

Death

of

the

Desperate

by

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2017

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners. Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.
Prologue

The small girl gasped for breath, but the violent swells and the spray were relentless. The warm blood was draining from her limbs, and she was cold, the numbness that had begun in her bare feet creeping upward. She turned her head, the thick black hair clinging to her shoulders growing heavy and adding more resistance. She knew she was fading, both physically and mentally. She was so close. She could make out the ambient glow of a city on the shoreline. If she could just hold out a little longer . . . swim another few strokes. He was waiting for her . . . to take her in his arms and tell her it would all be all right. But she knew instinctively that it wasn't.

There were others. When the lightning struck, they bobbed and ducked back down into the void. Most of them were already dead. She knew that, but through the incessant howling she could hear a few faint cries. There was no horizon above the frothing gray crests . . . just an icy black that seemed to swallow anything living. It was swallowing her.

Chapter One

The lights are halting through the haze. Even the ceiling fans can't seem to cut it. It's hot. The cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a plague. The day was low nineties and the humidity is like misty steam. It clings to my skin, damp and clammy, like a spidery thing crawling with a life of its own. That's the bad news, but what the hell? It's Florida in July, Key West at that . . . and I'm not moving to Alaska. Sure they have sailboats up there, but they're frozen in the harbors, or on the icy ground in their cradles for more than half the year.

Sunny is back at her old job, running the bar at the Green Parrot. A lot of people are glad. Somehow the title of professor at the college in Norfolk never really suited her, despite her M.A. in psychology from UVA and the articles she's published in some highly respected professional journals. At least she'd tried it, and actually been quite successful. The students loved her and the male faculty was mesmerized by ample body. But it just wasn't her. Sometimes I'm not sure what is . . . but now she's reassumed her title as the Best Bartender in the Keys. I think she likes it a lot.

The move back was her idea. So was my "therapy". Sure . . . I'd been a little reticent, some might say even reclusive, not much laughter bursting from me. I knew my smile was often missing . . . even around Buffett's Roundtable. She told me I seemed a bit "joyless" --- that was the word she used --- even when we were out on the water, drifting in KAMALA, my O'Day 31. Sometimes it was the Atlantic, sometimes the Gulf, flying all the canvas we could muster and chasing whatever puff or ripple we could find on the water. Even the cold beer and the inspiring sight of Sunny in a bikini --- or out of it --- didn't help. It had been almost a year, but I knew inside I still wasn't over the death of Chris . . . my blood, my long-time drinking buddy, cruising companion, and sometimes savior. Somehow, even at our weekly meeting of the Roundtable at the Green Parrot, even when we were at full strength . . . Fritz, Tracy, Louis, Captain Sal, Whipsaw, his long-time lady-friend, the mysterious Miss Julianne, and the rest of the boat miscreants that gathered for frosty libation and lots of bodacious lies . . . it just wasn't the same. I couldn't talk about it to anyone, but Chris's flickering image sat in the chair at the head of the table like the bloody ghost of Banquo in Shakespeare's MACBETH. Maybe like the ill-fated lord, I was the only one who saw him, but I did . . . and it haunted... even terrified me.

The psychologists all say that the survivors have a sense of guilt embedded in the grief over the loss of a loved one. Maybe that was it, maybe not. I don't think I could have prevented his murder. The set-up was perfect, mining his guilt over a daughter he didn't even know he had, and, of course, the money that no one knew he did have. How was I to know? I can't predict the future. I'm not God or some sort of knight in shining armor, just an aging boat bum with a dubious talent for unraveling mysteries . . . and sometimes I'm not so good at that.

But something gray and clammy seemed to slither through me constantly. I couldn't shake it. Sure, it was a sense of loss, but somehow it was more. Abandonment, betrayal, I couldn't put a label on it, but it bullied me like some hideous banshee, ever wailing in my ear, piercing my consciousness like a rusty marlinspike, gouging, forcing the flesh of my mind asunder.

Chapter Two

But this was Vinnie's and they liked me. It was really just a dive off Duval. Loud, a bit scruffy . . . the place and its patrons. It had that Key West ambience --- almost a wild-west sort of thing --- that attracted an ample supply of tourists, plenty of locals, and wads of sweat-soaked cash. Sunny was the one who kicked it all off. She had insisted I put new strings on my old Epiphone Archtop, tune it up, dust off the equipment, and find a place to play. It was the stuff I'd grown up with . . . Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis, and, of course, Chuck Berry. The trippers loved it . . . called it retro. I guess that was a nice way to put it, but it might also be called outdated . . . even corny. Still it kept them rocking in their seats and Vinnie sold a lot of cold beer, not to mention shots of the more lethal stuff. That's what it was all about. I was now doing two nights a week, and I had to admit that it drove some of the demons back into the abyss . . . providing an outlet that distracted, exorcized some of the wraiths, and even soothed me.

Some nights I'd have other musicians sit in, Joel on acoustic, Tim on drums, and Steve on bass. We never practiced, but the sound was good. We laughingly call ourselves The Ancients, although I was a good ten years older than any of them. It didn't matter. When we played, it magically produced lots of half-drunks mouthing the words and slapping their thighs with their open palms. Then there were the dancers . . . braless blonds barely out of their teens, sporting tight tank tops and brief snowy shorts, shaking for all they were worth. Most of the males would turn their heads away from their wives and girlfriends to snatch admiring and appreciative glances at the local talent, and the ladies from the mainland making naughty guest appearances.

Sometimes it was a little too raucous. I went home to KAMALA with my ears ringing and my head aching. But it was a good tradeoff, and I almost viewed it as a tribute to Chris. It was his kind of music and Vinnie's was definitely his kind of place . . . a little scruffy, but honest . . . a joint that didn't try to be something it wasn't.

Sunny was there the night the bikers came in. She had a day off from The Green Parrot and had come to hear me and her boys wear out some old rock n' roll. She stood at the bar with her fist around a cold Icehouse, shaking her beautiful ass and tits a little too much.

The dark, thick one squeezed in next to her and waved a hand like a meat hook at the bartender. There was a frosty margarita in front of him almost instantly. The other two tree trunks stood back a little, lit cigarettes, soaked up some Tecate, and the pounding beat of Richard Wayne Penniman's "Long Tall Sally". My voice was good that night, deep and clear, my fingers precise and supple, but my eyes were on Sunny and the stocky behemoth smiling at her. She exuded that cool, confident manner that had seen her through many a tangle at The Green Parrot. Her luxurious blond hair waved a bit as she grinned and laughed politely at conversation that I couldn't possibly hear. I thought maybe I had seen this guy before, but I wasn't sure.

He wore a black leather vest with something emblazoned on the back. I couldn't make it out from the stage. On his left wrist was a dark thick bracelet with shiny spikes like the collar on a pit bull. Silver rings adorned at least two of his thick fingers. His hair was slicked back with some sort of grease. A Pancho Villa moustache was heavily draped over his full upper lip. Massive arms with very little hair rippled like the chains that dangled off his pockets. He glanced once at the stage and tossed us a thumbs up. I nodded. Then he went back to his conversation with my lady.

"We gonna have some fun tonight . . . have some fun tonight . . . everything's all right . . . have some fun tonight." I drew a circle in the air signaling a finale. Tim thundered a drum roll and The Ancients stopped abruptly . . . sweaty, but tight. The crowd nodded approvingly. There were a few whistles and mighty applause. I placed the Epiphone in its stand and bowed in tribute to my band mates. They had made it happen tonight. Then I moved toward the bar. I put my arm around Sunny's waist and inhaled the perfume mixed with her sweet perspiration. She propped her head momentarily on my shoulder, and pecked me on the cheek.

"T.K., I want you meet a friend of mine. This is Carlos Medina. This man is a wizard at motorcycle repair. Got a little shop up near Stock Island."

The stump grinned, nodded his head, and extended a huge hand. I'm an easy 6'2", 190 lbs. and still in pretty damned good shape. I towered over the man, but Carlos somehow made me feel like a school boy. His hand swallowed mine. I figured he could have crushed it like a helpless insect, but his grip was warm, firm, even welcoming.

"You making awfully hot music, Dr. Fleming. Make us all want to dance. Next time me and de boys come earlier, hear another set or two. Maybe bring de women."

"Thank you, Carlos, but you can drop the doctor stuff. I'm retired, and for now I'm just another Key West escapee trying to enjoy the rhythm of some of the Gods of Rock n' Roll."

"Yes. It is clear we worship many of de same deities. I think that is not all we share," he paused, took a swig of the pale green liquid, wiped his mouth to the back of his hand, and went on," We have some mutual friends . . . and perhaps also, some common interests."

I couldn't help it. His statement seemed somewhat curious. I wondered who those "friends" might be and what a biker built like a small mountain might share with a washed up English professor, jack-leg sailor, and now part-time musician. I chose not to ask, at least for now. It probably didn't matter anyway. If he was a friend of Sunny's, he was okay with me. He slogged the last of his Margarita, wiped his moustache with his thumb and first finger, then gave me a courtly nod. He motioned to his boys. They headed for the door. The crowd parted. I wasn't sure if it was out of respect . . . or fear. I caught a glimpse of the back of his vest. "Ruedas de Dios" was printed in royal blue caps enclosed in a circle of clouds. My Spanish is pretty much limited to "cerveza, por favor" but the phrase translated roughly to Wheels of God. His three companions wore the same inscription on their backs.

I ordered a Sierra Nevada and fired up a Marlboro, a habit I hated. But after Chris's death, I fell into the grip of more than one of my legion of weaknesses. Sunny had been patient and understanding, but I heard a slight groan slide from her lips every time I lit one. "Slow motion suicide," that's what she called it, and I couldn't argue.

"Old friend?" I asked her.

"Yeah . . . and a tough one, but now, oh silver tongued troubadour, it's time for you to take me home and ravish by poor needy body."

I liked the sound of that.

Chapter Three

My head had certainly been in better shape. I was thinking brown cabbage, mushy cantaloupe, maybe even half-rotten watermelon . . . and it was throbbing like a jackhammer exploding cracked concrete. After the ravishing, I had made it back to KAMALA, the tires on my old Schwinn wobbling right along with my unsteady body. I made a mental note to have a couple less beers the next time I was the headliner at Vinnie's.

I pulled a huge bottle of water from the fridge and gulped four Ibuprofen. When the phone rang, it was like a land mine in my brain . . . tons of sound and fury, but believe me, this time it was much ado about something.

"Okay, T.K. I know last night you were a big star, but I figured you'd want to be filled in on one of your fans."

I recognized Frank's voice immediately. He's the Chief of Detectives for the Key West Police Department. A former FSU basketball star who could have signed for millions if he hadn't wrecked his knee, he'd turned his energy to keeping the trash off the streets in Key West, and he'd done a damned fine job. The locals called him their bull dog, and he was. Everyone liked his and respected him, even most of the criminals he'd put away. They knew it was nothing personal, but Key West was his town. He had a lovely wife, two well-behaved kids, and he wasn't going to raise them in a garbage dump.

We'd worked on several cases together over the years when I was known as "The Ghostcatcher", a sobriquet I hated, and one that was vastly overrated. Sure, I'd helped solve a couple of murders, but I didn't have any choice. It was just what I had to do at the time. The one thing I'm good at is paying attention, and that's all it was. I watch . . . I listen . . . I pick up things that others don't. Most of the time it works out pretty well.

"Okay, my dedicated protector of the public weal, give me the scoop, but keep your voice low."

"I got it, smart-ass. Maybe it's time for you to cut down a little on your alcohol consumption."

"Very funny, constable," I tried to growl, but I just wasn't up to it.

"Your fan, Carlos Medina, is the capitan of a motorcycle gang with a reputation for love . . . and for violence. They take their name, Ruedas de Dios, very seriously. They are all God-faring Christians, but anyone who crosses them earns healthy Christian regret, and possibly a rather harsh redemption. Carlos is an illegal . . . Guatemalan, as are his boys. I've used him at times . . . informant, even enforcer. He can go places I can't. He's been very reliable, and to be honest, he's a man of honor. He wants the best for his people and their interests. Sometimes we agree to disagree, but I trust him . . . and respect him. I admit that at times, you can be very helpful. This may be one of those times. He liked that. By the way, he has a twin brother, but I'm sure you'll meet him sooner or later."

"Frank, you are one charming sonovabitch. With friends like you . . ."

"What the hell, T.K. Maybe a little project will keep you off the streets."

"Oh, Detective Beamon, you're a funny guy."

"Right, Pal. One favor. Just promise me you'll listen if he decides to talk."

"You got it, Mommy."

He laughed a little . . . but only a little.

A short conversation, but interesting. Frank didn't give me any specifics, but he never did . . . at least at first. I'd just wait, but now I needed a long nap, and maybe two more Ibuprofen.

Chapter Four

The man with the scalpel was very careful. After all, no need to damage valuable merchandise. This damned thing would bring upwards of $35,000 on the market. Of course, he wouldn't get all of it, but it was easy work for the $10,000 he'd get on delivery. He'd already donned the nitrile gloves. With those magnificent hands, he couldn't be too careful. He began the incision just above the waist on the left side of the back. The blood still ran, and it was warm. That was a good thing. He needed them fresh.

He laughed quietly to himself. If they could see him now, the condescending jackasses . . . students, they called themselves . . . wallowing in their arrogance, their ivy league membership in the elite, and then, of course, the pompous professors . . . oh, they damned sure knew it all . . . Yes, they'd be shocked . . . maybe even envious. The dumb bastards had run him out of school. Now he could buy and sell any of them. He had the hands of an artist and the touch of a sculptor . . . always delicate . . . precise . . . focused on the work and its intrinsic value. He didn't even try to fight back the smirk. Fuck them all.

His carefully ensconced hands lifted the bloody organ. It was supple, still useful, and replete with the pulse that breathed life. Perhaps he would take the other. It would almost double his fee, and he knew they could deal the additional inventory. He carefully placed the one in the bag and laid it on the ice in the cooler. Then to the other.

Now he noticed her ass, delicately curved and supple, covered with skin the color of olives. A tuft of hair protruded from between the shapely legs. She couldn't have been more than 16, a girl in the process of becoming a woman. He felt a throbbing in his jeans. He stroked it. What the hell? No one would know. He'd done it before. His seed would not violate, or even bother her. She was dead. But he hesitated. There was still work to do. When it was completed, he could have his choice. There were so many . . . locals, tourists, a bevy of the ready and the willing. A little small talk, a couple of drinks . . . all part of the foreplay. He loved it. After all, money was, indeed, the greatest aphrodisiac.

He went back to work. Surely, one was dead, but what good was the body of an intruder, a trespasser . . . a parasite who would suck the sustenance of his country of birth . . . the place where his opportunities had flourished, if not totally blossomed. His task was a contribution . . . a blessing for those who could afford it. Yes . . . one would die, but one would live. He was a God. No ghoul . . . no demon. He stared at his long elegant fingers. A gift, he thought . . . these hands. His touch was divine. He was the giver of life.

Chapter Five

An illegal . . . that's what Frank had called Carlos. There was something about that term grinding into T.K.'s head. Weren't we all violators at one time or another . . . immigrants, adventurers eager to escape, to find something better? If half of what he'd read about Guatemala was true . . . the soaring crime rate . . . the drug trade . . . the murders . . . he'd be getting the hell out of there as fast as he could. His consciousness dissembled, and began to drift back to that horror . . . the one that haunted too many of his nights. His mind was vexed by that grotesque night.

KAMALA was under full sail off the west coast of Florida. It was a moonless night, what he could see of the sky as dark as India ink. He had left the anchorage at No Name Key at dawn on his way south from Miami. He'd left Sunny there to take care of some business and see some old friends. He was no stranger to single-handing. He knew the boat better than he knew himself. NOAA's forecast had been benign, 10-12 knots out of the northwest, one to three foot seas. Perfect for a reach down past the chain of the keys. He'd timed the arrival at the Northwest Channel at Key West for some time near sun-up. An easy 24 hours, especially with a favorable breeze, and the reliable autopilot on duty.

