The Black Palmetto

by Paul Carr

  Whitehall continued. “Blaine was furious when I told him about it. I might have mentioned the capability at the time, if security hadn't ushered me out like a traitor. The senator wanted terribly to get his hands on that flash card, and I'm not sure why, now that the program has been decommissioned.”

  Sam wondered about that himself. Why would Blaine want the card enough to send two thugs with orders to kill to get it?

  The Dr. staggered into the kitchen again and Sam waited for him to return. All this talk had been too much for the old guy. Or maybe he just started every day with a six-pack.

  When he returned, Sam said, “How can we identify someone on the tracking system? My technician said he just saw pulse points on the screen.”

  “It's complicated. Ring him up, and I'll tell him how to do it.”

  After getting J.T. on the line and telling what he'd learned, Sam handed the phone to the Dr. Whitehall explained something about a hidden table that cross referenced names with pulse-point numbers.

  When he got the phone back, Sam said to J.T., “You have what you need?”

  “Yep. I found the table the guy mentioned. Marlon Knox is number six.” He clicked the keyboard a few more moments and said, “The coordinates indicate he's on US-1 below Key Largo, traveling south. Maybe heading back to Iguana Key.”

  Knox probably had hung around long enough to see if Ford survived, intending to finish him off if he had to. The cop posted at the ICU might have put the kibosh on that. Sam thanked Whitehall and left.

  Back in the car, he told Jack about the tracking system and J.T.’s call. “You want to take a ride to the Keys?”

  “Sure. I could give the new car a good blowout.”

  Sam called Lora and told her she could go ahead and leave, that Jack was going to take him back to Iguana Key.

  “Thanks for letting me know. I could have been gone an hour ago if I’d known that.”

  “Sorry. I’ll call you tonight.”

  “Don’t bother.” She hung up.

  Two hours later, they were well past Marathon, nearing Bahia Honda. Sam spotted Lora’s car in the side mirror. How did she do that? He remembered the look of suspicion she’d given him when she left Jack’s place. Had she followed them from the beginning, to Windhaven, and then to Whitehall’s, and just told him she was at the hospital? She could easily have arranged to meet him in the hospital parking lot, and he wouldn’t have known any difference. Ever the reporter, after the story.

  J.T. called to say that Knox had turned off on Big Pine Key and was traveling inland.

  “How about Benetti?” Sam asked. “Does he show up on the map? That could be where Knox is headed.”

  “Hold on.” A few moments later J.T. said, “Here he is, at a spot on the tip of Big Pine, on the Gulf side. He’s a few miles farther down The Keys from where Knox is heading.”

  “Okay, we’ll deal with that later. You think you can intercept Knox from where you are?

  “Yeah, I do. I got in the car a half hour ago.”

  When they hung up, Sam turned to Jack. “I thought you said something about a blowout. You’re barely breaking the speed limit.”

  Jack gave him a cool, sidelong glance, and the BMW surged, pinning Sam's back to the seat.

  Sam called Simone and brought her up to date on the tracking system and on following Knox.

  “You catch up with Cates?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, he’s been all over the place. Now he’s headed up US-1. I'm trailing a safe distance behind his car, about twenty miles north of Iguana Key.”

  “Okay, stay with him. He might know something we don't.” He thought about asking if she'd brought her gun and ammo, but decided she’d be insulted if he did.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Harpo went to the funeral home tool shed and found the machete. He had used it to clear brush at a cemetery a few months before. In his younger days, he had cut cane with a blade like this one, and was skilled in throwing it at a target.

  Using the bench grinder in the corner, he shaped the tip to a sharp point. When he finished, he turned and threw it at the wood door. It spun a couple of times, bounced off, and clattered to the floor. Next try: same result. On the third attempt, the tip found its mark with a satisfying thud. He pulled it out and thought he could feel a pulse racing down the handle to his fingers. It would do just fine.

