

Death of the Innocent

by

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2013

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.

Chapter 1

You'll see us if you come far enough south. Anemic bankrolls, but fat appetites for a good sea story and a touch of juicy gossip. Oh . . . you'll hear us, too, at Land's End Marina in Key West. We'll be the ones laughing.

We jokingly refer to ourselves as Buffett's Roundtable. No membership lists, no officers. We meet on no particular schedule. No cell phones or voice mail. You don't get a formal invitation and there are no place cards. Someone waves at you across the dock, points landward and hollers "four o'clock."

One of the dock rats had convened a convocation. I was ready. I'd been in the dinghy most of the day waxing KAMALA's hull. I was sure I'd lost ten pounds of pure sweat. I smelled like a musk ox with a hangover. But I could cure that one with a bar of soap and a hose on the dock.

I was sitting at the scarred wooden table at the Green Parrot fondling a cold can of Ice House. It was a little early. A dozen tourists and a few locals. The roundtable hadn't assembled yet. Sunny was next to me, her arm curled around my waist. We'd decided to meet for a cold one before she went on duty behind the bar.

Sunny was maybe 5'6, long brown legs, hair like lush corn silk, and blue eyes that honestly glowed in the dark. Small waist, but ample breasts that predated implants completed the package. She was a drunken sailor's dream. Her full name was Samantha Marie Elgar, but Sunny worked for me and everyone else. Not many people knew it, but she had a master's degree in psychology from UVA, another drop-out that dropped into The Conch Republic for reasons she didn't like to talk about. She collected more tips than any bartender on the island. I guess it was the smile and the thinly veiled compassion. She just cared.

Sunny says my features are getting craggy. I'm not sure what she means by that, but I'm still a solid 6' 2", maybe 195. Wavy brown hair, probably a little too long and a bit of gray, but at least I've got it. Plenty of sun and exercise keeps me from looking 56 and I don't tell it unless someone asks. But I confess I don't understand what she wants with a retired professor of literature turned boat bum, but it's more than okay. I'm a drop-out, too, but for reasons I don't like to discuss. They won't go away, but like the man said, "that's another story."

I was watching Island Jake intently. He was perched on a yellow pine stool on the makeshift stage, fingers caressing the strings on his old Martin. A sweet, mournful version of John Prine's "Hello in There" wafted down the street. Kind of sad, but he knows I love it. Always does it when I come in.

I saw Captain Sal lumbering toward us. She grabbed a chair and flipped it around. Then she dropped all two hundred pounds of herself on the hard seat. She propped her red, meaty hands on the back of it. Her hair hung below the grimy fisherman's cap like a yellow string mop. She tugged at the long bill and hid her eyes. Then she spit out the words.

"The kid's dead."
Chapter 2

The muscles in her jaw looked like a stone relief on a medieval cathedral. She stared at Sunny's half empty mug of Harp. I'd known Sal for about a year, ever since I'd docked my O'Day 31 at Land's End. She was one of the best charter captains in the Keys. Tough, smart. Always came back smiling with a boatload of the big ones. I never really thought of Sal as a woman. She was more of an androgynous force of nature. It never occurred to me that she could cry, but that had changed. Sunny's arm dropped from my waist.

"What are you talking about, Sal? What kid?" Sunny asked

Sally looked at us with disgust and shook her head.

"You know . . . the kid. Billy's kid. She's dead."

"The kid" was what we always called Alexis. She was the 11 year old daughter of Billy and Monique. Ebony hair flowing like a black river over her shoulders and eyes to match. Her face was like burnished ivory punctuated by a graceful mouth tinged with raspberry. There was always music in her voice and more than a bit of mischief in her smile.

Billy was the first mate on Sal's 37 foot Bertram, THE TOUGH BROAD. I didn't know him that well, but I knew that Sal trusted and depended on him. I'd seen his dark frame bouncing over the deck of the BROAD plenty of times. He was quick and sure handed with a rod or a dock line. The paying customers loved his easy smile, not to mention the way he handled a rig when the big ones were running. Sal had often bragged that she had the best first mate in Florida.

While the rest of us hung around the docks in the afternoon or walked over to Schooner's, Billy left to help Monique at the small t-shirt shop she managed over on Duval St.

I did know Alexis. Everyone on the dock did. She called me "Uncle K." She'd graced the decks of KAMALA at least three or four times a week for the past year. She loved to thumb through the books of poetry I kept on board. Sometimes she'd ask me to read to her. Edgar Allen Poe's "Annabel Lee" was her favorite. I'd get all somber and put on my phony British accent. Her black eyes would spark like two lumps of anthracite coal. She'd give her head a sultry shake just to remind me that the boys would be panting and drooling over her in a couple of years. Then she'd brush the ebony bangs off of her forehead, hug my neck, and move off down the dock to exact tribute from the next willing sucker. She was the best 11 year old audience I ever had.

Sunny had pulled her chair over next to Sal. She put her arm around the huge woman's shoulders and patted her. Sal's mounds of flesh quivered like a child trapped in a snowdrift. Sunny whispered something to her and she began to calm a bit. Sunny can do that.

"What happened, Sal?"

She looked across the table with eyes that could usually stare down a pit viper, now full of tears.

"It's so damned freaky. Billy called me last night. The kid didn't come home. They looked for her everywhere. Found her this morning in an empty house over on Thomas Street in the Bahama Village. I got there not too long after the police. I stood there with Billy. They were trying to keep everyone away from the scene, but I got a damned good look. I wish I hadn't. There was blood everywhere. At first I though it was all hers. She was just laying there, a sheet pulled up to her chest. Her face had some kind of powder all over it, like a damned zombie or something. There was a chicken beside her and a bowl full of red shit. The chicken's head was gone like somebody had cut it off. I thought maybe that's where the blood was from. Anyway the kid was dead. Couldn't tell how at first, but there was a gash. I didn't want to see, but somebody had sliced her throat. Our baby. Monique's gone to her parents' place. I haven't seen Billy since."

Sunny walked over to the bar and spoke quietly to Jack, the owner of the Green Parrot. I heard him say "Sure, Sunny, no problem." Then he tried to smile. Sunny came back to the table and covered Sal's leathery hand with her own.

"Come with me, Honey. We'll go to my place, maybe do some talking, maybe just shut up. I got a bottle of tequila. We'll kill it and have ourselves a good cry."

She nodded at me and they were gone.
Chapter 3

I was nauseous. I knew the word would get around quickly and I didn't want to be the one to share it with the other members of the roundtable. I left a five on the table, waved at Jack, and left. I really didn't want to be alone. I couldn't go back to KAMALA immediately. I was afraid that the ghost of that beautiful child might be waiting on the dock for another reading of "Annabel Lee." I knew Sunny and Sal would be way past gone by now. Maybe it was a good time to see Fritz.

I met him at Lake Norman in North Carolina years ago, but we'd become close when I ran into him at Salty Mike's, a little dockside bar in Charleston's municipal marina. That was in his drinking days. He was inhaling cold Bud nonstop and trying to sweet talk the bar maid into a midnight boat tour. Sometimes it worked. Neither of us had any destination except south. We traveled together for weeks, me on KAMALA and him on his ancient Grampian 30, NO DECISIONS. In those days I never saw him without some form of alcohol in his hand. He usually started the morning with beer, moved on to Scotch when the sun got low and killed off the darkness with jugs of cheap wine. He would lock himself onto the mast below with his plastic cup and a Marlboro until he tumbled into the v-berth in a boozy coma. Now he spent every evening at one of the AA meetings that populated the town. He seemed to live on Marlboros and diet Coke.

Fritz wasn't tall, maybe 5'7, but he looked more like a bear than a man. Full salt and pepper beard, huge freckled biceps and hands like knots of gnarled cypress. He was ex-Navy, a retired computer expert who still did some consulting now that he was sober enough to hit the right keys.

I knocked on the hull and a hedge of dark hair flecked with gray appeared from below.

"Come on aboard, Cap. I got fresh coffee," he growled.

I stepped down into a blue haze and the smell of stale ashtrays strafed my nostrils. I tried to find a spot to sit. There were wires and keypads and monitors in every flat surface. I used to kid him about it, thinking maybe he'd throw out some of that old equipment. But I finally came to realize they were his friends. They were loyal and didn't ask much. Besides, he'd told me a hundred times how crucial it was to have two of everything in case something malfunctioned.

I quickly told him about the murder, filling him in on the gruesome details I'd gotten from Sal. I watched the sadness well up in his eyes. Alexis had been a frequent guest on NO DECISION. Fritz could be gruff, even a little scary at times. But in truth, he was shy and gentle and even more insecure than the rest of us. I often thought that's why the booze got to him.

Alexis was smart and had that uncanny instinct borne of a child's innocence. It whispered that Fritz was just a big teddy bear dressed up like a grizzly. And for her, he was.

The bear was quiet for a moment. He knew what it was like to lose a daughter. He'd lost his own. He flexed fingers like huge sausages as though he were trying to grasp the death of the child.

"Sonovabitch. What bastard would do that to my saucy little princess? Sounds like a grade B horror movie. Jesus, T.K."

He shook his shaggy head slowly and lit a Marlboro.

"Isn't Billy Haitian or something like that?"

"I don't know for sure, Fritz. Sal's always called him Billy, but I think his given name is Guillaume Lavalier. French, I guess. Martinique, Haiti . . . somewhere in the Caribbean. Actually Alexis is Monique's child by some white man. I don't know, one of the locals, a tourist maybe. Anyway he never acknowledged Alexis. Billy was the only father she ever knew and he loved her as if she were his own."

"So maybe it's some voodoo thing, Cap. John Carradine in "Revenge of the Zombies," back from the dead and all that shit. I mean headless chickens, the sheet, some kind of powder all over the face. Cult?"

"I haven't heard of any thing like that in Key West."

He shook his head.

"Believe me, Cap. There are lots of thing going on in Key West we don't want to know about."

"I'm sure you're right about that, Fritz. Anyway, the police are on it. Sounds like a cornucopia of physical evidence. Somebody had to see something. They'll probably turn something up pretty quick."

Fritz took a long drag, the veins in his neck still throbbing. He nodded his head, but I knew he didn't believe it. There were no more words. I sat for a moment, then left him with his cold companions.

The tourists were out in full force. I could hear their laughter pouring out of Turtle Crawls and the Raw Bar. It was hollow and distorted, like the distant wailing of demons, but I knew the demons were in me. The candles on the tables flickered and the band was tuning up. It was hot and still, no words for the living. I went back to KAMALA. I popped the cap off of a beer, but the bottle was too cold for my lips. I just wanted to sleep.
Chapter 4

I heard the wooden clicking as she came down the dock. I looked out of the companionway and had a flash of Faye Dunaway in "The Thomas Crown Affair." She wore a midnight blue suit cut discreetly at the knee. The three inch heels matched. A muted scarf was knotted loosely at her neck. Her hair was up and swept off of her forehead in a light wave. It was Sunny and it was all class.

I had donned my only white dress shirt with my only tie and my only sport coat, brown corduroy a bit fatigued at the lapels and the elbows. Steve McQueen was nowhere in sight. It was a beauty and the beast scenario. I'll let you guess who the beast was. We squeezed into Sonny's old Saab convertible and wound our way down to the Haitian Village. She pulled up in front of a white cinderblock building with a makeshift steeple and a cross hung a bit crooked. The sand parking lot was bleached and barren. A couple of stray dogs sniffed around a plastic container filled with trash and the odd chicken pecked nervously at the dry ground.

I don't usually do funerals. They depress me and they exist much more to placate the living than honor the dead. I prefer to make my peace with those that count in a more intimate setting. Alexis counted. I'd been to the funeral home alone in the quiet of the evening and whispered to her, hoping she knew, but afraid she didn't.

The day was gorgeous, low 80's, brilliant sun, a warm breeze blowing lightly from the southeast. Somehow it seemed blasphemous to be burying a child in this kind of weather. But in Key West, it all happens in the sunshine or sometimes in the pit of darkness.

It was a good-sized crowd, maybe forty or so. The service was conducted by Brother Anton Frances. He was a dark meaty giant with a voice that could invoke thunder or take the tone of a mother with a baby at her breast. He pressed a black book to his massive chest and tried to look hopeful. There were several wreaths and a steady undercurrent of staccato sighs interrupted by now and then by a breathless sob.

Sunny was holding tightly to my arm. Fritz was there standing next to Sal. Also my long time buddy Chris Foster; Whipsaw, Key West's own prince of the harmonica and blues man extraodinaire, his psychic lady friend Miss Julianne; Louis Moulet, a bartender at the Raw Bar and Captain Harry with his first mate, Cy Watts from over at the Galleon Marina.

There were others that I didn't recognize. Some were obviously family and friends, but others seemed slightly out of place. After the funeral I collared Whipsaw. He knew everyone and everything that happened in Key West.

We were toward the end of the receiving line. Billy looked oddly uncomfortable in a black suit and tie. The grief was etched into his face, but he seemed to be holding up okay. Despite her waxen complexion, Monique was beautiful in a black flowing dress with bits of lace tucked discreetly at the neck and the wrists. Her dark eyes, usually glistening with warmth, had gone ashen and her lips were bloodless even through the colored gloss. Still it was easy to see why Alexis would have grown up to be a real stunner.

Monique stood like an iron rod, but I felt if Billy removed his arm she would collapse like a marionette whose strings had been severed. She wasn't crying, pumped full of valium, I guessed.

I took Billy's hand. It was moist, but warm, and his grip was firm. He pulled me close, "I come see you," he whispered. I nodded, but I didn't know why. I hugged Monique. She was limp and silent. Sal was at their side. I'd never seen her in a dress, but she looked vaguely feminine. Sunny embraced Monique and spoke quietly into her ear. I thought I heard Monique mumble, "At least she at peace." They thanked us for coming. Sunny stopped for a moment with Sal. There were tears.

Whipsaw and Miss Julianne were standing off to the side. He was wearing his customary black fedora tilted jauntily over one brow. Despite the heat, a dark brown cape was slung over his shoulders partially covering an immaculately tailored camel silk suit and a tie with colors I wouldn't attempt to describe. He carried a cane with a gold monkey fist for a handle and, as always, the sunglasses. I can't remember ever seeing his eyes. He was sweating profusely, but he always did regardless of the time of day or the temperature.

Miss Julianne was resplendent, a long, willowy dress the equal of any peacock I'd ever seen. She wore a pillbox hat of claret and costume jewelry hung from every appendage. They both smiled as I approached.

"Hello Whip, Miss Julianne. Sad day."

"That's what's shakin', Perfessor. Little girls ought to grow up to be big one. Makes the world copacetic. Bad vibes, a thing like this. Makes the hell. Upsets the harmony."

I signaled agreement, then said quietly, "Nice tribute, nice crowd."

"Nice and strange," Miss Julianne added.

"I didn't recognize everybody."

"You ain't been aroun' long enough, Perfessor. May I have the honor of suplementin' your already ample education?"

I nodded. He bowed slightly and went on.

"Ya' notice that dude in the gray suit kinda standin' behind 'em all? One of Key West's finest. Detective Frank Beamon. Quiet, you might even think he's a little dumb, but he's cagey, that one. Watchin' everybody. Checkin' their expressions, reactions. That boy's sniffin' aroun'. Huntin', I 'spect. The older black gentleman in the white brocade shirt" Miss Julianne's had some dealin' with him. Ain't you, Honey?"

I looked at her quizzically.

"Tonton," she whispered, "Tonton Macoute. Originally they were members of Papa Doc's personal guard in Haiti, known for their vicious violence. They evolved into a kind of Voodoo magician. Strong medicine, more powerful than a priest. His name is Marcuse Durant. Don't see him much. He stays mostly in his little house in the Haitian Village. He don't come to you, you go to him. Don't even know what he is doing here. He never even spoke to the family. Other guy, sitting in the blue Eldorado off to the left of the grave site. Never got within shouting distance. Don't even think he got out of his car. Malachi Strait. Owns The Strip Search."

I knew the place. It was a pervert's wet dream. Magazines, books, videos, a nice dark little room in the back. They carried an assortment of devices that might be better used on farm animals than human beings. Sunny once told me of a run-in she'd had with Strait over a girl that worked at the Parrot. Something about "art poses." I'd seen him there once or twice, but unless she had long legs and big boobs, he didn't think much of the locals. There were rumors that there were things to be had that weren't on the shelves at his place, but Key West was the unofficial home of rumors.
Chapter 5

We were just about to leave when I heard someone call from over my shoulder. It was Captain Harry. I'd only known him for three or four months. I'd heard he used to live on an old 26 foot Chris Craft Cavalier at Land's End. Apparently the proverbial rich uncle had died and left him some serious cash. He always had a wad of hundreds in his pocket and he wanted you to know it. He'd bought HAT TRICK, a Hatteras 62, hired a full-time first mate, and moved to a better neighborhood. The HAT was now berthed at the Galleon Marina. The dock master over there used to brag that it was the most expensive marina on the east coast and they had the clientele to prove it.

Harry was probably 5' 10", late 40's, maybe twenty pounds too heavy. He reminded me of Rush Limbaugh with a little less hair and, I hoped, a little more integrity. He wore a straw planter's hat most of the time, but it was missing today. Out of respect, I guessed. He was quick to laugh and quick to pick up a tab at Schooner's if you had a story worth telling. Aside from the boat and the thousand dollar blazers, there was nothing remarkable about him. Just another friendly boat bum willing to share his good fortune. As usual, Cy Watts was right behind him.

I liked Harry and so did everyone else. But there was something about Cy that made me uneasy. I didn't know much about his background. He wasn't loud or crude, but there was brooding swagger to him. He was razor thin, but lined with taut muscle, kind of like an alley cat. He always seemed to be waiting for something to pounce on.

I knew a guy in high school; they called him Big Frank. He'd wait for some of the younger kids to go into the bathroom. Then he'd grin at them, back them up against the wall, and take their lunch money. Cy reminded me a lot of Frank. I was sure he would choose to be a dedicated old-fashioned bully whenever he got the chance. Plenty of charter fishing had burned and hardened him. I figured he could get very mean if the occasion called for it, and maybe if it didn't.

I never really understood him and Harry. Harry seemed a gentle guy in his own way and Cy was just plain scary. Still, Cy knew his way around a boat. If he couldn't fix it, he knew who could. Good man to have on board when the big ones were running or if you needed a quick jury rig to get by. He could filet a dolphin without breaking a sweat. What the hell? Harry's time. Harry's money. Do what you want with it.

"How the hell are you, T.K.?" Harry stuck out a puffy hand. His voice was a little louder than it should have been.

"About as good as I can be with what happened to Alexis."

"I know what you mean. That little princess was like a niece to me. I used to keep chocolate kisses, Cokes, ice cream in the fridge. I knew she'd show up regular when that sweet tooth of hers started aching. Haggen-Dazs vanilla with that caramel syrup got her every time. Damned shame. Doesn't make sense, a pretty little kid like that dead before she gets to grow up. I'm going to miss her. They'll get the bastard that did it."

"Hope you're right, Harry."

"I am. Listen up T.K., you promised me weeks ago that you and Sunny were going to come to the HAT for a tall, cool, pina colada. I want you to see her. I know you blow boaters like your canvas, but she's a real beauty. Twin-screw Detroit diesels, two private heads with showers, full size tub in the master, huge captain quarters with a king-sized walk around bed. Hell, I got a wet bar in the salon with booze Donald Trump would envy. She used to belong to one of those big dog movie directors up your way in Wilmington."

"You're on, Harry. But it will have to be bourbon for me."

Harry laughed and popped me on the forearm with his thick palm.

"I forgot you southern boys have got to have your brown whiskey. I hope Maker's Mark will do you."

"Yeah," I said and tried to smile. "Sunny and I are both sort of bummed out. Wouldn't be very good company right now. Give us a few days. Maybe this weekend."

"You got it, Captain." Harry grinned and clapped me in the middle of the back. Cy nodded darkly and they were gone.
Chapter 6

I felt Sunny's hand kneading the muscles just above my buttocks.

"You don't look too good, Cap. I got an idea. It's about over here. I don't have to be back to the Parrot until five tomorrow. What about a run up to Newfound Harbor?"

I can always count on Sunny to come up with something to bring me back to the land of the living when I've been too long with the dead. We drove by her place for a quick change of clothes. Then it was on to Fausto's Food Palace for two fat rib-eyes, some salad stuff, a twelve pack of Ice House and a bottle of Pinot Noir. Stocked with all of the necessities, we headed for KAMALA. She rocked in her slip impatiently, just waiting to lift her petticoats in Hawk Channel. I cranked up the Universal, disconnected the shore power and slipped the lines while Sunny stowed our goodies in the ice box.

The wind was 10-12 knots out of the southeast. We motored past what the locals call Christmas Tree and Sunset Islands waving at some of the liveaboards anchored in their lee. Sunny took the wheel while I hoisted the mainsail. We left marker 13 to starboard, cleared Whitehead Spit and headed towards Boca Chica in a course of 92 degrees magnetic. Inside the reef, the swells were gentle and rhythmic.

Sunny pulled the fuel cutoff, locked the prop in reverse, and I unfurled the 130% genoa. I tweaked the main and the big genny. Soon the knot meter showed a steady six and a half. I took the helm while Sunny slipped out of her denim cutoffs and T-shirt. Her lanky body was baked brown by the sun. She brushed the honey blond hair off of her forehead and gathered it under an orange visor.

I marveled again at the feel of KAMALA under sail. And the sight of Sunny in that bikini could make me forget there was anything else on the planet. She went below for a minute, then stuck her head out of the hatch. The next thing I saw was a hand thrust out of the companionway with a frosty Ice House in a hugger. A minute more and she was propped against the bulkhead in the cockpit, her long legs crossed at the knees.

I told her about my conversation with Whipsaw and Miss Julianne. A look of disgust dominated her face when I mentioned Malachi Strait. She was quiet for a while. She always got that way when she was thinking. There were only a few regulars at the Parrot and some on the dock who knew about Sunny's masters in psychology from UVA. She was not your average barmaid and she was quick to let them know if one of the drunks stepped out of line. Jack sometimes joked that she was the best bouncer at the Parrot, but it was at least half true.

"I tell you, Captain, this voodoo stuff sort of freaks me out. We touched on it in a religion class I took in grad school. I don't remember it all, but this thing with Alexis. The chicken, the sheet, the powder. It all sounds like some sort of ritual killing. There's supposed to be an evil spirit or witch. I think it's called the Loup Garou. Some kind of werewolf that likes to suck children's blood. I remember that mothers who believe that stuff threaten their children with the Tonton Macoute. Big bogey man. If you're bad he'll take you away to a place where there is only darkness."

"Maybe Frank Beamon or some of his guys can bring it to a swift end. From what I heard, they've got a lot to work with. I think we've done all we can do. You were great with Sal. We probably need to lend a sympathetic ear now and then, but that's about it."

Sunny had caught that thing in my voice that said I couldn't talk about anymore. She nodded and sipped her beer.

The breeze stayed with us. We cleared Boca Chica to port and fell off of the wind another ten degrees. Sunny let the sails breathe a bit. Then she settled in and closed her eyes. She looked like some sort of pagan goddess, her breasts heaving gently and the wind tousling the deep gold in her hair. I watched her sleep and tried to put Alexis out of my mind.

In a couple of hours, we'd cleared Loggerhead Key and headed toward the entrance to Newfound Harbor. We left Little Palm Island to starboard. By five we were motoring up between Little Torch and Big Pine.

Sunny steered while I got the big Bruce anchor ready to go. She eased the bow up into the wind, then hit neutral and let the boat coast to a stop. I dropped the anchor and fed the chain over the bow roller into nine feet of blue-green liquid crystal. Sunny hit reverse and set the anchor, then hit the fuel cutoff. Suddenly there was no sound except the light swell caressing the hull and the breeze playing gently in the rigging.

I popped the cork on the Pinot Noir to let the salt air work on it while we went for a swim. The water was a little cool, but we bounced around like two teenaged porpoises. I was trying to wash off the stench of sorrow that had clung to my body since the funeral. I thought it was working. Here there were no dead children, no violence, no wails of agony. Just the wind and the sunset.

I cooked the rib-eyes on the grill, hers medium rare and mine hot, but still bloody. After dinner, we sat in the cockpit and finished off the Pinot while the moon came up. The pale yellow light washed over the decks of KAMALA giving her a pearl-like sheen. Sunny yawned lazily while she watched me out of the corner of her eye. I knew she wasn't tired. It was her signal. It was time to go below.