She was making a steady six knots, cutting the light swells like a knife through melting butter. The sounds of the blue-black water rushing over the hull, the occasional flutter of the canvas. It was a night made in heaven, but then he felt the inversion. The temperature was dropping fast . . . too fast. The wind freshened a bit and began to build. He furled the jib, but decided to leave the main up to steady the boat. He could move the traveler to leeward and luff the big sail if needed. Next it was the rain. It fluttered softly for a few minutes, but soon the drops were insistent, then violent. They pierced his skin like so many fine needles. The water ran down his neck and soaked his thin t-shirt. Then came the howling.

The shrouds shuddered and KAMALA began to fight the quartering seas. The autopilot couldn't keep up. He disengaged the wheel and fixed his bloodless knuckles around it. He still couldn't see much, but the boat found a rhythm as he wrenched the rudder back and forth to keep her on her feet. The lightning cracked and flashed on the water. Usually these storms were in and out as quickly as they had built. He'd wait it out. But the minutes dragged on and turned into hours.

He was wet, and suddenly he knew he was very cold. Hypothermia, the silent killer. He began to shiver. Then his teeth started clacking together. He locked the wheel in place and dragged himself below. He stripped off the dripping t-shirt and replaced it with one that was dry, and even warm. He threw on his foul weather jacket and went back up to face the storm. It flailed and clawed at him like a demented giant. The lightning hissed and cracked, but the howling finally began to fade and the breaking seas started to subside. That was when he saw them.

A bolt shattered the sky and they appeared. He told himself it was an apparition, a creation of his tortured mind and body. He tried to focus, but the rain still hammered his face. Another flash . . . and he was certain. They lay upon the rolling waves like the rising dead from an old British poem by Coleridge. At first they seemed to beckon, but he convinced himself it was an illusion. Then, gradually, the reality clubbed him into submission. He slammed his eyes shut, but when they opened, the lifeless meat was still there. He couldn't count the bodies. The sea and the storm had swallowed them --- stolen the breaths, and left them to float, at least for a time --- like some succubus who had taken her fill and left the defiled flesh to decay in the depths. He grabbed his handheld VHF and called.

"MAYDAY, MAYDAY. This is the sailing vessel KAMALA calling the Miami Coast Guard."

He heard the static. It spewed forth amidst the wailing. Then a voice. It was faint and crackled from time to time, but God, it was welcome.

He gave the officer his GPS coordinates and told them as much as he could. He searched frantically for any movement, any form of existence on that onyx canvas. But the hellish motion of the boat, the piercing rain and wind, made it almost impossible. They were phantoms, being tossed like broken rag dolls. No sounds from their pale lips, nothing. One of the bodies thumped against his hull. He wanted to leave the helm and look, but he knew that only he and the gods would survive that night.

It wasn't until the next morning that he realized what he had witnessed. The sun appeared on a calm horizon. The sea was finally peaceful and the wail had become a light breeze, still from the northwest. But the squall had dictated its way. The VHF hissed with the reports of the Coast Guard cutters that had been sent on the rescue mission. But now instead of search and rescue, it was search and recover. They had already hauled 39 bodies on board. Immigrants . . . men, women, and children . . . all drowned when their small craft had capsized in the breaking torrent. They had set out from somewhere in the south . . . full of hope . . . or desperation. They had paid their fares to the Coyote, money they had scoured from the dirt . . . scraped together from friends and relatives. Money that would at least give them a chance . . . perhaps even a future. Now they were stacked on the deck of a ship like so many dead animals . . . hollow eyed carcasses that stared at nothing. No names, just bloodless swollen faces, robbed of hope, coldly executed by a cruel beast . . . a fluke . . . the madness of a storm that came from nowhere.

T.K. had witnessed it in the howling gray torrent, and it continued to hang over him like a leering skull, a silent taunt . . . a reminder that we all roll the dice, and sometimes the rattling bones come up snake eyes.

Chapter Six

When the phone rang, it shook him from his nightmare.

"Dr. Fleming, it is Carlos. Your music was good. I talk to Frank. I trust him. He tell me I can trust you. Maybe we meet in a place that is safe."

"Wait a minute, Carlos. I don't know what Frank told you, but I'm not for hire to do anything but play a little guitar and sing a few tired tunes. For that, I come cheap."

"You are modest, Doctor. I know your reputation. The Ghostcatcher can do things no normal man can do. He search in places no one else think to search. He find things others overlook. It is a magic that courts the favor of the gods."

"I think you have been misinformed, Carlos. I am not sure I get what you are talking about."

"I am thinking you do, but I understand you do not know Carlos. Dere is nothing you owe to me. But permit me, if only as favor to Frank and Sunny, to offer de invitation. Come to my shop. I tell you a story. Then you decide."

I took a deep breath. He had pulled the right card. Frank, Sunny . . . an old friend and a lover. Each had saved my life at least once.

"All right, tell me where and when. I'll listen, but that's all I can promise."

He gave me an address off A1A, a couple of miles north of Stock Island.

"Four o'clock tomorrow. I have cold beer for you . . . and thanks."

I guess I'm getting a little stupid. After all, I didn't know this guy. I'd seen him once for about fifteen minutes. I did know he was the leader of a motorcycle gang . . . and that wasn't high on my list of men with great moral turpitude. He was also an illegal and I assumed his boys were, too. Sure Sunny and Frank had vouched for him, but I had to wonder what they might not know. ". . . love and violence" . . . Frank's words hung in my ear. How much love and how much violence? I'd gotten pretty comfortable with my life as a boat bum and part-time jack-leg musician. Sonny and I were getting along great since our return to the Conch Republic. Why take a chance on messing up a good thing? Ghostcatcher, my ass. If I had ever been this ephemeral crusader, I was now retired. No more murders . . . no more mysteries for this lame cowboy. I shook my head. But what the hell? My social calendar wasn't full for tomorrow.

I'd promised Frank I'd listen . . . "So listen, you dumb sonovabitch," that's what I told myself. Then I could wash my hands of this whole affair, maybe even before they got dirty.

I asked Sunny if I could borrow the Saab. Of course, she said yes . . . even asked me if I wanted her to go. "No," I told her, "I won't be long." I was wrong about that.

I left KAMALA about 3:30. It was tough finding the shop and when I did, I wasn't even sure that was it. The structure sat about twenty-five yards off a deserted, pock-marked road. No sign. Just a few bikes parked to the side of a cinder block building that needed paint at least ten years ago. No Harleys . . . I was surprised . . . all crotch-rockets. I recognized the two big Hondas, and an old Kawasaki 900. They were flanked by two shiny Suzukis. Marlin Brando's "Wild One" would be amused, if not ashamed. One faded blue Chrysler 300 was also in the lot, a counterpoint to big gas hogs. The windows were tinted much too dark to fall within the Florida law. Hey, not everybody wanted dusty and hot, especially in the fiery keys . . . and I wondered how much law would apply in this lonesome spit that lay between two small jungles.

I wasn't sure this was the usual hangout for any respectable motorcycle gang, but then I'm not sure what was. A couple of dogs the color of aging paste scrounged around the building, sniffing for a discarded morsel of damned near anything remotely edible. There was one garage door on the side, but no other windows. So this was a repair shop? I heard the strains of Megadeth trying to pound through the concrete walls.

Chapter Seven

I parked the Saab in the barren sandy lot and went to a dented metal door. Everything screamed neglect, even abandonment, but it had to be the place. I rattled the door with my fist. Another Hispanic tree trunk peeked through the opening and nodded. It was one of the guys I'd seen at Vinnie's. He didn't exactly exude friendliness. When he turned I spotted a rather large pistol tucked in the small of his back. Maybe a Glock.

"Senor Fleming," he growled, "The Capitan awaits."

Carlos sat in an old canvas butterfly chair like the ones that had been trendy in the 70's, a small plastic table at his right hand. There was a sweating bottle of Modelo Especial and a yellow ashtray with an overkill of Marlboro butts. The smoke blended stale body odor and the pungent scent of grease with a sweet whiff of Marijuana. His followers were in various reclining positions, but curiously alert. The Capitan wore a smile that welcomed, and at the same time chilled. This was his domain. These were his lieutenants. They would tear me apart like hungry wolves at the mere wave of his hand. I just hoped they'd shoot me first.

There were two rusty bike frames hanging on hooks on the back wall, and what I thought might be a vintage Indian disassembled in a corner, a big rolling tool box with an assortment of wrenches, screwdrivers, and bolts. Everything looked dusty and unused, a least during this century. Still, a dark man hunched over it looking for something and cursing under his breath over what he couldn't find. I wondered if he was just faking it for effect.

Carlos nodded to the biker nearest the old stereo and he fiddled with the volume. The Capitan rose slowly and extended his thick right hand. Again I shuddered. When he let go, I flexed my fingers to make sure everything was still functional.

"Dr. Fleming, I am honored that you take my invitation. These are my compadres." His voice sounded like he'd been gargling gravel. "You would sit." He waved again and a burly man with the Ruedas de Dios vest shoved a cold Modelo into my hand.

I scanned the room. There were six of them, five males, each thick and muscled. There was also a young woman, silky raven hair falling over her shoulders. She could have been a model in CYCLEWORLD. Believe me that edition would have sold out. Her long legs were covered with paint-on leather jeans and black boots with chains across the instep. The top was barely that . . . more a swatch of black satin hiding sumptuous breasts that threatened release. All she needed was a riding crop and a set of hand cuffs. Any respectable Dominatrix would have been proud. She eyed me like I was a rattlesnake she was ready to crush under her heel.

"Of course, you know not why you are here. Be comfortable and I will tell you."

He offered me a Marlboro. I closed my fingers around it and placed it nervously between my lips. Tree trunk #1 leaned over and flicked a plastic Bic. I took a swig of the beer and tried to do my best "cool, calm, and collected". I didn't think it was working.

"You know I am illegal, as are my muchachos. We are here and we intend to stay. But we ask for nothing and make no trouble. America is good thing. It provides my people with a way from the horror that has become Guatemala. We want de chance to work, raise our families, and prosper. De beautiful land around the Rio Dulce is become a cesspool. We are disciples of God. De Bible is great holy book, de guide to salvation. We love Jesus and respect his word. But we know, and you know . . . dere is evil within man. He gropes and ravages much of what he touch. De dope, de whiskey, de slavery, de attempt to drain de helpless of any share in meaningful existence. Dose are things that make de man less than he should be, a destroyer of de dignity, and an enemy of God."

He stopped for a moment, took a drag on his cigarette, and eyed me at an angle, trying to check my reaction. I sat very still. He lifted his bottle. Tree Trunk #1 offered him a half-smoked joint. He waved it off, and went on.

"I see you stare. You wonder at de weed. Yes, we use it . . . all of us hypocrites to some extent, but God forgives us as long as we carry his banner . . . and we do. We fight de devil. It is sad, but we cannot always turn de other cheek. We try, but when it is no possible, we believe in "an eye for an eye . . . a tooth for a tooth", grind your heel into them until dere power is no more. This is also in de Bible. Often de only way to keep de demons at bay is to stomp them into the dust. Your friend Frank knows this. It is why we work with him . . . with de policia . . . quietly together. I think maybe you know it, too."

I said nothing, and I still didn't know why I was here. I had worked my way through the Modelo. Before I knew it, another one was in my hand. I lit a cigarette from my own pack and waited. After a long pause, Carlos went on.

"My sister, little Carmela, was to come here. My father leave us many years ago. My mother passed in May and de girl, only twelve, was left alone in de old country. I send her money, much of it, to pay a coyote to get her to de states. She should have been here two months ago, but she did not appear. No word, no information from dose who call themselves friends. I was her last hope, what you say . . . her lifeline. She is my blood. I must know. De police can no act in my behalf. I do not exist, nor does she. I reach out to you, the Ghostcatcher. You know things. You know people. I will pay. You must find her, or least let me know dat I must put her to rest."

He handed me a dog-eared photograph of a laughing child well on her way to becoming a woman. Her dark eyes celebrated and screamed life. At the same time, there was something sad . . . a silent, almost indefinable thing . . . perhaps a pleading. I took a deep breath, and fought off a sense of mourning that I really couldn't explain.

"I am sorry, Carlos. I do not know who, or what you think I am. I don't even know where this Ghostcatcher shit began. Frank and I are friends. And Sunny is convinced you're one of the good guys. But that doesn't change anything. I wouldn't know where to start."

I handed him the photo.

"Keep it," he said, "I have others. Dis I will tell you. My brother Francisco . . . he has his own muchachos. Dey are Messageros de Infierno, de messengers of hell. Dey follow their own brand of scripture, one that defiles the word of our merciful God. They have dere own deities . . . money, hatred and violence. Dey are many . . . and we are few, yet we stand. De fight is hard, but it must not be lost. Francisco is strong. I think he know what happened to Carmela. We need de help of one who is also strong . . . one who has known de demons and how to cleanse us of dem. That is de Ghostcatcher."

I had a brittle feeling that Carlos wouldn't take no for an answer. The toughness was there, but so was the pain. I scanned the faces of the "muchachos". There was nothing pretty about it. Grim, dead eyes darting, waiting to see if the Capitan would pronounce me friend . . . or prey. One thing I did know . . . now was the time to get the hell out of there.

"Okay . . . let me think about it. I'll be back to you in a couple of days."

It was lame, but sometimes lame is all you have. I put the empty bottle down on the table and got up. A couple of the tree trunks stood and one stepped to the door as if to block it. Carlos looked hard at me and waved his hand. The trunks stepped aside. I think maybe they were a little disappointed. They wanted to beat the shit out of me. The woman in the paint-on leather followed me out the door and into the sandy lot. She grabbed my sleeve just as was about to get into the Saab.

"I am Vee," she said like an undertaker, "and if you betray Carlos, and our compadres, I will cut off your dick, stuff it in your mouth, and fry your balls for my breakfast burrito."

If it was a joke, I wasn't laughing. I think she meant it.

Chapter Eight

I went back to KAMALA. Sunny was working, hustling cold beer and ignoring the stares of the locals who worshipped her ass like a living incarnation of Aphrodite. I needed her input. It was often damned sure better than mine, but I'd have to wait. I poured a little Evan Williams over the rocks and got out my spiral notebook. I scrawled.

  1. I don't want any part of this shit.

  2. There are no real clues . . . just names and hearsay.

  3. I may have unwittingly been some sort of "Ghostcatcher" at one time, but those days are gone. Make that GONE.

  4. Spoiler alert . . . I will exit quickly, and as gracefully as possible . . . oh, and I hope Vee doesn't get her wish.

That was enough. I swirled a bit more Evan in the glass, cracked the hatchway, and lit a Marlboro. I'm gonna quit again . . . just give me time. At least that's what I told myself.

I had dozed a bit on the settee. It felt pretty good until the phone rang. I didn't want to answer, but the sound was insistent. If I didn't get it, they'd just call back to inform me that space invaders had landed in the Keys and I needed a new security system in my villa by the sea.

I put the receiver reluctantly to my ear.

"Dr. Fleming, hear me well. I advise you be cautious about choosing sides until you know both teams very well. The game not always fair, and it can be very deadly."

He hung up before I could utter a word. That was the second time I'd been threatened in less than three hours. I'd like to tell you I'm another Sam Spade or better yet, the Incredible Hulk, but it just ain't so. I was having trouble not feeling like a scared school boy surrendering his lunch money to the bully in the little boy's room. I sat back down and tried to gather myself.

Shit . . . that wasn't going to happen. I went to the designated hide-out and pulled out my old Taurus .38 and a plastic baggie full of slugs. Wasn't I clever? I had used a jigsaw to cut out a small rectangle of fiberglass just under the nav station. The piece fit perfectly and slid out to reveal a small space against the hull. That's where my old friend resided, packed in a plastic freezer bag and wrapped in oil cloth. Any criminal worth his salt would have found it in five minutes, but it gave me quick access and a small measure of confidence. Or maybe I should be honest, and admit it just made me a little less freaked out. Surely that was a good thing.

