Into the marrow, p.18
Into the Marrow, page 18
“Hm, what?” I asked. “Why don't you just say what it is instead of going, 'Hm,’?”
“Take it easy,” Lockwood said. “I think I found something.”
He came over to Meadows and me and sat in one of the leather chairs. Lockwood spread his printouts on the coffee table as Meadows and I leaned in for a closer look.
“Here's Chief’s charters.”
Lockwood ran his finger over a set of coordinates.
“How do you know those are the charters?” I asked.
“There's more of them and they're out in the Stream. He liked to take clients out there, but Chief wasn't much of a big-game charter. Clients didn't know that, though. Anyway, these coordinates are all along the Gulf Stream.”
“What about these?”
I spread my sheets across the ones Lockwood laid down and pointed out six of the same coordinates.
“Dry Tortugas,” Lockwood said.
“What's there?” I asked.
“It's a national park. Fort Jefferson is there,” Meadows said.
“Is there fishing out there?”
“There's fishing everywhere,” Lockwood said, “but no one goes out there except the shrimp boats. He was probably ferrying customers out there for the day. It's a popular tourist location, with a good beach and snorkeling. But that's not what's interesting.”
Lockwood pointed at three other coordinates, all the same.
“It's these.”
“I have those, too,” Meadows said.
“What about them?” I asked.
“Nothing, except they're at night. Late at night.”
“So?”
“Your buddy was a man of habit. A real military type. But he was retired and only did what was necessary to make ends meet. He worked Thursday through Sunday running charters from six in the morning to six in the evening. Like clockwork. Easy money; easy fishing. These coordinates are on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday from nine in the evening until midnight.”
Lockwood pulled out the claim file Meadows faxed to us and placed the sheets on the text message printouts.
“And they’re the same coordinates as the claim,” he said.
I grabbed the paperwork and compared the numbers. They were an exact match.
“Holy shit,” I said.
“You were right,” Lockwood said.
Meadows sat back in her chair, looking as if she had just gone twelve rounds in a heavyweight bout.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She took a moment, but finally looked over at me and smiled. A tired smile, but a good one, nonetheless.
“That’s one hell of a hunch you got there, Cutter,” she said.
“If I’m not mistaken,” I said, “that’s a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I picked up the text printouts I had gone over and checked the time stamps on the messages.
“What time does Fort Jefferson open to the public?”
“Ferry arrives about ten, but some take a seaplane to get there earlier, charter a boat, or sail out on their own. There’re also campers and park rangers. They live on the island. But normal hours are sunup to sundown.”
“The rangers live there?”
“Inside the fort. They lock it up at sunset. Why?”
I jabbed my finger at three Dry Tortugas coordinates.
“Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, three to five in the morning.”
I handed the printouts to Lockwood. He read the coordinates.
“Now why would Dan go out in the middle of nowhere in the dark then to the Dry Tortugas before heading back to Key West?” I asked.
“Overnight charters?” Meadows said.
Lockwood went to a cabinet and grabbed a chart. He sat back down and unrolled it on the coffee table. He checked the text messages, then found the spot Dan had visited in the Dry Tortugas.
“It's Fort Jefferson. North side of the island. There's a channel that leads right up to the key, mainly used by the maintenance crew. Look at the times. He went to Fort Jefferson immediately after the claim site during those nights.”
“You know what this means, don't you?” I asked.
He nodded, and we both said, “He hid something at Fort Jefferson.”
Meadows sat upright, held her hand up like she was stopping traffic.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You mean… Come on, guys.”
“There be buried treasure out there,” I said.
I wiggled my eyebrows at Lockwood and a big grin crossed his face. He loved any idea of buried treasure, it’s what he lived for every day of his life.
“Can you take a boat out to the claim site, tomorrow?” I asked Meadows.
“I could get Marine Patrol to take me out. Why?”
“See what’s there. You dive?”
