Tuna Tango (12 page)

The big bottles were all around twenty dollars—way too much for his dwindling reserves. He turned to the smaller bottles and noticed a rack with single-dose medicine packets hanging from hooks. A six-pack of cheap wine coolers and a packet of NyQuil in his hands, he went to the counter and payed the clerk, who thankfully didn’t ask about the combination.

He crossed the lot and got back in the car, trying to figure out a way to get her to take the pills. A few minutes later, they pulled into the marina. She followed him toward the dock where, he extended his hand to help. 

“Might want to take off your heels again.”

She bent down and reached for her shoes, revealing her cleavage through a gaping hole in her blouse. He didn’t recover as quickly as he would have liked, and she caught his eye as she straightened, but to his relief, she smiled. He turned and led her to the boat, offering his hand to help her aboard. She tripped over a cleat and ended up in his arms. As his arm grabbed her, he thought about delaying his plan.

“Hope the accommodations are OK,” he said hopefully.

She didn’t answer, but sat on the bench by the tiller, tossed her shoes onto the deck, and held a hand out for a cooler. He exhaled, twisted the cap off, and handed it to her. She took the bottle and rubbed it seductively between her breasts. 

“It’s hot,” she whined. “No AC, I guess.”

There was no good answer, and he was more aroused than he should be, so he unlocked the cabin door and removed the planks. Once inside, he put four of the coolers into the small propane refrigerator and opened one for himself. He looked out the companionway and watched her as she adjusted herself to get comfortable on the bench.

“I’ll be right up.”

No answer came. He reached into his pocket and took out the pills. With a knife, he cut them in half and squeezed the contents into the open cooler. The halved lemon he had used on the fish earlier lay on the counter, and he squeezed that in as well, hoping to cover the taste. With the cap screwed back on he shook the concoction, opened it, and took a sip. 

Not bad, he thought, as he replaced the cap. He grabbed a cooler for himself and went back on deck. 

***

Three coolers and an hour later, she was asleep on the bench. Will checked on her once more, to be sure, went into the cabin and sat at the small table. He adjusted the fan to hit his face, hoping he wouldn’t drip sweat onto the papers spread out in front of him. A quick search of the lockers had revealed several charts as well as dividers and parallel rulers. With a carpenters pencil in hand, he started the GPS and waited for the unit to synchronize itself with the satellites it used to pinpoint position. 

The unit took a few minutes to satisfy itself and the screen changed. He scrolled through the options and found the waypoint screen. There were forty-two waypoints, all but a few sharing similar coordinates. Starting with the first, he took the latitude and longitude for each, and plotted the coordinates on the chart, using the waypoint number to label the spot. 

It took almost an hour to plot all the points. They were clustered around an area called the Middle Grounds by local fishermen and divers. The area was eighty miles into the Gulf of Mexico. A major trip, but the rewards, as evidenced by the fish the boys had found in the cooler, were worth it. With the dividers, he transposed the scale on the side of the chart to the line he had drawn from the North Pass to the center of the cluster and measured the distance. Eighty-five miles confirmed his guess. Next he took the parallel ruler and lined one end up with the magnetic reading on the compass rose, and brought the other side to the line he had drawn. The course read 283 degrees, and he noted that next to the line. 

He rolled the chart up, took the GPS to the forward berth, and put it in a small compartment he had found under the mattress. Then he went back out to check on Jazmyn. She was snoring softly, and he just stood there for a moment and watched her breasts rise and fall.

Chapter 13

The weather service prediction last night had been for the wind to blow 15 knots, and that’s exactly what Will felt as he stepped out of the cabin onto the dark deck. He could only hope the conditions held. Heading eighty miles offshore was a daunting task, especially when he was sailing single-handed, but he had no other ideas. The cluster of waypoints he had plotted on the chart last night were all within a few miles of each other. That was the most likely place to find George, and hopefully Kyle with him. As long as the wind stayed below 20 knots, he was comfortable with the trip. Anything over that and the seas would hit six feet, decreasing visibility and restricting his movement on the boat. 

If something went wrong with the wind blowing over 20, it would go wrong in a big way. The boat had a roller furling on the jib and a self-reefing mainsail that should allow him to decrease the sail area without leaving the cockpit … but the roller furling had already jammed once and the mainsail reef was untested.

He went below to stow gear, and saw the girl lying sprawled the bunk where he had carried her last night, her thin shirt undulating in the breeze generated by the small fan he had pointed at her. The combination of alcohol and NyQuil had done the trick—and then some. She was still snoring when he touched her shoulder. 

Ideally, he would have woken her, said goodbye, and set her on the dock, but she was going nowhere, and he didn’t want to waste any time. It was going to be a six to eight-hour trip, and if he left now, he could be back by dark. She rolled over, exposing her butt to him in rebuttal as he worked around her, preparing the cabin. 

Expecting at least four-foot seas, he stowed all the loose objects, checked the cabinet latches, and made sure the hatches were all closed and locked. Within seconds of closing the hatches, though, the cabin became uncomfortable, and he looked over at her, hoping the lack of air flow would wake her before he left.

With the GPS in hand, he went back on deck and started the GPS unit leaving it to acquire the satellites and position while he prepared the dock lines. One at a time he looped each line around the dock cleat and brought the end back to the cockpit, instead of having them tied off on the cleat. It took several minutes he didn’t want to spend, but with the wind pushing the boat into the side of the dock, he would need to release the lines in sequence to get away with no damage. 

