The Alex Cave Series. Books 1, 2, & 3.: Box set

by James M. Corkill

  Hendrick interrupted. “I can’t figure it out, Mr. Cave,” he began in a high-pitched voice. “Yesterday evening she left the off shore oil rig with fifteen thousand tons of crude, but she was empty when she ran aground here, eight hours later.”

  What about the crew?” Alex asked hopefully.

  “There were eight, but there’s no sign of them. They must have abandoned ship out in the gulf.”

  Alex looked at the sheriff. “Did the residents in the area see anything unusual?”

  “These folks aren’t home,” said Jackson and nodded behind them. “The neighbors say they saw the tanker for the first time yesterday morning.”

  “Did the tanker radio in that they have problems?”

  The sheriff nodded. “The Coast Guard received a short mayday, but no one answered when they replied. They’ve been searching the gulf by helicopter all night, but only found an overturned pleasure boat with a man and woman sitting on the hull. The Coast Guard had a shrimp trawler pick them up.”

  “I’d like to ask them some questions later.” The sheriff nodded assent, and Alex turned to Hendrick. “Have you been down in the cargo hold?”

  Hendrick grinned. “Now why would I want to go down there? You can see she’s empty. The Coast Guard has been searching for an oil slick while searching for the crew.”

  “I’d like to go onboard.”

  Hendrick nodded and led Alex and the sheriff down the dock and onto the nineteen-foot motorboat. Hendrick turned the key and fired up the outboard engine, then drove them out to the tanker. To Alex, the tanker looked twice the size of the Scorpio, about one-hundred-feet from deck to waterline.

  When they tied off to the boarding ladder hanging down from the main deck, Alex was the first to climb, followed by the sheriff. Both of them thought Hendrick might not make it to the top of the ladder, and when he finally crawled onto the deck, Hendrick spent several minutes catching his breath. Alex spent the time walking around the open deck and noticed all the inspection hatches were open. Fifteen minutes later, Hendrick led him and the sheriff into the crew quarters.

  The bunks were made and looked as though they had not been slept in, but personal belongings lay scattered around the room. Hendrick led them to the galley, which was neat and orderly. Hendrick waited below, while Alex and the sheriff climbed the stairs to the bridge, which was also in perfect condition. This was a new twist, Alex thought. Apparently, someone had managed to steal thousands of tons of crude oil without any resistance from the crew.

  Alex and the sheriff rejoined Hendrick on deck, and Alex pointed toward the long, capsule-shaped objects fastened to the railing. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd they didn’t use the life rafts?”

  Hendrick nodded as he studied the capsules. “Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  Hendrick and the sheriff followed Alex over to the nearest inspection hatch, and watched him peer into the hold. Alex looked up at Hendrick and the sheriff and grinned. “Care to come along?”

  Hendrick chuckled. “No, thanks.”

  The Sheriff shook his head. “I’ll take your word on what you find down there.”

  They watched Alex disappear down the ladder and, several minutes later, when he came out, the two men stared at him with a look of astonishment. Not a trace of oil could be seen on him or his clothes.

  “What the hell?” Hendrick managed to say.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Alex told them. “Let’s go back.”

  Once back on shore, the three of them stared at the tanker for a moment before leaving. Alex decided to play a hunch and turned to the sheriff. “I imagine you have a helicopter at your disposal.” The sheriff nodded. “I’d like to use it for a search, if you don’t mind.”

  “The Coast Guard is already searching,” the sheriff said curtly.

  “So you’ve told me. They’re searching the gulf, I want to search the desert.”

  The sheriff squinted and stared at Alex for a moment. Kind of a demanding little bastard, he thought. “Just who the hell are you, anyway?” he asked. “The governor called me personally and said to delay letting them move the tanker until you arrived. Told me to give you whatever help you needed. You seem to have a lot of pull, Mr. Cave.”

  “The government asks for my help once in a while.”

  The sheriff stared at Alex for a moment, and then spoke into his portable radio, requesting a chopper pick them up on the road.

  “What about my ship?” Hendrick asked. “It’ll be high tide in two hours. I need to get it towed back out to sea.”

