Authors: Paul Carr
Sam felt a stream of perspiration run down his face and drip off his chin, wondering who these people could be, and how they had known exactly where to find the vault with gold inside. He also wondered what had happened to Candi and sighed; there was nothing he could do about it now.
They flew east toward the midmorning sun for an hour or so, and then the plane descended. Islands were visible below, maybe the Florida Keys, connected by a long bridge. They landed on an airstrip with foot-high weeds growing on the tarmac, and taxied to an old hangar with large holes in its walls.
Renaldo unbuckled his seat belt, stood and said to Sam and J.T., “Time for you to get off.” He pressed a button and the rear door dropped open.
Sam looked out at the old hangar. A piece of tin flapped in the breeze and a pelican glided in from the water and landed at the rear of the plane. It cocked its head and looked up its beak inside, maybe wondering what kind of shiny bird this might be, and how much of the food supply it would consume.
These men would leave Sam’s and J.T.’s dead bodies on this desolate piece of ground where no one would discover them for a month or so. Yet, if they wanted them dead, why hadn’t they killed them back at the airport after they had loaded the gold? Maybe they had to clear it with someone, and maybe that had been the purpose of the phone call before they’d taken off.
Danilov started to get up with them, but Renaldo pushed him back into his seat. “You stay.”
“If you know my name,” Sam said, “you know I don’t have anything to do with La Salle.”
“Shut up. Just do as I say.”
Sam and J.T. took their time going down the ramp to the seedy flight line. Renaldo held the gun on them and told them to keep going and not turn around.
A bullet in the back?
They strode toward the old hangar, Sam’s pulse firing away, and stood there for several seconds before hearing the engines on the plane accelerate. The plane circled as they turned to watch, and sped down the runway, its rear door closing as it lifted off. It ascended to about three hundred feet and then banked and headed west toward Central America.
Chapter 20
A
TRUCK horn blasted in the distance. Sam and J.T. trod a couple hundred yards across crumbling tarmac and down a hill through a stand of small pines before seeing a highway and a road sign:
Key West
48 Miles.
Cars and trucks rushed both ways on US1 in a steady stream, headed to and from the land of margaritas and sunsets.
“Looks like we’re somewhere around Marathon,” Sam said.
J.T. nodded. “Yeah, guess so. Who do you think those guys were?”
“I don’t know, but they knew exactly where to find the gold in the hotel. I’d say someone sold La Salle out.”
“Yeah, me too, and I thought they would kill us for sure.”
They walked up the narrow shoulder of the highway edged with palmetto and flowering weeds until they saw a motel sign advertising three hundred feet of private beach and a cafe.
J.T. turned to Sam. “You got any money?”
“Yeah, it’s probably wet from when I went in the lagoon.” Sam pulled his wallet from his pocket and opened it. Several damp hundreds and twenties stuck together when he pulled them out.
“That’s okay, it’ll spend.”
The motel, a one-level cinder block structure, looked like it had been around for seventy years or more. They ran across the highway when they had a clearing in traffic, went into the café and sat down at a table. A waitress barely out of her teens with purple hair and silver rings in her eyebrows came over with a pad in her hand and took their order for fish sandwiches and beer. She gave them a big smile when she left the table and Sam wondered if she might have been on her way to Key West when her money ran out. Marathon probably didn’t have much to offer a twenty-year-old with purple hair and piercings.
A woman sitting with a man at a table close by looked at Sam as if he might have smallpox. Sam smiled and the woman looked away and whispered something to her companion. They got up and left.
“You scared her off,” J.T. said.
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Could be that dried blood on the side of your face.”
“Yeah, that might do it.”
Sam went into the restroom. He looked into the mirror and saw dark circles under his eyes and the streak of blood where Grimes had hit him with the crutch. The streak led to a cut about an inch long below his temple. He washed his face with hand soap, careful to not open the wound, ran his fingers through his hair to smoothen it, and went back to his table.
The food arrived and they ate. When the server came with the tab, Sam handed her a hundred.
“How about calling us a taxi? We need to go to Miami.”
