by Scott Cook
“What is it?” Wayne inquired.
“Maybe an old wooden ship,” I replied. “Not a big one… maybe a few hundred tons. Part of it anyway. The rest either got buried and / or has rotted away. Pretty interesting… but not really what we’re here for. Let’s take a look inside that shrimper.”
“What do you expect to find?” This was Keisha again. Pretty good range on the underwater radio thanks to the hydrophone booster.
I shrugged, “I don’t know… but Rick Eagle Feather went to a helluva lot of trouble to get me here… so I have to think I’ll know it when I see it.”
As Wayne and I rose slightly to swim over the after deck of the shrimper, a four-foot-long black tip reef shark emerged from the door to the pilot house. Wayne squawked in alarm and I almost went blind from tears of laughter.
“Damn, homey! Did you see that fucker!” he exclaimed, clamping a hand on my forearm.
“Relax, ya’ big baby,” I said dismissively. “It was just a little one.”
“What’s a little one?”
“Your boyfriend’s nads,” I quipped. “He got a little fright is all?”
“Fuck that, Scott! That was a damned shark!”
“Dude… it was like four feet long and maybe sixty pounds,” I soothed. “He probably couldn’t even get his mouth around your wrist. Trust me, he wants nothing to do with you. Come on.”
I looked into his face and saw the frown there. I patted him on the shoulder and he sighed and reluctantly followed me to the door.
“If you want, hang out here and act as a comm link,” I explained. “The Gertrude might not work once I go inside. I mean it might not work to let me and Keisha talk.”
“Okay…” he said, sounding relieved.
“Be careful, honey,” Keisha said.
“I’m fine, baby,” Wayne replied.
“I was talking to Scott.”
I laughed and swam through the door, my activated dive light leading the way. There was plenty of light coming through the paneless windows, but it was quickly swallowed up by the blackness that yawned from the door that led down into the crew’s compartment.
A mild shiver ran through my body and it was more than just the cold water. The thought of going down there, dive light or not, where a man had probably died… not like it’d be the first time though… gave me a taste of the jibblies. That’s when I saw something glittering in the beam of my light just above the hatchway.
“What the Christ…” I muttered, sculling closer and peering at the small, pointed object.
It was what looked like a piece of a coin. A solid gold coin, based on how it was in no way tarnished after being underwater for so long. It was as if somebody had taken a large coin and cut it into slivers…
“What’s up?” Wayne asked.
“I think I found… a doubloon?” I stated. “It’s been hammered into the metal with the point facing down… oh, balls…”
“Problem?”
I sighed, “I have to go below. I think this is some kind of a signpost.”
Wayne chuckled, “Down there with the sharks?”
I scoffed, “Sharks my ass… its One-eyed Willy I’m worried about… or some other pirate ghost. Okay, BRB…”
I dove down through the companionway and past a set of half a dozen wooden steps that were more growth than wood now. My beam illuminated a small galley, or what had been a galley. A countertop to one side, rusted out and encrusted stove with oven and a four-person table that had upset. Forward of this was another room with the frames of what had been bunks.
I cast the beam of my light around in the near darkness. There was something amiss down there, but I wasn’t seeing it. Yet the more I looked around, the more I got the feeling that something wasn’t right. It took at least three complete scans of the galley, in which I frightened a school of Sergeant Majors and one octopus. He jetted toward the light of the companion, paused, turned and eyed me with what couldn’t be anything but a look of disapproval before jetting out into the daylight. The slight current produced by his movement must have lit my mental bulb, because the reason for my confusion suddenly dawned on me.
On the stove, or what had been the stove, sat a large cooking pot. Set there as if in use… but that couldn’t be. When the boat sank, everything inside would’ve tumbled around. Even if she’d come to rest upright, she hadn’t gone down that way. The impact with the bottom would certainly have dislodged a pot from the stove.
When I peered closer, I noticed another piece of eight hammered into the aluminum of the stock pot. When I tried to lift the lid, it didn’t budge. Nor did the pot come free of the stove. Time and growth had sealed it.
