No way he could slink away in the night, run home and pull the covers up over his head and hope it would all blow away with the tides, he thought. Even if there’d been no Annie Dodds in the mix. That’s what he was telling himself as he headed out the door, full of rage and certainty…
“You won’t find what you’re looking for,” came the voice out of the darkness, stopping him as he came across the threshold onto the deck. “Not here, you won’t.”
He gaped into the darkness toward the prow of the boat to find the tall and slender figure looming against the faint glow of the sky like a wraith risen from the waters, an apparition and a voice that changed everything.
Chapter Thirty-one
“I watched them take the place apart,” the old man said as Deal approached, his tone flat but firm. “They didn’t find anything.”
“Who did you watch?” Deal said. He was close enough to see Ainsley Spencer’s face clearly now, but his heart was still racing from the shock of finding him there.
The old man shook his head, though it wasn’t clear if he hadn’t seen or if the question simply meant nothing to him.
“Fucking-A,” Russell Straight said, cutting in as he joined them on the warped and rolling deck. “You could get your ass killed, skulking around in the dark like this.”
The old man paid no attention. It was the Stones drifting mournfully in the background now, “You can’t always get what you want…,” as if choreographed by some cosmic DJ.
“Waste of energy, kill an old man like me,” he said, with the trace of a smile.
“When were they here?” Deal asked him.
“Earlier.” The old man shrugged.
“Where were you?” Russell cut it.
The old man gestured out past the rail of the houseboat. There was a motorized skiff tied off there, Deal saw, though he couldn’t recall seeing it when they’d come on board. The old man must have been tied off in the mangroves across the channel, rowed over when he saw them board the houseboat.
“You know what they were looking for?” Deal asked.
“Could have been a lot of things,” the old man said. “Could have been some of these.”
He extended his arm and opened his palm. Deal saw several bright disks in Ainsley Spencer’s palm, none larger than a quarter, though much thicker.
“Go ahead,” the old man said. “Take one.”
Deal glanced at Russell, then plucked one of the bright disks from the old man’s palm. He could feel the bas-relief patterns on either surface, though it was the weight that suggested the thing was real.
“Gold doubloons,” Deal said.
“That some of Dequarius’ racket?” Russell asked.
“Take one yourself,” the old man said. “Gold’s good for what ails you, just holding some in your hand.”
Russell snorted, but picked up one of the coins. “You’re supposed to bite it to see if it’s real, aren’t you?”
“If it suits you,” Ainsley Spencer said.
“How much of this stuff do you have?” Deal said.
The old man shook his head. “A bit,” he said, his voice sorrowful. “I was one of the first to go down when they thought they’d found the Atocha.” He shrugged. “I found a few things I decided were mine as much as theirs.”
Deal glanced at him. He’d heard stories of workers in diamond mines being shot in their tracks for similar transgressions. “I’m surprised you could get away with it.”
Spencer shrugged. “It was the early days of that adventure,” he said, “everybody way too excited to pay much attention till they realized it was the real thing.”
He glanced off again, then continued. “It was me that told them where to look, you know, me and a couple of the fellows. Most of us knew where that old ship went down, a lot of us on my island did. But it didn’t matter. It was only stories. There just wasn’t any way of getting to that wreck. Not for the longest time.”
Deal had an image of Ainsley Spencer and his fellow Caymaners spending nights around their campfires on a Caribbean beach, swapping tales of sunken treasure, dreaming dreams of untold wealth. And then along comes Mel Fisher, the lucky high-tech salvor, and swoops up $400 million like a Powerball player with every ticket in his hand.
“You saying you had to claim your own share of the booty?” Russell asked.
Ainsley Spencer gave him a speculative look. “Not that it did anyone any good, when it’s all said and done. Look what’s happened.” He broke off, gesturing toward the devastated cabin.
“Then you think that’s what this is all about,” Deal said. “Gold coins.”
