I’d like to stop on St. John first and see what we can learn from the Park Police about John’s disappearance. The first ferry’s at seven-thirty.”
“That’s fine.”
We stood, and just as I was about to turn toward my room, she stepped up and gave me a tight hug.
“Thanks, Buck. Jimmy was right—you may not have the best reputation, but you’re a good guy.” She looked up into my eyes. “I really appreciate your help. See you in the morning.”
I watched her walk away. She’d surprised the hell out of me, and my heart was racing. I wasn’t sure what hit me harder—that she’d said I didn’t have the best reputation, that she thought I was a good guy, or the hug.
I turned around and sat back down at the tiki bar, my mind swirling like the sky in Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It was more than her need that drew me to Crystal—I’d have to push that aside. But I’d do anything I could to help and protect her.
The toothy bartender returned.
“Rum,” I said. “I need rum.”
THE PHONE RANG IN the middle of the night.
I awoke with a jump from deep, dreamless slumber. At first I didn’t know where I was and rolled to the left toward where my nightstand is at the La Concha. When it rang again I rolled to the right and swung my arm toward the illuminated dial pad.
“Hello?”
“Help the woman and your plane will be on the bottom of the harbor.”
I shook my head. The room was pitch black. Was I dreaming?
“What?” I said.
“You help the woman with the concert, and your plane will be sunk—”
“Listen!” I shouted. “Where’s John Thedford? Do you want a ransom?”
Silence on the other end, followed by a click.
The clock read 4:15
Son of a bitch!
My mind went from zero to ninety in a flash. Who knew I was here? Right—anybody who watched the news, thanks to my nationally broadcast confrontation with the camera team.
The Beast. I hadn’t thought of her once since we left the dock. She was totally exposed at the harbor. Had I even locked the hatch? There was no security at the seaplane base because no planes were stored there. Except mine.
Way to go, dumb ass!
I scrambled around the room, pulled my clothes on, grabbed my flight bag—and stopped just as I was about to bolt out of the room. Crystal.
I called the front desk and asked them to relay a message.
“What’s the fastest way to town?” I said. “Is the launch to Charlotte Amalie Harbor running yet?”
“No, mon, not until eight o’clock. Hang on a second?” He put me on hold and after nearly a minute returned to the line. “But the launch leaves for town at five to pick up staff to bring back.”
I checked the clock: 4
:52.
“If you can get there quick, they—”
“On my way,” I said.
“And Mr. Reilly? There’s a package here at the front desk for you.”
A package?
“Fine, I’ll be right there.”
I grabbed my bag and sprinted down the maze of hallways to the front desk. The man there handed me a package and I took off, through the grounds, past the pool and tiki bar where I’d had a couple too many last night, down the long staircase where I nearly tripped over a massive iguana asleep on the warm stone stair, and onto the dock where a sleepy-eyed captain watched me approach.
“Catch a ride…to the harbor?” I was breathing so hard, my question was nearly unintelligible.
“C’mon, mon.”
I collapsed onto the bench seat, caught my breath, and tore open the bulky envelope. Inside was a cell phone and credit card. No note.
The morning was cool and the stars faded as the sun approached the eastern horizon. The half-moon was just above the hills of St. Thomas. Between day and night I felt lost, concerned and unsure as to what I was doing. One thing was certain, I couldn’t lose the Beast. The old Grumman Goose might be a work in progress, but she was all I had in this world, and given how we’d come together, at an extremely high emotional price and with all the effort, sweat, and what money I had left invested into getting her airworthy, her safety was paramount.
The launch captain sipped coffee and smoked a fat blunt on his way through the harbor. He glanced at me, took in my uncombed shoulder-length hair, and held the spliff out to me. The weed smelled good. I shook my head. I hadn’t lost myself in any drug other than liquor since college.
I glanced around the harbor and saw that only one cruise ship remained at the dock. With little traffic, the launch made good time, and the half-dozen people on the dock jumped out of the way as I leapt from the bow before the captain even wrapped the line around a cleat.
I sprinted down the street and veered left onto the short pier. As I feared: no guards, no fence, no security of any kind. The Beast was there, floating high, and appeared to be at peace in the early morning light. The flat black of the old CIA paint job on the fuselage absorbed light on the port side, and the dull silver of the Alaskan replacement wing and engine glistened on the starboard side.
My heart thumped as I pulled her mooring rope toward me and scanned the port engine, wing, and fuselage. I checked the hatch. At least I’d locked it—what’s this?
There was a long piece of masking tape near the handle.
There were no new scratches or evidence of tampering on the lock. I pressed in closer and saw writing on the tape. There wasn’t much light, but…it was a series of numbers. I squinted and made out the words: “Call me.”
It was a phone number, but there was no name. Could it be the people who snatched John? The guy who called me? Or maybe a reporter?
I peeled the tape off and placed it on a blank page in my little leather notebook. I popped the hatch open, tossed my bag inside, and climbed atop the wing. After inspecting each of the radial engines, manually moving the flaps, and double-checking anything that someone may have been able to reach, I breathed a sigh of relief.
The Beast appeared to be intact.
Before I left Key West I’d updated my information on the local airports, including the St. Thomas Jet Center at the Cyril E. King Airport. The FBO there didn’t open until 7:00 a.m. It was now 6:20. If I timed it right, that would still allow me time to meet Crystal at the ferry in Red Hook by 7:30.
I climbed aboard and repeated the same in-depth inspection of the electrical systems, moving parts, and chastity of the plane’s integrity. All looked good. A sudden jolt of paranoia caused a shiver to run through me. What if someone attached something to the hull?
