“Get my ass home, man, before we add two more bodies to this mess.”
I began a slow turn northeast. Only a fool would continue the search with Betty’s engine so unpredictable, but going home with one dead and three lost missionaries, not to mention three lost crew, could only be described as a failure.
And we had to face up to Willy.
Fifty miles out, I keyed the microphone and called Key West tower. A solemn Donny promised the authorities would be there to greet us.
13
THE SCENE AT THE airport was pure bedlam. Within fifteen minutes of our return there were representatives from KWPD, the Monroe County sheriff’s department, the county coroner, the Coast Guard, the marine patrol, a reporter and photographer from the Key West Citizen, along with a despondent pastor Willy Peebles. If that wasn’t enough, an officer from the state police was reportedly en route from Marathon. The cops were arguing about who had jurisdiction. The Coast Guard wanted their investigative service, or CGIS, to take the lead. The coroner wanted to take the body, the reporter from the Citizen was yelling questions, the photographer was shooting Betty, and I just wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.
Pastor Peebles stared at me with gravedigger’s eyes, and my chest ached, knowing I was about to wreck his world.
After a brief examination, the coroner reported that the back of Jo Jo’s head was caved in, instantly shrouding his death in controversy. Had the boat exploded and smashed his skull? The Coast Guard had already redirected the Mohawk and a full contingent of three helicopters was headed their way. The sun was blistering, the smell of aviation fuel had me nauseous, and my shoe was stuck on a piece of bubblegum someone had spit out prior to boarding a commuter back to reality. The argument over jurisdiction climaxed when Trooper Ben Wallace arrived and attempted to seize control. His six-five frame was a study in contours, with muscles stretching every stitch on his shirt.
I whispered in Lenny’s ear. “You need to give a statement.”
“The hell you talking about! Why me?”
“Just say I’m a rental pilot and you found Jo Jo.”
A hush came over the bickering crowd when I called for quiet and pushed Lenny forward. He didn’t like it one bit, but his political instincts kicked in.
“Listen up while I tell you all what happened.”
Notepads and tape recorders materialized, and he recounted our day, even promising to give them copies of the coordinates we’d flown after “his pilot” duplicated the notes from his knee pad.
The photographer proclaimed himself an aviation buff and was visibly thrilled at seeing a Grumman Widgeon up close. He asked to see inside, but I declined. The coroner transferred Jo Jo into a black body bag and loaded him into his white unmarked van. Pastor Peebles sat with his hand on top of the sealed container. His white guayabara shirt was sweat-stained and he looked ten years older than when I’d met him yesterday.
The swarm of blue, white, and gray starched uniforms fired questions and took Lenny’s name, number, and address. When they asked for mine, I explained I was just a pilot for hire and could be reached here at the airport. The last thing I wanted was to see my name on a police report or in the paper again.
The legal contingent drifted closer to the terminal while continuing the battle for dominance. A large crowd had gathered shoulder to shoulder, watching us from inside the building. Flights had been delayed while we stood in the middle of the tarmac, leaving angry travelers worried about connections and other inconveniences. They wouldn’t spare a grunt for Jo Jo Jeffries, so they could rot in their Tommy Bahamas for all I cared.
Lenny’s eyes were fixed on the van.
“You did a hell of a job out there,” I said. “I don’t know why Betty—”
“Bitch tried to kill us.”
Pastor Peebles walked over, and Lenny closed his eyes when Willy pulled him in for a bear hug and then turned to me.
“Willy, I need to tell you something,” I said.
The pastor looked into my eyes. His were dark, moist, and—hurt? “What you didn’t tell me yesterday?” he said. “About my daughter?” His voice sounded more sad than mad. “Know all about it, Buck. You lied to me, or hid the truth, anyway.”
“That’s not—”
He glanced quickly at the police, then leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Neither of you says a word about Shaniqua being on that boat, you understand? I want her name kept out of it—we’ll do our own investigation.” His eyes bore into mine. “Now get the hell out of my face before I break my own rules.”
