by Karl Tutt
I looked at her quizzically.
“Tonton,” she whispered, “Tonton Macoute. Originally they were members of Papa Doc’s personal guard in Haiti, known for their vicious violence. They evolved into a kind of Voodoo magician. Strong medicine, more powerful than a priest. His name is Marcuse Durant. Don’t see him much. He stays mostly in his little house in the Haitian Village. He don’t come to you, you go to him. Don’t even know what he is doing here. He never even spoke to the family. Other guy, sitting in the blue Eldorado off to the left of the grave site. Never got within shouting distance. Don’t even think he got out of his car. Malachi Strait. Owns The Strip Search.”
I knew the place. It was a pervert’s wet dream. Magazines, books, videos, a nice dark little room in the back. They carried an assortment of devices that might be better used on farm animals than human beings. Sunny once told me of a run-in she’d had with Strait over a girl that worked at the Parrot. Something about “art poses.” I’d seen him there once or twice, but unless she had long legs and big boobs, he didn’t think much of the locals. There were rumors that there were things to be had that weren’t on the shelves at his place, but Key West was the unofficial home of rumors.
Chapter 5
We were just about to leave when I heard someone call from over my shoulder. It was Captain Harry. I’d only known him for three or four months. I’d heard he used to live on an old 26 foot Chris Craft Cavalier at Land’s End. Apparently the proverbial rich uncle had died and left him some serious cash. He always had a wad of hundreds in his pocket and he wanted you to know it. He’d bought HAT TRICK, a Hatteras 62, hired a full-time first mate, and moved to a better neighborhood. The HAT was now berthed at the Galleon Marina. The dock master over there used to brag that it was the most expensive marina on the east coast and they had the clientele to prove it.
Harry was probably 5’ 10”, late 40’s, maybe twenty pounds too heavy. He reminded me of Rush Limbaugh with a little less hair and, I hoped, a little more integrity. He wore a straw planter’s hat most of the time, but it was missing today. Out of respect, I guessed. He was quick to laugh and quick to pick up a tab at Schooner’s if you had a story worth telling. Aside from the boat and the thousand dollar blazers, there was nothing remarkable about him. Just another friendly boat bum willing to share his good fortune. As usual, Cy Watts was right behind him.
I liked Harry and so did everyone else. But there was something about Cy that made me uneasy. I didn’t know much about his background. He wasn’t loud or crude, but there was brooding swagger to him. He was razor thin, but lined with taut muscle, kind of like an alley cat. He always seemed to be waiting for something to pounce on.
I knew a guy in high school; they called him Big Frank. He’d wait for some of the younger kids to go into the bathroom. Then he’d grin at them, back them up against the wall, and take their lunch money. Cy reminded me a lot of Frank. I was sure he would choose to be a dedicated old-fashioned bully whenever he got the chance. Plenty of charter fishing had burned and hardened him. I figured he could get very mean if the occasion called for it, and maybe if it didn’t.
I never really understood him and Harry. Harry seemed a gentle guy in his own way and Cy was just plain scary. Still, Cy knew his way around a boat. If he couldn’t fix it, he knew who could. Good man to have on board when the big ones were running or if you needed a quick jury rig to get by. He could filet a dolphin without breaking a sweat. What the hell? Harry’s time. Harry’s money. Do what you want with it.
“How the hell are you, T.K.?” Harry stuck out a puffy hand. His voice was a little louder than it should have been.
“About as good as I can be with what happened to Alexis.”
“I know what you mean. That little princess was like a niece to me. I used to keep chocolate kisses, Cokes, ice cream in the fridge. I knew she’d show up regular when that sweet tooth of hers started aching. Haggen-Dazs vanilla with that caramel syrup got her every time. Damned shame. Doesn’t make sense, a pretty little kid like that dead before she gets to grow up. I’m going to miss her. They’ll get the bastard that did it.”
“Hope you’re right, Harry.”
“I am. Listen up T.K., you promised me weeks ago that you and Sunny were going to come to the HAT for a tall, cool, pina colada. I want you to see her. I know you blow boaters like your canvas, but she’s a real beauty. Twin-screw Detroit diesels, two private heads with showers, full size tub in the master, huge captain quarters with a king-sized walk around bed. Hell, I got a wet bar in the salon with booze Donald Trump would envy. She used to belong to one of those big dog movie directors up your way in Wilmington.”
