Gator stepped aboard. The boat shifted ever so slightly with his weight. “You can’t just sit out here.” He checked every door and window large enough to let me through. All locked up tight. “How many people you say were on this boat?”
“Two.”
“Oye, this thing’ll sleep six easy. Plenty of room for you.”
“Sleep?” It hadn’t occurred to me that I might be staying the night.
“Let’s try this,” he said, and headed up the ladder to the flying bridge.
I peered up after him. Heard rustling, a satisfied, “Bueno.” He reappeared at the top of the ladder and waved me up.
I clambered up the ladder moving gingerly past an array of fishhooks and rods that were mounted behind it. On the upper deck, I saw what he had gone looking for: a rubber skiff lashed to the roof. It had its own outboard motor, all neatly tucked up, the whole works covered with a tarp.
“Little Zodiac,” he said. “You can get in under the cover here like a good stowaway. Us Cubans know how to do this, eh? I tuck you right in. I’m going back to Mama’s and get some dessert, know what I mean? You go ahead and stay here, and I’ll come get you in the morning, okay?”
“But what if I fall asleep?”
“Then you can talk to him in the morning. The engines will wake you up. He’ll run them for a while before he gets going, you’ll have time.”
There was merit in Gator’s plan. Miles might arrive back half plastered. That in turn might be good or bad; it could loosen him up, or it might make him craftier, if his performance at dinner with Tom was any indication. Waltrine I did not want to see drunk under any circumstances.
I had not reckoned on finding the boat but not its crew. My plan had been to have a brief talk with Miles, extort the needed information from him, phone it to Tom, and go back to Faye.
Faye. When you see Tom, send him home, she had told me. She had seen it before I had: I would see Tom, because I was staying with the boat. “You get a message to Faye tonight?” I asked. “I don’t want her worrying about me, too.”
“Of course. You got a passport?”
“No. Why?”
“Boats going through to Stuart are usually going to the Bahamas. If you go there you’d better stay out of sight of customs.”
“Oh.” In for a penny, in for a pound, I decided, and climbed underneath the tarp.
The engines rumbled me awake while it was still half dark out. I clambered out of the Zodiac, discovering to my dismay that my legs were staying asleep longer than the rest of my body. I had slept folded up in such a cramped position to fit in between the seat and the front roll that I was amazed to find that I had slept heavily enough to miss the return of the skipper and his first mate. Now I could hear them talking. I looked to where the voices were coming from, and spotted open portholes between the flying bridge and the pilothouse below.
“Yeah, he just called,” Miles was saying.
“Where is he now?” Waltrine asked in response.
“He made it to Freeport. We’ll be in Stuart by five, with any luck. Get fuel, that’s six, be across to Memory Rock before daybreak tomorrow. Be at West End early afternoon. He’ll be at the Old Bahama Bay. Pick him up after we clear customs, and we’ll be at our destination by tomorrow midnight or, at worst, the next morning.”
“He have any trouble?”
“Well, course he did. You ever try traveling with nothing but a tail tux that’s spent a night in salt water? No passport? No money? People aren’t so quick to help ya.”
“What are you talking no money? I wired him a couple thousand,” Waltrine said.
So Calvin Wheat’s alive. I leaned closer to the porthole.
Miles said, “Cast off, will you? I want to be first in line for that swing bridge when she opens.”
I heard a door open. I shrank back toward the Zodiac to stay out of sight. Crouched. My mind raced. He’s in Freeport, that’s in the Bahamas. Why, why are Miles and Waltrine going to meet him without telling anyone? And why didn’t they tell anyone that Calvin’s alive? Are they still going for publicity?
Against whom?
The guy who threw Calvin overboard, or …
No, it would be bigger than that. He was on a cruise ship, collecting dust samples. He was just short of proving not only Miles Guffey’s theory, but also an accessory theory of his own: that someone is messing with anthrax out there. Someone who might sell it to the wrong people.