I sat for a few moments and remembered the call that woke me and set me on this course today. The voice sounded more like an island accent than anything else. And the statements were threatening but not immediate. It wasn’t much to go on, but I decided to trust my gut. And if the note were from my late night caller, why would he ask me to call him if he was going to blow up my plane?
The port engine started right up and shattered the quiet calm of the harbor. The RPMs settled down, and the starboard engine huffed and puffed before it too roared to life. I untied the mooring lines, closed the hatch, and used the light of dawn to taxi toward the take-off zone marked on my sectional chart. With little boat traffic, I was quickly up on the step and in the air. It was now 6:50, my timing, for once, perfect—provided the staff at the Jet Center showed up on time.
“Sorry, girl,” I said.
I smiled. People talked to their cars, their pets, their boats—me, I talked to my plane. The Beast had risen from the ashes of the Bay of Pigs in Cuba, literally fifty-years after the fact, and had been stitched together to form a macabre craft that carried me safely back to Key West. Then, through the efforts of Ray Floyd and myself to find more appropriate long term parts, I’d developed an affection for her, quite different from what I’d felt for Betty. In some ways it ran deeper.
“You know I call you the Beast out of affection.” I patted the top of the instrument panel as we banked hard to starboard for the short flight to Cyril E. King airport just to the west of the seaplane base.
The surprise wake-up call still bothered me. Could it be the same person who called John Thedford? Was it a local from the Virgin Islands? His statement was so brief there wasn’t much to go on. I didn’t like being on the radar, but it meant they were watching the situation closely and intent on disrupting ISA’s plans. If I was being watched, it might be possible to flush them out. The note taped on the Beast’s hatch was another mystery, but one I’d have to visit later. With any luck, it was the first break in this mess.
Air traffic control answered my call, and with no commercial airliners due in before noon, allowed me quick entry. I breathed a sigh of relief, more confident in the security at Cyril E. King than leaving the Beast a sitting duck in Charlotte Amalie’s harbor. Now, if I could hurry through the paperwork and find a cab, I should be able to catch Crystal in Red Hook.
I MADE THE 7:30 A.M. FERRY by the skin of my teeth. Turns out the FBO wasn’t wild about unscheduled antique flying boats popping up out of the harbor and onto their radar screen. Especially when they viewed the Beast as equivalent to an aviation version of the Flying Dutchman.
Hey, she needs a paint job. Sue me.
Crystal, pecking away at her cell phone in the ferry terminal, gave me a tepid smile as I walked into the waiting area. Having decided not to mention my surprise wake-up call just yet, I simply told her I needed to move the Beast to solid ground.
Between emails, texting, and phone calls, she didn’t have much to say to me during our crossing through Pillsbury Sound. She spent most of the time trying to placate yet another worried star handler.
“Everything’s still set for this weekend,” she said. “No, we have a private plane to meet Mike at the airport—whichever airport you like, St. Thomas is closest.” She glanced at me and rolled her eyes. “No, there was no bomb threat on his plane—it’s a really cool vintage seaplane the pilot brought me over in from Key West… Buck Reilly, Last Resort Charter and Salvage…”
Poor Crystal. Neither my reputation or the name of my company would give anyone confidence. Even if she was able to cajole the rock stars into showing up, they might still get cold feet when they spotted the Beast.
As our boat pulled into Cruz Bay, there was a new condo development up on the hill above the town that hadn’t been there last time I’d visited. St. John was 80% parkland, thanks to the vision of Laurance Rockefeller back in 1956, and so far only a few hotels existed here, which made this smallest of the U.S. Virgin Islands the most peaceful. Though I guess John Thedford might disagree, since this was the last place he’d been seen.
As we disembarked from the ferry, Crystal put the phone away and looked at the beach to the right of the dock.
“That’s American Watersports.” She pointed toward a dozen boats of various sizes anchored close to shore. “We have a couple of their boats chartered for the rest of the week.”
“Good, let’s stop in to see them after we talk to the Park Police.” Speedboats might be more comforting to her celebrity concert participants than the Beast, and I didn’t have permission for water landings yet.
I led Crystal off the dock and through the collection of pickup trucks with elaborate benches and canopies erected in their beds—the vehicles of choice for the taxis on the island that shuttled tourists back and forth from town to the pristine beaches. Traffic was hectic along the one-way street, but we managed to get to the far side without getting flattened. There, past a parking lot, was another ferry terminal—the gateway to the British Virgin Islands—and past that, on the far side of the harbor, the fleet and headquarters of the U.S. Park Police.
Once around the small harbor we passed two center console boats and another small cabin cruiser, all with official National Park Service emblems on their hulls. The idle boats gave me a sense of angst as we entered the Virgin Islands National Park Visitor’s Center, the two-story off-white building where the Park Police had their offices. We took the stairs and once we said who we were, the receptionist went to get the officer on duty. Tall, tanned, and in his early thirties, he came out dressed in a pressed white shirt with gold epaulets.
“Hi, I’m Chuck Deaver.” He shook our hands. “I’m sorry about your husband, Ms. Thedford.”
“Is there news?” Crystal said.
“I’m, sorry, no. We haven’t found him yet.”
“How big’s your fleet?” I said.
Deaver walked over to the front window.
“That’s all of it moored out front.”
“Three boats?” I said.
He nodded. “Budget cuts.”
“Is that just for St. John?”
“And St. Thomas. There’s one more boat over on St. Croix. We’re pretty understaffed these days, considering all the, ah, activity in the region. There’s a Coast Guard base on Puerto Rico, but they don’t mess with missing persons reports unless a boat’s lost at sea.”
3 Crystal Blue Page 5
