Brigands Key Page 20

  “What can I do? I don’t have any idea…”

  “Roscoe found it, whatever it is. Some Goddamn treasure. We know he didn’t hide it in his house or on his boat. Maybe it’s on the island, but I don’t think it is. The killer doesn’t think so either.”

  “Why do you say that?” Hammond asked.

  “Because he—or she—has been watching us. All of us. If the killer thought we could get to it that easily, he wouldn’t give me four hours. He’d give me a half-hour. He’s convinced it’s off-island.”

  Charley’s eyes widened. “The coordinates.”

  “Exactly. You and Roscoe scoped out my spring out in the Gulf. I know the coordinates down to the foot. Roscoe’s return trip was close, really close, but not exactly the same spot. I need the exact fix.”

  Hammond shook his head. “What’s the point? You can’t get off the island. We’re in lockdown by both land and sea. The Coast Guard will intercept you or gun you down before you get a hundred yards. And you can’t seriously be thinking of going onto the water in the teeth of a hurricane.”

  “That’s why I need your help, Jerry.”

  “I’m not liking the direction this is going.”

  “You’re going to like it a lot less once you hear me out.”

  Charley glanced at his mother and Callie. “I’m not leaving them, Dr. Grant.”

  Grant saw the pain in Charley’s face. He turned toward Hammond. “We can’t infect the mainland. That would be criminal. How sure are you this thing is not a contagion?”

  “It’s not contagious.”

  “How sure?”

  “A hundred percent. We’re a political football. The island has been poisoned. It’s not contagious.”

  “Good enough.” Grant turned back to Charley. “You love them, Charley. I know that. And this is how we fix it.” And Grant told them his plan.

  * * *

  Grant crept from the shadows toward the dock. The Coast Guard patrol boat had moved closer from its earlier mooring and had anchored in the channel a mere fifty yards out. Five seamen milled about on the boat, watching the commotion on the bridge, some two hundred yards to the north. Some had binoculars. Another seaman leaned against the stern railing, keeping an eye southward. His silhouette was black, but a tiny red glow marked the cigarette he was working on.

  Grant swore silently. The dock lay in the pool of white light from a trio of overhead lamps. He wouldn’t be able to set foot on it with the patrol boat so close.

  The crowd was buzzing at the foot of the bridge. As if on cue, Julie strode out onto the bridge. A cheer arose and the entire crowd fell in behind her.

  The march had begun.

  The Guardsman on the stern flicked his cigarette into the water and said something to his mates, pointing to the bridge. The anchor line was hauled in and the engine rumbled. The boat moved slowly farther out into the channel and turned toward the bridge.

  Grant slipped out of the shadows, crouching along a tattered hedge, and ran out onto the dock. His boat, Lost Expedition, was moored in slip twenty-eight, near the end of the dock in the least protected spot, one of a handful of slips rented to visitors at an inflated rate. A single lamp lit that end of the dock with a weak light. He reached the boat and slipped quietly aboard. He took a baseball bat out from under the console and knocked out the light bulb with a pop and a show of sparks. He ducked low and watched the patrol boat for a second. No reaction. They hadn’t noticed the blown bulb.

  He stood and waved. Four figures emerged from the shadows at the foot of the dock and hurried toward him.

  One of the figures stopped at slip seven and clambered aboard the giant cabin cruiser moored there. The Ellie June, Mayor Johnson’s pride and joy. Only it wasn’t Johnson that climbed into the captain’s chair. It was Hammond. One of only three people on the island that knew that Johnson kept a spare ignition key hidden on Ellie June, taped to the underside of the console.

  The remaining three reached Lost Expedition. Charley helped his mother and Callie aboard. “Ma,” he said, “this is Dr. Grant. Dr. Grant, this is my mom.”

  “Call me Phoebe,” Charley’s mother said. Her eyes were red and misty.

  “Phoebe, Callie, welcome aboard.” He handed them each a life jacket. “Put these on. Are you good swimmers?”

  Phoebe nodded, a bit annoyed. “I’m an island girl.”

  Callie shook her head. Her eyes widened. “I can’t swim.”

  “We’ll do our damnedest to stay afloat. If we go in, don’t panic. You can’t sink with your jacket on. Just kick toward shore.”

