Killer Dust

by Sarah Andrews

  Next, I considered Jack Sampler’s behavior.

  Jack had gone to Florida to help Lucy prevent a madman from threatening the space shuttle. Jack had gone incommunicado for several days, and then had come to Tom with the location of an illicit weapon designed to take down aircraft. Believing this à la carte terrorist to be acting alone, Jack preferred likewise to go it alone than call in a posse. Presumably Lucy disliked publicity.

  What the two lines of evidence had in common were a) weapons, b) terrorism, and c) the Bahamas. So next I considered the Bahamas.

  The Bahamas had a long history of looking the other way regarding pirates and smugglers of all stripes; so, who would get excited if the owner of a sunny little islet happened to import a few moderate-sized weapons? And who would notice a small laboratory in which someone was culturing a drum or two of anthrax? I realized that Tom and Jack did not fully understand the enmity between Calvin Wheat and Ben Farnswroth, or Chip Hiller for that matter. It was also common knowledge that cruise lines purchased whole small islands in the Bahamas to provide a “private” taste of paradise to their customers. Such settings commonly had paramilitary “guards” looking over them. And, one might suppose, a well-stocked islet might also have a tiny clinic, just right for culturing germs. Such an operation would be a magnet for men who do not fit in normal society: psychopaths of every variety.

  Tom and Jack wanted to believe that the stalker was working for drugrunners. I saw the potential for a terrorist cell. The FBI had certainly guessed wrong before.

  Putting the whole picture together, I had one very pissed-off microbiologist on his way to settle a score with a competitor who might very likely have gone to work for terrorists, and my boyfriend trying to find a psychopath he believed to be a solo act. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that both might be working out of the same island, and that the thing they would have in common would be a terrorist cell that was larger and better organized than either of them. Calvin Wheat had gotten a free ride on the wrong cruise line, perhaps by a design of which he was not aware. His old nemesis had discovered that he was aboard, or even engineered it, and had made sure he would not make it to the the conference, let alone the private islet. A group hiding surface-to-air missiles and an anthrax lab on its island might not notice if one of their errand boys took off with one of their boats and one of their missiles to settle an old score. Miles Guffey and crew did not know the magnitude of the terrorist cell. Jack did not know for whom his miscellaneous psychopath was working.

  But Tom had figured out that there might be a connection and had sent me to find Miles and shake him down for his destination. Somehow, I had to get that information to Tom. And for Faye’s sake, I had to talk him into sending someone else to help Jack.

  And all that meant I had to figure out how to get off the boat and phone Tom. But the damned boat was in the middle of a canal, and even if I could get my brain around the idea of jumping off a perfectly dry boat into that much water. I had only to remind myself that that water was full of large, carnivorous reptiles that had not been refrigerated into lethargy.

  For the past ten or fifteen minutes, we had been passing houses. Houses meant telephones. I looked hungrily at their private docks, and wished a rowboat would cut loose and bump against the side of the Sea Dingo, but no such incredible luck came my way. I briefly contemplated pulling the inflatable off the roof and lowering it over the side, but I figured I’d get about twenty seconds and a hernia into that project before Miles or Waltrine caught me at it. So it was time to simply insist.

  I hurried up to the pilothouse. Miles and Waltrine were halfway through a large bag of Doritos, munching away. “Listen,” I said. “I’ve got to make a call. Really, it’s critically important.”

  “Say why,” Miles drawled.

  The words jammed in my throat. If Jack and Tom felt they couldn’t tell their official colleagues, I surely couldn’t tell Miles Guffey.

  “Not going to tell me? Aw …” He turned back toward the wheel.

  “You’re going out to the Bahamas,” I said. “Calvin Wheat knows a man out there who’s synthesizing weapons-grade anthrax. You’ve got to tell me which cay.”

  “This is personal. You’re getting off in Stuart.”

  “I don’t know what in hell’s name you plan to do there, but let me tell you, he has friends.”

  “I assume he does,” said Miles.