We eased down the companionway into the cabin. I flipped on the anchor light, then lit the brass lantern. The orange flame turned the teak golden with warmth. She put her arms around my shoulders and I felt her lips brush my cheek. The scent of cocoanut oil mingled with sweet earthy perspiration. I could feel her hot, moist breath pulsing on my neck. She lifted up my t-shirt and put her lips to my chest. Each time she pulled away, a tiny breeze cooled and soothed the skin she left. She slipped a strap off of her shoulder and in a moment we lay in the v-berth tangled up in nothing more than moonlight and sighs.

At first my sleep was deep and peaceful, but the dream came on. The moonlight had a sickly green hue and the wind complained. I went to the companionway. Alexis sat in the cockpit, an open book cradled in her small white hands. She was naked, small breasts barely heaving. I stood for a moment watching her silent lips mouth the words she read. She looked up, slowly aware of my presence. She turned her head toward me and I could see tiny diamond-like trails running down her cheeks. She lifted her hand and pointed to her neck. The flesh parted in a gaping bloodless wound.

She reached out to me. I wanted to take her hand and pull her to me, lead her to a place where no one could harm her. But my arm was heavy. I felt the muscles tighten like springs being twisted and compressed. I pushed and strained, but it wouldn't move. Beads of sweat began to detonate on my forehead. I couldn't do it. I couldn't help.

The tears came faster. Her eyes became black bottomless wells. She stood. Then she lay the book down in the cockpit. Now she began to grow smaller. I tried to reach for her, but my arms lay lifeless at my sides. I was powerless as I watched the dark water devour her.

When I woke, I was standing in the companionway just like the dream. There was no child, but there was a book. It lay on the bench open. The pages were billowing lightly in the breeze, but I could make the lines. "It was many and many a year ago in Kingdom by the sea that a maid there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee."

I was naked and cold. My mind was turning like some crazed kaleidoscope. It was hard to breathe, but easy to figure out. A dream. A child I loved. Someone I should have protected. I didn't know. I couldn't. Still I was sick at her vicious murder.

I told myself it was a normal reaction. Might even happen again, but God I hoped not. I sucked in the pungent salt air. The wind had dropped off and the moonlight performed a pale ballet on the water. I could hear Sunny turning quietly in the v-berth.

I picked up the book. I didn't remember it, but Sunny or I must have left it on the deck earlier. I returned it to the shelf and went back to bed. Sunny's body was warm and soft. She hugged me in her sleep.

The morning air was clean and full of life. There were minnows sparkling and boiling near the boat. The sounds of gulls feeding filled the sky as they swooped over the water. A gangly brown pelican paddled by the hull.

I told Sunny nothing.
Chapter 7

We had eased back into Land's End after a beautiful sail. Sunny had grabbed her things and headed back to her apartment to get ready for work. I had hosed off KAMALA and cleaned up a bit. I was trying to go back into an article I was writing for one of the education journals when I heard a knock on the hull. I stuck my head out of the companionway to see a tall black man standing on the dock. He wore a well-fitted gray suit with a salmon golf shirt buttoned at the neck. He was about my height, skin the color of rich hot chocolate, close cropped black hair, a fine aquiline nose and lips with a hint of feminine shape.

"Good morning, Dr. Fleming. Detective Frank Beamon, Key West Police Department. I'd like a word with you, if you don't mind. Just some routine questions. Won't take long."

I'd heard he was a local hero. He looked the part. High school here and a couple of seasons as starting guard on one of Florida State's better basketball teams in the late '80's. Only a blown knee had kept him from being drafted by the NBA. The coat didn't hide the long arms, broad shoulders and flat stomach. He looked like he could still tear you up in a game of one-on-one.

His voice was surprisingly soft. I nodded and motioned him aboard. He took off his leather-soled black loafers, left them on the dock and stepped onto the deck of KAMALA. I noticed a hard bulge on his right hip when he sat.

"Nice boat," he said, "bet she's quick in a breeze. I'd like to have one myself someday, but it's a ways off."

"Thanks. She moves all right."

"I understand you knew Alexis Lavalier. She visited you quite often in the afternoons."

I said she did, explaining her interest in books and how I read to her.

"Good thing. Kids being exposed to quality literature outside of the school environment. Too bad more parents don't take the time to read to their sons and daughters. Beats the hell out of television and video games, especially the cop shows."

I laughed a little and nodded. He asked about Alexis's relationship with me and others on the dock. Who did she visit? How long did she stay? Did she come after dark? What did I know about some of my neighbors? Did she ever talk to me about them? There were lots of questions, but he had a way of making it seem very casual.

Still I had the distinct feeling that he already knew most of the answers. He was listening to me, but the real reason he was on board was to observe. He never took a note, never seemed to stare, but I was certain that he could reconstruct every detail of the deck layout and the cabin interior, not to mention recite every word I'd said. Verbatim.

He wasn't intimidating. He never seemed to press. I didn't think I was a suspect, but I figured everyone who knew Alexis was until Detective Frank Beamon decided different. I remembered Whip's remark. Beamon was sniffin' around and I wouldn't want that bloodhound on my trail. Still it was okay. He had a job to do and I was glad he was doing it. I sensed that he was almost finished, but I was curious about some things myself.

"Detective, this voodoo business? There's been a lot of talk on the dock. What is the department's opinion?"

"I'm not sure we are ready to discuss those aspects of the homicide at this time, Dr. Fleming. The crime scene, lab work, forensics. Those things take time and when we do have answers, I'm not sure they will be for public consumption. I can only assure you that we are covering all of the bases. I have a ten year old daughter, myself. I'm afraid I am taking this one somewhat personally."

He looked me directly in the eye as he spoke. There was menace in his voice. It only confirmed suspicions that he had been over every inch of the crime scene and had strong opinions as to what happened. He uncoiled his long frame and offered his hand.

"By the way, you can forget the 'Detective stuff,' just make it Frank."

"And it's T.K.'" I said and shook his hand.

"By the way," he asked. "what's with the T.K.?'

"It's short for Theodore Kassel. I didn't like the sound of either one."

He laughed, stepped off of KAMALA and turned for one last look.

"Yeah. Nice Boat."

I noticed a trace of a limp as he ambled down the dock. He was cool, maybe a little distant, but I liked him. I felt better knowing who was leading the investigation and confident that he wouldn't quit until he'd used his cuffs.

I sat down to finish my coffee and the image of Alexis came flooding into my consciousness. I tried hard to dismiss the dream as some sort of thinly veiled guilt. It's normal in suicides and untimely deaths for those close to victims to feel some distorted responsibility. But I couldn't save the child. I knew that, but I was struggling to internalize it. Monica had told Sunny Alexis was at peace. I wasn't sure.

I knotted my fists and said out loud, "No more dreams, Fleming." I wanted it to be true.
Chapter 8

I wanted to get off of the boat, get my body moving and my mind tuned into something else. I walked down the dock and decided to go uptown to check my mail. It was about time for my monthly dole from the university. Chris Foster was washing down FOX'S LAIR, his Erickson 29. The turgid hose was snaking around like a pit viper ready to strike. He looked like a drunken juggler, his hands jumping from nozzle to brush to detergent in a constant blur. He was covered in sweat, suds, and hose spray.

I knew Chris from up in North Carolina. Met him through his sister, a striking blond who worked as a pharmaceutical rep. She was a fine boat lady in her own right. She had finally burned out pushing drugs and decided to prescribe them. She was now in med school. I knew quite a few guys who would have loved to have her perform their physicals.

After Sunny, Chris was as good a friend as I had. I introduced him to sailing. We'd cruised the Chesapeake Bay and investigated the sounds and rivers of North and South Carolina more than once. Chris was perfect crew, knew when to talk and when to shut up. He was thin, wiry and fearless on the foredeck in a pitching sea.

Chris was also one of the best fix-it men I'd ever seen. He liked to call himself "the nautical MacGiver" after that old T.V. show. Anytime someone on the dock had a mechanical or electrical problem, Chris took it as a personal challenge to his self-imposed title. He used to work for nothing, but gradually the money his parents left him began to dry up. Slip rent, groceries, and his taste for young female tourists had run up the price. Still whenever someone asked how much he owed, Chris's ready response was "Whatever you think it's worth". When he saw me coming, he cut off the hose and wiped his hands on his shorts.

"Hey Buddy. Beer?" he asked.

"No thanks, Chris. A little early for me. "

"That cop come to see you? Beamon."

Chris always pumped with adrenaline, but today he seemed a little uneasy. He motioned me aboard. I knew there was a reason and he was determined to let me know what it was.

"That guy makes me nervous, T.K. Came aboard. Asked me a bunch of questions. Kind of like I knew something, maybe more than I was telling. He thinks I was the last one to see the kid alive. I mean before the murder. Hell, I was headed up to Captain Tony's to check out the visiting wildlife. Saw Alexis in the parking lot of the Raw Bar. I was kidding her, doing the accents, making faces, the usual schtick. She was laughing, hugged me like she did all the time. Told me she was doing some modeling. I asked her about it, but she put one finger to her lips and shook her head. It was a big deal. I guess somebody saw us, told the cops. They said she was killed a few hours after that. Shit, T.K., I loved that kid, wouldn't hurt her for anything. You know that."

"Come on, Chris. That's their routine. They put the same questions to a lot of people to see if they get the same answers. Nothing new."

"Yeah, I've seen the cop shows, too. But he wanted to know things like had she been on the boat with me recently. Were we alone? Was it after dark? Did I like her? Shit like that. And the way he looked at me, like I was something slimy that had just crawled up on the beach. Jesus, she was a little girl, what eleven years old? I was crazy about her, but she was a baby. Not my style."

"Chris, we were all crazy about her. You act like you think Beamon believes you're some sort of child molester. Relax."

I tried to make it sound like a joke, hoping to kid him out of his paranoia. He wasn't laughing. He sat for several seconds staring at his hands while they twitched and twisted like two spastic birds. Suddenly he knew I was watching. He snatched a menthol cigarette, and lit it and took a long drag.

"Yeah, T.K.. You're right. Routine. I told him everything I know. Routine, that's all it is."

He took another long drag and coughed. He tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace.

"Okay Compadre, I got to get back to my domestic duties. You never can tell when some lovely, young lass suffering serious deprivation might need my kind attention. Who knows? She may want to see my etchings later this evening."

We both laughed and I headed toward the post office. The check was right on time, as usual. I counted myself luck that the university, in its infinite wisdom, had seen fit to let me go. In reality, I suppose they'd like to see me disappear completely.
Chapter 9

I went to the bank, then decided to drop in on Sunny. Her one bedroom was in an older home on Elizabeth St. just out of the business district. I checked my watch. She'd worked the night before, but she was usually up by noon. It was a little after one and I thought I might catch her before she bicycled over to South Beach for her afternoon swim.

I went around to the back and up the steps. She heard me before I had a chance to knock. She opened the door wearing a black silk kimono and motioned me inside. She kissed me on the cheek and walked back to her small kitchen. The counter was a heart patient's nightmare. Four large eggs, a stick of whole butter, two fat links of Italian sausage, and a quart of whole milk. Diced onion, green peppers, sliced mushrooms and assorted spices were swimming in a skillet of steaming bacon grease.

I have to admit it smelled awfully good, but I resisted the temptation. Probably added five years to my life. When I haven't eaten Sunny's cooking for a few days, I forget that Reduced Fat and Low-Cal are not in her culinary lexicon. I poured myself a cup of black coffee and sat down to wait. The omelet covered an entire dinner plate. She placed a lily white napkin daintily on her lap and lifted her fork delicately. Then she went at it like the Mongol hordes galloping across Asia. In minutes her plate shined like a new Rolls Royce. Sunny popped a handful of vitamins in her mouth and washed it down with a huge glass of orange juice. She took the napkin in her fingertips, dabbed at her lips like a duchess, and looked across the table with eyes out of a Boticelli canvas.

"What'll it be, Cowboy?" she growled and the real conversation began.

She told me Frank had been to see her, too. Then she ran down a list of the interviewees. She'd been listening to the bar chatter at the Parrot the night before. Fritz, Sal, Captain Harry, Cy Watts, Louis Moulet and nearly all of the regulars at Land's End. I wondered about Malachi Strait, but I just listened.

"I tell you, Cap. The voodoo talk is strong. Several people claim to have seen the body. Probably just booze talking. Blood, the wound, the powder, it all makes great bar gossip. Interesting that nobody wants to talk about Marcuse Durant. If I do hear his name, it is quiet and respectful. I think they're just damned afraid of him. Some of the locals sure don't like Beamon, but they all agreed that he was a bulldog when it came to a tough case. And he's their bulldog."

I had heard all I wanted and decided to change the subject. There was still nothing I could do. She understood.

"You want to go to the beach with me, go for a swim?"

That kind of therapy sounded like a good idea and my ten-speed was already around back from a few days before. Maybe it would clear my mind.

The tourists covered South Beach like ants at a picnic, but we found a spot and spread a couple of towels on the sand. Sunny threw her beach bag aside and sprinted toward the whitecaps like a registered filly. She reached the water's edge in an instant and dove headlong into the frothing waves. She's a much better swimmer than me, a study in grace and power. Soon her long strokes pulled her through the swells until I could barely make out her lithe form cutting the water.

I watched the sweating bodies reclining on the white sand and listened to the sounds of the sea birds. The smell of cocoanut oil was thick. A thin, brown man maybe late twenties stood waist deep in the water. He cradled his daughter in his arms. She was probably two, pink two-piece and a matching bonnet. He talked into her ear. She smiled, pointing and giggling, as the spray leaped out at them and glistened in her silky hair. I felt like a fool, my eyes welling up, but I squeezed them shut. I just wanted the child to grow, to laugh, to go on living.

I surrendered to the sun, letting it bake me gently from the inside out. Soon it was working. The breathing things were forcing the dead ones out of my mind. I didn't think about Alexis the rest of the day. At least until I saw Billy.
Chapter 10

He caught me on the dock.

"You and me talk, Mister T.K. 'Bout my baby. My Alexis."

"Sure, Billy. Come on down to the boat."

My guts were churning. I didn't know what he wanted, he was a friend of Sal's and she was a friend of mine. I'd listen. His dark face was taut and lined with the agony and confusion I knew he felt over his murdered child. He slumped down in the cockpit. I went below and got a couple of cans of Ice House. He popped the top, rotated the can slowly in his scarred brown hands, then took a long swig.

"She come to me last night. I see her like in a dream. She want to tell me something. She move her mouth, but no words come, no sound. She weeping. She been here, hasn't she?"

His eyes plumbed mine, hoping, pleading for something to salve the gaping wound where his heart had been. I couldn't watch his pain any longer. I looked away. searching for words I knew he had already heard a dozen different times in a dozen different ways.

"You got to help, Mister T.K."

He said it like he wasn't leaving me a choice.

"God, Billy. I'm so sorry. We all miss her. It's horrible, but there's nothing I can do. Detective Beamon is investigating. He'll find out who did it. It's just a matter of time."

"Beamon good man. He smart, fair. But he won't find her killer. He don't know. He don't believe. It's voodoo. Her soul wandering, lost until justice come. She love you. She come to you. You the one to help."

"I don't know how, Billy."

"I know you, Mister T.K. I read your book. You don't fool me. You the Ghostcatcher. You get the woman who kill your friend. You don't say, but she was witch. Spirits tell you things. Speak to you in words no one else can hear."

Of course, he was talking about Death of the Spirit, the story of my friend Martin's fall. Sure, I'd been there when they arrested the woman, but I'd been too late to prevent Martin's murder, if that's what you can call it. There were too many nights when sleep wouldn't come. I'd listen to my steps creak on the weathered boards while I walked the docks torturing myself for being so stupid and helpless. Martin might be alive if I had been more perceptive, if I'd asked a few more questions, pushed a little harder. I didn't. I was no detective, much less a Ghostcatcher. I tried to tell him that, but he wasn't listening.

"Maybe you don't want to help. Maybe you think it not your business. I miss my baby so much. All the nights Monique don't stop crying. I give you money. I can pay. Alexis speak to you. I know. You tell me what she say. I fix the rest."

I didn't want to know what he meant by that.

"No, Billy. I don't want your money. That's not it. I'd like to help you, but I don't think I can. I know it's hard to be patient. Why don't you give Beamon a few days? The guy is good. See what he comes up with."

"Man can not be patient when his baby dead. When she cries from the grave. You strong man, Mister T.K. I understand. But you think on this thing. I try to wait, but I come back. Alexis call to you. Do not deny her cries. This thing for the Ghostcatcher. You him, no matter what you say. You tell me. I be back."

Billy sat in silence for a moment. The blood throbbed at his temple and the veins in his thick forearms stood out like strands of cable. He looked at me one more time, black eyes pleading. Then without a word, he set down the half-empty beer can and left.

I watched his dusky form disappear down the dock and felt sick. I didn't want him to come back. I didn't want to get involved in this evil thing. The child was dead. There was nothing I could do. Still she haunted me. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was trying to communicate with me, even if it was just a dream.

I took a slug of my beer and stared off toward the anchored boats. Martin was gone. It was too late to help him. Maybe I was somehow responsible. But maybe there was something I could do this time. I didn't know, but at least I could try. I had to know more. NO DECISIONS was a good place to start.
Chapter 11

The old Grampian smelled like a nicotine factory, but it always did. There were ashtrays full of Marlboro butts tucked into every corner among the tangle of his computer jungle. The empty Diet Coke cans stood like soldiers in disarray waiting for orders. Fritz sat hunched over the computer keyboard, his eyes glazed from hours focused on the flickering screen.

"What's up, Cap?" He asked without turning around.

When I told him about Billy's visit, he stopped and looked over at me. His eyes ached with sadness.

"Poor bastard," he snarled, "damned shame, his sweet little darlin'. Some sonovabitch will rot in the pit of hell over that one. So you gonna help him?"

It sounded more like an accusation than anything else.

"I'm going to try, Fritz. I need some information about voodoo. Can you get me plugged in?"

"You came to the right place, Cap."

With one big paw he cleared the screen and began fingering the keyboard. It sounded like a thousand crickets all trying to chirp at the same time. Soon lines of print began to fill the monitor.

"It's the net, all the stuff you ever wanted to know and lots you didn't. This is just an overview. Comes out of an anthology on myths and magic. Let's see. Originated in West Africa. Traveled over to the Caribbean, the southern states, parts of South America where slave labor was used on large plantations. Baron Samedi, Lord of the Underworld. Calls up the dead. Spirits and god possess their worshippers. Want me to go on? No. I know you, Cap. You don't want the short version. You got a minute, I'll do a printout."

He hit a couple of keys and the cabin began to sound like a beehive. We went up into the cockpit to get away from the noise. Fritz can be tough, but it's the quiet kind, the kind you don't want to mess with. I once saw him lift a 200 pound drunk off of the dock and casually toss him in the water when the guy wouldn't shut up after Fritz had asked politely a second time. Sometimes you forget he has a brain damned near as good as those computers he pays constant homage to. He had an opinion that I was sure I wanted to hear. He was just waiting for me to ask.

"What's your read on all this, Fritz?"

"I tell you, Cap. This one ain't simple. They got good coffee over at Turtle Kraals, the Raw Bar, Schooner's Wharf, Captain Tony's. I been drinking a lot, keeping my eyes peeled and my ears tuned in. There are quite a few practitioners of voodoo here in Key West. Haitians, mostly. Apparently some of Billy's people are among them. I don't know all the cops know, but the physical evidence points to a ritual murder. She wasn't raped or molested or anything like that. I got that from one of the patrolmen that should have quit one beer earlier. He also told me they were having trouble making much out of the crime scene. No one else's blood, hair samples. No signs of a struggle. There was a trace of generic sleep stuff in her body, probably Benedryl, but no serious drugs. Coming up with a list of suspects was no more than a crap shoot. That's what I got right now, but there will be more as soon as some of the boys get a little lathered up. I'll let you know."

The buzzing stopped. Fritz crawled below and yanked several sheets of paper out of the printer tray. I thanked him and went back to KAMALA to read.
Chapter 12

The information from the anthology was concise, but fairly comprehensive. I looked it over twice to make sure I hadn't missed anything. Sunny was right about the loup-garou sucking the blood of children. Also the Tonton-Macoute. There were several powders and potions mentioned, mostly toxins from the puffer fish. They were supposed to have magical powers. That seemed to fit in with what Sal had told me about the body.

There was a lot of information about the "loa." Believers called them "the invisibles." Spirits of the dead who were thought to inhabit the bodies of the living. Invisibles are often sent by the souls of dead relatives who are displeased with the behavior of the living victim. Once they enter, they must be exorcised.

In one of the ceremonies, a chicken or some other fowl is sacrificed. Parts of it are placed in a bowl called a "govi" along with hair or nail clippings from the possessed. His soul or "gross bon ange" is then transferred to the govi. White sheets are used in the ritual. It is supposed to be a cleansing of some sort. The victim comes out healthy and renewed. But Alexis didn't.

It all seemed bizarre and repellent. But maybe someone thought Alexis was possessed. The invisibles had entered her body and had to be driven out. The ceremony began. Something went wrong. The child was killed. Maybe by accident or maybe some twisted practitioner believed she must die.

I needed more information of the local variety. Whip was a walking encyclopedia of everything that went down in the Keys. I knew he was playing at Schooner's at nine with his backup band, The Wreckers. I might catch him on break and get a quick ten minutes on the voodoo scene. It was still early. I figured a short nap, a sandwich, and maybe grab him between the first and second sets. I hoped Miss Julianne would be there. She knew everything Whip knew and often a lot more. She could be damned near scary at times.

I heard his harmonica wailing like a banshee a block before I could even see the wooden arch of Schooner's Wharf. Bob the bartender had a cold Ice House on the bar before I made it across the sand floor. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the cloud of smoke that hung over the tables. I walked over to the pool table where the makeshift stage was set up.

The crowd was small, but appreciative. Feet were tapping and a couple of bodies swayed on the tiny dance floor as an electric guitar burned the lead to Willie Dixon's classic "Hootchie Coochie Man." Whip's leg was twitching like a demented rattler in unison with the pounding of the bass drum. The sweat ran from below his fedora. Now and then he'd dab at it with a snowy silk handkerchief he clutched in his left hand. The Wreckers were in a groove. He nodded to me and pointed to the back corner.

Miss Julianne sat nursing a tall glass of something that looked like liquid sunlight. An ankle length skirt was draped carelessly over her knee. Its diaphanous blue and a tied-dyed tank top looked like it belonged at a Grateful Dead concert. She waved when she saw me.

I wove my way through the crowd and sat down next to her. It was futile to attempt any conversation. This was the primal force of the blues as only the Whip could brew it. A half an hour later he was exhorting his acolytes to order another round. In a voice that sounded like truck tires on gravel he reminded them to be generous with the bar staff and to "hang out for some more hot lead" in just a few short minutes. It was a given that Whip's gigs sold more beer than any other band in Key West.

I had an icy bottle waiting for him when he sat down.

"Evening Perfessor. I see you have come to testify to the exhiliratin' power of the blues on this blessed night."

"It's nice and tight, Whip. The boys are in a good place."

"Thank you, Perfessor. High compliments. I had a feelin' we might be seein' you sometime soon. Miss Julianne got a little flash. Didn't you, Darlin'?"

She smiled and nodded. The Whip went on.

"Billy sayin' it to everybody. You the Ghostcatcher. You gonna get the hoodoo on the voodoo. That right?"

"I'm no Ghostcatcher, Whip. I don't know that there's anything I can do. But I was hoping you and Miss Julianne might help me with a little information. What's happening on the local scene? Who's involved? The lowdown on any people actually practicing voodoo in the Keys?"

"I know you, Perfessor. Can't resist a good rescue mission. Miss Julianne, talk sweet to Mister T.K."

"They're here. Not a lot of them, but they're strong believers, very active. You remember the guy at the funeral, older gentleman with the white brocade shirt. He's their man."

"You're talking about Marcuse Durant. You said he was Tonton Macoute. A sort of traveling magician."

"That's not the half of it. Tremendous power. Those guys can scare their devotees into anything. Some believe the Tonton can fly, dematerialize, and conjure all kinds of spirits, both good and horribly evil. Durant's been in and out of Key West for several years. Always travels with a woman named Laverne. She is his "placee", a kind of common law wife. I get the word she is dying. They don't know why. She has been up to Miami for some mysterious treatment at least twice in the last six months. No luck. She only gets worse. There is rumbling among his followers. They say if his magic is as strong as he claims, he should be able to drive the demons out of her."

She stopped for a moment to sip from her sweaty glass. My mind was tumbling at full tilt, but with no concrete direction. I said nothing. Whip watched me, then spoke.

