Crooked River

by Douglas Preston

  And then he laid the phone on the bar.

  It was surely crammed with information. But how to get his hands on it? That was where Smithback got really clever: he made a series of urologic references, including how drinking beer made him piss like a racehorse, which was why he drank only scotch—which in short order had the desired effect of sending Rameau lurching off to the men’s room.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Smithback tapped the screen on the technician’s phone to make sure it wasn’t about to lock up, then pulled it over. He had sixty seconds to mine this baby. Email would be too time-consuming. He quickly dismissed voice mail or text for the same reason. But photos—did Rameau take photos of his work? Smithback tapped the photos app, and there they were: dozens of them. Smithback whipped through them—a whole slew of crisp, gruesome pictures of feet in every stage of dissection, from first incision to flayed and skeletonized. Rameau was a damn good photographer, too, every picture crisp and well framed.

  They were all repulsive, but none revealed anything noteworthy. And then, with seconds to go, he struck gold. Three amazing photos, all in a row, of the same thing.

  With his own phone, he quickly took photos of Rameau’s pictures: one, two, three. And now as he mentally reviewed his coup, he was so pleased that, in the darkness of his “suite,” he once again woke up his phone and scrolled through the shots he’d taken of Rameau’s screen. The three pictures were close-ups of the top outer part of a foot, from the ankle up to where the leg had been severed. The skin around the amputation was shriveled and ragged, and the bone protruding from the sea-bleached flesh was revolting. But there, clearly visible on the skin, was a tattoo—almost all of one, anyway. It was a cross, surrounded by lightning bolts and some lettering. The lettering was a little blurry, but he could do something about that.

  He wasn’t going to go off half-cocked and tell Kraski about this. He needed to develop the lead. He’d download the photos to his laptop, then manipulate and sharpen them so he could read those letters. And then he’d ask around on the down low, hoping to identify the tattoo and maybe even where it had been inked. Because something about it looked familiar. And if he was right, this could lead to the biggest scoop of his career. It had to be said, Kraski was nearing retirement…and “Roger Smithback, editor in chief” had a nice ring to it.

  Pushing himself out of the chair, he shut off his phone, then made his way toward the room’s lone table, where his laptop—and the story he’d promised Kraski for the Herald—was waiting.

  10

  PAMELA GLADSTONE GUIDED the R/V Leucothea from the Caloosahatchee River into the entrance of the Legacy Harbour Marina, heading toward the dock. It was a tricky landing, made worse by a twenty-knot offshore breeze. As she approached the pier, the High Point Place towers rose on her starboard side, casting late-afternoon shadows across the water. Approaching at the barest headway, she eased the bow of the vessel toward the dock and gently pinned it against the bumpers to keep it from blowing off, while throttling down and turning to starboard.

  “Put over the aft tending spring line,” she called to her postdoc and unwilling first mate, Wallace Lam, ready at the gunwale.

  The line went over, a perfect throw for a change, and a pier crewman cleated it neatly.

  “Hold the spring, I’m coming ahead on her,” Gladstone said, keeping the starboard ahead and the port backing slow, bringing the forty-six-foot research vessel up snug against the pier face. She pulled the throttles into neutral. As the rest of the lines were cleated, she breathed a sigh of relief that the maneuver had gone well and she hadn’t made a fool of herself, like last time, when she had smacked a piling with her stern. Total jackass carelessness, and naturally everyone had seen it and she had to fill out an accident report, even though neither pier nor ship had sustained any damage beyond an unsightly streak of black rubber on the boat’s white gelcoat.

  It had been a good trip. They had successfully retrieved both acoustic Doppler current profilers. To lose one of those twenty-thousand-dollar babies would be a disaster. Now she was eager to download the data and see if it finally confirmed her mathematical models.