Then what’s the connection between being thrown off the ship and the guy with the anthrax? Or was he in fact thrown off the ship? There’s something that still does not make sense here … . My mind tumbled down the road of alternative interpretations, through various combinations and explanations of available data. What was the connection between Guffey’s departure and the sand found inside the wrapping of the SAM-7? Was there a connection? Calvin Wheat was alive, which made sense, because Miles and Waltrine had gotten over seeming convincingly upset about his disappearance almost as soon as it occurred. Did that mean that he had not in fact gone overboard? Because if he had been thrown overboard, how had he survived? And how had Miles and Waltrine known of his survival so soon? In fact, how had they known of his disappearance? Had they invented the whole story to draw attention to the project? Were they now heading out to the Bahamas to quietly retrieve their missing man, or to stir up some other kind of trouble?
He came to Freeport with no money, and nothing to his name but a tail tux that had spent some time in sea water. That sounded like he had in fact become separated from a cruise ship the hard way. Brad said that such falls were survivable, given extraordinary luck or special training … .
It struck me all at once. They aren’t going for publicity; they’re going for revenge.
The boat swung away from the dock, snapping my thoughts back to my present situation. I hunkered down, my head on a swivel, looking for Gator. I wasn’t sure how he could help me, or even if I needed help. Everything was happening faster than it was supposed to, too fast for me to follow. I was on a boat with two people who were either doing something very wrong, or who were doing something very naïve, and I wasn’t sure which was worse. I couldn’t decide whether to jump off, climb back under the tarp and continue eavesdropping, or climb down the ladder and say, “Howdy do, where’s the toilet?”
I glanced over the side and suddenly realized a certain fact: I was on a boat, and boats meant water. My stomach lurched at the thought of jumping into it, of being immersed in it. Besides, it looked oddly dark, black as coffee, almost. Was it tannic acid or pollution?
I heard a car approaching the dock. Gator. I turned and saw him get out of the car. He stood stiffly alert, feet apart, his eyes wide with concern as he scanned the boat for my location. I caught his eye. I wanted to give him a gesture to indicate my situation and what I wanted him to do, but I wasn’t sure what either of those was. I considered making a throat-cutting gesture to indicate that he shouldn’t say anything, but he might take that wrong and think I was in trouble. Maybe I was. So I waved bye-bye instead, no doubt looking like the scared idiot I was.
It was quickly getting light out. I could see down through the porthole to a clock on the chart desk. It was five ’til six. Sea Dingo came to idle a few hundred feet from the railroad bridge. Still uncertain what to do, I lay down on my belly so that I could move up closer to the portholes without being seen. I waited. Five minutes crawled past. Ten. I told myself, We’ll be through the bridge in a few minutes, then into the lock. It looks like I can climb ashore there. Yes, that’s what I should do.
I heard Miles key the microphone on his radio, say, “Moore Haven Lock, this is the trawler Sea Dingo. We’re waiting west of the railroad bridge. Will it be opening soon?”
“Thank you, Sea Dingo. I’m sure he’ll be along in a moment.”
The microphone clicked back into its holder. “Fuck,” said Miles Guffey.
“What’s keeping him?” said Waltrine.
“Fuck if I know. Whyn’t you g
imme some coffee, wouldja?”
Waltrine yawned. “Sure, boss; send the black girl for the coffee.”
“Oh, go fuckerself, Waltrine,” Miles said conversationally.
“I do regularly. Black or white?”
“The fucking?” he inquired.
“The coffee, asshole.”
Now Miles yawned. “Man, we are testy this morning.” “You started it.”
The day was only minutes old, and it was already going to hell. Coffee, I thought. That would be nice. A bathroom would be even nicer.
Give up, I told myself.
Easy for you to say. Here I am in the chase scene of my own damned stupid home movie, and it’s moving at a snail’s pace. Probably the worst danger I am in is dying of a burst bladder.
“Oh, good,” Miles said. “You found the guava Danishes. You warm them up in the microwave?”
I wanted to growl, but my stomach got there ahead of me. I am going to die a miserable, embarrassing death soaked in my own piss on the roof of a boat that belongs to a mad scientist who is eating guava Danishes that smell so good I am drooling, I informed myself.
Waltrine said, “No, I didn’t use no microwave, I just breathed fire on them. It’s in my job description. And I am gonna be breathing fire if this sonnabitch don’t get this show movin’! Fuckin’ Cal gonna be an old man by the time we get there!”