"That ain't the whole cake, Perfessor. Billy never had much time for religion. Boat stuff, Sunday charters every week. He gets his juice from the sun, the wind, and the big fish. Not so with Monique. Good Catholic girl. Lots of confession and Mass. But here's the hammer. Her momma was hot into the spirits, a good-time "bousin." Voodoo prostitute. She used them potions to keep the boys comin' back for more of that love honey. She dead now, but Marcuse was her brother. Makes Monique his niece and gives him a tight connection to Alexis. Monique pretty much kept that chile away from Durant. That's all I know right now. But it makes for some interesting permutations, don't it, Perfessor?"

Whip smiled like a tomcat with a goldfish in his paws. Then he took the bottle off the table and headed back to the stage. The Wreckers were re-tuning. I looked over at Miss Julianne.

"So what do you think?"

She avoided my eyes for a second, then looked at me darkly. Her face was gray and heavy like a stone.

"I think this is ugly and evil. You must not go. I know of your torment. Your powers are under a cloud. "

I waited for more words, but they didn't come. I had tried to hard to hide my haunting, but she knew. I placed my hand on hers, then slid my chair back and headed for KAMALA.

While I waited to cross the street, a 1962 pink Cadillac convertible eased by. A half-dozen guys clad in snowy suits studded with rhinestones were sitting in the back waving at the admiring crowds. Thick silver-framed sunglasses, long black sideburns, and hair in the inevitable ebony ducktail. It was Key West's own contingent of Elvises gracing the tourists with a tour of the town. I realized I was smiling. It felt good.
Chapter 13

It was quiet on the dock. I wasn't sure I could sleep, but I lay down on the settee and closed my eyes. I thought about Miss Julianne's warning. "Powers under a cloud." She was telling me to mind my own business. I wanted to, but there were things pushing me and I wasn't sure I could resist. I began to drift. Then I heard it.

At first, I thought it was just the wind humming in the rigging. Then it became human. I didn't know if there were words. I couldn't see her, but I knew she was there. The other sound settled into my ear. The pages of a book fluttered in the cockpit. I went to the companionway.

She was a specter, shimmering, hovering, her form obscured by the mist. She was over the water. Again she wore nothing. She seemed to beckon as though she wanted me to follow. Wisps of dark hair danced in the breeze. Her smile was small and sad. The bloodless wound still screamed at her throat. I started towards her. I reached out to pull her to me. I barely heard her, but she whispered. I strained and she came closer. I felt her cold hand settle on my chest.

"T.K. Wake up."

I gave my head a violent turn and clawed my eyes open. Sunny was sitting next to me. She looked puzzled, even frightened, but at the same time relieved that she had brought me back from whatever hellish place I'd been.

"Nightmares? What was it this time?"

"Yes, nightmares. That's all. Nothing important. Just a bad dream. It's over."

But now I knew it wasn't.

I made a couple of cups of instant coffee and bolstered each with a generous shot of Jameson's good Irish whiskey. I told her about Billy, Whipsaw, and the other things that had happened since I'd seen her last night. She watched me closely, didn't say much. I'd seen her do that before, wait, weigh the information, then come up with a razor-sharp analysis of a situation she knew nothing about until a few minutes before.

"I think it's great T.K., trying to help Billy and all that. But you need to be careful. Listen to Miss Julianne. I don't know about her "second sight", but I do know that she seems to be in touch with things the rest of us can hardly imagine. You told me about that business last year. You couldn't have prevented Martin's death. The woman who disappeared. You didn't control that. It's done, but not gone. It's still lurking in your subconscious fighting to get out in some way. The guilt pummels you. Now this. Alexis. It's murder. You don't know what or who you're dealing with, but we do know the kid is dead. Think about it. You're no cop and there is a killer out there."

"I understand, Sunny. I'm not going to do anything foolish, but I owe it to Billy and to myself to be useful. I won't get in Beamon's way. I'll just poke around a bit, ask a few questions. Maybe get some answers. Nothing dangerous in that. Nobody gets hurt."

Her soft blue eyes got larger. She rolled them and shook her head.

"Yeah. Sure. Nobody gets hurt. Alexis did. I know you, Cap. Just don't get mad if I sound like your mother."

"Hey, my mother is a damned good thing to sound like," I told her.

She tried to laugh. "Do you want me to stay?"

I nodded and she moved toward the v-berth leaving jeans, panties, bra, and t-shirt in her wake. I stripped off my clothes and crawled in beside her. She smelled faintly of beer and cigarettes. There was a salty taste on my tongue when I kissed her forehead. She cradled her head on my chest and slung one long leg over my thighs. She seemed to be holding me a little tighter than usual.
Chapter 14

When I woke the next morning, Sunny was gone. There was a note on the table.

To my favorite Ghostcatcher,

Working the early shift. Be home by six. Dinner at my place. Saw Captain Harry last night. Drinks on the HAT at eight. Hope that's okay.

Love you. Sunny

The day was quiet. No visits from the cops. No voodoo dolls with pins sticking out of them. No requests to look into murder cases. I tried to work on an article about shipwrecks on reefs in the Keys, but I couldn't concentrate. My mind kept drifting back to the dream. There were two now. There would be more. I could see Billy's face in agony, "she come to you." Maybe she had.

I grabbed a sheet of paper and made a list of the info I had accumulated yesterday. It was like watching an old T.V. set with the vertical hold out of adjustment. I had to know more to stop the screen from spinning. I wasn't sure I could. I looked over my list.

I wanted to know what Beamon knew.

I needed more info about the voodoo scene in Key West.

I wanted to investigate the connection between Marcuse Durant and Monique.

I was also curious about the real father of Alexis. Who was he and why did he disappear? If he really did.

I remembered the text Fritz had run for me. When the body was invaded by evil spirits, it was the work of a witch, often a neighbor or relative. Miss Julianne was convinced Durant was a Tonton Macoute and at least, his followers believed it. The Tonton could use his powers to discover the creature, then use black magic to drive out the demons. In the book, there was no mention of the witch being sacrificed or harmed in any way. Still, I figured anything was possible when this kind of blasphemy had reared its head. And I wasn't ready to dismiss the idea that someone had tried to exorcise the evil spirits and simply screwed up.

I wondered about the old man's wife, Laverne. She'd been to Miami. Lots of diagnoses, but from medical doctors or some demented shaman? Suppose Marcuse, the revered voodoo magician, decided it was simple demonic possession. Alexis was his grand-niece. Could he possibly think that the child was a witch? Would he sacrifice her to drive the beasts from his wife? It seemed too far out, but I knew that my connection to the child was clouding my judgment. Besides, I had my own wounds that continued to bleed. I didn't know that I could be entirely rational.

My mind went back to Miss Julianne and the second-sight thing. I knew some very intelligent people that paid handsomely for readings or advice on things that baffled them. I had seen her work. She was no charlatan. But the natural skeptic in me kept screaming, "Don't be just another sucker". I told it to shut up, but it wouldn't go away. I had no doubt Miss Julianne was extremely intuitive, way beyond the normal person. But when someone tells me to accept it all on pure faith, little bells go off in my head and red lights start flashing. I check to make sure my wallet is still in my pocket.

I also had a feeling about last night. She knew something she was holding back. I had no idea what it was, but she'd decided I wasn't ready. Until she thought I was, it wasn't going to happen. I felt like a rat in a maze scurrying from one dead end to another. I didn't even have any good guesses.

Sunny was right. I wasn't a cop. This was murder. I did need to be careful. Not many people would miss one more burned out college professor. The smartest thing to do was leave it to the professionals. Beamon was good. There was no disagreement on that. I was sure he didn't want or need my help, but I was involved whether I liked it or not. Billy and Alexis had seen to that. My "good sense" sat on my shoulder and told me to let it go. I told him to shut up.

Sometimes when you're totally confused, you find the answer in action. It was time to do something even if it was wrong. I would try to see Marcuse Durant the next day. I felt a little better and I hoped dinner at Sunny's and drinks with Harry on the HAT would continue the process.
Chapter 15

Sunny was running around the kitchen like Julia Child on speed. She pointed at the Cabernet and slapped a glass down on the counter. The cholesterol hung in the air like wood smoke. Chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes loaded with whole milk and butter, green beans in bacon grease, and homemade biscuits with honey-butter. It looked delicious and believe me, it was. But with every bite, my arteries screamed while they bulged like Batman's biceps. After dinner we talked over cherry cobbler and a pony of crème de menthe. Then we headed to Harry's for drinks on the HAT.

Sunny and I wandered into the Galleon Marina amid the towers of floating fiberglass, an easy hundred million dollars of opulent floating toys. Harry's silver Jag was parked in his designated space just off the bow of the massive yacht.

I knocked the hull and the latest in a long line of Harry's "nieces" welcomed us aboard. I hoped she was at least twenty, but I wouldn't take the odds. She wore a long, wrap-around island skirt with the split strategically placed to offer a nice thigh shot every time she moved. The matching top was brimming over with tanned flesh and I didn't think it was helped by a wonder bra.

Her hair was honey brown with a blond streak bleached just above her forehead. It hung just below the shoulders. Deep brown eyes sparkled and seemed to be saying "Screw the hungry children. This is where it's at." She introduced herself as Tracy. No last name, but that's not unusual. No one under thirty uses them anymore.

We stepped off the dock onto the metal folding stairs and went into the aft salon. Harry was right. The HAT was a beauty. It was a large Florida room, smoked lexan on three sides. To starboard, a cream colored leather sofa ran the length of the room. Vibrant silk pillows in green and coral were arranged casually on the corners. There was a hand-carved teak coffee table with inlaid mother of pearl shimmering in the subdued light. In the aft corner was a matching chest of even more ornate design. A wrought iron table with a milky marble top and matching chairs sat in front of it. There was a dried arrangement in a tall porcelain vase in the center.

The wet bar commanded the aft section complete with a full liquor cabinet and a small refrigerator. There were enough plants to populate a small rain forest.

Harry came up from the captain's stateroom. He smiled and stuck out his hand, then gave Sunny a gentlemanly peck on the cheek.

"So I finally got you guys on board. Welcome to the HAT TRICK. You already met Tracy. What do you think? She's doll, isn't she? Believe me, you're going to love her."

He put his arm around her waist and hugged her. Then he grinned like an overweight , aging rock star with his latest pubescent groupie draped over him. It was almost comical. Good old Uncle Harry gloating over his favorite "Niece." Only she wasn't his niece and I guessed she was doing things no self-respecting uncle would want his niece to do. I tried to fight the cynicism, but I figured that if Harry was a bagboy at the local Publix, Tracy might be on the huge Davis in the next slip trick-or-treating, maybe without the costume. Okay, I apologize. Mind in the gutter and all that.

"What do you say, T.K.? I know you boys from south of the Mason-Dixon Line like your sour mash. Maker's okay, or you prefer Jack Black or Dickel? Ladies, some Chablis or shall I break out the Dom?"

Tracy served the drinks in monogramed crystal. Then Harry dragged me off to see the rest of the boat. I stopped in front of the bulkhead. There were several photos of Harry hoisting magnificent trophy fish and some fabulous sunsets. The main attraction was at the center, a beautiful sailfish, maybe seven feet from head to tail. It hung like a dead man on the gallows, the sun reflecting the beads of water like a thousand diamonds. Harry was beaming like a kid who just met Snow White.

"Damned, Harry. That must have been some fight. Great photo," I said.

"You can believe it," he said, "but between Cy and me, we got the best of him. That Cy, great man with a rod and knife. But I know you, Buddy. You want to see the engine room.

He dragged me off to see the twin 892 Diesels. 737 horsepower each. A comfortable cruising speed of 23 knots. The engine room was cleaner than most people's kitchens. I was too polite to ask about his fuel bills.

Then it was on to the fly bridge. There was a set of thousand dollar Steiners resting in a teak binocular case beside the wheel. GPS chart plotter, SATNAV, radar, single sideband radio, weatherfax, and every other expensive electronic toy in the catalogue. They adorned the steering station like ornaments on a Christmas tree. I ran a quick mental list of the equipment, knowing I hadn't seen everything yet. Figuring the base cost of the boat, probably somewhere north of five million.

"It is truly gorgeous, Harry. Everyone ought to have an uncle like yours."

He tried looking sad and made a clicking sound with his tongue.

"I hadn't seen him in years, T.K. Made a fortune selling stainless washers to GM, Chrysler, Ford in Detroit. Big hockey fan. Season tickets for years right behind the Red Wings bench. Knew the coach and every player, first names and all that shit. I used to go to the game with him when I was up there. He never forgot it. That's where I got the name for the boat. HAT TRICK, to honor Uncle Mort. I think he'd be proud, don't you?"

I nodded solemnly. But as soon as we turned, I stifled a good horse laugh and turned it into a half-smile. He showed me the rest of the boat. King-sized walk around bed in the master stateroom, built-in his and hers dressers, walk–in closets, a 42 inch plasma T.V. More terrific photography graced the bulkheads. Private head with a full size tub and shower stall.

The galley was equipped to suit the ultimate tastes of any gourmet. Stainless steel refrigerator and stove, microwave. He even had a washer and dryer tucked in a tight little alcove. It was a lot nicer than most of the homes I'd ever been in and a lot more comfortable.

We joined the ladies in the salon for another drink and some light hors d'oeuvres. Black beluga caviar and pate, of course. Tracy and Sunny were jabbering like old friends by the time we got back.

I sank into the sofa and watched Sunny watch me watch Tracy. I thought she was going to slap my hand and tell me no, but it didn't happen. I was pleasantly surprised that Cy wasn't skulking about somewhere.

I could tell that Sunny was running out of polite conversation and my supply of cordial has its limits. We promised to come back soon and headed down the dock. It had begun to cloud up, but Sunny wanted to walk. We started up Front Street and turned left at the Pier House onto Duval.
Chapter 16

I asked Sunny about Tracy.

"Nice kid, really," she said, "it isn't what we thought. She is sort of an unofficial hostess on the HAT. Actually kind of a paid employee. She's twenty-two, studied design in Savannah at SSAD, but didn't graduate. She helps Harry with the boat. Does some odd jobs, runs some errands. He pays her in cash. It sounded okay. I liked her."

"At least Harry's not into jail bait this week."

"Yeah, but I'm not sure about you. You'd better watch it, Tiger."

I said yes m'am in the sweetest tones I could manage.

Sweaty bodies were exploding out of the back door at the Hog's Breath Saloon. Rum Runners was pumping out rock'n'roll. There was a huge bouncer with Pat Riley hair and a dragon tattoo clawing at his shoulder. He was looking grim and trying to keep the tourists from falling onto the sidewalk. Every other one of them had Ernest Hemmingway or Jimmy Buffett emblazoned on the chest.

The gift shops and t-shirt joints were lit up like Christmas, hoping to entice some beer soaked bodies with thin resistance and fat credit lines on their Visas. The sidewalks were elbow to elbow. Mom and Pop grinning through the annual week's vacation; lovers, both straight and gay holding hands and other things; boozed up yuppies trying hard to make jackasses of themselves; and bored teeny boppers trying to be cool. It was any night on Duval Street. A people watchers Garden of Eden with plenty of snakes.

We turned left on Caroline and made for Land's End. The noise coming out of Sloppy Joe's sounded like a train wreck. When we got to Turtle Kraals, I suggested a little nitecap. Sunny nodded. It was crowded but we found a couple of stools at the bar and ordered Irish coffee. A lone guitarist sat in the corner begging his girl to "Please come to Boston in the Springtime." Without warning there was a monstrous clap of thunder and the rain began to hammer the tin roof. We watched the torrents pour in between the seams that separated the bar from the dining area. Soon there was a healthy stream of water running through the length of the building like a swollen creek. Nobody seemed to mind.

"Beautiful boat," I said, "if you can call it a boat. More like a floating palace. If Tracy did the interior, she sure did a nice job. Harry's taste can't be that good."

"Agreed. But she damned sure blew it on the bedspread in the master stateroom. Those multi-colored squares and circles remind me of the nightmares I have after a large thick-crust meat lover's pizza."

I silently scolded myself for almost asking if she ate the whole thing. She went on.

"I'll tell you what Harry is good at. Photography. I didn't know he could handle a camera like that. The stuff on the bulkheads in the staterooms was impressive. Tracy said he'd done shoots for some major magazines. High fashion. VOGUE, MADEMOISELLE, GENTLEMEN'S QUARTERLY. She said he still has some serious contacts in the industry."

"I didn't know all of that stuff was Harry's. I'll take a closer look next time. Oh, I did get the story on HAT TRICK."

I explained how dear old Uncle Mort loved those Red Wings. Her reaction was the same as mine, but now we could laugh out loud. At least someone was living right.

We decided it had been fun overall. Neither of us missed Cy Watts. I thought Sunny was coming back to KAMALA, but she changed her mind. She had emails to catch up on, laundry to do. I offered to walk her home, but she insisted she was okay. It isn't that far and despite the madness, Key West is a pretty safe place to walk after dark as long as you avoid the rough neighborhoods. In the Conch Republic people are either too laid back or having too much fun to mug you.
Chapter 17

When I got back to the boat, there was a note taped to the lifeline. I recognized Chris's scribbling on a scrap of notebook paper. "Need to see you. Quick." I started to go over to FOXES' LAIR, but it was late and I was tired. Anyway, Chris had a flair for the dramatic. Sometimes it was entertaining, but mostly it was downright irritating. With him it's always a crisis. Too many for me. Some people like to star in their own soap operas. I guess it injects meaning and excitement into otherwise dull lives. Me, I like it kind of quiet.

Chris would have to wait. The next morning would do.

I refilled my coffee mug and started down to Chris's boat. When I got there all of the ports were battened and the teak hatch boards closed off the companionway. There was a bronze padlock through the hasp securing them in place. It was odd. No one at Land's End locked their boats unless they expected to gone for a while. I decided to walk over to the fuel dock.

Jenny, our dock master, was lounging in a rocking chair with a broken arm, a raggedy straw hat down over her eyes. Her head was thrown back against the side of the fuel shack and her spindly legs propped up on an empty bucket. She looks like a reject from the bag ladies' union. But if it happens at Land's End, she knows about it and she'll share every detail. All you have to do is ask.

"I seen him alright. The cops come and arrested him right early. They was on his boat for about an hour. Searchin' would be my guess. They took him off. No cuffs, but I ain't thinkin' he volunteered to be the crossing guard at the elementary school."

I asked her if she knew why.

"Reckon it had something to do with the kid's murder."

I thanked her. She touched the brim of the old hat, gave me a courtly nod, and sank back into the chair. I wasn't sure what to do, but I figured my next stop was the police station. It was a short walk to the corner of Angela and Simonton. Just inside the door, a heavy set black woman was sitting in a glass booth at a counter shuffling papers. She smiled and asked if she could help.

"Detective Beamon?"

She picked up the phone, punched a couple of number, and mumbled something. Then she smiled again and pointed a finger toward the hallway on the left. The corridor was lined with empty gray cubicles. Wanted posters and notices covered every inch of each of the partitions. Frank's office was at the top of a short flight of stairs. There was a desk for a secretary, but I guess she was out. I knocked on the door and heard a smooth voice say, "Come in."

"Morning, T.K. Can't say I'm surprised to see you. He's a friend of yours, isn't he?"

"He is, Frank. What's going on?"

"He's not here now, but we detained him in connection with the murder of Alexis Lavalier. Got a tip. Eyewitness saw him with her near the scene around the time the crime was committed. Got a search warrant. Found some interesting things on board. Filet knife with traces of blood on it. Some prescription drugs. An old NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC with an article on voodoo. Some pictures on his cell phone. A few things on his computer and a manila folder with some more photos. Not enough to hold him, but it does make him a person of interest."

"What does Chris say?"

"About what you'd expect."

He studied me for a moment, gauging my reactions.

"Hell, Frank. There were probably a hundred people near the scene of the crime at that time of night. Filet knife? Could be fish blood or anything else. Magazine? Computer? Doesn't sound like that much to me. And what about a motive?"

"We think we have one. Give us a little credit, T.K. We didn't roust him for nothing. We're running everything through the lab. We already know that not all of the blood on the sheet came from the child or that damned chicken. Foster's blood type matches the blood we found. He's got a couple of scratches on his hand. Could have been made by fingernails. Figure a normal healing rate, they time out near the night of the murder. We are using DNA to try for a positive ID. It will take a few days. Might not be conclusive, but we're on it."

"So what's this business about the folder with the photos?"

"Sorry, T.K. I've already told you more than I should. I'm not at liberty to discuss that in any detail at this time. Anyway, no formal charges, yet. We let him go. Just wanted to take a look, ask a few questions It's not even a real arrest. You're a friend of his. Ask him."

"Frank, I've known Chris Foster since I was up in the Carolinas. He drinks too much sometimes, but there's nothing mean about him. He's a Pied Piper with kids. They love him."

The chair creaked as he leaned back. He placed his elbows on the arms, put his hands together and made a steeple with his fingers. He looked at me like he had a bad case of heartburn.

"You don't want to hear it, T.K. Yeah, they love him. Maybe a little too much. It might interest you to know that your "Piper" was charged with statutory rape in Charlotte in 2003. Little girl, twelve years old. The case never went to trial. She recanted her original testimony. I talked to the detective in charge of the investigation. They had him. But the kid wasn't hurt physically. You usually can't withdraw charges in a case like that, but her parents had some juice. They apparently decided it was publicity they could do without. When you talk to your Boy Scout, ask him about it."

My chair had suddenly gotten very hard. Chris and I talked about damned near everything, but I'd never heard anything about a rape charge. I could do nothing but keep my mouth shut.

I felt like I knew Chris as well as I knew myself, but we all hide things inside ourselves. It's the dark within us, and it's as old as the human race. The best we can do is keep it under control for as long as possible. Maybe Chris hadn't.

There was no reason to stay. I thanked Beamon and left.
Chapter 18

When I got back to Land's End, I left a note on FOXES' LAIR that I'd be on KAMALA all afternoon. Just after lunch I saw him coming down the dock, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His gait was hurried and he kept twisting his head from side to side like he was expecting a sniper to squeeze off a round in his direction any minute. I motioned him aboard. He stubbed the butt out on the dock and stuffed it in his pocket. Then we went below.

"Those guys are all over me, T.K. I haven't done anything. I guess everyone in Key West knows the cops busted me this morning."

"Probably so, but it's done. I talked to Beamon. He doesn't think you're guilty," I lied," he called it a routine detainment. Apparently they had a witness place you near the crime scene on the night of the murder."

"Yeah, me and the other half of the drunks in Key West. I was there, but I went a lot of places. You know me, I was scouting the eligible ladies. I just wish it had been one in particular. My luck was bad that night. I did talk to one girl in a bar for a long time, but I hardly remember what she looked like. Went home alone. I don't have an alibi that anyone can confirm."

"What about the stuff they found on the boat?"

He rolled his eyes and raised his palms heavenward.

"Oh yeah, the stuff. A filet knife with blood on it. Big shock. What do you usually find on a filet knife, silly putty? Blood might be mine, might belong to that big Bonito I hooked last week. Some painkillers? I have the prescriptions. And the magazine. So I'm into nature. My sister gave me the subscription last year for Christmas. Hell, I didn't even read that issue yet. I didn't know there was an article on voodoo. Yeah, there's porn on my computer and pictures of some drunk chicks on my cell. And now I'm a murder suspect."

I stared at him for a moment. He looked like the Chris I knew, but I had to ask him.

"Beamon told me about the thing in Charlotte."

"The sonovabitch. I ought to have him in court, but it's all public record these days. I should have known they'd get that anyway. But I'm sorry you had to find out. Makes me look pretty bad, doesn't it?"

"Come on, Chris. Tell me why it shouldn't."

"Hell, it was dark in there. I was at that little beer joint near the lake. Had a few drinks. Too many, I guess. She looked pretty damned good in all that makeup. Heels, jeans that looked like they'd been painted on, tank top, no bra. Jesus, T.K., I took her for at least twenty. When we started talking I knew she was young, but still I figured eighteen or so. I had a feeling I should leave her alone."

"So why didn't you?"

"I don't know. She kept coming on to me. Leaning over to show me her tits, putting her hand on my knee. Stuff like that. I just caved. What the hell, she was in this bar; she ought to know how to take care of herself. Okay, so I blew it. But I swear I didn't force her to do anything. Used a condom and everything."

He grew silent, then twisted his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. He shook his head and went on.

"Guess she got home too late. Mommy and Daddy were raising hell. She needed a story. Did the tears and named nasty old Chris. The evil Svengali who had suckered their poor, innocent, virgin child into a bed of sin. I wish I could tell you it didn't happen. But I can't. I don't know what else to say. Anyway the cops picked me up. Lots of questions. This one detective wanted to burn me real bad. But it became pretty clear what actually happened. They dropped the whole damned thing. I found out later that wasn't the first time Daddy's little sweetheart had pulled some crap like that. Wrong place, wrong time, man."