I hoped I'd never have to carry this weapon again. I'd killed a couple of men, but at least at the time, it seemed my only option. But it was bad shit. I didn't like it. It still taunted me in my dreams. At heart I'm one of those old 60's "make peace, not war" boys. It might sound naive to you, maybe even like bullshit, but I'm a believer. I don't want to kill anything . . . a fish, a bird, even an ant, much less a living, breathing human being. So okay, I'm a wimp . . . different strokes for different folks . . . but hell, the 60's were ancient history . . . and just maybe I was about to be caught in a crossfire.

There was one other item stashed under my v-berth. I'm not even sure why I was where I was that day, much less why I bought it. Curiosity, maybe, or perhaps I was one of the "frightened or intimidated" and was just too stupid to admit it. I don't like gun shows, the products, the sellers, or the general ambience. The hangars are always full of sly, smug smiles that seemed to whisper, "Hey, if you'd only been armed, all of your problems would be in the dust now". Sorry, it's not quite that simple. I knew. I'd been there. But I had to admit, the whole spectacle fascinated me in a sick sort of way.

It looked like a toy from the local Walmart. All neat and shiny. Two short silver barrels with light scrolling, one on top of the other. No trigger guard. Pearl handle. A hammer that didn't look like it could set off a wooden match. It lay in a tiny leather holster with two narrow brown straps complete with Velcro fasteners. Above it was a hand-lettered sign in bold marker. "THE ULTIMATE CONCEALED WEAPON", it blared. "Small, but Deadly", was printed underneath.

A vendor with a surprisingly squeaky voice gave me a serpentine smile as I picked it up. It couldn't have weighed more than eight ounces. He showed me how to attach it to my wrist and how the spring popped the derringer into my hand if I flexed my forearm. .22 caliber, up close, personal and effective, especially with the hollow points as its handmaidens. I shoved the cash into his sweaty hand and made off with my dubious prize. No background check, any ID would do. Hey, it's Florida, the land of "stand your ground", and lots of cowboys who would love "open carry" in bars, churches, schools . . . all those horribly dangerous places you might want to be packing. I just needed a concealed carry license. Hell, I already had one.

Anyway, I pulled my new toy out and wiped off the excess oil with an old t-shirt. I placed two small rounds in the chamber, tucked it back into the holster and set it on the nav station next to the Taurus. It really didn't make me feel any safer . . . but I have to admit . . . it was kind of fun.

Chapter Nine

He placed the small cooler gently on the floor of the baby-blue BMW. It was a gorgeous day. He thought about putting the top down, but he didn't want to overheat the prizes in the plastic container. He turned the air conditioner on high and found "Love in an Elevator" on Sirius. Some Aerosmith . . . just the thing for a beautiful Florida morning. He ramped up the volume to official deafening status. The traffic was fairly light, but then it was a Tuesday. The trippers would start arriving later in the week and the bars, the souvenir shops, and the restaurants might as well be printing money. That's okay. At least it was an honest buck.

He was getting his soon, maybe even a bonus. He checked his nails. He liked them immaculate, but he still hadn't found a decent manicurist in this whole damned town. It was okay. He'd be back in Miami in a couple of days. He turned onto Whitehead and found a parking space at the curb near the Truman Annex, not far from the corner of South Street.

He walked toward the concrete buoy that supposedly marked the southernmost point of the United States. Of course, it really didn't, but what the hell? Things weren't always what they seemed in good old Key West. There was no one in the small stretch of park. He placed the cooler in a rusty garbage can and closed the top firmly. He scanned the area again and checked his Rolex. Surely they hadn't missed him . . . but then they never did. He went across the street and pretended to window shop at a place that swore they had authentic pieces of eight from the wreck of the ATOCHA, the famous Spanish treasure ship that went down in 1622 about thirty-five miles offshore, near the Dry Tortugas. Mel Fisher, the salvage expert, a self-styled buccaneer himself, had spent 16 years looking for it. When he did, he became famous . . . no, make that notorious . . . not to mention fabulously wealthy. His partners didn't do too badly either. Actually, the shop probably did have the real thing, but so did every other tourist trap in the capital of the Conch Republic.

The man with the scalpel didn't stay long. When he went back to the park, he lifted the lid of the can and saw a faded manila envelope, stained with coffee, and what was left of a grape jelly sandwich. He could see the slight bulge. He lifted it gingerly and tucked it under his arm. No counting out here. That could wait until he got back to the penthouse. Anyway, he needed a shower and some of that nice skin scrub they supplied at the Pier House. Hot date tonight. He remembered the salacious description the doorman had given him, "She could suck a golf ball through a garden hose." He hoped that was true. In any event, he was going to find out.

He checked his nails again. Maybe a coat of clear polish. Hell, it would have to do.

Chapter Ten

She dabbed a bit of Chanel behind her ear, between her breasts, then shook her head, checked her velvety blond locks, and made a final study of the mascara and eyeliner. "Eleise," she whispered . . . that was the name she was using this month . . . "you are a total knock-out." The stilettos, the red dress. Hell, she could have been a high dollar hooker . . . and in some ways, she was.

He'd fallen for the Brazilian routine, the phony accent, poor little girl from Rio. She'd laid it on thick. Dumb bastard . . . these guys were all the same . . . they liked to think you were a little dim, even desperate . . . it pumped their egos, made them feel superior . . . a common weakness. Too damned bad. She didn't mind taking advantage of it.

He was picking her up at eight. She didn't know where they were going, didn't care, as long as it was gourmet fare and very expensive. She was already hungry as a damned lioness, but she could wait. After all, that's kind of what she was paid to do . . . wait until it was time to spring. She just hoped she could get what she needed before that creepy sonovabitch got his. But again, this is what she'd chosen. The people she worked for expected it, and the results somehow made it all okay. She'd fuck him if she had to, even blow the bastard. She owed it to the kids, the blameless, the helpless . . . those who were being sacrificed, chopped up so the animals could feast. Her roommate had been one of them. It preyed upon her mind, but she had to dismiss it. She couldn't cry right now. It would screw up her makeup.

Still, she remembered. Kari was just a farm girl from outside Des Moines, but she was strikingly beautiful, deep auburn locks curving around an oval face that belonged on a cameo. Skin like ivory and a body with every component honed and sculpted by a master. She wanted to be an actress. They'd met in New York at a coffee shop just off Broadway. Kari was waiting tables, looking for that big break. Pure coincidence, but the kind that was made in heaven. Eleise envied her immediately, but the grace, the intelligence, and the simple, quiet elegance almost made Eleise ashamed. She had never wanted a woman, but if she had, Kari would have been her choice. They became roommates, but it was more than that . . . more like sisters of the same soul. They shared the same heart, the same body, the same mind. It was simply a love that bound them inexorably and for all time.

They had eight months together, sharing the joys and the disappointments that youth entailed . . . and even embraced. Late night talks, too many glasses of cheap white wine, the sex-starved dates, and the auditions when one of them just might have had a call-back if the hair or the smile had been just a bit closer to perfect.

But one night Kari didn't come home.

The next morning the police called . . . a positive ID . . . that's what they needed. When the sheet was pulled back, her reaction was instantaneous. That ivory face was beaten and bruised. The loathsome trace of purple already had drained into a hollow, jaundiced mask . . . a sick, distorted caricature of the beauty and warmth it had stolen. But God forbid . . . the cop had told her that the body had been defiled . . . not raped as Eleise might have expected. The attendant turned her on her side. Kari's kidneys had been removed, sliced from the body of a goddess with the skill and exactitude of a trained surgeon.

It wasn't too long after that they recruited her. She got her wish. She was an actress. She didn't like some of the parts she had to play, but she was good . . . maybe even great. It had brought some of the bastards down. In some ways, it was all for Kari.

Eleise replayed the words of the cop again and her stomach twisted. She almost threw up. But this was not the time. She shook her head . . . gazed back into the mirror . . .

Tonight she would be exquisite, charming, sexy, and vulnerable . . . all of the things most desired by men. She reminded, even scolded herself . . . there were things to know . . . and she was good at getting at them. She couldn't make it right, but she could strike . . . maybe even save.

\---------------------

He'd decided on fashionably late. What the hell? These stupid broads were used to it. He shifted the BMW into first gear and roared out of the parking lot. He patted the 14 karat money clip in the pocket of his black silk slacks. A thousand bucks . . . it ought to do. Some polite conversation, good food, a little Cristal, and perhaps even a snifter of Hennessy after dinner. That should convince her to visit his sumptuous room for one short nightcap. It had worked before, and he expected it to work again. He'd have her . . . every inch of that delectable flesh. Then he'd decide whether to kill her or not. Hey, she was a lovely, healthy girl. There had to be some things inside her worth harvesting. Another cooler . . . another payoff. He kept spare tools in the room. No problem, the shiny scalpel was an old friend. So it goes.

\----------------------

Lobster stuffed with fresh crab meat bathed in a lemon-butter sauce with capers and just the perfect hint of Chardonnay. The Caesar salad was simply the best she'd ever had, crisp and tangy without being overbearing. The champagne was served elegantly by a sommelier in a gold waistcoat with black lapels. She though he might be Romanian. She savored it all and thought, "this job does have some delightful benefits".

The menu was in French and the tall dark gentleman across from her spoke it fluently. He was actually quite good looking, and had all of the sartorial gear to go with it. A two thousand dollar navy silk suit with a stunningly white linen shirt beneath it, open at the neck, a couple of thick golden chains completing the ultimate GQ look. She couldn't quite get over his hands. They were hairless, baby pink. They seemed to have a life unto themselves, quiet, understated, but elegant. They moved with a grace and a presence all their own.

He had introduced himself as Eric, no last name. A nom de guerre, no doubt. He was intelligent, if a bit too glib, but very continental. It all seemed so charming, but she knew there was a reason he was on their list . . . and it was her job to find out why. She tried to get him to talk about his business . . . after all, what man won't? He fell for the bait, but when he finished, she realized she didn't know a damned thing she hadn't already gleaned before he started. He claimed to be a surgeon down for a long weekend. Said he had a penthouse in Miami, but that was about it.

After dinner, she turned down the Hennessy and ordered a tumbler of green Crème de Menthe over the rocks . . . a bit pedestrian, she knew . . . but very effective for cleansing the palate.

Then the words she knew would come, "Would you consider coming by my place for a nightcap to finish off this magical evening? The view from the balcony is simply stunning."

She did her best impression of coy, feigned slightly embarrassed, and cooed, "Well . . . just one. No more."

He grinned, a hint of the Big Bad Wolf contemplating three little pigs on a barbeque grill, then raised a slender finger for the check.

When the waiter appeared, the bill in hand, Eric reached in his pocket and peeled off four crisp hundred dollar bills and added two fifties for good measure. Interesting, she thought. No credit card, but maybe he had a jealous wife who monitored that sort of shit. It wasn't unusual.

The valet brought the BMW to the curb and they were off.
Chapter Eleven

Sunny sat on the sofa, her brown legs tucked under cut-off jeans that crept up her luscious ass. She had her hair in a disheveled bun, a bleached bone clip stuck through it to hold in some sort of place. The yellow tank top was faded and fraying at the seams, her lavish breasts lolling about, pretending to be contained. A casual look, I thought, but one that evokes images of Venus, herself. I tried to quash the dirty old man that was surfacing, but no luck.

"Okay, Romeo," she said with more than a tinge of sarcasm, "let's get down to business, and not the business that I see in those ravenous eyes."

I tried to look like a hurt puppy. That didn't work either.

"Well, I told you about my so-called meeting with Carlos and the lovely lady who threatened to cut my balls off and have them for breakfast."

"Nothing odd in that." she said kind of matter-of-factly. "I've wanted to do it myself a couple of times."

I nodded, trying the hurt puppy thing again. No sale.

"There's just nothing much to go on. According to the computer, Carlos doesn't even exist, much less his phantom twin brother. Their sister, if she's real, simply may have been a victim of the coyotes. It happens all the time. Pay the money so you can drown at sea. Such a deal. I don't even have a clue as to where to start, and Vee wants to cut off my dick and stuff it in my mouth. I damned sure don't want to sign on for that one."

"I understand. It would cause terrible inconvenience, and I'm not a big fan of dildos anyway."

"Glad to hear that, but what the hell am I supposed to do . . . the Ghostcatcher . . . yeah . . . my ass."

We'd had this conversation before. Sunny . . . God love her . . . seemed to think I was some sort of self-styled Houdini . . . master of escapes and all manner of other-worldly knowledge. Right. Why not schedule a séance?

"Come on, T.K., you're no dummy and you do have resources. People trust you. You've been here before . . . not much to go on . . . and you've unearthed info with your instincts, and some damned good luck. You know how to rely on those who can provide directions . . . not even clues . . . just ways to think, to examine, to attack the things you know have that stench of injustice."

"Well said, my devoted paramour. Yeah, I'm a regular Don Quixote and you're my Sancho Panza. I'll buy it along with that bridge I Brooklyn. So shall we go tilting at windmills?"

"Okay smart guy, you still have Frank, but suppose we start this business with Captain Sal. She knows more about what's moving in and out of Key West, legal and illegal, than anybody on the water."

The business was boats. Captain Sal was the best charter captain in the keys. She regularly came back with enough fish to keep the whole damned town in grouper dinners for a month. She knew many of the illegals in town, even hired the good ones as mates on TOUGH BROAD, her spotless sport fish. She was as big as a house, with a heart to match, and a mysterious sixth sense that didn't miss a damned thing.

"Okay, Miss Marple, I'll call Sal right now."

I had her cell on speed dial.

"Hello, T.K. And why would you be calling a humble fisher-lady during cocktail hour?"

Good ol' Sal. Her wavering voice told me she was already into her cups. Nothing unusual.

"I need to pick your brain, Sal? Where are you?"

"Well, you'd better get here while there is still some of the hootch left. I am at Schooner's sitting across from the mysterious Miss Julianne. Whipsaw and the Wreckers are delighting the tourists with alternate strains of Willie Dixon, Robert Johnson, and Sonny Boy Williamson."

Those were my kind of strains. I could hear the wail of the Whip's harmonica in the background.

"I'm on my way."

Sunny was tired. She'd worked an extra shift to cover for a no-show at the Green Parrot the day before.

"I'm going to bed," she said, "and just maybe I'll get some sleep without you around, but if you get back early wake me up."

She winked, then slinked down the hallway to the bedroom shedding the tank top as she went. Now I wasn't sure I wanted to leave, but duty called, and I reluctantly answered.

I hopped on the Schwinn and was at Schooner's in ten minutes. Captain Sal and Miss Julianne were parked in the back corner, far enough away so that they could each hear the harmonica wailing, and see his left leg shaking line a man having a fit.

Sal was in her usual attire, a dirty t-shirt stained with dried fish blood and a broad-brimmed hat that should have been featured on the Antiques Roadshow. Her face was fat and wrinkled, bleached hair that had been combed with a garden rake, but not recently. Forty miles of bad road might have been accurate for those less diplomatic in their descriptions. Miss Julianne was resplendent, as usual, in a satiny dress that might remind you of Joseph's coat of many colors. Rings on every manicured finger. Her feet were adorned in Roman sandals that laced up her ankles and wound around her tanned calves. Whipsaw and the Wreckers were deep into their usual mode. The crowd, some locals and a frenetic hoard of tourists, had been elevated into a hypnotic trance, partly empowered by alcohol, and amplified by the infectious beat. I was dripping like Niagara, but what the hell, so was everyone else at the joint. The pungent odor of sweating bodies battled for dominance with the cigarette smoke, but the bare feet tapped on the sand and the arms and hips flayed like leaves in in a rhythmic wind. I guess no one minded.

I sat down with the ladies and ordered an Ice House. It was cold and tasty. I decided on direct.

"So Sal, here it is."

I recounted the tale as best I could, leaving out nothing. She and Miss Julianne both sat motionless except for an occasional sip of something sweaty and pink. I was betting on rum, grenadine, a hint of vodka, and something fruity. Schooner's was good at that. Their eyes were a little dazed, but I knew them too well to think it might interfere with intellects that were honed as sharp as a straight razor. Sal spoke first.

"You don't want to hear this, T.K. I know you too damned well, but you sure better be careful. Getting what you wish for is often the final curse."

