by Lyle Howard
The captain blew out a huge cloud of choking smoke. “You’ll sit when I say you can sit, mister!”
Geiger waggled a finger at the captain. “I must remember to get your badge number!”
In the blink of an eye, Wolcott was up behind his desk, tearing the cigar from his mouth. “I don’t have time nor do I have the patience to be fucking around with the two of you! Either you tell me what the hell you’re doing way out here, or I’ll seize your boat and throw you both in the brig!” He punctuated each sentence with a jab of his lit cigar. “Then we’ll see just how much you like doing your comedy routine from behind bars!”
Mackey jutted out his chin in Artie’s direction. With a declining nod of his head, Geiger gestured that it was better for him to act as their spokesman. Cal’s eyebrows furled as if to say “thanks a bunch!”
“So, what have you got to say for yourselves?”
Cal cleared his throat and quickly ran through the introductions.
Wolcott looked at Artie suspiciously. “You’re a deputy sheriff?”
Geiger shrugged his shoulders.
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Got any proof?”
Artie frantically patted the rear pocket of his sweatpants. “I must have lost my wallet when I fell off the yacht!”
In slow motion, Wolcott took his seat again behind the desk. “When you fell off the yacht?”
Geiger nodded. “That’s the only time I could’ve lost it! Right after the two goons attacked me!”
Wolcott looked over at his lieutenant skeptically. “Of course ... right after ... the goons attacked you.”
Cal waved his hands. “This is a huge misunderstanding, Captain. I think I can clarify the whole thing.”
The captain was so completely befuddled that he was unaware that his cigar had gone out. “Yeah, why don’t you just go ahead and do that.”
* * *
Five minutes later, Cal was almost through relating the events of the past twelve hours. He tried to explain everything from the first appearance of the eccentric foreigners in the Paradise Shack, through the mysterious disappearances of his father, Allen Bushkin, and his girlfriend.
“And so you say this colossal ship just showed up out of nowhere and docked behind this bar of yours?”
Cal was getting tired of going over the same points over and over again. “I told you, they claimed they had engine problems!”
Wolcott shook his head. “You boys must be on crack. Suspicious foreigners sneaking in during the middle of the night to abduct indigents and lawyers? You know how far-fetched this cockamamie story sounds?”
Cal shrugged. “I know it sounds crazy.”
Wolcott pounded his fist on the desk. “Crazy? Charles Manson was crazy! You boys are certifiable!”
“But look,” Cal urged, showing him the ring on his finger, “I’ve got proof. This ring belongs to my dad. It’s his wedding ring. I found it onboard the yacht!”
The captain leaned back and crossed his arms on his chest. “This is the bum’s ring? Is that what you’re trying to tell me now?”
Cal knew that he was probably sounding like an escapee from the local loony bin. “He’s not a bum! He’s just a down-on-his-luck guy that lives on the island who had become a regular customer over the years!”
The bartender ran his fingers through his hair. His frustration was taking him past the boiling point. “What kind of proof do you need? I’m telling you: this ship is out there somewhere, and the family living on it is kidnapping innocent people!”
Wolcott looked at Crawford and rolled his eyes. “So now you’re gonna tell me you’re out here chasing after body snatching pirates?”
Cal looked helpless. “I don’t know who they are!”
Wolcott covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. “Did the old man in the wheelchair have a peg-leg and a parrot on his shoulder?”
The lieutenant, who was still manning his post by the door, snickered.
“It’s the God’s-honest truth, Captain,” Geiger chimed in.
Wolcott waggled his finger in the deputy’s direction. “Don’t you even start with me, mister! You say you’re an officer of the law. You should be ashamed of yourself! I’m having a hard enough time resisting the urge to throw your buddy here to the sharks! I know how it works—he lies, and you swear to it!”
Cal took a defensive step in front of Geiger. “It’s simple enough to check Artie’s credentials, Captain. Why don’t you just call the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department and find out for yourself?”
Wolcott snarled. “Don’t think I won’t!”
For the first time, Crawford joined in the conversation. “So did you happen to get a name on this pirate ship of yours?”
The name sent a collective chill down Cal and Artie’s spines as they said it in unison. “The Nocturne.”
Wolcott shot a hostile stare in the direction of his second in command before turning his attention back to the darkly-clad men. “And you claim this yacht actually made port behind your bar?”
Cal looked at Artie curiously. “Did I stutter? I’ve gotta repeat things three and four times for this guy?” He turned and leaned over the captain’s desk. “Yes! For the umpteenth time: the damned thing was docked behind my bar for most of the night!”
Crawford moved away from the door and stepped behind the captain to whisper something in his ear. Wolcott thought about it then nodded in agreement. “I think you two should stay put until we can get you back to Key West and sort this whole thing out.”
Both Cal and Artie shook their heads, but it was Cal who spoke up. “What are you talking about, man? We’re telling you, there’s a ship cruising around out here, and whoever owns it is kidnapping innocent people!” Now he was poking his finger vigorously in the captain’s face—a practice that didn’t sit well with the commanding officer. “If you don’t want to do your job and go after the Nocturne yourself, then fine, don’t! But there’s no way you’re dragging our asses all the way back to Key West with you!”