“No, but Marine Patrol does,” she said. “What are the chances we’ll find something?” she asked Lockwood.
“Depends on if it’s above the sand or not. Hard to say.”
“What are you going to do?” Meadows asked me.
“I’m going to do some sightseeing.”
“What about the storm?” she said.
Lockwood and I both said, “It’s just a precursor.”
“Tomorrow, we'll go to the Dry Tortugas to get a lay of the land,” I said to Lockwood.
“There you go using ‘we’ again.”
“Hey, every Sherlock needs a Watson. You're my Watson.”
“I'm a pirate.”
“Even better, Long John Silver. We'll take the ferry.” I turned to Meadows. “You might want to check up on Carl Polk. If he’s still breathing.”
“I’ll have patrol go by the state harbor.”
“What time does the ferry leave?” I asked Lockwood.
“Seven. You know I have a boat, right?”
“Less conspicuous.” I was thinking about our friend Peter Jankowski. Catching him in my rearview mirror earlier had made me extra cautious. He’d have a hard time hiding on a public boat, and if he was cocky enough to try, I could throw him overboard. “Besides, when's the last time you were a tourist in your own city?”
“Never. I worked my whole life.”
“You gotta learn to relax, man.”
Chapter Forty-Three
The rain let up long enough to allow me to watch a cloudy sunset from the deck of the Hold Fast. The water in Garrison Bight was gray and restless and I sat in a deck chair damaging a bottle of Don Julio and thinking about Dan and Stacy. It had been a rough day but staying busy made me not think too much about their deaths, which was strange since I was trying to catch their killer. But now alone—utterly alone—all I had were my thoughts. I missed my old friend Dan. Missed that we never had a chance to catch up on the past. I would have liked to have mended some fences, too. Some of my biggest belly laughs were in the presence of Dan Yarnall and now I felt something of an emptiness in my world even with fifteen years between us.
And then there was Stacy. Our budding relationship. And I thought about how beginnings are always great. How they don’t have a plan, just passion. An absolute freedom to explore and learn. I needed something like that in my life, and Stacy had been there with perfect timing.
I had never had too much luck with the ladies in the past. Came close to marriage once with a high school sweetheart before I joined the Navy, but it didn't take long for her to figure out I was not the best catch. I was young, unambitious, and dumb. Have to give credit where credit is due. She made the right decision.
The Navy turned me around, though. Regardless of how I feel about my time in service, I was useless when young. And the high school sweetheart wasn't the one that got away, Stacy was. At least, I like to believe she was.
Around ten, the tequila had cooked me well-done. With drizzling rain coming down, I stumbled down the dock to a pay phone on the side of the small building where the restrooms were and made a drunk call to Michigan. I didn't even know pay phones still existed. This one had to be the last in the United States.
I listened to a series of clicks, then ringing, then a recorded voice said, “A collect call from,” and I said, “Leroy.” A sweet, reluctant voice said, “I'll accept.”
“Hey, Aliyah.”
“How much have you had to drink?” she asked.
Aliyah Williams may be another one that got away, but feeling sentimental, I’d called anyway. Blame the tequila. We hadn't spoken to each other since I left for New Orleans to pick up the Hold Fast. We used to work together at Detroit PD. We were also an item at one time, which complicated my life both professionally and personally. Her life, too. But she’s a lieutenant now, came out on the sunny side, and I still consider her a friend. I think she thinks the same of me. Forgiveness isn't easy, but it is necessary.
“I'm a little tight.”
“How're the Keys?”
“Meh, you know.”
“Manage to find some trouble, I gather? I talked to the cops. They were checking up on you. I gave them the basics.”
“Yeah, I know. I heard. By the way, congratulations. That must've pissed some people off.”
“Not so much. That whole Jack Crosky thing this summer softened some POVs if you know what I mean.”
“Enough to take me back?”
“Me or the department?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
“Nothing is that soft.”