Ah! That confirms it! They are off to pick up Calvin Wheat. So: Was the missing man routine a ruse, or did it really happen?
Miles clicked the mike again. “Moore Haven, this is Sea Dingo. Any update on that bridge opening?”
“Sea Dingo, sorry about that. He’s got a train coming through in ten or fifteen minutes. He’ll open after that.”
I looked back toward the dock. Gator was still waiting by his car. He had produced a pair of binoculars, and was watching. They looked big and expensive. I wondered how a man who wrestled farm alligators, chauffeured swamp buggies for a living, and drove an old, beat-up Toyota could own such equipment. And night-vision goggles, I remembered. They have to cost a grand or so. Did I miss something here?
Suddenly, the ludicrousness of the entire situation moved me to action. How bad can it be? I decided. This is just a couple of my scientific colleagues down there playing games. I’ll go on down and present myself. If it’s a bad deal, I’ll ask to be put off at the lock, tell them there’s a witness right back there on the dock, watching.
But then another thought occurred to me: What if they’re armed? I don’t want to surprise them … .
But right then, Waltrine spotted me. “Holy shit!” she bellowed. “Miles! There’s somebody on the upper deck!”
I whipped my head around. She had come up the ladder behind me. I about peed my pants. So much for the macho stowaway act.
Miles Guffey’s eyes appeared close up to one of the portholes. “Well, well, well, if it ain’t our little private eye come to join us,” he said jovially. “Nice t’see ya. How d’ya take your coffee?”
– 30 –
Lucy opened her private notebook and prepared to write in it. She sat on the edge of her bed in the house NASA kept at the Cape for departing shuttle crews. The clock was ticking down. Endeavor was almost done with its crawl back out to launch pad B. Tomorrow they would begin the long process that would bring them to final readiness. At dawn on the following morning, they would lift up into the sky.
She sighed. If she did not hear from Jack by midnight, she knew what she must do. She must tell Mission Control of the threat.
But between that time and now was a whole day, and he might still call … .
As was her custom, she turned to the back of the notebook, a fine, leather-bound journal in which she wrote only a few sentences at the beginning of each day, and pulled out a photograph. The picture was eighteen years old, and soft from handling. She smiled pensively into the little face depicted there, a newborn infant staring out into the world. Tiny Lily, born in Switzerland during her first summer out of college, quick while nobody was watching. Her deepest secret, almost perfectly kept.
As always, her heart wobbled a moment, tumbling through the irresolvable uncertainty that this moment always touched. Could she have learned to care for her? Could a life as mother and wife have filled her? Was it sane or acceptable that she had given her to her great-grandmother’s people to raise? Would she ever find the strength to visit her, now that her dream of space was almost realized?
And why, of all insane things to do, had she told him that Lily existed?
She ran the tip of one finger along the edge of the photograph. Sighed. Put it away. Began to write. Dearest Lily, Daddy promised to keep you safe. Mommy is going to space very soon. She’ll bring you home the brightest star. …
Calvin Wheat stood on the dock in Freeport, just down from the Old Bahama Bay Hotel. This was the West End, the customs dock where Miles Guffey and Waltrine Sweet had agreed to meet him.
It was early morning but already stifling hot. No breeze. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and ran down his temples, leaving streaks in his spiky hair. The aches from the impact of falling three stories from the bow of that cruise ship intensified if he stood still too long, so he paced, now and again swinging his arms to fight the odd numbness that settled often in the small finger of his left hand. He must have jammed his neck pretty badly. He’d hit the water at modified attention, toes pointed, as he had been taught in the Navy, but he had hit hard. It had been too difficult to gage the descent. At least he was alive. Alive, and still walking. Hell, as long as he could move, he would take his revenge. Yes, by God, he would!
There was one single thing that he required in order to wreak that revenge, and he knew now exactly where to find it.
Twenty-four hours to launch. In half that time, he must slip out with the fast boat again, hurry west to Stuart, where he would hide it in the marina, then take his car up the coast to Cocoa Beach and dig up his special tool. Bang, bang, make an angel out of Lucy!