Artie nodded. “We can’t let this ship get away again, Captain!”
Wolcott was about to speak when there was a knock on the cabin door. “Enter!”
The Paladin’s chief petty officer stepped into the overcrowded room and stood at attention before the captain. “What is it, Bingham?”
The portly, middle-aged CPO tossed four cellophane bags onto the desk. Wolcott and Crawford didn’t need to examine the pouches; it was their job to be familiar with the sight of cocaine and marijuana.
Wolcott raised an eyebrow. “Well, gentlemen? Care to explain?”
Geiger held up his hands. “That shit’s not ours, Captain! It belongs to the lawyer, Allen Bushkin. Check the boat’s registration; the boat belongs to Bushkin!”
The captain playfully fingered the baggies. “And I suppose this is the same lawyer that was allegedly shanghaied by your band of merry buccaneers?”
Cal grimaced. This wasn’t looking too good for the home team.
“Lieutenant?” Wolcott barked.
Crawford snapped to attention behind him. “Yes sir?”
The captain let an amused smile corrugate his lips. “Take CPO Bingham with you, and escort our pair of dope-smuggling storytellers to the brig. They’ve just become official prisoners of the United States Coast Guard!”
Twenty Three
Wolfgar Von Robles sat regally in the captain’s chair inside the lushly appointed wheelhouse of the Nocturne. Before him, two of his crew deftly coaxed every ounce of power and maneuvering ability from the yacht’s mighty engines. Standing behind him like a great stone monolith, his faithful bodyguard Raimund seemed to dwarf everything else inside the luxurious cabin.
Von Robles gazed out through the forward windows at the gray clouds that dotted the horizon—the willowy remnants of last night’s storm. “I suppose you have already heard about Alexi and Ian’s little adventure last night?”
The giant’s lips quivered with umbrage. “Why did you not wake me?” he gru
nted in their unwieldy-sounding native tongue. “The outcome would have been very different.”
Von Robles rested his elbow on the arm of the chair. “I am well aware that Rachel has been more than a handful for you lately. I thought after her antics of last evening you would have welcomed a good night’s sleep.”
Raimund slipped his huge hands into the pockets of his jacket, a garment that probably took more material to make than two for Von Robles himself. “I never questioned your judgment when you asked me to watch over her. She has become quite the young lady.”
“You are one hundred percent right, dear friend,” Von Robles admitted without taking his gaze off the horizon. “My daughter has reached the age where she is beginning to question everything,” he continued, as he scratched his fingers on the armrests pensively. “While you and I have acclimated ourselves to this nomadic lifestyle, a blossoming young woman with Rachel’s inquisitive nature can only dream of what wondrous sights lie beyond the ocean’s boundaries. The walls of her cabin are proof of this. She reminds me so much of her mother.”
Raimund cracked one of his enormous knuckles. “Boundaries are established for a reason, Wolfgar. We were on shore for less than two hours, and look where it has gotten us. We hobble aimlessly about the Caribbean without a guidance system or radio...”
Von Robles held up his hand. “I do not need to be reminded of our dilemma. The supply ship will find us, and we will soon be at full speed again.”
The big man leaned over the back of the captain’s chair, casting a lengthening penumbra over Von Robles’ face. “And what of the two intruders? If they were clever enough to destroy our electronics, who is to say what else they might have uncovered?”
This disturbing notion was like an overdue bill—something Von Robles just did not want to think about. “Perhaps they were killed in their fall overboard; the propellers would have surely finished them.”
Raimund snarled like a panther in Von Robles’ ear. “I would have made sure!”
“Sir!”
Both men looked up when the speaker mounted in the corner of the cabin came to life.
Von Robles pressed the intercom button by his left hand. “Yes, Gregor?”
“Sir, we are picking up intermittent traffic on the correct frequency,” the technician’s voice crackled.
Von Robles pressed the button again. “The supply ship?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Location?”
“Sorry, sir. Our satellite location systems are still not operational. We are blind as a bat until we get a visual sighting.”
“But we must be close, otherwise we could not pick up their messages, correct?”
“Yes, sir, that is correct. They are tracking us. From what little I can pick up, they are still aware of our situation and would like us to stop all engines.”
Raimund leaned over again. “This makes sense.”
Von Robles held his finger on the button. “Can they not broadcast their location so we may close our distance?”
“They will not do that, sir. These radio frequencies are not on a secure band.”
“But they are aware that this is an emergency?”
The voice over the speaker was tentative. “I have repeatedly informed them of our problem. They understand, but they still refuse to divulge their coordinates over the radio.”
Von Robles shifted his weight in the chair before speaking to the crewman at the controls. “Stop all engines!”
A lethal silence filled the cabin as the drone of the malfunctioning engines came to a halt.
“How long before they are able to reach us, Gregor?”
“Perhaps half an hour, sir.”
Von Robles drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Keep me informed of any new transmissions.”
“Yes, sir.”
