Midnight Rambler (25 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

T
he dry dock was a blue-and-gold manufactured aluminum building designed like an airplane hangar. Inside, powerboats rested on steel-framed bunks stacked one atop the other, right up to the vaulted ceiling. A portable hydraulic lift, used to move the boats, sat in the corner as I entered. Normally, Clyde sat in a beach chair beside the lift, listening to country and western music while spitting tobacco juice on the ground.

Clyde's chair was empty, and his radio was turned off. I looked around the building for a sign of where he might have gone. The building did not have air-conditioning, and the air hung hot and still. Buster had disappeared, and I could hear him whining and scratching on wood. I followed the sound to a storage closet in the back.

“Good dog,” I said.

I pulled open the heavy sliding door. Sunlight filled the closet's interior, and I saw a sunburned man lying on the floor, holding his stomach with both hands and moaning. A large stain covered the bottom of his denim shirt.

“Clyde?”

“Don't hurt me,” he begged.

“It's Jack Carpenter. Where you hit?”

“That bastard Perez shot me in the stomach,” Clyde said.

Linderman entered the building. I called him over, and we pulled Clyde out of the closet by his ankles. Linderman started to tend to Clyde's wound while I dialed 911.

“Jack, he's okay,” Linderman said.

“How can he be okay?”

Linderman tossed me a pint metal flask that he'd pulled from Clyde's pants. The flask had a bullet hole in it. Holding it to my nose, I smelled rum. I saw Clyde tenderly rub his stomach.

“Lucky you,” I said.

Linderman called the Broward office of the FBI and asked for a cutter to be sent to the mouth of the canal leading out of Tugboat Louie's. The FBI, which was responsible for handling criminal investigations in waters twelve miles off shore, kept a high-speed cutter and crew on twenty-four-hour alert in nearby Port Everglades. It was the best chance we had of finding Perez's boat.

Linderman and I walked outside the hangar and waited for the cutter to arrive. Kumar came down the dock and pulled me into the hangar's cool shade.

“Jack, will you please tell me what's going on?”

Normally, it was best to say nothing during an investigation. But Kumar was my friend, and I couldn't keep him in the dark.

“The man you saw with Perez was Simon Skell, the Midnight Rambler. The woman was kidnapped. They're going to take her out and throw her overboard.”

“And I let him get away,” Kumar said.

“You did everything you could,” I said.

“No, I did not. There is something I did not tell your FBI friend.”

“What's that?”

“Over the past six months, Perez took his boat out many times, always when it was late at night. Several employees saw him and thought it was suspicious.”

“How many times did Perez do this?”

“Six or seven.”

“Did you see him do this?”

“Once. There was a ferocious storm. I watched from my office window. Perez took a sack from his van, and carried it down to his boat. It looked heavy.”

I thought back to the empty coolers I'd seen in Perez's shed. For the past six months he'd been coming here, taking his boat out, and dumping the bodies.

“Jesus,” I said under my breath.

Kumar's shoulders sagged, and he walked back to the bar muttering under his breath. I knew that his inability to stop Perez would weigh on him for a long time.

Fifteen agonizing minutes later, the FBI cutter motored up to Tugboat Louie's, and the captain jumped onto the dock. He was in his fifties and fair-skinned, the sunblock on his face as bright as war paint. He explained that his vessel had just completed a sweep of the waters both north and south of us and had not spotted Perez's boat.

“The ocean's choppy, and there's a small craft advisory in effect until later tonight,” the captain said. “My guess is, Perez is hiding in the mangroves. When it's clear, he'll dump his victim. It would help our search if we could get a description of his boat.”

Clyde stepped forward. He'd put on a fresh shirt and seemed eager to put the incident with the flask behind him. He described Perez's boat to the captain. When he was finished, the captain made him start over. It was an old interrogator's trick, and Clyde's description became more detailed the second time, right down to the bad paint job and sputtering Honda engine.

“Anything you'd like to add?” the captain asked when Clyde was done.

“The Hispanic in the boat has a death wish,” I said.

“That's good to know,” the captain said.

He jumped on the cutter and motored away. I stood on the dock and watched, the sound of the cutter's engines reverberating across the marina.

“What do we do now?” I asked Linderman.

“We wait,” Linderman said.

“I'm not good at waiting,” I said.

Linderman slapped me on the back. He reminded me of a Little League coach I'd had who liked to slap his players on the back when the team was getting trounced.

“Keep the faith, Jack,” he said.

We walked down the dock to Tugboat Louie's bar. On the way, I counted the steps. There were exactly 120. It was a number I would never forget: 120 steps from my office was the boat used to dispose of the women I'd spent six months looking for.

God was cruel.

“I need some coffee,” Linderman said.

