Off the Chart

by James W. Hall

  At noon he’d finally finished the framing. To celebrate he decided to take Lawton on the skiff, go out past Crocodile Dragover to McCormick Creek, check some snook holes he knew. Do some damage to the fish population.

  So he showered, put on fresh shorts and a white T-shirt, and carried his spinning rods and tackle box down to the skiff. Out at the end of his dock, he heard the grinding roar, a noise he’d become all too familiar with lately. Two properties to the north a bulldozer was leveling the Island House. For fifty years the small motel with a half-dozen quaint bungalows had been at that location. He’d heard Doug and Debbie Johnson had sold out but assumed the new owner would keep it intact as all the previous owners had for half a century.

  Thorn stood at the end of his dock and watched the big machine uproot an old gumbo-limbo, then flatten a stand of wispy Australian pines, mowing down those shallow-rooted trees that took decades to reach those heights. That rocky shore and the rickety motel had been in his peripheral vision for so many hours and so many years that now, with the coastline so suddenly altered, he was feeling a whirl of vertigo.

  When the land clearing was done, Thorn’s neighborhood was probably going to be getting another of those ten-thousand-square-foot get-away-for-the-weekend mansions. A million-dollar party house owned by a Miami heart surgeon or a pitcher for the Florida Marlins—with a half-dozen Jet Skis and a flashy red speedboat at the dock. Progress.

  Back on the shoreline Lawton was standing in water to his ankles with fishing line tangled around both arms. In the stiff breeze, his casting practice had been going badly.

  In a couple of hours Alexandra would be home and they’d open a bottle of wine and hold hands while they watched the last trickle of the daylight drain from the sky. If she was in the mood, she’d tell him about one of her cases that day. Keeping it light but still managing to give him a glimpse of the brutalities that were commonplace in her daytime world. He’d recount his time with Lawton, things the old man had said or done. And she would listen without comment, her eyes on the distance. After these few months, their routine felt solid and reliable. Thorn, his lover, and his lover’s father, an odd little family but a family nonetheless. For someone who’d spent most of his life working hard to stay isolated, it was startling to discover how much satisfaction he found in the constant presence of that old man and his strong-willed, beautiful daughter.

  Thorn smiled at Lawton’s struggle with the fly line and headed over to give him a hand—glad to have some reason to pull away from the bulldozer’s dismal work. He was halfway down the dock when the car pulled off the Overseas Highway and began to inch down Thorn’s gravel drive. A dark blue Crown Victoria.

  The car parked in the shade near his house and the man who got out from behind the wheel was squat and square-faced, with a paunch stressing the buttons on his blue madras shirt. Despite his stumpy legs, the man advanced on Thorn with a cocky stride. His head was shaved and gleaming and his beard ran in a narrow, precise band along the outlines of his jaws and chin. He had on jeans and boat shoes, but both looked as if they’d been purchased an hour earlier and hadn’t yet been broken in. This seemed to be a man for whom casual dress did not come easy.

  “Thorn,” he said as he came across the yard.

  Lawton was swiping at the wispy fishing line as if trying to pluck a spiderweb from his skin.

  “You okay, Lawton?”

  “Fine, fine,” the old man said. “I’ve caught a monster this time. Me.”

  The stranger held out his hand, and after a moment’s reluctance Thorn shook it.

  “Do I know you?”

  “You should,” the man said. “Mind if we stand in the shade?”

  Thorn followed the man over to the shadows of the tamarind tree.

  “Jimmy Lee Webster,” the man said.

  “Listen,” Thorn said. “I don’t mean to be impolite, but—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Webster said. “You’re busy tying flies, or whatever it is you do with your free time.” He flashed Thorn a one-second smile, then said, “Which seems to be most of your day. And a lot of your night.”

  The man produced that miserable smile again, like something he’d acquired from a second-rate drama coach.

  “You might’ve seen me on TV,” Webster said.

  “If I had one.”

  “Or in the newspaper.”

  Thorn shook his head.