“You’re on, Harry. But it will have to be bourbon for me.”
Harry laughed and popped me on the forearm with his thick palm.
“I forgot you southern boys have got to have your brown whiskey. I hope Maker’s Mark will do you.”
“Yeah,” I said and tried to smile. “Sunny and I are both sort of bummed out. Wouldn’t be very good company right now. Give us a few days. Maybe this weekend.”
“You got it, Captain.” Harry grinned and clapped me in the middle of the back. Cy nodded darkly and they were gone.
Chapter 6
I felt Sunny’s hand kneading the muscles just above my buttocks.
“You don’t look too good, Cap. I got an idea. It’s about over here. I don’t have to be back to the Parrot until five tomorrow. What about a run up to Newfound Harbor?”
I can always count on Sunny to come up with something to bring me back to the land of the living when I’ve been too long with the dead. We drove by her place for a quick change of clothes. Then it was on to Fausto’s Food Palace for two fat rib-eyes, some salad stuff, a twelve pack of Ice House and a bottle of Pinot Noir. Stocked with all of the necessities, we headed for KAMALA. She rocked in her slip impatiently, just waiting to lift her petticoats in Hawk Channel. I cranked up the Universal, disconnected the shore power and slipped the lines while Sunny stowed our goodies in the ice box.
The wind was 10-12 knots out of the southeast. We motored past what the locals call Christmas Tree and Sunset Islands waving at some of the liveaboards anchored in their lee. Sunny took the wheel while I hoisted the mainsail. We left marker 13 to starboard, cleared Whitehead Spit and headed towards Boca Chica in a course of 92 degrees magnetic. Inside the reef, the swells were gentle and rhythmic.
Sunny pulled the fuel cutoff, locked the prop in reverse, and I unfurled the 130% genoa. I tweaked the main and the big genny. Soon the knot meter showed a steady six and a half. I took the helm while Sunny slipped out of her denim cutoffs and T-shirt. Her lanky body was baked brown by the sun. She brushed the honey blond hair off of her forehead and gathered it under an orange visor.
I marveled again at the feel of KAMALA under sail. And the sight of Sunny in that bikini could make me forget there was anything else on the planet. She went below for a minute, then stuck her head out of the hatch. The next thing I saw was a hand thrust out of the companionway with a frosty Ice House in a hugger. A minute more and she was propped against the bulkhead in the cockpit, her long legs crossed at the knees.
I told her about my conversation with Whipsaw and Miss Julianne. A look of disgust dominated her face when I mentioned Malachi Strait. She was quiet for a while. She always got that way when she was thinking. There were only a few regulars at the Parrot and some on the dock who knew about Sunny’s masters in psychology from UVA. She was not your average barmaid and she was quick to let them know if one of the drunks stepped out of line. Jack sometimes joked that she was the best bouncer at the Parrot, but it was at least half true.
“I tell you, Captain, this voodoo stuff sort of freaks me out. We touched on it in a religion class I took in grad school. I don’t remember it all, but this thing with Alexis. The chicken, the sheet, the powder. It all sounds like some sort of ritual killing. There’s supposed to be an evil spirit or witch. I think it’s called the Loup Garou. Some kin
d of werewolf that likes to suck children’s blood. I remember that mothers who believe that stuff threaten their children with the Tonton Macoute. Big bogey man. If you’re bad he’ll take you away to a place where there is only darkness.”
“Maybe Frank Beamon or some of his guys can bring it to a swift end. From what I heard, they’ve got a lot to work with. I think we’ve done all we can do. You were great with Sal. We probably need to lend a sympathetic ear now and then, but that’s about it.”
Sunny had caught that thing in my voice that said I couldn’t talk about anymore. She nodded and sipped her beer.
The breeze stayed with us. We cleared Boca Chica to port and fell off of the wind another ten degrees. Sunny let the sails breathe a bit. Then she settled in and closed her eyes. She looked like some sort of pagan goddess, her breasts heaving gently and the wind tousling the deep gold in her hair. I watched her sleep and tried to put Alexis out of my mind.
In a couple of hours, we’d cleared Loggerhead Key and headed toward the entrance to Newfound Harbor. We left Little Palm Island to starboard. By five we were motoring up between Little Torch and Big Pine.
