Bluewater Voodoo: Mystery and Adventure in the Caribbean (Bluewater Thrillers Book 3)

by Charles Dougherty

  As she crept around the south side of the pile, she spotted a pair of feet in filthy, ragged running shoes projecting onto the sand. She stopped, watching. After counting to 30 seconds and seeing no movement, she felt on the ground for a stone. Finding a golf-ball-sized piece of volcanic rock, she tossed it to land near where she thought the person’s body would be. Seeing no reaction, she stood and rounded the corner, diving, rolling, and bringing the pistol to bear on the ragged, unmoving man, who was indeed chained to the driftwood. Still cautious, she stood and approached close enough to prod his legs with a foot. He roused slightly and looked at her with no interest, closed his eyes, and let his head drop back against the log behind him.

  She waved the professor forward. "I’ll cover you while you pat him down," she said. "Take your time, and don’t miss anything."

  The professor approached, dropping the bolt cutters at Dani’s feet. He began to search the unconscious man, following Dani’s soft-spoken instructions. Satisfied that the man was no threat, Dani put the pistol back in her waistband and approached him, wrinkling her nose at the odor. She took in the tangled beard, matted with food and other, less pleasant substances.

  "No!" she shouted, as she saw the professor start to open the backpack which was strapped to the man’s shoulders.

  The professor jumped as if he had received an electric shock. "But the houngan said he would leave some medication," he protested.

  "That could be a bomb, Professor."

  "Shouldn’t I look in it?"

  "No. Let’s just leave it. What do you know about the medication?"

  "Ativan. To take the place of the potion he’s been giving him, until we get him to a bokor."

  "We’ve got it in the ship’s medicine chest. Let’s cut him loose and get out of here. We’re too good a target here, and Vengeance is bottled up in that narrow channel."

  The professor picked up the bolt cutters from where he had set them down as he approached the man. He looked uncertainly at the chain. Dani shouldered him aside, taking the cutters and snapping them down on the chain. As the chain fell away, she handed the cutters back to the professor. Whipping out a razor-sharp knife, she cut the shoulder straps on the backpack, easing it to the ground.

  She stepped back and said, "He’s all yours, Professor. Let’s see if we can get him to the dinghy. You put one of his arms over your shoulder and stand up, and I’ll get on the other side of him."

  After a few minutes, half-dragging, half-carrying the now semiconscious man, they got him in the dinghy, and Dani took them back to Vengeance. With the assistance of Lilly and Liz, they managed to get their burden out of the dinghy and onto the side deck, where they stretched him out on his back. Liz and Dani set about bringing the dinghy aboard, securing it in its chocks on the foredeck before they began retrieving the anchor, leaving the professor and Lilly to deal with the zombie.

  ****

  Moraga chuckled as he watched through the binoculars. He was amused as the four figures struggled to lift the limp form of the zombie aboard the yacht. The binoculars were powerful enough so that he should have been able to make out details, but the motion of the RIB was so erratic that he couldn’t hold the heavy glasses steady enough to tell whether the backpack was still strapped to the zombie. He gnawed at his lip as he watched, worried when it appeared that they laid the man on his back. He sighed with relief as they brought the dinghy aboard, sure that the explosives would be adequate, even if they left the backpack in the dinghy. He put the binoculars down and fumbled the remote detonator from his canvas briefcase, turning it on and entering the 4-digit code that he had set earlier. He grinned at the column of debris that rose hundreds of feet into the sky above the island, accompanied by flames and thick, black smoke, followed two seconds later by a deafening blast. He raised the binoculars, but the smoke and dust were so thick that he could no longer see the islands. Laughing with satisfaction, he slapped Giscard on the back.

  "No problem, houngan," he laughed at the stunned look on Giscard’s face. "More zombies soon." He turned the ignition key and roared away in the direction of Santa Magdalena.

  ****

  José and Pancho sat in the van in the parking lot of McDonald’s finishing their lunch. They had spent the early morning at the emergency room getting Pancho’s arm set. He found it difficult to drive with the cast, and had at first insisted that José take the wheel, until José complained of double vision from the concussion. Pancho had driven awkwardly back to their base camp in the Everglades, where they had replaced their money and their guns. Their compatriots had, of course, been curious about what happened, but Pancho and José had kept silent.