  “Jimmy Lee Webster.”

  “I heard you the first time.”

  “Really? Not even the faint tinkle of a little bell?”

  “What’re you, a TV star?”

  “Secretary Webster.”

  “Oh, okay. You’re the guy that answers the phone, takes dictation.”

  “Yeah, I was warned,” Webster said, “what a smart-ass you are.”

  “Fair enough,” Thorn said. “But I still don’t know you, Webster.”

  “I was Secretary of the Navy, last administration.”

  Lawton had dropped down in the grass and was peeling the knotted strands of line off his legs and sandals. He noticed Thorn looking at him and showed him his palms. Didn’t need any help, doing just fine.

  “I know,” Webster said. “Looking at me, it’s hard to believe. Don’t exactly have a military bearing. Not the tall, top-gun prototype. But fortunately, advancement in the armed services isn’t based on appearance.”

  “Well, congratulations,” Thorn said. “Your parents must be very proud.”

  “Reason I was on TV is because I was controversial,” Webster said. “I butted heads with the big boys, but I held my own. Damn well got some things accomplished in those four years.”

  A shift in the breeze sent Webster’s aftershave Thorn’s way. An abrasive blend of wood smoke and motor oil.

  “Look,” Webster said. “You don’t know me, but I know a little about you. You’re a loner. You don’t like strangers wandering up to your house. Hey, who does? I can appreciate that. And the fact that I was Secretary of the Navy doesn’t cut any ice with you, okay, that’s fine, too.”

  Jimmy Lee Webster drew a white handkerchief from his jeans pocket and dabbed the sweat off his face, then did a quick swipe across his dome.

  “I don’t know how you folks put up with this heat.”

  “There’s not a lot to do about it.”

  “Okay, here it is,” Webster said. He spread his legs apart and reset his feet as if he were about to snatch Thorn by the lapels and body-slam him. He produced his fake smile again and said, “My style is to go for the throat. That way we don’t waste any more of your valuable fly-tying time. So here’s what’s going on. Your name came up in an investigation I’m running. And I decided I should come have a chat.”

  “Whoa,” Thorn said. “Stop right there.”

  “Look, I can explain the whole enchilada to you out here in the sun. Or we can go upstairs, have a beer, discuss it in detail in the air-conditioning.”

  “Only air-conditioning I have is what you feel right now.”

  Lawton had extricated himself from the fishing line, and it lay in a nasty tangle near the dock. He dusted off his hands as if he’d just knocked a bully flat, and marched over to join them in the shade of the tamarind.

  “Okay, then,” Webster said. “I understand you had a hot and heavy fling with Anne Bonny Joy.”

  Lawton settled in between Jimmy Webster and Thorn. Leaning forward, giving Webster a good going-over.

  “You’re that navy guy,” Lawton said. “From TV. You sunk that ship.”

  Webster smiled at Thorn. See, somebody recognized him.

  “That particular fling you’re referring to,” Thorn said, “was over a long time ago.”

  “That’s not how I heard it. I heard there was still considerable heat there. Some sparks.”

  Thorn took a calming breath, glanced out at the water, then turned his eyes back to Webster.

  “Look, Mr. Secretary—”

  “Not anymore,” Webster said. “I’m out of the cabinet these days. Still
got one foot in government, but I’m in other areas. A bit more low-profile.”

  “Clandestine,” Lawton said. “Covert operations.”

  Jimmy Lee looked at Lawton.

  “This your father?” Webster said.

  “Practically.”

  “You came to the right place, Webster,” Lawton said, “because it just so happens I did a bit of undercover work myself at one time. Miami PD. Several high-profile sting operations. Stolen merchandise, cocaine. So I know how it’s done. We took down some pretty rotten apples.”

  Jimmy Lee nodded uncertainly at the old man.

  “Forget about Thorn,” Lawton said. “He’s the shy, retiring type. The guy you want to talk to is standing right here.”

  Thorn rested a hand on Webster’s shoulder and eased him firmly toward his car.