She took a foggy breath, paused, cut a glance at Miss Julianne, and went on, "there are bad people out there. They promise some sort of Valhalla to people who are beyond desperation. Of course, nothing in this life is free. So the creeps charge and the people pay, but for many, Valhalla is just an illusion. The desperate don't make it and when they do, some of them end up in a ditch without a kidney or a liver."

"Okay Sal, being philosophical and obtuse is not your strong suit. What the hell are you talking about?"

She looked at Miss Julianne and shook her head much like a believer afraid to name the devil for fear he'll appear. Sal reluctantly nudged her drinking partner. The Mysterious one spoke.

"Organs . . . the law of supply and demand. A healthy kidney is worth at least thirty K, a liver even more. It's the black market right here in your own back yard. The payees doesn't care who, or where the things came from. It means life . . . a few more years away from dialysis, probably even death. They cough up the cash . . . and they do it willingly . . . even gratefully. That's where the supply part comes in. There just aren't enough of the organs . . . at least not legally. So the smart guys have identified a source that is readily available. The nice thing for the butchers is that as far as the law is concerned, the donors don't exist. They don't show up on any social security lists, background checks, or other official documents . . . and dead men tell no tales, nor do their relatives . . . especially if they live in fear of being discovered and deported."

I shuddered. Suddenly the beer wasn't cold enough and the music had become a din that pierced and prodded my ears. I lit a Marlboro and sucked in the gray cloud. My lungs burned. Still, it made sense . . . a chilling, ghastly version of it, but a horrible reality, with an equally horrible rationality, that I'd seen evidenced more than once. Suddenly I remembered that case in Miami where the girl's body had turned up with no kidney. I didn't read any follow-up, but I had at least one friend who might have some info that would make parts of this puzzle begin to fit. And of course, there was Frank. He knew people who knew people all over the state, and they knew things that defied gruesome and inhuman.

I silently swilled the last of the beer, and lit another cigarette. Another Ice House just didn't sound so good. I ground the butt into a filthy astray and stood. The sun was down and a cool breeze had begun to kiss the evening. I went out to the Schwinn to pedal the short distance back to KAMALA. Shit . . . the rear tire was plastered to the concrete, flat as a child's discarded balloon. Okay, no big deal, it wasn't that far. I started pushing and soon I was in the dirt parking lot at the dock.

Chapter Twelve

I was almost to the dock when I heard what I thought was the sound of feet shuffling on the gravel. Expecting Fritz, or one of my other compadres from Buffett's Roundtable, I turned to see three short silhouettes against the dim streetlight. I could just make out the black vests. Another visit from Carlos and his confederates.

"Dr. Fleming. It is good to see you getting some exercise. We must stay in shape. But I see your tire has no air. It is a pity."

He came a bit closer and I focused on the face and the Pancho Villa moustache. His voice was clear, but I thought I noticed a bit of menace that hadn't been quite so evident before. The two tree trunks seemed tense, or make that poised, but for something I wasn't sure of. He reached out his hand.

Then he buried a concrete fist in my gut and the bicycle clattered to the stones. I curled up and gasped for breath, but it wouldn't come. Then he gave me a vicious kick, the toe of the dusty boot slamming into the side of my head. The blood started immediately.

"Of course, you were expecting Carlos, but dey do say there is a family resemblance. Actually, I come in peace, but sometimes peace comes only after a little warning. Our business is Our Business. It does not concern you or your lovely whore. My brother is a romantic fool. You must ignore him. If not, you do so at your own peril, and of course, that of your lady friend. Sunny . . . I hear that is what you call her, is dear to you. I hope there will be no next time. It is what you gringos call 'bad policy' to defy the Messageros de Infierno."

I was still on the ground coughing when I saw another dark flash. She had raced between his henchmen and was on his back, legs wrapped around his waist and a gleam of silver at his throat. I could hear her whisper.

"Come fools, and I will open him up like a fresh caught grouper. Francisco, you always assume too much. You are tough hombre. I know that, but you bleed like any other man. You will be dead before your stinking body hits the ground."

He was frozen. The tree trunks waited.

"I should have known someone might be lurking. I just didn't expect you, mi corazon. Muchachos, back off. Go to the machines and wait for me. We will have cerveza and laugh over this little incident later."

They did as ordered. She put her feet on the ground, but held the blade close in place. A tiny trail of blood ran from under his chin, disappearing in the folds of his shirt.

"I do not want to kill you," she said, but the blade stayed at attention at his throat.

"Go home, Francisco. Take your amigos. You will find it quite comfortable . . . even safe."

He moved slowly, turned and stared into her eyes. They were like dark coals, at once simmering, but without the vision of death I had seen in my earlier encounter with this she-devil.

"Gracias, mi amor. This one is yours. Vaya con dios, corazon. You will need it."

Francisco turned toward the roar of the bikes. She watched him carefully, the knife still at her side. Then she reached into the dirt and took my hand. We stumbled down the dock to KAMALA, her arm steadying me as I struggled for balance.

She followed me down the companionway. I grabbed a Kleenex and dabbed at the blood. Then I reached for the green bottle of Jameson and poured a huge slug into a plastic cup. I nodded to her, but she shook her head and looked around. I watched her take it all in. Meanwhile I was doing the same.

Vee was something out of a sailor's dream. Full lips painted a deep burgundy and eye shadow the purple of royalty. The dark orbs were almost shocking, but there was little doubt. She missed nothing. Her ebony hair shown like a river of rich jewels in the light of the kerosene lanterns. Again, she was dressed in black from head to toe. The fabric clung to her brown skin, giving off an iridescence like dark pearls. It moved and shimmered as she twisted on the settee.

"It is your home, Dr. Fleming," she said with feigned innocence that was much too obvious.

"Listen Vee, you just saved my life. Maybe it's time we got on a first-name basis."

"Yes, T.K. But you misjudge Francisco. He would not have killed you, at least not yet. But that could change. This was a caution . . . one which deserves your utmost consideration . . . if not for you . . . perhaps for those you love. But your wound . . . you still bleed. Get me some peroxide and a bandage. Take off your shirt. It is stained."

I did as she commanded. She dabbed the cut gently, washed the area around it, and taped a white gauze over it. Her touch was soft, skilled . . . even comforting.

"Yes, you are very much the man," she said as she ran her soft palm over my chest.

She moved a little closer. My head was clearing fast, and other parts of me were responding to the things a woman does best. I stepped back and grabbed a clean t-shirt. I slipped it over my head and sat down, my hand firmly around the sweet Irish elixir.

"Tell me what you can," I said.

"I have loved them both. A man is not a simple thing. He is perhaps two beings, two sets of consciousness, many sets of action. A woman can be even more. I cannot tell them apart . . . the twins . . . at least not until I hold them in my arms. Then I can feel the evil or the good. It whispers to me and pulses through them with a sense they cannot control. Right, wrong . . . they should be powerful words, but they have no real meanings. It lies in the perception of the one who interprets through his own experience . . . the teaching, the injustice, the kindness, all those parts within each of us. At the end, we are all just beings . . . humans perhaps . . . more likely animals who must feed and die. And what are we to do until we take that final breath?"

I didn't have an answer. I knew what I wanted it to be. I wanted to follow a path that righted the wrongs, gave all men an opportunity to be instruments of the fair and the good. I also knew that in some ways I was a naïve fool. The things I had seen . . . experienced in my own version of hell . . . had convinced me. Still, I chose not to believe it. The textbook definition of imbecile. Vee was the ultimate temptation, the one that always created the fool. I could see her, even smell my own desire . . . and maybe hers. What did I want? I longed for her to stay . . . to lick my wounds, to run my fingers through the lush black hair, to taste the fount of her sex. I couldn't help it, but then there was Sunny. I was ashamed . . . and now I wanted Vee to go before I did something I couldn't forgive myself for.

She was a woman. They knew things. They sensed them. She waited a moment, staring into me with eyes that were black pools of the abyss, but finally she got up and turned toward the companionway.

"I am sure we will meet again," she said, and shook back her ebony locks. I nodded, breathing heavily, and wondering when that would be. Her boots echoed on the dock, but slowly faded, lost in the sounds of the tide and the wind.

I barely slept.

Chapter Thirteen

Frank was my next option. I was sure Vee had spoken the truth. I was diving head first into water without knowing the depth. Francisco would kill me if he felt it was necessary. I pulled by weapons from their nesting places and checked them once more. I wouldn't leave the boat again, day or night, without at least one of them at my side. I thought of it as insurance, but the premium was stiff, and there were no guarantees I'd be around to collect the payoff.

"Beamon," he growled after a couple of rings.

"Frank, I need help."

"Don't you always, T.K.? What you need is a good therapist to convince you that you're not Don Quioxte, although Sunny does remind me a bit of Dulcinea . . . Okay, let me guess. You've met both of the Medina twins."

"You call it a meeting . . . I call it an assault, although Vee said Francisco wouldn't kill me . . . at least not yet."

"Well, that's reassuring. So tell Uncle Frank all about it."

I did . . . all about my night on the town and the fun afterwards. I spared no details, except for the stuff about Vee on KAMALA. Privileged information, I guess you'd say.

"You dumb sonovabitch. I told you to be careful. Why don't you and Sunny take a nice cruise up to Miami? Stay in the Miami Beach Marina and walk over to South Beach. Have a good meal . . . maybe a margarita or two. Watch the flamenco dancers. Hell, you could even sit out on the white sand and watch those topless nymphs strut on the beach. It would be good for you. Come back in a week or so. It might be a little quieter by then."

"That's probably damned good advice, but this time I'll pass."

"Yeah, you always do. So what do you want to know? Off the record, by the way."

"What about my pal, Francisco? What are his business interests? I'm guessing there's no rap sheet since he hasn't been deported."

"You're right about that . . . no record . . . we got nothing on him. I know he's shoveling meth, probably running a few whores, maybe a little petty crime along the way. There have been a few mysterious disappearances. We really can't tie them to him or any of his boys, but there is no question that's a bad lot. People are scared. They won't talk. I give the Messageros credit. They do know how to lay low and cover their tracks. The DEA, the Border Patrol . . . they've been pretty damned useless. All we can do now with our under-staffed, under-funded, little police department is watch. It's a good thing we have Carlos. He definitely helps keep things under control, at least for the present. Let's call him a quiet enforcer."

"There are rumors that someone local might be delving into the organ transplant black market."

"I'm not gonna ask where you got that little tidbit, but I'll bet you don't mean pipe organs like the gray-hairs play in those big churches. I know . . . I hear the rumors, too. But so far, that's all they are. I've got nothing concrete to go on. If you're thinking the Messageros, I kind of doubt it. They're bringing in plenty of cash with the dope and the girls. Organs . . . then you got to worry about getting a good doctor on staff, disposing of bodies . . . it gets very complicated. The bad boys are pretty happy right now and they aren't drawing any attention from the Feds. Why screw up a good thing?"

It made sense, but it didn't get me any closer to Carlos's sister. I wondered if I ever would.

Chapter Fourteen

The room was really more of a suite, and as advertised. Muted pastels, huge white leather sofa with matching overstuffed chairs. The tables were all polished chrome with tinted glass. Accessories all in their appointed places, bits of porcelain, ivory, and jade covering each top. The paintings were a tasteful assortment of beach scenes, and lovely women, with a few abstracts mixed in. It all screamed interior designer, with no expense spared. The flood of color kept it from being cold, but there was still something somewhat impersonal about it . . . nothing that might speak of human interaction.

Only one thing seemed out of place. There was an antique roll top desk in one corner with a small pile of unopened mail, a fountain pen that was probably a Mont Blanc, and some miscellaneous odds and ends.

Eric went to the wet bar and pulled a green bottle off the shelf. He held it up, but she couldn't quite make out the label. Maybe Dom Perignon, or at least something equally expensive. Eleise smiled and nodded. He turned his back, then poured the ruby liquid into two crystal glasses. That's when his cell rang. He started to ignore it, then reluctantly pulled it off his belt.

"Sorry, you know how it is . . . always on call. I've got to take it."

He handed her a glass, then went into the bedroom and closed the door.

"Paitence," she whispered to herself, but that was a virtue she'd never practiced too well. She got up and pretended to move toward the balcony, but the desk was more temptation than she could stand. Perhaps she could at least get a last name, or a return address off one of the envelopes. She was holding them in front of her face when he came back in.

"See anything interesting?"

"Sorry, couldn't resist. My damned curiosity has gotten me in trouble more than once."

"Of couse," he thought. He smiled like it was nothing, but he thought he knew better. Who was this woman? Why was she shuffling through his mail? Curiosity, my ass. He'd always been much more than careful, and he would again.

They went back to the sofa for some harmless banter. She let him talk, boast, wander, but still nothing she didn't already know . . . and that was also nothing. He claimed to be a surgeon from Miami, down here to consult with colleagues on a particularly difficult cancer case. When the glasses were nearly empty, he took her hand and gently eased her off the sleek leather. She stumbled a bit as she rose, and shook her head. Surely she hadn't had that much to drink. Still she followed him to the king-size bed. Sometimes pillow talk was the best . . . not to mention the most revealing . . . and she was good at it.

He had already turned down the spread, and the ivory silk sheets glowed in the light of the lamp at his bedside. Eleise was still a little light headed as he kissed her neck and slipped the red satin over her shoulders. He pinched her nipples playfully, and covered one with his mouth. His tongue was warm, wet, and soothing. She took his wrist and guided his hand to the wet heat between her legs. It was her job, but there was no reason she shouldn't enjoy it. She thought, "I just hope he'll respect me in the morning," and laughed silently at her own little inside joke.

He didn't.

She was motionless as he thrust up inside her. The powder he'd slipped in her wine had performed beautifully . . . and so had he. Twice he had pumped a load into her. Actually, he liked it when they didn't move . . . even sometimes when they didn't breathe. Afterwards, he dozed for a full hour. When he woke, he went to the closet and pulled a wide roll of painter's plastic and an old shower curtain he'd brought along for a special occasion. He looked her over one more time as she lay on the mattress. My God, she was beautiful. He thought about one more quick romp, but it was getting late and he had work to do.

Eric grabbed her ankles and pulled her prostrate body off the foot of the bed. Her head thumped on the carpet, but he didn't think she'd mind. She was tall and heavy, despite a shape that any centerfold would have envied. It might be tough to get her into a garbage bag, but he always bought the heavy duty brand. One call to his crew and the human trash would disappear like magic. He went to the small chest beside the bed. He pulled the drawer handle and the lamp on the stand shone on the silver instruments. They were just as he'd left it, razor sharp, shiny, and deadly.

She was still breathing. Slowly she began to stir. Eleise tried to lift her palm to her head to wipe something out of her eye. The hand was cold and it wouldn't move. Something thin and sharp bound her at the wrists. She felt the same sensation at her ankles. Her lips tried to speak his name, but something sticky held them together. She couldn't even beg. The vein in her temple throbbed in small red explosions. She wanted to laugh, but this time the joke was on her. Probably her last. She always been so careful, but this time . . .

"Such a waste," he thought, but a girl like her . . . healthy and no doubt, full of things that certain people would pay dearly for. He went into the bathroom and scrubbed his magnificent hands, the instruments of the gods. He held them up before the mirror and admired the delicate skin, the curve of the fingers. He flexed them to circulate the blood, loosen the muscles, but it was time for the task . . . the gloves. First he would slice her throat . . . wait for the pulse to go, the heart to stop. Then it was just another surgery. A good night's work by a Da Vinci of the flesh . . . and one that would pay dearly . . . most appropriate for a man of his inestimable artistry.

Chapter Fifteen

It was hot as hell, and I didn't think Vinnie's had seen a breath of fresh air in months, maybe even years. I was wearing a cotton guayabera emblazoned with antique hot rods in blues, greens, and reds. It bloused out around the waist, making it easy to conceal the Taurus stuck in my belt at my back. Hooray for good old fashioned caution. I could feel the handle scratching and poking at my kidney, but in some ways it felt good just as a reminder that I could be a target at any time. There was a flesh colored band-aide taped on my head. Another damned reminder. It looked kind of stupid, but not as gross as the wound that was still running a bit of yellow crap. My gut remained sore, but the cold beer and the music distracted me . . . at least for now. She wasn't there, but I silently toasted Vee. If it weren't for her, I might have many more miscellaneous distractions of the damaging kind.