  “Just what do you think you can accomplish? Go out in a blaze of glory? I’ve got friends who can help you. Shit, Miles, you’ve—” I looked up ahead. We were approaching a lock.

  He picked up the microphone on the radio jack and said, “St. Lucie lock, this is the trawler Sea Dingo, coming to you from the west.”

  A voice came back through the speaker. “Sea Dingo, come ahead and tie up on your starboard side.”

  Miles said, “Did you notice you can smell the dust already, down at the coast? I was just hearin’ that on the radio here. We’ll be there in just a couple hours. In fact, I was thinking we’d be able to smell it already here, but not quite. Just wait until we get to the sea. The air will be hazy with it where the thunderstorms haven’t cleaned it yet.”

  I was only halfway listening. I was examining the wall of the lock. It appeared to have iron bars at intervals. Surely I could climb them, if not the rope the man was lowering for us to tie up the boat. Or I could just yell that I was being held against my will and demand to be taken off the boat. This last seemed the most expedient, but I might lose precious time explaining myself to the Army Corps of Engineers. I stepped outside the pilothouse and headed back to the stern to gage my options.

  Sea Dingo pulled in against the cement wall of the lock. Thinking I was being helpful, the man in uniform at the top of the wall lowered me a thick line. “Don’t tie up,” he warned politely, giving me a fatherly smile. “I’m going to lower you twelve feet.”

  “Sir,” I said, “can you get me off this boat?”

  “Not while you’re in the locks, dear. Y’all can tie up down below if you like.”

  I took hold of the line and leaned on it. It was very rough, yet slightly slick; I didn’t think I could climb it. The iron bars were out of reach. I looked up at the man, caught his eye again. He seemed kind and fatherly. “The captain here won’t let me off the boat,” I said, letting my lower lip quiver. It didn’t take any playacting.

  The man nodded, then disappeared from sight.

  Behind us, the massive doors swung shut. Ahead of us, massive doors cracked open. Through the crack between them, I could see a drop-off. The boat lurched. I held on to the line.

  Minutes passed. The boat slowly sank lower and lower in the lock. Had the man heard me? Had he understood? Would he do anything to help?

  The doors opened wider. A weird salad of floating plants rushed downhill toward us. The boat dropped more rapidly.

  I heard a voice over the loudspeaker in the pilothouse. “Sea Dingo, proceed to dock on your starboard side immediately outside the lock.”

  He did it! I almost danced a jig. Now I had to hope that Miles would do as the man had said.

  Sea Dingo eased away from the cement wall. It headed out of the lock, but slowly.

  Waltrine appeared at the doors to the saloon. She held out a cell phone. “Go ahead,” she said. “Make your fucking call. But you’re cutting us in.”

  – 33 –

  “Tom,” I said into the cell phone. “It’s me, Em.” I resisted an urge to shout over the noise that came through the connection. I tried to analyze it. Engines, I decided. And wind. He’s on a boat, too.

  I cupped my hands around the mouthpiece. “Tom, I’m on Miles Guffey’s boat,”

  I turned and walked to the far end of the upper deck, where I could speak without being heard through the portholes and watch the ladder from the lower deck as well.

  “Make it quick,” Tom growled.

  I bared my teeth at the phone in frustration. “I’ve got your information.”

  “I
no longer need it.”

  I almost threw the damned phone into the canal. “You’ve found Jack!”

  “Yes.”

  Controlling my frustration with great difficulty, I said, “I’ve also figured out the big picture. There’s a part you don’t know.”

  For a moment he said nothing, then, “Speak.”

  I said, “You and Miles need to talk.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Calvin Wheat is alive and waiting for Miles and Waltrine at Freeport. They won’t tell me where they’re going, but I think it’s the same place you’re headed. So you’ve got a trio of scientist-vigilantes heading your way. Not good, huh?”

  Tom swore, then said, “This isn’t amateur night we’re headed into. What the fuck do they think they’re doing?”

  “Their bioterrorist and your ‘friend’ have something in common.”

  “Explain.”

  “This line is secure?”

