Buzzard Bay (21 page)

Their main concern now was that someone would come to look at the crash before the APCO guys were loaded and gone. It was an eternity before the last bags were loaded on the trucks and the tarps secured. The rest of the men left to go back wherever they had been working before. The two drivers stood talking, having a smoke.

“Come on, come on,” Larry said under his breath.

Finally, the two drivers climbed in the trucks and headed out toward the main gate. From now on, things could get dirty. Bob, Bill, and Larry got in an old pickup Bill had brought over from Miami and slowly followed the trucks.

They weren’t too worried about losing the trucks; there weren’t too many places they could go. Dale stayed behind at the project to keep them informed of any people or events which might show up. The three men were relieved to see the two trucks parked at the Andros Hotel when they arrived. So far, everything had gone the way they planned.

They found it hard to believe that these men would leave trucks loaded with at least a million dollars worth of cocaine parked at a bar unattended while they went in for a beer. Darkness comes quick at this latitude; one minute the sun goes down, the next it’s dark. Larry went into the bar; he would try to mingle with the two drivers, buy them a beer, and find out what their plans were.

Meanwhile Bob and Bill went to work. They let the air out of the truck tires. Bill got the hoods open and pulled the spark plug wires off. Then he found the radiator taps and drained the radiators. Bob went into the hotel lobby and called Horatio Norton, telling him what was going down.

“They’re parked at the Andros Hotel,” Bob told him. “That’s where we plan to make our stand.”

Horatio sounded scared. “Why didn’t you just leave it there?” Horatio asked.

“Because as long as the stuff is on the project, we don’t know who they’d hold responsible and my conscience wouldn’t let me,” Bob told him.

“Okay, we’ll be right there, just stay back.”

Norton met them in the parking lot. Norton snuck over to one of the trucks and cut the tarp covering it and then checked the contents to make sure it did indeed contain what Bill and Bob had told him. He came back with a hand full of white powder.

“Do you fellows have any idea what you’ve gotten all of us into?” Norton sounded upset. “I’ve got five inexperienced men here who are going to have to try and hold this stuff until I get help from Nassau, and when I tell them what’s going down, they probably won’t come.”

“There are only two drivers in there,” Bob responded, “and the trucks aren’t going anywhere.”

You don’t have a clue do you, Mr. Green?” Norton had met these men before at different functions around the island. They were good men who had no idea what they were caught up in. “The people who push the white powder do not leave this kind of money lying around. They’ll be here sooner or later, and we’re the guys who are going to have to deal with them.”

“Damn,” Bob responded, “I’d better phone Dale and see if anyone’s showed up at the project.”

He took off to use the phone in the hotel, while Norton consulted with his men as to what they should do.

Bob came running back. “Dale says a plane came in about an hour ago. As far as he could make out, there were four men. They met with one of the APCO managers, and now they’ve taken a boat out to look at the wreck.”

“Well, if there are only four of them, we might be able to handle them,” Norton said.

They don’t know where we are,” Bob said. “Maybe they won’t find us.”

“They’ll find the trucks, remember? You disabled them,” Norton replied.

Bob and Bill began to realize maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“What do you think they’ll do?” Bob asked, beginning to realize how dangerous a position they were in.

“They’ll come for their shit, you can bet on that. What they have planned for after that I can only guess. They can take the stuff back to the farm or call in the boats to Buzzard Bay.” Norton told them.

“You know about Buzzard Bay?” Bob asked incredulously.

“I’ve been told to mind my own business,” Norton responded, “which is what I wish some other people I know would do. However,” Norton went on, “I think they’ll call in the boats. I’ve notified the Americans at Fresh Creek, and they got clearance from Nassau to use their choppers, and that’s what we’re going to do. My men don’t want to get involved here, and I don’t blame them.”

Bill still had no idea what kind of men they were dealing with, “You should be able to handle four men,” Bill said.

“We’ll see,” Norton answered.

It was close to ten o’clock when Larry came around by the back and found them in the darkness. “They’ll be out soon. They told me they’re driving down to Buzzard Bay with a load of potatoes for the barge.”