  The key for the maroon hearse hung from the wall in the garage. He pushed it into the ignition and fired up the big machine. Sitting there, listening to the engine hum, he thought about what he had to do. The bad dude had killed Alton, and nearly killed him, too. There had to be a reason why he'd done that, and it probably had something to do with the body they were transporting. Probably had killed that poor guy, too. The law did a great job of rousting homeless people, but they stunk in the criminal-catching department. No matter. Harpo planned to put things back on track.

  One morning a month or so ago, he had come out of the marina tool shed where he’d slept the night before and had seen the dude getting onto a nice old boat. That’s where he would go first. He put the vehicle into gear and eased it out of the mortuary’s carport and down the drive to the highway. Dr. Eddie Worth belted out a sermon inside Harpo’s head, telling the flock just how hot brimstone would get for sinners who didn’t listen. The program faded as another frequency tried to horn its way in. Harpo tapped his temple with his knuckle and the Dr. returned, loud and clear. A couple minutes later the holy man's voice trailed off to a whisper as he eased into a rendition of “Come Home.” Harpo hummed along with the slow, sad song, and when it ended, a news program came on. He tuned it out, having learned how to do that over the last couple of days. The trip took about an hour, and Harpo arrived to find the cruiser moored at the spot where he'd seen it before. He pulled the hearse into a thicket of mimosa trees, got out, and eased through the brush toward the water, the machete hanging from his hand by his side.

  ****

  “Where are you?” Sam asked J.T.

  “A couple of miles inland. According to the GPS, Knox is going about fifty, so he probably doesn’t know anybody is after him yet. How about you?”

  “About thirty miles from the turn-off. Jack’s got his BMW on a ninety.”

  “You’re with Jack? Tell him I said hello. On second thought, put me on the speaker.”

  Sam punched the button on the phone and told him to go ahead.

  “Jack, how’s it going, buddy?”

  Jack smiled. “Going okay, J.T. And you?”

  “You know me. I’m doing great. I hope you’ll let me know the next time you have something big cooking.”

  “You got it.” Jack glanced at Sam and ran his fingertip across his throat.

  Sam turned off the speaker and put the phone to his ear. “Okay, call us back when you spot the guy.”

  ****

  Harpo stood behind a mangrove trunk for ten minutes, waiting to see if the guy would come out on deck. When nothing moved, he eased his way down the dock and climbed aboard the cruiser. He didn’t hear a sound. No cars, birds, nothing. It occurred to him that he also didn’t hear the radio, so he tapped the spot that usually brought it back. Still quiet. That wasn’t good, not good at all. Though unsure what he should do about it, he pressed on.

  Reaching the main hatch, he twisted the handle and found it locked. Probably wouldn’t take much to break it, but that would make some noise. So he stepped alongside the cabin to the rear and found another hatch. Peering through a window that made up the top half of the door, he could see that it led below deck, probably to the sleeping compartments. This boat was at least forty feet long, so it probably had rooms for two or three beds, maybe a bath. He twisted the handle. Locked. The machete had a thin blade, so he inserted it into the gap between the door and the jamb, and the door popped open.

  What if the guy was sleeping? Would he be able to slay him in his sleep? What if he had a camera on deck and saw Harpo, and he waited down below with a gun or a knife. All these questio
ns! He tapped his temple, trying to get the signal back. Nothing. How could he do this without the signal? That’s what brought him here in the first place. Tapped again. Still quiet. His head went into a spin, and he leaned against the wall until it passed.

  He drew a deep breath, swung the hatch open, and pushed inside to a landing and a ladder leading down. The top step groaned when he put his weight on it, and he stopped and listened. Something squawked outside. Retreating to the corner of the landing, he squeezed in as tight as he could.

  Just a bird outside. A droplet of perspiration ran down the side of his face and into his collar. He drew another deep breath, let it out, and descended the ladder. At the bottom, he stepped down a short passageway and turned right, where he found the captain’s cabin. It occupied the entire space from that point to the rear of the boat. Its door stood wide open, the edge of a king bed visible. Inching closer, he could see into the entire compartment. It was tidy; bed made, clean wood floor, no clutter. About to head inside for a closer look, he heard another noise. It sounded like a muffled voice. He ran back up the steps and peered out a porthole on the wall at the top.