He dropped his head into his hands. His fingers began to clench and his hands become fists. His eyes grew moist. He looked up at me.

"Alexis. She was like a little sister to me. I would've crushed anyone who tried to hurt her. We were buddies. I wouldn't touch her. You've got to tell that to Billy and Monique. They'll believe you, T.K. It wasn't me. We've been friends a long time. You know me, T.K. Tell them. Tell them."

I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Okay, Chris. I will. I'll talk to them. Tonight if I can. But you've got to do something for me. Be straight with Beamon. You want him on your side. He can help you or bury you. I don't believe he's out to get you. It's not some kind of a witch hunt. He wants the killer."

He nodded and got up slowly. But there was one more question.

"Beamon said something about a manila folder with some photos in it. Said they found them on your boat. What's that all about?'

He looked away for a moment and ran his tongue over his teeth.

"Hell if I know. They tore the boat apart. They probably found stuff I didn't even know I had. I don't know anything about manila folders with mysterious photos."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." He looked away as he spoke.

"Okay, I must have misunderstood him. Go back to the FOXES' LAIR. I got some things to do. I'll check with you after I talk to Billy and Monique."

He lit a cigarette and left KAMALA. I watched him hurry down the dock.

Chris was right. We had been friends for a long time. He was fond of the ladies, but I knew lots of guys who shared that diversion. He'd had a problem with the booze when I first met him, but in the last year he'd made a serious effort to control it. It hadn't gone completely away, but he was better. I thought about what I'd said to Beamon. There really wasn't anything mean in Chris.

It couldn't be him, but the thing in Charlotte bothered me. I was surprised he hadn't told me in some whiskey-laced confessional. It had to be something he wanted to forget. I also knew I was only getting his version of what happened. That was no surprise, either.

People tell you what they want you to know. And they tell it to make you think what they want you to think. It's a game and the rules are dictated by self-preservation. Only a fool expects anything else. I wanted to believe him and the story made sense.

There are too many little girls out there trying to be women. They struggle to live up to the hype they see on Jersey Shore or the Kardashians. Phony ID's, too much make-up, tight clothes, and things pulsing inside them that they don't understand. They want to grow up overnight and live the lives they've been promised by MTV and People Magazine. For most of us, that's not life. Too bad they can't learn it before they've lost something they can never regain.
Chapter 19

I still didn't understand the folder with the photos. There was no hesitation in Frank's voice when he mentioned them. The cops can't take things in a search without cataloguing them and giving the owner a receipt. Chris knew about it and didn't want to admit it or maybe the police were playing with the rules. Knowing Beamon, I didn't think so.

I thought about Billy and Monique, what they must be going through. I'd promised Chris I would talk to them. I didn't want to, but I needed to do it quickly. There was too much menace in Billy's voice when he told me to find the killer and he would "take care of the rest". Besides, the last few days had been crammed with things I didn't want to do. I would talk to them even if it was to tell them I wasn't catching any ghosts.

Monique had gone back to work. I dialed the shop to find out when I could come by their home. She answered with a voice out of a vacuum. She was polite and seemed coherent, but I figured she was still on valium or something. She told me she got off at six and they would be expecting me.

I ran through a mental list of things I could say to them. First, I'd tell them Chris didn't do it. That was the easy part. But what else would I say? That I'd found nothing? That I couldn't help? That the whole thing was one dead end?

I pulled out the Evan Williams and poured a healthy shot. A couple of ice cubes and a little water made the medicine. It had a thick, sweet smell. I swirled it in my glass, then took a long swallow. I tried to hear the right words in my mind, but they wouldn't come. It was all hollow and starved.

About 5:30 I showered, shaved, and put on a clean shirt. It wasn't far to their house, but my legs grew heavy as I walked.

Billy met me at the door. Monique was sitting on a tattered sofa in the small living room. She stared at the frayed edge of the carpet. Her hands were locked in her lap and she rocked gently on the threadbare cushion. Her eyes were driven back into her head, but they were dry. She looked older than she had at the funeral, but even in the depths of mourning she had that dark beauty that was mirrored in Alexis.

There was a plaster crucifix with a bleeding Christ hanging on the back wall. A framed photo of the child sat on the coffee table. A black rosary was draped over it. Nothing was new, but the place was clean and neat. The smell of simmering red beans and rice wafted out of the kitchen.

I took a gulp of air and the word's tumbled out of my mouth.

"I guess you know the police picked up Chris Foster. They found some things on his boat that seem incriminating."

Billy nodded. Monique looked toward the window. She had yet to meet my eyes.

"I spoke to Detective Beamon and then to Chris after they released him. He wants me to assure you that he had nothing to do with it. He was crazy about Alexis just like the rest of us. No one wants the killer found any more than him. He hopes you realize that."

Billy spoke first.

"What does Beamon say?"

I started to answer, but Monique interrupted quietly.

"Is no difference, Billy. You tell Chris, Dr. Fleming. We know he don't hurt Alexis. The police will find no more than evidence of circumstances. They can leave him alone. The one who bears the curse will be punished. Evil knows no escape. It happens as we speak. You tell Chris don't worry. We hold nothing to him."

She withered as every word burned into her flesh.

"What you think, Mister T.K.?" Billy asked.

"Monique is right. It is not Chris, but I don't know who did this thing. If the killer is human, he is in his own private hell. It will prod and suck at him until he makes a mistake. The police will be watching and waiting. When the time is right, they'll pounce."

"Is not enough," he said. "My baby cries. I hear her voice in the dark wind. I see her in the blue water. You see her, too. You tell me with your eyes. They no lie. Ghostcatcher must do what he does. Bring killer to me. Blood will have blood."

"Yes, I have seen her, but they're only dreams. It's the pain, the loss, that's haunting us all. It won't go away for a long time. But you mustn't think about violence, revenge. The killer will get what's coming to him."

Monique began to tremble. Billy tried to put his arm around her shoulders and pull her to him, but she grabbed his wrist and forced him away. Her face was slate gray, the muscles taut with fear and rage. She spit the words through clenched teeth.

"Can't you see? It's done. The loa goes and the evil with it. She meets Baron Samedi and the voodoo. Nothing brings her back. Blood runs into the dust. All we can do is beg God that her spirit is free."

The breath rushed from her lips. She rose quickly from the sofa and left the room. I could hear the sobbing from deep in the house. I got up slowly and headed for the door. Billy followed me out into the yard.

"I sorry, Mister T.K. She mean no harm. The grief make her crazy. Healing will be long time for both of us."

He focused his sad, brown eyes on mine and fixed an iron grip on my forearm.

"Please. You don't stop. I told you my baby come to you. She did. This not for police. It's voodoo, evil as the darkness and old as the night. Great power. No one believe me. I understand this. You the only one who can help. You got to do it."

My brain screamed. Just tell him what he wants to hear. I wanted to reach into his chest and snatch the black hole from his heart. But I couldn't.

Maybe he was right. Alexis was "the kid". She belonged to all of us. I had to do whatever I could do. Or at least, I had to try.

On the way home, I decided to try to see Marcuse Durant. There was nothing to lose. I heard the music and laughter as I neared Schooner's. It echoed and clawed at me. I hesitated for a moment at the entrance. Then I turned away. I walked alone for a long time, the pieces of the puzzle shifting through the shadows of my mind.
Chapter 20

Key West is a place where nothing much shocks you. The tone was set over a hundred years ago by the pirates, rum runners, and rascals of all descriptions. In the darkness the wreckers built fires on the beach to confuse unsuspecting mariners and lure them onto the reefs. The ships laden with rich cargo were wrecked. Then the brigands took their long boats into the surf and looted their helpless prey, leaving a trail of treachery and bloodshed. Their ancestors still make up much of the local population. The legacy has not been lost.

In Key West anything goes. The rogue who operates just outside the law is as much revered as the banker or the congressman. An old Woody Guthrie song popular with the folkies says, "Some rob you with a six-gun, some with a fountain pen". A lot of the boys in Key West have taken that as the gospel.

The would-be writers, artists, dropouts and high rollers would like to disavow any kinship with their harried mainland brethren. This is the fabled Conch Republic which grudgingly recognizes the rest of the country as distant relations poor in spirit. "Manana" is the by-word and people live and die in Jimmy Buffett's "three-quarter time".

Despite it all, I wasn't quite ready for Marcuse Durant.

I had no trouble finding the old conch house. Its unpainted cypress boards were weathered a deep gray, but it still looked like it could handle any cauldron of storms nature might brew. I stepped onto the creaky porch and knocked on the red door. A Latin radio station was blaring inside.

The door swung open. A swarthy needle-thin man stood before me. His cadaverous face was etched in deep furrows. He wore a faded t-shirt and khakis stained with dried blood. His feet were brown and bare. His arms were thin and hairless, but the sinew bulged and strained at his dry skin. In his right hand was a bone-handled butcher knife, the keen edge of its blade gleaming even in the shadows. I stared at the knife for a moment. It seemed a natural extension of his bony fingers. He looked at me with no trace of guilt, but when he realized I felt threatened, he put it behind his back.

"I am T.K. Fleming. I'm sorry to come unannounced, but I would like to see Reverend Durant if it is not inconvenient."

"You wait," he rasped. Then he abruptly closed the door and disappeared into the back of the house. He returned quickly, the knife still in his hand.

"The Reverend will see you. Follow me." He led me off the porch and around to a whitewashed gate that opened into a small courtyard fully enclosed by a 6 foot wooden fence. There were blooming pink Hibiscus and a bank of Oleander along the left side. A simple birdbath sat in the center of a small fish pond full of bright, active Koi.

Durant was sprawled over a white plastic chaise longue. A bundle of letters lay in his lap. A glass of green liquid sat on a folding table at his right hand. He wore the same white shirt I had seen him in at the funeral. As I got closer, he squinted at me through a pair of gold-rimmed bifocals. His face was a dusky mask of wrinkles, the hair close cropped and white as the sand on the beach. I could tell he was a large man, but when he rose he towered over me like Goliath over the boy David.

"Thank you, Joseph." I thought he was being dismissed, but he stood at attention like a centurion guarding the emperor.

The Reverend smiled and offered a hand like a huge meat hook. His fingers swallowed mine. His grip was fierce and dry.

"Dr. Fleming, what a pleasure. I knew you were coming."

He noticed my unease and said, "Don't mind the knife. Joseph handles sharp implements with remarkable skill. It's all right, Joseph." He waved and the man disappeared like a wraith whose duty was done.

"Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Reverend Durant."

"Of course. But it was not necessary. A man in my position must often entertain the devotees. Besides, an unannounced guest often brings sun to what might have been a cloudy day. Please sit. Some lemonade, perhaps. Its preparation is one of Joseph's unheralded talents."

I declined with a turn of my head.

"Well then, Doctor. The pleasantries are done. As your people say, shall we cut to the chase? I understand you have developed a recent fascination with voodoo."

"Yes," I said, not surprised that he knew, "I am trying to learn everything that I can. I know that you are familiar with the details of the murder of the child, Alexis Lavalier. You certainly have the reputation of any expert in these dubious arts."

"An interesting choice of words, my good Doctor, but I fear you assign me credit where it is not due." His face unfolded in a smile of mass amusement.

"They say you are a Tonton Macoute."

His laughter exploded like a land mine and reverberated through the small stockade.

"Well, Doctor, I'm not sure who "they" are, but they certainly flatter me. You see before you a humble "hougan," a voodoo priest. I assure you I can neither fly nor change my shape. I control no evil spirits nor do I conference with Baron Samedi. I merely try to minister to the needs of those few followers here in the Keys. Some of the locals would assign me those magic powers that I could exercise only in my dreams. Magic, indeed. No, Doctor Fleming. I hope I don't disappoint you."

He hesitated for a moment, then beamed at me, "You want magic? LeBron had 28 in the first half against the Knicks last night. This is a man that can fly."

His smile grew larger as he folded his hands in front of his huge chest. I waited.

"The death of the child?" I said quietly.

"Of course. A very sad affair. The child was dear to me and to many others. You among them, so I am informed. Despite her mother's unfortunate infatuation with Catholicism, Monique is one of my people. But I am certain you know that. I assure you, Doctor Fleming, I listen very carefully. Little that occurs among my congregation escapes me. None of my followers know anything of the murder."

I nodded. "Yes, I understand your wife . . ."

His dark hand snaked out at me, commanding silence. He removed his glasses and glowered. He leaned toward me until his face almost touched mine. His eyes were hot and black like steaming tar. Something powerful and frightening burned within them. I could feel his fiery breath on my cheek as he spoke. Suddenly I realize that Joseph lurked behind me.

"My wife is dying as we speak, Doctor Fleming. That is well known, but rest assured that it is no concern of yours, nor will it become so."

It was spoken as a threat. Joseph and the knife seemed barely contained as his master glared.

"Of course, Reverend. I am sorry, but I am wondering . . . "

"Yes, Doctor Fleming, you are wondering, aren't you?"

He fell back in his chair, but the specter of his presence was no smaller.

"You must excuse me, Doctor, if I am direct. You are most recently a resident of academia, a man of research. It tells you that the faithful believe my wife may be invested with an evil spirit, a demon of some sort. Perhaps she has been cursed by a witch. Voodoo has methods to deal with this phenomenon, spells, incantations. You believe one of them may involve the sacrifice of a child. You think that Alexis may have been offered to exorcise this devil from my wife. Something like that, eh, Doctor Fleming?"

I didn't speak. He went on.

"Please understand, Doctor. For the devout, Voodoo is a religion, not some bloody cult of demon worshippers. No, it's not the religion you know, not the bland Sunday morning variety your Christian nation clings to so fervently. We don't ask our followers to take communion, then be "generous with their gifts" so that we may build a new sanctuary. All for the glory of God, of course. But Voodoo does provide strength and solace to those who practice our ancient rituals. Oh, we may dispose of a miserable chicken now and then. But I assure you we do not murder the innocent."

His eyes hooked into me and held me for several seconds. Then he balanced his glasses on his nose and began to shuffle his papers.

"Please don't think me rude, Doctor, but I am quite busy. You are welcome to return when your mind is more open. If you want magic, read of Merlin or watch LeBron this weekend. I can promise you that either provides a spectacle that you will find quite satisfying."

I had been dismissed. I thanked him and turned to go. Joseph's eerie presence moved me toward the gate. Durant was much more than I expected. During our short interview, I had been welcomed, amused, manipulated, and even intimidated. At the same time I felt a vague sense of shame.
Chapter 21

I decided to check the post office on the way back to the boat. There was a Publix circular, an invitation to apply for a VISA Goldcard, and a letter-sized envelope. No return address. Just a barely recognizable scrawl with my name and box number. I tucked it in my back pocket, determined to open it on the boat.

I stopped at the Raw Bar on the way home for an Irish coffee and a little information. Louis Moulet was the daytime bartender. He is a graduate of LSU and speaks the perfect English that you'd expect from a communications major. Still he affects that accent that the tourists expect from anyone on the island with dark skin. He told me once about an experiment he'd conducted. For one entire day at the bar he had used nothing but the exquisite diction that came so naturally to him. His tips were down 36%.

"Hey, T.K. Why you tink dat Susan Lucci didn't never win no Emmy?"

I laughed and shook my head. "I don't know, Louis."

"Maybe still, if she be patient." He grinned and put down a frothy cup in front of me.

"Louis, tell me what you know about Marcuse Durant."

The grin disappeared. He shook his head and looked around to see who was in listening range. Then he leaned over the bar and lowered his voice.

"Hey, 'Mon. Dat's powerful medicine. Probably more of dose voodoo types in Key West than you know. Dey go to him for all sorts of tings. I meet him once. Very much the gentleman, but don't let dat fool you. He see tings. Big mistake to mess with the Reverend. I hear some stories 'bout people who cross him. De ones dat still around? Dey very, very sorry. Believe me, 'Mon, you don't need to know nothing else."

I asked him about Joseph.

"Some tink he a zombie. Back from the dead. Do anything dat the Reverend say. His people all devoted to him, either dat or scared shitless. Dey don't ask no questions. He say. Dey do."

I wanted more, but he picked up a towel and began to polish glasses. Louis was an easy 6'4", 220 or so. When the occasion called for it, I'd known him to wade into the thick of a brawl and deposit some Florida roughneck on his butt in the parking lot. When he spoke of Durant, his words carried something else. Respect. And a healthy dose of fear.

Before I could get anything else, a half-dozen sunburned tourists came in off a charter. They were caked with salt and loaded with tales about the monster dolphin that had snapped the line. I waited for a moment, but they planted themselves at the bar and got noisy. Louis was grinning and hustling drinks while the fish got bigger and bigger. I put a ten on the bar and headed for the dock.

There was a note on the boat announcing a meeting of Buffett's Roundtable at the Parrot later that evening. Things had been too quiet since the death of Alexis. I missed the camaraderie and the laughter. I decided to be there for a little attitude adjustment.

It was an enthusiastic crowd. Everyone was ready to cut loose. Harry was already lit when he arrived and insisted on buying drinks for everyone at the table. Chris and Sal were in the corner sizing up prospects for an evening boat tour. Fritz had come out of his computer cave for a parade of Diet Cokes and Marlboros. Whipsaw and Miss Julianne sat the end of the table in their customary finery whispering mysteries to each other. Cy Watts was his usual scowling self, but no one paid any attention. Sunny kept the mugs brimming with foamy liquids.

Chris got up to speak to a young redhead at the bar. I went over and sat down with Sal.

"How are Billy and Monique holding up?" I asked.

"It's hard to say, T.K. How do you handle something like the death of the kid? Billy's kind of okay, I guess. But Monique, there's not enough downers in the world to shut up the voices in her head. It's like she's somehow responsible. Billy doesn't say much, but I know he's worried. Maybe time will take care of it. Who the hell knows? You gonna help?"

"Come on, Sal. What can I do?"

"I don't know, but Billy thinks you can. Thinks you got some kind of insight or power. Called you the Ghostcatcher. Where the hell did he get that?"

I shook my head. It wasn't time for me to talk. I had decided to keep my visit with Durant to myself, knowing that nothing stays quiet for very long in Key West.

I felt a clap on my back. It was Chris.

"No midnight boat tours?" I said.

"I never have any luck with the redheads."

Things broke up around ten. I asked Sunny to come to KAMALA when she got off, but she said she was tired and she looked it. I headed back.

I was emptying my pockets when I found the letter. I sat at the navigation table and pried open the envelope. I unfolded a faint copy of a snapshot. "This is what the cops got," was scratched in pencil on the bottom.

The image was rough, the lines blurred in shades of gray and white. But there was no question about the subject.

It was Alexis. She was sitting beside a bed. Her legs were crossed Indian-style and a faint patch of dark hair showed in her pelvic region. Her breasts were small mounds, the nipples just beginning to blossom. She was grinning, the tip of her tongue licking something from her upper lip.

She had her small hands around the erection of a man who sat on the bed next to her. His fingers gripped the curls on the back of her head as if he was going to put his penis in her mouth. His upper body was lost out of the top of the frame.

At first I couldn't move. Then I got sick.
Chapter 22

I didn't want to be alone. It was paranoia. There are moments of darkness in all of our lives when you think there's nothing left to trust. The icy waters pitch and rise, threatening to drown you, longing to choke off your last breath. You struggle and search, desperate to grasp anything that will hold you up, a quick source of strength. Just one thing to steel you so you can snatch a few more seconds of survival. For me, that was Sunny.

I was sitting at the kitchen table in her apartment when she came in from the Parrot.

"I know you're tired. I'm sorry," I said.

She looked at me and tilted her head to one side. Then she came over and kissed me on the forehead.

"It's okay," she said. "I'll take odds you need something strong. Bourbon or black coffee?"

"Maybe a little of both."

She pulled a glass and a bottle of Evan Williams Black from the cabinet and placed them side by side in front of me. I poured enough to paint the bottom of the glass brown. She measured four scoops of coffee from the canister while I told her about the letter. I put the photocopy on the table. She sat down while the coffee maker popped and spat. There was something comforting about the rich aroma, but the pain didn't go. It pounded its omnipotence into my brain.

Sunny glanced at the gray image. I heard her swallow hard and watched her turn her head. For a moment she avoided touching it, as though it carried some hideous disease. Finally she picked it up and stared. She was fighting for control, but she trembled like a volcano, ready to spew the hot lava of horror and rage.

"Jesus, T.K. What sick sonovabitch would have a little girl do that?"

"I don't know, Sunny. I hope I'm wrong, but I guess there are more where that came from. It's got to be the photo that Beamon took from Chris's boat. Chris lied to me."

"Do you think he took it? I've heard him joke about checking out "the wildlife" in town. Seen him with that cheap parade of one nighters. I know he can't keep his eyes off any good looking ass in Key West. But this shit? Could he do that to Alexis?"

"God knows. If someone had asked me about Chris Foster a couple of weeks ago, I would have said I could trust him with my life. But he lied about the photo and I dug up something from Beamon that I wish the hell could have stayed buried."

I told her about the rape charges in Charlotte and Chris's explanation. Sunny seldom judges. She's gentle and forgiving. But her face hardened and became as black as the hangman. She spit out the words.

"I've heard that shit before. Like the way she was dressed or what she said meant she was asking for it. She was a kid. He knew that. He admitted it. Sounds like something that bastard Malachi Strait would come up with. He always got a slick way to explain why he's not exploiting these "lucky young girls" who sit for his "art photos." That joint of his, The Strip Search, is loaded with that kind of trash. Sonovabitch ought to be in jail and Chris in the cell next to him."

I waited for her to cool off. I picked up the copy again, studying the grainy figures. I wanted something, anything, that would bring me closer to Alexis' murderer. But when I focused, my mind screamed. Tired, confused, angry, and still sick.

I told Sunny I was going back home. She didn't argue. I'd gotten all I could expect form her. I knew I wouldn't sleep, but at least I knew what I had to do tomorrow.

I got back to KAMALA and lay down on the settee. I could see Alexis holding the book of poems on her lap. Hear her elfish voice ask me to read "Annabel Lee" just once more. Catch the magic in her eyes as the musical rhyme lifted her into childish ecstasy.

She was an innocent. She had been violated, crushed under the leaden desire of a people gone mad. Mad for sex, mad for money, mad for any thrill that will help them escape the hellish assaults of everyday existence.

Suddenly the exhaustion flooded my mind and my body. I let it take over. I dozed for a while, then I heard the crying.

I went to the companionway. I scanned the murky water, but there was nothing. Still, I heard it. A long, low keening that pleaded for the lost and the lonely. She begged to return, to recover something more important than life itself. I listened as it began to fade into the light chop of the darkness. The dawn came and I slept a couple of fitful hours.

At eight I was banging on the hull of FOXES' LAIR. At first I thought there was no one aboard. Then Chris appeared at the companionway. He was shirtless. His hair wandered in several different directions, and he peered out of slits that barely covered tiny streaks of red lightning.

"My God, T.K. It's early. What's up?"

"I need to talk to you, Chris."

"It's kind of a bad time. I have a sort of guest on board. Can't it wait?"

"It has to be now, Chris."

I stood on the dock and said nothing else. He blinked twice and tried to focus on my eyes. Then he bit his lip, coughed, and nodded.

"Okay. Gimme a minute."

I heard a muffled moan and a shuffling below. She came out quickly, spitting venom at me with a look of furious indignation. Even through the snarl, she was young and pretty. Another mainland prize for Chris. She said something under her breath that I was glad I couldn't hear. Then she stormed down the dock, not bothering to look back. I don't know why, but I asked who she was.

"Lois, Alice, something like that," he mumbled.

I stepped on board and sat down in the cockpit. Chris lit a menthol, took a long drag and hacked a couple of times.

"It's the picture, Chris. Why did you lie to me?"

"Aw shit, T.K. Gimme a break. What did you expect? The damned thing made me sick. I don't even know where it came from. Beamon says he found it on board. It's bullshit. If he did, someone planted it."

He shook his head. The sweat glistened on his body in the early morning sun and I could smell the booze pouring out of him.

"I know it looks bad for me. And Billy and Monique, they'd die if they knew something like that was floating around. Disgusting shit. Thank God Beamon hasn't showed it to anyone. I know it's evidence. He can't keep it quiet for long. The papers will go nuts and I'll be hoping for a cake with a file in it."

I shuddered and mumbled, "Yeah."

He ran a shaky hand through his hair and went on.

"I'm sorry. If I was going to lie to anyone, it shouldn't be you. I just didn't know what else to do. Too much hurt already. No one needs to see the damned thing or even know it exists. I don't know where it came from. I leave my boat open all of the time. Anybody could have been on board. I got nothing else to say."