  “I’m through with her,” Alex told him. “I’d like a list of the names and addresses of the crew. Have it sent to the sheriff’s office as soon as possible. I’ll pick it up when I get back.”

  “No problem.”

  They heard the helicopter approaching and Alex and the sheriff walked to the road. They shielded their eyes from the billowing sand as the blue police helicopter set down. Alex sat in front with the pilot, the sheriff in the back seat.

  “Which direction?” the pilot asked.

  “Inland, about a hundred miles,” Alex instructed.

  The helicopter leapt from the ground and swung northwest. Mile after mile of green farmland passed below and, half an hour later, they were flying over brown sand and sagebrush. Alex and the sheriff stared out opposite sides of the helicopter as they flew back and forth, north and south, each time extending farther west and deeper into the desert. An hour later, the pilot informed them there was only enough fuel for the return trip.

  The sheriff nodded assent to the pilot. “I gave you the benefit of the doubt, Mr. Cave, but we’re just wasting time. Ain’t no way those sailors are out here.”

  Alex thought about arguing. He was sure the crew from the tanker would be found on land, just like up in Washington, but he had to admit the idea did sound crazy to someone not familiar with the incident. He nodded assent and stared out the window at the miles of barren desert. It would be sheer luck to find them anyway, he realized.

  As they approached the homes along the coast, they saw the tanker being towed away from the shoreline by a large tug. The helicopter set down on the road, and Alex and the sheriff jumped out of the side door. When it had departed, the two men stared at the receding tanker for a few minutes while Hendrick approached.

  The sheriff turned to Alex. “Look, Mr. Cave. It’s been a long night. I’m leaving, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience,” Alex said sincerely, and extended his hand. “I appreciate the help.” The sheriff accepted the handshake and started to walk away.

  “One more thing, Sheriff,” Alex hollered.

  The sheriff stopped and turned around, his expression one of irritation, but he didn’t say a word.

  “I’m going to stay around until they find the bodies and I’d like to interview the couple rescued from the gulf this morning. Could you set it up?”

  “Call my office in an hour,” he said curtly as he climbed into his patrol car and headed back to Brownsville.

  “Any luck?” Hendrick asked. Alex shook his head. “I didn’t think you would,” Hendrick said in a condescending tone and grinned.

  Alex looked at him and grinned back sardonically. “Yesterday, there was another tanker incident similar to this one. They found the crew in the snow on a mountain top, one-hundred and fifty miles away.”

  Hendricks jaw dropped open in bewilderment. Alex smiled and walked back to his car, Hendrick staring after him.

  Alex checked into a Best Western Hotel and dialed the sheriff’s office from his room. The husband and wife rescued from their overturned boat were named Sorenson. They had been released from the hospital, and Alex was given the address and phone number of their home in Hitchcock. Alex called to tell them he was coming, and Mr. Sorenson gave him detailed directions.

  An hour later, Alex drove into the driveway of the Sorenson’s home; a huge, two story red brick mansion on a small ranch. Alex parked under the covered entryway and climbed ou
t of his car.

  As he approached the large, ornately carved wood front door, a gangly man dressed in white pants, white shirt, and white tennis shoes opened the door to greet him.

  “I’m Alex Cave, Mr. Sorenson.”

  “Howdy,” Sorenson replied in a decisive Texas drawl as he extended his hand. “Ya’ll come on in and I’ll fix us a drink.”

  “Beautiful home,” Alex told him as they walked into the large foyer with a dark marble floor. Large, potted palm trees were spaced along the walls.

  “Thanks. Built it three years ago. Tried to keep it small, now that the young’uns are gone.”

  Small? Thought Alex. The house must be at least six-thousand square feet.

  Sorenson led him into a huge living room, where one entire wall of windows overlooked a large pasture. White rail fencing enclosed six beautiful thoroughbred horses standing under large, green shade trees.

  Sorenson walked to a well-stocked, beautiful glass bar. “Whatcha gonna have, Mr. Cave?”

  “Whiskey. Neat, please.”