Not one to be hindered long by obstinate cook wear, I jammed the blade of my dive utility knife into the seam between the lid and the pot and cranked until it popped off and clattered onto the countertop. Inside, resting in the bottom of the pan and completely untarnished, was a small gold bar about the size of a business card. The bar was heavy, probably ten or twenty ounces. Just the melt value alone would probably be thirty-five grand. Yet it was when I turned it over and noticed the crude etching on the underside that my heart truly began to pound.
It was a series of six two-digit numbers. If I was right, and they were Cartesian coordinates, then they’d be located somewhere right smack dab in the middle of the Ten Thousand Islands.
“Holy crap…” I muttered, pocketing the gold bar. “Holy crap!”
“You okay down there, brother?” Wayne asked. “What’d you find?”
I began to laugh, “Wayne… I think I found the stolen Spanish treasure of Pierre Meraux!”
36
Gently coaxed from the X-chromosome files
Lisa’s Journal Entry 11
Well, doesn’t this suck the big one! I just got a call from Scott explaining that he discovered that Sharon’s father, who supposedly died of cancer five years ago, is in fact alive!
Now, you’d think this would be like… the best news ever… but not in this case. The guy left Sharon when she was twelve, a few years later her mother is murdered and her vanished father the only suspect. Skip ahead thirteen years or so and he suddenly shows up big as life. But oh, sorry, kid… I’m dying of cancer, so I figured I’d rip open the old wounds I created in the first place and pour some nice salt and lemon juice on them. Hey, I’m dying, so why not burden you with that, too?
Now come to find out… if it’s really true that is… that the guy was only bullshitting her. He’s alive and potentially behind all of this shit that’s been going on for the past couple of weeks. Yeah, nothing like a kick in the gut after a kick in the gut after a kick in the gut, huh?
So now I have to tell her about it! Goddamned Scott… he just drops this in my lap and then runs off to his boat. Pssh! Men!
She needed to be told, though. And I needed to get back down to Collier County tomorrow for whatever end game… at least I hope it’s an end game… that Scott’s planning. I’d like Sharon’s help and Juan’s too if possible. But I am not looking forward to this conversation.
I sent her a text and asked if it was okay to stop by. She said yes and that she and Juan would be home right about the time I’d arrive. When I got to her place, there was a big sandstone colored quad cab pickup parked on the street with a white utility trailer behind it.
I parked and when I rounded the trailer and walked into the front yard, I saw Clay Delaney packing up a toolbox. He must’ve come over to fix Sharon’s windows and other damage from the automatic weapons fire from the previous week.
“Hey handsome!” I said, hugging him. “How’d you get this gig?”
Clay grinned, “Hola, la chica bonita! Scott called me the other day and explained what happened. Figured better me than some random guy who would be kind of curious about all the lead balls everywhere.”
I chuffed, “Yeah… how’s the work coming along? How’s Missy and the kids?”
“Everybody’s good,” Clay said, heading for the open back doo
rs of the trailer. “Work’s almost done. New windows and I’m gonna need to replace some drywall tomorrow. Also redoing that bathroom off the hall. Sharon says that since I’m tearing up the wall anyway, I might as well start on that upgrade project she’s been putting off.”
“See? Everything happens for a reason,” I joked.
He laughed, “Yeah, I’m gonna start hiring dudes to shoot up rich people’s houses and then show up with my tools. Beautiful marketing idea… how’s Poppy Churro?”
I scoffed, “Damn, Clay… I don’t even know where to begin… it started with a couple of graves being robbed, a homebuilder’s employee stealing documents, meth heads, a murder or two, I don’t know… eight or ten gunfights… masked villains, kidnappings… oh, and there’s more. Right now, or soon I guess, Scott, Wayne and Wayne’s new GF are going to sail down to Marco Island.”
“Dick! Why didn’t he ask me?” Clay jeered and shook his head.
“It’s a work trip,” I replied with a chuckle. “Probably more danger and suspense.”