"Is there anything you haven't told me?"

"No, T.K. I swear. That's all."

He looked hard into my eyes. I wanted to believe him, but people do what they will to survive. Then they become little more than animals. Lie, cheat, steal, kill. It's all part of an immutable law and none of us escapes it.

I stayed for a few minutes, but I didn't get anything more from Chris.
Chapter 23

I hoped my next stop would be more fruitful. I went back to KAMALA and grabbed a notebook and a pen. Then I checked my pocket to be sure I had the photocopy. I tried to clear my mind and focus on what I had to do. "No reason to hurry," I told myself. It's just a short walk over to Duval.

It was still early, but the trade in human garbage doesn't worry about office hours. The Strip Search was open. A high pitched beep sounded as I went through the door. The few customers ducked into head high stacks of videos and magazines when they heard it. There were cameras in each corner surveying the gawkers.

An early-twenties girl stood smiling at the counter. She wore a long, loose black skirt and a crisp white blouse buttoned at the neck. No lipstick, no jewelry. Her brown hair was pulled back off of her face in a dowdy pony tail. She was quite pretty in a fresh scrubbed sort of way. If I'd seen her somewhere else, I might have thought she was a Jehovah's Witness just setting out for a morning of dedicated missionary work.

Behind her was a rack of toys, ribbed condoms, various scents and salves that guaranteed satisfaction, several dildos in colors and sizes of your choice. The more expensive stuff was in a glass case with a sign that read, "You pick it out. We'll explain how to use it."

"Hello, T.K. Can I help you?" she asked pertly.

I looked again. It was Tracy. More clothes, less makeup, but it was her. The last time I'd seen her, she was caressing a glass of Dom Perignon with one hand and hugging Harry with the other one.

"Sorry, Tracy. I didn't recognize you at first. Nice to see you again."

"No need to give the customers any more excitement than they get off the shelves,"  
she said and winked.

I laughed, "I didn't know you worked here."

"Yeah, my uncle owns the place. My real uncle, Mom's brother. He's a sweetheart."

"Malachi Strait?"

She nodded and smiled.

"I'd like to see him if he's in."

"I'm not sure. Let me check in the back."

She went through a curtain next to a large two-way mirror. I had no doubt Strait was watching me right now, trying to figure out what I was doing in his fine establishment at this hour of the morning.

After a few minutes, he peered through the curtains and waved me into the back. It didn't look like a back room office. The desk was solid mahogany and the chairs were lime colored leather, over-stuffed, even elegant. There was a quality Picasso print, "Blue Nude," on the wall to the right and "La Vie," behind the desk, both iconic pieces from his Blue Period. Tracy's touch, I figured. A telephone, computer, and copier sat perched in one corner.

He didn't ask me to sit, but I did.

I wasn't sure I bought Tracy's story about Strait as her uncle, but there was some resemblance. He was tall, a bit swarthy, but patrician good looks. He wore a tailored gray silk suit and a conservative navy tie. He was probably mid-forties, dark hair freshly cut and thinning, but he still had enough to mousse it back off his forehead. He looked like he'd just come from the board meeting at the First National Bank.

I guess I expected loads of gold jewelry and a silk shirt unbuttoned to the navel. I was wrong on that. But when he opened his mouth, it was Joe Pesci in "Goodfellas" déjà vu. He forced a serpentine smile, but didn't offer his hand.

"Mornin', Fleming. I liked your book. But I got it wrong, you tell me? You didn't come to rent no DVD's."

I told him I was doing an article on adult entertainment for a news magazine and would like to ask a few questions. It was an obvious lie, but for some reason he chose to go along.

I started by asking how an owner felt in pandering to people's sometimes sick fantasies. He looked at me like I'd just dribbled spaghetti sauce on my dress shirt.

"Don't be a sucker, Fleming. It's a business. Profit, man. We're here for the bucks. I create jobs, stimulus for the local economy. I don't make no judgments nor impose no sort of morality on my clientele. I don't hold no guns to nobody's head. They come of their own free will from all walks of life. Some is perverts, sure as hell. Some was raised in the finest families in Florida. They all like a little variety in their lives."

He sat down on the corner of his desk and toyed with a paper clip like a bored child.

"I'm sure that's true, Mr. Strait. But don't you feel your goods and services have a negative effect on the community?"

"Come on, Fleming. Cut the crap, willya? There ain't no empirical evidence that says nothing I rent or sell causes no degenerate or dangerous shit to go on. Why don't you square up? You know I'm providin' a service. This is a perfectly legit outlet for some of those creeps. Helps 'em keep their hands to themselves. You know, whackin' off instead of doin' bad shit to other people."

I pretended to take notes while he went on. Somehow the whole thing sounded more and more like something he'd rehearsed for a remedial speech class.

"I don't sell no dope. I don't provide no women. I obey the law, pay my taxes, and send a fat check to the United Way every year. I'm even a member of the Key West Chamber of Commerce, good standin', I might add."

"And don't forget," he insisted, "my rights and those of my customers is guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States. You can look it up."

"I understand, Mr. Strait. I know you have your rights. But there are always those who might want to take your services a bit further. Maybe step outside the law. Child pornography, for example."

He fumed and grew silent. Then he bolted upright and turned to the back of the room. He wanted to grab my collar and toss me out into the street. He whirled, glared, and shoved a finger in my face.

"Lemme tell you something, Fleming and make sure you listen real good. I don't go for that shit. Right here," and he pointed to his heart, "I got a special place for the kids. Consenting adults? I don't give a damn if they fuck monkeys. But if I thought even one child in Key West was getting shit on, I'd hafta do something and it wouldn't be nice."

I nodded, closed my notebook and pocketed my pen.

"Now I got a business to run. Tracy's gotta go to school. She's working on a degree in Business Management. Might even bring her in with me sometime. She's on the honor roll. Me and my Sis are real proud of her."

"I'm sure you are, Mr. Strait. I'll go. Thanks for your time."

When I came from behind the curtain, Tracy was with a short man in a long canvas duster. I was a good 80 degrees outside. Her face was stern. He went to the stacks and pulled out a box that read "College Kittens in Heat". Tracy looked at me and raised her eyebrows in mock horror. Then she shot me a smile and a friendly wave as I slipped out into the fresh air.

I wasn't quite sure what to make of Strait. He seemed clownish, but clowns aren't supposed to be dangerous. I had the feeling he was.

My head was swimming with information, but it was disjointed. There were all sorts of possibilities, but no concrete connections. I'd had all I could handle for one day. Later I'd make some notes, see if I could find some light. Sunny and I were going to Ricky's Blue Heaven for dinner. It was one of our favorites and we didn't need a special occasion.

I picked her up at her place and we walked to the corner of Thomas and Petronia. I promised I wouldn't talk about Alexis tonight. She breathed relief. It was the perfect night, yellow hint of a moon, a light breeze, and the fresh scent of salt air. Elise was our server, quiet, efficient, and simply charming. We started with a hearty Tuscan red and some small jokes. I had the jerked tenderloin and Sunny inhaled a huge plate of mahi mahi. She finished off my vegetables and most of the bread, then had Irish coffee and cheesecake. Fabulous food, great service.

We took turns on the rope swing that hangs from the huge oak in the courtyard just a few feet from the tables. Some of the diners laughed. I suspect they thought we were a couple of overgrown children. But before the night was out, some of the more adventurous souls were swinging on their own. One man even pounded his chest and did a passable Tarzan.

It works for me. It's okay. The world needs a little silly now and then to keep us from getting utterly ridiculous.
Chapter 24

I woke up with Sunny's arm resting on my chest. Her face was smooth and untroubled, her brown back heaving gently as the breath eased in and out of her. I felt the corners of my mouth creep up. The sleep of the innocent.

My head ached slightly from the wine. I had no regrets. I raised Sunny's arm quietly and slipped out of the v-berth. I slid into a pair of shorts, then started the coffee.

She was up before long, groggy and stumbling. Still she managed to wolf down four donuts that had been in a brown paper bag for a week or so. She topped them off with a brown banana and a mug of coffee that was half sugar. Fully awake, she now informed me that she was taking my bike. She grabbed a spare suit she kept on board and headed off for a morning swim.

I went up into the cockpit to savor my second dose of caffeine. The charter boats had already slipped their lines, but it was still too early for the tourists to be wandering around with their endless supply of cameras and shopping bags. Except for a couple of cruisers washing down an old wooden ketch, it was quiet. The air was warm and salty, the faint smell of fish dancing in the breeze. KAMALA rocked softly and tugged at her dock lines like a child clinging to her mother's skirts. I listened to the water lap against the hull and felt the sun on my back. This was the reason I had chosen the sea as my hide-out. But I had work to do.

I went below and poured the last dregs of the coffee into my cup. I sat down at the table with my pen and notebook. Over the years friends on campus had kidded me about choosing books over life. It never really bothered me. But the campus was a thousand miles north. This was Key West. It was real life and real murder. I bit down on the end of my finger and felt my brow tighten. I had to think like a cop.

So far there were four people I might call suspects. I wrote each of the names on a separate sheet of paper. Then I drew a line down the middle of every page. The first column was for facts that had been verified through observation or information I'd gotten from Frank. The second was for suspicions or theories, kind of a half-assed what-if, then-this sort of thing.

Marcuse Durant was the first, followed by Joseph, Chris, and Malachi Strait. I thought about a page for others, but I had no idea if they even existed or who they might be. I could only deal with the information I had. I clicked the ball-point and began to write.

Durant claimed to be nothing more than a humble voodoo priest. He was anything but that. There was a boisterous strength and power that roared out of him. Miss Julianne had told me as much. I remembered the tremor in Louis' voice when he warned me about the Reverend. And Joseph. I could still see those dead eyes and the gleaming knife.

I had only a glimpse of his temper. I was glad I hadn't seen it all. Maybe Alexis had. No doubt Durant could be ruthless and violent if he were provoked. I also wondered about what he what termed Monique's "unfortunate infatuation with CatholiciWas it simply a comment that revealed his displeasure or disappointment? Or was there more to it?

Durant had acknowledged that his wife was dying. He became enraged when I asked about her. Was his failure to cure her a threat to the power he held over his followers? Did he believe it made him look weak? Could that make him capable of a crime so hideous.

I knew the belief in witches was deeply entrenched in the practice of voodoo. They had to be dispatched. Moreover, any man could become desperate when the woman he loved was in danger. Durant was crafty and capable. Perhaps he had released the demons. Again there was Joseph, the zombie, to do his bidding.

His devotion to Durant was absolute. He obviously knew the rituals. Perhaps he was simply following orders. Or he could have acted on his own. No doubt he was witnessing the disintegration of Durant's wife. Watching the man he worshipped battered by a thing he could not control. Maybe the priest had only hinted and the blind follower had fulfilled what he thought to be the master's wishes. The death mask and the razor-sharp blade were grim reminders of what Joseph might do in defense of the Reverend.

Next on my list was Chris, a man I'd called my best friend for the last year. He'd spent hours working with me on KAMALA. We'd shared cruises, cold beer, and trusted our hearts to each other. But he was a liar. His obsession with women was obvious and he liked them young. He'd been arrested for rape. He'd been spotted near the scene of the crime. He had no firm alibi. Beamon had matched his blood type, found the photograph, and the bloody knife on his boat. The magazine had all of the information on ritual voodoo sacrifice. Maybe he had planned the scene as diversion to draw attention away from the real killer, himself.

I thought he was controlling his drinking, but I didn't know anything about the drugs. Booze is a disease. Mix it with drugs and you get crazy. Chris said he didn't know where he went the night of the crime. Still, he was a regular at the bars in Key West. Someone should have seen him.

But I couldn't believe he was capable of murder. I'd seen him with Alexis. It was like magic. My best instincts told me he was harmless. But then I thought the same thing about O.J. Simpson.

That brought me to Malachi Strait. Could the clown who wasn't a clown be a murderer? Someone in Key West was dealing child pornography, probably in a big way. Why not him? No doubt he had the contacts. It was the bucks. He'd said so himself. Maybe someone had found out about Uncle Malachi and had to be silenced. But the kid?

The photocopy flashed in my mind. The demonic grin on the child's face, her hands clutching the hard veined flesh. I was sure the horror was all over the net, being sucked up by sick bastards all over the mainland. Yeah, there was money and maybe Mr. Strait was stuffing his pockets with it.

But what about the speech, the "special place" Malachi Strait had for kids? All a charade for a naïve washed-out college professor?

His reaction when I asked about child pornography seemed real. He was genuinely proud of Tracy and she wasn't much more than a kid herself. We all draw lines. We convince ourselves that as long as we don't step over them, we remain clean and honorable. They're in different places for different people. I hoped Strait had drawn his short of violating little girls. He said if he knew about it, he'd have to do something. I wondered what that might be. I couldn't cross him off of the list.

I looked over my notes. It wasn't much. They were too short and there was too little hard information. I didn't know it, but the list was about to shrink by one.
Chapter 25

I had nothing pressing for the rest of the day. Sometimes a bit of boat maintenance will force your mind into your body and allow you to breathe. I went over KAMALA's topsides, then started some long overdue work on the teak trim. I scrubbed it with cleaner, then rinsed and let the sun bake it dry. A couple of coats of Cetol and it glowed like Spanish doubloons.

There's always a reason to put it off. Too damp, too much sun, too messy. But boat owners are like small children and bristol teak is like an additional present under the tree on Christmas morning. My back ached and my hands cramped, but it sure beat switches and coal.

Sunny was working. After a gourmet dinner of sardines, saltines, peanut butter and an apple, I read some Elmore Leonard and turned in early. There were no dreams.

The sun was creeping over the horizon. It glimmered like fresh varnish over the water. I could hear the engines revving on charter boats packed with tourists. All in pursuit of the big one that would cost them several hundred dollars a pound.

Then another sound, a thumping in cadence with the small swells in the basin. I listened for a moment, but it didn't go. I thought maybe a crab buoy had broken loose and drifted into the basin. I tried to ignore it, but it hung on like a northern winter. Finally, still half-asleep, I stumbled out of the v-berth and into the cockpit. I grabbed the docking pole on deck, but it was too large to be a crab pot. Maybe part of a rotten piling. But as I came closer, I could see it was too long and had too much dark hair. Malachi Strait was prostrate, partially submerged in the orange water, bobbing up and down in a hellish rhythm.

Frank Beamon arrived within twenty minutes. Two divers fished Strait out of the water and laid him carefully on the dock. He was fully clothed in the silk suit he had worn the day before. His throat was slit. After the coroner gave the body a cursory examination, they slipped him into a black bag and zipped it up.

I tried to explain to Frank how I had discovered the corpse, but I was in near shock. I didn't even know Strait, but yesterday I had been in his office admiring Picasso and listening to him dodge my questions. He was breathing, talking, playing with a paper clip. Now he was headed for the Monroe County Morgue, destined for a cold slab and a tag on his toe. Frank knew I wouldn't be much help in the state I was in.

"Have some coffee, T.K. Get a shower, then come on down to the office."

He checked to make sure we were out of earshot of the rest of the officers.

"Maybe it's time for us to trade some information," he said quietly.

The coffee was bitter and the shower was too cold. I was still shaky, but now my brain was working. Or at least, I thought so.

Frank was on the phone when I got to the station. He motioned me to sit. While I waited, I took a quick inventory of his office. There was a framed diploma from Florida State, B.A. in political science, Cum Laude, 1994. Beneath it was a montage of photos and clippings from the sports pages of several newspapers. There was even a glossy from SPORTS ILLUSTRATED. Frank had been a potential first-round pick before he tore up his knee. I wondered how it felt to see several million dollars disappear on the operating table.

On his desk was a framed snapshot of a lovely woman and two laughing children. A boy and a girl, probably ten and twelve. There was an impressive collection of citations for bravery and meritorious service. The desk was a briar patch of hand written notes, dog-eared files, and jumbled reports. He put the receiver in the cradle, looked toward the open door and scowled. His voice was harsh and much too loud.

"Mr. Fleming. I know all about the little interviews you've been conducting around town. Durant, Foster, Strait. For the record, you've stuck your nose in where it doesn't belong. This is police business. We're talking about a murder investigation. Now two of them, maybe related. You don't know what the hell you're getting into, but you may be looking at a charge of Obstruction of Justice. It could even be quite dangerous. So I am telling you officially to back off and let us handle it. Is that quite clear?"

I gave him a humble nod. He got up and slammed the door.

"Okay, T.K. Now that you've heard the party line, let's get to the serious business. Strait's body wasn't bloated much, hadn't been in the water long. Three, four hours, tops. Lucky you found him before he made a breakfast buffet for the fish and crabs. You saw his throat was slashed. Very sharp blade, might have been a filet knife. Forensics will determine if it was the same knife used on the child. His wallet was gone, jewelry, watch. It was a Rolex. We know he usually carried large amounts of cash. Could have been a simple mugging gone wrong, but not much evidence of a struggle. We don't know why he would have been down on the dock at that hour of the morning. Got a sister up in Tampa, but no known relatives in the area except for the niece, Tracy. She's been notified, but we couldn't question her. Heavy sedation. That's all I've got at the moment. Now it's your turn."

He knew I'd been to see Strait the previous morning. I told him about the photocopy I'd received in the mail. Then the article scam I'd used to question him. He did the church steeple thing with his fingers and touched them to his lips as he listened. He never took his eyes off me.

"Do you have the photocopy? We know there is a copier in his office. Might be able to get a match."

I slipped it out my pocket and handed it to him. He looked at it in stony silence. I saw his upper lip curl. He took a couple of shallow breaths.

"She was about the age of my daughter," he said through clenched teeth, "makes me want to throw up." He took another breath, this one deeper. "So tell me about Durant and Foster. What did you learn from those two solid citizens?"

I told him everything I could remember about conversations with each of them. He asked a few questions, didn't seem surprised by any of the answers. Again he listened through folded hands. His eyes had a laser-like intensity. I could almost hear the gears grinding through the bones in his skull. He was very still for a moment. Then he swiveled in his chair and put his feet on the edge of the desk.

"A couple of things that should interest you," he said. "Those voodoo types use a powder in their ceremonies. Weird combination. Usually some dried hummingbird flesh, herbs, cemetery dirt, even the ground up bones of the dead. The Tontons are very meticulous about the contents. Stuff we found on the body of the child? Mostly talcum powder. Makes you wonder. Durant would know how to mix the stuff. Couldn't be him, you think. But the Reverend is smart. Maybe he's feeding us a nice plate of red herring. We don't know."

"Have you met Joseph?" I asked

"Yeah. One Joseph Alfred Fontaine. Haitian immigrant, now an American citizen. No record, no visible means of support. Sticks to the Reverend like a slug. That's all we could dig up. We questioned both of them. A regular mutual admiration society. Presents some interesting possibilities."

"Anything else on Chris?" I asked reluctantly.

"We're not ready to count him out, but he's not on the "A List" at the moment. I did some more checking. Even talked to a couple of his paramours, if you can call them that. Drinks too much, can't keep it in his pants, but nothing violent or kinky that we can nail down.

Frank smothered a little laugh. I gave him a puzzled look. He pointed at the snapshot on his desk.

"Might have been a good description of me before I met Felice."

I was relieved, but not enough. I wanted Frank to confess that he had been wrong about Chris. That he was just a harmless guy who wasn't ready to give up the fun and games. But Frank was a cop and that would have been too easy. Over the years I'd learned that "easy" was often the handmaiden of trouble. Sometimes it just waited around until you were a bit too comfortable, self-satisfied, until you knew you had it all figured out. Then it hit you like a bad case of the flu. First you get a little queasy, then the chills and fever. Finally your brain screams, "It's the real world, asshole. Deal with it."

I had that flu and the only cure was to find Alexis' killer. I had given Frank everything I knew, except the dreams.

He wouldn't understand. He'd think I was going over, smoking those funny cigarettes, or I'd just been in the sun too long. I hadn't told anyone, not even Sunny. But it was gnawing the marrow of my bones. I'd held it as long as I could. I had to talk to someone who would listen with an open mind. Someone who wouldn't think I was crazy. I knew who that person was.
Chapter 26

I twisted the knob and the tarnished brass door bell jingled. The porch light flickered to life as she peered through the beads that blocked the window of the door. I heard the leaden sound of the dead-bolt sliding open. It was warm, but she was wearing a black turtleneck. A necklace of silver medallions hung around her neck and a turquoise pendant hung loosely between her breasts. Tights the color of rubies clung to her hips and legs. Her dark hair was bound with a tortoise shell clip. Her feet were bare, the toenails painted with a silvery polish.

She led me through a paneled foyer into a small sitting room. I felt like a bit player in one of those bad movies made in the 60's. A lava lamp stood on the mantle undulating in a crimson glow. Posters of Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, and Janis Joplin papered the walls. On the trunk she used as a coffee table, there was an ashtray full of roaches and a brass clip. A battered copy of The Kama Sutra and a Buddhist primer by Sylvia Boorstein finished the effect. The smell of weed hung in the room like a sweet curtain. She nestled into the corner of a paisley sofa, her legs tucked up under her thighs.

I fumbled for words, not sure how to begin. But she interrupted.

"You need not tell me why you're here. I've expected you for days. It's the child. She cannot rest, nor can you."

Her dark eyes focused on mine. I shook my head and spoke quietly, "So you know about the dreams?"

"Dreams? A bit provincial, isn't it, T.K.? You may call them what you like, but there is an alternative reality that you may find difficult to recognize. The body is lifeless, the spirit remains. It is there, suspended, searching. She does not speak to me, but I wouldn't expect it. It is you she wants. I've had awareness for some time that you would be her conduit."

"I don't understand. I was just one of the many people on the dock who loved her. I didn't think I was special in any way."

"I think you are correct," she said. "It wasn't you that was special, but something you gave her. The verse. "Annabel Lee." She was a child. She was learning. Her soul was expanding. I believe it was the words, the music, and the rhymes that permeated her being. It was your gift that lifted her. Placed your relationship on a plane that rose above the others."

I tried to absorb it, but I wasn't very good at this. I liked Miss Julianne and respected her power. Still I fought the feeling that the whole damned scene was utterly ridiculous. It sounded too much like the mumbo jumbo I'd heard from Count Shockula at the Saturday Afternoon Scarefest. But I had mentioned the dreams to no one, not even Sunny. How could she know? I wracked my mind for plausible explanations, but nothing worked.

Regardless of my skepticism, there was something compelling about Miss Julianne. She was an attractive woman, even sexy in her Bohemian way. But it wasn't physical. It was more an aura. I had experienced it before, but it was subliminal. I had almost dismissed it. Now it became a force that dominated and commanded my consciousness.

"You called me a conduit. I don't understand."

"I believe the child searches for a source to channel some kind of information. She comes to you in a vision. She has no words, but she speaks. It's in her appearance, her gestures. They are significant in the smallest detail. You must listen and perceive, not with your ears and eyes but with the essence of your being. You must open your mind and your soul and accept what she offers."

"But I don't . . . "

"T.K., you worship at the altar of knowledge. You are a man of books. You like a specific thesis that you can verify or reject through research and investigation. I feel your resistance, your cynicism. You wear it like an ill fitting suit of clothes. It is the natural selection of the scholar. You must overcome it, but perhaps it is too much to ask. These are things I cannot control. But I implore you. If you would help Billy and Monique, if you would avenge the death of the innocent sprite, if you long for justice, you must render all things possible. Otherwise you will fail."

I tried to let the words sink in. Dreams? Visions? Visits from a child I had seen drowned in her own lifeblood? It made no difference. Miss Julianne was right. I had to grasp any possibility with my mind, but also with my spirit. My own intuition had to figure into the equation.

I stood up and tried to smile, but I only felt sheepish. She remained on the cushions, a bright glow in her eyes. I thanked her. She rose and put her lips to my ear, "Be watchful. There is danger," she whispered. I heard the beads clicking as I closed the door.
Chapter 27

I didn't know where I was going. I walked. Duval Street was lit up like little Las Vegas. Nothing unusual. Every night was New Year's Eve in Key West. The rental scooters dashed through the streets puffing and vibrating, wide-eyed tourists laughing astride the black vinyl seats.

I stopped at the window of one of the galleries to admire a lithograph of a tall ship. Its taut sails strained proudly against the wind and the sea. The clouds were iron-like as the foam washed over the deck threatening to take the tired sailors to a watery grave. This was something I could understand. The storm, the darkness, the uncertainty that the ship would ever make port. It was something real. I wanted it, but I was close enough to another of storm, one borne of witchcraft and violence. My neck tingled. For moment, a sense of dread seemed to haunt me. I imagined something stalking me. I shuddered and walked on.