  Sorenson chuckled. “A man after my own heart. Hate to ruin good sour mash by watering it down.” He brought the drinks over and indicated for Alex to sit in a high-backed, white leather recliner, one of two matching a massive curved sofa. Sorenson sat in the other, facing Alex, and raised his glass. “To the Gypsy,” he toasted and took a sip. “That’s the name of my boat,” he explained. “Fifty-two-foot Chris Craft. Damn fine boat. Hated to see her end that way.”

  “Mind telling me how it happened, Mr. Sorenson? I mean, it’s a pretty big body of water out there and it seems strange you and the tanker would collide.”

  A look of bewilderment spread across Sorenson’s face. “Damndest thing I ever seen. The missus and me were coming back from a trip to Louisiana. She was below, napping, and I was having a drink on deck. Had the autopilot set so I could get out and stretch a bit. Anyhow, I saw this bright light in the sky. Thought it was the mast of a boat or something. I ran back into the bridge to check the radarscope, but the whole screen was acting up. Couldn’t make out anything. My boat started turning, so I looked at the compass, and it was spinning, crazy like. When I looked back out the window, I could see the tanker outlined in a sparkly rainbow. Strangest thing I ever saw. I ran down to wake my wife so she could see it too, but had a hell of a time waking her. She’d tipped quite a few on the way back. By the time I got her up on deck, the tanker was damn near on us. I ran back onto the bridge and tried to turn away, but the damn autopilot wouldn’t release and we seemed to be gaining speed like we was a couple of magnets sucking at each other. We were headed straight at the tanker, so I ran back out and grabbed a couple of life jackets from under the seat, but we didn’t have time to put them on. I shoved my wife overboard and jumped in myself, told her to swim like hell. Scared the living shit out of me. That tanker didn’t slow down a bit. Just kept on plowing through the water like we wasn’t even there. Damn lucky we weren’t sucked into the propellers. Anyhow, when the tanker passed by, I saw the bottom of the Gypsy floating on the other side, and we swam over and climbed on. Seemed like we was sitting there forever before a helicopter came by. I waved like hell, but it didn’t stop. I was so damn mad I could have chewed horseshoes. Next thing I know, this shrimp boat comes along and picks us up.”

  Another new twist, Alex thought. He hadn’t seen any colored lights around the Scorpio when he heard their mayday. “Tell me more about the light and the rainbow you saw around the tanker.”

  Sorenson shrugged. “The light was brighter than all get out.”

  “And it was on the water, you say?”

  Sorenson looked thoughtful for a moment. “Ya know, now that you mention it, it seems like it was kind of high for a boat. Like it was mounted way up on a mast, or something.”

  Alex thought about it for a moment, but put it aside. “Can you describe the rainbow around the ship?”

  Sorenson’s eyebrows moved closer together. “Damn strange. It was as if the tanker was in a halo or something, only it was full of colors. Kind of sparkly. By the time me and the Missus got back on deck, it was gone.”

  Alex’s phone rang “Hello?”

  “Sheriff Jackson here, Mr. Cave. I, uh, I owe you an apology. It seems you were right. A rancher found the eight men from the tanker on his ranch just outside Austin. Seven of them are dead, but one’s still alive. Busted up pretty bad, but the hospital says he might make it.”

  “Where are the bodies now?”

  “At the General Hospital, in Austin.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “I’ll call and let them know you’re coming.”

  “Thanks,” He turned off the phone and looked at Sorenson. “Anything else you can remember?”

  Sorenson shook his head. “Not really. The missus and me just sat on the hull and stared at the moon. A real pretty moon that night, too. A crescent moon, brighter than usual. A cloud must have moved in front of it, because it just suddenly vanished.”

  Alex stood and extended his hand. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Sorenson, and for this excellent whiskey.”

  Three hours later, Alex walked into the Austin General Hospital, and the woman at the front desk gave him directions to the emergency ward. A tall man in a tan police uniform stood outside the door to the intensive care facility, Alex introduced himself.

  “I’m Sheriff Earl Bowdy, Mr. Cave,” said the officer as the two men shook hands. “Sheriff Jackson said you’d be coming, so I wanted to be here.”

  “I appreciate that. How’s he doing?”