  “I just want to pick your brain about Anne Joy.”

  “You already picked it clean, partner. Time you hit the highway.”

  “You didn’t even ask him what he wanted?” Alex said. Lawton was stretched out in his cot, the full moon had risen above the trees, and Blackwater Sound was frosted with gold.

  “I ushered him to his car and sent him on his way.”

  “Jeez, Thorn. Jimmy Lee Webster.”

  “Big shot, huh?”

  “Was for a while.”

  “He claimed he was controversial.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Alex said. “He’s the guy who gave the go-ahead for a navy destroyer to fire on some commercial ship in Malaysia, somewhere over there.”

  “Why?”

  “Something about pirates. Problem was, he got the wrong boat. Bad intelligence. I forget the details. Bunch of civilians got killed, ship sank. That’s how I remember it. Major international incident. A lot of saber rattling afterward. There was a Senate hearing on TV for a week or two. Haven’t heard much about him lately.”

  “Pirates?”

  “I think what it was, navy intelligence thought an American oil tanker had been taken over by thugs and they were sailing off somewhere after murdering the crew. They had that part right. There was an oil tanker that got pirated; our folks just got the wrong ship. A U.S. destroyer tried to get this other tanker to stop; when they didn’t respond, our guys opened fire. A dozen men killed, that’s what I recall. Maybe more. Big oil spill.”

  “Well, he’s doing something else now. CIA maybe. Who knows?”

  Alex leaned against his shoulder. They were standing at the rail looking out at the darkness.

  “Your name came up?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Thorn considered for a half-second telling her about the Anne Joy connection but decided to pass. No need to stir that up again.

  “It might’ve been interesting just to hear his pitch.”

  “No way. I’m on vacation.”

  “Oh, yeah? For how long?”

  “Rest of my natural life.”

  “Well, that’s fine. But me, I’d want to know what the deal was.”

  “Whatever it was, I’ve got my hands full already,” Thorn said, nudging her hip with his. “My cup is overflowing.”

  “Hey, I know what it was,” Alexandra said. “Your name came up in an investigation of international Lotharios.”

  “Funny,” he said. “Hilarious.”

  He poked his elbow lightly in her ribs.

  “They wanted to know what makes you so irresistible to women. Start distilling it. Put it in bottles, lob it at the enemy. A weapon of mass seduction.”

  Thorn laughed. He lifted his glass and clinked it to hers and had another sip of wine. She gave his cheek a peck, then drew away and looked back at the dark view.

  “Irresistible?” he said. “How irresistible?”

  “Mesmerizing.” Alexandra finished the last swallow of her cabernet and set the glass on the table behind them. “An overpowering magnetism.”

  In the thick mangroves that bordered his land, a bird keened. A warning screech or maybe a late-night mating call. He wasn’t sure what kind of bird it was. Didn’t sound like an osprey or the red-shouldered hawk, not the screech owl, either. Sugarman or Janey would know.

  “Well, it’s nice to know,” Thorn said, “I’m such hot shit.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You are. You most certainly are.”

  She laced her fingers in his and drew him away from the water a quarter-turn and into her strong arms. And there he stayed until they were breathless and dizzy with their mutual heat. Then she stepped out of his embrace, took his hand, and led him quietly past Lawton’s cot into the bedroom they shared.

  Four

  For the next few weeks, Anne Bonny lived the life she’d been named for. They didn’t roam the open seas with a lookout clinging high to the mast, peering through a spyglass, searching for a ship to take. Daniel’s operation used a simple scheme that relied on the shipping industry’s antipirate tracking system, FROM. Fleet Remote Monitoring units were installed aboard security-conscious transport ships and relayed an automated signal six times a day that informed corporate headquarters of their ships’ exact position, speed, and direction. A seagoing LoJack. The system was designed to give the owners an early warning if one of their ships made a drastic change in course and allowed them to track it once it left its charted route and send assistance.

