Tampa Burn (49 page)

“I told you I was. That's the first thing I did. I called Port Authority Security, and I told them to alert Coast Guard and the Hillsborough County Sheriff's Department. There should be an army of people scrambling right now.”

“O.K., good. In that case, how far are you from the Sunshine Skyway Bridge? I need your help again. If you're willing. Or is there a better place to stop and pick you up?”

Harris said he was more than willing, and that he liked Blackthorn Park on the south end because of what it meant to him. But the little park on the St. Pete side of the Skyway was closer, so that would be better. Said he'd flash his car lights when he thought he saw me approaching.

I wrestled over the decision if I should tell him now or later about the tramp freighter,
Repatriate.
I finally decided to wait until he was aboard my skiff—but only after I'd asked him how long it took a freighter to steam from the bay into international waters.

I wanted to know because, if notified immediately, I wondered if it was possible for any of the state law enforcement agencies to intercept the Liberian freighter before it reached international waters. If not, they were powerless, because the ship would be out of their jurisdiction, and so the information would do them no good.

Only the U.S. Coast Guard, because of treaties with a variety of countries—usually related to anti-drug-trafficking agreements—has the legal right to stop and detain vessels on the high seas, and also to make arrests. No other law enforcement in the State of Florida does.

There wasn't time to stop them before they made it out of territorial waters. Not a chance, by my calculations. And the idea of a Coast Guard helicopter trying to intercept the vessel gave me the chills.

So instead of telling him about my conversation with Elmase, I asked him to call his dispatcher and get information on all ships transiting Tampa Bay that night.
Repatriate'
s data would be included.

I wanted a private, personal shot at the vessel before anyone in law enforcement did something stupid—like tip them off by contacting the
Repatriate'
s skipper by radio and demanding that he turn back to port.

If the ship's captain and crew were being paid by Lourdes, that would only put them on their guard and make it more dangerous for me, my son, and the surgeon—if they were both still alive.

Before hanging up, Harris asked me again, “But what about the old guy? The cop in the unmarked car. What should I do about him?”

I told my friend that once he got to our rendezvous point, pull over, stop, and introduce himself to Detective Merlin Starkey, who was probably now attached to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.

“Let him know about Dr. Santos and my son. Tell him he's probably the first cop to know, and ask him to help. As a personal favor to me.”

Harris said, “The way you're talking, it's like you're old friends or something.”

I said, “He and my late uncle, they knew each other. But they weren't exactly friends.”

I put the phone in my pocket, jumped the skiff onto plane, and concentrated on getting to the Sunshine Skyway as fast as I could. Because it was night, and because I didn't know the water, that didn't mean going as fast as my boat could go, unfortunately.

Not in the winding creek anyway.

I made myself take it easy. Run it safe.

There was a time when I seldom used the running lights required by law when boating at night. On a small boat, “running lights” consist of a red port light and green starboard light on the front of the vessel, and a white light on the back. All of the lights are bright enough to be seen one to two miles away.

On my Maverick, the bow lights are positioned so as not to be bothersome, but a white stern light can't help but impair night vision slightly. Which is why I once often made a practice of operating my vessels (illegally) blacked out.

Not anymore, and not on this night. There are nearly a million boats registered in Florida. It's starting to get busy, even after sunset. From what I witness daily around the marina, maybe a third of all boaters are competent during daylight, and the rest are a menace to themselves and everyone else day or night.

Which is why I now almost always use running lights. No telling what brand of idiot is out there, flying through the darkness.

So I had my lights on, running the serpentine river course as fast, but as safely, as I could. As my skiff's stern pivoted, the moon swung behind me as if on a pendulum with a kind of easy, skiing rhythm, and so my wake seemed to partition away as ridges of ice might, in rolling, congealed waves of silver.

