Under Full Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 7th Novel in the Series_Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean Read online

  The man grinned, making his lips bleed again. "Alive," he said, nodding.

  Pinkie's eyes were round as he clutched his ruined left shoulder. "You ain't got a prayer, Kilgore. He'll have your ass if you kill me."

  "Who, Pinkie? Who'll have my ass?"

  "Him. I've been workin' for him all along, ever since ... "

  "Ever since what, Pinkie?"

  "You only got one chance, Kilgore. I'll tell him this was an accident; you and me can — "

  "I don't think we can, Pinkie. See, he knows you been skimmin'."

  "No way. There's no way he could know."

  "Yeah, there is."

  "Nobody but you and me knew, Kilgore."

  "Yep. And I bet you didn't tell him, did you, Pinkie?"

  "You told him," Pinkie said, realizing what Kilgore meant. "You asshole."

  Kilgore laughed. "Same thing your nephew said, right before I blew his shit away."

  "Okay, Kilgore. I get it. Fuck you, you piece of shit. Go on and kill me. Get it over with."

  "That shoulder hurts, don't it?" Kilgore asked.

  "Not for long," Pinkie said. "Do it, you worthless bastard."

  "I would, but see, the scar-faced man, he wants you to hurt for a while. He said to shoot you in the gut and watch you die. I'm supposed to make a video with my phone. You know, like for motivation, to show the troops what happens when somebody gets outta line. Problem is, if I shoot you in the belly with a .45 hollow point, it'll be over too quick."

  Kilgore shifted his pistol to his left hand and pulled a small semi-automatic from an ankle holster. "Now, this little feller, it won't do so much damage. It's a .32, a lady's gun. It'll give all that stomach acid plenty of time to burn your guts. Shit, you might even bleed to death from your shoulder first."

  He pumped three rounds into Pinkie's ample belly with the little pistol and took out his cellphone, aiming it at Pinkie and starting the video recording. "Don't forget to smile, Pinkie."

  "If you'll keep an eye on things while he showers, I'll take the dinghy back and scout the island," Connie said. "Maybe there's some clue as to how he got here, at least."

  "Fine," Paul said. "That won't take you long; there's not much ground to cover. Just keep an eye out for anything that looks new."

  "I will. I'd stay aboard and let you do your detective routine, but I wouldn't be comfortable alone with him."

  "He seems harmless enough," Paul said, "but you can never tell. Go ahead, while there's still some daylight."

  "Right," Connie said, dropping into the dinghy and starting the outboard.

  She beached the dinghy where they had gone ashore earlier and walked straight across the island to the eastern shore. It was less than 100 feet wide; calling it an island was a stretch.

  She thought it was most likely that the man had been dropped off by a boat. That would mean he had come ashore close to where she landed the dinghy; the beach on that side of the island wasn't very long. The whole island was only a few hundred meters from its northern tip to the southern end, where the platform stood. They had already walked most of that shoreline when they followed the footprints earlier, and she had seen no sign of anyone coming ashore.

  It was possible that the man had fallen overboard from a passing boat and drifted ashore. Given the prevailing current and the trade winds, that meant he would have landed on the east side of the sandy strip of dry ground. A boat coming in on the east side would have been grounded on the extensive reefs, and there was no sign of wreckage there.

  She stood on the shingle on the east side of the island and ran her eyes along the waterline, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. There wasn't even much of the flotsam that normally adorned windward beaches in the Caribbean. She supposed that Isla de Aves was too small to collect much in the way of floating trash. She walked to the north end, smiling at the scolding she got from the terns. The island was a nesting site; the birds covered most of the dry ground. Nothing caught her eye; all the detritus above the surf line appeared to have been there for a long time. She turned around and walked back to the south.

  Reaching the south end of the little island, she turned inland and walked to the platform where they had found the man. In among the columns, a patch of bright yellow fabric caught her eye. She worked her way toward it, pausing to look behind each of the columns she passed. When she was still several paces from the yellow object, she recognized it.