  Sal Gardino, Daniel’s young computer guy, had penetrated the system’s security firewall—a worm, a backdoor; Anne Bonny could never keep the hacker jargon straight. But now with a few minutes of work on his laptop, Daniel could enter the site and prowl through the code to determine the exact positions of thousands of different vessels at sea. Freighters, tankers, container ships. Maersk, Hanjin, TransAsia, Global Transport, the entire fleets of dozens of shipping companies were open books to him. Daniel relished the irony of it, using their system against them.

  They stayed at sea for four weeks straight. Two boats. The sleek forty-five-foot Hatteras sportfishing yacht that had picked them up from the Cheeca Lodge. High-performance diesels below its decks. Anne and Daniel, Sal and Marty lived aboard that one. And the Nicaraguans and the rest of the crew manned a second vessel, a shrimp trawler that had been outfitted with enough horsepower to stay up with the Hatteras. Both boats were equipped with seven-man inflatables powered by four-stroke Yamahas. These they used as boarding craft. While they were under way, they kept a two-or three-mile cushion between the two boats, moving from location to location through the West Indies, off the South American coast, and through the islands. The Hatteras carried a cache of automatic weapons, the satellite communications system, and the computer that Sal used to crack the FROM site.

  With all that shipping data arrayed before them, selecting a new target was a little like going to the track. You studied the program, checked the stats, figured the odds, one ship against another based on what else was racing that day, considered the value of the cargo, the difficulty of disposing of it, and above all you didn’t bet more than you could afford to lose.

  Early in April, after hitting four ships in as many weeks, they bivouacked at the Gray Ghost Lodge, a fishing camp Daniel owned. Thirty acres in the Barra de Colorado, on the Costa Rican–Nicaraguan border.

  Ten primitive wood cabins, a small dining hall, a marina big enough for half a dozen open fishing boats. Daniel stored his Donzi there, the Black Swan, that playboy speedboat he’d used so successfully to court Anne Bonny.

  The fishing camp was bordered on the west and south by dense rain forest, a roadless nature preserve that was well off the tourist track. To the north and east were a labyrinth of estuaries and lagoons and a system of shallow, nearly impenetrable bays that led to the Caribbean Sea.

  Partly for appearances, partly for his own amusement, Daniel kept the fishing lodge open during the winter season, hiring guides, cooks, and service help, operating it as a legit business. From November to February, rich anglers paid five hundred dollars a day to stay in the shacks and fish with guides for the giant bonefish and tarpon that streaked across the s
and flats.

  But in the sweltering spring and summer months, when the rains began and most of the bonefish and silver kings migrated away, Daniel shut down the business and used the lodge off and on for regrouping, making repairs to vessels and weapons, for a little rum and relaxation by the tropical lagoon.

  Not far from the Gray Ghost Lodge, hundreds of ships a day passed within striking distance of the coastline. Even with all those easy targets near at hand, it had been Daniel’s custom to lie low when they were based at the lodge. No reason to draw attention to that particular region when there were countless square miles of unpatrolled ocean available. They tried, when possible, to work in international waters. Between the never-ending hunt for terrorists and dope smugglers, the U.S. Coast Guard was spread impossibly thin throughout their own territorial waters, which left much of the rest of the hemisphere relatively free of naval law enforcement.

  With his satellite phone and laptop computer Daniel could turn virtually any location into a command and control station—staying in constant contact with his people in Taipei and Rio, Montevideo and Jakarta, Singapore, Hong Kong, and Anchorage. The same network he’d constructed years before when he worked for his father, trafficking in hash and cocaine, now helped Daniel dispose of even the most exotic cargo.

  In those few weeks Anne had adjusted to the routine, the guns, the constant movement, the controlled thrill of boarding ships. Whatever daytime doubts Anne developed were wiped away by the long nights with Daniel. His measured calm, his certainty. Not the dashing, risk-taking swashbuckler her mother had dreamed of, but a man on a simple mission—to pile up as much cash as quickly as he could with the smallest possible risk.

  “Some pirates we are,” she said one night at the fishing lodge. “A whole month and we’ve not slit a single throat.”