The beer joints were all full. Jimmy Buffett's Magaritaville was brimming with tourists eager for a cold beer and a cheeseburger in paradise. Sloppy Joe's was even louder than usual, a rockabilly band shaking the lamp post on the corner. I saw the crowd outside Captain Tony's and wondered if one of the more frisky ladies had added her bra to the collection stapled to the ceiling. Some teenaged kids passed a cigarette among them and they camped on the steps of St. Paul's. Disheveled hair, tattoos, skateboards, and mismatched clothes that looked much too large or much too tight. The next generation. They looked bored and vaguely lost. Was there any poetry that could save them? Would Alexis have joined them if she'd lived a bit longer? I didn't need to know.

I walked down to Mallory Square and looked over the water. The cruise ships were lit up, but the square was black and lifeless. No Cat man, no human statues, no hawkers, no itinerant musicians with open guitar cases. I was lonely, but I didn't need company. I needed to know who had taken this child so beautiful and innocent, who had defiled her, then left her bleeding body on a dirty wooden floor.

I had no answers and I wasn't sure I even understood the questions. I sat on the wharf and listened to the cacophony of music and voices that drifted from the town. The black swells washed against the concrete. The emptiness expanded and smothered me like an oil slick.

The morning came. It was bright and dewy. The sunrise and the southwest breeze made promises they would keep. I felt awkward calling on Tracy. I knew Frank would have talked to her by now. I didn't know her that well, but I liked her. I was sorry she'd been bludgeoned by that kind of agony. I hadn't liked Malachi Strait or the way he made his money. I've got a healthy list of complaints against those who can rationalize or ignore their contribution to the degradation of the human race. They think that if it fills their pockets, it must be all right. But we don't speak ill of the dead. So I had to shut up.

I told myself it was a courtesy call to offer my sympathies and any assistance I could provide. But I wanted information. I wasn't sure she had any, but I was following Miss Julianne's directive. Keep my options open and trust the things I could feel.

I'd gotten Tracy's address from Harry. Apparently he wasn't crazy about Strait either, but he'd already called and sent condolences and flowers to the funeral home. "Too bad, nice kid," he'd said about six times on the phone.

It was about ten when I knocked on the door. I thought someone might be with her. I hoped not. I heard the thumping of footsteps. She cracked the door just enough to see me, then swung it open. She wore a black skirt and white blouse not unlike the ones I'd seen her in a couple of days before. Stockings clung to her legs, but her shoes were neatly stationed in the hallway. Her dark hair had been curled and hung about her shoulders. She wore no perfume. Even through the make-up, her face was gray and swollen.

When people are under stress you often get a preview of how they might age. Tracy was simply lovely. Even into middle age and beyond, I knew she would be admired as a "handsome woman." For right now, it was blurred by a shroud of grief.

The apartment was small, but not what you'd expect from the typical college student. It was clean. The furnishings were tasteful, even a bit elegant. Nothing expensive, but quality lithographs on several walls, nice fabrics on the furniture, everything muted. The entire place had a homey, but refined, feel to it.

"Thank you for coming, T.K. I was about to leave for the funeral home, but come in for a minute."

Her voice was quiet and controlled. Her pupils were somewhat dilated. Some kind of tranquilizer, I suspected, but not too much. She offered me a chair and sat down opposite, legs together, hands on her knees, back straight. She looked me squarely in the eye as if to say, "Nice of you to come, but be quick and direct."

"Tracy, I'm terribly sorry about your uncle. I know this is a tough time for you, but I think his death may be tied in with the killing of Alexis Lavalier. I'm sure you've already talked to the police, but I'd appreciate it if you could tell me what you told them."

She dropped her chin, bit her lip and tried not to glare at me.

"T.K., I've been through this already. But I'm going to do it again because I know you're trying to help. You better get what you can get while you can get it. I'm leaving right after the funeral tomorrow. Uncle Mal left me The Strip Search. I don't know what I'm going to do with it, but I'm going to take a few weeks away to grieve and to think."

I tried to listen like a cop, no emotions, just cold hard analysis. But she didn't know much. Malachi Strait had been a man like most of us, true to his habits. There'd been no significant deviation from his usual patterns of behavior. No new contacts, business, women, nothing.

She told me he had thrown some guy out last week. Shoplifting. But he hadn't called the police. Said it happens all the time. But the cops were checking the camera footage to see if there were any clear images. There was also a call not long after I left the store a couple of days ago.

"I answered the phone," she said, "guy asked for Uncle Mal. I thought the vice sounded familiar. He got lots of calls from the same guys. I knew some of them, but I couldn't put a face with this one. He took it in the back. I couldn't hear exactly what he was saying, but he was mad about something. His voice got loud. It only lasted a minute or so. When he came out a little later, he was pissed, but it was nothing special. I'd heard him get mad before. Still, it seemed like the only thing worth telling the police. So I'm telling you. I'm sorry. That's all there is and I'm running late."

I didn't think she was, but she'd obviously had enough. She stood up. I offered my hand and told her again how sorry I was.

"You know how it is, T.K. A lot of people looked down their righteous noses at Uncle Mal. The business, the way he made his money and all that. I guess some of them think I'm just a little whore, working there and all. But he was good to me. I haven't seen my father since I was four, not sure I'd know him if he walked through the door. Uncle Mal treated me like his own daughter."

She hesitated for a moment.

"Sure, he bought me lots of stuff, but that's not all of it. He loved me. I could just feel it whenever he was around. I knew I could count on him. It made me strong. That's what I know and that's what I'll remember."

I nodded and left, feeling somewhat embarrassed. There was another side to Malachi Strait, a generous, caring side that embraced Tracy. But that's true for most of us. It's the good news and the bad news. Some people bring out the best in us. Tracy had done that for her Uncle Mal.

The interview hadn't produced much. Neither did the rest of the day.

Sunny was working. I went by her place to pick up my bicycle. Then I rode to Land's End. When I got back, Fritz was standing on the dock behind NO DECISION. He looked like Edward G. Robinson in "Key Largo." But it was a Marlboro clenched in his teeth instead of a cigar and Robinson was missing the beard.

"You don't look too good, Cap," he growled, "I prescribe a sail. I got plenty of Diet Coke. If you need some serious drugs, I can even lend you a Marlboro."

He was Don Corleone with the offer I couldn't refuse.

He cranked up the Atomic Four and we slipped the lines of the old Grampian. I hanked on the 130 % genny, then hoisted the main while Fritz stood at the tiller looking like Captains Courageous. Despite NO DECISIONS' bottom, which had developed its own ecosystem, she took to her heels and settled into a lively close reach into the Gulf.

Fritz gave me the helm while he fixed lures and set out a couple of Cuban reels. The lines danced behind the boat in a mad frenzy. Fritz opened a diet Coke and watched astern, trying to coax a cheap dinner out of mother ocean. I didn't want to tell him, but I was rooting for the fish, hoping maybe they'd already had lunch.

He asked me a few quick questions about the investigation. I gave him quick answers. He said he was keeping his ear tuned, but he hadn't heard anything new. After a while, we just settled for the sun, the water, and the wind. It wasn't a bad bargain. We didn't talk. Didn't catch anything. But somehow I felt better.
Chapter 28

I had to see Beamon. I hoped he had new information. Something we'd overlooked or a mysterious clue that finally panned out. I wanted a "Murder, She Wrote," ending. First the crime, the confusion, the action, then all of the redemption you could ever want tucked neatly into 50 minutes. Jessica would smile and Frank could arrest the murderer. Then I could drift back into the easy pattern I called my life. Unfortunately Jessica was nowhere in sight.

Frank and I agreed to meet for lunch at Havana Dream. It's tucked into three rooms of a tiny house just out of downtown. Red plastic table cloths, unfinished ladder back chairs, hand scrawled menus and Maria. She's a Cuban study in perpetual motion, taking orders, delivering food, and smiling like a blast furnace. She knows all of the regulars by name. She doesn't skimp on the beans and rice and the Sangria is always ice cold. A dark young girl with a travel poster smile and hair that shimmered like onyx led us to a table in the corner. Frank grinned at her and said, "Gracias."

Maria was at our side in an instant.

"Hello, Professor. Who's this you got with you? Ah, Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Key West," she laughed, "So Frank, you gonna solve all the crimes in The Conch Republic today?"

"No, Senora. I figured I'd leave some for next week in case I get bored."

"Well you won't be bored with Maria's lunch."

Frank and I both smiled and ordered the Special. When she left, he pulled his chair closer and began to talk.

"I didn't get much from Tracy that you haven't already heard. I don't think she is holding out. Otherwise we wouldn't let her leave town. We may have a lead on the shoplifter, but the tapes are sort of fuzzy. The tech guys are working on it. Your photocopy. You blew it, T.K. Shouldn't have carried it around in your pocket for days. Should've brought it straight to me. The ink is smeared. It might have come from Strait's copier, but we can't make a positive match."

"But do you still think it came out of his office?"

"I do, but we'll be smarter when we get something from the state police and the SBI. They're checking on pornography rings that might be operating in south Florida. Looking for any ties to Strait. Those boys don't like to share information, but I know a couple of guys that I trust. Helped them out on that big drug bust three years ago up near Islamorada. Lots of money in child pornography, plenty to spread around if the parties are willing. At least they don't gun each other down like the drug thugs."

"Anything else on the murder weapon?"

"The knife used on Strait was definitely similar to the one used on Alexis, but again nothing positive."

There was a note of impatience in his voice, but no sign of surrender. Frank was exactly what they said he was. A bulldog. He wouldn't quit until his teeth sank into the bone. I told him I'd come up with nothing. He shook his head silently. Fortunately the gloom didn't affect our appetites. By the time we'd devoured our lunches, we needed wheelbarrows to roll out of Havana Dream. Maria came by the table a last time. She picked up our empty plates, beaming.

"What'd I tell you, boys? Now you strong. Them crooks better watch out."

We ambled back toward the station. For no good reason I followed him up to his office and planted myself in the wooden chair.

"Frank, you've got the photocopy. But you know, I haven't seen the original snapshot. That thing that Strait sent me was fuzzy to begin with, just black and white. Maybe there's something in the color or the detail that will kick my mind into gear."

He got a sad look on his face and picked up the phone. He punched two numbers and mumbled something into the receiver. A minute later a heavy set woman in uniform came in with a file folder. He thumbed through it and handed me a plastic bag with the photograph. The color lunged off the paper like a school of piranha. I knew why I was sick the first time I had seen it.

"So you see anything new?"

I had to force myself to stare at it. The color only made it dirtier and more vicious. She sat on the floor, the jet black curls, the lurid grin, the lost innocence leering like a cheap sideshow. I looked as long as I could, then handed it back to him. He shoved it among the papers, closed the yellow folder, and shook his head slowly.

"See you, T.K. Stay in touch."

I tried all day to erase that picture from my mind, but it kept turning up. I tried to think about Sunny, sailing, anything to stay occupied, but the image hung around like a stray dog. Just when I thought it had disappeared, it was at my side, mangy, starving, howling for my attention. I couldn't think. Couldn't be rational. But what the hell did I expect? She was a child, my child, but she was part of all of us. I had to stop letting my emotions keep my brain in a blur.

There had to be more to that photo, something I'd missed. I started to tick down a short mental list. No way to identify the bastard in the picture. Nothing on the floor. No furniture or any details in the room. It could have been any one of dozens of cheap motels on the island. I knew it had to have been printed in a private lab. I remembered a road I'd driven in Texas. Deadly straight, flat, featureless, mile after mile leading nowhere.
Chapter 29

That night she came. I heard the wailing once more. Her pale image was suspended over the water like the last time. Her arms were at her side, but her palms skyward to question, to beckon. To me, to God, to any savior, no matter what form it might take. She turned her head slightly and raised her right hand as if to point. The outline of her body became indistinct. Then the shadow began to fade. It was replaced by bright colors. There was a whirling sensation. I was on a carousel. I sat on a wooden horse. His eyes were wild and his thick lips curled upward. He was painted in grotesque shades of green and pink. A crowd of onlookers leered at me. They pointed and shrieked with laughter.

Billy and Monique stood in the background. Monique wept. I knew they wanted to turn away, but they couldn't. I had to stop this hellish spinning and go to them. But it grew faster. I was dizzy. My stomach churned. I tried to grasp the horse's mane, but it was slick and wet. I saw the blood drip from my fingertips. Then I was falling.

I woke in a fetal position. I was nauseous and my muscles screamed. A swelling pounded and pumped at the back of my skull. I lay there for a moment dumb and helpless. Then I tried to uncoil. I listened. No wailing, no hideous laughter. I sat down in the salon and shook myself. Suddenly I heard Miss Julianne's voice, "Listen and see, not with your ears and eyes, but with your spirit."

I pushed to concentrate. Alexis was over the water in the same place. Again she cried and beckoned. But something was different. I closed my eyes and tried to recreate the vision. Nothing at first, but then it came to me. The position of her head, the way she had turned it and gestured with her hand. It was the Galleon Marina. She was pointing at the Galleon.

I thought of the HAT TRICK and Harry. He was one of her worshippers. He knew photographers, had contacts in the fashion industry. Maybe some of them got greedy, decided that a few candid shots of naked children wouldn't really hurt anyone.

The next morning I walked over to the Galleon, but the TRICK was gone. The dock master told me Harry had taken a run up to Miami. He'd be back in a few days. If anyone was looking for him, he'd be at the Miami Beach Marina. I was looking for him, but it was a long shot. It could wait.

If I hustled, I could catch Sunny before she left for the beach. I could use a swim, myself, not to mention a warm smile and some sympathetic conversation.

When she answered the door she was still in her robe, a burgundy, satiny thing I gave her for Christmas. She was holding the front together, but when she saw it was me, she let her hand drop. The sleek material fell to either side and revealed a valley of tanned flesh. My eyes followed it down over her tight belly to a shadow of tight, thick curls.

She put her arms around my neck.

"I've been thinking about you, Cap. You look kind of beat up."

"Yeah, I know. Maybe some sun, a swim, a little exercise. Might be good for me. Thought I'd try to catch you before you left."

"I think you have the right idea. Exercise is a great way to relieve stress. Wonderful therapy. But I don't know about a swim this morning. Big risk of shark attacks this time of year. Or maybe it's jelly fish. Too much sun, bad for the skin. We ought to be creative. Think of something else to get your mind off all that gruesome stuff."

I could smell the perfume in her hair as she led me back to the bedroom. She pulled my t-shirt over my shoulders and kissed my neck. Then she took the hem of the satin robe and began to rub it over my chest. I put my hand inside her robe. Her flesh seemed to meld with my fingers.

"Maybe I love you," she said, "and maybe I don't."

She pulled me onto the bed and ran her hand from my neck down to my belly. My body quivered as she ran her tongue down the length of my body.

When it was over, we lay on the sheets in silence. I must have dozed off. When I woke she was sitting next to me with a tray on her lap. Two cups of coffee flanked by two jumbo jelly donuts. She grabbed the biggest one and mumbled through the thick dough.

"So you want to give me an update? Or we can talk about something else if you want."

I wanted to forget, but I knew I couldn't. Besides, I needed her input. She had been very fond of Alexis, but she wasn't as close to things as I was. That was good. She could be more objective. Sunny was like a sniper. Once she had a target in focus, she was quick and deadly. She'd tell you what she thought, and it didn't matter whether you wanted to hear it or not. Sometimes those words knocked you right on your ass. Today that's what I needed.

I told her about my conversation with Frank after Strait's murder and about our lunch.

"I don't know about robbery as a motive for Strait's murder. It seems like too many coincidences to be a mugging gone bad. Strait knew a lot of shady people. Maybe some of them were dangerous. I like the idea of checking in with Harry. You can trust him and Tracy told me he stays in touch with the pros that do those fashion shoots. He'd love to help if he can. Maybe he knows how to get a line on the pornography crap. I want to go when he gets back from Miami."

She wiped a dab of jelly from her mouth and took a gulp of coffee.

"You know, I think Tracy has even more brains and more class than I gave her credit for."

I nodded. I had just made the mistake of getting comfortable when she looked hard in my eyes. The tone in her voice was casual, tinged with a healthy dose of smug.

"Any more dreams?'

"I didn't think you knew."

"I know a lot more about you than you think, Sailor. You talk in your sleep," she said and poked me in the ribs.

I told her about them all, from the first time to last night. And about my meeting with Miss Julianne. I didn't want Sunny to worry, so I didn't mention her last words.

"She's right, T.K. You've got to listen and observe. So what's the problem? You're great at it. I don't know about all this spirit stuff. Sounds a little hokey to me, but I think she's just telling you to take it all in. Make sure you don't ignore anything, take anything for granted. It will come together at some point. You and Beamon are on the same page and you're both taking it personally. With those resources and that kind of brains, something will break soon. If I was the murderer, I'd be booking a flight to Brazil."

"I hope that hasn't happened already," I told her.

She was finished. I'm not sure I believed it all, but it sounded good. She looked at me and snatched the other donut, no trace of guilt on her face.

"You just got to have a little faith, T.K."

When I got back to Land's End, I realized she was right. I started up the dock and waved at Jenny as she rocked in the broken chair, bare feet still propped on the same bucket, hair hustling out of the straw hat in several directions.

"Hey, T.K. I got a message for you. Beamon was by, said he'd made an arrest in the Strait case. You supposed to call him ASAP."
Chapter 30

I heard Frank's voice on the line.

"Looks like we got the guy who did Strait. Really not much more than a kid. One Nelson Carmody, age twenty-one. Veins like pincushions. Drifter, originally from Cincinnati. Came down with some guys he met in Atlanta. Doesn't know their names or where they got to. He's the one who tried to shoplift from The Strip Search. Strait caught him, told him not to come within fifty yards of the store or he'd call the cops. Got it all on video. Mr. Carmody admitted all that. It squares up with what Tracy told us."

"What about any hard evidence?"

"It's like Blackbeard's treasure. All buried in his backpack. Claimed he was broke, but he had four hundred dollars on him. Filet knife with dried blood on the blade. He blew it when he tried to pawn Strait's Rolex yesterday. Owner got suspicious, called us."

"What does the kid say?"

"Claims he was passed out on the beach when it happened. Says he met some guy in a bar. He didn't know which one. Guy felt sorry for him, bought him a few beers and gave him some money and the watch. He doesn't remember what the guy looked like except he was skinny. Typical junkie story."

"So I guess that wraps it up, at least with Strait."

"Open and shut. A jury will love it. Probably first degree, maybe he gets off with second. Easy conviction. It'll get the newspapers off our backs for a while. Just one problem."

"What's that, Frank?"

"I don't think he did it.'

I was shocked into silence. I waited.

"I got a bad feeling, T.K. It's just too easy. Too many things that don't make sense. There were no significant signs of a struggle on Strait's body. No blood on the kid's clothes. Our man Nelson is needle thin, undernourished, weak as a damned kitten. We think Strait knew the killer. He would probably have avoided this kid if he'd run into him. So they have a chance meeting near the water? What the hell is Strait doing there anyway? He stops for what? To give the kid a handout, direct him to the Christian Science Reading Room, help him find God? Not likely. This emaciated kid pulls a knife, slashes Strait's throat, robs him, then drags the body over to dock and dumps him in. It doesn't compute, T.K. I wish the hell it did. It'd make my job a lot easier."

"So what do you do, now?"

"Officially, we book him for murder. Sweat him a little more. Maybe get him to sign a confession. Then we tell our story to twelve law abiding citizens. He goes down. Probably gets life without parole. Unofficially, we keep looking."

When I got off the phone, I knew why I liked Frank Beamon. I didn't know much else.

KAMALA's topsides were looking a little rough. I decided to go back to my cure for an overwrought brain. Manual labor. I glanced at the sky. The cottony clouds were gliding lazily across a field of untainted blue. Breeze from the southwest, high 70's. No excuses from the weather gods. I'd get to work.

I put on some cutoffs and a t-shirt that would probably have been rejected by the Salvation Army. I dogged the ports, inserted the companionway boards, and pulled my long handled brush out of the lazarette. Some Tide and a couple of old rags and I was ready to go. I was dousing the deck when I heard the faint rumble of twin diesels. It got louder.

I turned and HAT TRICK was rounding the jetty, brightwork glittering like 14 carat gold. Harry was at the helm. Cy stood in the starboard rail, a spring line in his hand. I saw Harry spin her on the twin screws, then ease the big Hatteras stern between the pilings. A dock hand waited with the lines. They tied her off and I saw Harry slip the kid a couple of bills.

I shut off the hose and went below. I switched on the VHF and hailed the TRICK on channel 16. The sound of Harry's voice was with me in an instant. We switched to channel 17.

"Harry, hope your trip was okay."

"You got it, T.K. She purred like a kitten all the way. What's up?"

"Harry, I need some help. I wonder if Sunny and I could come by the HAT around six. I need to talk to you. Ask a few questions, maybe get you to make a couple of calls. I'll even bring the booze this time."

He laughed and sounded pleased. "You choose your poison, Cap. Bring that pretty lady and I'll see you at six."

I returned to my boat chores. The day continued to warm. Soon the t-shirt was gone. The sun felt good on my back. The sweat began to bead and run in rivulets off my body. I imagined each drop was draining part of the residue of evil and violence that had infected me a few days ago.

Still, I knew I was unclean.
Chapter 31

Sunny met me at the entrance to the Galleon just before six.

"You clean up nice, Big Boy," she said in her best Mae West and kissed me on the cheek.

Harry greeted us at the boat steps. No Tracy this time and no Cy Watts. He mixed us a couple of drinks from the bottle of Evan Williams I'd brought. We settled into the main salon and listened to Harry rave about the performance of HAT TRICK on her run up to Miami and back. He wanted us to do the tour again, but I told him we had more serious business. His face grew dark when I told him about Alexis and the pictures.

"You got to be kidding me, T.K. Little baby doll like that. Porn? Jesus. What the hell is this world coming to? I'm glad you don't have the damned picture. That way I don't have to look at it. Makes me sick to my stomach. Those bastards will get what's coming to them. I guarantee it."

"Harry, I know you're an expert photographer. Ever run across anyone in Kew West who deals in that kind of smut?"

"Hell, no. I wouldn't give one of those creeps the time of day. Now I wouldn't be surprised if some of those girls that work the topless joints are doing a little moonlighting. Some of them will do anything for a buck. But I don't ask cause I don't want to know. Sometimes it's better that way. I've been pretty much retired since Uncle Mort left me set. I still miss the old guy."

Harry did his "tsk, tsk" routine.

I told him Frank was trying to get a line on any pornography rings that operated in the area and how there was competition among the various law enforcement agencies. He smothered a little laugh.

"So the cops won't trade information. I bet the players love that shit. Makes life a little easier and a little more profitable." He scrunched up his face and looked at the ceiling. Then he spoke.

"I'll tell you what I'll do. I still got some friends, people who owe me. I'll get on the phone. I got some numbers in Miami, Atlanta, New York. Gonna make what you call 'discreet inquiries'. See if I can turn up anything worth telling."

"Thanks, Harry. It sure won't hurt and it might get us closer to the killer."

Business done, we lightened up. Harry waxed poetic about the flounder stuffed with crabmeat at a new restaurant at South Beach. We promised to try it next time we were in Miami. Then he strong armed me for one more tour of the engine room with Sunny in tow. Still spotless enough for a candlelight dinner. I guess Cy Watts had his uses.

When we got back to the main salon, Sunny began to squirm. She smiled at Harry.

"May I avail myself of the facilities?" she asked with a gracious bow.

Harry grinned and offered a courtly nod of the head. "As you wish, Madam."

We stayed a bit longer, but the conversation began to thin out. We asked Harry to join us for dinner. He slapped his belly and laughed.

"If I was a bear, I'd have enough fat stored to hibernate for the winter."

I thanked him again and we left. We walked down the dock and Sunny hit me with the big news, she was ravenous. We decided to go to the Raw Bar for something quick. A fiery eyed brunette greeted us at the door. She wore khaki shorts and a black t-shirt with a cartoon figure of a shapely lass in a leopard bikini holding a huge platter of seafood. The caption below said "Eat it Raw" in large burgundy letters. I waved at Louis and she led us to our table.

We ordered Sam Adams on tap. Sunny politely ordered a dozen raw oysters for an appetizer. "In a hurry," she growled at the waitress. Then she studied the dinner menu like a hungry lioness eyeing a zebra who'd flunked out of Weight Watchers. I silently bet she'd go for the large fried combination seafood platter.

"Think Harry can really help?" she asked.