Lenny grimaced as Willy took him by the arm and marched off.
What the hell? With the coroner suggesting Jo Jo had been a victim of foul play, Willy’s reaction was…strange. Beyond strange.
I felt torn between saying “fuck it” and finding any means possible to continue the search. But with Betty on the fritz, what choice did I have?
Willy and Lenny power-walked toward the terminal, where, to my surprise, Manny Gutierrez stood just beyond the gaggle of police. They spoke for a moment before Willy pointed to me, then walked away. Manny’s glower lingered a long minute more before he followed Willy.
There had been several former clients at our bankruptcy hearing, and they had been bitter and loud. Time had obviously not healed Manny’s wound. Would I ever be free from my past? Did I deserve to be? Do I really give a shit?
I went to tie Betty down and found Ray Floyd in flip-flops, cargo shorts, and a tie-dyed T-shirt, inspecting her.
“Some day you guys had, huh? Brought out all the shit-fers.”
Ray’s choice of words was often bewildering. Shit-fer? Brains, got it.
“Betty nearly killed us out there, same symptoms as yesterday, times ten.”
“Checked her records. Both engines and props are due for overhauls.”
“How much would…never mind, I can’t afford it. Can you just bandage her up? I need to get back out there.”
“It’s your ass,” Ray said. “Don’t these macho crew cuts epitomize the B/B ratio?”
“You’ll have to explain that gem later, I’m beat.”
After spraying Betty’s fuselage down, mopping out the inside, checking to make sure everything was turned off, battened down, and screwed tight, I took my gear and headed for the terminal. I hesitated at the doors of the Conch Flyer. Susie was behind the bar, and I could have used a liquid Rx, but I didn’t have the energy even for that. My old Series II Rover 88 carried me back to the La Concha, where a hot shower and room service awaited. What had begun as a one-day charter to search for a missing boat now felt like I’d lost a family member myself.
Failure ate at me like an illness, one that had metastasized through my life, once again resulting in an uncomfortable sense of urgency. Complacency invited capitulation, and the only hope for a cure was to succeed. Problem was, I didn’t know how.
14
FRESHLY CLEAN AND WEARING a towel, I answered the knock expecting a waiter with the hamburger I’d ordered but got a beautiful woman instead.
“I heard the news.” Karen’s eyes were fixed on the 380-year-old silver Spanish piece of eight hanging on my bare chest.
“Hold on.” I went to my bedroom and returned in shorts and a FOXY’S T-shirt. She was opening a bottle of Cabernet from the rack on the counter and glancing around at the piles of books, articles, and old maps. As far as I knew, she’d never been inside my suite, and having her here now had my imagination going a mile a minute.
“You all right?”
“I was just the pilot—”
She rolled her eyes. “Cut the bullshit bravado, Buck. Are you okay?”
I shoved the pile of Wall Street Journals, still in their plastic wrappers, from the couch onto the floor and sat down. Karen was wearing shorts and a pink midriff tank top and looked as if she’d just come in from a run. Her musky scent combined with the concern in her eyes chipped away at the ice encasing my heart.
I took a mouthful of red wine.
“You’ll fe
el better if you talk about it.” She sat on the arm of the sofa next to me, and the day’s events were suddenly a blur. “Search and rescue must be more draining than salvage—”
“Some rescue.”
She put her hand on my shoulder, and an immediate sensation of warmth penetrated the cotton. She squeezed the muscles at the base of my neck, and it was as if she’d pressed a button. My eyes closed and my head slumped forward.
After a few moments Karen stood. “Better let you rest, you look exhausted.”
Was there an alternative? She started for the door, then hesitated at the bookshelf.
“The Wreckers?” Her eyes lit up as she pulled the old book out. “Shipwrecks fascinate me, can I borrow this?” I nodded, and she turned back to the shelf. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for all these art books. Impressionists, Italian Renaissance, Hudson River School, Latin. Must be a soft side underneath that tough guy persona.”
