I knew that smell. In the early eighties, while stationed together in Okinawa, Japan, Rusty and I had taken a week’s leave and visited Sumatra. A huge flower grows there called a titan arum. The petals can grow up to ten feet long, and it emits an odor unlike any other flower. Nothing in this world comes close to the smell of a corpse flower. Except of course, a decomposing human corpse. Or maybe more than one decomposing human corpse.
As we neared the stern, Rusty and I stood ready by the gunwale. Pescador came down the side deck, still barking and wagging his tail excitedly, like he sometimes did when everyone had been away from the island for a while and he was left alone.
Linda came down the ladder and joined us. “I told Jimmy to stay aboard with Kim,” she said. “They’ll move off to the side once we board. It might not be safe. Someone on board that yacht is dead.”
Like a light switch, Pescador’s demeanor changed when he caught scent of the smell. Up on the foredeck, he’d been out of the wind blowing over the yacht as I’d backed toward its stern. He suddenly stopped barking, the hair bristling on the back of his neck and shoulders. A low rumble emanated from deep in his chest.
Kim’s words from Rufus rang in my ear, “He said the vial was for later, while we were out on the boat.”
Taking the vial from my pocket, I quickly removed the cap and dabbed some on the front of my shirt. Covering my face with my shirt, I inhaled deeply, trusting in the old Jamaican mystic. The liquid in the vial smelled of frangipani and bananas for a moment, then suddenly the scent disappeared.
When I took the shirt away from my face, the disgusting odor from the boat was gone, too. I handed the vial to Linda first. “Just wet your shirt tail with this and smell it,” I said.
The massive swim platform of the yacht was awash. Water lapped at the second step on either side of a large hatch, inside which an inflatable boat or jet-ski was probably stored below the sun pad. Still several feet away, Pescador suddenly leaped the gunwale, landing in the water with a big splash. I started to yell at him, worried he might be crushed between the two boats, but his large webbed paws propelled him across the remaining few feet quickly, his big tail acting as a rudder. In seconds, he was already at the steps of the yacht.
“She’s riding low, Jesse,” Rusty said, stating the obvious. “We better be careful, in case she rolls or starts to go down.”
I was first over the gunwale, splashing onto the swim platform with water up to my mid-calf. Drawing my Sig, I ratcheted a round into the chamber and started up the port-side steps to the sundeck, following Pescador.
As I reached the sundeck, what I saw brought my senses and instincts to full alert. Dried, congealed blood was all over the sundeck and the huge padded lounge area. It had dripped down the sides of the elevated pad, pooling in the cracks of the personal watercraft hatch and on the polished mahogany deck itself. But there was no body.
Pescador was at the large smoked-glass door, standing on his hind legs and scratching at the handle with abandon. “Dear Lord,” Linda said, reaching me on the sundeck. “What in hell happened here?”
Careful not to step in blood, which was difficult, I made my way to Pescador, who’d not bothered avoiding the blood and was leaving bloody paw prints and streaks on the glass door. His barking and low growl were gone. Now, he was nearly whimpering, anxious to get inside.
“Down, Pescador. Let me go first.”
He seemed to calm a little and sat down by the door. I slid it open quickly, rushing through with my Sig leading the way and sweeping the interior. Pescador flashed past me, charging through the elegantly appointed, but totally trashed salon area, leaping over upturned chairs and seat cushions.
“Pescador, no!” I shouted after him, but he’d disappeared beyond a large-screen TV which separated the salon from the pilothouse.
Chasing after him, I saw that he’d disappeared down a set of steps on the starboard side. I went after him and found him in the forward stateroom, sniffing around the body of a partially nude woman, her body bloated in death.
The short black dress the woman wore was pulled up over her hips and the top was ripped and pulled down. The woman’s head and arms were hanging off the side of the large bed. A pool of blood was directly below her head, already dried and congealed around a pile of her long dark hair. More blood and what appeared to be brain tissue were splattered on the port bulkhead above her head, with strands of dark hair matted to the mess.
