Judd Kemp prepared for a series of legal battles. The first degree murder conviction of Errol Malay would help … immensely.
* * *
Retracing one’s steps through the growing jungle wasn’t easy, but Frank made it back to the village in under six hours. He was exhausted and scratched or cut in more places on his body than he could see or touch. Dan Crawford came to visit him in their pro tem infirmary.
“You look like you lost a fight with a bobcat,” Crawford said.
“Lotta scratchy shit out there in the jungle,” Frank said.
“I trust you got Guzman.”
“He is now a man of extinction.”
“Still want that police chief’s job? You just earned yourself a load of respect points among the inmates.”
“What do you know about the weather?”
“The weather? We get satellite cable forecasts, why?”
“Anything big brewing?”
“Like what? A blizzard?”
“The sky the past few days has been threatening. A big storm, maybe. Maybe something bigger.”
“What are you getting at?” Crawford asked.
“You know that old seaman’s adage: ‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight; red sky at dawn, sailor be warned?’”
“Yeah, I’ve heard it.”
“Well, I’m looking for a red sky at dawn.”
“To do what? Iron man surfing?”
“Forget it for now,” Frank said. “Can you pass me that orange juice?”
“Sure. You want the screwdriver version?”
“You’re shitting me. Where’d you get vodka?”
“The pharmacy.”
“Jeez, what kind of cruel, horrible, tortuous prison is this place?”
* * *
The evidence of the video got Errol Malay convicted of the capital crime of first degree murder, among other offenses. His sentence was, of course, Prescott Island, forever. Trouble was, all this legal haranguing had taken weeks and Judd Kemp was unable to rescue Frank until the real murderer had been caught and tried.
Judd immediately requisitioned a Class A helicopter and a team of LEOs and legal specialists to retrieve Frank Dugan from the Resort. The group wouldn’t set out for three days, the time needed to assemble the team and acquire transportation.
Judd Kemp was hopeful, but dread kept creeping into his wishful thoughts. If Frank was dead, he might kill Malay himself, especially if he could borrow the use of those two overhead cranes at the Seaside Marina.
* * *
Judd Kemp contacted Marty Dimino and Charly Stone to relay the good news about Frank’s overturned conviction. They, of course, were beyond elated and well into near-terminal ecstasy. He cut their conversation short because his rotary wing ride was warming on the Central Division’s heliport on Broadway. In less than an hour he’d be landing on a cruiser at Prescott Island and enlisting the help of the U. S. Navy guardians there to find Frank Dugan. They would open the locks on the security pier and pass him through to the waiting ‘copter.
Judd’s heart pounded with anticipation as he boarded the Sikorsky SH-60 Seahawk, capable of over 160 MPH. The crewmen strapped Judd in, gave him a headset, and lifted off.
Words Frank had said to him echoed in Judd’s head.
“I’ll be okay. God didn’t spend all His time nurturing me
to see me die like a mad dog on a prison island.”
Judd hoped that was the gospel truth.
* * *
The pre-dawn surf was light with small waves leap-frogging over each other making barely-audible splashes. Frank sat in the sand and watched the eastern horizon. The top of the sun revealed only a bright sliver as it rose above the far-away line where ocean met sky.
“Sunrise is a beautiful time,” Dan Crawford said as he padded up behind Frank. “It symbolizes a beginning; a new day to serve the Lord and accomplish good things.”
“I agree,” Frank said. “It’s particularly beautiful this morning.”
“Why is that?”
“Look at the sky out there.”
“I see it. So what’s special about it?”
“It’s red.”
“You want bad weather?”
“I do,” Frank said and rose. “Today, I’m going on my journey.”
“What does that mean?” Dan asked and moved in front of Frank to face him.
“It means I’m leaving this island.”
“How?”
“I’m going to swim away.”
“Frank, you know you can’t do that. Those sharks will kill you before you clear fifty yards.”
“I know things that you don’t about sharks.”
“You sound like a crazy man. That battle with Guzman has affected your mind. Listen to me—”
“You listen to me. I’m not crazy. Sharks don’t bother with me. I know that sounds nuts, but it’s true, and I’ve encountered them more than once without a scratch.”
Dan looked at the sand and shook his head.
“How do you think I killed Guzman by dragging him into the sharks without them killing me as well?”
“Luck,” Dan said with a shrug.
“Luck, my Aunt Fanny. It’s the strangest thing anyone’s ever heard of.”
“So let’s say you can avoid being dinner for the sharks, then what? You figure you can make it to Monterey?
“I don’t need to swim it to the mainland, only to a place five miles from here.”
“Then what?”
“You ask too many questions. Trust that I have a plan.”
Frank’s plan depended on the navy’s heavy reliance on the efficacy of the shark deterrent more than the use of sweeping patrol boats with armed crews. He believed he could handle the sharks. Military men laying down automatic gunfire, not so much.
“Swimming five miles is a crazy plan to begin with. After that, I can’t imagine …”
“But I do imagine, Dan.”