  A man stood beyond the dock, on land, yelling, “Come on out. Nobody has to get hurt.”

  Was it him? He wasn’t sure. This guy had the height, but leaves on the tip of a mangrove limb hid part of his face. The gun in his hand tipped the scales, though. It had to be him, and he must have seen Harpo board the boat.

  “Okay, I’m coming in,” the man said. “If you’re there, you better drop your weapons or there’s going to be some bloodshed.”

  Harpo gripped the machete and wondered what he should do. If he went out, the guy would kill him, of that he had no doubt. He’d already tried to kill him once, and would surely hit his mark given a second chance. The machete would be no good against a bullet. And now his beacon had forsaken him. That had to be a sign. A bad one.

  He squeezed into the corner, hopefully out of the line of sight from the porthole or the window in the hatch. Noise came from the forward hatch knob, the guy, probably forgetting he locked it. Then the sound of footfalls trailed down the side of the cabin, stopping at the rear hatch. Harpo wanted to look, but the guy probably stood there trying to see inside. The lock handle twisted, and he squeezed tighter into the corner. Maybe the guy would just go down the ladder and not look his way.

  But no. As the man entered, he turned, saw him in the corner, and swung the gun toward his face. Harpo’s heart felt as if it might explode, and he could hear the roar of blood coursing through his ears. He swung the machete toward the gun hand, felt steel clash against steel, and the gun fired. It sounded like a bomb in the close quarters, and then it clattered to the deck. Harpo rammed into him, and the man’s eyes went wide as he lost his balance and tumbled end over end down the ladder.

  Harpo sped out of the open hatch and back to the dock. He seemed to fly over the boards and across the ground like a swooping bird, not remembering his feet ever touching down. When he got to the hearse, and jerked on the door handle, someone said, “Hey, you there, drop the knife and turn around.”

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw a beautiful woman with long black hair. She wore tight jeans and a T-shirt. And held a gun pointed at his head. Police? No, he didn’t think so, but she had an expression on her face that said she would shoot him where he stood if he didn’t do as she said. He tossed the machete to the ground and turned to face her.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m Harpo. I work at the mortuary. Call’em, they’ll tell you.”

  “I don’t think they’ll be telling anybody anything. They’re all dead over there. Did you kill them?”

  Dead? He’d just seen Mr. Tim a few days ago. Tears poured from his eyes and streamed down his face. Wiping them with his sleeve, he said, “I didn’t kill anybody. How could they be dead?”

  “Somebody broke the girl’s neck and stabbed the old man with a trocar. You do that?”

  “Did they die because of me?”

  The woman’s face changed, softened, and she dropped the gun to her side

  “Probably not. I heard the shot a minute ago. Did you shoot the policeman on the boat?”

  “Policeman? No, I thought he was the man who killed my friend, and he tried to shoot me. I hit him and he fell down the ladder.”

  Glancing toward the boat, she sighed and said, “Let’s go take a look.”

  She motioned for him to lead the way. He didn’t want to, but didn’t think he had any other choice. They reached the ladder where the man had fallen. He lay at the bottom, unconscious.

  “You first,” she said. She followed him down and checked the man for a pulse.

  “He’ll live,” she said. She took a quick scan around and came back. The policeman’s head twitched, and he seemed to be waking up.

  They climbed back up the stairs, past the policeman’s gun on the deck, and went back to the hearse.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said as she eyed the vehicle. “Get in this thing and follow me.” She started to walk away and turned back. “If you try to lose me, you’ll be sorry.” Smiling, she headed into the woods and drove out in a late model car going toward the highway.

  Harpo started the hearse, backed out of the mimosas, and followed. Wind stirred the trees and water droplets sprinkled the windshield. On the highway, they drove for a couple of miles, and she turned into the parking lot of a convenience store. She parked close to the street, away from customers’ cars, and he pulled in next to her. When she motioned for him to join her, he got out of the hearse and into her car. The rain had gotten heavier, and she had the wipers going.