Two of the Messageros, not too nattily attired in dirty t-shirts and those black vests, were seated at the bar, sipping tequila and taking turns glaring at me. I already knew I had been followed. I guess Francisco wanted to let me know that I might soon be due another visit. Maybe I'd bake him a cake, but in truth, I can't say I was looking forward to it.

The Ancients were as hot as the weather, turning out old rock n' roll and blues like they were born to it. I gotta admit, I didn't sound too bad myself. The Epiphone was sweet and mellow with just the right amount of screech and wail. My voice was locked in, and so was the crowd. Sunny had a night off, and was perched on a stool near the end of the bar. She'd take a sip of cerveza and grin appreciatively whenever she caught my attention. For her, that was easy.

She'd cut her hair. Okay, I missed having those blond locks draped across my chest, but the tight bob hadn't deleted one ounce of sexy. She wore a pair of stacked heels that accentuated her gorgeous legs and luscious ass. A parade of guys had come up to her, doing the gentlemanly innocent routine, then asking to buy her a drink. She'd smile, shake her head, always polite . . . it was her nature . . . then point to the stage. I read her lips a couple of times, "I'm with the band." They'd retreat dejectedly and move on to the next target. Most of them gave up. If they didn't, she could get very testy. And you didn't want to test Sunny.

I'd gotten to know some of the regulars at Vinnie's, mostly young, attractive ladies in barely legal cut-off jeans. They worked the bar, served the frosty libations, and discreetly flirted with those patrons who doled out the most cash.

Just before we went on break, Layla, one of the knock-outs that Vinnie regularly hired to hustle beer, came up to the stage and whispered something in my ear. I nodded. When we hauled up the finale of Chuck Berry's "Johnny B. Goode", I thanked the crowd and headed for the exit. Sunny was right behind me.

"More slow-motion suicide, I'll bet."

I grinned sheepishly and reached for my pocket. My fingers fixed around the Marlboros like a long-lost love. The hazy poison tickled, then pierced my lungs. The knock-out came out a few seconds later.

"Hello Layla," I said.

"Please don' call me dat. It is my bar name so the boys don' look me up after I get off. My real name is Maria. Please use it. I must talk to you."

She eyed Sunny and hesitated.

"Not a problem. She knows who I know, and what I know. You can speak freely."

Sunny dipped her head and forced a thin smile. It seemed to satisfy Maria. She inhaled deeply and began in clipped phrases punctuated with emotion.

"I from Venezuela . . . I am what you call illegal. I come to America for good reason. It is mi madre. The plan was I come make money so she can follow. Maduro . . . and Chavez before him . . . have made existence in my country a life sentence to prison . . . de forever in de pit of hell. Violence, corruption . . . all are in danger. De money dere is no good. You make twenty Bolivars in the morning. It is worth fifteen before you go to bed, and ten the next day. Food, water, safety . . . all in short supply. I pay man to bring me here. He is bad hombre, but I make it. I have done many things I am no proud of . . . I sell beer, I sell some dope, I even sell myself, but she is old. I must save her before it is too late."

"Okay Maria. I guess I get it, but I don't. Why are you telling me this?"

"I know many. In the shadows, I talk to all. Dey say you are man to be trusted. Dey call you de Ghostcatcher. You find things. You help dose who are helpless."

I took a deep breath, then sucked some of the gray smoke into my lungs. She took my silence as a signal to go on.

"Six months ago I send my mother five thousand dollars. She tell me she has made arrangements and she will come on boat. I wait . . . no word, no call . . . no nothing. She is dead. I know that. I can feel it in here."

Maria put her hand to her chest. Her eyes were dark crystal puddles. She sucked in a breath, brushed a tear off her cheek, and pulled a hand mirror to check her make-up.

"It is too late for her, but these things must not happen. De coyotes get rich and de bodies of my countrymen wash onto de beach. I have a friend. You do not know him. I will call him Hernando. He say he loves me . . . that he will take me from this place. He tell me he help avenge the death of my mother and dose many lost souls who perish. He has no proof, but he has suspicions. I watch. I listen. I think he is real."

"Maria, I am sorry for your loss and for the loss of others who have suffered needless deaths, but there is nothing I can do."

"Dis is not true. You have expression in English. I know it, 'Your reputation precede you'. I am informed what this means and I know what you have done. Now you must trust me . . . help me fight. I tell you of Hernando's suspicions and you observe. Check them. If it is nothing, I will no bother you again."

Sunny touched Maria's arm gently and gave me that etched in stone "don't you dare say no" look. I bit my lip and lit another Marlboro. Maria shook back her mahogany mane and waited.

"So tell me what you can."

"You know de Southernmost Buoy near Truman Annex. Be close dere at eleven in de morning. You may see something."

She rushed back inside. So what the hell was that all about? I didn't know, but I did think I might know Hernando. I suspected he was sitting at the bar with one hand on a cold Modelo and the other near a shot of Cuervo Gold. Hell . . . even a bad-ass biker can fall for a beautiful woman. I damned sure did.

Sunny and I walked back into the club and the glare on the dark face focused like sulfuric acid eating away my flesh. The burn was palpable and the source was stationed at the bar. I thought, "Hello Hernando, the pleasure is all mine." I reached behind my back and adjusted the .38.

My mind raced, "Come-on Boys, gimme a break, I just came to play a little rock n' roll."

We finished the last set with Springsteen's "Pink Cadillac". The crowd was on its somewhat uncertain feet. Vinnie grinned appreciatively and a couple of tourists came up to thank us for 'testifying' to the awesome power of rock and blues. Hernando shot me one more withering stare and he left. Sunny grabbed my arm.

"You're coming home with me, Cowboy."

I didn't argue. I packed up the electric and squeezed my Schwinn into the trunk of the Saab. She turned the key and we bolted for her apartment. We had barely gotten in the door when Sunny snatched a bag of Cheddar and Beer Kettle chips and poured two glasses with generous dollops of Cabernet. We were both exhausted, but we tried to make some sense out of Maria's words and determine if it had any connection to the stuff we already knew. If it did, I couldn't make it out over her crunching, and the thick fog that was creeping into my brain. Suddenly the conversation stopped. She was reclining on the sofa, chips lovingly cradled in her lap, and snoring like a freight train.

It's a good thing my cell rang about eight. I could have easily slept through the morning, but the noise reminded me I had an appointment.

Chapter Sixteen

He didn't need to say hello. The voice pounded into my head, but it couldn't block out the jackhammer in my brain. Key West Police Department calling. At your service, Detective Frank Beamon.

"Off the record, but I thought you'd want to know . . . probably has nothing to do with anything, but just in case . . . had a call from one of the Untouchables. Those guys drive me nuts. He won't even tell me exactly which agency he's with, but he's been a reliable source in the past. Probably FBI, maybe with a CIA connection . . . definitely some Homeland Security contacts. I've checked what I can. He's legit. Seems as though someone has misplaced an agent. Definitely undercover. Tall, blond, apparently quite beautiful, on assignment to something he won't discuss. I'm only guessing, but it could be black market organs. Seems all the fashion these days . . . and very profitable. That sort of thing always seems to get the FED's attention. That's all I know for now. You got anything?"

"Not really . . . except this damned hangover."

"Hey . . . the wages of sin, my friend." he lolled. The phony sympathy only made it worse.

I didn't tell him about Maria, my appointment . . . or anything else. I promised him that if I came up with something solid, he'd be the first to know. That was the truth, and no offense to our valued band of boat bums, Frank was probably the only person in this town I absolutely knew I could trust . . . at least except for Sunny.

Fact Alert: Each of them had saved my life at least once and both knew their way around guns. That was hard not to like, especially with the recent turn of events.

Sunny barely stirred and the smile on her face told me she was dreaming of two scrambled eggs, homemade biscuits, a side of pancakes, and at least four fat juicy links of sausage. Hell, I'd run her down to Pepe's when she woke up. Whatever it takes, the woman was worth it.

I decided to get up while I waited and make a cup of coffee. I pulled out a notebook and pen. It always helps me to write it down. Clears my head, and this morning that was something I definitely needed. Unfortunately, not much came. I listened to the coffee maker spit, and smelled the rich scent of the inky Columbian magic.

I grabbed the pen with my right hand and the coffee with my left. I tried to squeeze something out of my parched brain, but when I looked at the paper the only words that appeared were

"Eleven o'clock at the southernmost buoy."

I went to the fridge to see if there was anything remotely edible lurking on one of the shelves. Sunny's good at a lot of things, but as a shopper, she's a damned good golfer. There was a half-eaten honey bun peeking out around the carton with the soured milk. I snatched it. Nothing green on the edges. It would have to do.

I went back to the bedroom. She was still snoring, visions of sugarplums . . . no, make that eggs, pancakes and sausages . . . dancing in her head. Hell, she might sleep for a couple more hours. I knew she didn't have to report to the Parrot until four. I sneaked into the shower and slipped on a clean t-shirt and underwear I kept stashed for just such an occasion. The keys to the Saab lay on the kitchen table right next to the Taurus. I stuffed the .38 into my belt and scratched out a note. "Be back soon." I filled my coffee cup, grabbed the stale bun, and made for the door.

I was near the Truman Annex by 10:40. It was still early for Key West, not much traffic. I found a parking spot on the street about fifty yards from the buoy. I ducked down in the seat and stuffed the bun in my mouth. Hey, better than nothing. The windshield was littered with dead bugs, but I could see well enough. I adjusted the rearview mirror to watch what might come up behind me. I didn't have to wait long.

A tall man, beautifully coiffed, maybe even a touch of effeminate, but definitely elegant, sauntered down the sidewalk. Despite the early heat, he was sporting a silk jacket with matching slacks. He was whistling an old tune stolen from the seven dwarves in the Disney version of "Snow White". In his right hand he carried a small Styrofoam cooler. From the drape of his arm, there was some heft to it. He mostly looked straight ahead, but a couple of times he glanced left or right, appreciatively taking in the calm landscape. As he got closer to the buoy, his head darted in a complete 180 degree arc. He smiled and approached a metal garbage can near the landmark. He scanned again, lifted the top and gently placed the white container in the can. Then he secured the top and went on the down the street. Not really anything odd in that. Probably some garbage he needed to dump, or maybe some fish guts from the morning catch.

I sat in the Saab and contemplated a second career as a garbage collector. I'd heard they had benefits. The clock in the car showed exactly eleven. This was the time and this was the place that Maria had tipped me to. I wanted to know for sure what was in that cooler. I waited a few more minutes in case someone was watching. Just then I saw a woman approach, prancing like Giselle on the runway. She wore huge round sunglasses and a floppy straw hat pulled down on her forehead. It covered her face, but even at a distance, I could see she was very shapely, and the outfit screamed mystery and allure. A willowy purple kaftan flowed behind her in the light morning breeze. Dark tufts of raven hair had escaped around her ears. I suspected she had the rest of that glory tucked up under the hat. A large black leather bag was slung over her right shoulder. Coach, or Gucci, I was willing to bet.

She glided over near the metal canister. She dropped the sunglasses down on her nose, and scanned the area. That's when it hit me. She lifted the top and eased the cooler out of the can, then replaced it with a manila envelope she pulled from the handbag. I was sure. It was the woman who might have saved my life.

I shook my head. What the hell was going on? Who was the silky bastard? What was in the cooler? What was in the envelope? Why her? How did Maria know about this rendezvous, and what else might she know?

I watched the woman strut back down the street. Watching her was sheer poetry. I admit I was enthralled, but then I had a thought. Was this a snake charmer coaxing a cobra out of the basket? Graceful, tempting, but still a cobra. A minute or two later, a dusty blue Chrysler eased past me. The windows were tinted much darker than Florida state law allowed. It didn't matter. I knew who was at the wheel.

I just hoped Sunny was stirring when I got back to the apartment. She had a mind like a razor, and she was much better than I was at leaving the emotion aside and getting down to the hard analysis. The Saab spun to life. I shifted into first gear and pulled away from the curb, not much smarter than I had been when I arrived.

Chapter Seventeen

Sunny was awake. I could smell it when I got in. I was willing to bet it was "the works", Mama Rigatoni's sixteen inch special, peperoni, sausage, ham, onions, mushrooms, and extra cheese. Guaranteed thirty minute delivery right to your door. What a shock, my delicate lady had woken up hungry. There was a dribble of tomato sauce on her lip as she tried to greet me through the massive third slice.

I sat at the table and pulled the Taurus out of my belt. My notebook was still there.

"So the Huns are at the gate?" she mumbled.

"Damned right."

She wolfed while I told her about my surveillance at the buoy. I was hoping she'd offer me a piece of the Italian delight, but I was beginning to wonder. She finally shoved the box at me with a shrug and a frown, one last lonely slice lay on the cardboard bottom. I grabbed it while I could. With Sunny, you gotta be quick.

She gulped down the last of Mama's feast and pointed to the pen and paper.

"Okay, today I'm Sherlock and you're Dr. Watson. Write it down, and pay attention. If you're a good boy, I'll make it up to you later."

I hoped I knew what that meant. It was time for obedience based on the expectation of future rewards.

I told her about the events at the buoy, leaving out no details. She listened and slogged an Ice House. Then she sat and rolled those gorgeous blue eyes. I could almost hear the cogs grinding in that magnificent brain. Then she dictated. Here's what we got on paper.

  1. Two people missing. A sister and a mother, probably both victims of an elusive coyote, a target that likely wouldn't come into our range. We needed to concentrate on what we knew and other information we might be able to gather.

  2. Two gangs, twin brothers, one presumably a good guy, the other one bad to the bone.

  3. A trade in illegals --- possibly with local connections --- with maybe some black-market traffic in harvested organs.

  4. A missing agent, a woman, and probably a FED.

  5. And Vee, the admitted lover of two men. Definitely a mystery . . . and a dangerous one, at that. Involvement? Motive?

  6. How did it all fit . . . if it did?

I damned sure didn't know. I went to the fridge and popped a cold beer, longing for another slice of pizza, but it was way too late for that. We needed more leads, not to mention some proof, if we were to turn it over to Frank, and some of his so-called associates. It was definitely their territory, but we'd ignored that before.

"Okay," she said, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, "Let's assume that the Messageros, our nasty biker buddies whom we know are tied in to several nefarious activities, are front men for even uglier things than dope, gambling, and prostitution. So they set up arrangements for the arrival, maybe even the transit, of illegals, many of them with presumably healthy livers and kidneys. Black market organs? There's money there. Hell, to them it's just another buck. Obviously they need the right contacts, and probably someone with at least minimal surgical skills. That stuff could definitely interest the FEDs. So they send an investigator, probably undercover. Now she's gone. How . . . where? And then there's Vee? I still can't figure how she fits into the equation."

I took a sip of the cold beer and sat very still. Sunny might not be making sense, but at least she was offering some possible, maybe even plausible, connections. I wrote down three names, Maria, Hernando, Frank and I added a capital V with a fat question mark. Theories, speculation, of course . . . but at least this was a place to start.

I called Vinnie's. He was double checking last night's receipts and compiling the evening booze orders. He sounded hurried, but he gave me Maria's address and cell number without hesitation. She was number one with a bullet.

She sounded a little groggy, but she perked up when I told her who I was.

"I must tell you, Dr. Fleming. I think dey are watching. I know not if it is careful for us to be seen together."

"So who's watching?"

"I wish I am sure. I don' know, but if I did, at least it would be something."

"Look Maria, I certainly don't want to put you in any danger, but if we could meet somewhere, there are a few questions I would like to ask. It's probably better to go somewhere where there's a crowd. What about the Raw Bar? The tourists are packing the place and I have a friend who can make sure we have a table in the back . . . a place where few can see us and no one will hear us."

"No, it is too obvious. I meet you at Mallory Square at two. The cruise boats will be there . . . big crowds. We blend. The bench to de west, near de big boats. Only a few minutes I can stay. We feed popcorn to de pigeons . . . hide in plain sight. Then I go to my job."