  The rain began falling again.

  A guttural purr sounded. Ellie June eased out from her slip. Her running lights were dark. A whiff of oil and gas drifted across the dock.

  “Everyone down,” Grant whispered.

  Hammond guided the cruiser slowly away from the dock and into the channel and headed south. Away from the bridge.

  Grant peered over the gunwale, watching closely. The first Coast Guard boat was still moving toward the bridge. So far, so good. Ellie June had not been spotted, and drew slowly toward the patrol boat guarding the south tip of the island.

  Grant tossed the lines and slipped Lost Expedition free of its moorings. The wind blew a good fifteen knots from the northwest, the backflow from one of Celeste’s feeder bands. Grant pushed the boat clear of the slip, hopped back onto the dock, and dragged the bowline southward, orienting his boat. He jumped back on board and let the wind push the boat out.

  The engines of Ellie June throttled up to a full roar. She rose up on a heavy, white wake and accelerated southward.

  Grant’s companions eased up beside him, unable to resist the show.

  Ellie June rushed headlong toward the patrol boat. A spotlight flashed on and lit the water, illuminating rain like fireflies, and swept in the direction of the oncoming cabin cruiser. The patrol boat’s engines sounded to life.

  The searchlight found Ellie June and she glowed a brilliant white. A distant amplified voice barked out a warning. Still, Ellie June rushed ahead, straight at the Coast Guard boat.

  The patrol boat swung broadside toward Ellie June. Grant focused binoculars on the boat. It was eighty feet long, armed with two mounted deck guns. He counted seven crewmen on deck, each unslinging weapons and assuming firing positions along the gunwale. Two more appeared and stepped behind the deck guns and swiveled them toward Ellie June.

  Ellie June had one advantage: the bigger patrol boats would lack her maneuverability and would be pinched by the narrow channel.

  Another warning echoed across the water. Then a gunshot and a spray of white, ten yards ahead of Hammond.

  To the north, the first Coast Guard boat had swung about. Two seamen pointed southward, shouting. The boat seemed unsure.

  Forty yards from the patrol boat, Ellie June swerved hard left, kicking up a high foaming wake, and raced northward.

  The southern boat throttled up and gave chase.

  “It’s working!” Charley said.

  Grant nodded. “Keep your fingers crossed.” He slid into the pilot’s seat and fingered the ignition. Ellie June approached fast and would pass by fifty yards out, with the Coast Guard in hot pursuit, leaving its assigned post.

  The first boat swung about and moved to intercept.

  Hammond showed no sign of slowing.

  Just a few more seconds…

  A beam of light suddenly played across Lost Expedition.

  “Charley Fawcett,” a voice called from behind.

  Grant wheeled. A burly young man stood ten yards away on the dock, pointing a flashlight. He took a step closer, staggered a bit.

  In his other trembling hand he carried a revolver.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Randy Sanborn hurried to the edge of the bridge and peered over. The crowd turned in the direction of the roar of engines and jammed against the guardrail, straining to see.

  At the far end of the bridge, a searchlight swept out over the water from
the cordon of National Guardsmen.

  A large cabin cruiser zigzagged toward the bridge. Sanborn recognized it immediately.

  Mayor Johnson trundled up beside him. His jaw dropped. “Who the hell is stealing my boat?” he bellowed. Not his best moment as mayor.

  The patrol boat nearest the bridge revved its engine and swung wide to intercept Ellie June but she swerved hard to starboard, drawing the Coast Guard boat with it, and cut sharply back to port, blowing past the accelerating patrol boat. The cruiser raced underneath the bridge, a glowing white wake trailing behind, directly underneath the onlookers. A man leaned out from under the canopy, into the pursuing spotlights, and waved at the crowd with a grin.

  “Thanks for letting me borrow your boat, Ralph,” the man yelled. “Handles like a dream!”

  “Damn you, Hammond!” Johnson roared. “You’re fired!”

  Hammond flipped him off and Ellie June raced northward, the two Coast Guard boats in pursuit. At the far north end of the island, the third Coast Guard boat moved into position.

  * * *

  Charley looked from the revolver to Tyler Fulton’s face, and back to the revolver.

