Orchid Beach hb-1

by Stuart Woods

  “That’s got to be the entrance to their marina,” Jackson said, pointing at an inlet. “There’s no marker for it, but it can’t be anything else, given the location of the airport.”

  “Let’s have a look at it,” Holly said. “Turn in there, Ham, and go slow.”

  Ham throttled back nearly to idle and turned into the inlet.

  “Water looks pretty deep here,” Jackson said.

  Holly pointed to a group of masts rising above the low trees. “Got some pretty big boats in here, huh?”

  “One of them has a satellite dish,” Ham said, pointing. “Probably a satphone. When we’re around this bend, we ought to be able to see the marina.”

  As they were starting around the bend in the inlet, another boat suddenly appeared, going in the opposite direction. It was an open boat of about twenty-five feet, and a large spotlight was mounted on a thick mast next to a couple of radio antennae and a radar housing. A loudspeaker blasted across the water.

  “Stop,” a metallic voice said.

  Ham took the whaler out of gear and drifted. The larger boat came alongside, carrying two uniformed security guards. They were both wearing sidearms, and the one who wasn’t driving was carrying an assault rifle.

  “This is private property,” the rifle bearer said, looking them over. “Turn your boat around.” He wasn’t actually pointing the weapon at them, but he appeared to be ready to do so.

  “Sorry,” Ham called out. “What is this place?”

  “I told you, pal, it’s private property,” the man replied. “Now turn that thing around or I’ll sink it for you.”

  “Isn’t this part of the intracoastal waterway?” Jackson asked. “Isn’t this a public right of way?”

  The man put down the assault rifle, picked up a boat hook, extended it to its full length and used it to hook the bow cleat on the whaler. “Okay,” he said to his companion. The man gunned the engine, spinning the whaler around, nearly dumping its occupants overboard.

  Ham put the engine into forward gear to ease the strain on the cleat, but they were being towed at a good ten knots, and water from the bigger boat’s wake was coming over the bows of the whaler in rhythmic waves, soaking its three passengers. When they were back in the river, the guard released the whaler, and the boat’s driver spun his craft around and headed back into the inlet at high speed, creating a wake that nearly swamped the whaler.

  “You son of a bitch!” Ham yelled.

  Holly was bailing water out of the whaler. “You think maybe we’re not welcome in there?”

  “Could be,” Jackson said.

  “I’d like to go back in there with a shotgun,” Ham said.

  “Now, Ham, don’t come over all military on me,” Holly said. “They just overreacted to our presence.”

  Ham headed back toward Egret Island at high speed, the wind drying their clothes. When they were alongside the dock, he leapt out and headed for the house, Holly chasing him.

  “What are you doing?” she yelled after him.

  “I’m going to call Barney Noble and tell him what I think of his son-of-a-bitch security guards!” he yelled over his shoulder.

  She caught up with him as he was lifting the phone. “Ham, don’t do that, please.”

  “And why the hell not?”

  “I don’t want Barney to think we were snooping around Palmetto Gardens.”

  “Well, that’s what we were doing, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I don’t want Barney to know it. I’m interested in that place, but I’ve got to move carefully. I’ve got an interview with the city council coming up, and I don’t want any complaints lodged.”

  Ham slammed down the phone. “Well, shit.”

  “Why don’t you have a beer and get your blood pressure down, Ham? I don’t want you stroking out on me.”

  Ham went into the kitchen, found a bottle of bourbon and poured himself a double over ice. “You want one?” he asked Holly and Jackson, who had caught up with them.

  “It’s a little early for me,” Holly said. “A little early for you, too, come to that.”

  “That place is like a goddamned foreign military base, right here on American soil,” Ham said. He tossed back half the bourbon. “And it burns my ass.”

  “Ham, I’m going to look into it, all right? But I don’t want to lose my job while I’m at it.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so goddamned worried about your job,” Ham said. “You’re retired military; you’ve got a pension.” He sank the rest of the bourbon but didn’t pour another.

