Long Way Down

by Paul Carr

  Sam shone the light on the man’s decomposed face. Black hair swirled above a translucent scalp. Sea scavengers had been at work for several months and his eyes had been eaten away. Bloodless gouges covered his face, and a grin pinched at one corner of his mouth. Sam unbuckled the seat belt and checked the man’s pocket for a wallet. Finding nothing, he re-buckled the belt and left the one-armed man where he found him.

  Pieces of thick pasteboard mush floated throughout the cabin. Probably remnants of boxes used to load the gold onto the plane. Clumps of the soggy material also lay on the deck. Danilov probably had cursed at the sight of the rotting boxes when they came back for the gold, wishing they’d had more foresight in their theft.

  Sam looked at his watch and saw that they’d been gone about twenty-five minutes. Time ticked away, and they hadn’t begun their search. From the looks of things it would take awhile. He motioned for J.T. to follow him forward in the cabin and pushed his way through the muck of wet pasteboard toward the cockpit.

  They searched every compartment and in and under every seat, working their way aft from the cockpit to the lavatory, and even checked the pockets on the back of each seat. J.T. found a gold mask in one of the seat pockets that probably had been worn by an Aztec warrior in his death. No statue. While J.T. bagged the mask, Sam looked at his watch: Randy would return in about twenty minutes. He checked his air level and still had enough for at least that long.

  The second emergency hatch on the other side of the plane also had fallen away. That could mean they tried it first upon landing and saw the damage to the wing, then went out the other one, worried that the sharp, broken metal might cut the raft. Sam made his way to the hatch, leaned out and shone his light down below. A school of fish swam by, and pieces of trash lay on the sandy bottom. He couldn’t see underneath the wing. Checking his watch again, he decided he had enough time to go down and take a look, and motioned for J.T. to follow him.

  They swam to the bottom and Sam shone his light into the dark space underneath the wing. Something exploded from the crevice, moving so fast that Sam saw only teeth flashing toward his face. He dug his heels into the sand and pushed back, but not fast enough. The creature hit him in the stomach and the air from his lungs blew the breathing apparatus from his mouth. Sam tumbled in the sand and grit scrubbed the side of his face. He pushed up and the creature swam away. It looked like a tiger shark, about eight feet long.

  Sam’s stomach felt like it had been ripped out and his lungs ached for air. A second later J.T. swam around him, shone the beam toward his face and handed him the lost mouthpiece. Sam filled his lungs with air and waited a few seconds for his heart to slow down. The fish had knocked the light out of his hands, too, and he saw it glowing in the cloudy spot where he’d churned up the sand. After retrieving it, he went back to the place under the wing and hoped another shark didn’t wait there. He found only the dead man’s other arm.

  Sam started around the plane, ready to call it quits, when he thought about something. Why had Danilov been unable to find the statue? They had to know its value and would put it somewhere they could easily remember. And yet, they hadn’t found it. Had someone else discovered the plane and taken only the statue? Unlikely. All the other pieces had to be worth millions, too. What if something happened after the plane sank that La Salle couldn’t have known about? Something like the plane hitting bottom on one side and some of the gold spilling out the hatch?

  Sam swam back to the damaged wing and shone his light down its length to the point of the break. No gold glittered there, but sand covered part of the damaged area. He glided down and brushed away sand with his fingers. His fingers touched something slick and he laid the light down, reached in with both hands and pulled out an urn about the size of a sugar bowl.

  The urn must have fallen out of the hatch when the plane sank, slid down the wing, and gotten covered up when the broken wing penetrated the sea bottom. Sam turned and handed it to J.T., who searched the sand a few feet behind him, then went back to work and uncovered a slightly taller gold piece, a bird of prey. After removing several more handfuls of sand, the face of the statue smiled up at him, as if happy to be rescued. Sam pulled it out of the sand and held it up. It stood about a foot tall. J.T. gave him a thumbs-up. Sam moved aside and J.T. combed through the sand and found a gold bar and a couple more items before Sam punched him on the arm and pointed at his watch.