I had a spotlight out, too—2 million candlepower handheld with a pistol grip switch, the unit plugged to the console, and lying on the bow seat, ready when I needed it. Which wasn't often. But when I did pick it up and touch the trigger, the little river seemed at once to explode with light but squeeze in closer, ablaze in a column of yellow—mangroves, roosting birds, oyster bars, and raccoons all frozen in the harsh beam.

At the mouth of the creek, I came around the final bend, and the horizon changed as if a curtain had dropped; changed from a black tree-wall to open sky, stars above, navigation markers flashing miles away, lights blinking as random as fireflies, and the night skylines of St. Pete and Tampa dimmed the moonlit clouds beyond.

The narrow creek seemed to hold less oxygen then the vast bay, and air came into my lungs easier. It seemed cooler, too, as I powered out onto the dark water, toward the four-second flashers that line the main channel.

When I was safely away from the creek's shoals, I increased my speed to a little over forty, banking southwest toward the high, carnival-bright lights of the Skyway Bridge. As I did, the phone in my pocket began to vibrate. I'd never owned one before, and now I was suddenly besieged by calls.

I took it out of my pocket, checked, and saw that the caller I.D. was blocked.

Dewey?

I couldn't seem to press the Talk button and answer fast enough.

 

 

I didn't reduce speed; was still flying across Tampa Bay at 45 mph or so. Even so, because I was wearing the little headphone, I heard Dewey's voice just fine when she said, “Am I catching you at a bad time? I guess you were too busy to talk before.”

I said, “Dew, are you O.K.? Is everything all right?”

“I'm doing better and better since I dumped a certain nerdy biologist. Why the hell did you hang up on me earlier?”

Had I? I thought I'd waited until it quit ringing, and then switched it off.

I said, “Sweetie, there's no person in the world I'd rather talk to. I can't wait to see you, and be together again. But there's a lot happening right now.
Listen
—I think I know where my son is. I'm in my boat. I'm in Tampa Bay. I'm going after him right now.”

I explained the situation as briefly as I could, then listened to her say in a different tone, very concerned and serious now, “Oh my God, Doc, please be careful. Bring him home safe. And call me the instant you can, because I'm not going to sleep a wink tonight until I hear from you.”

It was awkward having to remind her: “I don't have your number, Dew. You always block it. You don't want me to know where you are, remember?”

I felt a delicious surge of relief when she replied, “Hang up right now. I'll call back with the block off, then you can save my number. That way, you'll have it in your phone. Don't answer—concentrate on what you're doing. And stay safe, you big moron!”

I stared at the phone when the I.D. plate began to flash.

Where was area code 563?

AFTER
what seemed like an eternity spent pacing, her mind checking and rechecking the information she had, Dr. Santos felt the boat slow, then something loud bang against the steel hull. After just a couple of minutes, though, the banging stopped, and the ship gained speed again.

That was around 10:30 P.M.

About an hour later, maybe 11:20, she heard slow, heavy footsteps outside, and the metal door clanked again, then swung open.

The surgeon expected to see the terrifying fat woman. Instead, it was the man who'd abducted her, face still wrapped in bandages.

From inside holes in the bandage, his, wild, wide eyes stared out at her. He seemed to be grinning, too. Showing big, bony teeth as he shook a bottle of capsules, and said, “Guess who just got his drugs delivered? So, if I start taking this anticonvulsion stuff, how long before my trig-eee-minal neural-gia says bye-bye?”

The woman was terrified, but she forced herself to sound calm; take her time, as if in control. “It depends on your own body chemistry, to a degree. It could be a day or a few days. It could be a couple of weeks. Do you want to discuss your dosage?”

She was thinking:
If I can make him dependent on me in some small way, he won't be able to rationalize hurting me.

The man was wearing baggy pants and a nylon-looking Hawaiian shirt. She watched him slide the medicine bottle into his pocket. Now he had his hands at his face, unwrapping the bandage as he walked toward her.

He looked even more gigantic than she remembered.

“No, Dr. Valerie, we can talk about pills later. Once you get done, I might not even need the fuckin' stuff.”

