Authors: Sarah Andrews
Killer Dust (29 page)
We came out the far side of Lake Okeechobee through locks that stood open at both ends, but the railroad bridge just beyond it was down, and we had to stop and wait for it to be lifted.
“Lake’s down two feet,” Miles informed me. “No need to drop us into the canal, we’re already at the same level. Okay, here comes the train. Damn, another load of limestone.”
I peered ahead through the front windows of the pilothouse, watching the gondola cars rumble by. When they passed, the section of track over the river began to rise as counterweights descended to either side. Like every other object sticking more than five feet above the surrounding terrain in Florida, it had cell-phone antennae on it, a nasty reminder that I wasn’t doing my job.
Miles noted my interest in the bridge. He said, “Even with that clearance, some sailboats can’t get their masts under. So there’s a guy makes his money coming out here with a couple plastic barrels he’ll tie to your mast, and he pumps water into them so’s the boat heels over enough they can squeeze it under.”
Waltrine muttered, “Here in Florida, everybody’s got a scam.”
I could see no signs of civilization other than the lock and the railroad bridge. Everything else was a solid bank
of green jungle down both sides of the canal that now stretched east of us.
of green jungle down both sides of the canal that now stretched east of us.
“Welcome to the St. Lucie canal,” Miles said. “This vegetation is just a thin wall. “There’s orange groves beyond. Used to be like that all the way through to the coast, but there’s a network of canals and drainage ditches that run all through here like a grid. There’s the outlet for one of them,” he said, pointing to shallower canals that spilled out into the St. Lucie from either side.
The canal and side ditches were cut into limestone, and in no way resembled a natural river system. The side ditches came in at right angles and dropped over concrete ramps, and the St. Lucie was a constant width, its squared-off banks cut into the rock giving the edge of the waterway the appearance of a curb. The contrast between rampant nature and man’s slice through it was extreme.
The boat chugged onward, kicking up its coffee-colored wake. “And not all of this remaining fringe of swamp vegetation is native, not by far,” Miles intoned. “That’s Brazilian pepper tree there, a real scourge. Brought in back in the 1930s as an ornamental. Now it’s all over the place, and you can’t get rid of it for love or money. Birds drop the seeds all over the place. Crowds out the natives like you wouldn’t believe. That’s Australian pine. Same kind of problem. Sucks up water. It’s a mess.” He sighed.
I gazed at him as he sat there expounding on unnaturalness, ensconced in his air-conditioned trawler, sucking down drinks that clinked with ice from the chest freezer in the galley, and I thought,
None of us is quite in sync with anything anymore. Or more accurately, not one of us is entirely in synch with everything
. I felt sad and discouraged, and wondered if I was catching Miles Guffey’s malaise. He was not only a bull elk caught in the mire, he was an aging elk forced to watch the world proceed into a future he did not wish to inhabit. His was the disease of aging sages everywhere, who look out on the unconsciousness of younger generations and call it madness.
None of us is quite in sync with anything anymore. Or more accurately, not one of us is entirely in synch with everything
. I felt sad and discouraged, and wondered if I was catching Miles Guffey’s malaise. He was not only a bull elk caught in the mire, he was an aging elk forced to watch the world proceed into a future he did not wish to inhabit. His was the disease of aging sages everywhere, who look out on the unconsciousness of younger generations and call it madness.
Our run down the St. Lucie canal took on a sense of
stateliness. I got to hanging out at the stern studying the symmetry of the wake that rolled out behind us like static wrinkles. Because all things were constant—the width of the canal, our speed through the water, the angle and amplitude of the waves—the wake was in a constant state of breaking against the curb of the canal. I stared at it in wonder and resignation, surprised and yet resigned to find another layer of Florida just as synthetic and hypnotic as the land of Mickey Mouse.
stateliness. I got to hanging out at the stern studying the symmetry of the wake that rolled out behind us like static wrinkles. Because all things were constant—the width of the canal, our speed through the water, the angle and amplitude of the waves—the wake was in a constant state of breaking against the curb of the canal. I stared at it in wonder and resignation, surprised and yet resigned to find another layer of Florida just as synthetic and hypnotic as the land of Mickey Mouse.
The largest of the thunderheads grew steadily toward us. At length, the downpour started, great splooshing drops that bounced and rolled on the waves like glassine pebbles before giving up their clarity and merging into the darkness of the waters of the canal.
I told myself that I was trying to figure out how to extort the information Tom needed from Miles, but the fight was quickly spilling out of me. I wondered if it was in anybody’s best interest to do as Tom had bidden me. Certainly if I gave him the information he sought, he would be in more danger than if I didn’t. Jack had found the damned missile, and we had dug it up, so the shuttle launch was no longer at risk. Or so I hoped. And Tom would stop the launch if he deemed it necessary. Jack was out there somewhere in the Bahamas gunk-holing about in his borrowed sailboat, and at a rate of 700 islands and 2,400 islets, he’d be at it for quite some time, just as clueless as Brad and Tom. I tried to tell myself that they were just a pack of overenthusiastic puppies and that they’d all come yipping on home when they got hungry enough.