"I don't know. I think he wants to. He loved Alexis like the rest of us. If I don't hear anything from him in a few days, I'll check back. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"That boat is a floating Taj Mahal," I heard from behind the menu, "but he still needs to lose that tacky bedspread. Those colors, and the squares and triangles. It's enough to make you sea sick before you leave the dock."

I laughed, but bits of an image began to creep into my mind. I closed my eyes for a moment. It was a puzzle. The pieces were adrift near the corners of my consciousness. They stayed on the edges, dangling like wind chimes, swaying, teasing, waiting for the right breeze to strike their metallic tone. Suddenly I heard it. The image was clear. I locked onto it and bolted from the table.

"What's with you?" she said.

"Gotta make a phone call. Quick."

She shook her head indulgently as I rushed outside to make a call. I was back in an instant. He wasn't there. I laid two twenties on the table.

"Go ahead and eat. I'll meet you back at KAMALA in an hour or so. No time to explain."

She looked at me, baffled, but the waitress had brought the oysters. She shook her head again, gave me a quick wave and reached greedily for the lemon butter sauce.

I picked up my bicycle and pedaled to the station. They wouldn't give me Frank's home number. The sergeant asked if I wanted to speak to the detective on duty, but it had to be Frank. I remembered him mentioning his house near the old cemetery. For some reason Francis Street stuck in my mind. I decided to ride around the neighborhood. It wouldn't be hard to identify the unmarked Lumina he usually drove.

I stepped up on a clean white porch with thick columns and a freshly painted railing. I could smell the freshly trimmed shrubs. The yard was bordered with oleander, bougainvillea, and hibiscus in every color of the rainbow. It looked like something out of SOUTHERN LIVING.

A tall, striking woman came to the door. She was even more beautiful than the photograph I'd seen in Frank's office. She smiled politely, but her eyes were those of a cornered timber wolf protecting her young.

"I'm sorry. Frank is not in. And he does not conduct police business in our home," she added curtly. "You may leave a message at the station and I am sure he will return your call."

I saw Frank's head appear from around the corner down the hall. From the back of the house, he called to her.

"It's all right, Honey. Tell him I'll be out in a minute."

She gave me a look that would have frozen the entire orange crop in Florida. Then she slammed the door and left me standing on the porch. I felt like a schoolboy who had been exiled to the corner for throwing spitballs. In a few minutes Frank came out carrying a couple of cans of beer.

"Don't mind Felice. She's real protective of the kids. Doesn't want them exposed to any police stuff. Actually she does a damned good job of looking after me and that's a tough assignment. It's nice, gets me away from all of the bullshit at the station."

He handed me a Bud Light and led me around to the side of the house. I commented about the rich colors.

"Yeah, the pinks are my favorites. But you didn't come here to compliment me on the flowers. What's up?"

When I told him, his jaw hardened, but he didn't say much.

"Look, Frank. I know it's not anything concrete, but you've got to admit it's one hell of a set of circumstances."

"I need a warrant, T.K. I doubt any judge will issue one on the basis of lousy taste and geometry. Anything else you can think of? Something I can use to persuade Your Honor?"

I shook my head.

"Okay, let me see what I can do. Don't say anything, even to Sunny. I'll call you in the morning. Maybe you can meet Felice and the kids sometime when it isn't business. She'd like you."

I handed him the empty can, thanked him, and got on my bike.
Chapter 32

When I got back to KAMALA, Sunny was sitting in the cockpit with Captain Sal. Sunny had a glass of Pinot Noir in her hand and Sal was deep into the bourbon. I could hear them howling all the way at the end of the dock.

I stepped on board. Sal threw a couple of thick arms around me and squeezed until she shut off the blood supply in my neck.

"Sorry, T.K. So you found a big, strong one who can handle me and THE TOUGH BROAD, yet?" she bellowed.

"I'm still working on it, Sal. But you're a lot of woman. It's gonna take plenty to please you. It may take me a little while."

She cackled and cuffed me on the shoulder.

"How are Billy and Monique doing?" I asked. "I thought I might see him again by now."

"Says he's leaving you alone. Says he knows a Ghostcatcher don't need no help. Just time. The man believes in you, T.K. He's convinced you'll know the killer soon." She punctuated the sentence with a slap in my knee.

I hoped I didn't already, but I was beginning to wonder.

Sunny was playing it cool. I knew she wouldn't talk about anything we'd discussed without asking me first. We made quick eye contact. Then she asked Sal about the fishing. Smart woman. I wanted to kiss her for changing the subject.

Sal went through a full analysis of the changes in sport fishing over the last ten years. She lamented over the lack of "real men" in the Keys, cussed at the increases in slip rent, told us a coupe of jokes that would curl a bishop's toes, and ran through nearly a fifth of my bourbon. I was convinced that if she slapped me on the back one more time, I'd need two weeks of traction.

All things considered, it was a merciful way to spend the rest of the evening. I didn't have to talk much. I didn't have to think. And I didn't have to lie to Sunny.

Sal finally left around midnight. As she stomped down the dock, she turned and yelled at me.

"You keep looking, T.K.. He don't have to be no George Clooney. Honest and well hung will get it. And don't you forget about Billy."

I knew everyone at Land's End and most of the diners at Turtle Kraals had heard exactly what Captain Sal required of male companionship. But that was Sal. You never wasted time wondering what she thought.

When I got below, Sunny was already in the v-berth, fully clothed. She was snoring.

I remembered Sal's last words. I wouldn't forget about Billy.

Sunny got up early and made coffee. I lay in the v-berth feigning sleep. I knew she'd have some questions I didn't want to answer until I heard more from Frank. She was banging around the boat, making more noise than usual. I heard her coffee cup slam down on the table. She was humming "We Can Work It Out" from an old Beatles album and drumming the rhythm on her thigh. Finally I heard her call from the main salon.

"It's all right, T.K. You can quit faking it. I guess you'll tell me when you're ready. I'm headed out for a swim. Come by the Parrot later on."

I heaved a groggy "Sure Hon," out of the berth and waited for her to leave.

I put on a pair of shorts and walked up to grab a USA TODAY. Tony Sporano was all over the sports pages. The Dolphins needed a reliable running back. Hell, they hadn't had one since Ricky Williams left. They were also trying to beef up their defensive line. They still missed Marino. Nothing new. I was reading about possible trades when the phone rang.

"I got the warrant, T.K. Meet me on the Galleon docks in thirty minutes."

When I got there, Frank was waiting with two uniformed officers. They had the dog with them. The Jag was gone. He pulled me aside.

"You're going to have to back me on this. I named you as a witness. Told the judge I thought drugs were involved. Figured it was the only sure way to get him to sign it. Let's hope like hell there is at least a joint or two on board. Otherwise my ass is in a sling. We also got to be real careful about anything else we find. It's almost got to be in plain sight or some smart-ass lawyer will be hollering about illegal searches and inadmissible evidence."

Harry greeted us in a silk housecoat. His thin hair was tousled and his eyes were barely open. They got wider when he saw the uniforms and the dog.

"Morning, Detective, T.K. What's going on here?"

Frank requested permission to board. When Harry hesitated, he pulled the search warrant. The look on Harry's face told us immediately that there was something on the HAT that shouldn't be there. I hoped it was only a couple of joints. Cy Watts was conspicuously absent.

Harry led us quickly through the boat. He knew why we were there, but couldn't resist doing parts of his familiar monologue. Frank listened, asking questions about the boat's displacement and the cruising speed. He seemed to hang on every word Harry said. The bulldog could be patient. I jumped around like a parakeet in a python cage. When they were finished, the three of us settled into the aft salon.

Harry made coffee. While the uniforms searched, Harry and Frank talked about fuel consumption, the joys of twin diesels and the handling characteristics of a boat that size. Soon one of the officers came up from below and signaled to Frank.

"You'll want to see this," he said.

Harry and I were alone.

"I'm sorry, T.K. It shouldn't be like this. Sure, I got things to hide, but doesn't everybody? But believe me, I didn't kill anyone. You know me. That's not my style."

I didn't think so, but I couldn't see him taking pictures of naked little girls either. I tried not to squirm on the sofa. I like to think I can read people pretty well, that I'm a quick and accurate judge of character. But I'd blown it with Harry. I didn't really know the man at all.

Frank was back. He pulled a laminated card from his inside pocket and read while Harry cracked his knuckles.

"You want to get dressed?" Frank asked.

"Yeah, but maybe we can finish our coffee. I'll waive my rights if we can just sit here and talk for a while. I'd like to enjoy a few more minutes on HAT TRICK before this all goes down. I got a feeling it'll be a little more comfortable than where you're taking me."

Frank nodded and took a pocket cassette recorder out of his pocket. He flipped the switch and stated the date and location, then asked Harry if he understood that this conversation was being recorded.

"T.K., you're a witness," Frank said.
Chapter 33

I was surprised he didn't demand an attorney. Harry didn't ask for any special treatment. No reduced charges or immunity from prosecution. As the tale unfolded, I got the feeling that Harry wanted to lighten a heavy load of sins he committed or been a party to.

The dogs had located a couple of joints, but there was a lot more. They found a file folder in a drawer in the master stateroom. There were prints of men on men, women on women, black white, Asian, a virtual smorgasbord of smut. No perversion overlooked. Plenty of SanDisks, and photos of Alexis that I didn't want to see. Harry had taken them all.

In a separate closet was a makeshift darkroom and a ledger with names, addresses, and phone numbers of contacts in every state on the east coast.

Harry stared out the window as Frank went through the file. He dropped his head to his chest. Then he sipped his coffee and began to talk.

"It started out simple. I was just a photographer, but I was good at it. All of the top fashion rags calling me. Lots of good shoots. Quick and pretty. It wasn't big money, but I was comfortable. A couple of the girls, they weren't doing so hot, asked me if I could get them some extra work. I told them I'd try. I had a line on a guy who did quality nudie stuff. Figured, why not?"

"Some of them were a little bashful at first. But a little weed, a few shots in some expensive lingerie or a designer bikini, it was easy enough to get them out of their clothes. We'd start by telling them we just wanted to see their tits. Another joint, maybe a little booze, we were ready to move on down, shoot a little snatch. Then they'd get greedy. They all had some kind of Jones. Whiskey, dope, clothes, whatever. Once they had a healthy taste of the cash, they had to have more."

"We'd bring the guys in, very gentlemanly and all. Start them off slow. Give them something to get them flying. But don't kid yourself, they knew what they were getting into. Some of them drew the line at flashing their bodies. That was okay because some of them wouldn't. They'd suck anything and put it anywhere. After the word got around, we had more girls than we had cameras."

Harry got up and re-filled our coffee cups.

"But it didn't end there, did it?" Frank asked.

Harry grinned, sat back down and asked for the cream.

"You know it didn't, Detective. Next thing we started thinking about distribution. That's where it's at. Buddy of mine had some contacts with some dudes in New York. We put together a little catalogue. Nice piece, coated stock, full color. Tease them, you know. Next thing we got offers to finance. All of a sudden we're in the mail order business. Stills, videos, sexy little toys guaranteed to make life more fun and exciting. We made a few mistakes, but we learned all the time. Got better."

Frank noticed the recorder had stopped. He said excuse me, picked it up and replaced the cassette. He started it back up.

"Sorry, Harry," he said, "go on."

"No problem. Anyway, I couldn't see that I was hurting anybody and it was making me a wealthy man. That's when I got my first boat. Nice little Bertram, thirty feet. Sometimes we'd use it for a shoot. But it kept getting smaller and the Long Island Sound gets mighty cold in the winter. I guess that's when I started dreaming about living aboard, being in the sun all the time. It was sweet, but that's when I screwed up."

"I needed to expand. That's where the kids came in. That's the one thing I'm sorry about. I wish to God I'd never done it. Adults? Who gives a shit? Let 'em do what they want. But kids? I should have left them alone. It wasn't right."

He took a long sip of coffee and swallowed slowly.

"But there are some weird people out there who will cough up serious bucks just to look at pictures and feed their sick fantasies."

Yeah, and Harry was the one who made all their dreams come true. I locked my teeth together for a moment, then spoke.

"So no Uncle Mort?"

"No, T.K. Just a nice sweet tale, an easy way to dodge embarrassing questions. People love that shit. Everyone wants to be Peter Pan. We want Tinkerbelle to sprinkle a little fairy dust on us so we can fly to Never-Never Land. Story like that makes people think they might hit the lotto."

Now Frank asked, "So how did Cy Watts figure into all of this?"

Harry laughed.

"Just a well paid gopher, but one who got a little too enthusiastic. I didn't tell him to kill Strait. We weren't even doing any business with him. Cy thought there was a market here. Approached Strait thinking he'd be the man to tap into it. Gave him a few samples. It was a mistake to show him pictures of the kid. Strait got a little crazy. The bastard actually had some scruples."

"So Malachi Strait was the one who mailed me the photocopy?" I asked.

"Yeah. Cy got careless. Strait copied it. Thought he'd be Dudley Do-Right. What a joke. I figured we were still safe, but Cy got scared. Thought Strait might cave in if the Detective started asking questions. He called our noble shop owner and arranged a meeting near the water. Cy's real good with a knife, but you've seen that."

"So why Alexis?" I asked.

He shook his head, stared at the carpet. He looked straight at Frank, then at me.

"Hell, I don't know about that. Cy didn't kill her and I damned sure didn't. Watts wasn't even in the Keys that night. I'd sent him up to Miami to conduct some business. He took the Jag, left about three in the afternoon. Didn't come back until the next day. I know he was there. I talked to some of my people. The business got taken care of. Sorry guys, I can't help you with that one. God, I wish I could."

I had listened quietly. I fought the urge to be judge and jury, but when he got to Alexis the rage began to boil. I wanted to jerk him off the sofa. Pump him until he told me why he had turned a girl so young and flawless into something malignant with filth and evil.

"I know what you guys are thinking, looking at me like I'm covered in slime. I see it in your face, T.K. You'd be a damned lousy poker player. I'm sorry about the kid. Sorry about the picture. Sorry she's dead. Nice little girl, would've been a real beauty. But let's get serious. Ask yourself, what are you doing down here? Living on your boat. No job. Checks coming in regular. I read your book. Best seller. I understand. Lots of sex. Lots of violence. You gave the public just what they wanted, didn't you? Face it, buddy. We're all whores. You just sold out cheaper. Take a minute and look around you. Power, money, that's what it's all about. It's bucks, plain and simple. In the end, nothing else matters."

So maybe I was a whore just like Harry said. But at least I wasn't bleeding children, peddling their flesh and sucking up their innocence like a creature out of some Bram Stoker novel. So that's it, my noteworthy defense. But the onslaught of Harry's words pounded into my brain and made it exactly what it was. The perfect rationalization.

Harry looked at Frank. "So I guess it's time to get dressed."

He went into the stateroom leaving the door ajar. There was an explosion from below. Harry's brains were splattered all over the squares and triangles of the bedspread.
Chapter 34

I didn't go to the station, but Frank and I agreed to meet on KAMALA later that afternoon. I spent the rest of the morning trying to scrape the sight of Harry's blood from my mind. I puttered around the boat. I picked up the USA TODAY and scanned the headlines. Some guy in Scotland had showed up at an elementary school with a small arsenal. Sixteen dead, kids and teachers. I folded it and put it in the trash.

I tried to finish the Elmore Leonard I was reading, but I couldn't concentrate. I looked for a leak that had appeared beneath one of the ports. No luck. It was obvious that I wasn't going to be much good at anything right then. I opened a beer and sat in the cockpit.

A parade of tourists was walking the docks, smiling, curious. One guy in a Raw Bar t-shirt tried to make conversation. I guess I snapped at him.

Frank showed up around four. He was off-duty, so I poured a couple of tumblers of Evan Williams over some ice. He swished it around the side of the glass and spoke.

"We went through the whole thing at the station. My boys screwed up. Taurus 38 Revolver. Not much stopping power, but enough to do the job on him. We still don't know where he had it hidden. At least I've got his statement on tape. I almost feel sorry for the bastard, but not quite. He damned sure laid some heavy stuff on Watts.

"Have you got any idea where he might be?" I asked.

"Put out an APB on the car. The guy has a serious rap sheet. Aggravated assault, concealed weapon without a permit, a couple of B and E's. We contacted the state patrol. It'll be tough for him to get out of the Keys by car or through an airport. He could try a boat, but he doesn't own one. We've contacted all of the rental places. Of course, there's always someone "willing to help" when cash is involved. We got the place locked up as tight as we can. I think we'll have him before too long."

"What about Alexis?"

"I'm not sure Watts did it, but he still makes a mighty nice suspect. Maybe he didn't go to Miami that day. Or maybe he drove up there and came back. He knew the kid was a threat, especially after the thing with Strait. It's going to be tough until we arrest him. We might be able to break him down during questioning. It's not a bad bet that he killed the kid. Maybe started worrying about a long vacation at one of our lovely state-owned resorts. The kid could finger him and Harry. Better if she was out of the way. The voodoo thing was a smokescreen. He didn't tell Harry, because Harry liked the kid. He was a prick, but I don't think he wanted any violence. Cy kind of liked it."

I hoped Frank was right about Watts. Then it could all be over. I could forget the Ghostcatcher crap and go back to being a good-natured boat bum.

"Well, I gotta go. Pizza night with Felice and the kids. It's always the Supreme. Peppers, onions, sausage, ground beef, black olives, extra cheese, you name it. I'll have heartburn for a week."

I managed a smile. He turned up his tumbler, drained it and handed it to me.

"Don't be too hard on yourself. Harry was right. We all have a little bit of whore in us, but at least you don't own the whorehouse."
Chapter 35

After Frank left I filled the bottom of the tumbler with more bourbon. Usually the fire in my throat felt good, but tonight the brown liquid left a taste sweet and sickly, almost rancid.

I sat in the cockpit and watched the sun slip below the horizon. The sky was a brilliant orange punctuated with clouds of gray and purple. I wanted to be awed, to soar with the grandeur and beauty. But it didn't happen. I gazed on just another sunset and the clouds promised rain.

I told Sunny I'd drop by the Parrot, but I didn't want to hear the laughter and see the smiles. There was too much taunting me already. I didn't want a slap on the back and a promise that it would be okay. I wanted to be alone. The torment was mine and I wanted to inflict it my own personal way.

It began to drizzle. I closed up KAMALA, slipped into my foul weather jacket and walked. The moon was already on the rise. An occasional break in the clouds revealed its hideout as it crept into the heavens.

The revelers on Duval Street had decided a little bit of rain wasn't spoiling their fun. They seemed to bolt and jerk down the sidewalks, their faces lit up and distorted by the garish collection of light. The sounds leaped out of their throats and mingled in the air with the traffic and the flickering neon. It was scene out of Hieronymus Bosch with a bit of Salvador Dali thrown in.

A mid-twenties man in a parrot-head t-shirt stopped me. I could smell the stale beer and cigarettes on his breath.

"Whattsa matter, Dude? You depressed or something? It's Key West, man. Enjoy." he shouted.

I wanted to snatch him by the neck and hurl him into the wet gutter. Didn't he know the world was a stinking cesspool? A kid was dead. Had he missed that somehow?

We stood in a face-off. My fingers curled and my hand hardened into a fist. He glared at me through an alcoholic haze. His hand came up to snatch at me. Then one of his buddies yanked his forearm.

"Come on, Bobby. The man's having a bad day." He sneered at me and dragged a stumbling Bobby into the next bar.

The drops got bigger and the tourists began to disappear into smoky doorways. The cool rain ran down my neck and soaked the back of my shirt. I walked toward Mallory Square. I'd been to many Sunset Celebrations. It was a game Sunny and I played, watching the tourists ogle the street musicians, the sword swallower, the human statue, or the man who trained the house cats to jump through flaming hoops. They all performed nightly, eager to entertain, and to fill their buckets with dollars from the mainland. It was an enduring symbol of all that was quirky and fun in Key West. Tonight it was only deserted.

The breeze increased as I got into the open. I stood on the wharf looking out at the water. I wiped the rain from my eyes. The masthead lights seemed like stars shrouded in the mist. The boats rocked to and fro in the confusion of the chop. From a distance I heard someone start an outboard, and a dinghy headed for shore.

The breeze freshened and the clouds moved more rapidly. Utter darkness pierced by cameo performances of a full moon. It was beginning to break up.

"Hello Doc." The voice was behind me. I turned slowly. His hair was soggy and the rain ran down his face in jagged trails.

"You caused me some trouble, actually quite a lot. And now I got a little something for you."

He put his hand underneath his coat. I saw the spindly blade as he slid it from the leather sheath. It danced a deadly waltz before me, flashing and glistening in a sliver of moonlight. I watched it move, slow and menacing, like a cobra coming out of a basket.

"It's just you and me, Doc. Nice of the clouds and rain to give us this chance to be alone. I guess that fucking Harry told you all about it. Feels good, doesn't it, to be so goddamned smart. To know it all. But you're not gonna have much time to enjoy it."

He paused and grinned barely showing yellow teeth. There was a fierce, feral look in his eyes. Like a giant cat ready to sink its fangs into the throat of its helpless prey.

"Yeah, Harry. What a chickenshit. Always shooting off his mouth, tellin' everybody how good I was with a knife. Tonight you're gonna find out, Doc. You know what they say. Ain't no substitute for personal experience."

I searched frantically for an escape route. I was at the corner of the wharf. The concrete wall behind me was too tall to scale. That would get me a knife in the back instead of the belly. To my left was the parking lot. I thought I saw a head bob above the bushes, but I didn't know if I'd even have time to scream. There were cars and obstacles to block his path, but it was thirty yards and I had no head start. On the right was the black water. No room for a fake, a chance to dodge the blade and run for it.

I was like a boxer trapped on the ropes. Watts stood before me, knees bent, weight on the balls of his feet, perfectly balanced like a murderous Mike Tyson, ready to dart left or right and deliver a killing jab.

A deadly arc sliced at my belly. My jacket caught most of it. But the blood was warm and quick. It seeped down and pooled at my belt.

Maybe the water. I could try it, but I knew he was fast. He'd beat me to the edge. In the end it meant he wouldn't have to drag my bleeding body as far. I'd be like Malachi Strait, my swollen head thumping against the hull of some hung over sailor. The moon was lost in the clouds. No one would see and no one would hear me scream.

He stepped toward me, the knife swaying and floating closer. I wanted to be Errol Flynn or John Wayne, do something heroic. Make a cat-like move, knock the knife from his hand, and put him out with one punch. He made another deft jab, but I grabbed his wrist. An iron fist slammed down on my forearm. I barely felt the blade slice through the joints of my fingers. The crimson bubbled as it mixed with the rain.

It was over. Nothing brave or meaningful. Soon I'd bob in the water, bloated and bleached like a diseased fish waiting for the scavengers to take my flesh bit by bit. The knife slashed at the air. I raised my hand to my face. Not so much to protect myself. I didn't have the guts to watch myself die.

Then I heard a loud thud and a gasp. I lowered my hands. He thrashed and spit like a rabbit caught in a snare. But the force was locked around his neck. Leaden arms tightened like a vice-grip. The knife jerked and twisted like a headless snake. Watts was being pulled back toward the parked cars that bordered Mallory Square.

Now they were twenty or thirty feet from me. "Don't kill him," I shouted.

For an instant the clouds gave way and the full moon flooded the shadowy features of my savior. He turned his head to hide behind the thrashing Watts, but I caught a glimpse of a face I'd seen before. I fell to my knees and gasped for sweet breath. I don't know how long I lay on the cold, wet pavement.

My next clear image was the warm glow of the teak bulkhead on KAMALA. My shirt was drenched in my own blood, but my hand was wrapped in an old t-shirt and there was a towel covering my belly. I lay on the settee shivering, still too much in shock to thank whatever gods may be for my life. I stirred when Sunny knocked on the hull.

She came below, looked at me and said nothing. She inspected my hands and the slash wound, wiping both gently with peroxide. Then she got the wool blanket from the locker and wrapped it around me.

Morning came. The pungent scent of coffee crept into my nostrils and I could hear a slow stream of water running into the pot. Sunny sat at the table with a newspaper spread in front of her.

"Damned if you don't look like shit. At least I don't think you need stitches," she said, testing me.

I supposed I must have smiled because she smiled back.

"Don't hold out on me, T.K. whatever it is, you need to talk about it. It doesn't have to be all at once, but you need to talk. Coffee's almost ready."

I fumbled through the whole story, beginning with Harry's arrest and the gunshot. She'd already heard about it. No one knew about the picture, yet. Bad news makes quick rounds in Key West, but at least Billy and Monique were spared another day of screaming angst. When I got to my brush with death in Mallory Square, her hands trembled though she tried to hide it with the coffee mug.