“I’ve been dribbling these things out for years, now,” Ainsley Spencer said with another shake of his head. “When I started getting older, I made the mistake of letting Dequarius help.” He gave Deal something of a pleading look. “He was younger, had more energy, could get out and about. He had ways of doing better, getting a little more for these trinkets, than I ever had.”
But not trinkets at all, Deal was thinking. If he could believe what Ainsley Spencer was telling them, if he could believe the heft and the very feel of antiquity that he gripped in his own palm, then Dequarius Noyes had been out there hustling the real thing, some of the time at least. In a way, you could say that the kid had been acting as manager of his great-grandfather’s pension fund. But it hadn’t been pieces of eight that had brought Dequarius Noyes to his own doorstep, that much he was sure of.
“Dequarius wasn’t trying to sell me any gold,” Deal said, his voice subdued.
“No?” the old man said, though there was no denial in his voice.
They broke off then as voices approached from down the dock, a trio of drunks leaving the party at last, joined in a boozy counterpart to another Stones tune blasting the otherwise quiet of Cow Key Cut. “Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste…”
Three of them, Deal saw, hanging on to each other, staggering past the houseboat with scarcely a glance. One man caught hold of the dock railing near the gangway leading to the houseboat and began to retch into the waters below, while one of his partners reached for him and missed, barely missing a tumble into the water. Instead he came careening across the rickety gangway, groping about for a handhold to stop himself.
“Get the hell gone…” Russell Straight began, moving for the man who’d boarded the boat—then straightened suddenly when he saw what was in the intruder’s hand.
“Hands up, all three of you,” the man who’d staggered aboard said, all traces of his former awkwardness disappeared. He waved the barrel of a stubby machine pistol over them, a weapon that might have looked faintly ridiculous if Deal wasn’t well aware of what it could so rapidly do.
The man who’d apparently been blowing chum into the dockside waters was right behind the man with the automatic, producing a cellular phone from his pocket as he came aboard. He pressed a single button, then waited a moment as his connection was made. Mobile to mobile, Deal thought. Probably secure.
“We’re on the houseboat,” the man with the phone was saying. “The old man’s here.” He broke off to glance at Deal, then continued. “Yeah. The two dickwads from Miami.”
Deal glanced at Russell, who was turned toward the prow of the houseboat, his jaw set, his hands upraised. Hardly the look of the contented man Deal had seen roll out of a pretty cocktail waitress’ bed what seemed like ages ago. And whose fault was that? Deal thought with a pang. He heard the sounds of powerboat engines starting in the distance and noted that the party music had died away.
“We’ll take care of it,” Deal heard the one with the telephone say, his gaze gone out over the dark waters. Odd, Deal found himself thinking. Here was a killer who didn’t want to look his victim in the eye.
“I’m sorry,” Deal said to Russell.
“Not your fault,” Russell said gruffly. Deal could see a muscle twitching at the side of the big man’s jaw.
�
�Shut up, both of you,” the man with the phone said. He folded the little clamshell unit and put it in his pocket. “We’ve got business with this man that doesn’t concern you,” he said, nodding toward Ainsley Spencer. He’d affected a tone, meant to sound conciliatory, just a man trying to get a job done. “What I’d like you and your friend to do is go inside and wait.”
He glanced at Russell and gestured toward the yawning door of the houseboat. When Russell hesitated, the man turned to the third of his party, a heavyset man still standing on the dock, a pistol with a long suppressor held across his chest. An assassin ready to deliver the Pledge of Allegiance, Deal found himself thinking, the sort of giddiness inspired by imminent death, he supposed.
“Bobby?” the phone man said. “You help these gentlemen inside, okay?”
Bobby nodded—a bit too readily, Deal thought. Why couldn’t the order have been one too many? Why couldn’t Bobby have told his scuzzwad buddy to go fuck himself? But no such luck. Bobby was already stepping off the deck onto the gangway, his pistol cocked straight up now, like the tail of a hound keen to the scent.