  She and Paul used similar inflatable personal flotation devices. This one was inflated, resting at one end of a hollow in the sand. She bent and picked it up, turning it in her hands, examining it. It had a safety harness built in. That made it likely that it had come from a sailboat. That wasn't a certainty, but most people on powerboats didn't opt for PFDs with an integral harness. This was the type that inflated automatically when submerged.

  There was no way to tell whether its inflation had been triggered by water; someone could have pulled the manual inflation handle. The thick webbing of the harness was wet. She looked to see if there was a vessel name or another identifying mark on the vest. All she found was the manufacturer's label. She squeezed the check valve and deflated the life vest, draping it over her shoulder while she continued her search.

  She scrutinized the area where she found the inflated PFD, but other than pieces of shells from several turtle eggs, she didn't see anything of note. She worked her way back to the north end of Isla de Aves, zig-zagging across from the eastern shore to the western one and back, but all she did was disturb the terns.

  Satisfied that she hadn't missed anything, she walked back down the western shore to the dinghy and pushed it out into the water. She didn't bother to start the outboard, letting the wind carry her the few yards back to Diamantista II. Paul took the dinghy painter, and she handed him the deflated life vest.

  "That's it, huh?"

  "Yes. It was inflated when I found it. It looked like he might have been using it for a pillow; the sand was kind of scooped out, and there was a pile of egg shells within arm's reach. I'd say he had set up housekeeping under the platform."

  Paul was examining the PFD. "Straps are wet," he said.

  "I noticed that," Connie said. "You think it's just because they were salty? Maybe they held the moisture."

  "I'd say not; they're soaking wet, not damp. His T-shirt was damp, like salt-water dampness, but his cut-off jeans were still pretty wet," Paul said. "I'm guessing he wasn't too long out of the water when we found him. Any sign of where he came ashore?"

  "No. Nothing. I don't think I missed anything. Do you want to take a look?"

  "No, I'm sure you would have spotted anything significant. If he washed up on the beach wearing the PFD, he wouldn't have left anything but footprints anyway."

  "The shingle on the east side's pretty hard," Connie said. "I noticed I didn't leave any footprints when I was walking over there."

  "Well, there you go," Paul said. "Maybe his memory will come back."

  "Should we call somebody?" Connie asked. "You think he fell overboard and drifted out here from the direction of Guadeloupe or Dominica?"

  "Could be. They're the closest big islands, and with the wind and the current combined, he might have drifted at two or three knots. I doubt he came all the way from the islands; that would have taken a couple of days, at least. He'd be in worse shape if that had happened. He probably fell off a boat. Let's see if he remembers anything once he's cleaned up. If not, we'll fire up the sat phone and call the Coast Guard on both islands and see if they've had any man-overboard reports."

  3

  “How are you feeling now?" Connie asked, as the castaway climbed the companionway ladder and peered out into the cockpit.

  "Much better, thanks," he said. "You're Connie, right?"

  "Yes, that's right," she said.

  "And Paul?"

  "Good for you," Paul said. "Any headache? Double vision?"

  "No," the man said, touching the knot in his hairline. "This place is swollen and tender, but I'm o
kay, I think. I'm ... sorry ... I want to introduce myself, but I don't know my name."

  "We could call you Friday," Connie said, smiling at him.

  "Today's Friday?" he asked, frowning.

  "No," she said. "Today's Tuesday. I was thinking about the book — "

  "Robinson Crusoe?" he asked, interrupting her. He smiled for a second, pleased with himself. "I remember that. Why can't I remember my name?"

  "You're probably suffering from amnesia," Paul said, "from the head trauma."

  "Are you a doctor, Paul?"

  Paul chuckled. "No. A retired homicide detective. I've run across amnesia victims before, though."

  "Are these your clothes I'm wearing? They don't ... "

  "Fit very well?" Connie offered.

  "No, they're okay. I was going to say they don't look familiar, but then I couldn't remember any of my clothes. What was I wearing when you found me?"

  Paul pointed to the cut-offs and the T-shirt hanging on the lifeline on the port side of the boat. "I rinsed them out while you were in the shower."