My burger arrived. Karen said she’d leave me to it, then something on the shelf caught her attention and she moved some old bottles recovered from the ocean floor to reveal the small Lucite cube tucked among them. She scrutinized the small print, squinting at the engraving on the bottom.
“It says e-Antiquity Corporation. Fifty-million-dollar initial public offering.”
I paused, not sure what she knew of my past, or whether she had seen this mornings Tattler. “You’re right, I’m exhausted.”
“Too bad.” She stared at me for a long moment. “If you feel like talking, I’ll be downstairs.” I let out a long sigh and turned to my burger. It was cold.
In many ways, Karen and I were complete opposites. She was the local activist fighting for causes as obscure as chicken’s rights, raising money for the haphazard shelter that placed wild island birds up for adoption, and chairing the Special Events committee for the Old Island Days Festival. And here I was, exploiter of lost civilizations. What could she possibly see in a guy like me?
For all the guys sniffing around, I never saw Karen with any of them, or out at night anywhere. But whenever I did see her, I decided all over again that she was beautiful. A natural, soft beauty—she was too un-self-conscious to primp herself into the drop-dead gorgeous category, but still, I no longer trusted my choice in women. Although she had said she was fascinated by wrecks.
While I waited for the microwave to reheat my burger, the phone rang.
“I was just getting ready to leave and saw something weird.” It was Ray.
“Stay away from the mirrors—”
“You leave Betty’s hatch open?”
“What?” Thinking back, there was no doubt I’d locked her tight. “Not a chance.”
“Because it’s open, not wide but like a car door not closed all the way.”
“Be right there.”
“You want me to call the cops?”
“No, just keep an eye on Betty.”
15
MY SPRINT THROUGH THE hotel and tear through the back streets to the private aviation terminal passed in a blur. Ray was sitting in a folding chair next to Betty, his head tilted back and his eyes closed, sunning himself.
“Did you touch anything?”
He squinted up toward me. “I watch CSI Miami.”
Sure enough, Betty’s hatch was closed but not all the way, resting on its latch. There was no evidence of tampering or scratches on the lock. I opened the hatch slowly and craned my head inside. Everything looked normal. Ray peered over my shoulder. We exchanged glances and crawled in. I scrutinized the interior. There was an odd smell, almost like—
“All your crap’s in the back.” Ray slammed the rear storage hatch shut.
“Everything looks norm—” Suddenly it hit me. A small square of naked Velcro was black on the dashboard.
“What is it?” Ray said.
“My GPS is gone.”
I reached down below my seat, but my fingers touched only air.
No.
I reached deeper. Had the pouch slipped?
“What’s wrong?”
On my knees, with my head wedged into the rudder pedals, all I saw were dusty springs and duct tape dangling. The waterproof pouch was gone.
“Shit!” I collapsed onto the floor.
“Are you okay? What was under there?”
“My whole future, my stash…everything.”
“Stash? You keep money in here? Drugs?”
“My maps, damnit, the ledger, key…the GPS! How will I find the gold?” I felt as if the plane was in a sideways stall.
“Did you say gold?”
“In the Dry Tortugas, from yesterday—” In a heart-squeezing rush I realized my haughty declaration against returning to a life of material comfort was complete bullshit. But then again, it’s easy to swear off addiction when there’s no temptation. That epiphany aside, the only legacy I had retained from e-Antiquity, along with the key to my parent’s Swiss bank account had vanished from the safest place I had known to hide them. I’m screwed, now. Totally screwed.
There was something else further under the seat. I reached under and—it was soft and furry. And the smell? I pulled it forward, along with a piece of paper. It was a bird, a white dove, but red and sticky. Ugh.
When I held it up, Ray jumped. He hit his head on the ceiling, and with a leap he was out of the plane.
“Ray!”
I hurried after him, still clutching the bird and paper. Ray held his hands up.
“Keep that thing away from me!”
It was grotesque, a bright red coating over the soft white feathers. But worse, its head was gone.
“What’s it mean?” I said.
“The devil!”