Raimund walked over to the window and stared out at the peaceful indigo water. A graceful white bird darted beak-first into the waves and plucked a small silver fish out of the sea. He wondered how the bird could do that. He also wondered what the fish might be thinking as it was being swallowed whole. Some people go through life as birds, some as fish. Raimund was grateful for his wings.
“What is troubling you so, my friend?” Von Robles asked, sensing the big man’s sudden introspective change of attitude.
Raimund ran his finger along the bolts holding the window in its frame. There was no question his finger would come away clean. The ship was immaculate. He thought about Rachel. “I still yearn for dry land and the simple things I used to take for granted.”
Von Robles stood up and walked over to the window. This wasn’t a conversation he thought the crewmen needed to hear. He spoke softly so only the big man would hear him. “I know it has been difficult for you, my friend. You know how much I am indebted to you for your sacrifice.”
The ocean looked so serene, yet, beneath its surface, an everyday struggle for life and death ensued.
Raimund shook his head. “It will only get more difficult for Rachel out here. Those of us who have experienced civilization can live with our memories, but now that she has had a taste, she will want more.”
Von Robles looked up at the giant’s craggy face. “So what are you saying to me?”
Raimund drew in a deep breath. “I believe,” he said, his eyes looking out to a vague point somewhere off in the distance, “that we should take a long, objective look at what the future holds in store for us.”
“But we have made the only arrangement we could.”
Raimund leaned against the window. “That was five years ago, and I believe that we have more than lived up to our part of the bargain.”
Von Robles held his hand up to the light, admiring the suppleness of his skin. This was not something he was willing to give up. “I cannot … I will not go home.”
The big man held his arms open to the expanse of the ocean. “And your daughter cannot survive out here. Two years ago, you would have never allowed the events of last night to happen. You viewed the intruders as a form of entertainment, a diversion from the monotony. I feel this is the real reason you let me continue to sleep. I would have spoiled your fun too soon.”
Von Robles flicked away a bit of dirt from under one of his nails as he considered what he was hearing.
“The crew has become lax and out of shape, Wolfgar,” Raimund continued. “Your daughter will only become more restless as the days stretch into months and the months into years. While this arrangement might be beneficial to you, I believe you have some serious decisions to make concerning Rachel.”
“And just what would you suggest I do?”
The big man raised a caterpillar-like eyebrow. “You are asking for my honest opinion?”
Von Robles drew in a deep breath. “Well, you have been uncharacteristically talkative this far. Why should I stop you now?”
Raimund looked back out the window. In the distance he thought he might have glimpsed a ship approaching across the rolling horizon. “I think you should speak with Rachel and, if she chooses to leave on the supply ship, she should be free to do so.”
Von Robles turned to his bodyguard. “What makes you think she could survive on land?”
Raimund shot Von Robles a condescending glare. “She would have the wealth most people only dream of. If you are truly worried about her happiness, you are only fooling yourself. Her only chance for real happiness is on dry land.”
“But what makes you think they will allow her...”
“They only care about you, Wolfgar. You speak for all of us. You are the only one they made the arrangement with.”
“And would you leave too?”
Raimund shook his head. “No, of course not. My place is here.”
Von Robles stared out at the sea. It looked endless. It was endless. “And what of the crew? Who else feels this way?”
Raimund sneered. “The crew? They are just eight ordinary men. I would stay here and whip them back into shape.”
The captain retook his seat. “This is the first time that you have expressed these issues to me. Why are you saying these things now?”
Raimund leaned backward against the control panel, “Rachel has tasted reality and the supply ships are few and far between. While you spend your nights in the laboratory, I listen to your daughter crying herself to sleep. She deserves more than this. Send her ashore! She is not like you!”
Von Robles smirked. “She is more like me than you will ever know, my friend, but I will consider your proposal in earnest.”
The bodyguard nodded. “Then, that is all I can ask.”
“One last question...” Von Robles insisted.
Raimund was now positive he had seen the ship out there. “Yes?”
“Are you in love with my daughter?”
The giant never gave his employer an answer. He just turned and quietly left the bridge.
Twenty Four
Cal squeezed the iron bars as if by some psycho-kinetic miracle they would succumb to his will and bend to the sheer power of his mind. It wasn’t working. The tattoos on his arms bulged in protest. All he was doing was getting a splitting headache.
Artie sat on the bunk at the rear of the cramped eight-by-eight cell with his knees pulled up to his chest and his head resting on his forearms. “What’s the matter, Samson? Just get your hair cut?”
Cal grimaced. “I’m open to suggestions if you’ve got any better ideas, funny boy!”
Artie lifted his head. “What is it about this damned ship that makes everybody wanna call me ‘boy?’”
Mackey spun around and leaned against the whitewashed bars. “It must be that baby face of yours.”
Cal had never smoked a lick in his life, but, if there was such a thing as the perfect time to light up a coffin nail, this was it. This situation was making the desperation and anxiety get to him. He had to focus … had to get his mind straight. He had no medication with him. He would have to do this all on his own. The ocean was as far as you could get from the desert, but being caged like an animal was the same everywhere.”