  Sheriff Bowdy slowly shook his head. “Damned if I know how he’s even alive. The doctor says his whole spine is a bunch of fractured bones. Early indications are he’s paralyzed from the neck down. They have him heavily sedated and the doctor says he probably won’t regain consciousness for a while.”

  “Was he conscious when you arrived at the ranch, Sheriff?”

  Bowdy shook his head. “Nope. They were already loading him into the ambulance by the time I got there. The old man who found them said the man was mumbling when he first found him. We didn’t find a single sign of how they got there. No footprints, no tire tracks, nothing. Beats the hell out of me.”

  “Have you identified the bodies?”

  “Yeah, they were all carrying identification. They match Sheriff Jackson’s list from the oil tanker.”

  “I’d like a copy of the report.”

  “Sure. Stop by my office and pick it up from my secretary.”

  “I’d like to talk to the rancher, too.”

  Bowdy nodded and gave him directions. “His name is Gus Tilman,” Bowdy told him. “He’s an ornery old cuss. Wouldn’t say much when I spoke to him.”

  Alex nodded, “If this man regains consciousness, I’d appreciate it if you would call me at this number.” Bowdy nodded and Alex gave him his card.

  Alex left the hospital and stopped at the sheriff’s office for the report. Half an hour later, he saw the battered mailbox, the weathered black paint read STAMPEDE RANCH. Alex turned off the asphalt, onto a narrow dirt road, leaving a cloud of brown dust in his wake. A mile farther, he stopped in front of a doublewide mobile home sitting on cement blocks, surrounded by desert sand and sagebrush. Behind the mobile home stood a large wooden structure that might have been a barn.

  No one came out of the mobile when Alex shut off the engine and climbed out of the car, so he walked up the rickety wood steps and pushed the doorbell button. No one answered, so he knocked loudly. When no one came to the door, he walked around the mobile toward the wooden building behind it. Dust from the dry dirt swirled around his tennis shoes as he walked past several pieces of rusted farm equipment partially hidden by the overgrown weeds. He breathed in the strong smell of sagebrush as he walked to the wooden structure.

  The building was an old gray barn with a flat-sloped roof. Several additions had been crudely built onto both sides and every part of the structure was in desperate need of repair.

  “Anybody
here?” Alex hollered as he approached the weathered building.

  The door on the first addition to the barn opened and a short, skinny man appeared in the opening. He was dressed in oil stained jeans, badly scuffed cowboy boots, and a tee shirt that might have been white at one time. He wore an old, sweat-stained cowboy hat.

  As Alex walked closer, he saw the man’s face was as weathered as the barn. Deep wrinkles gave the impression of a prune with the texture of rawhide.

  The man stared at him suspiciously. “What can I do for ya?” he said in a raspy voice.

  “My name’s Alex Cave, Mr. Tilman. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  Tilman pulled a dirty rag from his back pocket, lifted his hat, and wiped the tattered cloth across his bald head. “Nothing that can’t wait. What’s on your mind?” he asked curtly as he set his hat back on his head and stared at Alex.

  “It’s about the men you found, Mr. Tilman. The sheriff said one of them was mumbling when you found him.”

  Tilman stared at him quizzically. “You don’t look like a law man, not dressed in them duds.”

  Alex grinned. “You’re right, I’m not. Actually, I’m a teacher at a university in Montana.”

  Tilman’s leather face looked as though it would crack when he smiled. “Montana,” he said wistfully. “I always wanted to move to Montana. Seen pictures of it when I was a boy. Gaud almighty that’s pretty country.” Tilman took on a faraway look as he stared into the distance for a moment and then looked back at Alex. “A teacher you say? I have a lot of respect for teachers. Never made it past the tenth grade, myself. Lied about my age and joined the Army when I was sixteen. Anyhow, why’s a teacher interested in those men?”

  “It’s a long story, but basically I’m just curious.”

  Tilman stared at Alex for a moment, and then nodded. “Yeah, the man was hurting something fearful. Kept mumbling about a bright light.”

  “Do you remember his exact words?”

  Tilman rubbed his jaw as he thought about it. “Seems to me he said something like, `Stay away from the purple light. I have to hide.’ He must have been delirious.”