“I guess you were right Horatio, we should have asked you before we dismantled the trucks,” Bob lamented.

“Well, I do know for sure what’s on those trucks, and the smartest thing you did was to get them off the farm. I think you’re right. They’ll think Tom Newman and these drivers stole the cocaine. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes when the people come for them. In fact, if you happen to see Newton, you’d better tell him to disappear. He probably will anyway.”

Bill and Bob found all this hard to believe, but Larry confirmed what Norton was telling them, and that they should get the hell out of here. They all watched to see what would happen when the drivers tried to start their trucks. It all happened so quick that no one seemed to realize what was going on.

Two dark figures appeared out of the shadows; at the same time there were two quiet pops, and the drivers slumped. The dark figures caught them up and dragged them back into the shadows. Bob thought it was Norton’s men who were the cause of that, until he heard Norton on his radio telling his men to get the hell away from here. More black figures ascended on the trucks; when they didn’t start, it didn’t take them long to know they’d been sabotaged.

They heard a shout, “Check the edges, check the edges.”

That’s us,” Norton told them. “They suspect we’re here, get moving.” The rock ridge they’d been watching the hotel from wasn’t very high, but it was rugged terrain, and the men just ran for their lives. Finally, out of exhaustion, Bob fell into a hole behind some rocks. To his surprise, a bunch of bodies piled in with him. They all lay breathing heavily until they caught their breath, and then they crawled back up to see what they could see. Down below they saw the lights of the two trucks leaving the hotel.

“That didn’t hold them long did it,” Bill said quietly.

Bob put his hand on Bill’s arm and pointed to a man quickly passing through the shadows across from them. He felt Bill begin to shake as they watched the man search through the rocks and then slide away from them. They lay still for a long time then made their way back to where they’d parked their truck hoping no one had found it. They were glad to see Norton was already there with his men. It was still a few minutes before midnight. Larry went round the truck and put the tailgate down. Bill had put some beer in the cab; it was warm but who cared.
“That’s about as scared as I ever want to be,” Bob said.

“I think that’s what will save you guys,” Norton told them. “They’ll never think you had the ball or the brains to pull this off.”

It was close to an hour later when they first saw the sky light up to the east. They were a good three or four miles away from Buzzard Bay, but the flares lit up the night sky, and then there were several flashes like fireworks just below the tree line. It was a spectacular show, fascinating and yet terrifying. They could hear a continuous sound like someone beating on a drum. Suddenly, everything stopped. It was quiet, and then it started all over again only farther away.

“Let’s get out of here,” Norton told them. “I hope no one’s missed you at the farm. Whatever you do, don’t get scared and run. That will be a dead giveaway.”

They started back to the project, little was said. Each had their own thoughts about what had happened and what the future would hold.

FOURTEEN

A
LMOST TWO YEARS
have passed since the plane crash and the incident at the Andros Hotel. Everything had pretty well gone downhill from there, and there was no sign of it getting any better.

I sit on a Florida beach looking over the pounding surf, toward the Bahamas only a hundred and thirty miles away. Those islands that sparkle like diamonds hold my future. Love is a strange thing. Men spend their lives in the pursuit of money and fame. The heart is the biggest motivator of all. A man in love will leave wealth and fame and all his worldly possessions in pursuit of an overwhelming passion in his heart. Some men never experience this passion, maybe they’re incapable or maybe they’re caught up in worldly possessions, but it’s the heart that makes men great. On the other hand, love can also make a man foolish.

My impulse tells me to jump on a plane, go to her and hand in hand, face our adversaries as we have done so many times before. This time I’m not even sure who our adversaries are. I think it’s Waddell, but maybe he’s just a cog in the wheel that keeps running over us. Whoever it is, they have no idea of the passion that drives me to get to July, they only know I will try.

I must not be foolish if I’m to succeed, but the waiting is driving me crazy. Not knowing what’s happening 130 miles across this ocean barrier consumes my mind as I sit on a crowded beach blending in with the other sun worshippers. It has been over a week since I talked to Arthur and still no answer.