The idea was as good as any. It might work, and I figured I only needed twenty minutes.

I got to Mallory a little early. The place was teeming with sweaty bodies clutching wet bills, just aching to leave some of them with the street hawkers or the bartenders. The human statue was covered in white grease paint, looking lifeless until one of the suckers got a little too close. Then a twitch or a reach followed by a wail of surprise and laughter. It was always worth a buck or two in the can in front of him. There were a few nasty looking pirates posing with the gawkers for selfies. One of them had a large parrot perched on his shoulder. "My name is Peter. I see you, I see you," he'd squawk and jerk his head back and forth. Ol' Peter was the undisputed star of the show.

The guy who breathed fire was breathing fire, a couple of organ grinders with monkeys dressed to the nines, their tin cups polished and ready for any worthy contribution, and numerous acrobats, contortionists, a few guitar players, and one belly dancer, bells jingling, her tambourine clanging to celebrate the next gyration of her hips and twist in her navel. Everything looked normal for the afternoon performance of the Malory Square Circus.

Maria was on the appointed bench, a brown paper bag of popcorn in her lap. The pigeons were loving it. She had a fire-engine red baseball cap pulled low down over her eyes and a pair of matching shades. Her ebony hair was pulled into a knot that stuck out in a clump behind her head. She wore a man's faded pink shirt. It was long-sleeved despite the heat. A simple pair of Bermuda shorts somewhat hid the beautiful brown legs and sumptuous hips, black Chuck Taylor high-tops with no socks on her feet. I scanned the area behind her. Lots of gawkers, but no stalkers that I could make out.

I stepped over to the man and handed him two bucks. He offered my very own bag of golden kernels, and I wasn't sharing them with the damned birds. I scanned the area, but still nothing unusual. I didn't include the wierdos. They were just too damned obvious. She didn't acknowledge me when I sat down about three feet to her left.

"Hello, Maria. Thanks for coming."

"Ask your questions. Be quick. Dey are probably here."

She locked her fingers together in her lap, probably hoping I wouldn't notice the trembling.

"The sister of Carlos and Francisco. Carlos sent her money. She was coming to America. Do you know anything?"

"I think she is dead. Carlos does not know. De boat of de filthy coyote turn over in de bad sea. Her body probably in de deep. Hopefully she find peace. Francisco supposed to get her here. He do not."

I damned sure didn't want to be the one to deliver that news.

"Someone is stealing kidneys, probably livers from the dead. There is a huge black market in organs for transplants."

"This I do not know, but I meet a man. He knows Hernando. He say he is doctor. Eric is first name. Last name Dancer, Danzer . . . something like that. I think he stay at the Pier House on Duval."

I knew the Pier House. The rooms started at $350 and escalated quickly. Very nice and quite exclusive. Just the place for a well-heeled visiting Doc. I asked her to describe him.

"Tall, muy good looking, dark hair back on his head. He is wearing very fine clothes. His hands got no callous, long thin fingers, like classical pianist. He is what you call arrogant, like I should bow as he is a king. I didn't like him at first. I still would not."

"Do you know this woman they call Vee?"

"I see her twice. That is enough."

I heard the deafening roar behind us. Someone revving a Harley, exorcising demons or just extending his phallic pretentions, no doubt. Suddenly Maria shuddered. She looked around like a frightened bird and popped off the bench.

"I go."

She didn't wait for a response. I sat on the slim boards and finished the last of my popcorn. She left her box. I gave it to the pigeons. They scrambled and cried as they fought viciously over the last morsels.

I had to be at Vinnie's in a couple of hours. I was doing the early show. I went back to KAMALA for a quick nap. It was hot and I'd need the energy and a few cold beers to wade through the sets and the tourists on their way to getting tight.

Chapter Eighteen

The Schwinn was waiting patiently on the dock. Sunny was at the Parrot slinging beer and smiling at the eager patrons. I rolled into the parking lot and locked my bike to a stanchion near the back entrance. I set up my equipment and tuned the Epiphone. "Test, test." It was all ready. The Ancients wouldn't show up until later. It was okay. I could wing it.

I looked around for Maria, but no sale. Maybe she had the day off. I vowed to check at the bar when I went on break. When Vinnie came around to tell me how great my music was, I asked him. He just shook his head.

"Not like her. She always shows up . . . should've been here at four. Maybe sick. I hope not. Nice kid. Sweet, good-hearted. The tourists and the locals damned sure love their Layla, but you know how it is with these kids. They come and they go. You can't predict it. Maybe she took off with that boyfriend, the biker guy."

I went to the bar for a cold Ice House and a Marlboro. A tipsy patron came up to chat with the big star and make a request. Big surprise. In the Keys, Jimmy Buffett was always the gold standard. I told him I'd do "A Pirate Looks at Forty" in the next set. He went away happy, but not before he laid a damp five in my palm. Hey, dis washed-up English professor got no pride. All contributions are graciously accepted.

The rest of the night was about the usual for Vinnie's. A few drunks, none too sloppy, and everyone seemed pretty happy. Vinnie was beaming and working the crowd at his gravelly best. The bar girls were smiling and the registers were ringing. It would be a good night.

I closed with an old Ray Charles blues number, "Trying to Make a Fool Out of Me". Nice round of applause and a few more greenbacks in the tip bucket. Sunny would be working late, then going back to her place. I had one more beer and packed up the equipment. When I got back to KAMALA, I fell into the v-berth and slept like a dead man.

It was near ten when the phone woke me up. I was still groggy and I didn't recognize the voice, but it was low and insistent. It was a man, but he almost seemed to be crying.

"Dr. Fleming, it is Hernando. She was la mujer de mi corazon, the woman of my heart. She no ride the white horse. She quit many months ago. I help her. She was clean. I love her. Dis time dey go too far. You must help me."

He stifled a sob and went on.

"De cops find her last night. Dey say she O.D. Dis is not true. Hernando knows. Dey kill her . . . probably because she talk to you. Her blood is on your hands. Dis is day for vengeance."

He hung up.

So Maria was dead. Was her blood on my hands? God forgive me . . . yes. I mixed a screwdriver, heavy on the vodka, and lit a Marlboro. The taste in my mouth was foul and bitter as though I had swallowed something metallic, even covered in rust. I stepped out into the cockpit. The sun was already hot and high in the sky. The breeze caressed my cheek. The beauty and the clarity mocked me. Was this a day when a young beautiful girl who clung to hope should have died? It pierced my mind and my flesh like a fiery ice pick. I leaned over the lifelines and threw up into the light swell. The sickly stink crawled up into my nostrils and festered like a disease.

I went below, rinsed out my mouth, and reached for the cell. Frank answered on the first ring.

"Hello my intrepid friend. What can I do for my favorite Ghostcatcher on this fine morning?"

"The girl . . . the waitress from Vinnie's?"

Frank's voice got quiet.

"Yeah . . . a damned shame. Pretty, smart, hard-working from all accounts . . . but another junkie. O.D."

I told him about my meeting with Maria at Malory Square the day before.

"Only maybe on the O.D., Frank. Her boyfriend, Hernando, called me this morning. He says she had quit months ago. He had helped her. They had a thing . . . they were in love."

"So he's blinded by passion, or maybe plain old lust. It happens all the time. Junkies think they quit, but the desire . . . and the withdrawal get to them. Just one more hit. That's all. But the dope is too strong, maybe some stuff that's been treated with rat poison. System can't handle it. They stop breathing. Tragic, but nothing unusual. A reformed junkie is about as rare as hen's teeth. There were no signs of foul play. The needle was right beside her bed along with a baggie of white powder. I'm having the lab check it, but it damned sure tasted like smack. I'm guessing we'll find her prints on the syringe. "

"I want to see the body."

"Shit T.K. what good is that gonna do? She's dead. That's all that matters."

"Hernando said her blood is on my hands. He might be right. He vowed vengeance. That does matter."

"Okay, Lone Ranger. Come on down to the station about two. I'll be your reluctant, but faithful, Indian companion."

Chapter Nineteen

I hate the morgue. I don't care how many times you go, it's always the same . . . cold, eerie, lifeless . . . not to mention the new attendant. He's a cross between Igor and the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Shriveled, disfigured, with a voice out of an old Bela Lugosi movie. When he smiles, it looks like he might want to eat your liver. The chills march up and down your spine.

Maria was in compartment number three. He pulled out the long stainless steel drawer. She was covered in a sheet that smelled of formaldehyde and death. Her hair had been arranged over her bare shoulders. It was still radiant and beautiful even in the pale light. Her body was perfect. The lips wore a tinge of blue, but she looked as if she might draw a breath at any minute. I stared for a moment. Then the nausea started rising in my gut. I hadn't really known her, but I liked . . . even respected her. She had reached out to me although she must have known she was placing her life in grave danger. Call it nothing, if not courage. I choked, forced back the bile, and spoke.

"Can I see her arms?"

Igor nodded haltingly, stifling a slight grin. A gnarled hand pulled back the cloth. Her forearm was dotted with needle tracks, but they were all healed. Not a trace of a scab or any suggestion of recent penetration, but there was one mark about the size of a dime right in the crevasse of her elbow and forearm. Even in a corpse barren of animation, it was purple and whispered a silent lethal message.

"Okay, Frank. She obviously hadn't been shooting in a while."

"T.K., get over it. It's like I told you. We got the needle and the smack. The junkies go back. Can't resist one more ride on the white horse. It is what it is. Accept it and move on."

His voice was firm . . . even dismissive. I sucked in a breath of the wintry, but fetid, air.

"Okay, I will," I lied.

Frank's right. It is what it is . . . but even that's not always clear. It mattered to him, too. He cared . . . he always did . . . but I think sometimes Frank has just seen too damned much. He was like an old farm hand whose hands hurt, but the calluses numbed him, and called him back to work that was brutal . . . and sometimes futile.

I went back to the boat. The day was much too lovely. I heard the lazy cries of the gulls and saw a wealth of silvery minnows dancing around the docks. The laughter bounded out of Turtle Krawls. The tourists were into their cups, wallowing in excitement and the music of pure unadulterated joy. But the pieces didn't fit. It had all become a crazy kaleidoscope, a miasma of misshapen forms and horrific sounds with no recognizable order or meaning. The world should be mourning the loss of another kindred soul, and the others that would follow . . . here in the Keys, across the Atlantic in France, Belgium and Germany, not to mention the horrors of the Middle East. The bell was tolling, but few seemed to listen, or to notice that it tolls for us all. I chided myself for being the sap I was, but it was all I knew . . . all I could fathom or feel. I tried to clear my mind and think straight, even though I wasn't sure what that meant.

I was pretty confident that Hernando was right. It was the rather neat murder of a beautiful young woman, one with a conscience and an inability to let evil overcome it. A warning for me and others . . . perhaps from the Messageros, the good surgeon, or some other depraved bastard who was making a buck, and didn't care how he did it.

Hernando obviously knew more than he had told me, but I didn't know how to contact him. And if I did, what would he tell me? What's more, if he was convinced "her blood was on my hands", what did that say about his lust for "vengeance"? Was I wearing a bullseye on my back? I thought of Francisco and his biker buddies. Their warning was clear and pointed. Maybe it wasn't even him that I had to fear the most. Maybe I feared myself. I shook my head, my teeth grinding, and a leaden thing was thudding in my chest.

Then there was Sunny. I should have left her out of it, but it was too late. We were both in way too deep. Yeah . . . the lady was tough . . . but I didn't have to remind myself, these people murdered the helpless for a living.

I pulled out the Taurus and laid it on the table. Then the derringer. One last inspection. The oil still gleaned on both small barrels. I had a tight little holster for the .38 that slid onto my belt. With that and the small .22 strapped to my wrist, maybe I at least had a chance. Now it was time to wait . . . something I was never too good at. I went to the fridge and lifted an old friend. It felt good and icy in my palm, but even the pop on the can when I opened it didn't seem too reassuring.

I called Sunny to check on her, but also to offer a warning. I knew she had the day off. No answer. Probably napping, or maybe out for a few errands. I left a message on her voice mail and told her I'd be at her apartment at five armed with the Super Supreme, extra cheese, and a bottle of Cab.

I arrived a few minutes late, but with all of the goodies in the basket on my Schwinn, I would be greeted like a king, no doubt. The Saab was in its usual spot. I called as I reached the door. It was cracked open like she always left it when she was expecting a feast. There was usually music coming from the boom box on the shelf. 80's rock' n' roll was the lady's preference, but it was strangely silent. I put the pizza and Cab on the Formica counter. Her handbag was on the kitchen table next to her cell. I called her name. Nothing. Then I checked the rooms. Nothing again.

I emptied her handbag on the kitchen table. The Ruger .22 I'd given her for protection slammed into the wood, along with the car keys, and a bunch of women's accessories . . . brush, lipstick, hand lotion, pancake blush, and a pack of Tic Tacs. I damned near jumped out of my skin when her phone rang.

I picked it up and fingered the talk button.

"Alas, Dr. Fleming. I warn you of de perils of not minding your own business. But then, some lessons be hard to learn. Is it not so, amigo? Eat your pizza, drink your wine, and go back to your boat. Perhaps dis turn all right for de lady, but who would know? Oh . . . and sleep well."

I tried to spit out a question, but the click in my ear was loud and definitive. I just hoped it wasn't final.

They had Sunny.

Chapter Twenty

I damned sure couldn't eat the pizza and I needed something much stronger than wine. I pedaled back to KAMALA and poured a double of Evan Williams over the rocks. I lit a Marlboro, inhaled the poison, and went back up to the cockpit. The Key West sunset was exploding in shades of orange and red, gently brushed with glimpses of pastel blue sky. It should have been magnificent, but my guts churned and I felt way beyond helpless.

I tried Frank, but there was no answer. That was unusual for him, but then I remembered it was one of his son's Little League nights. That was the only time Frank would allow himself the luxury of being incommunicado, even for a couple of hours. I left a message.

I snatched the phone when it rang.

"I not know where she is, but I think I know where to find out. I pick you up in front of de Raw Bar in twenty minutes. If you have friends, bring them."

I knew the friends he was talking about . . . the ones that fired lead slugs . . . the ones that could kill a man.

The Harley was truly magnificent. More than a thousand pounds of chrome, black menace, and power. He revved the engine as I approached. It sounded like a small nuclear explosion. I straddled the rear seat and grabbed the sissy bars. She was slightly chopped and slung down toward the pavement, so the ride was a bit lumpy. We took off like a jet out of the Miami airport. I had a sudden urge to purchase a large life insurance policy, but we buzzed past the yacht broker's office at about sixty. Within minutes, we were 100 yards from the Pier House. Hernando kicked down the bike stand and let the beast ease into a comfortable slant. I followed him past the main entrance and into a small alley with a service door that was propped open.

\----------------------------------

It was time to head north, back to his penthouse in Miami. He'd done his work . . . gotten his pay. He'd already checked out at the desk so he could get a not too early start in the morning. Actually he was a little tired, but it's like his mom always said, "busy hands are happy hands." And he had been busy. He eyed the brief case on the sofa. It was fat . . . packed with dirty hundreds and a few twenties, just the way he liked it. No bars tonight. Maybe a little TV and a slump on the cushy mattress. He heard the knock on the door and the voice with the Hispanic accent.

"Room service."

He hadn't ordered anything. "Wrong room. Go away."

"But senor, such a lovely bottle of champagne from your friends. It should not be wasted."

Eric went to the door irate and insistent. "I told you, wetback, I didn't order . . . "

T.K. kicked hard and the crack in the door spit open. Hernando shoved the surgeon in the chest with an iron hand. The man fell back with a thud into a white wicker easy chair. A sudden click and Hernando's switchblade was gleaming against the would-be doctor's throat.

"Okay," he stuttered, "it's a robbery. My wallet is on the bureau in the bedroom. Take it all, cash, credit cards . . . it's yours."

"Perhaps, amigo, we need something a bit more valuable."

Eric seemed confused. The blade pressed into his neck. I had drawn my Taurus and pointed it at the man's gut. I kept silent. Hernando was plenty scary all by himself. The stocky biker took a step back while I kept my barrel trained.

