He wobbled, and it took him a few minutes for his sea legs to acclimate to the pedals before he made peace with the bike. Deciding that at this hour the streets were safer than the sidewalks, Mac started down Angelica in search of Pamela. Pausing at every intersection, he scoped out the side streets as he went. Reaching the cemetery, and having seen no sign of her, he thought about backtracking and checking the small bakeries and coffee shops he had passed along the way, but then he thought of the cat she’d followed.
She knew the plan was to go with Sloan to the the Dry Tortugas. If it were anyone else, he might have turned left and headed to the marina, but he was dealing with Pamela and the sight of the cemetery ahead lured him closer. Mac knew Key West as well as many residents, and had transited the cemetery many times en route to other destinations. This time, as he entered the gates, he scanned every gravesite and structure, looking for Pamela, or the cat.
He had circumnavigated the inner loop of the cemetery, passing many notable Key West figures. It was quite early, but a few tourists were crowded around the gravesite of “Sloppy Joe” Russell and the USS Maine memorial. Some stopped to read the more famous inscriptions: “I told you I was sick,” and “Just resting my eyes.” Mac ignored them as he continued to look for Pamela. He had just about given up and turned onto the diagonal lane that led to Margaret Street. With her nowhere in sight, he decided to see if she was at the marina.
A few minutes later, Mac slid the bike into the empty rack by the Half Shell Oyster Bar and walked down the dock. The Surfari sat in her slip by the end of the finger pier. Stepping down the ramp to the floating docks, he almost crashed into a young woman pulling a wheelie suitcase—or, rather, she almost crashed into him. He apologized and got a “whatever” muttered under her breath as a wheel on the heavy bag rolled over his boat shoe. Figuring her for another Key West casualty, he put her from his mind and focused on what lay in front of him.
Because of the passing storm, the marina was just coming to life. Usually half-empty at this hour, with charter boats taking snorkelers to the reef or fishermen to the Gulf Stream, mid-morning was generally a quiet time. Mac kept his head down, not wanting to engage in conversation as several of the charter captains and mates greeted him, finally reached the Surfari. Admiring the boat, it took him a few minutes to remember that this wasn’t a pleasure trip. Lives and livelihoods were at stake. Sloan greeted him and, out of habit, Mac asked permission to board.
“Jimmy Buffett’s got one just like it,” Sloan said.
“Not a fan,” Mac muttered, hating name-droppers. In his opinion, the singer had gone off the rails in the last few years. With Margaritaville restaurants and hotels now commonplace, and the never-ending tours singing the same old songs, he wondered if you took the alcohol away if anyone cared anymore.
Stepping down to the single-level deck, Mac took in the layout. Where most sailboats were a jumble of levels and steps this was designed for easy access, with the entire cockpit and main area of the cabin on one level. He was immediately drawn to the transom, where he examined the mechanism that lowered the stern of the boat like the tailgate of a pickup truck.
“Buffett’s is smaller,” Sloan added.
Mac cringed, knowing he was about to spend a whole day with this guy.
“Sorry for the clutter. We live aboard.” He looked toward the pier. “Where’s Pamela?”
Mac realized that the woman who had crashed into him earlier was the other half of Sloan’s “we.” Woman who could live aboard were rare creatures. A lot of the comforts many desired or thought essential were not available on a boat. Trading a washer and dryer for a marina laundromat, or a shower with unlimited hot water and enough room to shave your legs for a tiny cubicle, or even a common shower in a marina, was too much for many women—and men. He had to question Sloan’s decision-making, if he had sent the woman packing in hopes of drawing Pamela in.
“She got caught up in something.” Mac looked at his watch. “We need to move if we’re going to meet Mel and Ned.” Mac could see the indecision on Sloan’s face as he glanced back toward the dock.
As if to pacify Mac, Sloan went to the helm and started the engines. “Maybe just a few minutes.”
Mac noticed the shore power was still plugged in, and went to the outlet, where he unscrewed, then removed, the twist-lock plug. Hopping up to the deck, he disconnected the other end, as well as the freshwater hose from the pedestal. A minute later, with the utility lines stowed, the boat was ready to depart. Mac looked back at Sloan, who had remained behind the wheel with his gaze fixed on the dock.
“I’ll get the bowline, then we can go.” Mac moved forward, assessing the condition of the boat as he did. Despite his comment about the clutter, it was rare for a live-aboard to be so neat. Most decks were a mess of tanks for fuel and water, barbecues, potted plants, folding bikes, and kayaks. The Surfari had none of that. Mac could see the well-designed compartments strategically placed to hold gear. If he only could like and trust the man at the wheel as much as the boat, this might be a better trip.
With the bow free, Mac moved to the stern, where he released the crisscrossed lines and nodded to Sloan. Mac had given him no choice but to go.