  They stuffed the smaller items into net bags clipped to their suits and started back to the lighted anchor. Sam carried the statue in his hand and should have been glad for their discovery, but had a feeling of dread that nothing good might come of it. He just wanted to get Candi back to safety...and then get as far away from this mess as he could.

  Reaching the lighted anchor, Sam handed the statue to J.T. and picked up the spear gun. They swam up the rope, and when they neared the float at the top, Sam lagged behind. He saw the glow of the seaplane’s cabin through the last foot or so of water and watched as J.T. broke the surface with the statue in his hand. Then he saw a man move to the edge of the hatch. The seaplane rocked up and down with the swells, distorting the view, but the man didn’t look like Randy, unless Randy had bleached his hair almost white and lost one leg. Sam surfaced momentarily and went back under, but he had seen Grimes standing with a crutch, holding a gun in his outstretched hand pointed at J.T.’s head.

  Chapter 23

  J.T. PUSHED away from the plane and submerged. Grimes’ gun exploded and Sam saw bubbly lines in the water that traced the trajectory of the rounds. Surely Grimes knew that if he hit J.T., the statue would be lost.

  Sam held onto the spear gun, shed his diving gear and swam to the surface. Grimes saw him and jerked around with the gun. Sam squeezed the trigger and the spear sailed through the air and hit Grimes in the shoulder. His arm went slack and the gun slipped from his fingers and fell into the water.

  Sam tossed the spear gun aside, climbed the ladder and stepped aboard the plane. Grimes seemed disoriented, eyes wide, face twitching, and he turned his head to look at the blood soaking the front of his shirt. He grasped the spear with his fingers and pulled, screaming as the barb ripped through the flesh. The crutch fell away as he dropped to the floor of the plane and passed out.

  Sam looked into the cockpit and saw Randy slumped in the pilot’s seat. An empty liquor bottle lay on the deck a few inches from his fingers.

  J.T. climbed up the ladder and stepped aboard, his gear dripping water on the deck. Dropping his face mask, he said, “That idiot tried to kill me.” He laid the statue on one of the seats. “I don’t think he cared whether he got this baby or not.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  Sam checked Grimes’ pulse and the wound in his shoulder and decided he’d live, then tied his hands across his stomach and left him lying on his back.

  “You’ll have to fly,” Sam said as he closed the hatch.

  J.T. looked at Randy and said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

  They dragged Randy out of the cockpit and strapped him into a seat in the cabin. After they changed into dry clothes, J.T. went back into the cockpit.

  Sam followed and sat in a jump seat behind him. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Okay, give me a minute. I’ve never flown anything this old.”

  He flipped switches and pressed buttons and Sam heard the starter turn over. Within a couple of minutes he had the engines running and the old airplane rocked and vibrated as it struggled across the swells and gained speed. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally lifted off and J.T. turned and grinned.

  “Piece of cake. By the way, where are we going?”

  “How much fuel do we have?” Sam said.

  “It’s full. Randy must have filled it up in Grand Cayman like he said he would.”

  “Okay, head toward Miami. I don’t know what La Salle had in mind, but all that’s off now.”

  “You mean because of Grimes?”

  “Yeah, that, and seeing that jet and th
e dead body down there. It looks like they planned to take the statue when we came back with it, and turn us into shark food.”

  “What’s your take on what happened with that airplane?”

  Sam told his theory about La Salle and Danilov stealing the gold collection and ditching the plane at sea.

  J.T. nodded and said, “Yeah, that would fit.” He glanced at Sam. “What about Candi?”

  Sam ran his fingers through his damp hair. “I think we need to put the statue in a safe place and talk to her before we make any plans for an exchange.”

  THE STORM got worse with every mile, as if it might be following them and gaining strength. They flew off course a couple of times and the fuel got low by the time they saw lights in the Upper Keys. The engines sputtered and coughed, draining the bottom of the fuel tanks, and J.T. glided the plane to the edge of an inlet and landed. He killed one engine and cut the throttle as low as he dared on the other. It ran for a couple of minutes before giving out.