"This man have a lady. Your friends de Messageros take her. You have only to reveal to us where she is and your blood will remain in your body. But if you lie, I will slice you into small red chunks and feed you to the crabs in the harbor."

Eric smoothed back the hair on his head with one pink hand and held up the other like a traffic cop.

"My friend, I am afraid you are mistaken. I know no such people, or this woman you talk about. I am simply here on vacation, soon to return to Miami to continue my profession."

"Yes, senor. I know your profession. You are a butcher. You cut things up and distribute the parts that are valuable to you and others. But now you must be still."

Eric obeyed.

Hernando unbuckled his belt and slipped it from the loops of his jeans. He approached the man and placed one end under the arm of the chair. He wrapped the leather once around the butcher's forearm and twice around the wrist. He pulled it tight and locked it in place with the shiny silver buckle.

The surgeon struggled and flexed his fingers, but he could not move it. Hernando then gave me my instructions.

"Keep the pistol trained on him. If he moves shoot him in the belly."

"Now Dr. Eric. Where is the girl? The one they call Sunny."

"I told you I didn't know." Hernando eyed the silvery blade, tested it with his thumb. He grinned and nodded, then passed it in front of Eric's face.

"Mucho sharp, no, doctor? Maybe even cut thru de bone. You should know. Tell me what you think."

He placed the knife against the tops of the surgeon's first two fingers where they met his right hand.

"Maybe I try."

"If I tell you, they'll kill me," he whimpered.

"So will I, but first I must take my trophies." He grinned and made a sawing motion just above the flesh.

"You fool. These are the hands of God. What God has wrought, let no man put asunder."

Hernando laughed, "You give me bastard quote of de scripture, but I know your god. It is green and leafy, and it buy you all dat you desire. Perhaps you have a secret . . . maybe even know a way to take it with you."

With his left hand, he forced the blade down onto the fingers and made a quick slice. There was cracking sound. The two digits hit the floor at almost the same time. Eric howled . . . and bled.

Hernando's voice took on a sing-song quality, like a demented child taunting a wounded animal. Eric's eyes darted between the fingers and the knife. His howling had become more guttural. Soon he would beg.

"Dis is your last chance, medico. Tell us where she is and we will leave here before you bleed out. You are de great surgeon. Maybe a man of your skill can even sew dem back. If you don't . . . de next slice will be at your throat. You will choke to death on your own life's gore."

Eric froze, then stared again at the meat and bone soaking the carpet with thick blood.

"There is a place. Francisco uses it to keep things of value, things that no one else should see."

Hernando hesitated for only seconds, then nodded and retrieved his belt. He wiped it on the surgeon's shirt. He gave me a wild wave and headed for the door. I kept the .38 trained on the doctor as I eased it closed. The last thing I saw was him scrambling for the oozing red clumps of flesh.

Hernando's thick legs bounded to the Harley. The sun was gone and the chill of darkness swallowed us. He fired up the monster and I vaulted onto the back.
Chapter Twenty-One

Frank reluctantly turned on his cell. His son had a made a nifty play at second base, leaping for the line-drive, stealing what would have been a crucial single from the other team's top slugger. Then in the bottom of the seventh inning, his boy scored the winning run from third on a sacrifice fly. His wife was beaming with pride and Frank joined her as the opposing teams lined up for the final handshake. The detective . . . the former basketball star at FSU . . . was always into sportsmanship. It was a good lesson for the kids, and he'd always tried to instill the concept of respect and fair play in his own.

There were two messages on his voice mail. One from T.K. and another from a number that he didn't recognize. Sunny missing? Shit. He hit speed dial, but no one answered T.K.'s phone. That was a bad thing.

He didn't know the voice on the next one, but he noted the Hispanic accent.

"The blond one. Danger. An abandoned fisherman's shack north of Stock Island. Be quick."

He looked at his wife and shook his head. She whispered something. He thought it was "Be safe". Another long night. He just hoped not one that ended in tragedy. He rushed to the unmarked, checked his Glock, and headed out of the parking lot. He knew the place. It had been under surveillance once before. He debated a call for backup, then decided to wait until he'd had a chance to scope the scene. Later he wished he had been a little smarter.

\-----------------------------

Hernando tore through the streets on the Harley. He ran a couple of red lights. I held on with a death grip and tried to get as many deep breaths as possible. The bike bounced onto A1A and headed north. The speedometer rarely got below sixty and the engine shrieked and roared in alternating voices. The traffic was thinning out, and even in the glow of the full moon, the road got black and lonely. Suddenly Hernando laid back on the throttle and they eased to a stop. He walked the Harley as far to the side of the asphalt as possible, nestled it behind a mango, and kicked the stand into place. I had no idea where we were, but I thought he knew why. In the distance I caught the slight glow . . . a single naked bulb barely visible through the mass of palms and underbrush.

Hernando pulled a Sig Sauer .38 from under his leather vest. He wracked the slide and put the forefinger of his left hand to his lips to signal silence. Then he pointed to my hip. I sucked a breath, and palmed the Taurus. I followed as Hernando waded quietly through the brush.

\----------------------------

It was maybe ten minutes before we got close enough to really see anything. I got as close as I could to the window. The yellow light poured out it, illuminating the inside. My face froze at what I saw.

Sunny lay spread-eagled on a scarred single bed, her wrists bound to the posts. Her legs were apart, the ankles tied at the base. Her feet were bare and dirty in the bottoms. They had used a piece of old dock line and it chafed her wrists, but there was no trace of blood, at least not yet. She looked scared, but calm. I guessed they'd only roughed her up a bit. She didn't seem to be hurt . . . maybe they hadn't pawed her, but they would sooner, if not later. One of them sat on the edge, a knife brushing against her cheek. Francisco quickly flashed a fiery warning at the man. I could just make out the words.

"Not to frighten our honored guest. We must make her visit most exciting and filled with pleasure."

I retreated back to the clump of hibiscus at the edge of the small clearing.

\---------------------------

The hair rose on her arms and the back of her neck. She shuddered and tried not to imagine what kind of pleasure he meant. Francisco had two of the uglier Messageros with him. Pedro and Anal resembled short sweating blocks of brown granite, grinning through their drooping moustaches, passing a joint, and spitting out floods of Spanish. She couldn't make out most of it, but the tone was angry and aggressive. It reeked of violence. In the corner of the shack was what looked like an AR-15 standing at attention like a sulking soldier anxious for orders.

Hernando and I waited. Any subsequent approach meant putting ourselves in plain view of the short porch that fronted the ramshackle structure. As silently as possible, Hernando placed a scarred boot past the edge of the bushes. The sandy soil made a crunching sound as he planted his foot. I crouched close behind him.

He took one more step. Then the clattering burst. I could see the outline of the barrel barely poking from the crack in the door. But it was done. Hernando lay on his back, his right arm extended, and the Sig inches away, the barrel buried in the soft sand. His face had already gone pale, but his hand seemed to beckon, the palm pleading for a final blessing. His belly was opened up like a slaughtered pig. He had taken several rounds, but one was through the neck and one that had taken the side of his head off. The soft sand soaked up the thick blood as quickly as it came. He was as still as a corpse, and that's exactly what he was. The man was dead. Then the silence. Now a voice.

"Dr. Fleming. You come out now. Leave your pistol on de ground. Your woman in here. She is safe. I think she wish to speak with you."

I had no choice. I did as he commanded. I was certain I was walking to my execution, but I did have something up my sleeve. I only hoped I'd get a chance to use it . . . and that it might save Sunny.

The boards on the weathered porch creaked my arrival. In the dim light, my eyes immediately went to her. She looked better than I expected, a swollen lip and a couple of bruises on her cheek, but nothing more that I could detect. She managed a thin smile and sucked at her bleeding mouth. I didn't expect much time to assess the situation. I saw a web of plastic ties on the table. Soon at least a few of them would be around my wrists. I only had two rounds in the derringer. There were three of them and I could see the hand guns bulging at each of their belts.

"Okay, you've got me. Let the woman go."

"Yes, Dr. Fleming. We do have you. But let me not be rude. Actually Francisco would let you both go, but I fear your blasphemous tongues. A promise of silence would be false . . . merely the way to buy the time to sic your detective friend on the Messageros. Then we must kill him also. Bad for business, this killing a federale. Our skilled surgeon already make this mistake. I know he has paid a dear price. Two times, I hear. You know . . . news travel fast in the Keys. Unfortunate, but no problem, he was getting mucho expensive. As for de traitor, Hernando, he get what he deserve along with his junkie slut . . . although she did have her uses, eh muchachos?"

He grabbed his crotch and laughed. Pedro and Anal nodded appreciatively.

"Okay, so kill us. At least have the decency to make it quick. Then you can get on with your business of butchering the defenseless, and savaging your own people with drugs and cheap illegal sex."

"Oh, Doctor, you are most entertaining. Cherish your foolish sense of morality. Tell yourself dis thing you value truly exists . . . tell us man is noble . . . created in the image of de loving God. Hold it to your heart. Then take it to your grave. You give Fernando a good chuckle."

He looked at his two blocks of granite and raised his eyebrows. One of them passed the joint to the other and burst into a booming growl. They shook together like whimsical, but malevolent, thunder.

"Tell me dis, amigo. If not us, then who? When I am dead . . . another will take my place within days. It does not stop. De hunger for our goods goes on . . . it is just a question of who satisfy it. Why not the Messageros? Business is strong. We create jobs, stimulate the economy. Just like all of your honorable politicians. So what is wrong with dis?"

I choked back the rage and tried one more time.

"She knows nothing. Let her go. When I am gone she will leave the Keys. You will be free to conduct your 'business' without interference."

"You know, Doctor, you are so sincere. Francisco is thinking about granting your request. Pedro, release her hands and feet. Let Dr. Fleming see her as a free woman. It may be de last thing he ever sees."

The man looked twice at his capitan and shook his head. Francisco gritted his teeth in a snarl and pointed. Then Pedro lumbered beside Sunny and cut her bonds. He clutched the knife in his hand and stepped around in front of her. He knelt and clipped the rope around each of her ankles. Then he glanced to collect the approval of his warlord. She sat up on the edge of the bed. That's when Sunny struck.

She buried her right fist in his balls, withdrew it in a flash, and hammered again while the dark man gasped for breath and crumbled to the floor. She grabbed the knife and turned toward Francisco. Meanwhile, Anal had snatched the AR-15. He fired a burst into the back wall of the shack. The wood splintered and Sunny froze.

Francisco's face was a mask. He might as well have been watching an old Vin Diesel movie. His voice was controlled and demonstratively unconcerned.

"Ah, the lady is quick . . . or perhaps Pedro is too slow. I must council him on the necessity of ignoring orders when dey make little sense. But all is well. It is time for us to walk out into the night. There is the moon . . . , and a nice little swamp. The gators be very hungry by now."

Anal waved the barrel of the AR to remind us. It wasn't necessary. We exited the door and I saw the body of Hernando barely leaking the last of his life's blood, and the Sig that lay near his dead hand. It was too far. I would never make more than a few steps and Anal would open me up like ripe fruit. Sunny would be next. Francisco followed us out. Pedro was still writhing, whining, probably wondering if his dick would ever work again.

We were down the steps and onto the sand when I heard a popping sound in the distance. At first I thought it might be small rounds from an automatic, but then I saw the moon reflecting the cloud of dust that was growing.

A crotch rocket with two passengers slid to a stop. Carlos . . . and Vee on the seat behind him.

"Ah," Francisco cooed, "it is my esteemed brother, another man of God, riding up on his white steed to save the day. Welcome, compadre. You are just in time to see de feeding."

Anal clutched the AR, finger on the trigger. He waved it in a menacing arc, a hellish smile on his lips. Carlos approached slowly while Vee stood motionless next to the bike.

"Francisco. You must not do dis thing. There is still time. Take your riders and head north. I will give you two days to exit the Keys. Take your money. Get lost in Florida and set your operation in motion in a place where no one knows who, and what, you are. I grant you dis as my brother."

"You are de king of fools, Carlos. You can grant nothing."

"Francisco, my despised blood, you bear the mark of Cain . . . a dealer in death . . . to your people and to our sister. You stink of evil."

"Ah, my foolish brother. I grieve for Carmen. It was not as I intended, but she is gone, and part of her lives on in others. It was written. We must accept it and go on."

Carlos was now close. Francisco held his hand up, looked at Anal, and shook his head. Anal understood, but he continued to wave the deadly weapon, focusing for a moment on us, then back to Carlos. Carlos stepped forward and pushed his brother violently in the chest. The man stumbled for a moment, then grabbed his twin and spun him around. Anal watched and waited. It was my chance.

"Sunny. To the ground," I shouted.

Then I flexed my right forearm. The derringer slid into my hand. I dove and fired. The .22 hollow point snapped into Anal's kneecap. It seemed to explode and the man screamed like a wounded panther. He hit the sand and grasped the bloody pulp. Sunny scrambled for the Sig.

I bounded up and pointed the small pistol at the two before me.

"Kill him. He is my brother, but he is de devil. He must die." the man commanded.

"Wait. I am Carlos. He lies. I show you."

I stared at the two of them side by side. Neither wore the black leather vest. No inscriptions to identify them. Which one? I didn't know. It was a mirror in a funhouse. I searched for the distortion . . . a sign. There was none.

They approached me almost in lock-step, hands in supplication, exhorting a stay of execution, a final chance to breathe, to continue their work. Either the soaring of the spirit, or the defiling of all that is human. Two sides of the same coin, one the incarnation of evil, the other a savior. Sunny hadn't yet reached the Sig, and Vee stood by the bike, as if waiting for the final chapter of a long, and sad, story.

They continued to stalk me. I had one round left. What would I do with it? Suddenly a vision of Solomon appeared before me. He had told the women he would cut the child in half and give each of them a portion. I gasped for breath. I thought I knew. I pointed the derringer and fired. The hole in the forehead was neat, but I could already see the blood spatter into the sand. I had done it, but what was it I had done? I looked to my left.

The woman held the Sig, but it was the wrong woman. Vee trained the .40 on me.

"Idiot. You have killed the wrong man. It is the one who understands the way. The world is filthy, corrupt. It knows no god. The only thing is you. The strong live. They prosper. The weak suffer . . . the ones who are stupid, the ones who hold things that do not matter. It is destiny. It cannot be denied. So one must choose. I choose the winner."

Carlos knelt over his brother. He rose, tears trailing down his cheeks. He took a step toward her, but she held the Sig tightly, gritted her teeth and emitted a low growl. It said no.

Pedro had stepped onto the porch. He heaved through halting breaths and brandished a Glock. Vee looked at him.

"Now, big man, you follow me. We must finish what Francisco has started."

He nodded and pitched down the stairs.

So this was the time, and this was the place. Sunny and I would die, and maybe Carlos. Perhaps no one would know the difference. In a sick sort of way, it was fitting. Maybe Vee was right . . . survival of the fittest, Darwin's evolution gone mad.

Sunny dusted herself off. Her face was a portrait in stone, her eyes ablaze with something rooted in hell. She took a tentative step toward Vee. The dark haired vixen had beat Sunny to the Sig. She trained it on her blond nemesis. Suddenly Sunny charged. Vee aimed the pistol and pulled the trigger. There was an ominous click, but no report. She fired again. Nothing.

Sunny hit her in full stride, arms around the legs. Vee fell backwards onto the sand and grabbed for a handful of blond hair. Sunny's fist caught her in the nose. A flood of thick red blood immediately poured from Vee's swollen nostrils. The two rolled and tumbled over the bare ground. Pedro rushed to the fight, watching with poorly concealed glee . . . waiting and pointing the Glock, eager for a clear shot. But none came. I eyed the Taurus. It was still on the ground where I had dropped it. Pedro was focused like he was watching Ali and Frazier. I crawled a few feet to his left. The grip of the .38 felt warm and secure in my hand.

"Freeze, and lose the Glock," I screamed.

Pedro turned quickly and I caught him in the right shoulder. His arm fell limp at his side and the Glock with it, while the blood painted his t-shirt in brilliant red blotches.

