Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (20 page)

Less than a minute later, my phone rang. "Mr. Royal, this is Oscar
Mendosa."

"Thank you for getting back to me, sir. I need a favor."

"What is it?"

"I have two people that I need kept on ice for a couple of days. I can't
take the chance that they'll talk to their colleagues. I'd rather those people
didn't know I'm coming for them."

"You could kill them."

"I know, but I'd rather not."

"I'll have some men there momentarily. Where are you?"

I gave him the address and sat back on the sofa to wait. My right hand
hurt where I'd coldcocked Michelle. I was pretty sure her jaw was broken.
She'd be eating soup through a straw for a while.

Charlie began to stir. I went over and chopped him with the butt of
Michelle's gun. He was quiet again.

I sat on the sofa, Michelle's nine millimeter in my hand. I heard the
hiss of an airbrake, and then the rattling of cans in the alley. Garbage men
making a late afternoon pick up. The sunbeams were no longer coming in
the windows, blocked now by other houses as the sun sank toward the
Gulf of Mexico. The day was waning, and I still had a lot to do.

Thoughts were bouncing around in my head like errant cue balls on a billiard table. I'd done something stupid. Again. I had to stop walking
through front doors without a plan. If Michelle hadn't been so intent on
making me understand that she was in charge of this operation, I'd probably be dead by now.

At least the people on Blood Island wouldn't be alerted to my presence. If I could slip in without being noticed, I might learn something. I
wasn't sure how I was going to get Peggy out, but a vague plan was beginning to take shape in the back of my mind.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Logan Hamilton's number.
"Logan," I said. "Can you bring my boat down to Marathon first thing
tomorrow?"

"Sure. What's going on?"

"I think I know where Peggy is, and I need the boat to get her out."

"I thought you were in Key West."

"I am. But I need the boat in Marathon. I'll explain later."

"Where do you want to meet me?"

"Go to Faro Blanco and wait for me to contact you. I'll be there
by dark tomorrow. See if you can pick up a rifle and a shotgun to bring
with you."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Logan said, and clicked off.

I heard a door open in the back of the house. As I was tensing up to
aim the pistol, a voice reached me. "Mr. Royal, Mr. Mendosa sent us. We're
coming in."

"Come ahead," I said, lowering the gun into my lap.

Two men came through the door, looked at the situation, and each
picked up a body. The smallest one had Charlie. I was impressed.

The larger one looked at me and said, "Mr. Mendosa said for you to
call when you don't need us to keep these two anymore."

"I will. Thanks, and please tell Mr. Mendosa I appreciate his help."

They went out the back door and I left by the front.

Michelle must have thought she and Charlie could take care of me. She
apparently had not called in any reinforcements. Still, I was careful leaving, and made sure nobody was following me.

The sun was low, but there was still a lot of daylight left. It was a little after six, and soon the crowds would be gathering in Mallory Square for
the daily sunset spectacle.

I had to get to the dive shop to retrieve the gear I'd bought. I walked
the few blocks and turned into the door of the small store. The surfer guy
was behind the counter and motioned me to the back of the shop. My new
equipment was piled on the floor.

"I took all the tags off for you," he said. "That's a lot of gear to carry.
Is your car close?"

"I don't have a car. I have a rental boat. We can put it in there."

"Are you going night diving? I can add some lights to the package."

"No. I'm going out first thing in the morning, at daybreak. I'll just
store the gear in the boat."

"I hope the stuff's there when you get back in the morning."

"It will be."

He put the gear in a two-wheeled cart and followed me to the rental
boat. He handed it down into the boat, and I covered it with a tarp I found
under the center console. It wasn't hidden well, but it'd do until I got back.

I had some time to kill. I was headed for Blood Island, but I didn't want
to arrive before midnight. The later, I thought, the better the chance that
the island would be asleep.

I walked over to a restaurant in the Historic Seaport, which wasn't
very historic, but provided a sense of fun for the tourists. I took a corner
table and sat with my hat pulled low on my face. I'd picked up a newspaper at the entrance, and held that partially in front of my face while reading it. I was about as inconspicuous as I could be.

I ate dinner while planning my next moves. I was hoping to find
Peggy during my planned foray onto Blood Island, and then figure out a
way to get her out the next night.

I'd told Logan to take my boat to Marathon, about fifty miles above
Key West. Michelle knew who I really was, and I had to assume that the
other people who were looking for me knew that as well. I didn't want anyone to recognize my boat and raise an alarm on Blood Island. I didn't think
anybody would be looking for me or my boat in Marathon.

I was tired and grubby from a long day in the sun. I considered going
back to my rooming house for a bath and a change of clothes, but I didn't
want to risk being seen. I'd head back there when I returned from Blood
Island. It would be late enough that any surveillance would probably have
been pulled off.

If I could locate Peggy on the island, I'd be in a position to take her
off the next night. Logan and I could bring my boat in close and, hopefully,
with surprise and a little firepower, we'd be able to evacuate the girl. It
wasn't much of a plan, but it was the best I could come up with.

I pulled out the schematic Debbie had faxed me. It showed the
layout of the buildings on the island. There was a large main house, with
three cabins on either side, making a letter C, with the house in the
middle of the crescent.