Sunny steered while I got the big Bruce anchor ready to go. She eased the bow up into the wind, then hit neutral and let the boat coast to a stop. I dropped the anchor and fed the chain over the bow roller into nine feet of blue-green liquid crystal. Sunny hit reverse and set the anchor, then hit the fuel cutoff. Suddenly there was no sound except the light swell caressing the hull and the breeze playing gently in the rigging.
I popped the cork on the Pinot Noir to let the salt air work on it while we went for a swim. The water was a little cool, but we bounced around like two teenaged porpoises. I was trying to wash off the stench of sorrow that had clung to my body since the funeral. I thought it was working. Here there were no dead children, no violence, no wails of agony. Just the wind and the sunset.
I cooked the rib-eyes on the grill, hers medium rare and mine hot, but still bloody. After dinner, we sat in the cockpit and finished off the Pinot while the moon came up. The pale yellow light washed over the decks of KAMALA giving her a pearl-like sheen. Sunny yawned lazily while she watched me out of the corner of her eye. I knew she wasn’t tired. It was her signal. It was time to go below.
We eased down the companionway into the cabin. I flipped on the anchor light, then lit the brass lantern. The orange flame turned the teak golden with warmth. She put her arms around my shoulders and I felt her lips brush my cheek. The scent of cocoanut oil mingled with sweet earthy perspiration. I could feel her hot, moist breath pulsing on my neck. She lifted up my t-shirt and put her lips to my chest. Each time she pulled away, a tiny breeze cooled and soothed the skin she left. She slipped a strap off of her shoulder and in a moment we lay in the v-berth tangled up in nothing more than moonlight and sighs.
At first my sleep was deep and peaceful, but the dream came on. The moonlight had a sickly green hue and the wind complained. I went to the companionway. Alexis sat in the cockpit, an open book cradled in her small white hands. She was naked, small breasts barely heaving. I stood for a moment watching her silent lips mouth the words she read. She looked up, slowly aware of my presence. She turned her head toward me and I could see tiny diamond-like trails running down her cheeks. She lifted her hand and pointed to her neck. The flesh parted in a gaping bloodless wound.
She reached out to me. I wanted to take her hand and pull her to me, lead her to a place where no one could harm her. But my arm was heavy. I felt the muscles tighten like springs being twisted and compressed. I pushed and strained, but it wouldn’t move. Beads of sweat began to detonate on my forehead. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t help.
The tears came faster. Her eyes became black bottomless wells. She stood. Then she lay the book down in the cockpit. Now she began to grow smaller. I tried to reach for her, but my arms lay lifeless at my sides. I was powerless as I watched the dark water devour her.
When I woke, I was standing in the companionway just like the dream. There was no child, but there was a book. It lay on the bench open. The pages were billowing lightly in the breeze, but I could make the lines. “It was many and many a year ago in Kingdom by the sea that a maid there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee.”
I was naked and cold. My mind was turning like some crazed kaleidoscope. It was hard to breathe, but easy to figure out. A dream. A child I loved. Someone I should have protected. I didn’t know. I couldn’t. Still I was sick at her vicious murder.
I told myself it was a normal reaction. Might even happen again, but God I hoped not. I sucked in the pungent salt air. The wind had dropped off and the moonlight performed a pale ballet on the water. I could hear Sunny turning quietly in the v-berth.
I picked up the book. I didn’t remember it, but Sunny or I must have left it on the deck earlier. I returned it to the shelf and went back to bed. Sunny’s body was warm and soft. She hugged me in her sleep.
The morning air was clean and full of life. There were minnows sparkling and boiling near the boat. The sounds of gulls feeding filled the sky as they swooped over the water. A gangly brown pelican paddled by the hull.
I told Sunny nothing.
Chapter 7
We had eased back into Land’s End after a beautiful sail. Sunny had grabbed her things and headed back to her apartment to get ready for work. I had hosed off KAMALA and cleaned up a bit. I was trying to go back into an article I was writing for one of the education journals when I heard a knock on the hull. I stuck my head out of the companionway to see a tall black man standing on the dock. He wore a well-fitted gray suit with a salmon golf shirt buttoned at the neck. He was about my height, skin the color of rich hot chocolate, close cropped black hair, a fine aquiline nose and lips with a hint of feminine shape.