The only problem was that, just like Jack and Tom, I wanted to know where the man who had buried that hideous weapon in my soil had gone, and I wanted him gone for good.
So where was he?
Jack seemed to think he had gone offshore. Why? Because he had the profile of a drugrunner, and drugrunners in these parts zipped about in fast boats or small planes,
meaning they were going to another jurisdiction that was not far away.
meaning they were going to another jurisdiction that was not far away.
The sediments inside the plastic case suggested the weapon had received its crude packaging in the Bahamas, but perhaps even that was wrong. If it was correct, one might suppose he was somewhere in one of the groups of islands closer to the Florida peninsula, but that might not be so. Fast boats went as fast as fast cars, and the distances were not great.
My mind wandered. There was also the question of Calvin Wheat. How had he gotten to Freeport in a wet tuxedo? Why had he kept his miraculous survival a secret? And precisely what mission had brought him across the Caribbean, and Miles and Waltrine across the state?
I could not unravel even one of those knots.
So I stared at the wake. From the back of the boat. Watching where we had been instead of where we were going. And in so doing, figured it all out.
I had been trying to figure out where a terrorist would go from Florida if he were trying to hide. Instead, by watching the wake leave the boat, I turned the logic around and considered the evidence from the other end of the chain: If I were a terrorist trying to run an operation just off the Florida coast, where would I put it so that I could hide it in plain sight?
The answer was damned simple when I lined up
all
the evidence: not just Jack’s, but also Calvin Wheat’s. I mentally checked and crosschecking my idea to see if it held together, starting with what I knew of Calvin Wheat.
all
the evidence: not just Jack’s, but also Calvin Wheat’s. I mentally checked and crosschecking my idea to see if it held together, starting with what I knew of Calvin Wheat.
The good Dr. Wheat had embarked on a cruise and had been thrown overboard. (It made less and less sense that he might have jumped; speaking for myself, if I were going to jump off a ship with the idea of swimming ashore, I’d have worn something other than a tuxedo). Wheat was a microbiologist who had a gripe with another microbiologist who had a known expertise with weapons-grade anthrax. That anthrax-wielding microbiologist had last been seen heading offshore, supposedly to the Bahamas. The two men had been scheduled to meet at the conference on Barbados, but only one had arrived.
Next, I considered Jack Sampler’s behavior.
Jack had gone to Florida to help Lucy prevent a madman from threatening the space shuttle. Jack had gone incommunicado
for several days, and then had come to Tom with the location of an illicit weapon designed to take down aircraft. Believing this à la carte terrorist to be acting alone, Jack preferred likewise to go it alone than call in a posse. Presumably Lucy disliked publicity.
for several days, and then had come to Tom with the location of an illicit weapon designed to take down aircraft. Believing this à la carte terrorist to be acting alone, Jack preferred likewise to go it alone than call in a posse. Presumably Lucy disliked publicity.
What the two lines of evidence had in common were a) weapons, b) terrorism, and c) the Bahamas. So next I considered the Bahamas.
The Bahamas had a long history of looking the other way regarding pirates and smugglers of all stripes; so, who would get excited if the owner of a sunny little islet happened to import a few moderate-sized weapons? And who would notice a small laboratory in which someone was culturing a drum or two of anthrax? I realized that Tom and Jack did not fully understand the enmity between Calvin Wheat and Ben Farnswroth, or Chip Hiller for that matter. It was also common knowledge that cruise lines purchased whole small islands in the Bahamas to provide a “private” taste of paradise to their customers. Such settings commonly had paramilitary “guards” looking over them. And, one might suppose, a well-stocked islet might also have a tiny clinic, just right for culturing germs. Such an operation would be a magnet for men who do not fit in normal society: psychopaths of every variety.
Tom and Jack wanted to believe that the stalker was working for drugrunners. I saw the potential for a terrorist cell. The FBI had certainly guessed wrong before.
Putting the whole picture together, I had one very pissed-off microbiologist on his way to settle a score with a competitor who might very likely have gone to work for terrorists, and my boyfriend trying to find a psychopath he believed to be a solo act. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that both might be working out of the same island, and that the thing they would have in common would be a terrorist cell that was larger and better organized than either of them. Calvin Wheat had gotten a free ride on the wrong cruise line, perhaps by a design of which he was not aware. His old nemesis had discovered that he was aboard, or even
engineered it, and had made sure he would not make it to the the conference, let alone the private islet. A group hiding surface-to-air missiles and an anthrax lab on its island might not notice if one of their errand boys took off with one of their boats and one of their missiles to settle an old score. Miles Guffey and crew did not know the magnitude of the terrorist cell. Jack did not know for whom his miscellaneous psychopath was working.
engineered it, and had made sure he would not make it to the the conference, let alone the private islet. A group hiding surface-to-air missiles and an anthrax lab on its island might not notice if one of their errand boys took off with one of their boats and one of their missiles to settle an old score. Miles Guffey and crew did not know the magnitude of the terrorist cell. Jack did not know for whom his miscellaneous psychopath was working.