On the starboard side of the stateroom, a man’s body sat upright on a curved sofa. His feet were tied and his hands were behind his back, probably also tied. He was dressed in cruising casual clothes. The man also had dark hair, but graying a little at the temples. His head lay back over the small sofa, as if he’d dozed off. The hole in the center of his forehead, his bloated neck, and his tongue, swollen and protruding from his open mouth, told me that a nap wasn’t the case. Even more blood and brain matter were splattered against the white padded bulkhead behind him, like some kind of gruesome New Age painting.
Pescador whined and disappeared back through the hatch, tearing down the companionway, where he almost knocked Linda over as he lunged for a closed hatch to another stateroom. Bouncing off the hatch, he was immediately up on his hind legs, scratching at the latch.
There were two other hatches off the companionway, both open. I pointed to Linda, then the port-side stateroom, across from me. As she covered the hatch to port, I stayed close to the bulkhead and quickly peered inside the stateroom on the starboard side.
Seeing nothing, I nodded to Linda. As I covered the remaining hatch with my Sig, she quickly peeked inside and withdrew, before stepping into the cabin, leading with her Beretta. A moment later, she came out and shook her head.
We both moved to where Pescador continued jumping at the master stateroom hatch, whimpering. “Get back, boy,” I whispered. “And this time I mean it. Let me go first.”
Pescador stepped out of the way and I tried the latch. It wasn’t locked. Flinging it open, I stepped quickly inside. It didn’t appear to be disturbed in any way. Linda was right on my heels, followed by Pescador, who immediately jumped onto the bed, his huge tail wagging crazily as he sniffed around the disheveled covers.
“Two dead in the forward stateroom,” I told Linda as I opened the door to the private head and looked inside. Nothing out of place there, either. Glancing back at Linda, I added, “A man and a woman, both shot in the head, execution style.”
Suddenly, a whirring noise came from below our feet and the sound of rushing water could be heard from outside the hull. “Sounds like Rusty found the switch for the bilge pumps,” Linda said.
From outside the boat, I heard Kim scream.
“Jesse!” Rusty shouted from above. “Get up here, quick!”
Pescador was sniffing all over the room, but, sensing the urgency in Rusty’s voice, he ran past us and up the ladder well to the salon. Following him, I saw Rusty on the sundeck, motioning us. “Out here!”
Next to the sliding glass door was another set of steps, which I assumed went down to the galley and crew quarters. We went quickly to where Rusty stood by the rail, looking down at the water. I followed his gaze and saw a severed leg, floating near the jet of water coming from the bilge pump, just below the waterline.
“Galley’s below us,” Rusty said. “Crew quarters, too. Nothing there, so I checked the engine room. Somebody pulled the bilge pump hose off the through-hull and disabled the pump. I reconnected the hose and turned on the pump, then came up here. Looks like that leg just happened to be floatin’ by and got sucked up to the through-hull, blocking it from taking in more water.”
“There’s two bodies in the forward stateroom,” I told him.
Rusty glanced at me. “Either one missing a leg?”
“No,” I replied with a shudder. The leg was floating, thanks to an air pocket in the knee area of the uniform trousers. The shod foot and upper thigh dangled below the knee, which was bent almost ninety degrees.
; Kim was holding the Revenge twenty feet off the port side. Standing at the helm, she was looking down at the detached limb and clutching a hand to her mouth. I yelled over the water, “Jimmy, get a gaff and hook that thing! Kim, bring him close enough, then come around to the stern and pick us up. We have to call the Coast Guard.”
Within minutes, we were all back aboard the Revenge. I had to physically pick Pescador up and carry him across the gunwale from the swim platform, which was now above water, as the bilge pump did its job. He tried several times to jump back aboard the yacht, before we could get far enough away. Then he went up to the foredeck and sat staring at the yacht, his tail sweeping the deck, as he whimpered like he was pining for a long-lost lover.
Jimmy had the forethought to put the leg in the empty bait box, rather than ruin our catch by putting it in the ice-filled fish box. I climbed quickly to the bridge and reached for the VHF mic.