  “I like my job,” Holly said, “and I haven’t gotten to the time of my life when all I want to do is fish and play golf.”

  Ham was becoming calmer, now. “Yeah, I guess I can understand that.”

  “Also, I’d like to find out who killed Chet Marley and Hank Doherty, and my chances are a lot better if I’m running the police department.”

  “I’m sorry, Holly,” he said, putting an arm around her. “I’m just not used to being pushed around.”

  “I don’t know why not,” Holly said, laughing. “That’s all the army did for the past thirty years, was push you around.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, sweetie,” Ham said, “I did a lot of pushing myself.”

  “Yeah, I guess you did, Ham.”

  “I’m going to watch the game,” he said. “Anybody want to join me?”

  “Not me,” Holly said. “I’m going to sit out back for a while and watch the boats go by.”

  “I’ll join you,” Jackson said.

  “You don’t want to watch the game with me?” Ham asked.

  “She’s prettier than you are,” Jackson said, nodding at Holly. “I’d rather watch her.” He took her hand and led her outside.

  They took off their shoes, sat down on the dock and let their feet dangle in the water.

  “Well,” Jackson said, “that’s my introduction to Palmetto Gardens, and I didn’t like it much.”

  “Yeah, those folks have got way too much security. Barney Noble says the members feel better with the overkill, but it doesn’t make any sense to me. The members are supposed to be corporate CEO types, not banana republic dictators.”

  “That airplane had a foreign registration number,” Jackson said.

  “What country?”

  “I don’t know, and I can’t remember the letters, but all U.S. aircraft have registration numbers starting with N.”

  “Noble told me that they had some sort of special customs and immigrations deal, where their members can fly in directly from any foreign airport.”

  “That’s unusual,” Jackson said. “Normally, when an aircraft enters the U.S. from another country, it has to land at a port of entry—an international airport—where the airplane is subject to search and the crew’s and passengers’ documents are examined. That’s what I’ve had to do when I fly back from the Bahamas. I land at Fort Pierce, clear customs and immigration, then fly to Orchid airport.”

  “You fly?”

  “I’ve got a license, but I don’t own an airplane. I belong to a flying club out at the airport, and I can rent their machines.”

  “Why don’t we go have a look at Palmetto Gardens from the air?”

  “You think they’ll shoot us down?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  CHAPTER

  32

  J ackson used a card with a magnetic strip to open the security gate at Orchid Beach Airport. This was Holly’s third trip there, but now they drove past the terminal building with its tower and stopped a quarter of a mile down the runway at a low, concrete-block building with a windsock on top. A number of light aircraft were parked outside. Jackson led the way in.

  “Hey, Doris,” he said to the woman behind the high desk. “Is 123 Tango Foxtrot available for a couple of hours?”

  “You’re in luck, Jackson, we had a cancellation.” She put the keys and a printed document on the desk for him to sign.

  “Doris, this is Holly Barker, our
new chief of police.”

  “Acting chief,” Holly corrected.

  “Well, hey there, honey,” Doris said, standing up and offering her hand. She was a buxom woman, pushing fifty, in tight pants with a pile of peroxided hair on her head. “Welcome to Orchid. I was real sorry to hear about Chief Marley’s death. Anything new on that?”

  “Nothing so far, but we’re working on it,” Holly said.

  “He was a nice man. Say, can I interest you in some flying lessons?”

  “You might be able to a little further down the road, when I get my feet on the ground,” Holly replied.

  “We’re about getting your feet off the ground,” Doris said.

  Holly laughed and looked over Jackson’s shoulder.

  “This is a document,” he said, “which commits my entire net worth to the flying club if I bend the airplane, and makes Doris my sole heir if I kill myself in it.”

  Doris laughed. “How else can I ever retire?” she asked. “The way Jackson flies, it’s only a matter of time.”

  “I’m beginning to reconsider this trip,” Holly said.