  “My end. I’ll have to risk yours.”

  I said, “What I said back in Tampa.”

  Tom said, “You mean that we’re dealing with more than one man.” He paused. Then, with annoyance mixed with something else—fear?—he said, “It seems that you were correct in your assumptions.”

  “You’ve found the man?”

  “No. Yes. We … we found Jack.”

  My heart lurched as a jolt of adrenaline rushed through my body. “Is he okay?’

  “Yeah, he’s just ducky. Son-of-a-bitching cowboy. He’s had the bastard staked out, didn’t dare use his phone or radio. Brad ran out there in a fast boat, found him anchored … . I can’t tell you all this, their surveillance is too good. We’re on our way to … help him. You keep your vigilantes the hell out of here.”

  Jack’s seen the stalker crawl into his nest of terrorists. “No, Tom. You need these vigilantes, or at least you need Calvin Wheat. There’s something you don’t know.”

  “Cut to the chase, Em.”

  “They have weapons-grade anthrax on that island.”

  Tom let out every curse he knew.

  I said, “Wheat knows how to handle it, or how to destroy it. And just as important, he will know how to locate the stockpile. Tom, you can’t go running in there and chance setting off an explosion that will release it. I don’t care if you think you’re immunized; you’ll be the first to die. I want you alive so I can kick your ass for doubting me. And so Faye doesn’t kick mine. And so you don’t let that much anthrax loose on the rest of creation.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes, or as sure as I get, Tom.”

  Tom muttered something that sounded like, “Fucking geologist weasels on every fucking point.”

  “Okay, you want more? The ship Calvin Wheat was on was called the Caribbean Queen. Tap into your computer. I’ll bet you get an itinerary that puts in at a small cay in the Berry Islands.”

  Tom said, “Just a minute.” Away from the receiver he said, “Brad, give me that phone cord. I’ve got to go online.” I heard him clicking keys.

  About then, a weird tight sensation crawled up my spine, and I whirled around just in time to see Miles Guffey’s face appear above the deck of the flying bridge as he climbed straight up from the wheelhouse. He took a seat at the second set of controls and swung it around so he could look at me. He seemed oddly satisfied.

  I said, “Pretty spry.”

  “For an old man?” he inquired. “I ain’t dead yet.”

  I stared into Miles’s smile. To the phone I said, “I’m going to guess that Miles knows that cruise line’s schedule, too, and that boat is due at that island day after tomorrow. I’m going to guess also that he thinks he can walk on in there under the cover of all those tourists.”

  Miles said, “I do love a smart woman.”

  Into the phone I said, “Miles is confirming this.” Trying to sound flippant, I asked Miles, “Aren’t you a little concerned that they might have guards on this island? You never know … . They might be armed. Even with an island full of shark bait they might not take kindly to another boat making a landing.”

  Miles replied, “Who said anything about motoring up to the beach? It’s amazing what you can do with scuba. Just pop up behind the dunes and shuck off your gear, and you’re just another yayhoo from Kansas walking along the sand. ‘Oops! I just stubbed my toe. Can you take me to the clinic? I need a Band-Aid.’ The clinic would be where Farnsworth’s got the setup.”

  To Tom I said, “You catching this?”

  “What’s your location?”

  “We’re a couple hours’ run west of Stuart. Probably twenty-four hours from where you are. But Calvin Wheat is in Freeport. Sorry, Tom, but you’re going to have to cut Miles in on this.”

  “Goddamn it. You put that crazy son of a bitch on the phone.”

  Faye was waiting for me at Manatee Marina. “They left before he even called me,” she said, as we watched the dock attendant pull out the fueling lines and start to pump diesel aboard the Sea Dingo. “I missed them.” She looked toward the east. Tears began to roll down her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, Faye. They were already well offshore when I got the call through to him.”

  She did not make eye contact. “I know,” she said. “He phoned me with instructions. Come on, I’ve got the plane over at Whitman Field. It’s just a few minutes away.”

  “You’ve got the plane? How’d you get up to St. Petersburg and back so quickly?”