Deal knew they’d have to try something, he just wasn’t sure what. He could see by the tension in Russell’s posture that he felt the same. A few moments more and they’d dance whatever dance they could.
The thought had hardly cleared Deal’s mind when there was a sharp crack from the direction of the gangway and he turned to see that a second plank had given way at eager Bobby’s weight. Bobby gasped in surprise, his free hand clamping onto one of the lines as he plunged down toward the water.
There was a chuffing sound as Bobby’s bulk jerked hard against the hand on the line and a tiny penumbra of flame blossomed just beneath his chin. His eyes bulged as if in disbelief as the back of his skull lifted away, flying into the darkness with most of what passed for a brain. In the next moment, his hand relaxed its hold and he disappeared into the dockside waters with a splash.
Everyone on deck stood frozen for a moment, even the guy with the automatic. It looked as if he were about to ask Phone Man a question when Deal heard something behind him and turned. The old man had flung open the emergency chest stowed beside him at the prow and rose now with what looked like a giant derringer clutched in both his skinny hands, its hammer snapped back at full cock.
The man with the automatic was swinging his weapon into position when Ainsley pulled the trigger. There was a loud click, and an instant’s hesitation, as if the odd-looking weapon in the old man’s hand was nothing but a toy.
Then there came a whooshing sound and a tiny flame-tailed rocket shot from the flare gun, bursting against the gunman’s chest in a Fourth of July crescendo of sparks. The gunman went down with a scream, clawing at the huge glowing ember that had lodged in his throat.
Phone Man lunged for the fallen automatic pistol and was swinging it toward Russell when Deal caught the stubby barrel and shoved it aside. Deal felt a scorching pain in his palm as a burst of fire blew out the cracked window in the houseboat cabin and careened about the galley. One of the slugs ripped through the propane tank, followed by an explosion that sent Deal sprawling, blowing window glass and whatever else hadn’t been fastened down far out into the channel.
Deal rolled up on his hands and knees, groggy from the blast. He found his gaze locked with that of Phone Man, who struggled to his feet just a few feet away, bleeding from a sizable cut on his forehead. The bad news was that the man still held the automatic and was bringing it back into firing position, this time aimed squarely at Deal.
So it goes, Deal found himself thinking, as the flames from inside the houseboat’s cabin grew to illuminate the surreal scene on deck. One gunman still clawed weakly at a giant smoldering ruby lodged in his throat, and a second struggled to bring his weapon to bear.
Deal had given it the old college try, gone for the gusto, shot the moon, left nothing for another day. He’d spent a few hours in the presence of a woman who had reconstituted his soul, and while he would of course have preferred a bit more of that unearthly pleasure, there’d been that much at least.
So shoot, you sonofabitch, he thought, pushing himself up for a charge across the deck that he’d never finish.
Too far to go, no way to get there, but he’d die on his feet at least…that’s what he was thinking when he saw a fist crash against the face of the man who meant to kill him. There was a snapping sound and a groan as Phone Man flew the deck, his jaw shattered by Russell’s blow. His back slammed against the flimsy siding and he came forward again in time to meet a second blow to his midsection that folded him like a ventriloquist’s dummy. The uppercut that followed was probably a waste of energy, Deal thought, but it was still a pleasure to watch.
He’d seen Ali, Frazier, Foreman, and Tyson punch, of course, all of them powerful men. But he’d never seen any of them do what Russell’s blow did. Phone Man’s feet left the deck of the houseboat a foot or more, the upper part of his torso snapping back as quickly as he’d folded up a moment before. He landed halfway through the window he’d shot out a moment before, his hands flung up as if he were signaling a successful score somewhere in his dreams.
Deal felt Russell’s hands beneath his shoulders then, pulling him toward the forward rail of the houseboat, heard the raspy voice urgent at his ear. “Come on, now, chief. This sucker’s going up.”
Deal shook his head vaguely, knowing he was in no shape to swim. “Can’t,” he mumbled as Russell lifted him over the rail. He saw reflected flames dancing on the shallow wave tops, heard sirens in the distance.