  “Oh, he’ll get you back alive, honey,” Doris said. “I taught him all he knows about flying.”

  “And most of what I know about life,” Jackson laughed. He picked up the keys and a clipboard. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Holly followed him outside to a yellow-and-white airplane. “I’ve never been up in one of these,” she said.

  “A Cessna?”

  “In anything smaller than one of Delta’s jets, except for army helicopters.”

  “This is a Cessna 172, the most popular airplane ever built,” Jackson said. “Come on, we’ll preflight her together.”

  She followed him around the airplane while he wiggled things, peered into holes and checked the oil and fuel. “How much experience have you had at this?” she asked.

  “I’ve got nearly five hundred hours,” he replied. “I’m working on my instrument rating right now, and I ought to have that soon, then maybe I’ll buy a good used airplane.”

  “Five hundred hours sounds like a lot,” she said, seeking reassurance.

  “Not really. A couple of thousand is more like a lot.” He helped her into the airplane and showed her how the seat belt worked.

  “Have you ever carried a passenger?”

  “Oh, sure. The airplane is a great seduction tool: by the time you get them back down, they’re so grateful to still be alive, they just fall right into bed with you.”

  “Let’s see if it works,” Holly said.

  Jackson climbed into the little airplane, switched on the ignition, pumped something, and turned the key and the engine started. He picked up a checklist from the floor and talked himself through it, flipping switches and adjusting controls; then he handed Holly a headset and showed her how to wear it. Five minutes later, they had been cleared for takeoff and were rolling down the runway. The airport was on the mainland, and as they climbed they could see the barrier island stretched out before them a few miles away. Jackson turned right, headed for the middle of the island, and when he reached it, turned north, flying at two thousand feet.

  “How low can we fly?” Holly asked, hearing her own voice clearly over the headset.

  “A thousand feet AGL—that’s above ground level—in built-up areas. Since Orchid is about twelve feet above sea level, that means about a thousand feet.” He pulled back the throttle and began a descent. “There’s Palmetto Gardens up ahead,” he said, pointing. “See the golf courses?”

  “Got it,” Holly said.

  “Jesus, look at the length of that runway,” he said, pointing at the airfield.

  “Barney said it was six thousand feet.”

  “That’s longer than the Orchid airport. We’re at a thousand feet, now.”

  Holly looked around. “It runs from A1A to the river,” she said, “and a long way north and south. It’s a lot bigger than I thought.”

  Jackson circled over the development. “Huge houses,” he said. “They must be on at least five acres each.” A foursome of golfers was looking up at the airplane.

  “Uh-oh,” Holly said, pointing out her side.

  Jackson turned the airplane in that direction, dipping a wing. A white Range Rover had stopped and the driver had gotten out and was looking up at them. He reached into the vehicle and came out with a pair of binoculars. “Okay, let’s see if he shoots at us,” Jackson laughed.

  “Are we invading some kind of private airspace?” Holly asked.

  “Of course not. They may have themselves an exclusive club down there, but up here belongs to everybody.”

  “Fly on north, and let’s get away from that security guard. Look, that’s a hell of a big greenhouse. They must grow a lot of their own plants.”

  “Looks like they grow their own vegetables, too,” Jackson said. “And there are some stables and a riding ring.” He pointed. “What do you suppose that is?”

  Holly followed his finger and found a two-story building with a forest of antennae on its roof. “Looks like a NASA substation,” she said. “I count four dishes of varying sizes and there are at least a dozen other kinds of antennas. And look at that giant dish in back of the building. That thing must have a diameter of at least fifteen feet.”

  “I visited CNN headquarters in Atlanta, once,” Jackson said. “They had dishes like that.”

  “Okay, we’re at the northern extremity; let’s turn and fly south again,” Holly said.

  Jackson turned the airplane and headed back for the golf courses, which were at the center of the development. The Range Rover was on the move again, headed toward the airport. “There’s the runway up ahead,” he said. “Let’s do a touch-and-go.”