I could hear the ten o’clock news on the television in the background, Channel 2, “We get the bad news to you first.”
“So, why were the police checking up on you, Lee?”
“That buddy I was visiting?”
“Yeah.”
“He was murdered the day I got into town.”
“They didn't say anything about that. I'm sorry.”
I felt a lump in my throat and was overwhelmed with sudden grief I hadn't felt since my second day in Key West. Without warning, I broke down. A culmination of lost friendships, regrets, and anger flowed through me. There was a reason I hadn’t seen Dan in fifteen years. We’d never talked about it and as I sailed the Gulf of Mexico, on my way to see him, I had made up my mind we would lay everything out on the table. That’s what friends do. But I had never gotten the chance. Some regrets are carried until the end.
“You okay, Lee?”
Embarrassed, I wiped away my tears and tried to get a hold of myself. But every time I thought I had a grip, I choked out a sob.
“Ah, shit.”
“You know it's okay to cry,” Aliyah said.
“I know.”
Aliyah silently listened to me ball like a baby and the more she listened, the more I felt it was okay. We listened to the buzzing connection of a long-distance call and the local news, as I regained my composure.
Finally, Aliyah said, “Lee?”
“Yeah.”
“Come home, baby.”
“For what?”
“For anything. This is where you belong. Not out sailing the seven seas or whatever you're doing.”
“You talk to Stan at all?”
“He stopped in a week ago to say hi, asked if I heard from you.”
“He know the cops were asking about me?”
“Didn't come up.”
“Let him know I'm okay.”
“Tell him yourself. He'd like to hear from you.”
“Maybe I will.”
“When are you coming home?”
I let out a heavy sigh and said, “I don't know.”
The drizzle turned to heavy rainfall.
“I gotta go,” I said.
“Take care of yourself, Lee.”
“Bye, Aliyah.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Iwas at the pier at six-thirty in the morning with two cups of coffee and a sense of self-loathing and dread due to my long-distance call last night. It was times like these I gave serious consideration to quitting the booze. But I’d get over it. Thankfully, Aliyah had mercy on me. She was a good woman. Perhaps there was hope for me yet.
I bought two tickets for the Yankee Freedom III, the ferry from Key West to Fort Jefferson, and waited impatiently for Lockwood to arrive. The water was gray and choppy. The sky overcast. Rain was supposed to come in the afternoon, but I had a feeling it would come sooner.
I checked my watch as a forest-green Ford F-250 pulled into the parking lot. Lockwood climbed out of the truck and sauntered to the dock where I waited. The time was 6:58.
“Cutting it kind of close, aren't you?”
“Relax. This thing never runs on time.”
“I don’t know that.”
“We could’ve taken my boat.”
“Like I said, it’s easier this way.”
The cruise was choppy, but the Yankee Freedom III was a big boat and handled the water well. I wondered if Dan had named his boat the Yankee Bastard because he took tourists to Fort Jefferson, too. Sounded like something he would have done.
A nice wind blew from the southeast, which kept the heat in check. About a dozen people were taking the trip. The tourism season hits the brakes in September and Key West turns back into a sleepy little town for a month or two until the snowbirds fly south for the winter. Jankowski didn’t show, so the trip was as peaceful as it could be. Lockwood and I leaned against the railing and watched dolphins swim alongside the boat.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“My whole life. Grew up in Key Largo. Dad was a shrimper. Uncles were fishermen. Had seawater in my lungs before I could walk.”
“How do you go from fish and shrimp to silver and gold, man?”
“I hate the smell of fish.”
A seaplane broke through the clouds overhead. I saw painted along the belly of the aircraft the word SeaLand. So much for a peaceful trip.
“They got the right idea,” Lockwood said.
I didn’t think it dawned on him that the plane most likely carried Peter Jankowski, but when I looked at him his eyes took him somewhere else as he watched the sea. Dread was on his face. We were on the same page, but only one of us needed to carry that weight.