“Good morning, Dr. Fleming. Detective Frank Beamon, Key West Police Department. I’d like a word with you, if you don’t mind. Just some routine questions. Won’t take long.”
I’d heard he was a local hero. He looked the part. High school here and a couple of seasons as starting guard on one of Florida State’s better basketball teams in the late ‘80’s. Only a blown knee had kept him from being drafted by the NBA. The coat didn’t hide the long arms, broad shoulders and flat stomach. He looked like he could still tear you up in a game of one-on-one.
His voice was surprisingly soft. I nodded and motioned him aboard. He took off his leather-soled black loafers, left them on the dock and stepped onto the deck of KAMALA. I noticed a hard bulge on his right hip when he sat.
“Nice boat,” he said, “bet she’s quick in a breeze. I’d like to have one myself someday, but it’s a ways off.”
“Thanks. She moves all right.”
“I understand you knew Alexis Lavalier. She visited you quite often in the afternoons.”
I said she did, explaining her interest in books and how I read to her.
“Good thing. Kids being exposed to quality literature outside of the school environment. Too bad more parents don’t take the time to read to their sons and daughters. Beats the hell out of television and video games, especially the cop shows.”
I laughed a little and nodded. He asked about Alexis’s relationship with me and others on the dock. Who did she visit? How long did she stay? Did she come after dark? What did I know about some of my neighbors? Did she ever talk to me about them? There were lots of questions, but he had a way of making it seem very casual.
Still I had the distinct feeling that he already knew most of the answers. He was listening to me, but the real reason he was on board was to observe. He never took a note, never seemed to stare, but I was certain that he could reconstruct every detail of the deck layout and the cabin interior, not to mention recite every word I’d said. Verbatim.
He wasn’t intimidating. He never seemed to press. I didn’t think I was a suspect, but I figured everyone who knew Alexis was until Detective Frank Beamon decided different. I remembered Whip’s remark. Beamon was
sniffin’ around and I wouldn’t want that bloodhound on my trail. Still it was okay. He had a job to do and I was glad he was doing it. I sensed that he was almost finished, but I was curious about some things myself.
“Detective, this voodoo business? There’s been a lot of talk on the dock. What is the department’s opinion?”
“I’m not sure we are ready to discuss those aspects of the homicide at this time, Dr. Fleming. The crime scene, lab work, forensics. Those things take time and when we do have answers, I’m not sure they will be for public consumption. I can only assure you that we are covering all of the bases. I have a ten year old daughter, myself. I’m afraid I am taking this one somewhat personally.”
He looked me directly in the eye as he spoke. There was menace in his voice. It only confirmed suspicions that he had been over every inch of the crime scene and had strong opinions as to what happened. He uncoiled his long frame and offered his hand.
“By the way, you can forget the ‘Detective stuff,’ just make it Frank.”
“And it’s T.K.’” I said and shook his hand.
“By the way,” he asked. “what’s with the T.K.?’
“It’s short for Theodore Kassel. I didn’t like the sound of either one.”
He laughed, stepped off of KAMALA and turned for one last look.
“Yeah. Nice Boat.”
I noticed a trace of a limp as he ambled down the dock. He was cool, maybe a little distant, but I liked him. I felt better knowing who was leading the investigation and confident that he wouldn’t quit until he’d used his cuffs.
I sat down to finish my coffee and the image of Alexis came flooding into my consciousness. I tried hard to dismiss the dream as some sort of thinly veiled guilt. It’s normal in suicides and untimely deaths for those close to victims to feel some distorted responsibility. But I couldn’t save the child. I knew that, but I was struggling to internalize it. Monica had told Sunny Alexis was at peace. I wasn’t sure.
I knotted my fists and said out loud, “No more dreams, Fleming.” I wanted it to be true.
Chapter 8
I wanted to get off of the boat, get my body moving and my mind tuned into something else. I walked down the dock and decided to go uptown to check my mail. It was about time for my monthly dole from the university. Chris Foster was washing down FOX’S LAIR, his Erickson 29. The turgid hose was snaking around like a pit viper ready to strike. He looked like a drunken juggler, his hands jumping from nozzle to brush to detergent in a constant blur. He was covered in sweat, suds, and hose spray.