  “Are you nuts?” Holly demanded.

  “Aw come on, what can they do about it? You think they’ve got antiaircraft missiles?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Holly said.

  He had the nose of the airplane down, now, and the runway loomed large in the windshield. The word PRIVATE had been painted in huge letters in the middle of the asphalt.

  “Jesus,” Holly said. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “Nothing to it,” Jackson said as they crossed the threshold. The wheels of the little airplane touched down softly.

  “Oh, shit!” Holly yelled, pointing ahead. A white Range Rover had pulled onto the middle of the runway and had stopped. A man in a uniform was standing beside it with his hands up, motioning them to stop.

  Jackson pushed the throttle to the firewall and the airplane accelerated. The Range Rover seemed to be rushing toward them. He held the airplane on the ground until it picked up speed, then yanked back on the yoke.

  Holly had just enough time to see the security guard throw himself to the ground before she covered her eyes. Jackson banked sharply to the right, and she looked back over her shoulder to see another Range Rover arrive and Barney Noble get out. “Oh, shit, it’s Barney! I hope he didn’t recognize me!”

  Jackson was laughing maniacally. “Not a chance!” he yelled. He turned left and headed for the beach side of the island. He tuned in a radio frequency, picked up a microphone and said, “Orchid Flying Club, November 123 Tango Foxtrot.”

  “This is Orchid,” a husky female voice replied.

  “Doris, you might get a phone call this afternoon, asking about who’s flying the airplane.”

  “Tango Foxtrot, have you been buzzing the nude beach again?”

  “Not yet. Just tell anybody who calls that the airplane was stolen by some joyrider.”

  “That ain’t far off the truth,” Doris said. “You bring that thing back in one piece.”

  “Over and out,” Jackson said. “Boy, that was fun. Now let’s buzz the nude beach.”

  “What nude beach?” Holly asked.

  “Oh, I forgot, the police aren’t supposed to know about that,” he laughed. He turned out over the water, then descended another five hundred feet. “We can legally fly lower over the water.
Here come the naked people!”

  Holly looked out and saw a couple of dozen people disporting themselves on the sand and in the surf. They were, indeed, naked. “What on earth is a place like Orchid doing with a nude beach?” Holly asked as they whizzed past the bathers, who were grabbing for towels and making obscene gestures.

  “Well, it’s not exactly an official nude beach,” Jackson said. “There are just a few adjoining property owners who have a few friends over now and then.”

  “Sounds like you’re well acquainted with the spot,” Holly said.

  “One hears things,” Jackson said, grinning. “Don’t worry, they’re outside the city limits, so you won’t have to arrest them. Look, there’s my place. Uh-oh, what’s that?” He was pointing to the parking area outside his house.

  “Looks like a pickup truck,” Holly said. “A white one.”

  “And somebody getting out,” Jackson said. He banked out over the water and turned back toward the house.

  “What’s that flashing light on your roof?” Holly asked.

  “That’s the strobe attached to my burglar alarm,” Jackson said. “It means that whoever that was has broken into the house. Hang on. The tide’s out, so I’m going to put this thing down on the beach.” He made another turn and lined up for landing.

  Holly groaned and braced herself against the instrument panel. The wet sand was rushing at them.

  CHAPTER

  33

  J ackson set the little airplane down on the sand, cut the engine and simultaneously stood on the brakes. The airplane ground to a halt on the firm beach. “Come on,” he yelled, hopping out of the airplane. He sprinted across the beach toward the house. As they approached, the electronic siren of the burglar alarm became louder.

  Holly grabbed her handbag and followed. “Jackson, stop!”

  He kept running, but he had reached dry, soft sand now, and that slowed him down.

  Holly used her last few yards of hard sand to catch up. “Stop, goddamnit!” she hollered.

  Jackson plowed on.

  Holly slung the strap of her bag over her head and tackled Jackson, bringing him down. “Hold it right here!” she yelled.