A quick glance assured him that everything was ready, and an inspection of the gas tank revealed a little over half a tank. He squeezed the priming bulb, opened the tank vent, and pulled the choke out. It took half a dozen pulls before the engine coughed, and then several more before it started. With the choke pushed in, the small outboard started to even out. 

He looked up at the sky and saw the moon a few inches above the horizon, Venus a dull glow beside it. That should give him enough light to navigate the intracoastal and Pass-A-Grille channel. Once he reached open water, he would be fine in the hour of darkness that would remain before sunrise. He released the bow and stern lines and pulled them into the boat. The only thing stopping the hull from colliding with the dock now was the aft spring line. Reaching back, he set the engine in reverse and released it. Quickly, he turned the throttle and the boat slid backward, away from the dock.

Once into the waterway, he lashed the tiller and stowed the lines and fenders. The moonlight lit the channel, clearly illuminating the markers as the boat coasted by them. A half-hour later, he was past the last lighted buoy and into open water. With the wind coming from dead ahead he could maintain course while raising the main sail. He lashed the tiller again, loosened the main sheet and raised the halyard. The sail flapped in the breeze as he placed the halyard onto the winch and cranked until the luff of the sail was tight against the mast. 

Back at the tiller, he steered 25 degrees off the wind and watched as the sail filled. With his course established and the wind powering the boat, he shut down the engine. It was always exhilarating when the only noise was the sound of the boat as it slid through the water. Now he released the furling line and pulled out the jib. The speed picked up noticeably as the genoa unfurled. A glance at the GPS revealed that he was making 9 knots. 

He adjusted the course to the bearing shown on the screen and watched the speed rise to 9.5 knots as the boat settled into a beam reach. If he could maintain this speed, he would reach the cluster of waypoints by early afternoon. Hopefully Kyle would still be alive.

***

Dick woke on a couch—one that he had never slept on before, and he had slept on plenty. He sat up and looked around the room, trying to piece together where he was. Things weren’t that bad, he figured, as it took seconds rather than minutes to realize he was at Sheryl’s. She had nagged him to stay over after a round of smoking and drinking when they got back to her place late last night or early in the morning, depending how you looked at it. 

He didn’t need much persuasion—her weed was good. 

Taking the room in, he walked over to a bookcase and noticed several pictures of her holding some large tarpon and bonefish, then went to the tray left from last night on the bar by the kitchen. Breaking apart several buds, he rolled a joint and lit it. 

“Pretty early for that,” Sheryl said as she came out of the bedroom, dressed in workout clothes. 

He held the smoke in for a second before releasing it and answering, “Never too early. This is good. Didn’t know you fished.” He pointed to the pictures.

“That was with Will.” She stopped in mid-sentence. “I’m going for a run. Be back in forty-five minutes. I’ll make something to eat when I get back, if you’re still going to be here.”

He looked around and took another hit. “Yeah. Can I use your phone? I want to see if I can find out anything about Kyle.”

She nodded and left. He hadn’t wanted to mention Will’s name in front of her. Every time he had brought it up, she became morose. He took another hit from the joint and pulled his wallet from his pocket. On the back of a tattered business card, he found Will’s number, and went to the landline on the table. 

No one answered, though, and he hung up, realizing it might have been the caller ID that had stopped Will from answering. He would have to find another phone to contact him. Without much hope, he picked up the phone again and dialed Kyle’s cell phone. It went immediately to voice mail. He hung up and looked at the pile of buds on the tray, trying to figure out if he could liberate a few joints’ worth to get him through the day. 

Hungry, he went to the refrigerator and scoured the contents, emerging with eggs, ham, cheese, and some vegetables. He had onion sautéing in butter when she walked back in. 

“Hey. Figured I’d just make something. Hope that’s OK.”

She looked at the pan and ingredients and nodded. “It wasn’t going to be as good if I cooked. I’m going to shower, and then we’re going to figure out what to do about Kyle.”

Dick snapped back to reality. “OK, yeah.” He finished the omelet and set out two plates. She emerged from the bedroom in a robe, with a towel slung around her hair, as he was portioning the food. He looked at her, wondering how Will could let her get away. Most of the girls he knew were of the meaner, self-serving variety. But she seemed sincere and just nice. 

Then again, he’d seen it all. Not the best-looking guy, and usually too stoned to be a threat, he had plenty of girls that poured out there hearts to him. He decided to try and get her talking and see what she was all about. 

She dug into the breakfast, rebuffing his attempts at conversation. When she finished eating, she turned to him and the questions started. He looked at the tray, hoping she would offer another joint to get him through the interrogation. 

She must have seen him staring at the tray. “Come on, Dick. You can have some when you answer.”

He started to fidget in the chair as he gave her a recount of the last few days. The look in her eyes grew more serious as the story unfolded, her concern evident when Will’s name was mentioned. 

“Holy crap, you guys are in this much trouble and not one of you thought to call the police?”

She reached for the phone, but he stopped her. “They’ll put me in jail for my warrants for sure, and probably take Will with me for being an accomplice. There’s no evidence left, and just our word that Kyle was taken. This isn’t going to play out well.”

She thought for a few minutes. “Will introduced me to the guy that owns the fish house. He’s at least indirectly involved in this, anyway. Maybe he can help.”

Anything was better than the police. “OK. Just no cops.”

***

Will estimated they were twenty miles off the coast when the sun emerged from the clouds. The wind had picked up noticeably, and he had reefed the mainsail. The only problem was the seas; the bigger swells were five feet now, and they threw spray over the bow all the way to the cockpit as the boat surged through them. If they got any bigger, he would have to furl the jib and lose even more speed.