  “I drove up this morning,” she said. “I had a feeling.”

  “So what are the instructions?”

  “Tom told me to take you to see a man about a Zodiac.”

  Quoting the master, I said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Are we going east?”

  “Yes, that much I know.”

  “We don’t have our passports,” I said. “In fact, I don’t have one at all.”

  “Don’t worry. I was able to make certain arrangements.” Stalking away ahead of me, she grumbled, “When I set up in flying, I meant to run a delivery service. I never meant to be smuggling geologists into the Bahamas.”

  Freeport was an array of hotels and whitewashed houses throwing evening shadows. Faye taxied the twin up to the general aviation building. A man was waiting there, holding a gallon jug. He stood casually in his shorts and luau shirt, staring at us through dark aviator’s sunglasses. He was young and fit and looked like he was on his way to a stadium to cuss and scream and root for his favorite team.

  I opened the door to the plane. “Dr. Wheat, I presume?”

  He did not smile. “Yeah. That’s me.”

  “You got any luggage?” Faye asked.

  He laughed without smiling. “Just this gallon of Clorox and a ziplock bag for my little treasure hunt. I hope your friends brought their masks.”

  I said, “Well then, climb in. We have a ways to go yet.”

  The sun was dipping low toward the ocean through dust-reddened air when Faye’s twin-engine Piper touched down at the airstrip. As we rolled to a stop between a white sand beach and a row of palm trees, she popped open her window. I could smell the salt kicked into the air from the surf, but also the throat-constricting odor of dust.

  As the three of us climbed out of the plane, a man came out of a small building and walked briskly toward the plane. He was dark as pitch and was wearing white trousers and a splashy shirt. “Ms. Carter?” he inquired in a brisk British accent.

  “That’s me,” Faye said. “And you are?”

  “Hesperos, at your service.” He grinned broadly. “Your cousin Edward said to show you all courtesies.”

  I looked at Faye. “You have a cousin out here?”

  She shrugged her shoulders wearily. “Okay, so he’s really an old boyfriend. It was the best I could do on short notice, given the coordinates Tom gave me.”

  The man turned to me. “You are Ms. Hansen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Latim
er has sent a boat for Dr. Wheat. He asks you to proceed through the trees here to the dock on the harbor side of the island. A man named Philemon is there awaiting you.”

  “Did Mr. Latimer give you any instructions?”

  “Just what I’ve said.” He smiled. “I understand from my friend Philemon that you will all soon visit a not-too-distant cay with the purpose of cleaning up a rather filthy mess.” He bowed deeply. “I am so delighted to hear.”

  I said, “I am going to this place?”

  He bowed again. “Philemon is very reliable; all the local gentry use him when they … have an errand that requires discretion and … security.”

  Faye said, “Please, Em. Go. Make sure the reliable Philemon does not engage the wrong targets.” Her head sagged forward with fatigue. She was pale, and her lips had gone thin.

  I put the back of my hand to her forehead. She was sweating. “Are you okay, Faye?”

  “I’ve been getting very tired these last couple of days. And a little bit achy.” She put her hand against her belly, low down, as if fighting menstrual cramps.

  It was at that moment that I finally noticed that the great bulge of her belly was riding lower than it had been the day before. The baby was no longer sitting high like a rising balloon, but instead was on its way to where gravity would take it. I’d seen it many times back in rural Wyoming: In the last weeks before a child was born, it dropped down into its mother’s pelvis, bringing its weight to bear on the cervix. But it was too soon! “Oh, Faye! Why didn’t you tell me? No, I can’t leave you, I—”

  Calvin Wheat put an arm around Faye to support her. She winced with pain. She said, “No! You go! Go help Tom and bring him home!”

  “Hesperos,” I said, “do you have another pilot here who can fly this thing?”

  He grinned broadly. “I am her cousin’s pilot. Allow me to take her in his Lear jet.”

  “She needs to get to a fully equipped hospital. You can have her in Miami or Fort Lauderdale in less than an hour. Hurry, please!”