“I like danger and suspense,” Clay offered as he squared away his tools and closed the trailer.
“Yeah well… your wife isn’t so keen on it,” I reminded him.
“One teeny-tiny little incident…” Clay mused. “Well, once the excitement is over, why don’t you guys come out to the farm with the dogs? We’d love to see you and since its yucky winter, we can make a nice fire and tell some stories… generally laugh and scratch.”
“Boring,” I teased. “And it sounds great. Scott’ll be in touch if we survive the next day or two.”
“Funny.”
I scoffed, “I wish I were only kidding.”
Clay put an arm around me and kissed my forehead, “If you guys need anything… if you need some help from an old Marine… let me know. And be careful, huh?”
I hugged him back, “Yes sir, Gunny sir!”
“Smart ass…”
I went inside and found Sharon and Juan in the kitchen. She was washing a couple of dishes and he chopping veggies.
“Oh, what is it taco Tuesday?” Sharon asked.
“Well, it is Tuesday,” I volunteered, going into the fridge for a beer. “Oh, and look… Modelos!”
“Goes well with the setting I guess,” Sharon observed. “And hey, since I’m surrounded by Mexicans…”
“Pinche gringa puta,” I said, smacking her on the ass.
“See? That must be Mexican for what a wonderful lady I am,” Sharon replied with a laugh.
“Why do you put up with her, Juan?”
Juan shrugged, “She likes to play with my penga. Why else?”
“So what are you guys having?” I asked, opening my beer and sliding in a lime wedge.
“You’re eating too, girl,” Sharon commanded. “And we’re actually having tacos… Cuban tacos!”
I chuckled and sipped, “What are Cuban tacos, exactly?”
“Mida, chica, is like from Mexico but con mas cigars and mambo music, tambien!” Juan replied in a ridiculously overblown Cuban accent.
“Jesus Christ…” I muttered. “She’s corrupting you, Juan Fuente.”
“Si…”
“So where’s Himself tonight?” Sharon asked.
“Headed for Saint Pete by now,” I explained. “He’s taking Wayne and Keisha sailing.”
“What?” Sharon asked. “And he left us? Fucker…”
I sighed, “It’s not a pleasure cruise. They’re headed south to Marco. On the way, tomorrow afternoon I guess, Scott’s going to dive… to dive on William Eagle Feather’s sunken shrimper.”
“He found it?” Sharon asked, looking shocked.
“Your uncle sent him some information,” I explained. “Remember the plaque? Apparently, it and some other numbers, Loran numbers — “
“What are Loran numbers?” She asked.
“An older nav system. He had them converted to GPS. They correlate with what’s scrawled on the back of that plaque. Scott thinks there’s something aboard the boat that will help him find Rick.”
“Ay dios mio,” Juan muttered.
“Jesus…” Sharon breathed, going into the fridge for a beer of her own and opening another for Juan. “Then we ought to go down, too, right?”
I nodded, “Yeah, Scott wants me to drive down tomorrow afternoon and meet them. Probably get a hotel on Marco or something.”
“I say we stay at Uncle Rick’s… my real Uncle Rick’s…” Sharon said, shaking her head in mild disbelief. “Man, this has been a week or two of revelations.”
I shifted uncomfortably and cleared my throat, “Yeah…”
“What? What else don’t I know?” Sharon demanded but without rancor.
I took a long slug from the beer and cleared my throat again, “Well… the other night, in the hotel room, Scott said that he had a hypothesis about who might be behind all of this.”
“One or both of those politicians, right?” Juan asked.
“Yes… sort of,” I said. “They may still be mixed up in things… but he has a thought on who might actually be pulling the strings. And today… today he got confirmation. From an ex-Japanese intelligence agent turned rogue mercenary.”
Sharon scoffed, “Fuck me! Sounds like something out of a spy movie.”
I pulled out a chair at the small dining table and sat, “Yeah… well, she told him that she was placed with Big Daddy. She was the one who offed Proust. And when Big Daddy got too full of himself and sent those guys here… he signed his own death warrant., apparently”
“Huh?” Sharon asked, obviously confused.