  “Okay, now, tell me about this guy killing your friend.”

  “He shot me and Alton and blew up the hearse. The Lord spared me, but Alton wasn’t so lucky.” He gave her the details of that night and what had happened in the days since.

  “So you recognized this guy and thought he might be on that boat?”

  “Yeah. I saw him there not long ago. I don’t think he saw me, though, so he probably blew up the hearse because of the body.”

  “That’s the John Doe they found murdered a few months ago?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  She narrowed her eyes, staring at his face. “Turn your head and look at me.”

  He did as she asked and she said, “What’s that?” and reached toward the tender spot where the antenna had been.

  A spark raced from her fingertip to his face, lightning flashed outside, and a clap of thunder shook the car. Then, Dr. Worth came back on line.

  ****

  Sam’s phone chirped and he thought it would be J.T. calling again. When he answered, Simone said, “Cates led me to the cruiser, but nobody was on it. It’s tied up at a marina on Big Pine Key. The place seems to be closed down for the season, maybe permanently.”

  “We just turned onto Key Deer Boulevard, the main highway on Big Pine. J.T. should be close by. He was a few minutes ahead of us trailing Knox.”

  “I’m next to the highway at a convenience store, so I’ll watch for him. On another subject, you remember the hearse that got blown up on a bridge over Blackwater Sound, and the cops didn’t think anybody survived?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, one of the guys did, and he’s here with me now. He saw Knox that night, and remembered him from the marina we just left.”

  “What’s he doing there?” Sam asked.

  “I think he planned to kill Knox for what he did, but he ran into Cates, and Cates is unconscious on the boat. Hey! I just saw J.T. go by.”

  “Go after him, and keep the line open so you can give me directions.”

  “I’m pulling out now,” Simone said. “He’s maybe a quarter mile ahead.”

  Sam brought Jack up-to-date on what Simone had said. Big drops of rain blew against the windshield, so Jack turned on the wipers and slowed down. They turned onto it a few minutes later and passed a convenience store. Soon after that, Sam saw Simone’
s car. J.T. had probably slowed to keep Knox from suspecting a tail. The convoy traveled another mile or so before turning toward the northeastern coast of the island into a posh subdivision. Flowing front lawns led down to modern Mediterranean mansions, with swimming pools and boathouses in back.

  J.T. had turned into a wide driveway of one of the homes that had a “For Sale” sign in the front yard. Simone turned in behind him, and Jack followed. Sam got out and hurried to catch up with J.T., who was already trotting into the yard of the house next door.

  “Where is he?” Sam asked as he ran alongside, rain pelting his face.

  “He’s on a motorcycle. Turned into a driveway a couple of doors down and headed toward the back yard. I think he saw me, because he sped up the last mile or so.”

  They cut behind the house all the way to the water’s edge, skirted it over to the property where Knox had turned in, and stopped behind a thicket of palmetto. The place appeared vacant, maybe a vacation home for somebody with a lot of money. A pool lay directly behind the house with a cover over it, and a boathouse large enough for someone to live in sat at the edge of the water. A dock ran about forty feet out. Knox wasn’t anywhere in sight.

  “You sure he didn’t go inside the house?” Sam asked.

  “No, but I thought he probably came all the way back here.”

  Sam caught a whiff of gas-and-oil smoke, a giveaway for a two-stroke engine. He wiped rain from his eyes with his sleeve. “He’s back here. Let’s check the boathouse.”

  A double-wide door secured the structure on the house side. With their guns out, one on each side of the door and under the boathouse eave, Sam checked the lever handle. Wouldn’t budge. He took a pick from his wallet and worked it for a couple of minutes before the mechanism snapped. Assuming their positions again, Sam twisted the handle and swung the door inward. Leaning around the edge of the entranceway, he saw a wall about five feet high with a stairway at its center leading down to a lower level.