The plane took another hit, and one engine began coughing.
Posnick's reaction was the same as mine. "Holy shit," he shouted and reached into his pocket. His hand emerged with his cigarette lighter. When it flickered to life, he waved it in front of the instruments. The news was all bad. The starboard engine was gone, and we were down to 4500 feet. The sky around us had turned into a pyrotechnical nightmare.
We plunged another 1000 feet. I looked out the window, but there was nothing but nothingness. It was all darkness and eerie streaks of lightning and one crescendo of thunder after another. The sweat was pouring down Posnick's pockmarked face.
Suddenly I saw it — lights, a blur, maybe a rainsoaked street. Then more blackness. Again light. Time kaleidoscoped.
Then came an impact, more of a ricochet.
Posnick's face splattered all over the instrument panel.
We were airborne again, only to slam back to earth — fuselage disintegrating, sparks, the sound of tearing metal, the smell of gasoline and things burning.
Then it stopped. What once seemed like nothing less than the fires of hell was now a wet world of darkness. Water was pouring in, filling up the cabin. I started kicking at the passenger's door.
Wherever it was, the Aztec was slipping sideways and taking a big drink.
The ruptured door ripped out of the casing, and I reached down for Hannah, grabbing her by the first thing I could get hold of — the collar of Bluebell's jumpsuit.
There was only one alternative, and I took it. I swam like hell. The last thing I heard was the protesting moans of the burning Aztec as it slid beneath the surface of the churning water.
I was still groggy but the words were finally starting to filter through. The older one who had a dark, swarthy face was doing the talking. The younger one with the cherub face looked more like he should be playing the lead in a Christmas pageant instead of wearing a uniform — a Coast Guard uniform, no less.
The older one studied me for a moment, leaned back and dropped his pencil on the tablet in front of him. "That," he wheezed, "may damn well be the wildest story I've ever heard."
I had to admit that if we had traded places and I was hearing it for the second or third time, those would probably have been my sentiments as well. "But every damn word of it is true," I assured him.
The two men continued to shake their heads in disbelief. There was no doubt in my mind that it was going to take a battery of psychological tests and several sessions with a shrink to get me out of this one.
"Okay, gentlemen, I've told you everything you wanted to know, been a good boy and patiently answered every one of your questions; now it's your turn. How about answering a few for me?"
The younger of the two men grinned. "Guess we owe you that much."
"What about Ms. Holbrook?"
"Broken leg, broken arm and a very nasty concussion. It'll take her a while, but she'll be okay. As soon as we got her stabilized we hustled her down to the Key West Naval Air Station by helicopter."
It sounded as though the law of averages had finally caught up with the pretty lady. It was too bad because now she was going to be deprived of what little satisfaction had been left in this whole mess — handing over the two remaining cylinders to the old buzzard who had put us through all this misery.
"Any other questions, Mr. Wages?"
"Yeah. Where are the cylinders?"
The two men looked at each other. The younger of the two finally cleared his throat. "You've talked about these cylinders throughout, Mr. Wages, but we aren't aware of any cylinders."
"You mean to stand there and tell me you didn't recover the cylinders?"
"On the contrary, Mr. Wages, we found nothing. That's why we asked you to repeat your story again. The first time you were groggy, and we thought you may have been confused. We found no cylinders, no drugs and no one by the name of Posnick."
I was stunned. "But…"
"Quite the contrary, Mr. Wages. We found the plane, all right, in thirty feet of water, off the docks in Carbo Key. It appears that your plane hit the water tower, plowed through a small fleet of fishing boats, catapulted over the public fishing pier and fell into the water. By all accounts you were damn lucky you weren't killed." He picked up a clipboard, sorted through the untidy stack of documents and laid it down again. The boyish grin intensified. "Actually, it must have been one helluva ride. You wiped out four fishing boats, a Piper Aztec, a public fishing pier and three shanties along the way. You and the lady were in pretty bad shape when they brought you in."
"Brought us in," I repeated. "You mean you aren't the ones that found us?"
This time both of them laughed.
"Afraid not. You're at an auxiliary station in Marathon. It must have been your lucky day. One of our coastal units was on its way down toward Barlow Key when the storm hit. They put in at Carbo to ride the squall out. Lucky they were there. They saw the whole thing, fished you and the little lady out, checked out the wreck and brought you here. Them being on the spot probably saved your lives."
It was my turn to slump back in the chair. "Are you sure about those cylinders?"
"We're certain, Mr. Wages. I have an office-on-duty's report right here. There's a list of the items they recovered — a few odds and ends, pieces of debris, the kinds of things you'd expect to find in a wreck like that — but no mention of cylinders, no drugs and no briefcase."
I stared back at the two men, too stunned to say anything.
"The truth of the matter is, Mr. Wages, until we have an opportunity to talk to this Holbrook woman, we have no way of substantiating any part of your story."
"Substantiating my story? Hell, you can check with any of them."
"Any of who, Mr. Wages? If we're to accept your version of what has transpired in the last two weeks, who would we check with? You mentioned a Mr. Packer, a Lieutenant Poqulay of the Westmore Police, a man by the name of Queet, another by the name of Sargent, a fellow by the name of Byron Huntington — yet you tell us they are all dead. As for the supposed pilot of the plane, the one you called Posnick, we know nothing of him. The plane you claim belonged to the drug cartel filed a flight plan as a charter from Hedonism; we verified that with Miami Air Traffic Control. The bottom line is we're not quite sure what to believe, Mr. Wages.''
"Damn it then, check with Bearing Schuster. He can at least verify the fact that he hired me to find the damn cylinders in the first place."
The young ensign got up and walked slowly to the window, shaking his head. "You're out of luck there, too. Show him, Lieutenant."
The dark one, the one with the perpetual glower, opened his desk drawer and pulled out a newspaper. He spread it out on the desk so I could see. The headlines were the final nail in my coffin. "BEARING SCHUSTER DIES IN SLEEP."
I slumped back in my chair again and closed my eyes.
The round-shouldered young ensign walked slowly over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. "Mr. Wages, look at the bright side. At least you're alive. If it hadn't been for the fact that one of our units was practically at the crash site, you might not even be around to tell your fascinating story. Yes sir, you can thank Lieutenant Zapata for that."
EPILOGUE
In retrospect, the Coast Guard was pretty good about the whole thing. By simply allowing me to sign a couple of vouchers, I was able to borrow enough money from good old Uncle Sam to buy a commuter flight up to Miami, where Cosmo and Honey Bear picked me up at the airport. The conversation was predictable. After giving them the complete story, right down to the last detail of how I managed to get Mookie's antique handgun out of Hannah's pants, it was their turn.