  Gray light shone through the windscreen. Rain beat against the side of the plane and the wind blew them toward the coast and into mangroves that hung over the water. The limbs scrubbed against the sheet metal, cracking and screeching until the plane came to a halt and rocked gently in the blowing rain.

  “What about these guys?” J.T. said. Grimes seemed to be coming around, moaning with pain. Randy still snored in his seat.

  “They’ll be okay. Randy’ll figure out how to get some fuel when he wakes up.”

  “No, I meant should we leave them here alive?”

  Sam searched his face for any sign that he might be kidding, but already knew the answer.

  “Yes, we leave them here alive.”

  J.T. shrugged. “Okay, fine with me.”

  Sam put the gold articles into his overnight bag and strapped it to his back. He popped the hatch and they slid down into waist-deep water and pushed toward land. Their shoes slipped on the slimy mangrove roots and they grabbed onto limbs to steady themselves. A small water snake swam toward Sam. He broke a branch, lifted the snake out of the water with it and tossed it several feet away. They reached the bank and slogged about twenty feet in swamp muck before the land became firm.

  “How far to a road?” J.T. said, as if expecting Sam to be an expert on South Florida coastal geography.

  “I don’t know, I’m guessing maybe a hundred yards.”

  It turned out to be at least twice that far, and they took more than an hour to beat their way through the dense swamp growth. Both of them were breathing hard and soaked from the rain and wet foliage. They reached a muddy road and followed it in the rain to an old fish camp that had been closed for at least a decade. A weather-beaten sign indicated that the place had once operated as Captain Lamar’s Boats and Charters. Old wooden boats, half submerged in the water with weeds growing out of the wood, lay in the shallows next to a rotted dock. A shack stood next to the dock, and Sam saw a light inside a dingy window. An old Buick sat next to the shack. The tires on the front looked new. They eased over, stepped onto a rickety porch, and Sam knocked on the screen door. Rain pounded a rhythm on the tin roof while they waited.

  “Who is it?” The voice behind the door sounded old.

  “Our boat broke down and we need a ride.”

  The door cracked a couple of inches and a man with thick glasses peered out, his eyes rheumy, like eight-balls behind the magnified lenses. Wondering if this might be Captain Lamar, Sam smoothed back his wet hair and smiled, trying to look as unthreatening as possible.

  The man said, “Go away,” and slammed the door.

  Sam looked at J.T., who grinned, and took two hundred-dollar-bills out of his wallet. He stuck his hand through a tear in the screen and slid one of the bills underneath the door, leaving a half inch or so outside. It disappeared in less than a second.

  “I have another one for you if you’ll give us a ride,” he said through the door.

  A couple of minutes passed and Sam thought they might have to travel on up the road. Then the door opened and the man swung it wide, leaving the screen door closed. Wearing a pair of old dress pants and a tee shirt, he had thinning hair and a drinker’s nose splotched with red, and looked about seventy years old.

  “Where do you want to go?” His accent sounded northeastern, maybe New York.

  “Just up to the mainland,” Sam said.

  He shook his head. “Too far. I don’t drive up there no more.”

  “We need to rent a car.”

  He narrowed his eyes for a couple of seconds, as if thinking, then nodded his head. “Okay, let me get dressed and I’ll take you somewhere.”

  He closed the door and stayed gone for several minutes. When he came back, he wore a Hawaiian shirt and a sporty straw hat. They got into the car, and he took off the hat and shook rain from it and said, “I want the rest of the money before we go.”

  Sam looked at him and glanced up at the sign. “You Captain Lamar?”

  The man smiled. “Yeah, I’m the Captain. What about it?”

  Sam handed him the other hundred. “Just wondered.”

  The Captain started the Buick and gunned the engine, spinning the tires as they slid onto the muddy road. They reached US1 within a couple of minutes and he turned south. He drove a few miles and turned into a gravel driveway that led to large metal building with closed garage bays.

  The car stopped in front of the building and he said, “You can rent a car in there.”

  A man wearing blue jeans and a hunter’s vest opened the entry door of the building and stepped out under an awning. He waved at the Captain and motioned for Sam and J.T. to come inside.

