Twelve Mile Limit df-9

by Randy Wayne White

  I was waiting on the dock when she returned and handed me a sheet of paper. The security lights were bright enough that I could read her childlike printing: Hassan Atwa Kazan had a P.O. box in Tangier, Morocco.

  Tangier?

  Years ago, I’d been in Marrakech and in Casablanca. Just a week or two, then gone. But my knowledge of the region’s geography wasn’t good, though I’d certainly heard of Tangier.

  Kazan’s telephone number, however, had a familiar prefix: 57-5. It was the country and city code for Cartagena, Colombia. Same with a man named Earl Stallings. Not surprisingly, his address was the Hotel de Acension, Cartagena.

  As I read the names, the girl said, “Hassan whatever-the-rest-of-it-is, I guess that must be the albino’s name. He’s sick-white looking, but his features ain’t what you’d call American. He was in daddy’s book under P for Puff.”

  I said, “Thanks. This helps me a lot. Something else, Shanay? I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone you gave me this information. You’d be doing me a big favor.”

  “I’m going to tell you again, mister: Stay away from them two. I think they even scare Daddy a lil’ bit.”

  “I’ll be careful. But it’s not going to help if they know I’m looking for them. Would you promise me?”

  Her voice had a touching, needy quality as she replied, “I don’t even know your name, mister. I couldn’t get in touch with you even if I just wanted to talk, so why would I make you a promise?”

  I reached out, squeezed her shoulder, saw her face tilt upward toward me, felt her body soften. Sometimes, you have to operate on instinct, and I decided to trust her. I told her my name and that, if she was ever in trouble, day or night, she was welcome to contact me. As I talked, I opened my little waterproof pouch, stored the paper therein, and walked to where the Nan-Shan was moored to retrieve my mask and fins.

  The girl said, “Marion? That’s a funny name for a guy. You don’t mind, I think I will call you. Just to talk some nights. It might be nice to have a man friend who isn’t tryin’… well, it just might be nice to have a man friend.”

  Then she stopped as if stunned at the sight of my snorkeling gear, and added in a voice of surprise, “You’re kiddin’ me, dude-don’t tell me you swam up this river?”

  Her concern made me smile. “Not far, don’t worry. My skiff’s just around the first bend, less than a hundred meters from here. I’ve had a lot of experience swimming at night.”

  She grabbed my arm, pulling me back from the water. “Marion, you’re nuts. Jesus Christ, I’m surprised you’re still alive. Get in my little boat, I’ll take you.”

  “I don’t mind the swim. It’s not a problem.”

  “Oh yeah? Hand me that little flashlight you got-no, look, don’t even bother. There she is right by the dock. Lizzy Pig. You can see her in the light. I hate her. She still gives me nightmares.”

  Lizzy Pig? What kind of name was that?

  Then I saw, and understood. Drifting alongside the Nan-Shan was one of the biggest alligators I’ve ever seen. Had to be close to fourteen feet long and so broad that it resembled an Australian croc-or the empty fuel drum I’d mistaken it for on my swim in.

  When the girl took my fins and mask and stepped toward her little boat, I didn’t protest. “Lizzy Pig, Daddy’s had her for years. She gets real excited the nights he puts on dogfights. Big old fat lizard. She knows, next morning, he’s gonna feed her the losers.”

  19

  On Tuesday morning, December 16, I caught an American Eagle Flight to Miami International-not my favorite airport in Florida-and stood in line at the Avianca desk until I had tickets to Cartagena in hand.

  Two tickets, not one.

  I had an unexpected travel companion at my side: Amelia Gardner.

  Early Saturday morning, just before dawn’s first gray light, when I’d returned to my rental cottage at the Pelican Post on Bradenton Beach, her green Jeep was in the driveway, the hood cool to the touch. I tapped on the door before entering and found her curled on the couch, windows open, Gulf breeze blowing through the curtains.

  When she asked where I’d been, I used the first alibi that came to mind, saying, “If I’d known you were coming back, I wouldn’t have stayed out so late snook fishing.” It didn’t account for being dressed in tactical clothing, but I’m not the most creative person around nor the quickest thinking.