  She set the rudder to zero, and as she was putting all the controls on the helm to bed, she noticed through the bridge windows a man standing on the dock, tall and pale, the wind whipping his white suit. With a Panama hat on his head, he looked like an albino drug lord waiting for his shipment to come in. He was peering up at her boat and seemed to be looking directly at her through the bridge windows. She wondered how a weirdo like this had gotten onto the private pier, because he obviously was no mariner.

  Once everything was in order and she’d filled out the electronic log and shut down the breakers, she stepped out of the wheelhouse. Lam was finishing up as well, transferring the ADCP devices to a two-wheeled cargo carrier on the pier. The man in white was now approaching her directly. She turned her back, busying herself with straightening up a muddy bight, hoping he would go away.

  “Dr. Gladstone?” came a smooth voice.

  She turned. “Yes?”

  “I am Special Agent Pendergast.”

  His hand was extended, but instead of shaking it, she held up both of hers, wet and smeared with tidal mud from the dirty line. “Sorry.”

  The man withdrew his hand and fixed a pair of glittering eyes on her. “I should like to have a conversation with you.”

  “Go ahead.” She stood there. Special Agent. Did that mean he was FBI? “Wait—you got a badge or something?”

  A hand slid out a billfold, displayed a shield, then returned it to his suit. “If we could perhaps withdraw to your laboratory, where we could speak in confidence?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Captiva.”

  “No way. Sorry.” She turned, slung her duffel over her shoulder, and began walking briskly down the pier. Lam tried to catch up, pushing the carrier, and she again quickened her step, trying to escape the man in white. But he paced her, effortlessly.

  “I understand you’ve been studying the pattern of gulf currents over the past five years,” he remarked.

  “I said no. I’m in the middle of a research project, my grant is about used up, the lease on my research vessel expires next week, my rent’s increasing, my boyfriend dumped me—and I don’t want anything to do with those feet washing up.”

  “Why not, if I may ask?”

  “Because it’s going to be a mess. A big, hot, political mess, in which the science—the actual science—will be lost. I’ve been through it before…trust me.”

  She walked still faster, but the man kept up without even appearing to quicken his gait. Gladstone was usually able to outwalk anyone, and this only served to increase her irritation.

  “Dr. Gladstone, I’m glad you mentioned your research vessel. Aside from that ugly streak on the stern, it’s a handsome boat.”

  They had reached the end of the pier. Lam was practically jogging in an attempt to keep up. Gladstone’s Kia Soul was parked close in, thank God. She spied it, raised the key fob, unlocked it with a chirp, and made a beeline. She reached the door, pulled it open, and got inside. She began to shut the door, but the man’s hand came to rest on it, holding it in place as he leaned in.

  “Please take your hand off my car.” She gave the door a pull, but he was holding it fast with remarkable strength. He gave her a little smile.

  “Dr. Gladstone, I am sorry to hear about your other troubles, but at least you needn’t worry about the lease on your vessel.”

  She paused. “What do you mean?”

  “I paid a call on Caloosahatchee Marine Leasing. Your lease has been extended. And they kindly pointed me in your direction.”

  “Wait…why?”

  “Because you see, Dr. Gladstone, the FBI is going to need that boat of yours. And, of course, you.”

  11

  CHIEF P. B. PERELMAN sat in the back of the meeting room, flanked by Towne and Morris, listening with growing impatience as the Coast Guard ocean
ographer, a fellow named McBean or McBoon or something, droned on while plowing through an endless PowerPoint presentation, his green laser pointer flashing about like a cat chasing a mouse. In image after image, chart after chart, Perelman was getting a grand tour of the southern gulf and the Caribbean, focusing on Cuba.

  Commander Baugh stood next to the oceanographer, in work blues, arms crossed, listening with his head tilted and a serious furrow in his brow.

  The images flashed along, finally ending in an animated video that showed the complex swirlings and windings of the Loop Current, the famous oceanographic phenomenon that came up from the south and carried water into the Atlantic, where it joined the Gulf Stream.