Except that he was being watched. He was certain of it now. The instrument he had found stuck up inside the hull of the fast boat was tiny, but he knew a tracking device when he saw one. Lucky that he had found it before his employers did.
The man in the sailboat had been anchored off the next cay too long now—three days—and he never left, not even to take a swim or walk on the island he was pretending to visit. And the stupid fucker had screwed up. The setting sun had glinted off his spotting scope. Stupid fucker. Stupid. Did he have any idea what firepower existed on this island? Did he think he could give chase in that puny sailboat, for shit’s sake?
He had surreptitiously monitored the marine-radio scanner the men from the east had brought to the island, and had never heard a peep out of the man in the boat. But someone had tried to reach him.
He imagined that he would go over there and shoot the bastard, just as he had spun a thousand fantasies that he could face a man in combat, or in the smallest argument … .
His employers were watching the man in the boat as well. They were staying shy of his end of the island, and covered their heads with foolish fishing caps when they went out, as if that could disguise their ethnicity.
He itched to be moving. Perhaps he could slip out from the dock on the far side of the island, and that fucker wouldn’t see him go. But no, he must wait. Wait, wait, wait.
Itch, itch, itch.
Wait, the men were coming toward him. They were bringing him something. He didn’t like to talk to them, didn’t trust them. Knew they laughed at him behind his back. Blond devil, they called him. “Hey blond devil, here’s a gun,” they were saying. “We have an errand for you. See that man in that sailboat over there …”
– 31 –
The center of Lake Okeechobee is like no other place I’ve been on Earth.
The colors are wrong. The water reflects the sky a disconcerted gray instead of blue, and it it’s so full of tannic acid that it curls off the bow like Coca-Cola, complete with the foam. The sky
itself is a confusion of vague tints all smeared into each other.
The surface is wrong. The horizon is lost, and the water does not appear flat; instead, implausibly thick with humidity, the boundary between lake and sky seems to curve upward like an inverted bell jar except with no clear edges, just a blur of moisture fading from more to less distinct. The sides thus hemmed in by humidity, the zenith seems unreasonably high.
And yet the lake is beautiful, reaching up from its own depths of strangeness to captivate the heart and break it all in one overwhelmingly soft and lonely moment.
The air itself is so humid that my body was soon slick clear down my torso, but the motion of the boat through the air kept the experience from being cloying. Perspiration poured down between my breasts and from under my arms in rivulets.
I stood up on the flying bridge, doing just that: flying. I had decided, after a decent cup of coffee, followed by eggs, bacon, and three glasses of water, that life on a boat could be good. Waltrine lent me shorts and a tank top, and I kicked off my shoes and went barefoot. With my hair pulled back in an elastic band, I felt at one with the elements.
Clouds built steadily all around us, fiercest in the west, cumulus rising by seven-thirty and thunderheads appearing by nine; they were dark as gunmetal by ten and growing wider, which meant they were coming straight for us.
The boat plowed steadily through the dark water, creating a constant kissing sound where the bow wake slapped itself falling. We moved on autopilot, chugging relentlessly from marker to marker, now passing small islands formed of dredging spoils and populated by troops of white pelicans crammed in next to cormorants.
I had been on the lake less than two hours, but already the rest of the universe seemed far away. The train that had finally come through at quarter to seven was hauling twenty or more gondola cars full of crushed limestone. Miles Guffey had watched it broodingly. I had thought at first that he was merely annoyed at being kept waiting, but then he opened a drawer and pulled out a newspaper story from the Washington Post that reported where that limestone was coming from and why, and where it was going to: It seemed that real-estate developers had bought themselves a huge loophole in the law, thwarting the professed federal plan to “replumb” the Everglades from a ghostly relic back into a thriving ecosystem. Using a mining law dodge, they were excavating vast quantities of the underlying limestone between Miami and Lake Okeechobee, digging down into the ground water, which created both rubble to sell as concrete aggregate and lakes around which to build expensive houses. Guffey was pissed because not only were the aquifers within the limestone thus forever crossed and the vitality of the ecosystem further ruined, but the rock was being sold for seven cents on the dollar. I sighed. It seemed that Florida was indeed a land of extremes: extreme beauty, extreme fragility, and extreme greed.
Killer Dust Page 27