  She pursed her lips as she rubbed her eyes and said, “Bullshit.” Then she reached, switched on the floor lamp, and held up the piece of notebook paper on which I’d made notes while talking to Dalton Dorsey.

  Dexter Money’s name was on the paper, as well as the name of his shrimp boat, the Nan-Shan. Stupidly, I’d left it atop the chest of drawers in the bedroom.

  She said, “When you called the second time, almost two-thirty, I started to feel bad about not picking up. I know I’ve got a temper, and I work hard at controlling it. So I decided to call you back. No answer. I called a couple of more times, still no answer. By three, I was worried sick. So I got in my Jeep and came looking.”

  I crossed the room, saying, “Like I told you, I was out fishing. There was a great tide tonight at Longboat Pass.” I opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Coors. I was exhausted but still wired.

  “Sorry, Doc, I don’t buy it. I deal with professional liars every day, and you’re no professional. You weren’t here and your boat was gone. Your shaving kit was still in the bathroom-I could see it through the window, so Mrs. Post gave me a key. I found this note in the bedroom. I admit it, I’m a snoop. So who’s Dexter Ray Money?”

  “Nobody. A guy I wanted to see about a boat. What I’m wondering is, why are you so suspicious?”

  “How do you know him?”

  “Friend of a friend. Boaters are a pretty tight bunch.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  Amelia tossed back the thin bedspread and stood. She’d changed out of the black dinner dress into neatly pressed jeans and a white blouse. No makeup now, but her red hair still held the light. “I’m suspicious,” she said, “because I’m a public defender in this county and I know who Dexter Money is. I know what a piece of trash the guy is. I’ve had to defend some of his sicko buddies. And I’ve heard the rumors about how he makes a living with his shrimp boats.”

  She took a step closer, staring into my eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling me, Ford. You had an appointment with him tonight, didn’t you? Or someone. That’s why you made me leave. You’re not up here for a meeting with Bell Fish. That’s bullshit, too.”

  “Would you feel better if I said yes?”

  That made her smile; she couldn’t help it. “Goddamn right I would! I’ve got feelings. But only if it’s true. No woman likes throwing herself at a man, then being told thanks but no thanks. And only if you’re not involved with some kind of illegal crap with that redneck slime. Which I wouldn’t believe even if you told me yourself.”

  She was standing so close to me now that I could feel the warmth of her breath when she spoke. Her eyes were the luminous green of fresh mint. When I didn’t answer right away, she put her hands on my arms and said, “You’ve heard something about them, haven’t you? Our missing friends. It has something to do with Janet, Michael, and Grace. I can sense it. Why else would you be sneaking around at night, talking to criminals who own shrimp boats? Were you trying to buy information from Dex Money?”

  I placed my beer on the table, still looking in her eyes. Touched my index finger to her chin, tilting it upward, then kissed her lips softly, then again, feeling her tongue move and moisten. When I felt her hands slide to my sides, when I felt her body begin to react, I pulled away long enough to say, “All I can tell you is, I think you were right. I think there’s a chance a boat picked them up and took them to South America, maybe Colombia. I’m leaving Sunday if I can get a flight. Monday, maybe Tuesday at the latest.”

  Momentarily, her eyes had gone sleepy-woozy, but now they came b
ack into sharp focus. “I’m going with you.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She stepped back, holding me away with her hands. She was suddenly very serious again. “Doc, you don’t understand. I have to go. If there’s any chance they’re still alive, I have to go and try to help them. Please don’t argue with me about this. You don’t know how important it is to me.”

  I was looking into her face, feeling, once again, that there was something she wanted to tell me but couldn’t. I said, “This is the sort of thing that one person can do better than two. Colombia’s a dangerous place. If you go, it’ll only double our risk.”

  “I don’t care! I’m going. I’ve got my reasons.”

  Sometimes you sense the need to push, and so I did. “Reasons? Why, because you feel guilty?”

  Her face flushed. “Yes! I feel guilty. I’ve already told you that.”