  "Thanks. I used way more water than I should have. I forgot about being on a boat."

  "That's all right," Connie said. "We've got a generator and a high-capacity water maker. We're in the charter business, remember? We're used to guests who use lots of water."

  "Right. Maybe you told me that, about doing charters."

  "We did," Connie said, "but you were sort of shaky then. You seem to be recovering quickly."

  "You gave me water. I remember that." He nodded. "It made a huge difference, right away."

  "You still don't have any recollection of how you got here?" Paul asked.

  "No, sorry. I remember coming to on the beach." He looked around. "I was wearing an inflatable PFD."

  "We found it. It's spread out on the foredeck to dry," Connie said. "How long were you ashore?"

  "It was dark," he said. "There was a big turtle, laying eggs. I think I ate some. I remember being awfully hungry and thirsty."

  "So, between 12 and 24 hours, at least," Connie said. "Unless you spent another day here."

  He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. He shook his head and looked up, searching their faces. "I don't know. It's so ... frustrating. You said this is Bird Island?"

  "Isla de Aves," Connie said. "You translated it on the spot."

  He nodded. "So I speak some Spanish."

  "Poquito, you told me," she said. "A little bit."

  "So, where is it, this Isla de Aves? Where are we?"

  "A little over 100 miles west of Dominica and Guadeloupe," Paul said.

  "Dominica?" There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

  "You know Dominica?" Connie asked.

  "In the Caribbean, then," he said. "Maybe we were going there."

  "We?" Paul asked.

  The man's eyebrows lifted in surprise, but the look faded to a frown. He shook his head. "I don't know. It's like there's something just over the edge. I can't quite reach it, you know?"

  "Don't worry about it. I've heard of cases where memories returned slowly over the course of days, maybe even weeks, I think," Paul said. "Are you hungry?"

  He nodded. "Very hungry."

  "We've got fresh tuna; caught this morning," Paul said. "How's that sound? With some steamed vegetables, maybe?"

  "That sounds great. Nothing too rich or spicy, though."

  "You feel queasy?" Paul asked.

  "A little. Maybe because I haven't eaten, or the turtle eggs. They're probably rich, and I ate them raw."

  "I'll just grill the tuna steaks and steam some carrots and green beans. If that doesn't set well, we've got yogurt and fruit, too. Let me get to work; we'll make it an early evening, okay?"

  "Thanks again, you two. I don't have the words. I — "

  "Forget it. Focus your energy on getting better," Connie said. "I'm going below with Paul. While he cooks dinner, I'll make up the guest cabin for you. Will you be all right for a few minutes? We'll eat up here in the cockpit."

  "I'll be okay. I'd rather stay up in the fresh air for now, though."

  Guillermo Montalba fast-forwarded through most of the video Kilgore emailed to him. Satisfied with what he saw, he picked up his cellphone.

  "You did well, Mr. Kilgore," he said, when Kilgore answered.

  "My pleasure. I never liked him, anyhow."

  "Have you taken care of the cleanup work?"

  "Not yet. The club's open until four a.m. Gotta wait at least until the crowd thins out. Don't worry, though. I done this plenty of times; no problem."

  "I'm sure of it. I'm looking forward to working more closely with you now."

  "Thanks. I 'preciate the chance you're givin' me; I won't let you down."

  "No, I'm sure you won't," Montalba said. "If you need anything, you know how to reach me."

  "Yeah, sure. I got it. No worries, okay?"

  "Yes. Congratulations." Montalba disconnected the call and put the phone in his pocket.

  He poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle that had been breathing on his credenza. Swirling it gently, he raised the glass to the light and peered through the dark liquid, assessing the clarity and noting the way it clung to the sides of the crystal wineglass. He lowered it, bringing it to his nose, inhaling. Satisfied for the moment, he set the glass on his desk.

  The passing of Al "Pinkie" Schultz marked the end of the old regime. Kilgore knew nothing of the organization that had been in place before Montalba took over. He wouldn't recognize the names of any of the old guard; that was as it should be. Montalba had no illusions about Kilgore's ability to run the organization; he was dimwitted. While that was a liability in the longer term, it was perfect for the moment. Kilgore would serve well enough until Montalba chose to replace him.