We went inside the bar. The cops' presence had cleared the place out, and Robert Palmer's “Addicted to Love” blasted the empty room. We took a pair of stools and waited to be served. My sense of helplessness would not go away. I needed to do something, or I would start pulling my hair out and make everyone around me crazy.

Buster sat by my feet. He was panting, and I scratched behind his ears. I'd read that this calmed dogs down and wondered if it would have the same effect on me. Right now, I was willing to give just about anything a try.

“Jack, Jack!” a familiar voice rang out.

I lifted my eyes. Kumar stood at the bottom of the stairwell behind the bar, motioning excitedly to me.

“What's up?” I asked.

“I have figured out where they are taking the lady,” Kumar said.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

T
he scrape of my stool was enough to make Buster jump.

“You did? How?”

“I used a nautical chart,” Kumar said. “Come upstairs, and I'll show you.”

We followed Kumar upstairs to his office. A large nautical chart hung on the wall behind his desk. It was for boaters and showed the shoreline, minimum and maximum water depths, and aids and hazards to navigation for Broward County. Grabbing a pencil, Kumar began drawing lines on the chart.

“Here is what I'm thinking,” Kumar said. “The engine on Perez's boat is less than a hundred horsepower, and not very strong. Even in calm seas, he can't go far without fear of capsizing. More than likely, he'll stay close to the shoreline to dump the lady. He'll probably pick a deep area that can be found on a fisherman's map, or a chart like this one.”

“Do fish like deep areas?” Linderman asked.

“Oh, yes,” Kumar said. “They are safe places for them to breed.”

Kumar drew three lines across the nautical chart. Each started at his marina and went down the canal to the ocean. Reaching the ocean, the lines veered off in different directions. One went north, one south, and one due east. None went very far.

As I stared at the lines my heart began to race. The line going south ended at a spot in the ocean that I knew better than any fisherman in the state. North Dania Beach, within spitting distance of the Sunset. Had I not been so damn tired, I would have guessed it before now.

Perez and Skell were going to dump Melinda in the waters where I swam every day.

Linderman burned down Dania Beach Boulevard and practically flew over the bridge. He pulled into the Sunset with a squeal of brakes, and I jumped out with my dog.

“I'll be right back,” I said.

I ran to my room and changed into bathing trunks. Then I tossed my Colt and a pair of binoculars into my snorkeling bag and headed for the door. Buster had climbed onto my bed and passed out.

I hurried downstairs. Entering the bar, I caught Sonny and the Seven Dwarfs in a rare moment of sobriety. They were slurping coffee and eating doughnuts, and they stared at me as if I was a ghost.

“Where the hell you been?” Sonny asked.

“Road trip. Why?”

“We were worried about you, man.”

This crew didn't worry about anything. Then it dawned on me what Sonny was saying. He and the Dwarfs were worried that I'd done something to myself.

“I'm fine,” I said. “Look, I need your help.”

Whitey jumped off his stool and saluted me.

“Help's my middle name, captain.”

I pulled the binoculars from the bag and tossed them to him.

“Go to the window, and look due north for a Boston Whaler hugging the shoreline. There will be two guys in the boat. One is Hispanic and is in a lot of pain. The other is about my size and has surfer-white blond hair. There's also a beautiful blonde with them who's either doped up or unconscious.”

Whitey went to the window and lifted the binoculars to his face.

“What are they up to?” he asked.

“They're going to throw the woman over,” I added.

“Oh, my Lord,” Whitey said.

I found Linderman standing by the shoreline, talking to the captain of the FBI cutter on his cell. I heard him tell the captain to bring his cutter to the northern tip of Dania Beach. Fitting on my mask and flippers, I threw my bag over my shoulder and waded in.

“Where do you think you're going?” Linderman asked, finishing his call.

“Out there,” I said.

“Don't do it, Jack. If Perez shows, you'll be a sitting duck.”

A wave broke over my legs, and I felt the ocean's unmistakable pull.

“I've got a gun in my bag,” I said.

“Ever try shooting while treading water? It doesn't work.”

I stared out helplessly at the ocean.

“I can't just stand here.”

“Jack, I've had enough of your bullshit,” Linderman said. “I'm ordering you to stay here with me. If you disobey me, I'm going to jump in and drag your ass out of the water. Am I making myself clear?”

I have a way of getting on people's nerves that pushes them to the breaking point. I'd reached that juncture with Linderman, and I reluctantly tossed my bag on the shoreline. Then I plopped down in the sand. Thirty seconds later, Whitey appeared in the bar's open doorway, flailing his arms.

“I saw the boat,” Whitey yelled. “I saw the boat!”

I stood up in my spot.

“Are you sure?” I called back.

“Positive, captain. It's coming from due north and has two men in it. There's another boat chasing it.”