  “Kid,” Grant said, “what the hell are you doing?”

  Tyler shined his light in Grant’s eyes. The beam of light quivered. “You’re getting out?”

  “Yeah, Fulton,” Charley said. “We’re getting out. You’re not stopping us.”

  Tyler swung the beam back onto Charley. Charley’s foot felt for the oar lashed against the interior of the gunwale. It would make a decent weapon, with a lot of reach. He might be able to strike Fulton with it if the bastard was distracted. He ran through a mental count of how quickly he could seize the oar and bring it into play. A couple seconds at least. Not promising. Even a moron like Fulton could squeeze off six shots before getting whacked. And Fulton was a very quick and athletic moron.

  “Kid, you don’t want to shoot us,” Grant said. “Put the gun away.”

  Good. Grant was keeping his attention. Charley steeled his nerves. Years-long rage at Fulton and his asshole buddies, at the bullying, the jokes, bubbled to the surface. On three, he told himself, drop and grab the oar and swing it with all your might.

  “Think… think you can do it?” Fulton asked.

  One…

  “With a lot of luck.”

  Two…

  Tyler turned the revolver handle first and extended it to Charley. “Fawcett, man, let me come with you. I’m real sick.”

  Charley was stunned.

  “Charley,” Tyler said, “please, man. My aunt died today. I got no other family. And I don’t want to die on this shit-pile alone.” He sank to his knees and keeled over, clutching his gut, and vomited.

  Charley felt his rage evaporating. He glanced toward Grant.

  Grant seemed to read him, and nodded gently. “Let the past go, Charley. It’s time to be a man.”

  Charley looked at his mother and at Callie. He turned to Tyler and swallowed. He climbed onto the dock and took the revolver and handed it to Grant. “We got to hurry, Tyler,” he said. “Each second wasted is a second we might get caught. Or killed.” He hesitated, and put his arms around Tyler, still hunched over and heaving. “Come on, man. I’ve got you.”

  Tyler nodded weakly.

  Charley hooked an arm around him and helped him aboard. Turning to Grant, he said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Grant shoved the boat away from the dock and switched the engine on. The engine rumbled and Lost Expedition swung into the channel.

  “Keep down,” Grant said. “The boats are gone but we don’t want to attract attention.”

  Running dark, with no lights, Grant kept near the edge of the island, skirting the channel. When he was sure he was out of sight of the bridge, he throttled up and raced southward. Lost Expedition cleared the lee of the island, and storm-driven waves smacked the boat. Everyone aboard stumbled and grabbed onto anything they could find to steady themselves.

  “Rough sledding, people,” Grant said. A big wave struck broadside, threatening to swamp them. “This is why they issue small-craft warnings.” He angled the boat sharply into the oncoming waves and rushed out to sea.

  Lost Expedition flew southwest as fast as Grant dared take her, bouncing hard off the waves, jarring everyone with each bounce. After ten minutes, he veered left, southeast, and headed toward the mainland. With the waves at their backs it was like surfing, riding along with long, high waves.

  Another ten minutes and the blackness that was the shore loomed ahead of them. Grant slowed, checked his GPS. They were seven miles south of the island.

  A pair of headlights blinked on and off twice, a hundred yards ahead. He glanced at his watch. Right on time. Grant plowed ahead toward the lights. “Take the wheel,” he said to Charley. “Try not to kill us.”

  The coast was more marsh, mangrove thickets, and flats than solid land. Grant slowed to a crawl thirty yards from the swamped edge and swung the boat hard about, bow into the waves, and throttled the power to keep them in place. Waves crashed into the mangroves, threatening to throw the boat into the tangle. He motioned to Charley.

  Charley nodded and took the wheel with a death-grip. Grant stumbled in the pitching boat to a stowage locker under the cabin and retrieved the rubber raft he kept there. He unrolled the material and yanked the cord. A CO2 cartridge hissed and the raft ballooned into shape.

  Grant handed Phoebe a pair of short paddles. “Keep low, keep balanced, and paddle like hell,” he shouted, lowering the raft onto the churning water. “You’ll be there in thirty seconds. My friend Terry is there and will haul you in and take you to Tampa. He’ll get you rooms and keep you under wraps until it's okay to come out.”