She looked at the damp bill and smiled, showing a shiny bead in her tongue. “Miami, wow. Can I go with you?” She seemed serious.
“Sure,” Sam said, “you can ride along.”
The smile leaked away as she glanced toward the kitchen. “I’ve been helping this old man run this place. He’ll probably go under if I leave.”
“Hey,” J.T. chimed in, “some old guy’s problems aren’t your responsibility.”
She paused, biting her bottom lip as if thinking about it, then shook her head. “I guess I should stay for awhile, but thanks for the offer.”
They finished their beer and stepped outside. The taxi, an ancient Cadillac the size of a parade float, showed up within five minutes. White smoke puffed from its tailpipe, but inside it blew cool air and the seats felt like velvet.
The driver looked about sixty and had white hair slicked back in duck tails.
“The woman that called said you want to go to Miami.”
“That’s right,” Sam said from the back seat.
“It’s gonna be expensive.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred.” The driver shrugged. “It’ll knock me out of work for the rest of the day.”
Sam handed the money over the seat, laid back, and dozed in the living-room comfort of the car from the past as the palms and motel signs flew by in a blur. They reached Florida City in about two hours. Sam woke and told the driver to take the road that led north to the Everglades instead of going downtown on US1. The driver glanced into the mirror but didn’t say anything. He seemed to know the road and found Highway 997 with no problems, and pushed on north. It took another hour to reach the airstrip where they had left the rented car.
The trunk lid of the Chevy stood open. An old car sat inside the fence, but it didn’t look like one La Salle might use, so Sam told the driver to turn in. They got out of the taxi and watched it roll away, exhaust climbing from under the rear bumper like an escaping stowaway.
Looking inside the open trunk, J.T. found the scattered contents of his overnight bag, his computer gone. Sam was relieved when he spotted the car keys in the trunk where the searcher had dropped them.
“What can they do with the computer?” Sam asked.
“Not much. I keep the good stuff on my website, and it’s locked down tight.”
Sam looked inside the Chevy and saw the glove box open and the car rental agreement on the floor. A cell phone lay on the driver’s seat.
They got inside and Sam picked up the cell phone. “This yours?”
“No,” J.T. said, “I have mine in my pocket.”
Sam laid it on the seat, reached under the carpet edge and found the bank box key. “At least they didn’t find this.” He put it into his pocket.
Sam started the engine and backed out of the parking spot. The side door of the hangar pushed open and a man in coveralls Sam didn’t recognize stepped outside and watched them drive away.
They rode for a mile or so toward Miami before the cell phone chirped. It had to be La Salle. Sam glanced at J.T. and punched the answer button. “How’s the leg?”
“It’s better than you’ll be when this is over.”
“I take it you have Candi.”
“Very astute of you, Mr. Mackenzie.”
La Salle wanted his money, but he hadn’t called because of that; in the scheme of things, that money was small potatoes.
“So, what’s the deal?”
“The deal, as you put it, is this: I have Miss Moran and you and your friend can do something for me to get her back.”
“Like what?”
“Come to the house on South Beach and we’ll talk.”
Sam wondered if it might be a trap. La Salle would blame him for what happened on the island. Had he and J.T. not intervened, Grimes might have stopped the men in the helicopter, and all the gold might still be there.
“I assume you remember the location.” La Salle’s tone dripped poison.
“No dice. We can talk in the bar at the Palma.” Sam said.
La Salle paused, and then sighed on the other end. “All right, be there at six o’clock.” The connection went dead and Sam closed the phone and laid it on the seat beside him.
“What did he want?” J.T. said.
“He wants us to do something, and he said he’ll let Candi go if we do it.”
“You don’t believe him, do you?”
Sam glanced at him. “I don’t know. If he wanted to kill us, he could have done it when we came for the car.”
J.T. nodded. “So we’re going to meet him at the Palma?”
“Yes, at six.” Sam glanced at him. “And he never said anything about those guys letting us go.”