“Now who needs to relax?” I asked.
He barely smiled, and I couldn’t blame him. We could’ve taken Lockwood’s boat, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. The SeaLand seaplane was like a naked woman in a church service. We would have had the same dread clouded over us. But at least on his boat, Lockwood would have had more of a sense of comfort and control. I felt bad for making him take the ferry.
It took almost three hours to get to Fort Jefferson and I drank too much coffee in the meantime. The interior seating area was spacious and had a geedunk station. That’s Navy talk for snacks. Coffee was a whopping buck twenty-five. I think everyone in Key West is a pirate. They also had breakfast sandwiches, donuts, fruit, candy, and other shit, but the coffee was all I needed.
We pulled up to the dock on the southeast side of the fort, next to the campground. Four campers waited on the dock for the ferry with all their gear piled into carts. They were getting out of Dodge before the storm. A couple of charter boats were docked as well, for people who didn’t want to waste time on the ferry. Moored along the beach was a seaplane. It wasn’t SeaLand Properties’ plane.
A moat surrounded the fort with tall walls that were ominous against the gray sky. I saw a lighthouse on top of the wall before us, possibly inside. Lockwood and I walked across the bridge to the entrance, along with the group from the Yankee Freedom III.
The entrance was the former gatehouse. Constructed from brick and cement, the fort appeared impenetrable. I held my breath as we walked through. Once we exited the gatehouse entrance and were inside the inner sanctum of the colonial fort, I exhaled.
Fort Jefferson is six sides of massive red brick walls connected by corner bastions. Inside, hundred-year-old trees filled a wide-open field. The rangers kept the grass neatly clipped. A red brick path bordered the field along the fort’s walls. I was impressed by the size. It was a brilliant strategic position for the Keys at one time.
“You know this used to be a prison, too,” Lockwood said.
“Yeah, Doctor Samuel Mudd.”
“You know your history.”
“The Prisoner of Shark Island. Warner Baxter and Harry Carey. Detroit library card.”
The group from the Yankee Freedom III headed along the brick path where the visitor center was located. We followed but didn’t stop at the crowd. We were tourists for entirely different reasons.
As we walked along the path, we passed large open casemates inside the walls. The Army had used the rooms for gun placements as most had large embrasures that faced toward the sea. Any ship that got close to the island would’ve been sent to Davy Jones’s Locker in a matter of minutes and with little effort.
The field inside the fort was once used as a parade ground. Brick ruins filled opened spaces where there were no trees. As we came around a formally large gunpowder magazine, the grounds appeared endless. On the far side looked to be living quarters.
“That where the rangers live?” I asked.
“Probably. I’ve never been here before.”
“You're kidding?”
“Nope, and I think I know why. This place gives me the creeps.”
“I think it’s cool.”
But I understood what Lockwood meant. It wasn’t the fort. It was something else. Something that was coming. We both felt it even though we didn't want to acknowledge it. But it was there, gnawing at the back of our skulls, working its way to the pit of our stomachs, letting us know that the road ended here and if we weren't careful, we would end here, too.
Chapter Forty-Five
We could have taken a guided tour of Fort Jefferson, but they allowed self-guided tours, too. And that’s exactly what we wanted to do, roam around on our own, wondering to ourselves what we were looking at and why. But there wasn’t much more to the place than what we already saw. Fort Jefferson was only red brick, sand, and grass. Nothing ever really happened there other than the Army not completing it. The whole Dr. Mudd historical fact wasn’t even intriguing enough for a decent movie. It was better to walk around and let our imaginations run wild.
Most people came to Fort Jefferson for snorkeling. Surrounding the island fortress were shallow reefs and clear turquoise water. It was beautiful, and as Lockwood and I ventured outside the walls, I couldn't help but wish I actually was on vacation. Aside from stormy skies, the Dry Tortugas was paradise.