“I never dreamed I could like a cop, but after you walked into Pelican Bay and we talked, I saw a man who wasn’t the adversary I’d made him to be. You’ve given us a place we can endure. Pelican Bay was not endurable. For that, I’ll always be thankful to you.”
“And now I’m going to try to escape the inescapable place I practically invented.”
“You won’t escape. And I’ll miss my friend who talks of friendly sharks and marathon swims.”
“I’m not saying I couldn’t use a few prayers, pastor. If I make it, I’ll send you a message in something they don’t check in your weekly supplies.”
“What are you talking about? They check everything that comes here.”
“Not this, they won’t.”
Crawford waved off Frank’s comments as the ravings of a crazy man.
“When are you planning to leave?”
Frank removed his tee shirt and gave Dan a bear hug.
“Now,” Frank said and quietly slipped into the surf.
The sky was now vivid red mixed with deep gray ominous clouds. Lightning bolts slashed the sky, too far away to make their thunder heard.
Frank felt the storm of the century was brewing.
It was coming to meet a lone man who could swim with sharks.
Chapter 46
The big Sikorsky dropped onto the deck of the USS Cortez, an Austin Class joint command ship refitted for the purpose of oversight at Prescott Island. The helicopter rolled and yawed in the powerful wind churning up spray from the white-capped sea. Judd Kemp bolted from the aircraft as soon as the wheels hit the deck and hurried for the bridge with an escort of two shore patrol sailors. The helicopter had radioed ahead and stated the purpose for the visit, but Judd wanted to head up the reception group who would be stationed at the ocean side of the security pier. He wanted to be the first face Frank would see as he stepped from captivity to freedom.
Judd and the sailors entered the bridge.
“Where are we in finding Frank Dugan?” Judd asked the exec officer of the Cortez.
/> “We are nowhere,” the commander said. “No one can find him.”
“The village isn’t that big, commander. Don’t they have a PA system?”
“They do. We’re trying to locate one of the leaders on the island.”
The radio sputtered and a scratchy voice said, “We’ve got a man here named Crawford. He has information on the lost inmate.”
The commander keyed his mike.
“Bring him onto the pier and escort him to our side,” the commander said and looked at Judd. “We need to go below to the pier gate.”
By the time Judd and the commander arrived at the gate, Dan Crawford was on the other side of the locked entrance, cuffed hands and ankles. Two armed SPs stood nearby.
“Let the inmate through,” the commander said and the electronic gate opened to allow Crawford passage.
“Are you Mr. Crawford?” the commander asked.
“I am Reverend Crawford,” Dan said.
“What can you tell us about Frank Dugan?” Judd asked.
“Not much, I’m afraid, sirs. He went into the jungle to settle an issue with another inmate. Man named Rico Guzman. Neither man has come out. Been fifteen days now.”
“Any chance of getting a search party together to find him?” the commander said.
“No chance, sir,” Crawford said. “The men sent here have no obligation to do any dangerous outside work. I can barely get them to do the things we need to do to keep the place livable. And they’re not fond of going into that thick, bug-infested jungle.”
“What do you want to do, detective?” the commander asked.
“Can I stay here until we get some answers?” Judd said.
“Aye, sir. We’ll set you up in my quarters. You don’t want to go anywhere in this weather.”
Judd hung his head and trudged back toward the Cortez while Crawford was shuffled back onto the pier and locked out from the seaside gate. He watched as Crawford short-stepped his way down the long pier, his body blown from side to side in the wind. He watched until they unshackled the reverend and released him onto the beach. The only contact he had to Frank was gone and had offered little about Frank’s whereabouts. Judd’s plans to rescue his friend lay dashed. Maybe they could find Frank. Maybe he’d stroll back into the village, alive and the victor of his “issue” with Guzman.
Maybe …
* * *
Dan Crawford had no idea why these visitors from California wanted to find Frank Dugan, but he wasn’t about to rat him out so they could fish him out of the ocean and return him where he didn’t want to be. He was terrified of what Frank was undertaking, but he respected his wishes to make a run for it. At least he would die a free man. Now he had to ask God to forgive him for lying to those men who wanted Frank for some unknown reason.
He looked to the north where Frank had set his course. Where he had watched his strong strokes ever-pulling the man away from the land. He had watched until he could no longer see his friend, but continued to gaze, imagining his progress. Dan watched until the storm gusted so hard that sand tore at his body and stung his narrowed eyelids.
Crawford prayed for the cop he had come to care about. He hoped one day Frank would shed his pent up anger and find a true home for his chaotic life and be at peace.
Red sky at dawn … sailor be warned ...
Crawford figured that would go triple for a lone swimmer going against all the odds.
* * *
Frank felt the brush-bys of the sharks as he stroked his way toward the volcanic island. He felt they came instinctively out of curiosity, or for their endless search for food, but maybe to just say hello to a creature they had a strange kinship with. Whatever their reasons, they came and went, seemingly unaware or unconcerned about the heavy chop that now comprised the building waves.