  "We gotta do it right this time, ‘mano. Hector say Moraga be back tomorrow night. We s’pose to have two men waitin’."

  "I’m thinkin’, Pancho."

  "Thinkin’? Shit, ‘mano, Moraga skin us alive, we don’ got no men for him. What you thinkin’?"

  "Thinkin’ we got to use the brain. We in no shape to use the muscle."

  "So. Use the brain how?"

  "I see a truck like this, got a trailer and some lawnmowers, shit like that."

  "So?"

  "We get one of them trailers, go drive aroun’ where the men stan’ on the corner lookin’ for work, an’ we hire two of them to cut some lawn with us."

  "Yeah, ‘mano. You smart. I like that. We get some men maybe not too messed up, that way. Well enough to work, better than drunks ‘n’ druggies. Le’s go!"

  Chapter 27

  As the other three froze, Dani instinctively grabbed an AK-47 from the cockpit seat and dove for cover behind the back edge of the coach roof. "Get down flat," she yelled, unable to hear her own voice for the ringing in her ears.

  Crouching, she watched cautiously as the debris rained from the sky, the smaller pieces carried perilously close to the boat by the wind before they fell harmlessly into the water. The air was filled with dust from the sand dunes and thick, black smoke from the burning driftwood, now scattered widely over the island. Taking note of the fact that her companions were crouched close the sides of the cabin, she yelled, "Anybody hurt?"

  "I’m okay," Liz answered.

  "Me too," Lilly said.

  "Fine," the professor said.

  "Let’s get moving. Liz, get the anchor in. Lilly, go below and get me the satellite phone. I want to get Phillip to make sure nobody’s closing in for another try. Professor, you take care of the zombie; make sure he doesn’t fall overboard. Is he okay?"

  "Out cold. Barely breathing," the professor said, bending over the man on the side deck.

  Dani set the gun down near to hand and started the diesel, responding to hand signals from Liz as they retrieved the anchor with practiced skill. She took the phone from Lilly without interrupting what she was doing and thumbed through the directory. Before she could call Phillip, the phone rang. She hit the green button and wedged the phone to her ear with her shoulder, continuing to steer and manipulate the throttle and shift levers.

  "Dani?" Phillip’s voice was in her ear.

  "Yeah, Phillip. We’re all okay. Getting under way as fast as we can."

  "There’s no sign of anybody around. You can probably relax a bit. The guys that were drifting in that big RIB took off right after the blast. Ran like hell to that freighter. It’s underway now, headed southwest. Any idea what blew?"

  "Yeah. A backpack -- supposed to have medication for the zombie. We left it on the beach. It blew the minute we got everybody aboard and put the dinghy on deck."

  "The guys in the RIB were probably watching you, then. Triggered it when they thought you had it aboard."

  "You going to chase that freighter?"

  "No point. Once all hell broke loose, we made a close pass. It’s the Santa Magdalena. We don’t have any ordnance heavy enough to sink them, and they’re too close to Guadeloupe for us to risk that anyway. They can’t get too far if we decide to come back later, though."

  "All right. I think we’ll just head south,
down the east side of Dominica and Martinique. See you back in Marin tomorrow morning, unless you hear from us." She disconnected the call, and Liz took the phone from her shoulder.

  "Anchor’s lashed; dinghy is tied down. You ready for some sails?" Liz asked.

  "Okay," Dani said, making a quick visual scan of the deck.

  Seeing that Lilly was crouching by the zombie, Dani asked, "Where’s the professor?"

  Liz giggled. "He had to go below and change his pants," she said, softly.

  Dani grinned. "Before we raise the sails, let’s help Lilly get our new passenger into the cockpit." She engaged the autopilot and followed Liz onto the side deck.

  ****

  "It said ‘Caribbean Helicopter Tours,’ painted in big letters, Jefe," Moraga said. "Those things are all over."