I said to hell with Linderman and dove into the water.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

I
swam with a strength that I didn't know I possessed. Passing the Sunset, I shifted my gaze northward. Several hundred yards away a boat was motoring toward me with Jonny Perez hunched over in the stern. The sun was in his face, and his eyes were slits. Angry black flies swarmed around him, attacking his wounds. He was in pain, yet his posture was defiant.

Skell stood in the bow, bare chested. His skin was as white as milk, his torso lean and sinewy. He'd gotten several tattoos while in prison, all of them in vibrant colors. From a distance they looked like scars.

Skell was yelling at Perez, telling him to make the boat go faster. His voice was high pitched, almost a scream. His sociopathic rage had taken over.

I swam toward the boat, my flippers propelling me effortlessly through the water. I was directly in their line of vision, but they weren't looking my way. In the distance I could see the FBI cutter, coming fast.

“This is the spot,” Perez called out.

“You sure?” Skell shouted back.

“Yeah, man.”

“Then let's do it.”

Perez stopped the engine, and the boat came to a halt. Bending down, Skell lifted Melinda out of the boat and stood upright with her in his arms. She looked dead, and for a moment I thought I was too late. Then her fingers fluttered like a butterfly's wings. It did something to my heart, and I hurtled myself toward her.

A loud blast ripped through the air. The cutter was a hundred yards away, and a man wearing an FBI slicker stood on the bow, wielding a bullhorn.

“This is the FBI,” the man announced. “Stop what you're doing and put your hands into the air.”

“Cover me,” Skell said.

Perez pulled a gun from his waistband. He turned and faced the cutter.

“I repeat, stop what you're doing!”

“Fuck you!” Perez screamed.

On the cutter another man wearing an FBI slicker appeared. He had a rifle, which he aimed at Perez. The shot ripped across the ocean.

Perez grabbed his arm. Then he fell, rocking the boat.

“Put the girl down,” ordered the man with the bullhorn.

I was fifteen feet from the boat. Looking at Skell, I knew he wasn't going to comply. Killing was what defined his existence and would keep him alive in my memory long after he was gone. With a defiant yell, he tossed Melinda into the water.

Diving beneath the boat, I watched Melinda sink. Her body looked weightless, almost poetic. Reaching the ocean floor, she slipped behind a coral ledge, and disappeared from my sight.

I propelled myself toward her. I had never been this deep before and had no idea what I was getting into. The thought was unsettling. Then I remembered Melinda's testimony at Skell's trial, and the courage it had taken to go down that road.

I owed her.

A dark shadow loomed overhead. Thinking it was the FBI cutter, I looked up and saw that I was wrong. It was Skell, chasing me.

Skell had ripped off the rest of his clothes and was naked. The crazed look in his eyes was still there. Clutched in his hand was a knife normally used to fillet fish. He used the knife to slice the water like he was in a street fight.

In seconds he was on top of me. I swam backwards with my flippers until I was safely away from him. He stopped over the spot where Melinda had disappeared and started treading water. Then he motioned to me.

I instantly understood. Skell was going to stay right where he was. Either I engaged him and we fought it out, or I stayed back and let Melinda drown.

Those were my options.

I charged him.

The element of surprise was mine. I grabbed his wrist with one hand and punched him in the face with the other. It had to hurt, because he made a noise that was loud enough for me to hear underwater.

Then Skell cut me.

It wasn't a deep gash, just a run of the blade across my left forearm. But the ribbon of blood was enough to get my attention. It clouded the water and told me I was in trouble. Again I propelled myself backwards.

Skell remained where he was. I got set to charge him again, then felt an enormous thrush of water. It was a feeling that every swimmer dreaded. A big fish was lurking behind me.

I froze as a male lemon shark swam past. It was easily three hundred pounds. The shark was checking us out, just as the school of sharks had checked me out the other day. I placed my hand on its side and guided it toward Skell.

Skell's face darkened. He didn't understand that the shark wouldn't hurt him and was only guarding something on the ocean's floor. He didn't understand that there was no immediate danger. As the shark got within his range he thrust his knife into its side.

There was a violent thrashing, followed by an explosion of blood and bubbles. I ducked to get out of its way and watched the shark go straight down.

I righted myself and stared through my steamy mask. Skell hadn't moved from his spot. A chunk of shark flesh was impaled on the point of his knife. He picked it off and stuck it into his mouth. Then he began to chew.

Again I felt a powerful thrush of water. The wounded lemon shark raced past and grabbed Skell's head in its powerful jaws. The crazed look on Skell's face changed to one of pure terror. He struggled violently, but could not break free.

My lungs were about to burst, and I propelled myself up. Moments before my head broke the surface, I listened hard, and was certain I could hear Skell screaming.