  What Perelman gathered from the presentation was that it was essentially impossible for the feet to have been carried by any combination of currents, winds, and tides from the Cuban mainland to Captiva Island—except for one area. As the main Loop Current drove northward along the Yucatán coast and into the gulf, a stable eddy, called the Mariel Stream, separated from the current and brushed the northeastern shore of Cuba, from Mariel Bay to Playa Carenero. In this twenty-mile stretch of shoreline, a floating object placed in the water at a tidal low had the possibility of being carried north toward the Gulf Coast of Florida, where it would encounter the natural prominence of the Sanibel/Captiva island chain. And, he concluded, a backtracking simulation of the Mariel Stream and Loop Current indicated that under certain conditions, such an object would require a travel time of about three weeks, plus or minus, to reach Captiva—which he wished to point out fit with the twenty-five-day estimated time the feet were in the water.

  At the end of the presentation, the man retreated from the podium and the commander came up, face dark and serious. Two knotted hands gripped the podium and he glowered at the group, turning his head from one side to the other, displaying a fresh whitewall haircut.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant McBath,” he said in a gravelly voice.

  He allowed a silence to gather in the hall.

  “We all remember,” he began slowly, “the Mariel Boatlift, where over a hundred thousand Cubans, released from prisons and mental hospitals, crowded on boats and headed northward, flooding the United States. It was so called because they hailed from Mariel Harbor.”

  He looked around.

  “There’s a reason why they came from that place. At the mouth of Mariel Harbor, on the gulf side of the bay, is the infamous prison known as El Duende. El Duende is a grim institution, long infamous for the incarceration and torture of political prisoners. Many of the inmates from El Duende joined the boatlift, which almost emptied the prison.”

  A satellite image, stamped SECRET, appeared on the screen, showing a vast prison complex surrounded by walls and fences, sprawling along the strand beyond the mouth of the harbor.

  “But El Duende was soon refilled by the Communist regime in Cuba.”

  The commander started a new PowerPoint presentation with an aerial image of a sprawling facility along a shoreline.

  “Here is a recent Homeland Security image of El Duende. It is thriving, if that’s the word, home to an estimated twelve thousand prisoners.”

  He went through a series of satellite images showing buses arriving and leaving, prisoners getting on and off, yards filling with prisoners during exercise time, and so forth. Perelman listened with interest as the commander outlined the rumored horrors of El Duende. “Our number one hypothesis,” he concluded, “is that these feet are the fruits of torture and large-scale executions at El Duende. Whether the feet were the product of an intentional or accidental mass dumping is an interesting but, for now, irrelevant question. One way or another, they ended up here—and it’s our job to find the answers.” He straightened up. “Any questions?”

  There was a murmur of conversation and the questions came thick and fast. Towne leaned over to Perelman. “Not a bad theory, if you ask me.”

  “Seems as likely as any.” Perelman had to admit it made sense, but he felt uneasy at how quickly the Coast Guard had settled on it to the exclusion of all other theories. He glanced around for Pendergast, curious whether he was going to make more provocative inquiries, but did not see him in the room.

  As the questions trickled off, the commander resumed.

  “So what is the next step in the investigation? We’ve asked Homeland Security to provide a detailed analysis of El Duende, covering the time frame when the feet would have entered the ocean, to see if there was any unusual activity. DHS will also comb through SIGINT intercepts from that time frame, and tap ONI and HUMINT sources as well.”

  He looked around. “What I’m about to tell you is classified.”

  At this the room went completely silent.

  “Over the next few days, the Coast Guard is going to send a national security cutter, under my command, to the Mariel coast to perform surveillance operations. We have a Sentinel-class fast-response cutter of the right specifications hailing from the Port Charlotte Station. It has a sophisticated S/SCIF, SEI sensors, increased data-exchange bandwidth, AIS data sharing, and other enhanced capabilities. The flight deck accommodates a DoD HH-60 helicopter, and it is fully integrated with the National Distress and Response System Modernization Program…”

  Perelman tuned this out. God, what was it with these military guys and their acronyms? He knew that the Cuban coastline was routinely surveilled by the U.S. fleet, so this wasn’t anything unusual. What did seem a bit unusual was that Baugh himself would command. But then again, he seemed just the kind of guy who would go for the glory. More power to him, if it advanced the case.