“Can’t do it,” he repeated as he toppled forward.
“Sure you can,” he heard as strong hands took him from below.
He blinked, caught sight of Ainsley Spencer easing him to the floor of his idling skiff. Then he saw Russell Straight climb quickly down to join them.
There was a comforting rumble growing under his ribs then, and the sudden sensation of movement over water. Deal felt wave tops bouncing hypnotically beneath him, stared up at the silhouette of a tall, slender black man standing above him, his ancient hand at the tiller of his tiny boat, and it occurred to him that he might well have died, in fact.
You die and then they take you across the water—wasn’t that the way it worked? He saw the sky light up in a sudden glow then, saw the old man lean forward as if an unseen hand had lent a helpful shove.
Embers traced the darkness all around like fireworks, and sirens whooped and echoed a distant counterpoint. If it was this good here, what lay on the other side? he wondered, then laid his head down to find out.
Chapter Thirty-two
To Deal, the story came as if in a dream. An old man talking while he drifted somewhere in the shadows above as a disembodied presence. It was almost as if he’d become the old man as the words rolled out, the power of the events coming to grip him as the old man insisted they had always controlled his own life.
And not just because Ainsley Spencer had cheated death that day. As a seafaring man, he had managed that feat more than once, and never mind the particulars. Sails torn to tatters by some fearsome blow, or cast adrift from a storm-scuttled ship, whatever the near miss had been, he’d made his way back to harbor without so much as a second thought as to his good fortune.
But the day the senator had called was different. Perhaps it was because he’d led those others to their unjust end. Perhaps it was his sense that he’d done nothing to merit surviving. Whatever the reason, he’d never been able to shake the feeling that he hadn’t really escaped his fate that day.
There was a bill still owing, perhaps that was it. Even after all these years. A debt to be repaid before he could rest, before the curse could be lifted. But for the life of him, he could not figure just how it could be managed.
***
Ainsley’s worst fears had come to pass that awful night. With the roof of the warehouse gone and the skies pouring like a water skin split from overfilling, the cellar where he huddl
ed would have filled soon enough. But hardly had the storm brought the roof crashing down to crush the gunman who meant to kill him than it brought another threat that seemed even more cruel.
As Ainsley stared up at the grate now blocked by a body and a massive chunk of wooden-planked roofing, there came a new kind of rumbling sound, followed by a crash that sent water cascading down upon him. He’d covered his head with his arms to shield himself from the deluge, then glanced up again, just as a second wave crashed down.
Water was gushing down the stairwell now, a virtual river pouring into the room that had come to resemble a cistern more and more. He saw the fallen revolver on the step near where he stood and reached to pick it up in reflex, even as he thought about how futile the gesture was.
What could he do with a pistol? he wondered. Empty it into the dead man who’d trapped him here? Shoot the sea that threatened to drown him?
There was a blinding flash of lightning then, accompanied by an ear-splitting clap of thunder. The water was halfway up the staircase now, lapping at the soles of his shoes, in the next moment sloshing at his ankles. He moved up one step, having to crouch down now, and wedged his shoulders tight against the grate that blocked his escape. He tried to straighten his legs and drive the grate up, but it was like pushing at a boxcar or a mountainside.
He would drown here, he realized, his face pressed against the steel grating inches from the sightless stare of the dead man, gasping until the last breath of air had been displaced by the rising water. Drowning was the threat that every seafaring man lived in the shadow of, he thought, glancing around his fast-shrinking prison, but never had he imagined it occurring in such circumstances as these.
He glanced once more at the pistol in his hand and thought of yet another mode of escape, but dismissed it as quickly as it had come. He knew little of matters spiritual, but whatever lay on the other side of breathing—if anything at all—was surely closed to those who took such a route. He’d die with his last breath held and his shoulders pressed to the immovable steel above his head, he thought, and was about to fling the pistol away to avoid temptation, when he remembered the other stairwell that rose at the far end of the room where he’d been working.
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