  Sam glanced at the Captain. “You called this guy?”

  “I sure did,” the Captain said. He smiled and patted his shirt pocket where he had put the hundred. “Pleasure doing business with you.” Captain Lamar looked about twenty years younger than he had when Sam first saw him.

  The man under the awning motioned again.

  They got out and the Buick sped away, throwing gravel and sand on their feet. Sam noticed the Dade County license plate and wondered why the Captain would have a Miami tag. A shiver ran from between his shoulder blades to the nape of his neck. He glanced at J.T., who had an odd look on his face, and then reached into his bag and pulled out his 9mm.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” the man in the vest said.

  Sam pointed the gun at his head and said, “Turn around and go inside.”

  Vest Man went in and Sam and J.T. followed him. Another man, with a shotgun in the firing position, as if ready for a round of skeet, stood there waiting. He smiled, flashing a mouthful of bad teeth. Then he saw Sam’s gun and his eyes went wide. Sam kicked Vest Man in the back, and he fell into Bad Teeth.

  The shotgun went off and Vest Man screamed and dropped to the floor. “My foot! I can’t feel my foot!” His shoe lay on the floor covered in blood, and a glob of bloody tissue hung from the end of his pants leg.

  Bad Teeth’s mouth hung open. “Aw man, why’d you bump into me?”

  “I think you shot my foot off!”

  “It wasn’t supposed to work this way.”

  Sam pointed the 9mm at Bad Teeth’s head and said, “Hand me the gun, stock first.”

  Bad teeth glanced at his friend’s ruined foot and handed Sam the gun.

  Two cars sat inside the building, one a late model Acura and the other a vintage T-Bird.

  “Give me the keys to the Acura,” Sam said.

  “It’s his,” Bad Teeth said, nodding toward the other man, who was sitting on the floor, staring at his foot, and sobbing.

  “You can’t take my car,” Vest Man said from between clenched teeth.

  J.T. pointed his gun at Bad Teeth and thumbed the hammer. “Get the keys, or I’m going to shoot your foot off, too.”

  He reached down and grabbed the keys from the wounded man’s vest pocket and handed them over to Sam.

  Sam opened the bay door and J.T. eased the Acura outside. Vest Man an
d Bad Teeth argued about getting medical attention for the injured foot.

  “You got to take me to the hospital.”

  Bad Teeth shook his head. “I’ll call the old man.”

  “What? I’ll die before he gets back.”

  “You’re not gettin’ blood on my leather seats.”

  Sam got in the car and they rode to US1 and turned north.

  Chapter 24

  J.T. RAN his hands over the steering wheel and grinned. “This is a pretty good car for two hundred dollars.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said, “probably stolen.” He opened the glove box and found it empty. “No registration.”

  “They planned to rob us, and would have hit the jackpot if they’d gotten those gold pieces. I think we should go back to the fish camp and teach that old man a lesson.”

  Sam glanced at him. “What would you do, beat him up?”

  J.T. raised an eyebrow. “No, but we could shoot out his tires, or something.”

  “Forget it. We’ve got better things to do.”

  Sam tried calling Jack Craft and got no answer.

  “We need to go to the marina,” Sam said. “I want to talk to Jack before we do anything else.”

  They followed US1 through Florida City, for the second time in two days, staying on course toward Miami Beach. When they reached the marina, Jack’s car was gone.

  Sam looked at the clock on the dash: 2:35 PM. He couldn’t remember the last meal they’d had and his stomach ached for food. “Let’s get something to eat. We can come back and wait around, see if he shows up.”

  They went to a takeout shop for Cuban sandwiches, came back, and parked a block away from the marina. Sam could see the parking lot and The Clipper below the street with his field glasses. After they ate the sandwiches, the hours dragged on while they listened to the rain drum on the top of the car. They took turns watching for Jack and dozed between shifts. Two Miami Beach PD cruisers drove by late in the afternoon, but neither seemed to notice them. The list of stolen vehicles in Miami was probably too long to memorize, and there were lots of Acuras on the street that looked exactly like theirs.