She said, “You mean . . . because of your face transplant? Is that what you're talking about? I can do that for you. I really can—if you need it. But not here. Not like this. Take me back to my office, and I'll give you my full attention. I'll make you a personal project. You have my word.”

Dr. Valerie could see patches of curly blond hair now as he unwrapped the bandage. The top of his head looked like a human skull over which melted wax had been globbed onto bleached skin, and there was dense scar tissue on his forehead.

He replied, almost as if flirting with her, “Come on now, famous lady. Never try to con a con man. We're not gonna talk about pills, and we're sure as hell not returning to the States. I'll send you back, though, all safe and sound. But only if you cooperate.”

She could now see scar tissue on a crinkled ear, and then one wide, wild blue eye that, because it was lidless, looked as isolated from the rest of his face as a small blue planet.

She stared as he continued, “Nope. What I
want
you to do, is come see the little operating room I got fixed up. Then get ready to go to work.
Tonight.
Because our donor's about ready. And like you said in your e-mail, human skin goes bad real quick down here in the tropics.”

IT
was ten-twenty when Harris swung aboard my skiff and I told him that I knew the name of the freighter we were after—Repatriate.

I backed away, turning toward the Gulf of Mexico. As I did, he took a piece of paper from his pocket on which he'd made some notes, and replied, “Good for you. You played it smart, keeping it to yourself for as long as you did. But now we need to get the Coast Guard involved. You've got an edge. If you can make it work, a little edge is all you'll need.”

I said, “Fair enough.” Then I added, “What happened to Merlin Starkey? Did you talk to him?”

Harris smiled. “Mostly, I just listened. He's a good cop, though. He says he looks forward to talking to you. But, man, he hates your uncle for some reason.”

I said, “I'll tell you the story one day. It's kinda funny.”

Harris was now holding the paper up to the stern light, reading. “O.K.—only four vessels were scheduled to transit, and I'm pretty sure I remember
Repatriate
's destination . . .” He paused. “Yeah, here it is. Our dispatcher, Terri, said they're headed home to Bluefields, Nicaragua. That's an easy heading to calculate. They have to stay in international waters off the west of Cuba, the Yucatán Channel. So where's your GPS, and I'll figure out an intercept course.”

I told him I didn't have a GPS. Only a compass.

“Suddenly,” he said, “I don't think you're quite as smart anymore. So we'll have to guesstimate it. Figure it out in our heads. But we'll find 'em. Let me have the wheel—there are some tricky shoals in here. That'll gain us some time while we talk it out.”

Then he said, “What about a VHF radio? Or is that too modern for you, too?”

“A radio, I've got.”

“Good. Do you want to call the Coast Guard? Or should I?”

 

 

I stood beside Harris as he shot us expertly through channels and beneath bridges, past Pine Key, Passe-a-Grille Beach, and Mullet Key, into a black-domed star basin that was the open Gulf of Mexico.

Beneath us, the flat water of the bay began to undulate in long, slow swells as if something huge lay below, breathing. Harris found the rhythm of the swells quickly and ran at maximum speed.

I'd told him I'd crossed
Repatriate
's stern at around 7:15 P.M. near the channel's intersection off Gibsonton. He broke the probabilities down for me. Told me how the process worked. He said an average freighter takes about two and a half hours to travel from the Gibsonton docks to the Skyway Bridge—with a Tampa pilot always in charge of the helm, of course.

He said, “Where you saw them, they were only forty minutes or so away. That would put them beneath the bridge around eight P.M. Right at sunset.”

I could picture it. Ironically—or maybe not—Prax Lourdes had probably watched
Repatriate
steam past. Because I was certain that's how he had to work it. He'd been right there on the water in a smaller, faster boat, barking orders to Kong on the cell phone, working his extortion scheme, arranging the money drop. Probably chose that spot because he could visually confirm that his freighter was outward bound.