  Montalba was completely insulated from the troops. No one knew his name. Kilgore only knew him as a voice on the phone; he had no idea who was behind the voice, except some "scar-faced bastard." Kilgore would have picked that up from Schultz, assuming he had been paying attention to what Schultz said.

  Kilgore had no idea that Schultz's office was wired for audio and video. Montalba had watched the whole encounter with Schultz, but he let Kilgore think that the video he sent to the encrypted email address was the only record of the evening's events.

  The only person besides Kilgore who knew of Montalba's existence was William O'Toole, the most corrupt member of the U.S. Senate and one of the richest men in the world. O'Toole had seen his face, but only in the dark. He didn't know Montalba's name, or anything about him. Montalba had been careful to structure his contacts with O'Toole to protect his identity. He wanted to leave O'Toole alive; it would be useful to have a powerful member of the U.S. government under his control.

  O'Toole wanted anonymity as much as Montalba did; he would be happy for Montalba to run the drug business for him as long as the revenue stream continued to grow. He had no idea of the extent of Montalba's other interests, and that was as it should be.

  Montalba lifted the wineglass to his lips and sipped, closing his eyes as he rolled the liquid around in his mouth, savoring it. He was satisfied with his progress. The only remaining problem was to find a replacement for Kilgore. That, and there was still the question of the mysterious woman. He had picked up hints of her activity from several places.

  Her name was Connie Barrera, but no one knew any more about her. From what Montalba had gathered, she was dangerous, but only if she was threatened. He found no evidence that she initiated any deals, but everyone who crossed her went down, hard. His intention was to leave her alone, unless she interfered with his business. He didn't need to prove he was more powerful than she was. With any luck, he'd never cross paths with her.

  "What now, skipper?" Paul asked, his arm around Connie.

  "I don't know. You're the cop. What should we do?" She turned her head, resting it on his shoulder as she looked at him in the moonlight coming through the porthole.

  They were stretched o
ut on the bed in their stateroom, talking in quiet tones. The man they were calling Friday had gone to bed after dinner. She and Paul had not been far behind him.

  "We've got a nice north-northeast wind. Let's head for Dominica; we should make it with one tack. We can get him some medical attention and turn him over to the authorities."

  "Should we call them?" Connie asked.

  "If he hasn't recovered some memory of his identity by morning, I'll call the Coast Guard in Dominica and see if they have any reports of missing persons. I don't see any point in calling them and hanging around here to wait for them to pick him up, though. Do you?"

  "No," Connie said. "Besides, I'm not sure they'd come out here; he's not in danger, and this is part of Venezuela, remember?"

  "Yes, technically. Dominica never has been happy about that. It gives Venezuela an edge in terms of fishing rights, and maybe mineral rights. But you're probably right about them not coming, now that he's safe with us."

  "Do you suppose he was single-handing?" Connie asked.

  "Why do you think that?"

  "I was trying to imagine why the other people on the boat didn't pick him up if he fell overboard."

  "There could be any number of reasons," Paul said. "Maybe he went over when he was on watch by himself."

  "I guess," Connie said, snuggling against Paul. "A lot of people don't bother with tethers. That seems crazy, though. He was wearing an inflatable PFD with a harness. Why wouldn't he have hooked on?"

  "Calm seas? Careless? Maybe he unclipped to tend the sails for a second? Who knows?"

  "Not him, I guess," Connie said. "Maybe he was trimming the sails and got hit by the boom and knocked overboard."

  "You're thinking about the knot on his head?" Paul asked.

  "Yes."

  "That's possible," Paul said. "The knot's in the wrong place for that to be likely, though."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Picture how you could get hit by the boom," Paul said. "I think square on the front of your head is the least likely way. You'd see it coming and duck instinctively. People get hit on the back of the head, or sometimes the side, but in all my years on boats, I've never seen anybody take a lick on the forehead. Not that hard, anyway."