Ray had always been the picture of calm, even when dispensing his own island philosophy. I had never seen him even a little bit scared, much less terrified.
“The devil?”
“Worse—Santeria, man, like voodoo! You’ve really done it now.” He hustled away double-time into the hangar, leaving me holding the dead dove.
The paper turned out to be a note. “THIS BIRD NO FLY. LEAVE THE SPIRITS OF THE DEAD ALONE.”
Bird no fly? Spirits? Dead?
Who had I pissed off now, and what had they done with my GPS and stash?
Dark Skies
and
Dead Guys
16
VISIONS OF THE BLOATED Jo Jo Jeffries mixed with ax-wielding Santeria priests and images of undersea treasure just out of reach swirled through a long night of restless slumber. At sun-up I abandoned the sweat-strewn sheets and tore my room apart searching for the account identification that accompanied the irreplaceable key and maps stolen with my waterproof pouch. Thanks to the storm, without the GPS and chart I’d never find that coral head in the Dry Tortugas, but I could at least replace the Swiss bank key.
I spotted an envelope under my door. Inside was today’s Tattler from the Key West Citizen. Now what?
“…Buck Reilly, aka Charles B. Reilly, III, formerly of e-Antiquity fame, now operating the shoestring operation Last Resort Charter and Salvage, has ties to the missing Church of Redeemer mission boat, Carnival. Word is that Reilly dropped Shaniqua Peebles off on the boat half-way to Cuba, just before it vanished.
Doing what the Coast Guard couldn’t, Reilly found Jo Jo Jefferies’ body yesterday, but all other crew and missionaries remain missing. Shaniqua’s name has not appeared on the passenger list, and Reilly, although involved with the search, did not share the details of her drop with the authorities. Pastor Peebles refused to be interviewed.
Word is Reilly’s maintaining a low profile because he’s poaching other treasure hunter’s licensed dive sites while they’re not around…”
Ever since I spotted that gold, everything had gone to shit. Betty breaking down, old e-Antiquity clients showing up, my name in the press, my maps, key and GPS stolen, even my fragile delusion of renewed integrity. The second I think my life has turned around, my feet get cut off. Hell, my calves and knees too, for that matter. Was the Esmeral
da cursed? Spirits of the dead? Or had this all happened because of the girl?
I found my father’s papers, read the account identification, and realized the letter inside the Swiss bank envelope was not an institutional memorandum at all. I read it again.
Swiss Bank
Geneva Switzerland
Contents: Records, files, documents, other materials
Account Key word: ‘His boat’
The key is one of two, and each heir has one, but without both being presented simultaneously, the other is useless. If one is lost, the following five- character identification must be presented with the remaining key:
BCODYDCDE
HBLIWTWDMGR
ORYHRIKLVOLIH
Five characters? How about 33? Key word?
My hands went cold. It wasn’t an account number, it wasn’t a five-character sequence, it was a word puzzle. A cipher. My father loved ciphers. He considered it diplomatic tradition to use them for important correspondence. Problem is I suck at ciphers. Shit!
Now even replacing the key was uncertain. I was left with no choice but to get my gear back.
If not for the dead dove I would have thought competing treasure hunters had stolen my maps. Ray said it was Santeria. Hadn’t Manny mentioned that too? Could spirits of the dead mean Jo Jo? What else had Willy not told me? Why did he want Shaniqua’s presence on the boat kept secret? The Tattler blew that wide open.
Who tipped the Tattler?
I pulled up a definition on the internet: “Santeria is one of the many syncretic religions created in the New World. It is based on the West African religions brought by slaves imported to the Caribbean to work the sugar plantations. These slaves carried with them their own religious traditions, including a tradition of possession trance for communicating with the ancestors and deities, the use of animal sacrifice and the practice of sacred drumming and dance. Those slaves who landed in the Caribbean, Central and South America were nominally converted to Christianity. However, they were able to preserve some of their traditions by fusing together various Dahomean, baKongo (Congo) and Lukumi beliefs and rituals and by syncretizing these with elements from the surrounding Christian culture.”
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