part0048

THE FERRY LOOPED AROUND to the north of the Dry Tortugas and Howe Key, then dropped down and came into Fort Jefferson Boat Pier from the west. Bird Key Harbor was on the starboard side as it made its approach. So while everybody else’s attention was on Fort Jefferson on the port side, Evan concentrated on scanning the harbor through his binoculars for a sighting of the Dead or Alive . There were only three boats in the harbor. A large, expensive-looking yacht was anchored off on its own. Then there was the most likely candidate, a sport fishing boat some distance away and a smaller boat close to that, partially obscured by it.

Trouble was, the wind was coming in from the north which meant the boats had swung around on their anchors and were facing the ferry. He couldn’t see the name on the stern of the most likely candidate. He was no expert but from where he was three hundred yards away, it looked very similar to the boat he’d discovered George Winter drowned underneath.

It wasn’t all bad. The wind direction worked in his favor too. Coming into Bird Key Harbor from the direction of Fort Jefferson he’d be approaching the Dead or Alive’s bow. He figured if Lockhart was outside at all, he’d most likely be out on the stern deck, eating or fishing or just sitting there in the morning sun, trying to work the night’s chill out of his body.

When the ferry docked, he waited until all of the other passengers had disembarked. Most of them made a beeline for Fort Jefferson itself, straight ahead. Looking back in the direction of Bird Key Harbor, he reckoned it was somewhere in the region of six to seven hundred yards to where the Dead or Alive was anchored.

Turning left as he disembarked, he wandered along the pier to where a number of National Parks Service boats and other smaller craft were moored. Beyond that was a section of beach reserved for dinghies. Pulled up onto the scrubby grass was a bright orange inflatable dinghy with an outboard motor as well as a couple of yellow kayaks. They hadn’t paddled all the way from Key West, so he reckoned they must have come from the large yacht in the harbor. Jumping down onto the shore, he made his way towards them.

A couple of teenage kids, a boy and a girl, sat on the ground looking back out to sea. He hoped their parents, the owners of the yacht, were the sort who believed that children shouldn’t have everything handed to them on a plate. That they should learn to appreciate the value of money and as a result didn’t get an allowance that was bigger than what he made in a month.

He smiled to himself when he saw the looks on their faces. Their world had just ended. Here they were, sitting on a beach in the sun with the magnificent historic monument that was Fort Jefferson behind them and they looked like their dog had just died. They had no cell phone service. Hopefully the offer of some easy cash would ease their pain. Maybe they wouldn’t even care if they lost one of the kayaks, a small gesture of defiance against heartless parents who would take them to a shithole where your phone doesn’t work.

Five minutes later he’d secured himself the unlimited rental of one of the kayaks. The amount of cash that he’d handed over in exchange told him that these kids would do okay in life. Probably end up with a bigger yacht than daddy. There was only one proviso. The boy pointed in the direction that Evan was about to head off in.

‘Don’t get too close to it, okay. Not unless you want my father to radio for the coast guard to come and arrest you for piracy. Or shoot you with the rifle he keeps on board.’

Evan wasn’t listening. He’d just seen something he was sure wasn’t permitted in a National Park. Half-hidden under the other kayak was a speargun. It looked like there were some brightly-colored dead fish under there too. The boy saw him looking. A guilty grin crept over his face. Evan made a point of looking over to where the Park Rangers’ boats were moored. Not very many dollars later the speargun was loaded and lying in the bottom of his kayak.

The boy gave him a push to get him underway and he started the long paddle towards the Dead or Alive . It had worked out better than he’d anticipated. This way he could approach silently. Even if Lockhart was vigilant and saw him coming, he’d be unlikely to make a run for it. Nobody he was hiding from would be coming after him in a bright yellow kayak.

As he got nearer, he saw that the smallest of the three boats was right alongside the sport fishing boat that he was now positive was the Dead or Alive . A surge of trepidation went through him as an overheard conversation came back to him—a charter boat skipper with a black eye complaining bitterly about two men forcibly commandeering his boat.

He picked up the speargun and laid it across his knees, then eased off paddling as he got closer, the kayak slipping slowly through the crystal-clear turquoise water. There was nobody in sight on either boat. He went past the Dead or Alive’s anchor line and started down the side of it, coasting now, his left hand on the speargun across his knees. Then, with his right hand against the side of the boat, he pushed himself carefully to his feet, speargun held against the kayak to steady it.

With his arms stretched wide his head was facing downwards, the sun hot on the back of his neck. The fingers of his right hand closed around the wooden gunwale. He lifted his head.