On my morning visit to the island, I had seen that it was heavily
wooded with Australian pines and other hardy salt-water resistant plants.
Palm trees were plentiful, and the ground cover was mostly palmetto, with
some blooming tropical plants. Mangroves bordered the water.

The schematic showed a path leading from the large clearing where
the house and cabins sat, down to the dock where I had seen the go-fast
boats. Behind the house was a small building that I assumed was a utility
shed of some sort.

I finished my meal and left the restaurant. The sun had given up the
day, and darkness enveloped the key. I could hear the sounds of the nightly
revelry from Duval Street, but I had no desire to join it. I walked the few
blocks to the cemetery, found a bench, and took a nap.

I stopped the boat near Blood Island's entrance channel and dropped the
anchor. It was a few minutes after midnight. A new moon was dawning,
and the sky was dark. A low cloud cover obscured the stars.

I'd run the last few miles at idle speed, running lights off, hoping that
the noise of my outboard couldn't be heard on the island. There was an
easterly wind blowing from the atoll, so I didn't think the sounds would
carry from my position to the west of the channel.

I stripped down in the dark and began to pull the wet suit on. That
done, I sat on the gunwale and pulled on the rubber booties and fins. I
hooked up the regulator to the twin tanks, checked to make sure it was
working, and swung the tanks over my head, settling them like a backpack.
I put my gun, Reeboks, and a couple of granola bars into a waterproof bag,
and hung it on my weight belt. I pulled the hood over my head, and seated
the mask on my face. I was ready.

I slipped into the water and swam down the anchor line the few feet
to the seabed. I set the anchor deep into the sand bottom. I didn't want to
return and find my boat gone. The water seeping into the suit next to my
skin was chilly, but as my body heat warmed the trapped water, it became
comfortable.

I surfaced and took a bearing on the entrance to the little lagoon. I
submerged and started swimming, pausing regularly to check the luminous dial of my compass.

In about twenty minutes, I surfaced to find myself in the middle of the
lagoon. I could see the dock with the go-fast boats tied to it. The glow of
a cigarette flared in the night. A guard inhaling. Then I saw the fiery arc of
the butt as it was flipped into the water.

I submerged and swam to my right, making for the small sand beach
I'd spotted among the mangroves. The bottom was coming up, and I
stopped again, poking my head out of the water just enough to see. I was
about a hundred yards from the dock and right in front of the little beach.
I stayed there, kneeling on the soft bottom, quietly reconnoitering. There
was no movement anywhere.

I knew there was a guard on the dock, but if there was anybody
watching the beach, he was well hidden. I had to chance it. I crawled
toward the edge of the sand, where it met the mangroves. As I lifted my
body slowly out of the water, I tensed for a shout or a shot. Nothing.

I eased over to the mangroves, removed the fins, mask, and tanks and
stowed them among the roots. I moved into the trees that came down to
the beach. I sat and took off the booties and pulled my Reeboks from the
waterproof bag. I took out the nine-millimeter Glock I'd taken from
Michelle. It was loaded with a seventeen-round clip. I put the sneakers on
and put the booties with the rest of the gear. I hung the waterproof bag on
my belt.

There was a path leading off the beach. I followed it, moving quietly,
remembering the jungle craft I'd learned a long time ago in a very different part of the world. A mixed choir of insects and frogs was hidden in the
brush, singing loudly. Now and then, a small animal rustled the leaves as
it moved about. I was just one more animal, a little bigger, perhaps, and
more deadly, but at one with the jungle.

I neared a bend in the path, and became aware of the pungent aroma
of a burning cigarette drifting on the breeze. I stopped, standing stockstill, not moving a muscle. I heard the rustle of feet walking the path, coming my way. I didn't want a confrontation that would arouse the island,
and I didn't want anyone to know I'd made a visit. I ducked off the path
into the bushes. In my black wet suit, I would be virtually invisible.

The steps moved closer, and I made out the shape of a man holding
a rifle, walking carelessly along the trail toward the beach. A regular patrol,
I thought. I hung back as he passed, and then slipped back onto the path.

I came to a clearing. I could see a large house in the middle, lights on
in two of the upstairs windows, otherwise dark. Three smaller buildings
flanked either side of the main house, forming a crescent, with the big house situated in the middle at the bottom of the figure. Just like the
schematic from the Property Appraiser's Office. The guest cabins were
dark. No lights in any of them.

I made my way to the first cabin on my right and stood quietly by the
door. I didn't hear any sound from inside. Then, out of the darkness, a
snort. Pigs? No, someone was snoring.

I turned the doorknob. It wasn't locked, and the door swung inward.
I stepped quickly into the space and found myself in a bunkhouse. There
was only one main room in the building, and a door at the far end that I
assumed led to the bathroom. There were a dozen army cots spaced
around the perimeter of the room, each one flanked by a tall metal wall
locker. Lumps were in some of the beds, and an occasional snore erupted
from one or the other of the bunks. I saw men's clothing hanging from
hooks next to several of the lockers, and rifles leaning against the wall. This
was the guardhouse.

I counted eight beds with occupants. The other four were empty, but
not made. That probably meant that there were four guards stationed
around the island. Two shifts were sleeping and would replace the others
at whatever interval they used. I thought it might be like the old army guard
regimen of two hours on and four off.