  "Not down here, and not in the off season, Moraga. There are no sights to see from the air around here. I think he made us. He flew by damn close right after the blast. Too big a coincidence."

  "So what do you want to do?" Moraga asked.

  "Get off this floating junk heap. We’ll let Gomez go on to Miami. He’ll be happy, and so will those crooks in Caracas."

  "How we do that, Jefe?"

  "We’ll take the RIB and Giscard and make a run to Les Saintes; we’ll wait there for another freighter. I’ll call the embassy in St. Lucia. Shouldn’t take but a few days. You can take a fast ferry back to Point-à-Pitre and catch a flight to Miami; it won’t change our schedule, and it’ll buy a little extra cover."

  ****

  The two men stood on the corner outside the Rescue Mission in Miami, dressed presentably in donated work clothes, doing their best to look willing. The counselor had kept them inside until the first three men had been hired. He was careful not to let too many of his clients wait on the corner at one time, conscious of the image that the Mission projected. He didn’t want the neighboring merchants complaining, so he kept a seniority-based roster and sent the men out in groups of two or three to wait for the contractors who drove by every morning looking to hire pick-up labor. The longer his charges were sober, the higher their place on the roster.

  The white van pulled to a stop at the curb, and José opened the passenger door, looking the two men over as he climbed down to the sidewalk. "Lookin’ for work?" he asked.

  "Good morning, sir. We sure are," The taller of the two men said, nodding his head respectfully, but looking the man from the van in the eye, the way the counselor had suggested. He wondered about the bandage on the man’s head.

  "You guys stayin’ at the Mission?"

  "Yes, sir, that’s right," the smaller of the two said. "Just until we can get on our feet, though."

  "How long?" José asked.

  "Sir?" the taller man asked, confused.

  "How long you been there?"

  "Oh. Me, I been here two nights. I’m Jack, sir, and he’s Steve."

  "How ‘bout you, Steve? How long you been there?"

  "Just one night, sir."

  José thought for a moment. He and Pancho had spotted the men a few minutes ago, and had been arguing about whether taking men from the shelter would be a good idea. Pancho was worried that they might be missed, but José figured the people who ran the shelter must be used to guys leaving in the morning and never coming back. He looked back over his shoulder at Pancho, who sat in the van listening. Pancho nodded his agreement.

  "You fellahs do yard work?" Pancho asked.

  "Yes, sir!" both men agreed, nodding vigorously, stepping closer to the van.

  "Hold on," José said, reaching a hand out to stop the taller man. "Me an’ Pancho, we been in the service. We like to hire veterans. You fellahs been in the service?"

  "Two tours in Iraq," Jack said.

  "Afghanistan," said Steve.

  "Okay, good. Le’s go," José said.

  "Um, sir?" Steve spoke.

  "What?" Pancho growled.

  "Uh, how much would you be paying us, sir?" the man asked.

  "How much you want?"

  "Well, the counselor inside, he told us that $10 an hour was about the going rate. That okay?"

  "Tha’s fine," José said. "Get in."

  "Yes, sir. Thanks, sir. We’ll work hard for you," Jack said, climbing into the middle seat. The shorter man, Steve, followed eagerly, pulling the sliding door shut as he sat down.

  José got back into the passenger seat and slammed the door as Pancho pulled away from the curb.

  "So, were you guys in an accident or something?" Jack asked, eyeing Pancho’s cast.

  "Accident?" José asked.

  "His arm. Your head," Steve said. "What happened?"

  "Oh, yeah," Pancho grunted.

  "Muggers," José said. "City’s not safe anymore."

  Pancho cast a sidelong glance at José, raising his eyebrows.

  "Mindin’ our own business. Drinkin’ a little beer. Walkin’ back to the van and these guys jumped us. Druggies, probably."

  "They take your money?" Steve asked.

  "Money, gu…, uh..., good watch, everything," José said, seeing the little muscle start twitching on Pancho’s jaw.

  "Too bad. Good thing you guys didn’t get hurt worse," Jack said.