I drew in a breath, “Scott showing up only gave her an opportunity to do what she needed to do. She was told to eliminate him if he tried anything stupid. Probably to do it anyway, once all this shit was resolved. She says… she says the man who hired her…”
“Come on, Lis! Just spit it out already!”
I closed my eyes and sighed, “She says his name is George Nolen.”
A stunned silence dropped over the kitchen like a ten-ton weight. Juan and Sharon only stared at me with pale, pie-eyed faces. It took nearly thirty seconds for anyone to do anything. Juan finally moved up next to Sharon and put an arm around her waist.
“But…” Sharon began. “He died five years ago…”
“It could be a ruse,” I offered, although my gut told me it wasn’t. “She could’ve been paid to lie…”
Sharon laughed and it was a bitter sound. The sardonic laugh of somebody who’d been repeatedly hurt and let down by someone who should’ve only lifted her up. It broke my heart to hear that laugh.
“I believe it,” She said flatly. “Why not? What’s George Nolen ever done for me? He leaves me alone with a mother who took out her anger at it on me most of the time… then he murders her… then comes back years later only to weasel his way into my good graces and pretends to die! Then has me bury him under a fake name… should’ve known… should’ve fucking known…”
“There’s no proof he killed your —" Juan tried to soothe.
“Oh, fucking please!” Sharon broke free of his arm and wheeled on him, her fists clenched at her sides. “If Scott’s right… and he always fucking is… then George is behind all of this. He’s a thieving, lying, murdering piece of shit! That’s where I come from, Juan! From a hunk of garbage who would fuck over even his own flesh and blood! God dammit! I should’ve known right from the start when he popped up five years ago. Should’ve told him to fuck off… well, I did at first… but should’ve stuck to my guns! I… I need to be alone for a while.”
She stalked off down the hall and slammed her bedroom door. Juan and I just looked at each other, not quite sure what to do.
“I’m sorry, Juan,” I said lamely.
He came over and hugged me. Juan is such a sweet guy, “Don’t be, mija. It’s not your fault or Scott’s that her father is… a bastard. Better that she knows the truth and deals with it now. She’s strong.”
I sighed, “Yeah, she is… but
she’s also vulnerable deep down. That potty-mouthed tough cop exterior hides a very sensitive soul.”
“Don’t I know it,” He said with a wistful smile. “I love the combination. Maybe I should go in and talk to her.”
“Let her be for a bit, though,” I said. “She might need a few minutes alone. Need some help with the cooking?”
Juan smiled wryly, “You know I love you, chicita… but I can’t risk you ruining my Cuban tacos.”
“Ass,” I said with a laugh.
“Here, you can grate some cheese and chop up some cilantro and get the toppings ready,” he said. “I’ll cook the fish.”
After a minute or two, Sharon opened the door and walked out into the kitchen. Juan and I turned and she came over and we all joined in a three-way hug.
“I’m sorry,” Sharon said with a little sniffle.
“No need to be sorry, babe,” Juan said soothingly.
“Yeah, you’ve taken a lot of hits lately,” I added. “You have every right to be upset.”
“Thanks…” Sharon intoned.
“You want me to go so you guys can be alone?” I asked.
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Sharon replied. “I’m glad you’re here. Fuck this shit, man! This asshole has been fucking up my life since I was a kid. I’m done letting that happen. George Nolen was never much of a father to begin with. If any man can be said to have been my dad, it’s Uncle Rick. And if George Nolen is responsible for taking him away from me… then God help the son of a bitch! Yeah, we’re gonna go down and help Scott finish this shit off. And if it’s true that my shithead of a father is still alive… then he’s got the ass-kicking of his life coming. Come on, kids, let’s enjoy our meal. I mean hey… I’ve got a clean house and some good food coming, right?”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Very true,” Juan added.
“Good! I mean, if I’m gonna allow you Hispanics in my house, then I oughtta get something out of it, right?”