  Now I was holding her arms, making her look into my eyes. “Yeah, you told me, Amelia, but you didn’t tell me the rest of it. You haven’t told anyone, have you? What really happened out there that night? You’ve got the courage to go to Colombia, but you don’t have the courage to tell me the truth, do you?”

  “That’s not fair, Doc!”

  “Fair? Unless you’re playing some kind of game, why should there be rules? Just tell me what happened.”

  “Okay. Okay, I will. The truth is… the truth is…” She yanked her arms free of my grasp, turned her back to me, shuddered, and then began to sob as she talked. “The truth is I’m a worthless, cowardly piece of crap because I went off and I left them! Okay? I went off and left all three of them alone to die. I panicked. I’ve never been so scared in my life! That’s what happened. Are you satisfied?” She’d been shouting, still crying, sobbing, and now she turned to face me, her eyes closed, and leaned against my chest.

  I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close, patting the small of her back. I waited for what seemed a full minute before I said softly, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Amelia. It’s okay.”

  She was shaking her head. “No. No, it’s not okay. That night, when we were trying to swim together, they were going so slow. I knew we weren’t going to make it to the tower. Then I got hit by a really big wave and sucked down a lot of water. Then I got hit by another, and I just snapped. I lost it. I ripped my BCD off and started swimming. I could hear them shouting for me to come back, but I didn’t. The last thing I heard Janet say was, ‘Please don’t leave us alone.’

  “But that’s exactly what I did. I left them alone. And they died. At least, I thought they died, and it’s been killing me slowly ever since.”

  I stood there, letting her cry. Then I stooped and scooped her up into my arms and carried her into the bedroom. I laid her down on the bed, pulled her close. I waited until her sobbing had quieted before whispering into her ear, “You did the right thing. The smartest thing you could have done that night was to send the strongest swimmer off alone. It was the only way to be sure there’d be at least one person to tell searchers what happened and to keep looking. Without knowing it, you did the very best thing possible for the other three.”

  That surprised her. I could tell. “I… I never thought of it that way. Do… do you really mean it, Doc?”

  Maybe I did. It really might have been the smartest thing to do. In light of what happened, it probably was. But I said, “Of course I mean it. If you feel guilty, you’re wasting your time. You gave them their very best chance of being found. It didn’t happen, but that’s not your fault.”

  I felt her hand on the back of my neck, and she hugged me close. “You’re still a terrible liar, and I love you for it. At least now you understand why I have to go with you.”

  I said, “Do I?”

  For the next ten minutes, we argued back and forth. I despised the idea of her going. But she kept pressing, saying she had no choice, her conscience demanded that she make the trip. Her argument had the articulate professionalism associated with her craft, plus passion-so much passion that, ultimately, I withdrew and listened to her without responding until she paused, and said, “Doc? Hey… what’s wrong? You look almost… almost on the verge of tears or something. I’ve never seen you so emotional.”

  “I’m not emotional,” I snapped. “I’m concerned. I’ve had very bad luck taking friends to dangerous places. Please don’t ask me to go into detail, but it’s something I just won’t do. I can’t take you. I absolutely refuse to risk it again.”

  Lying there, she pushed herself away from me, framed my face with her palms, forcing me to look into her eyes. “I’m not asking you to take me to Colombia. I’m asking you to let me live my life as an adult.” She tapped a finger to the side of her head. “Since the night I left them, I’ve been trapped in here, trapped by my own guilt. I’m sick of it. It’s destroying me, so I have to go. I have no choice.. . and neither do you.”

  I was shaking my head-it was impossible to argue with her. “Okay, okay, okay. I don’t like it, but okay.”

  Now she hugged me close. “It’s settled then.”

  “Not until you agree to one thing. When we’re there, you have to promise to do what I tell you to do. No matter what. I’ve spent a lot of time in places… in places like Colombia. Americans, people in this country, most of them don’t realize how dangerous it can be once they cross the boundaries. I do know. So you need to trust my judgment without question.”

  Amelia whispered, “Deal,” then touched her lips to mine. We lay there holding each other, kissing, and touching for what seemed a long time before my hands were on her blouse, fumbling with buttons, and her fingers were searching for me.