Hard-wired animal instinct kicked in, reflexes responding without conscious, time-wasting thought. He brought the speargun up fast towards the man with the gun. At the same time the other, bigger man stepped forward with a fishing gaff in his hand, knocking his smaller compadre out of the way.

Evan fired the speargun at the empty space where the smaller man had been a split second ago, already falling backwards as the kayak capsized. The larger man brought the gaff down in a murderous whistling arc towards the raised speargun.

The razor point snagged the barrel with a sharp jolt, the two men balanced on either end of their weapons. Evan wrenched the speargun hard towards him, pulled the man on the boat off balance, the lanyard on the gaff’s handle looped securely around his wrist.

His back hit the water as his feet swept up through the air, slammed into the side of the boat. He powered them out like an Olympic swimmer pushing off after a flip turn, pulled the guy on the other end of the gaff in after him.

The guy landed on top of him, a tangle of thrashing arms and legs under the surface. Above them on the boat the guy with the forty-five stood at the gunwale, head moving side to side, peering at the inseparable jumble of limbs through the explosion of water, his gun arm trying to track Evan’s body below his partner.

Evan dropped the speargun, threw his arms around the guy’s body, clamped his hands on the ends of the gaff. Pulled it hard up under the guy’s chin, across his throat, cutting off his air. With his own body completely submerged, he wrapped his legs around the man above him to stop him from kicking wildly, to pull him down like a ‘gator drowning its prey.

In his panic the guy jerked his arm out, snapped the lanyard. Drove it back in again. Buried his elbow into Evan’s gut. Evan jack-knifed, the air exploding out of his lungs. His hands came off both ends of the gaff, the pressure on the guy’s throat gone.

Then Evan’s breath sucked back in. He was still underwater. No air went in. A ton of salty seawater did. He kicked violently, head bursting into the sunlight in a spray of glittering water droplets, coughing and retching as the other guy twisted away from him back towards the boat.

The guy grabbed the gaff floating free on the surface, swung it and buried the tip deep into the gunwale, pulled himself up. His partner hauled him in. Then the two of them watched Evan as he flapped on the surface, spitting and retching, trying to control the involuntary spasms of his panicked lungs.

Evan didn’t have a choice. In the perfectly clear water he’d be an easy target. In his sodden clothes and shoes, they’d shoot him in the back before he got ten strokes away. Wouldn’t have to worry about blood on the pristine deck boards either. Save themselves a bitch of a job getting it out again.

He swam to the boat while the big guy worked at getting the point free from where it was stuck fast in the gunwale. Reaching up, he clamped his hand around the gunwale. He only had seconds to get in on his own. Once the big guy worked the gaff free, he’d be getting a helping hand—or hook. He felt the guy’s eyes roving over his body. Where to sink the pointy tip of the gaff into first? The back of the shoulder? The upper arm? The forearm? So many fleshy places, so little time.

Evan rolled himself into the boat, landed on the deck with a thump, a tangle of boneless limbs as the adrenalin rush subsided. He lay with his face pressed into the wooden slats for a moment, heart thumping against them, thankful that his blood wasn’t running away between them. Not that the wood was clean or blood-free. Far from it. A pool of dried blood stained the slats just inches from his nose.

He pushed himself up, stared into the malevolent piggy eyes of the large guy, a face-off between two monsters from the deep dripping water onto the deck. He gave him a watery grin.

The big guy’s eyes bulged. He stepped forward but his partner put his arm out across his chest to stop him. Motioned to Evan with his gun.

There was no sign of Lockhart inside. The two men had been making themselves at home in his absence. There were two plates on the galley table. The pattern looked as if it had been licked off one of them, half-eaten pancakes and sausages on the other. They’d been pushed to the side in a messy pile, knives and forks heaped on top. Evan glanced at them, dismissed the idea immediately. What use would flatware be against a man with a gun? The big guy swept his arm across the table, sent the plates and everything on them clattering into the corner just in case.

But not before Evan saw that there had been another knife on the table, hidden by the plates. This one was long and thin, the blade curved. A filleting knife, used for gutting fish. From the blood that coated the blade, it was clear it had been used recently. Just not for gutting fish. And no sausage that Evan had ever eaten was full of fresh blood like that.

For reasons that he couldn’t and didn’t want to explain his mind was filled by the image of the man who had sent these killers. Not as he was now but as he had been almost fifty years ago when he posed for a photograph with something grisly in his left hand.

In that moment Evan understood what it was that the man held half-hidden from the scrutiny of the camera lens. He felt his gorge rise, a pricking at his scalp, and knew he didn’t want to find Vaughan Lockhart.