Twenty-Eight
While Sloan idled out of the Bight, Mac checked out the rest of the boat. He wasn’t looking at the design and fittings, which he found to be well thought out, so much as the utility of the vessel. Ignoring the two staterooms and cabin space, Mac went right to the engines. He could tell before opening the hatches of the twin engines that the boat was faster than your standard motorsailer. Feeling the water move against the hull, he estimated they were going a respectable ten knots. One at a time, he checked the eighty-horsepower Yanmars for leaks. They were both new-looking and appeared to be clean and recently serviced. Moving back to the single-level deck, he stood behind Sloan, who sat in the captain’s chair located forward and amidships. Most of the cockpit was under the hardtop roof, well-protected from the sun. The wraparound windshield was well-designed, offering a two-hundred-seventy-degree view. Small vents allowed the breeze to flow through the cockpit.
He noticed Sloan fumbling with the controls. Without fail, Mac judged every boat he stepped on, and this one passed every test he could offer. It wouldn’t pull traps or get you to the Gulf Stream in half an hour, but otherwise, he gave it high marks. He could actually see Mel and himself cruising in it. Unfortunately, its captain didn’t pass muster.
Mac cringed and almost grabbed the wheel from Sloan as he cut the corner of the Bight, almost grounding them on the rocks. When the boat recovered, he set a course that would bring them around the inside of Sunset Key. “Once we clear the island, we’ll see what we can get out her.”
“Good deal,” Mac said, checking on the dual screens in front of the helm. He had a similar setup aboard Ghost Runner, and now that he had accepted the instruments and knew how to use them, he wondered how he had ever survived without them. Sloan had the portside screen set up as a chartplotter, showing the boat’s current position and the general area. The second screen showed every engine stat that you could ask for. Mac glanced from the tachometers to the oil levels, and with everything in the green, he looked back at the chartplotter.
“You ever been to the Tortugas before?” Mac asked.
“Not Fort Jefferson. I’ve been close, but stayed clear of the reefs.”
“Mind if I lay in a course, then?” Mac moved closer to the display.
“Go ahead. We draw five-foot seven underway.”
At least he knew that much. Knowing specifications was important, and certainly helped, but Mac could see by the awkward way he steered that the man’s nautical ability was not to be trusted.
Setting a course on the touch-screen display was as simple as touching spots on the chart, and within a few minutes Mac had laid in a general course that would get them within a mile or so of The Tongue, the area off the Bird Key Anchorage where he had found the diving bell. From there he would insist on s
teering the remainder himself. There was no way he was going to share those coordinates with Sloan.
Mac and Ned had found the narrow passage exactly as Van Doren had described it. There was no reason for him to think Lafitte’s two escort ships would not be in the same area. After finding the dive bell, Mac trusted Van Doren. He thought about extending the same courtesy to the man sitting next to him, but decided against it. For now, Sloan was an ally, but Mac was certain that status wouldn’t last once the first glimmer of gold came aboard. Treasure did strange things to your closest friends, never mind what it would do to your weakest ally.
They had just made the turn to the west after clearing Sunset Key, and now, heading away from Key West, Mac knew he had only a few miles before they would be out of cellphone range. Out of habit, he glanced at the controls, but there was no need. Sloan sat back in the padded captain’s chair, checking the water around them while the autopilot steered the course Mac had entered.
Taking his phone to one of the swing-out seats by the transom, he sat just outside of the shade structure and checked his messages. He was relieved when he saw that Mel and Ned had reached Marathon and were on their way down. The weather had passed, its only mark being the slightly less humid air. The seas had come down with the wind and were barely two feet. Mac expected with the path of the storms moving generally south, it would have cleared Marathon a few hours before Key West, and the conditions there would be better than here. He calculated that with the current sea state and Ghost Runner running at her cruising speed of twenty knots, they would reach the Tongue at about the same time, or even sooner, than the motorsailer.
“This your cruising speed?” Mac asked.
“Yeah, about twelve knots per hour,” Sloan said, clearly not wanting any input.
Mac couldn’t help but snort in disgust. Knots meant nautical miles per hour. Any real sailor would know that. Sloan had long ago run out of strikes against him, but this immediately went to the top of the charts. Trying to put it from his mind, Mac looked up at the mast, and then studied the sail controls. “Motorsail?”
Sloan’s face went white and he ignored the question, leaving Mac the distinct impression that he was a motor-only kind of sailor, one who used the mast as a social beacon rather than its intended purpose.
Sloan reached forward and tentatively hit two switches. The boat leaned heavy to port. Mac was caught off-guard, but had been around boats and rogue waves long enough to recover quickly. Sloan had released the main and jib simultaneously. Mac heard another winch motor and saw the foresail extend out from the forward stay.
With all the sail released at once, the Surfari healed over hard. The autopilot strained to correct the weather helm and failed, causing Mac to grab the wheel and do it manually while he found the controls to ease off the sails. A clearly flustered Sloan relinquished the captain’s chair, and Mac took over control of the vessel. Once he had it dialed in, the boat instantly reacted, picking up a good five knots, which would give them the additional speed they needed to make the rendezvous. Apparently, the boat knew more about sailing than Sloan. After checking his watch, Mac calculated their arrival. Seeing that it was just after noon, with six hours of daylight left and sixty miles of water to cover, if they could maintain this speed he might be able to get a dive in before dark. That would be good enough for today.