  The briefing ended and the assemblage began to break up. Perelman rose along with Towne and Morris. “I wonder where Pendergast has gotten to?” he asked.

  Towne chuckled. “He’s an odd duck. What the hell is he doing with that garbage he lugged away? God, I’d love to have seen the Flamingo View Motel manager’s face when he carried in those stinking bags.”

  “He’s staying at the Flamingo View?” Morris asked. “You’d think the feds would have a bigger budget.”

  “Maybe he’s combing through the garbage hoping to find Captain Kidd’s treasure map,” said Towne.

  Perelman didn’t respond. He’d thought about it for quite a while after Pendergast and his ward drove away, and ultimately he’d arrived at what felt like a pretty fair guess as to what Pendergast was doing with that garbage. He wondered why Baugh hadn’t thought of doing the same—or why he himself hadn’t, for that matter. An odd duck, for sure—but a damned clever one.

  12

  PAMELA GLADSTONE UNLOCKED the door of her lab and held it open for the FBI agent. It was a tiny space, almost entirely filled with electronic equipment—computers, screens, and an NOAA Automated Surface Observing System terminal.

  “You can shift those manuals off that chair,” she said, indicating a stool. “On the floor is fine.”

  Pendergast slipped them off but did not sit down. Instead, he looked around with his glittering eyes. Lam, wearing his signature red Keds high-top sneakers, came in and wedged himself into the cramped nook that served as his workstation. Gladstone sat down in her own capacious chair, leaning back with her hands clasped in front. She turned to Pendergast. “All right. You wanted to talk? Go ahead.”

  “I’ve consulted with a variety of sources, and it’s my understanding you have some unconventional theories about currents and the sea.”

  Gladstone had to laugh. “Unconventional? Sounds like you’re describing my political opinions.”

  “I loathe politics, presently more than ever. I’m solely interested in your oceanographic views.”

  She brushed her long blond hair out of her face. The salt air always made it unruly. “My theories. Okay. Well, they involve chaos. I mean, in the mathematical sense. You’re familiar with the so-called butterfly effect? That the flapping of a butterfly’s wings in Africa results in a hurricane in Florida?”

  “I’m familiar with that fanciful idea, yes.”
/>   “Fanciful,” Lam scoffed under his breath. She glared at him.

  “It’s overstated, true, but what it really means is that the tiniest change in the initial conditions of a system can snowball into gigantic effects later on. Wallace and I are just applying that mathematical concept to ocean currents. Unfortunately, most of my colleagues think we’re wrong.”

  “Are you wrong?”

  She hadn’t expected this question. “That depends on how you define wrong. I know we’re on the right track, but we’re getting wrong results. It’s a nontrivial problem. I need time. And more data. Those who think we’re on the wrong track, that’s a different thing. They lack imagination. They’re…well…a little thick.”

  Pendergast’s thin lips formed a dry little smile. “Most people, in my experience, are a little thick. If not abundantly so.”

  Gladstone had to laugh, along with Wallace. This man, despite his severe look, had a droll sense of humor. She went on. “Ocean currents appear to flow in big, logical movements. The tide comes in and goes out. The Loop Current goes this way and that in a predictable fashion. It’s all there in the charts. The problem is that, when you actually drop small GPS floaters into the ocean, you find you can’t really predict where each individual floater will go. You can start them all together and they spread out enormously. Or you drop them far apart and they all end up on the same beach. So Wallace and I have been trying to develop a fractal mathematical model to explain that.”

  “I developed it, actually,” Lam said. “On my own.”

  The man nodded slowly. She wondered how much he actually understood. It was hard to read his marble-like face.

  “How does the model work?” he asked.

  “Wallace? You’re on—smartass.”