Sam drove to the marina, and they went to his boat. It didn’t look as if it had been disturbed since he’d left. They went aboard and Sam took a shower in the master bath while J.T. used the smaller one forward next to the guest quarters. After putting on a fresh shirt and a pair of slacks, Sam got a thousand dollars from his stash. He also pulled out a couple of spare handguns, leaving the holsters, and gave J.T. one. On the way to the Chevy, Sam glanced down the dock at Jack Craft’s boat. He didn’t see Jack outside, and a couple of newspapers lay on the gangway.
What are you up to, Jack?
The trip to the Palma Hotel took less than five minutes. Sam parked the car and they went in the side door to the bar. They found a table in the corner next to an indoor palm and sat in rattan wing chairs. Only two other tables were occupied, each with a man and a woman. Three men and one woman sat at the bar. Sam didn’t recognize anybody. Island music played from speakers somewhere close by, the volume low and easy on the ears, and a ceiling fan stirred the barroom air. The waiter arrived and they ordered beer. Sam looked at his watch: ten minutes early.
The beer came about the same time La Salle entered through the side door with Marcus. Both wore sunglasses and tailored suits.
La Salle spotted them and eased to the table, the limp in his gait barely noticeable. Pretty remarkable, because Sam knew he had injured the knee when he delivered the kick. They sat in the two empty chairs. Sam heard the clink of metal and wondered if La Salle might be wearing a leg brace. Marcus avoided Sam’s eyes as if afraid he might bring up the business about double-crossing him, and what that conversation might lead to. The waiter came back a second later. La Salle ordered two glasses of mineral water, and the waiter rolled his eyes and hurried away.
La Salle looked at Sam and almost smiled.
“I suppose I underestimated you. I should have had you killed two days ago. Looking back, the money you stole from me seems like a small price to pay.” His gaze turned cold.
“Where’s Candi?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. She’s safe, for now.”
“You better hope she stays that way,” J.T. said.
Marcus reached for something inside his coat. La Salle raised his hand and Marcus stopped and gave J.T. a threatening look. No one spoke for several seconds. The piped-in island music played on, and the palm did a slow dance under the fan. The waiter brought the mineral water, noticed the tension in the air, and almost tripped getting away from the table.
Sam glanced at J.T., who had a smirk on his face, and then looked at La Salle. “So, what’s this all about?”
La Salle removed his sunglasses and laid them on the table. “It should come as no surprise to you that my business partner has been detained.”
“What does that have to do with us?”
“A small statue lies at the bottom of the sea and I want it. If you find it and bring it to me, I’ll release Miss Moran.”
“They brought back half a dozen crates of gold things this morning.”
“Yes, but they never found this piece. Danilov called on his flight back and told me. It is an Aztec ruler, about twelve inches tall.”
“You have a list of what’s down there?” Sam said.
La Salle leaned back in his chair and said, “Something like that.”
“Why us? There are other people you could hire to do this.”
“Indeed, but you are the only one I can trust to return with the statue.” La Salle glanced at J.T. and his look said he couldn’t be so sure about him.
Sam nodded. “Who are those guys who took the gold?”
“They are not your concern.”
“What if I happen to run into them out there in the Caribbean?”
“That would be most unfortunate, for all of us.”
Yeah, but particularly for the person holding the statue.
La Salle told Sam his workmen had repaired the seaplane and Randy would pick them up at the outermost point in Sam’s marina at midnight.
“You must land at the site in the Caribbean at precisely 3:00 AM. Otherwise our surveillance will mistake you for a poacher and you will be terminated.”
Sam nodded, remembering the missiles J.T. had described at the surveillance facility on Grand Cayman. He hoped Randy would understand the importance of the schedule and lay off the booze until after their flight.
“Okay, we’ll do it, but Candi better be okay when we get back, or you’ll never see that statue.”
La Salle looked at him for a second, then wrote a telephone number on a napkin and pushed it across the table. Sam put the napkin in his pocket and laid a bill on the table to cover the drinks.
All four men stood at once and Marcus pushed the table into J.T., causing him to fall backward into his chair. J.T. glanced at him, smiled and pressed back from the table. He stood up, still smiling, and when it looked as if no one would throw punches, the four men walked out the door.