  Phoebe Fawcett and Callie climbed into the raft. Tyler Fulton hesitated.

  “Go ahead, son,” Grant said.

  “Just a minute,” Tyler said. He stumbled over to Charley. Charley tensed.

  Tyler held out his hand. “Charley, man… thanks. I’m sorry. I don’t deserve this.”

  Charley nodded. “Better get going, Tyler.”

  “I owe you.”

  “Just keep my mom and my girl safe.”

  Callie and Phoebe looked at Charley, a realization dawning upon them. “Charley,” Callie said, “what are you doing? Get in the raft.”

  “Can’t. Kyoko’s in big trouble. I came this far without saying anything because I knew you’d fight me on this.”

  “Charley…”

  “It’s okay. We have to find Kyoko. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  “Charley, you won’t be alive in two days!” Phoebe cried.

  “I’ll come for you, Ma. I promise.”

  “We’re not leaving you!”

  “Row for shore, Ma. I love you. Tyler, I need that favor now. Get them to shore.”

  Tyler nodded, a look of resolve in his eyes. He shoved the raft clear and leaned into his paddle, pulling hard.

  Lost Expedition pulled away.

  Callie’s cries were lost in the rush of wind and water.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Dave Perault leaned close to the cockpit window of the Apache helicopter, wondering if his eyes and the weather were playing tricks on him. A flash of white had been illuminated by lightning for an instant. Then all was blackness on the sea below once more. Hurricane lightning was rare enough in itself. That it may have found something, out here, in this mess, was almost unthinkable.

  “I need video, Adams,” he said. “Fifteen degrees south of west.”

  “You see something?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  The screen flickered and the eerie whites and blacks of night vision danced on the screen. Endless whitecaps of waves rolled across the screen like interference on a crappy old TV.

  “There it is, sir. Small craft.” The screen image zoomed closer.

  “Got it. Criminy.”

  A small sport boat was heading out to sea, straight into the teeth of the approaching storm. />
  “They’re breaking quarantine, sir,” Adams said.

  “No shit. What’s our range?”

  “Two miles distant. They have no idea we’re here.”

  “Take us down to a hundred feet, and two hundred in front of the boat.”

  “Down?” Adams clearly hated the idea. “We’re at five hundred feet already.”

  “Yeah, down. Take us to a hundred.”

  “Sir, we can take ’em out from here with the guns.”

  Perault shook his head. You could always count on a snot-nose to recommend the guns. Snot-noses loved the sheer destruction a 30-mm cannon could wreak. “Take us down. Now.”

  As if to suggest that it wasn’t a good idea, a gust of wind rocked the helicopter. “Shit,” Adams said, struggling to correct.

  The chopper dipped and banked southwest. “Close enough,” Perault said. The little boat plowed through the unceasing parade of waves below them, heading out into the open sea. Waves were coming in ragged, rearing to ten feet, blasting white against the boat’s bow, and whitecapping as the wind blew the crests apart.

  “I’ve seen stupid before,” Adams said. “This beats all.”

  The boat lumbered onward. Two men were aboard, and glanced up at the aircraft but made no change in their direction.

  “Flash ’em,” Perault said.

  Adams nodded and flipped the searchlight on and off.

  The boat continued on its path, undeterred.

  “What should we do, sir?”

  “Squeeze off a burst in front of her. That’ll get their attention.”

  Adams swung the gunship around. The ghostly image in the night-vision screen filled with flashes of light as the cannon rattled and spat. The sea before the boat exploded.

  The image settled. The boat plowed onward.

  “No change, sir. Shall I hit ’em for real?”

  Perault watched the screen.

  “Sir? The target’s not responding to threats. Recommend we take ’em out.”

  “Adams, when we get back to base I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”

  “Sir?”

  “What made you so damned bloodthirsty? We ain’t taking out our own.”

  “Sir, national security is at stake!”

  “Bullshit. I fired across their bow to get ’em to turn back so they wouldn’t die. They ain’t turning back so they got good reasons, I reckon. They’re heading into a hurricane. They’re heading into death, and any damned fool could see that. Let ’em go.”