Yes, paraphrasing his lawyers, that was clear.
MacNeal said, “I guess that means I’m washing my hands of it. You assume all responsibilities and liabilities, and the boat stays in your possession until we reach a fair settlement. Whatever you do, though, don’t let those people at Indian Harbor get their hands on it again. I’d rather let the boat sink.”
T omlinson signed off from the marine operator, and looked at Jeth, who was still processing what he’d heard. Jeth said slowly, “You mean the Viking’s not Augie’s anymore?”
“That’s right. It’s especially not Augie’s. Not his marina’s, either.”
“The guy doesn’t even know us and he’s letting us borrow it?”
Tomlinson said. “No. It’s more like we’ve adopted it—for now. MacNeal’s a nice guy, but he and his lawyer knew they didn’t have a choice. Risk a multimillion-dollar liability suit if the boat hits a bridge? It’s ours to keep until we settle. You and Javier suddenly have a very cool boat on your hands. And the timing couldn’t be better.” He held up an index finger: Wait here.
There was something he’d been wanting to show us. He went out the cabin door and returned with all three dive bags. Inside were objects that we’d gathered while surveying the wreck. The objects had a few long-dead barnacles on them, but not many—an indication they’d been buried in an anaerobic environment.
I’d found a rum bottle with raised lettering—RON BACARDI, HAVANA—plus the gun-sized glob. Jeth had recovered a flask-sized chunk of black-encrusted metal, and a couple of smaller chunks—silver?
As I held one of the pieces, I realized it was the first opportunity I’d had to tell them about the metallic rectangle I’d been trying to dig out of the sand. Could it have been gold? More likely, it was something golden looking in that silted light.
I hadn’t mentioned that I was knocked sideways by an unidentified animal, either—probably a shark, though it could have been a giant grouper. That feeling of shock, then dread, was something I would have to process on my own. My profession was beneath the water’s surface. I’d be going back into that murky water very soon.
I said nothing, as I inspected the encrusted chunk.
Jeth and I then watched as Tomlinson reached into his bag and pulled out a 1940ish dwarf-sized Coca-Cola bottle, then a broken phonograph record that was made of unexpectedly thick plastic.
“It’s an old 78,” he said. “I’d love to find out what’s on it.”
He saved the best for last: a wooden plaque. He placed it on the galley cabinet so we could inspect it.
“We’ll have to get that in salt water right away,” I told him, leaning close. “The stuff Jeth found, too.”
“Of course.”
The plaque was made of teak, most likely, swollen and black from years of being underwater, and covered with sand. It was the carved nameplate from a boat, a portion of it broken away long ago.
Touch a finger to the letters, and it was easier to read:
ARK LIGHT.
Jeth said, “Dark Light. It’s the wreck your friend said she’d pay us to salvage.”
Tomlinson replied, “Now we’ve got the boat to do it. Even in bad weather. Since Javier’s not here to do the honors, why don’t you go up and tell Augie the good news?”
29
That morning, watching from his condo window as Augie and Oswald pulled away in the Viking, Bern Heller experimented with the idea of using the boat to escape to some foreign country that had islands with palm trees, and straw huts and women who poured coconut milk over their hair and bodies to keep themselves feeling smooth…
Were there islands like that anymore? Were there ever?
Didn’t matter. He could still think about it.
…escape to an island that belonged to a country not interested in a few mistakes a man might make while living in Florida. Not if the man had money, and a yacht as classy looking as the Viking, where he could take the women with their coconut-smelling hair. Keep the air conditioner in the master suite going; make drinks for them while they took care of his laundry, his cooking…his other needs, while they were at it.
Bern pictured himself alone on the flybridge, all his belongings packed below, a trunkload of cash and certified checks hidden somewhere safe after cleaning out the corporation’s accounts. Pictured himself heading out across the Gulf of Mexico…
No, not the Gulf of Mexico. The water had to be calm. It had to stay calm.
…he pictured himself alone on the flybridge, keeping the boat close to the beach where there wasn’t any wind. Ride along nice and smooth, no more worries. He could follow the shoreline around to Mexico, or even Colombia—a favorite hangout of his grandfather’s judging from the passports that were still scattered on the nearby desk along with the leather-bound journal, the photo of the glamorous woman who was now probably an old hag, and documents mostly written in German.
Something new was on the desk, too. A registered letter from the old man’s personal assistant, Jason Goddard. And a package. They’d been sent overnight mail, but they couldn’t have anything to do with the message he’d left on Goddard’s machine: “I was wondering about the woman in the black-and-white picture…”
Or could they? Goddard was prompt. Known for being a step ahead. His grandfather referred to him as “my point man,” as if they were in a war. Or: “My personal son of a bitch,” because Goddard’s the one who did the old man’s dirty work.
But send an overnight package in reply to Bern’s phone message? Nobody responded that fast, not even Goddard. Besides, the envelope had a thick feel—there was a lot more than information about a woman inside.
Nothing good ever came in a thick envelope, that was Bern’s experience. Which is why he still hadn’t opened it. The way his luck was going? The damn thing could wait until tonight. Or tomorrow. He didn’t care.
Bern just wasn’t up to dealing with another shock. There’d been too many, way too fast. Last night was yet another example: The redneck dumping a barrel that contained the body of a woman who’d been quietly buried…nine months?
Yes, about that long. The girl Bern had spotted in a Gainesville parking lot, drop-dead gorgeous, with eyes that were way too good to waste time on him, so he had followed her. Got a little carried away when he dragged her out of the trunk, into a field, because the little bitch was a fighter—a mistake on her part, but his mistake, too, which he could admit to himself.
How long, though, was he going to have to pay for one or two stupid mistakes? Fair was fair, but he’d suffered enough.
The thing that tumbled out of the barrel probably was the girl from Gainesville, though he couldn’t swear to it. Hard to recognize what it was after being packed in a petroleum product for that long—dirty two-cycle motor oil in this instance. Which is what saved Moe’s Hoosier ass.
Very calm and cool, Moe had looked at Bern and said, “Girl? I don’t see any girl.” This, with the girl’s body only a few feet away, all folded up like a paper angel, oil streaming off it. And just after hearing Bern say that the girl looked so tiny, she almost had to be the sort of person no one would care about, or come looking for.
“A crack whore, most likely,” Bern had said.