Kim stopped me. “Do you think that leg has anything to do with the arm you found, Dad?”
I thought about it for a second. The odds of two people being dismembered in the same area and the incidents not being related were pretty slim. Contrary to TV shows, there just weren’t all that many murders in the Keys.
“Anyone have a cell signal?” I asked around the bridge.
Everyone checked their cellphones and, one by one, shook their heads. “Kim, go down to my bunk. My sat phone is in the chest, under the bunk. Call Marty and tell him to get his ass out here. We’ll wait until he’s underway before we call the Coasties.”
“We should call them now,” Linda said. “We’re way out of the sheriff’s jurisdiction, even mine.”
As Kim hurried down the ladder, I turned to Linda. “Those bodies aren’t going anywhere, babe. And whatever happened here happened at least a day ago. Whoever did this is miles away. If this is related to the case Marty’s working on, we should give him first shot at it. While we’re outside the twenty-four-mile Contiguous Zone, all of the Gulf Stream in this area is inside the U.S. Economic Zone. It’s not going to hurt anything if Marty’s the first on-duty LEO on the scene.”
A minute later, Kim was back on the bridge. “He’s on his way. Said to call him on channel seventy-two.”
Switching the frequency, I keyed the mic. “MV Gaspar’s Revenge, hailing Marty Phillips.”
“Go ahead, Revenge,” Marty’s voice called back.
After I gave him our GPS coordinates, there was a momentary delay as he plugged the numbers in his unit. “I’m less than thirty minutes away.”
“Roger that,” I replied. “You’ll get here long before the cavalry. I’ll call it in.”
I switched back to channel sixteen, the international hailing and emergency frequency. “MV Gaspar’s Revenge, calling United States Coast Guard.”
The response was immediate. “Coast Guard Station, Key West. Go ahead, Gaspar’s Revenge.”
I reported the two bodies aboard the yacht and the leg floating in the water. Then I asked him to dispatch the nearest Coast Guard vessel to our location and gave him the coordinates.
The voice on the radio asked, “What’s the name and home port of the vessel in question, Gaspar’s Revenge?”
“She’s a Pershing 76,” I replied. “American-flagged, home port of Miami. The name on the stern is Obsession.”
The big sedan slowed as it neared the end of I-95, where the interstate became US-1, in the South Miami suburb of Coral Gables. Dave Parsons followed the directions from the monotone voice of the GPS, as it guided him through an industrial area, to an address with a security fence and guarded gate. “CephaloTech” was printed on a small sign on the front of the guard house, and the roof of the building was just visible above a row of trees.
Buzzing the window down, Parsons slowly approached the gate as a security guard stepped out of the small shack. Inside, Parsons could see a second guard. Both men had their right hands near their weapons. They appeared to be a lot more than the typical rent-a-cops.
Showing his credentials to the guard, he said, “Special Agent Parsons, Army CID, to see Delores Juarez.”
Leaning closer, the guard examined Parsons’s ID carefully, matching the photo to the man in the car. “Do you have an appointment, Mister Parsons?”
Dave grinned slightly. Most people would address him as Agent Parsons. Warrant officers were addressed as Mister, which told him the young man was probably a former soldier. Noting the chevrons on his collar, he returned the favor. “No, Sergeant. I don’t need an appointment.”
“No, sir,” the guard replied with a knowing grin. “You surely don’t. But you’ll have to wait here for a minute while I call Miss Juarez and let her know you’re here.”
It only took a moment on the phone, and the guard returned to Parsons’s car. “Go forward two hundred yards, sir. There’s a guest parking lot on the left, with a second security gate. Another officer will meet you there to escort you to the lobby, where Miss Juarez will meet you. He’ll stay with you while you talk with Miss Juarez, then escort you back here.”
“Is his shift just starting or ending?”
“Shift change is at sixteen hundred.”
Parsons glanced at his watch as a pair of thick metal pilings in front of the car slowly retracted into the pavement. “Hope he likes overtime,” Parsons said as he pulled away from the guardhouse.