Sunny and Vee were still at it, tearing at each other like two wounded lionesses. Blood, spit, tangles of hair and torn clothes littered the battleground like the detritus from a brutal war. That's when I heard the sirens.
Chapter Twenty-Two

Frank's cruiser skidded on the loose sand. Behind him was a squad car with two blue uniforms. They exited in one smooth motion, crouching behind the open doors, service weapons drawn. Their voices were loud and commanding.

"Police. No one move. Hands over your heads."

The savages stopped. Sunny rose first. Her lip was split again and she was still barefoot. Vee was next. Her eye was swelled and the blood still ran from her nose in clumps. The front of her blouse had been ripped open. Her chest was riddled with scratches. She snatched the thin fabric together and pulled her vest around her torso. The knees of her leather pants were brown with dust. It was obvious she had gotten the worst of it.

Frank pointed. He covered the suspects with his 9mm while the uniforms handled the cuffs. Carlos stood silently, a look of helplessness, and a sense of betrayal dominating his dark features. Vee stared at him for a moment, and sucked at her bloody lips. Then she whispered what looked like, "I'm sorry," and the patrolman pushed her head down to enter the caged back seat of the blue and white.

Frank had a first aid kit in his car. He called for forensics while I patched up Sunny as best I could. We rode back to the station in his cruiser.

There were the usual questions. We told them everything we knew, but it wasn't enough. Pedro's Glock, and the AR 15 had been reported as stolen. The police held him and Vee on assault charges, but our stories were deemed hearsay. There wasn't enough hard evidence, other than the fact that they were both undocumented.

We went back to Sunny's apartment and both of us squeezed into a tub of steaming water. She even added a little bubble bath. Not too manly, I admit, but the gentle sound of the bubbles popping and the caress of the heat was quiet and soothing. Afterwards, we slept.

I was still out when the cell rang the next morning. I started to let it squawk, but the sound finally cut through the fog. I picked it up.

"I told you, fool. You have killed the wrong man. Francisco lives. Carlos has gone to his last reward . . . whatever that may be. You are the demon . . . the executioner . . . the agent of the devil. I would advise you to be very careful. In my country, a man does not take the death of his brother lightly."

She signed off before I had a chance to speak, but I'm not sure what I would've said, anyway.

I shook my head violently. It had to be bullshit. The man I shot needed to die. That didn't make it okay, but I had no options. My lady and I were next. It was him or us . . . better him. But what if Vee told the truth? What if I had shot Carlos, not Francisco, through the forehead? What if it was his blood that leaked into the dirty sand?

I began to shake. Then my eyes moistened. I put my hand to my cheek. I was crying.

Sunny stirred. Her eyes widened and she placed her hand on my forearm.

"What's wrong? Who was it on the phone?"

I spit it out between sobs that could have come from an overgrown child.

"Call Frank," she said . . . "Now."

I sat up and blew my nose. I reminded myself that big boys don't cry. Yeah . . . fat chance. I pulled up Frank's number and hit the call button.

"Hello hero. Gonna take on the Mafia for breakfast?"

"Fuck you, Frank. Just listen."

He caught the tone of my voice and shut up. I told him about the call.

"Ease up, T.K. You got the right guy. You saved your own ass and Sunny's, too. We tried to hold Vee, but we had to let her go on a tecnicality. At least the real bad guys are behind bars. They can't get to you. When we run the DNA, it will confirm everything and this shit will disappear like a bad dream."

God, I hoped he was right.

Chapter Twenty-Three

He wasn't.

There wasn't any DNA record for Carlos or Francisco. Both were illegals and any positive identification was damned near impossible. As they faced long jail sentences, the gang members were willing to say anything that might help them. After all, the twins were identical . . . size, shape, facial appearance. The funhouse mirror hadn't been shattered. It had only become more twisted, distorted, confused, and uncertain. Frank still insisted it was over, and that I had done a job that needed doing. He knew me, and I think, in a way, he understood what I was going through. Neither of us took killing lightly, and though we mostly kept our demons at bay, they were still there and quite active in the dark fever of the night.

At first, there were just a couple of things. Another flat on my bike, a shot of black spray paint on the door of the Saab, and a feeling slithering up my spine, telling me I was being followed. I tried to write them off . . . convince myself it was paranoia. I was wrong. I suddenly realized these were signs . . . warnings intended to frighten . . . no . . . terrify me. It was working. I was smart enough to know I needed to be ready to defend myself, but against who? Who had I killed? Carlos? Francisco? Would I ever be able to pull that trigger again . . . even to protect Sunny, the woman I treasured and loved?

I knew it was a bad idea . . . that I was turning a corner down a dark alley, but I was drinking more . . . no, make that way too much . . . and smoking enough Marlboros to choke a horse. I didn't even want to look in the mirror to shave. The creature that stared back at me was gray . . . no animation, no apparent signs of life . . . much less joy. Sometimes I imagined I saw the face of a dark man with a Pancho Villa mustache over my shoulder . . . a specter . . . wavering, fading in and out. There was a neat hole in his forehead and his eyes were blank. The same grisly image haunted my sleep. It came in fits and starts like a rusting pick-up on a pock-marked dirt road . . . rattling, jostling, pounding at my back and kidneys, until I thought my mind and body would explode.

Even Sunny began to squint at me from the corners of her eyes. Eyes that told me maybe I was already a dead man. I guess that hurt more than anything, but it didn't stop me. I just dove deeper into the booze. The last several nights on KAMALA I spent sucking on a bottle and a cigarette. I could smell it on myself. It repelled and disgusted me deep into my gut. My mind was like the open maw of some giant beast . . . a cesspool, swirling, black, and stinking.

Then I started to wonder. Maybe this was the time for a solution, one that was final . . . even comforting. It was scary and fascinating at the same time. I wanted the screaming inside me to stop . . . quiet . . . that thing I longed for. I had the Taurus. I had the ammunition. Sunny would probably miss me, but no one else. I could cash it all in and destroy that hellish Ghostcatcher shit with it. I even coldly formulated a plan that would keep down most of the gore. Stand on the transom of the boat. Place the .38 in my mouth and fire it so that my body fell backwards into the water. Neat, simple, and effective . . . certainly befitting of a man who once prided himself on his intellect and his ability to adjust . . . now one who was slipping into madness.u

I wanted to embrace it, but there was still plenty of coward left in me.

I hadn't seen Sunny in a couple of days, and I couldn't be sure she wasn't dodging my phone calls. I guess now I knew. It was the time.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The sun had gone down and there was the sliver of a moon. The music from Turtle Krawls and the Raw Bar joined to create a cacophony that had no form or reason. It drifted in and out on the breeze like some tune from hell. I heard the roar of a Harley from the parking lot, a gruesome reminder of why I was here.

I sat in the cockpit, a half-empty bottle of bourbon at my side and the Taurus in my lap. I picked it up and checked the cylinder. Five brass slugs neatly at attention, waiting patiently for a direction . . . an action that would determine what now seemed like my fate. I rose slowly and eyed the transom of my beloved KAMALA. I had stood there many times before . . . admiring a sun rise, trying to spot a friendly vessel, or a landmark that would lead me to a safe harbor. Now this would be that harbor, and I would be embraced by the sea . . . the place where all creatures evolved. Somehow it seemed fitting . . . a return to the gods of the sea . . . a comforting version of the Bible's "ashes to ashes and dust to dust". I took one last swig from the bottle and tightened my hand around the Taurus, my finger on the trigger.

Now there was a voice.

"Ah, Doctor Fleming, T.K. I see I have arrive at convenient time. If you have problem, I can help. Even in de low light, I see you wonder. Who is it that speaks? Which man did you kill? I will not let you go to your grave without revealing the secret. You did kill my brother, Francisco. It was what some might say, de right man."

"Leave me, Carlos. It is over. I will kill no more men. I'm going. Let me go in what peace I might still be able to grasp."

"Oh, senor, I will. Carlos simply want to make sure de job is done right. One more thing you should know. De Ruedas . . . it was what you call a farce. Francisco was my brother, but he was also my partner. You are a man of intellect . . . de Ghostcatcher . . . but you are a fool. My brother and I create de two gangs to keep your friend Beamon busy and happy . . . and perhaps a bit confused. It help our business be mucho successful. De money . . . de drugs . . . de women. Oh . . . you can no imagine."

"You bastard."

"Yes, perhaps . . . but now it is time to complete your task. I give you ten seconds . . . den I complete it for you."

He leveled a large pistol at me. It looked like a small cannon in the light glow of the moon.

There wasn't much time, but I didn't need it. I didn't even want it. I stepped up on the transom and placed the barrel of the Taurus in my mouth. So this was it. My finger pressed on the trigger.

I barely heard the muted reports. A silencer I guessed. There were two. Both thudded heavily into what had to be flesh.

Carlos had taken them in the back. I turned to catch the shock in his eyes. He staggered, then he slammed face-forward onto the dock. The sound was deadened by the wood. A violent twitch shot through his body. Then the stillness and the eerie silence . . . the silence of the dead.

I heard what seemed like a loud whisper, "Good night, amigo." It was a woman, but that's all I knew. I listened to the padding of bare feet retreating on the boards.

The Taurus slid from my hand. It clattered onto the fiberglass deck and lodged in a corner over one of the cockpit drains. I waited . . . expecting . . . half-hoping . . . to be next. There was nothing but hammering the return of the devil's symphony from the competing bands.

Frank got there in a hurry. He knew I was smashed, but it was immediately obvious that the Taurus hadn't been fired. He also knew there wasn't really much I could contribute in my drunken state.

I guess I was ashamed. That was a feeling that had been notably absent the past few weeks. I didn't know whether to welcome it, or try to force it back into the darkness. I stumbled back onto the boat and grabbed the bottle. I stared at the black label for a moment, then lifted it to my lips. I stopped, took a deep breath of the sweet bourbon, then went below.

I turned the bottle up and emptied it into the sink. I listened to the lonely gurgle as it rushed down the drain. Then I crumpled the last of the pack of Marlboros and dropped them into the garbage.

The next morning, I was rousted early. I had an all-expenses paid ride to the station with two grim patrolmen. Then a charming interview with Frank and a couple of unidentified fellows who seemed quite humorless. None of them expressed any surprise when I told them Carlos's story of the brothers' partnership. I did leave out the part where he called Frank and I fools. It just didn't seem to add to the narrative, and this time better to neglect the obvious. They told me not to leave town and to remain available for further questioning. Fortunately, that part didn't happen. I guess they decided I was bled out.

A couple of days later Frank called.

"Okay, my dauntless Ghostcatcher. You ready to hear what you don't want to hear?" he asked.

I grunted, sighed, and held the phone a few inches from my ear.

"Vee's being deported. Not sure about our buddy, Pedro, yet. Got a little more on him. Gonna let him sweat some and see if he decides to be a bit more cooperative . . . oh, and you're free to make travel plans."

He was right. I didn't want to hear it, but maybe it was my time to get out of town.

I had talked to Sunny only briefly. She was glad I was okay, but our conversation was stilted and she obviously didn't want it to go any further. She was back at work, not much worse for the wear, and expected to be "very busy" for the next few weeks. Translation: Don't call me and I probably won't call you. It hurt.

I went to work on KAMALA. She deserved it. Teak, a nice coat of wax, and a thorough cleaning down below. She'd been sadly neglected during the melee and I needed lots of sunshine and a few cold beers while I licked my wounds. The engine and electronics systems were all on "go". Sails, safety equipment . . . provisions. I double checked it all.

I planned to head out for Bimini the end of the week. Then over to Spanish Wells, down to Eleuthera, maybe Fresh Creek on Andros, and on to the Exumas. A healing . . . or maybe just a sad attempt to staunch the wounds . . . stop the bleeding in my soul . . . at least that's what I hoped for. And then what . . . I didn't know.

I missed Sunny. There was a hole in me that I knew I'd never be able to fill. It was dark and it seeped something vile and poisonous, but I couldn't ask her to patch me up . . . not again.

I didn't tell anyone but Frank. I called him, but I wasn't even sure he needed to know.

He was quiet for a few moments. Then he gave me the final report.

"We still don't know exactly what had happened to Carlos's sister. Only that she's gone. The Ruedas de Dios and the Messgeros all made bail. I tried with the judge for revocation, but we just didn't have enough to hold them. There are rumors about the coyotes and the sale of the organs, but as far as I can confirm, that's all they are. One more curious thing . . . the old shack burned to the ground on a moonless night a couple of days ago. There was evidence of arson, but it was scant and nobody seemed to care much. So much for the opinion and influence of the Key West Chief of Detectives. Zilch."

I didn't go back to Vinnie's . . . too much blood and too many ghosts. I wanted them gone. I wanted to leave the Ghostcatcher in Key West to commune with the spirits of the dead. Mostly, I wanted to be just another boat bum on some foreign shore laughing and drinking with the rest of the miscreants . . . just like at Buffett's Roundtable.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I guess I was getting my wish.

I had gone over my list, told the dock master at Land's End to rent my slip. I wouldn't be back. It was early, a sunrise that promised to bathe and bake me . . . maybe even salve the aching, and engulf the abyss that was leaden in my chest before it swallowed me.

The diesel roared to life. I let her warm up and took one last look at the place that had been my escape, my home, and my salvation for the past few years. I would miss it dearly, but it was time. I cast off the bow lines. KAMALA was impatient, ready. We were alone, but we would make it.

I pulled the stern lines on board and put her in forward. She began to move gently, but insistently. Then I heard something behind me.

"T.K. Hold it. I'm going."

Sunny was running down the dock, her blond waves shimmering in the light breeze. She had a royal blue knapsack tucked up under her arm.

"Where?" I said.

"With you. She threw the blue bag at me and bounded onto the port rail, grabbing the shrouds for support. Then she settled into the cockpit. The corners of her mouth turned up and became a smile . . . one that shamed the yellow sun as it rose into an azure sky.

"You sure?" I asked, "It might be a while."

"I damned sure hope so."

She leaned back into the coaming and took a deep breath. It sounded like the breath of God.

Prologue

That night I had a dream.

We were all there, cold beer and laughter rife at the Roundtable. A few jokes, but mostly wry comments about our vulnerability, amply filled with stories of screwed-up boat repairs and miscellaneous other oversights. Louis had spilled Bloody Marys all over a couple of high rollers at the Raw Bar. The dry cleaning only left a fashionable pink on their clothes. Whipsaw had dropped his harmonica in a nasty toilet at Schooner's. One of our newer attendees had filled his fuel tank with water, and I had spilled Sekken's teak stain all over my deck. Each tale brought a howl of laughter and the imminently predictable shake of several shaggy heads. We looked to Captain Sal, waiting for another tale of "the one that got away". There was a pause. Then the blond giant shuddered and forced some words in a grave tone that was very much unlike her usual raucous dialogue.

"Did you see? It was on the VHF this afternoon. A bunch of bodies of immigrants washed up on the beach just north of Miami. Another so-called life-boat that didn't deliver life."

Again, silent heads shook. Scarred hands clutched the cold cans in resignation, or just stacked the frustration. Some put the cold cans quickly to their lips, hoping to wash away the acid reality.

Then the thing was there again. Suddenly my consciousness sunk into that night I had seen the hellish hosts of death . . . the lifeless flesh floating . . . the agony highlighted in the wicked flash of the storm. I saw the leering face of Francisco . . . the rest of the Messageros begging to see me sacrificed on their throne of evil. But he was dead and Carlos with him.

Then I thought I heard the fierce growl of a Harley accelerating to warp speed in front of the Parrot . . . probably some doctor or accountant on mechanical steroids . . . but maybe Francisco was right. Maybe it was his replacement . . . a man uglier and more violent than his predecessor . . . one whose god was leafy and green.

Sunny knew. She put her hand on my thigh and squeezed lightly. I spit out a sigh. I knew she would hold me later . . . try to banish the demons. I also knew she could . . . at least for a while.

A line from a childhood rhyme my mother had taught me many, many years ago crept into my mind. ". . . if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."

Perhaps I would return to Key West someday, but maybe not. Maybe there was never any escape.

So be it.