  Pancho turned on the radio, twisting the knob until he found a station playing heavy metal. He cranked the volume up until conversation was impossible. Twenty minutes later, they were on the Tamiami Trail leaving the western outskirts of the city. Steve turned to Jack and asked a question. Pancho caught the interaction in the rear view mirror. He turned down the radio.

  "Somethin’ wrong?" he asked, glancing in the mirror again.

  "Just wondering, do we get paid for the time in the van? Or just the time we’re working?" Steve asked.

  "Relax. You’re on the clock," Pancho said.

  "Great. Where are we going, anyhow?" Jack asked.

  "Oh, we goin’ to this big place out in the ‘glades. Private estate. Several days of work, if you’re any good. Owner, he’s got, like, these barracks for us to live in. Food’s good, too."

  "How many days?" Jack asked.

  "Wha’s it matter? You gotta be somewhere?" Pancho asked, looking at Jack in the mirror again.

  "Parole officer," Jack mumbled.

  "What?" José asked, turning around in his seat.

  "I have to see my parole officer," Jack said. "I miss the meeting, he’ll violate me, put me back in jail."

  "What for?" José asked.

  "For missing the meeting," Jack said, puzzled.

  "No, dumbass. What was you in jail for?"

  Jack bristled, grabbing José’s arm with his left hand where it rested on the seat back and cocking his right for a punch. "Don’t call me dumbass!"

  Before he could throw the punch, he found himself looking down the barrel of José’s pistol. "Leggo my arm," José said in an even tone. Jack quickly raised his hands and sat back. "Stay cool, ‘mano," José said.

  Pancho pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, checking for traffic. Seeing that they were alone, he got out and climbed in the back of the van. While José held Jack and Steve at gunpoint, Pancho put cable ties on their wrists and ankles. "When’s that meetin’?" he asked, grabbing Jack’s hair and jerking his head around.

  "What?"

  "With the parole officer. When?" Pancho shook Jack’s head violently.

  "Tomorrow," Jack said.

  Pancho got back behind the wheel and set out for the base camp.

  Chapter 28

  Martinez stood atop Fort Caroline, gazing down over Terre-de-Haut. Unlike the island of the same name a few miles to the north where Moraga had blown up the yacht, this one deserved its appellation. He and Giscard had left the guest house near Anse Galet two hours earlier, climbing the steep, winding road to the top of Le Chameau, the highest point on the island. They were both somewhat winded; the peak was over a thousand feet above sea level. Martinez studied the sweeping vistas with the eye of a soldier, oblivious to the dazzling beauty all around him.

&
nbsp; The green mountainside fell away dramatically from the wall of the crenellated tower where he stood, and the entire island was spread out before him. The lush green vegetation of the cluster of islands that comprised Les Saintes was set off by the deep, sapphire blue of the sea, giving the impression of emeralds scattered carelessly across a rumpled bed of blue velvet, but the dramatic view was lost on Martinez. He studied the tiny airport, a little over a kilometer to the northeast, where the small private planes looked like a child’s carelessly abandoned toys.

  A little to the north of the airport, on a rocky promontory overlooking the natural harbor, stood Fort Napoleon, a monument to the folly of its namesake, and now a well-tended museum. Across the harbor entrance a kilometer to the west of Fort Napoleon stood the ruins of Fort Josephine. Martinez raised a small pair of binoculars and invested several minutes in studying the ruins, which stood atop the uninhabited Îlet–à-Cabrít. Mingled with the ruins of the fort, he could see the ruins of a resort that had failed in the more recent past, testament to a 20th-century developer with no better strategic vision than Napoleon’s. He chuckled to himself at the thought of the expense incurred by Napoleon to defend a harbor which had no strategic value in his struggle with the British. A genius as a soldier, Napoleon was lost when it came to naval strategy. "La Gloire de la France," Martinez thought. He had considered that the island might have some potential use in a future scheme, but decided that it probably drew too many tourists to be of interest to him. He turned to find Giscard waiting patiently.

  "Ready?" Martinez asked, somewhat recovered from their brisk climb. He noticed with irritation that the much-older Giscard appeared no worse for their exertion.