On Boca Chica Island, just northeast of Key West, CPO Betty Church sat at her radar console, receiving reports from aircraft inbound to Key West and issuing vectors. She finished her shift at six PM, turned over her scope to the next shift, then got up and tapped her supervisor on the shoulder. “Mr. Potts,” she said to the Navy lieutenant, “I’d like to view the tapes of my scope for the past couple of hours.”
“What for?” Potts asked.
“I had an anomaly around four PM, but I got busy and couldn’t pay much attention to it.”
“What sort of anomaly?”
“I had a primary target disappear on me.”
“Was there a Mayday?”
“No, sir, nothing out of the ordinary at all.”
Potts shrugged, took his key, and unlocked the station that could replay radar tapes, then he stood behind her and watched as she rewound.
“There,” Church said. “Coming in from the west at three thousand feet and descending.”
“What’s the rate of descent?”
“It’s eight hundred feet per minute, normal for a light airplane. There, it’s gone.”
“Where could it have been coming from? Fort Jefferson? A sightseeing plane?”
“No, sir. It flew wide of Fort Jeff, didn’t land, then didn’t point at either Key West or Marathon.”
“You think it’s down in the water?”
“I think it landed on the water.”
“Drugs?”
“A light airplane wouldn’t have the kind of payload that the druggies like. They’d use a big twin or a fairly big boat. We can’t see boats on this radar, so I think the airplane met a boat.”
“That’s plausible,” Potts said. “How long before it took off again?”
“It didn’t take off—at least, if it did, it flew below our scan.”
“And you don’t know in what direction?”
“Three choices: Key West, Marathon, or up on the mainland. If it was flying in drugs it probably wouldn’t have had fuel to make the mainland, flying low, especially since it had to be amphibian or a seaplane, which produces a lot of drag.”
“Somewhere in the Keys, then?”
“Yes, but it could be anywhere. It could land, taxi in to some little cove or up a creek. Anywhere, really.”
“Well, report your suspicions to the Coast Guard.”
“And the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office?” Monroe County contained the Keys.
“Sure, if you like.”
CPO Church made the two calls. The Coast Guard listened attentively, thanked her, and hung up. And she was barely able to keep the deputy at the sheriff’s department awake.
So much for that.
After sundown that evening, a small fuel truck from a nearby airport drove out to the grass airstrip where Dix had landed, refueled the Stationair, and departed. The driver already had two brand-new hundred-dollar bills in his pocket and the fuel was paid for.
Al Dix had had it with his little apartment and with being an invalid. He put on a clean sling for his arm, opened his safe, took out a few hundreds, and headed into town to the Lame Duck.
“Hey, Dixie,” the bartender said. “Long time. You been on the wagon?”
“Sorta,” Dix replied. “Gimme a tequila shooter and a beer.”
The bartender served him, then found a moment to make a phone call.
Max walked into Tommy and Rosie Scully’s new house and looked around approvingly. “Much nicer than it used to be,” she said. “Love the pictures.”
“I learned a long time ago,” Rosie said, “that when you move into a new house, you’ve got to get the pictures up right away. Otherwise, the days go by, and you get used to bare walls, and it never gets done.”
“Drink, Max?”
“No, thanks, Tommy. We’ve got some business to do. Do you mind, Rosie?”
“Take him off my hands,” Rosie replied. “He’s already been fed.”
Tommy got his gun out of a locked desk drawer, stuck it into his holster, and followed Max outside. “What’s up?”
“Al Dix has surfaced,” she replied.
“Don’t tell me—at the Lame Duck?”
“You got it right.”
Dix was on his third shooter when he looked up to find a hot blonde on the next stool.
“Hi, Dixie,” Max said. “You been on a Caribbean cruise or something?”
“Hey, Max,” Dix said. “Nah, I been recuperating at home.”
“You got a new home, Dixie?”
“Yeah. I needed the peace to get better.”
“Why the sling?”
“My ribs aren’t entirely well, yet. My arm was taped to my body until today; couldn’t take it anymore.”
Max poked a finger at the slung arm and didn’t get a reaction. “I’ll bet you could fly an airplane,” she said.
“No work, yet. Not up to it.”
Max tapped the Franklin on the bar in front of Dix. “And yet?”
“I’ve been injured, not broke,” Dix said, as the bartender snatched away the hundred and replaced it with smaller bills.
“I hope your memory has improved,” Max said. She hoped that since Dix was already a little drunk, he might become more forthcoming.
“Memory about what?” Dix asked. “I don’t recall.”
“That’s the thing about memory, Dixie, you don’t recall. Until you remember.”
“That don’t make no sense,” Dix replied.
“Cast your mind back, Dixie. You’re about to fly an airplane, a Cessna 206, with floats.”
“That don’t ring a bell,” Dix replied, grinning.
“But you remember me putting you on the chopper.”
“Vaguely, something like that. I’m not crazy about helicopters.”
“Maybe you’d remember something if you had a few hours in a cell to sober up,” Max said.
“You got no charge,” Dix replied, tossing down another shooter.
Max looked at the bartender, who held up four fingers.
“Public drunkenness,” she said, tugging at his good arm. “Let’s go, Dixie.”
“Aw shit,” Dix grumbled, then raked up the cash and stuffed it into a pocket.
“Nothing for the bartender?”
Dix picked a ten out of his pocket and threw it on the bar.
“Well,” he said, “I never thought my first evening out of bed would end this way.”