While the boat sailed itself, Mac sat back and tried to figure out Sloan’s motivation. Was it solely the treasure, or something else? With what Van Doren had described, the treasure was enough to lure any man. Mac knew the different symptoms of treasure fever. Many were excited for the adventure. Sloan had his jaw set like his life depended on finding it.
When JC had seen the reflection in the coffee cup he had given as an offering to his ancestors, he was at first unsure what it meant. His relationship with the opposite sex was mercurial at best. After two bad marriages, and the wife of his most recent still haunting him, he preferred the company of fish to women.
Having fed his hostage, he had sat down in the circle to say a prayer. Bisected by the line where the ground met the wall of the crypt, the circle, scratched with crushed egg shells, represented his connection to his ancestors. The half above the ground was meant to represent the living; the half on the ground, the dead. He had just finished asking for their help when he picked up the still-full coffee he used as an offering, and saw her reflection in it.
Tilting it slightly, dumping half on the ground, he could see her face. Though he could not identify her, there had to be a reason she was here. The cemetery got plenty of tourist traffic, but most, after seeing the ritual circle, had avoided him. The bravest would meet his eye, nod, and walk on, either respecting his privacy or fearing his wrath. This woman was a little too interested, and he wondered if she was connected to the man inside.
The Key West cemetery was a far cry from most people’s vision of grassy lawns and manicured gravesites. With an estimated population of 75,000, many more than the living population of the key, the thirteen-acre cemetery was tight quarters. The only grass grew wild, and the roots of the banyan trees scattered for shade disrupted the even lines of many burial sites.
Visiting the crypt every day, JC knew his way around, and without looking back at the woman, he rose, took the coffee, and walked around the backside of the family crypt. Here, he stepped through the broken section of the cast-iron fence, crossed a patch of uneven concrete that was probably the site of a lost tomb, and crept behind the stacked coffins forming a mausoleum next to his family’s crypt.
He was behind her now, and since she didn’t move, knew he hadn’t been detected. With a quick prayer to the gods, he closed the half-dozen feet between them, drew the bait knife he kept sheathed at his side, and with just enough pressure to let her know it was a knife, pressed the blunt end against her bare shoulder.
The touch sent a shiver up his spine, and he immediately determined she was dangerous. The woman slowly turned to face him, and he smiled when he saw the look of submission in her eyes.
Pamela felt him behind her. The smell of fish gave him away. It wasn’t the same as when Mac and Tru came back from a trip. This odor was like a cheap cologne, not offensive, but still there. She tried to move, but found herself frozen. Pamela knew she’d made a mistake, but she had been mesmerized by the simple ritual.
If there were a degree given for life experiences in religion, Pamela would have a doctorate. Turned off by her Protestant upbringing, she started exploring at an early age. She’d always known she could feel things, especially when people were lying. Truth was what she sought, and with her innate ability to discern it, she filtered out the religions of the West pretty quickly. The Eastern religions fascinated her, and she had spent years cycling through them before deciding that they essentially were the same as the Judeo-Christian religions. They protected people by herding them, and then taking their money. Each one had their own processes and procedures, but they were all the same. Their aim was to make people either feel safe or guilty, give them a community, and take their cash.
Surprisingly, the Catholic religion held a strange appeal that she couldn’t shake. Its history of death and destruction aside, Pamela found a mysticism there. One that was picked up on by the Africans coming to the Caribbean with Santeria. She had only briefly been exposed to it before, but she knew what the circle was and that the man was conducting a ritual.
The cat slinking away should have alerted her to danger, but she had remained fixated on the circle. Before she realized it, the man was gone, and when the blade touched her bare shoulder, she knew she had overstayed her welcome.
“Get up.”
He used the blade to lever her to her feet. Pushing her forward, her hands landed against the wet stone walls. She felt something in his touch, though, something that took her just a second too long to identify. With the point of the blade pressing into her back, he used his free hand to open the lock, and before she could react, he shoved her inside. The door slammed shut just a
s she realized what the feeling was—he was as scared of her as she was of him.
The thought stayed with her for a long moment, until a voice caught her attention.
“Hey, babe. Good to see y’all came to get me.”
Twenty-Nine
With the major landmarks on the route—The Marquesas Keys, The Quicksands, and Rebecca Shoals—behind them, Mac started to focus on what was in front of them. They were less than twenty miles from Fort Jefferson. From his last trip, he knew there was no cell service, save for a private network that the National Parks people had access to. He’d taken a chance and hailed Ghost Runner several times on the Surfari’s VHF radio, but there had been no response. He hadn’t expected one yet. With the sails full and the engines running, the motorsailer was cruising at eighteen knots. He estimated that Mel and Ned, under the best circumstances, were running about forty miles behind them. Even with the antenna mounted on top of the mast, giving it more range, he doubted it would cover more than twenty miles.
Sloan had left the cockpit several times to refill his Yeti tumbler. Mac ignored him, fascinated by the electronic sail controls that continued to anticipate his adjustments a second before he did. He didn’t know what Sloan’s tumbler contained, but after the second refill, he could smell alcohol on the preppy’s breath whenever he leaned in to check the chartplotter.
Wood's Fury Page 18