He drove straight ahead, under a small canopy of ornamental trees that effectively shielded all but the rooftop of the building from sight. Within the ring of trees, the building looked pretty boring. All chrome and reflective glass. The windows at ground level extended nearly the whole length of the front. Spotting the guard walking toward the gated parking lot, Parsons turned into the entrance and buzzed the window down again.
The guard was tall, quite a bit taller than Parsons’s five eleven, with shoulders like a bull moose and arms that stretched the fabric of the short-sleeved uniform shirt he wore. Like the others, his hand was close to his sidearm, which was unbuckled. The guard’s head turned, scanning the tree line surrounding the building and the entry driveway before coming to rest on Parsons’s car.
Parsons felt as if the guard’s eyes could look right through the car with X-ray vision, the way he studied Parsons’s car through a pair of wraparound sunglasses.
As if satisfied that Parsons presented no threat, the guard pushed a button on a pedestal just inside the fence and the gate lifted up, allowing Parsons to pull into the parking lot. The giant of a man pointed toward the first parking space on the right and Parsons wheeled into it, shut off the engine, and stepped out of the car.
“Overtime’s good for me, Mister Parsons,” the guard said as he approached. “I’m Captain Miguel Waldrup, head of security. I assume you’re hear about the Minniches’ disappearance?”
“Why I’m here is classified, Captain.”
“Not to me, it’s not. Nothing goes on inside these gates that I’m not privy to. The only reason CID would send someone is the CephaloTech sniper suit contract with DoD. We’re to exhibit it in just three weeks to the various services’ special operations commands. There’s nothing in that file you have in your briefcase that I haven’t either read, redacted, or personally written myself.”
“Seems you’re up to speed, then,” Parsons said, extending his hand. “Special Agent in Charge, Dave Parsons.”
When Waldrup took it, Parsons felt as if his whole hand and wrist had been swallowed by one of the huge catfish he used to catch as a kid, back home in Alabama.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mister Parsons. Follow me, please.”
As Waldrup led the way, his head was constantly moving from side to side. Parsons figured a blade of grass couldn’t grow a fraction of an inch without it being noticed by the man.
“What rank were you?” Parsons asked.
“Medically retired as a captain, sir. Screaming Eagles. Kuwait.”
“Medically retired?”
“One wheel is flesh and bone, the other one’s titanium and rubber.”
Waldrup took a card from his shirt pocket and held it to a scanner beside the large, reflective tinted-glass door at the main entrance. There was a beep, and a tiny receptacle folded out from the scanner, with a clear brown pad on its surface. Waldrup placed his left thumb on it, and a moment later a dull metallic thud emanated from the door look.
A cold blast of conditioned air escaped as the door automatically swung inward. Parsons followed Waldrup through the door into a tiny foyer surrounded by more smoked glass, impenetrable to the eye.
The door behind them closed and the lock reengaged. Waldrup looked to the left and nodded, then a second door opened in front of them, revealing a large, high-ceilinged lobby area. Against the far wall was a security desk and yet another security station beside the glass foyer. Both were manned by serious-looking young guards.
Stepping into the lobby, Parsons noted the exterior walls were solid, no windows. The glass front was fake.
“Your security is exceptional, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir. I designed the protocols myself and helped with the design of the lobby area. The exterior walls can withstand anything up to a one oh five.”
“Impressive. You’ve been with the company a long time?”
“Hired on just after I got out of the hospital,” Waldrup replied. “Part of the company’s disabled and veterans’ outreach program. That was all before the big breakthrough a few years back. Mister Minnich liked me and learned about my background in Special Forces. When he was awarded the DoD research contract, he asked me how I’d design the security for a new building. Told him I’d build it so ten of me couldn’t get in.” The big man shrugged slightly. “Mister Minnich made me head of security then and I worked with the architects to build everything. He even paid for my new foot.”
To Parsons, it seemed obvious that Waldrup was a devoted company man and thought very highly of his employer. Being that he was a former paratrooper, Parsons had little doubt of the man’s determination and self-discipline.
Fallen Tide: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 8) Page 6