  So now we were six miles high, sitting deep in leather seats, flying first class, the Caribbean Sea a canyon of blue beneath us.

  Our relationship had changed irreversibly that early Saturday morning. We confirmed the change several more times throughout the day.

  She was a healthy woman in her early thirties, and all that that implied. Sometimes the bodies of unfamiliar lovers simply do not fit. No explaining it, but it’s true.

  Our bodies did fit. They fit comfortably, passionately, and athletically. Amelia had that rare ability to abandon all inhibitions in sex while retaining her sensitivity to her partner’s needs, as well as her sense of humor. Being in bed with her was fun and funny yet satisfying on a level of intimacy that I’d seldom experienced. Maybe never experienced before in my life.

  Once, she whispered into my ear, “I feel like I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time.”

  I was surprised to hear myself whisper in reply, “That’s nice. I mean it. Very nice.”

  Why would I encourage such feelings? Ask Tomlinson, ask anyone at the marina, I’m the cold one, the one who believes that emotion is a waste of energy. But it really was the way I felt.

  Overtly, she gave no sign that we were anything more than friends. I liked that. No public touching or hanging-on; no holding hands or nuzzling. I liked that, too. Outwardly, we were two individuals. Inwardly, though, we were already joined in some indefinable way, and I found that surprising as well.

  I liked her. I trusted her. More important, I already felt totally comfortable with her. I hadn’t told her about the satellite photos-that, I could never do. But I had shared with her my theories about what might have happened to Janet, Grace, and Michael if they’d been picked up. That included letting her read the State Department document that Dalton Dorsey had faxed to me.

  Some of the data therein were as discomforting; some, I found fascinating. Why hadn’t I heard the data before? The data read in part: ECONOMICS OF THE INTERNATIONAL FLESH TRADE According to [AGENCY DELETED] the global trade in the smuggling of humans is a $12 billion a year business, and the third largest source of profit for organized crime, including international terrorists. The flesh trade is surpassed only by drugs and the illegal arms trade in estimated annual earnings. It has become a favorite investment of criminals and international terrorists because the profits are hig
h, the risk of being caught low, and the punishments much less severe than some crimes that are not nearly as profitable. The discovery of fifty-eight Fijians in the back of a refrigeration truck in Dover, England, all dead of suffocation, focused international attention on this brutal business. And, in late 1999, U.S. Immigration officers arrested Algerian terrorist Ahmed Ressam when he tried to enter the United States with a trunk full of explosives. He had been smuggled into Canada where he applied for refugee status, and his financial backing has been linked to cocaine and a white slavery operation in South America and Brunei. It is estimated that, each year, hundreds of thousands of illegals-many from China, North Africa, and the Middle East-pay up to $50,000 US per person to “Snakeheads.” A Snakehead is often a Chinese-American or an Arab-American stationed in New York City or Bangkok. A Snakehead provides illegals with false identities and passports and transports them inside the twelve-mile limit that marks the end of international waters and the beginning of the United States’s territorial sovereignty.

  Like me, Amelia found the statistics very surprising. “I didn’t know it was such a big business,” she said.

  The paper also touched on another form of the flesh trade that was even more astonishing. We both read: Another very different, but related, type of business that deals in the buying and selling of humans is what is known, generically, as the white slave trade. The term white slave trade has been passed down from a previous century, and it accurately describes what was then a booming illegal business: the kidnapping and transport of Caucasian women to foreign soil, where they were then sold to wealthy buyers. Over the last two decades, this business has grown faster than both trade in drugs and weapons, though Caucasian women are no longer the only acceptable form of human currency. Any woman who is young and attractive is a very valuable commodity. The United Nations estimates that 4 million women throughout the world are trafficked each year-forced through lies and coercion to work against their will in many types of servitude, particularly as sexual slaves. The International Organization for Migration has said that as many as 500,000 women from the former Soviet Union are annually trafficked into Western Europe alone, and then onto other foreign lands-most often North Africa, Brunei, and the Middle East. Because some of the women have already immigrated illegally, and because some percentage of the women choose to work as prostitutes, statistics are difficult to assess.