My wounds have healed, the scars blending into my sun bronzed skin. I also have streaked gray hair, and a beard. My life has become similar to that of a man TV called the ‘Fugitive’. I keep moving from hotel to hotel, changing my name, never staying in one place too long. Every day I stop at a newsstand looking through the papers to see if I can find anything about myself, but Canada is not high on Florida’s newspaper priorities.

Eventually, I do find a headline in a world news column about the mysterious case of eight bodies being found in a remote area of Saskatchewan. Three bodies had been found shot to death and five others burned beyond recognition in a house fire. The story went on to say that a Mountie had also been found murdered in the same area, and that it was suspected the victims were tied together in a mass murder. There are no pictures and big headlines which make me feel better.

At another newsstand, I find a small Quebec newspaper written in French. Florida has a large French population drawn by the lure of warm, sunny weather replacing Quebec’s cold long winters and tall snow banks.

My French is very limited, but I bought the paper to see if the story is of any interest in the rest of Canada. It doesn’t take me long to find it. On the inside page in bold letters, “Meurtre en Masse” jumps out at me. Below the headline is a grainy picture of a scruffy character looking exactly like a mass murderer should look.

The problem being the picture is of me. The picture was probably taken by the Mounties or from the surveillance cameras when I was being interrogated. What scares me is that my new beard is now making me look slightly scruffy resembling the man in the picture. I look up, sure that everyone around will recognize me. I have to fight down the panic and start walking quickly back to my hotel room.

Once in my room, I head straight for the bathroom mirror, comparing myself to the picture. I realize no one could really recognize me from the poor quality photograph. Actually, my beard has grown out enough to look presentable, and my hair looks nothing like the photograph. The scar on my forehead is nearly indistinguishable, whereas the man in the picture sported a large bandage.

My confidence renewed, I again return to the street and head for the phone booth whose number I had given Arthur to call. Every night at six o’clock, I make my pilgrimage to the phone booth waiting for an hour before returning to wherever my hotel room might be that night.

On the tenth day, Arthur finally phones. “Sorry I took so long, but it takes time to arrange these things,” Arthur explains. Next, he asks if I have any money, “It will cost a good deal of money to carry this out,” he tells me.

“How much?” I want to know.

“For you, US $5,000,” he says.

July and I have about $10 grand in our numbered account. “Okay Arthur, I can handle that. What’s the scoop?”

“At Pompano Beach, there’s a boat channel right beside the lighthouse,” Arthur tells me. “You’ll see a dredge working at the mouth of the channel. The dredge has a small barge working with it to move the pipes around. The barge will take you out to my brother’s fishing boat. The weather and timing must be right, so I will phone you at the same time and place as now. You will have to be ready to leave that same night,” Arthur finishes.

“Okay,” I answer. “Any idea how long I’ll have to wait?”

“No,” Arthur tells me, “it could be a few days. Things have to be right. The cash must be up-front, $1,000 to the barge man and $4,000 to my brother. That’s dirt cheap, Bob. I hope you realize they are doing this only for you and July.”

“I appreciate this, Arthur,” I tell him. “Speaking of July, how is she?”

Arthur lets out a sigh, “I’m not sure where she is, Bob. She and Rikker were hiding out in the old barrel shack on False Creek. When my cousin went to check on them, they were gone. We don’t know whether they moved somewhere else or what happened. They didn’t leave a message. Don’t worry, Bob, they have lots of friends here. They’ll be all right.”

“Okay, Arthur,” I say, the wind sucked right out of me. “Please try to get your brother to hurry. I’ve got to get to them.”

“Don’t do anything foolish, Bob, you’re not worth anything to them dead.” With that, he rings off.

I know he’s right, but the waiting is so hard; when your loved ones are so close yet so far away, the urge to throw all caution to the wind is overwhelming. I return to my hotel room but can’t sleep, my mind wandering back to those fateful days after Tom left the project. If it hadn’t been for July, I would never have kept going.