When the island dude paid the bill with the Doc’s credit card, Pinky took a side trip on the way to the cashier, went into the back and took his name and numbers. First thing Monday morning, they were at the library on one of the computers, and Pinky found out just about everything there was to know about that guy, including the name of this boat he had and where he docked it over in Oriental. Him and Pinky both quit their jobs in Buxton, moved to Oriental, rented a room and started digging around for every bit they could learn about the guy and his submarine, but it wasn’t long before the Doc caught on to the fact he was seeing them around. Pinky still blamed him for that one.
“Report,” Thor said as he moved out of the glare of the wharf lights and into the shadows.
“Guess you missed the last ferry, man.”
Thor stretched his arm out and looked at his watch. Spyder thought the dude looked pissed. Must not have liked his stinky boat ride.
When they’d first met the other dude couple of weeks ago, him and Pinky figured they’d found themselves a pretty good gig. They’d been watching Thatcher from a bar in the marina in Guadeloupe when this guy got up from another table, came over, introduced himself with a stupid-ass fake name — Caliban, and said he was looking to hire a couple of local fellows for a job. They were supposed to follow and get some coin off this Thatcher guy. Spyder’d been about to tell the rich asshole that it would be easy seein’s as how they already knew the Doc from back home, but when he looked at his brother’s face, it was like he had them light-up letters on his forehead with the words Shut Up written there. It was a good deal getting paid to do the exact same thing they woulda’ been doing anyways. Leastwise, it was until last night when this Thor dude showed up.
“I said, report.” There was something about Thor’s voice that told him not to mess with the guy.
“Last night, I put the oars on the chick’s boat just like you said.” He decided to leave out the part about invading the powerboat’s liquor cabinet the night before, getting sick after drinking half a bottle of some kind of sweet French liquor, and sleeping in well past dawn. “This morning we followed her boat over here, then I walked all over the island playing tourist with her.”
“Did she see you?”
“Hell, no,” Spyder said.
“Where is she now?”
“Out on her boat. But just before dark Pinky said he saw some dude swim out there. It might have been the Doc. He was about the same size, but it was too dark to tell for sure and by the time he got the glasses out, dude was gone — down below probly. Nears we can tell, he ain’t come out yet even though she come back a while ago. Pinky’s watching whilst I come in to get you.”
“Put my bag in your boat. Stand-by here while I find a meal – then we’ll go out to your boat and regroup.”
“You don’t want me to go check out the guy over there?”
Dude who called himself Thor smiled and shook his head. “Try hard to remember these two things. No questions. No thinking for yourself. Give me an hour.”
As Spyder watched Thor’s back disappear around the corner toward the village, he was pretty sure the man had just called him stupid. For that, he was gonna make him pay.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Aboard the Bonefish
March 26, 2008
7:45 p.m.
“What the heck was that?” Cole asked, clinging to the companionway ladder on the rocking boat.
Riley was standing behind the wheel squinting into the darkness. “It’s some jerk —” she said, pointing at the offending boat. But she didn’t finish as all around her shouts were flying from the other cruising boats. Riley reached for the binoculars she kept in a teak rack near the helm.
“I guess he doesn’t understand the concept of a no-wake zone,” he said as he grabbed the stainless arch over the binnacle to steady himself. “No wonder you sailors get so upset. These things really roll.”
Riley ignored him and held the glasses to her eyes. It was a grungy-looking local boat, and she was surprised that a local fisherman would come into the anchorage so hot. What was his hurry? The boat was nearing the town wharf and a man was standing on the rear deck. She swung the glasses over to check out the dock, and there standing under the light was the ponytail guy.
“Shit,” she said.
“What is it?”
She lowered the binoculars and looked at him. What had he said his real name was? Cole. She had no reason to trust him. He’d lied to her, stolen from her, and broken into her boat. But it was like she’d told Hazel last night, in spite of the deceit, there was something so earnest about him. And now even his speech had changed — he no longer sounded like the opening act for Larry the Cable Guy.
After she’d swung the Maglite, then turned on the overhead light and discovered her intruder wasn’t the man she expected, she’d also had about five long minutes before he came around to take a good look at him. He might spout some weird ideas, but he sure looked great in nothing but a little red Speedo swimsuit. His shoulders were broad and well-muscled and his torso tapered to a slim waist and hips. Maybe Hazel was right, maybe she was just swooning over the closeness of so much masculinity, but she didn’t think so.
At Quantico when she’d first attended MSG School, they had been trained in many ways to assess people from reading body language to known facial tells that indicate whether a person approaching a sentry is a friendly or not. Such assessments had become second nature to her, and in spite of the lying, her assessment of Cole was that he meant her no harm. He had owned up to everything — hadn’t tried to deny it. He’d even apologized, which was rare enough in her experience with men. She thought about the scrap of paper with the photocopy of his coin — the coin he was no longer wearing. He might be a harmless kook, but he was somehow involved with some dirtbag characters, and she needed to find out what the connection was.
She handed him the binoculars. “Check out that man on the dock. The slender guy with a ponytail standing under the light.”
When Cole centered the glasses on the man, his reaction matched hers. “Oh, crap.”
“You know him,” she said more as a statement than a question. The fishing boat was now backing and filling to bring the stern around into the wharf so that the passengers could disembark. The roar of the diesel filled the anchorage.
“Afraid I do.” Cole lowered the glasses. “How do you know him?”
“I came over here today hoping to find you, to get you to come back to Pointe-à-Pitre to deal with Immigration. Went up to Fort Napoleon, and had a little run in with him.”
“What happened?”
She thought for several seconds about how she could say this without sounding like a raving lunatic. Then she decided what the heck, she was talking to a lunatic. “He was following me in the museum, and when I went to confront him, he shoved this dummy at me.”
“A dummy?”
“Wearing a costume, you know, like a mannequin. Anyway, he ran, I chased him, tackled him, we fought, he got away. Then the cops came and got me.”
“What?” His mouth gaped.
“Well, I would have taken him, but I have this injury. He kicked me in the shoulder here.” She touched her collar. “It’s an old injury from my days in the service, but it still gives me trouble.”
“You must be one hell of a fighter, Magee,” he said. “That guy in there is no one to mess with. I know him from back in North Carolina, and word is he’s killed at least one guy, probably more. I gather the police let you go or you wouldn’t be here. I’m sorry I got you involved.”