As Frank reached what he judged to be the halfway point, his limbs burned from the heavy exertion. He turned onto his back and performed the “elementary backstroke” he’d learned in the Boy Scouts. It was restful and recuperative for his weary muscles. The kinder summer water soothed the aching like a warm shower, and was certainly a dramatic contrast to the cold Pacific he’d often experienced in his Marine training in the October waters off San Diego.
The storm was threatening to rage and the atmosphere wielded an eerie pressure that Frank felt in his ears. He had to get back to swimming, and swimming as fast and as steady as he could bear.
Another mile slipped under him and he thought he was either hallucinating or he could actually see the volcanic ridges of his destination.
Half a mile more. The rain was pelting him like water bullets, then worsened by gusting winds to a blinding spray. Exhaustion crept in. Had he come this far to now surrender to the depths? Each stroke was painful. He hadn’t judged how difficult the swim would be in such adverse weather conditions. The storm he desperately needed was going to kill him before he could put it to good use. His thoughts ebbed in and out, then something struck him from behind. Fear rippled through his exhausted body. Maybe the sharks had found a feature appetizing about him after all. Maybe he’d been wrong the whole time about his immunity from their killer instincts. Again, a ramming came from beneath his back that nearly lifted him out of the water. He rolled over to see the attacker that would be taking his life.
It was a dolphin.
* * *
God had paid him a visit, Frank thought, in the form of a pod of dolphins that pushed and nudged his spent body into the shallows of the lagoon where the Esperanza lay grounded. A few crickety chatters later and they were gone.
Frank slogged onto the land and gazed at the heeled over hull of his beautiful sailboat. The storm now raised the curtain on its Act II surprise: steady torrential rain. Lots of it, pouring from the heavens like the world’s largest waterfall. The Esperanza rose from her heeled-over position and soon rolled from side to side, and for moments appeared to be fighting to float upright. She was free of the bottom and Frank had to get to her now. Timing was everything.
The lagoon swim to the boat was a cakewalk compared to what he’d experienced in the open ocean, but he was nearly spent. He was near the finish line and he now needed a sprinter’s “kick” to make it to the imaginary tape that was the swim deck of the drifting sailboat. He summoned the last drop of his strength to stroke the final few yards and pull himself onto the narrow deck on the stern. He then dragged his numb body over the transom onto the aft deck. He managed to stand, but his legs shook with weakness. The erratic motion of the wind-blown sloop twice dropped him to his knees as his uncertain balance was compromised with each roll of the boat.
After a fierce struggle, Frank managed to unfurl and set the jib and felt it surge and fill, its sheets tugging at the mast and his hands as the Esperanza pitched and yawed her way into the deeper water. He dared not unfurl the mainsail for fear it would be ripped from the mast in the typhoon wind, but the jib was giving the boat ample headway. The Esperanza, after months of lying embedded in the mud of the lagoon, and Frank, after captivity on a prison island, were both sailing free again.
Frank brought her about and sailed her into the ocean. He turned her into the wind and dropped the jib and furled it. He set the bow anchor and went below to wait out the storm, which soon abated and turned northwest.
Later that night, weather permitting, he would set a course for Marina del Rey. Tonight he’d raid the galley, eat a can of beef stew, and drink a couple of St. Pauli Girls.
Tomorrow he would see Captain James Fiske and ask for asylum while he hunted down Mr. Errol Malay. Tomorrow he would head the Esperanza toward freedom and a new chance to find vindication. He was a detective. He needed to solve his own predicament.
Frank smiled as he thought of the name of his boat, Esperanza. It was the Spanish word for hope.
Chapter 47
The Esperanza sailed into the marina late at night and tied up at the visitors’ dock. Frank waited until daybreak to walk down the quay and approach the door of the harbormaster’
s office. He peered inside but saw no one.
“What can we do for you, young feller?” a familiar voice said from Frank’s back.
Frank turned to the voice.
“Well, great Caesar’s ghost,” Fiske said. “Frank Dugan.”
“Can we talk inside?” Frank asked.
“Sure, sure. Get yourself in there.”
They entered the office and Fiske locked the door and hung the “Out to Lunch” sign.
“I need to buy a little time to get to a man named Errol Malay,” Frank said.
“Errol Malay’s in jail.”
“What do you mean? He got arrested? For what?”
“For murder. The one everyone was certain you did. Everyone but me, that is.”
Frank collapsed into Fiske’s desk chair.
“Let me get this straight,” Frank said and placed his palms flat on the desk. “Malay finally got found out about Ernie Gaither’s murder and how he framed me for the crime.”
“That’d be the Reader’s Digest version, yeah.”
“When was someone going to tell me about this?”
“Already have…I thought. Feller named Kemp was supposed to fly out and get you back to civilization. Saw it on the news yesterday.”
“Oh, shit. Now he’s looking all over Prescott Island for me and I’m sitting here.”
“Well, why didn’t he run into you on the island?”
“Captain, that’s such a long story I don’t believe either of us will live long enough to fully tell it. Here’s the short version. I swam to the island where the Esperanza was aground and the storm last night got her up so I could sail here.”
“Christ knows, that’s short enough, but I get the gist.”
“I need to contact the police in San Diego. I’m a little short on cash. May I use your phone?”
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 24