But Tom had figured out that there might be a connection and had sent me to find Miles and shake him down for his destination. Somehow, I had to get that information to Tom. And for Faye’s sake, I had to talk him into sending someone else to help Jack.
And all that meant I had to figure out how to get off the boat and phone Tom. But the damned boat was in the middle of a canal, and even if I could get my brain around the idea of jumping off a perfectly dry boat into that much water. I had only to remind myself that that water was full of large, carnivorous reptiles that had not been refrigerated into lethargy.
For the past ten or fifteen minutes, we had been passing houses. Houses meant telephones. I looked hungrily at their private docks, and wished a rowboat would cut loose and bump against the side of the
Sea Dingo,
but no such incredible luck came my way. I briefly contemplated pulling the inflatable off the roof and lowering it over the side, but I figured I’d get about twenty seconds and a hernia into that project before Miles or Waltrine caught me at it. So it was time to simply insist.
Sea Dingo,
but no such incredible luck came my way. I briefly contemplated pulling the inflatable off the roof and lowering it over the side, but I figured I’d get about twenty seconds and a hernia into that project before Miles or Waltrine caught me at it. So it was time to simply insist.
I hurried up to the pilothouse. Miles and Waltrine were halfway through a large bag of Doritos, munching away. “Listen,” I said. “I’ve got to make a call. Really, it’s critically important.”
“Say why,” Miles drawled.
The words jammed in my throat. If Jack and Tom felt they couldn’t tell their official colleagues, I surely couldn’t tell Miles Guffey.
“Not going to tell me? Aw …” He turned back toward the wheel.
“You’re going out to the Bahamas,” I said. “Calvin Wheat knows a man out there who’s synthesizing weapons-grade anthrax. You’ve got to tell me which cay.”
“This is personal. You’re getting off in Stuart.”
“I don’t know what in hell’s name you plan to do there, but let me tell you, he has friends.”
“I assume he does,” said Miles.
“Just what do you think you can accomplish? Go out in a blaze of glory? I’ve got friends who can help you. Shit, Miles, you’ve—” I looked up ahead. We were approaching a lock.
He picked up the microphone on the radio jack and said, “St. Lucie lock, this is the trawler
Sea Dingo,
coming to you from the west.”
Sea Dingo,
coming to you from the west.”
A voice came back through the speaker. “
Sea Dingo,
come ahead and tie up on your starboard side.”
Sea Dingo,
come ahead and tie up on your starboard side.”
Miles said, “Did you notice you can smell the dust already, down at the coast? I was just hearin’ that on the radio here. We’ll be there in just a couple hours. In fact, I was thinking we’d be able to smell it already here, but not quite. Just wait until we get to the sea. The air will be hazy with it where the thunderstorms haven’t cleaned it yet.”
I was only halfway listening. I was examining the wall of the lock. It appeared to have iron bars at intervals. Surely I could climb them, if not the rope the man was lowering for us to tie up the boat. Or I could just yell that I was being held against my will and demand to be taken off the boat. This last seemed the most expedient, but I might lose precious time explaining myself to the Army Corps of Engineers. I stepped outside the pilothouse and headed back to the stern to gage my options.
Sea Dingo
pulled in against the cement wall of the lock. Thinking I was being helpful, the man in uniform at the top of the wall lowered me a thick line. “Don’t tie up,” he warned politely, giving me a fatherly smile. “I’m going to lower you twelve feet.”
pulled in against the cement wall of the lock. Thinking I was being helpful, the man in uniform at the top of the wall lowered me a thick line. “Don’t tie up,” he warned politely, giving me a fatherly smile. “I’m going to lower you twelve feet.”
“Sir,” I said, “can you get me off this boat?”
“Not while you’re in the locks, dear. Y’all can tie up down below if you like.”
I took hold of the line and leaned on it. It was very rough, yet slightly slick; I didn’t think I could climb it. The iron bars were out of reach. I looked up at the man, caught his eye again. He seemed kind and fatherly. “The captain here won’t let me off the boat,” I said, letting my lower lip quiver. It didn’t take any playacting.
The man nodded, then disappeared from sight.
Behind us, the massive doors swung shut. Ahead of us, massive doors cracked open. Through the crack between them, I could see a drop-off. The boat lurched. I held on to the line.
Minutes passed. The boat slowly sank lower and lower in the lock. Had the man heard me? Had he understood? Would he do anything to help?
The doors opened wider. A weird salad of floating plants rushed downhill toward us. The boat dropped more rapidly.
I heard a voice over the loudspeaker in the pilothouse. “
Sea Dingo,
proceed to dock on your starboard side immediately outside the lock.”
Sea Dingo,
proceed to dock on your starboard side immediately outside the lock.”
He did it!
I almost danced a jig. Now I had to hope that Miles would do as the man had said.
I almost danced a jig. Now I had to hope that Miles would do as the man had said.
Sea Dingo
eased away from the cement wall. It headed out of the lock, but slowly.
eased away from the cement wall. It headed out of the lock, but slowly.
Waltrine appeared at the doors to the saloon. She held out a cell phone. “Go ahead,” she said. “Make your fucking call. But you’re cutting us in.”
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