"So I almost lost you," she said and shook her head. "Hell, I've been thinking about finding a young sailor-boy with a bigger yacht anyway."

We both laughed a little. It was a lame response, but it was an affirmation. I was alive. Still shaky, but here. I was drinking coffee with Sunny instead of bobbing up and down in the harbor. Alive. I whispered the word. It slid off my lips with clean, comforting sound.

"So did you get a look at the guy who grabbed Watts?" she asked.

"I don't know. It was dark. I was bleeding. The clouds kept hiding the moon. I can't be sure of anything."

I really wasn't sure and I wasn't ready to make any guesses without more information. She told me there was nothing in the paper about the investigation, no body found, nothing unusual.

"Look, I've got to call Frank and clean up. Why don't you go for your morning swim? I'm okay. I really am."

It was a lie, but the daylight had eased the horror of the night before. I had slept. I was breathing air instead of inhaling saltwater and I had things to do. She protested mightily, but I finally got her to leave. As soon as I saw her disappear at the end of the dock, I called Frank. I gave him a quick rundown on the previous night's events.

"You should have called me immediately, T.K. But it's done. Sounds like you came pretty close to fish-bait. I need to hear more details. Right now I'm headed up to Miami to check on that 'business' Watts was conducting the night of Alexis' murder. Why don't you ride with me? We can talk. In the meantime I'll send a couple of patrolmen to scour the area around the square. Maybe we'll find a body. If not, maybe get lucky on blood or footprints. Some kind of physical evidence."

He gave me thirty minutes. I showered, shaved, put on a fresh pair of khakis and a knit shirt. My hand throbbed, but I popped four Ibuprofen and freshened the bandage. Frank pulled up at the end of the dock and we drove toward A1A. Once we'd cleared town, Frank began to ask questions.

I tried not to leave anything out. It's not easy to come that close to death and have a clear, rational view of it all. Still I felt I could remember most of it in detail. The only thing I wasn't sure of was the identity of the man who'd saved me from Watts' blade.

"Run it again, T.K. D id he say anything? You notice clothing, hair color, anything physical? Tattoos on the arms. What about his hands?"

He used different words, but the questions were the same. So were my answers. I felt like a fool. There was nothing else I could tell him. Nothing for sure except I was glad I was alive.
Chapter 36

About an hour into the trip, his cell phone rang. It was the officer in charge of the search. They'd come up with exactly nothing. All we knew was that Watts was gone. Maybe dead, maybe not, but definitely gone.

"Too much rain," Frank said, "must have washed away any traces of blood or footprints. No weapons, no nothing."

When we got to the Miami police station, Frank told me to wait in the car. He came out later with a guy who could have been a linebacker for the Dolphins. He wore a rumpled gray suit and had a head of black hair that belonged in a Fuller Brush catalogue. They spoke briefly. Then Frank got back in the car.

"Coffee shop over in little Havana," he said. "The guy will be wearing a navy windbreaker and a Marlins baseball cap."

Five minutes later Frank parked the cruiser. He took off his coat, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. Then we walked four blocks to a small shop with a hand-painted sign that read Manny's Donuts. A small dark man in a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and a stained apron nodded to us as we came in. There were four people sitting on chrome stools having a heated conversation in Spanish. I caught a couple of references to Fidel. They didn't sound very nice. The smell of rich fried dough hung in the thick air. Frank ordered in Spanish. A couple of mugs and two glazed for each of us.

Our man was sitting in the corner, hat and windbreaker like the cop said. He turned his back to the door as we sat down.

"Glad you guys is here. Too damned hot for this jacket."

He slipped it off and hung it on the back of a white plastic chair. I could smell the cheap wine seeping out of his pores. There was a black hole on the left where a tooth should have been.

"So you are Mr. Smith?" Frank asked as we sat down.

"Yeah, if that's what they told you." He waved a race form at us and grinned, "Goddamned dogs are killin' me. These forms would make better shit paper."

Frank took a fifty-dollar bill out of his wallet, folded it in half and placed it in his shirt pocket. Smith watched, his tiny eyes dancing like a mongrel following a milk bone.

"So you know our buddy, Mr. Watts? Frank asked.

"Oh yeah, I seen Cy a lot. I bet he is a pal of yours, right? You guys is real close."

He laughed and coughed. "Got a cigarette on ya? Nah, never mind, I'm tryin' to quit. Anyway, some guys, nobody you'd know. I work for 'em sometimes. Nothing heavy. All legit. Run a few errands, shit like that. They slip me a buck now and then. I feed it to the dogs. Small time stuff, wouldn't interest you. Cy comes up every couple of weeks. Has a few drinks with my friends. Sometimes brings 'em the mail. But the drinks is all I know about. Anyway he was here that night, the one you guys was wonderin' about. I seen him myself.

He coughed and grinned through the gap in his teeth.

"You absolutely sure about that night?" Frank demanded.

"Look guys. This ain't no subpoena shit. Got that straight?"

Smith hesitated a minute, cased the shop, then looked at Frank.

"Yeah, Watts was here. Night you said. All night. Had a little filly. I know the broad. I kinda checked on it. She said he was small stuff, but he had the cash. Girls I know don't take no credit cards. So this is what you call a favor. I like to help the boys in blue. But that's it. I don't know nothin' else."

Gap tooth eyed the pocket. I knew Frank wanted more, but his instinct told him to quit while he was ahead. He pulled the bill out and placed it on the table.

"Coffee's on me," he said.

"Thanks, guys. Proud to serve. That's me. The dogs will love you for this shit. By the way, you see your old pal, Cy, don't say hello for me." Smith snatched bill and buried his head in the racing form.

On the way out, Frank bought a dozen donuts, all chocolate cream filled, and two large Styrofoam cups of coffee. He asked for a receipt. "Expenses," he mumbled in my direction.

Two of the donuts were gone before we reached the car. The ride back to Key West dragged. My hand hurt and the bandage was seeping.

"Let's go over the stuff on Chris Foster again." Frank said.

I didn't like it. We'd done it before and I thought Chris was off the list. But Frank was a bloodhound. One trail had gone cold and he was looking for another scent. I told him all of the same things. He listened and said nothing. Near Islamoroda he picked up his cell and checked his messages. Then we went back to the creep show that was the night before. Same questions, same answers. He was silent for the rest of the trip. It bothered me. He was trying to work something out, but he wasn't telling me.

I was hungry. It was way past lunch time and I was hoping for a seafood platter at Marker 7 in Marathon. Instead we ate donuts and drank coffee. It was a good thing Felice kept an eye on him. If this was his regular diet, the blood in his arteries was probably thick as tar.

He dropped me back at the marina. "Keep in touch," he said and drove off.

It was late afternoon, late enough for a drink. I poured some Evan Williams over ice and sat in the cockpit. When this was over I was going to kidnap Sunny, take a run to No Name Harbor, anchor and hit the Boater's Grill for the catch of the day. Then head over to West End on Grand Bahama. We'd ease through Indian Cay, make for Great Sale, then Green Turtle where we lay up for a few days snorkeling and subsisting on fresh fish and cold Kalik. If we had the time, Man-O-War and Hopetown would definitely make the itinerary. A few days at Harborview in Marsh Harbor and I think I'd feel human again. But it would have to wait. There was business to be done.

Frank knew everything I knew. Almost. I had seen the face of the man who saved me from being cold cuts for Cy Watts and the crabs. I thought I knew who it was, but I hadn't seen enough of his face to testify to it in court. I had to talk to Marcuse Durant.
Chapter 37

The house looked eerie, even more ominous in the dark. There was a ghostly light flickering behind a ragged curtain in the front window. I hesitated, wondering if I should be here at all. I didn't think Durant would tell me anything. I pictured the cadaverous Joseph lurking about, brightly polished blade in his hand, ready to carve what was necessary to protect The Reverend. But I was here. And in some ways I already had the fear frightened out of me.

A board creaked as I stepped up onto the porch. I noticed mounds of dirt in the yard for fresh plantings. I started to knock when the door eased open. Joseph's gray face loomed before me. Suddenly a voice boomed form the inside.

"Tell him to come in. It's almost halftime, anyway."

The huge form of Marcuse Durant was perched on the edge of a ratty recliner reflected in the glare of a BigScreen Sony. The Spurs were leading Miami by 7. Tony Parker faked right, executed a lightning crossover dribble, and lofted a graceful arc that burned the nets. LeBron shook his head while Tim Duncan clapped wildly.

"Ah, Doctor Fleming. It is a marvelous time to be alive. Don't you agree? This Tony Parker is Baryshnikov in a basketball jersey, a veritable poet of the hard court. That is 17 and it is only halftime. But here, sit. We'll talk a moment."

Through the last 24 seconds, Wade juked and jived honing in on the rim. His face was keen with concentration. His hands went up. He double-pumped and shoveled the ball to Bosch who slammed it home like a mortar going off. Durant's hand slammed together like thunder.

As the final seconds ticked off the clock, he hit the mute button and collapsed into the recliner.

"So much energy, Doctor Fleming. I feel twenty again. But I am quite certain you did not come here to discuss basketball. Proceed, if you will."

I quickly related the events that took place at Mallory Square. He nodded his snowy head occasionally, but said nothing. I wondered it he had heard it all before.

"So this is the source of the bandages that cover your hand? Quite interesting, Doctor. It would seem you are a man of great fortune. Key West would have been less lively without you and your inquiring mind." There was a note of sarcasm in his voice. I hoped it wasn't regret.

"And who do you think may have been your benefactor?"

"That's why I am here, Reverend. I caught only a glimpse of the man in the moonlight, but he was about the size of Joseph."

"I must admit I am shocked. There is no violence in Joseph, but I will satisfy your wishes. I tell you that he has been with me many years. On more than one occasion I have trusted him with my life. He does not disappoint me. I will instruct him to tell the truth and he will, despite any negative consequences."

He called to the back of the house and Joseph appeared, tall, raw, humble, and I was convinced, dangerous. "Ask your questions. Answer them truthfully, Joseph."

I first asked if he knew a man named Cy Watts. His metallic eyes pierced mine as he shook his head. Then I asked if he had followed me on that night, been anywhere near Mallory Square. Again, no. Durant smiled at me and spoke.

"There you have it, Doctor Fleming. Joseph's word is a good as mine own. I have no idea what may have happened to your Mr. Watts, but certainly we are in no way involved." The look he gave me told me I'd better be satisfied.

"You may also remember, Doctor, my words at our last encounter. We do not murder the innocent. The guilty will meet their fate at the hands of the invisibles and our good Baron Samedi. It will not be pleasant."

Durant leaned into me, his face dark and ominous.

"There are things in each man's life that he is not intended to know. Be thankful for your good fortune and leave it at that." He stood like a great Kodiak bear who had just eaten, but knew he must always be watchful for his next meal.

"Thank you, again Reverend. I see you have some new plantings.

"Yes. Those things ugly can be made quite beautiful with the proper fertilizer in the dirt. But Doctor, please. Do stay for the second half. Joseph is not much of a basketball fan."

I actually considered it. Watching Durant's childish glee might help clear my mind and he might let something important slip. But the image of Joseph in the next room waiting to fulfill the Reverend's next wish made me more than uneasy.

I got back to the boat, changed the dressing on my hand and collapsed on the settee. I didn't wake until I heard the rumble of the charter fishing boats the next morning.
Chapter 38

I was deep into the newspaper when Fritz came down the dock, head enshrouded in a cloud of smoke. The Spurs had won. Parker had 36.

"Mornin' Cap. I can tell by your face you ain't got the news, yet.

"Come aboard, Fritz."

"They arrested Chris. Charged him with first degree murder. Happened last night." That was all Fritz knew. I felt betrayed. Frank was planning all of this while we were riding yesterday. He though he'd pump me one more time, maybe put an extra nail in Chris's coffin. I'd been used and I was angry. When I got to the station, I bolted into his office.

"I knew you'd be here as soon as you heard. I'm sorry T.K. The witness's memory improved. We're picking up some guys right now. Gonna do a line-up. If we get a positive ID, your boy is nailed. Still a lot of circumstantial, but with the ID and the physical evidence we've got enough for an indictment and a trial.

"So why the hell didn't you tell me? Why'd you use me yesterday?"

"I'd like to think we are friends, T.K. But what do you want from me? I'm a cop. I couldn't take the risk."

I was mad as hell, but I knew that later it would make sense. What would I have done if I had known Chris was about to be arrested for murder? Warn him so he could run? Tell him to turn himself in? Or keep my mouth shut and wait for the cops to show up with the cuffs.

And what if he were guilty? What if he had killed Alexis and left her blood stained body to be discovered by some doper using the house for a quick fix. I didn't want to believe Frank, but he said they had a case. I was sure they did.

"So you want to see him?"

I nodded. He led me down a long yellow hall to a gray door with a grate in it. He motioned to the guard and I heard the magnetic key buzzing.

"Frisk him. Then let him in the cell with Foster. Give him all the time he wants."

The smell of Lysol crawled up my nose while the guard patted me down. Chris was sitting on a fold-down cot hung from the wall by heavy chains. There was a stained porcelain sink and a toilet with no seat in one corner. A small vent near the ceiling struggled to keep up with the clammy humidity.

"Hello T.K. Welcome to my new digs. Actually it's bigger than the boat and maybe even cleaner." He tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in his throat.

"Sounds like you're in a hell of a mess."

"Yeah, I don't even think MacGiver could dig me out of this hole. They got me. I got a court appointed attorney. Says not to worry. They'll never get a conviction on so much circumstantial crap. Might not even make trial. But you know something, T.K.? I don't believe him. I'm just shit scared."

"You'd be a fool not to be, but maybe there are some things we can try. Maybe your alibi? They've got to have a motive. I guess you know about Watts, but he's not a very good suspect if you can't find him."

"Yeah, I do know and that Harry said Watts didn't do it."

"I've got to ask you one question, Chris. Was it you? Did you kill her?"

His eyes filled with menace and he bolted off the cot. He started to reach for me, but the guard suddenly appeared at the bars.

"Fuck you, T.K. You. My great and true friend. Sure. I'd of thought you'd be the last one to sell me out. But no, you step to the front of the line. Fuck you and get the hell out of here. I don't need this shit. Guard," he screamed, "my 'friend' is leaving. Get his ass out of here."

I couldn't think of anything to say and he wouldn't buy it, anyway. I stood outside the bars and mumbled quietly, "I believe you, Chris." He gave me the finger. He was crying.

But if not Chris, then who? Malachi Strait was dead. Harry was dead and I didn't think he could've done it, anyway. Cy Watts could've, but he had an alibi and he was missing. I was afraid he might stay that way. Marcuse Durant might have had a motive, but it was shaky. Somehow I believed him when he said "We do not murder the innocent." Joseph? Maybe he was a zombie. Chris was the only one left on the list. It made too much sense.
Chapter 39

The witness picked Chris out of the lineup with no trouble. It was in the paper and all over the TV news. The District Attorney was pushing for a quick trial. He released a statement that "he was confident justice would be swift and unerring."

I saw Chris a couple of times. He thought he remembered that the girl at the bar was a blond from somewhere in the mid-west, maybe Iowa. He said he was sorry about the outburst. He understood. I didn't think he did. He was trying to stay calm, but it wasn't working. I hit the bars, questioning all of the regular bartenders who knew him. None could separate that night from any other. The faces, the laughter, the endless empty bottles in the garbage, they all ran together like a muddy river.

" It's like a bad movie, T.K. I want to get up and walk out into the cool darkness. But I can't move. I sit here and wait to go to trial for something I didn't do. They don't believe me. I could never hurt that child. They're going to find me guilty no matter what the damned attorney says. What the hell is going on?"

I had no answer. He was still worried about Billy and Monique. He wondered what they were thinking. So did I. I had expected to see Billy anytime, but he hadn't showed. I talked to Sal.

"He hasn't said anything about it, T.K., and he clams up whenever I bring it up. He still believes you're the Ghostcatcher. You'll find the killer."

I couldn't put off seeing them any longer. Frank quit taking my calls. I'd talked to Whip, Miss Julianne, Fritz, and anyone else who would listen. I wanted a different way to think, a filter to separate the hard information from the gut reactions. It didn't come and time was running out.

The case had become a cause celebre. People wanted to crucify Chris just to get it off of their minds. The grisly murder of a beautiful child, a life snuffed out before it had begun. It was all too brutal, too maudlin, but it was the stuff to build a career on. Any prosecutor would give his license for a case like that. CNN, Fox, all of the networks were glued to it. Rumors had Nancy Grace at Turtle Kraals the night before.

It had been long enough. I called the house. Monique answered the phone. Her voice was distant and detached. Still the sedation, I wondered? Billy would be home around six. Anytime after that was fine.

I gave them an hour to settle in. I needed a bit of settling, myself. This was something I didn't want to do. I remembered Lady MacBeth's line to her reluctant husband. Maybe some bourbon would "screw my courage to the sticking place".

Billy answered my knock and led me into the living room. It looked much the same, but it was dusty and the cloying smell of mildew hung in the air. The crucifix reminded me that this family honored, and most likely feared, an omnipotent Catholic God.

As soon as I sat, Monique spoke. Her eyes were glazed, the patch beneath them dark and swollen. I knew she was barely thirty, but the lines in her face were carved deeper. She was a tortured old woman residing in her own private hell.

She struggled to get the words out.

"I tol' you before. Chris don't hurt Alexis. I know. I read paper. They say he guilty. What you think happen to him?"

"I think he's going to trial. There's a good chance he'll be convicted. If he is, he will spend the rest of his life in prison. Maybe even be executed."

"No," she said, "I go to Detective Beamon. Tell him Chris is innocent. No trial. They let him go."

"It doesn't work that way, Monique. Beamon has built a case. He has evidence he believes in. He is certain Chris is guilty. He's doing everything he can to prove it. He won't give up unless someone comes forward with new evidence. It probably would have happened by now. It's pretty much over."

She was quiet. Her hands twisted in her lap like writhing snakes. Her haunted eyes hung on Billy for several seconds. I thought she whispered, "I love you. Forgive me."

"Is not time to go on. You listen, Mister T.K. You go to station with Billy and me. Help them understand."

"Of course," I nodded.

"I am the one. I kill Alexis."

"No," Billy shouted, "no one believe you killed your own beloved child. This is not truth."

She shut her eyes and hardened herself against the coming sobs.

"Her father was Malachi Strait. He was worst kind of evil. I was young. I was pretty. I need money to start the shop. He come to me late at night. He tell me he like to help. He say he loan me some cash, but he need collateral. I have none. He put one hundred dollar bill on table and ask if I sit in his lap. I think this is no problem, but he kiss my neck. He rub my thigh. Put his hand under my skirt. I look at the money on the table. He not force me. I did what he want. He left, but he come again in two weeks. This time five hundred dollar. It happen again. He did not stop until I tell him I carry his child. Then I no see him. Now my shop is doing well. I don't need his money. Then I meet Billy, I don't need nothing ever again."

He knelt before her and placed his hands on her knees. She pushed them away gently. He looked into her eyes and shook his head. "I don't believe you. You want to save Chris, but it won't work."

"No, Billy. I did it. She was my baby, but she carried the curse of her father. It was his blood that ran in her. You did not see picture. I find it in her drawer. She was naked, holding that man's thing in her hand. It was her body, her face, her smile, but the eyes were those of a demon. They were mine. The eyes of the mother. The invisibles, the loas, they got her, make her do this thing. Mauvais Sang. It was not her fault, but the evil was there. It would not go. I create it. I destroy it. It was written."

She stopped. Billy was still and silent. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and went on.

"I pray to the Blessed Virgin. She don't answer. It is not a thing for my God. I cannot leave my Alexis to wander. The demons must be released. Her soul must be free. So I follow the voodoo ritual. I give her some sleep medicine to slow her. Then I take her to that house. I have the knife from the boat. I put it to her throat, cover her with the powder and the sheet. She does not see. She does not cry. At last moment she open her eyes. I think she smiled at her Mama. She jerk a little, but finally she bleed out. I cut the head off of the chicken and mingle the blood in the bowl. I see her spirit rise from the body and drift from the house on the wind. She gone to Baron Samedi. She seek peace, but still not have it. I am cursed. I must make the peace. I tell the police. I free Chris. Then she will rest."

She began to heave and a long wail escaped her lips. It was the cry of a wounded animal. Billy remained on his knees. He stared at the floor, then put his arms around her shoulders and rocked her like a baby while she sobbed.

I lifted myself from the chair. Billy went to the door with me. Tears ran down his cheeks.

"I'll wait outside until she is ready to go."

"You don't want it to be, Mister Fleming, but you the Ghostcatcher no matter what you say. I call Detective."
Chapter 40

They released Chris the next morning. I didn't see him. He settled his bill at Land's End, slipped the lines and was gone without a word to anyone.

Frank called to apologize. I told him it was okay. Like he said, he's a cop. There was still no trace of Cy Watts. Frank was sure he was dead. I told him about the new plantings at Marcuse Durant's and the cryptic comment he'd made about the right kind of fertilizer turning an ugly thing into something beautiful.

"It's not enough without more to go on," he said, but I think we both hoped Watts was rotting under that flower bed.

"I think any good attorney can get her off on a temporary insanity plea. It's the only thing that makes any sense in this case. Felice wants you and Sunny to come over for dinner when everything is settled, but no cop talk. Actually I think she's ready to start her master's degree online."

"That's great. We'd love to, but it will have to wait. Sunny's got two weeks off from the Parrot. We're headed for Marathon in the morning. If it's decent, we'll skip No Name, go offshore near Rodriquez Key at Molasses Reef. Then we'll do an overnighter in the stream.

"Lucky bastard," he said and rung off. I promised to call when we got back.

I ran through the check list I always use before a Gulf Stream crossing. I always kept my Coast Guard equipment up to date. Extra oil change, transmission fluid, first aid kit, impeller, miscellaneous spare parts, trying to cover the multitude of things that might need a fix offshore. NOAA's weather forecast was as good as it gets, 10-12 from the southeast for the next few days, 2-4 foot seas and no rain.

By nine we'd cleared the main ship's channel. I hoisted and released the genny. I hit the fuel cut-off and locked the prop. KAMALA shuddered a bit like a fine thoroughbred. She knew she was in control. The bow lifted and we surged through the rolling swells in Hawk Channel. The weather was perfect. We left Marathon to port and picked up the stream. When the water turned indigo blue and the depth sounder stopped reading, I knew the extra three-knot current was driving us. The GPS showed a steady 8-9 knots made good.

The sun baked us from directly overhead. Sunny went below and came back up in my favorite bikini without the top. She had a cold Kalik in either hand. I liked the combination and I decided staring might be tolerated, maybe even welcomed. I set the auto-pilot and let the warmth bathe me.

My mind was still a jumble of thoughts. I was sorry about Harry, but as he said, "we choose our own poison." What would happen to the Strip Search when Tracy got back? Where was Chris? Would I see him again? Maybe Buffett's Roundtable was a thing of the past. I hoped not. And what about Monique? And Billy? Sunny's face said she had questions, too. But neither of us had answers.

Watts was probably dead. I wasn't sorry. Marcuse and Joseph. I owed the dark Reverend for sending his man to save me from Watts' blade. I wished him healthy and beautiful flowers. For hours there was no sound but the rustling of wind in the sails and the rush of the deep blue parting before the bow.

I logged a minor course change and trimmed the sails. My hand still hurt, but the flesh had closed and the scar tissue was filling in nicely. The sun was setting in a huge orange ball behind the Keys. The day had cooled and the wind was a baptismal that promised to wash clean the sins of the past few weeks.

After we'd eaten, I asked Sunny if she could stand watch while I got a couple of hours sleep.

"You need it," she said.

I lay down on the port settee. KAMALA was heeled at about ten degrees and I was wedged comfortably between the cushions. I listened as Mother Ocean spoke and felt her caress in the quiet rocking of the boat. I slept.

The child came for the last time. But there was no crying or wailing. She wore a bright blue t-shirt I knew had come from Monique's shop. It had a giant sunflower emblazoned on the front. Her black curls were tamed by a pair of gold barrettes. She was smiling. She held the book in her right hand.

There was a taller figure behind her, graceful hands kneading her shoulders. The face wasn't clear, but the love was. It lasted only a moment. Then they were gone.

Maybe Monique was right. Alexis was finally at peace. I wanted it for her, but also for myself. I woke and a sound lilted through the cabin. "Ghostcatcher" it whispered. I didn't ever want to hear that word again, but maybe Billy was right. I had helped. It seemed more luck than anything else. I didn't like the way it ended, but I had done it.

Now the sound had faded. I looked up into the cockpit to check on Sunny. She was humming to herself. The breeze blew the silky hair away from her face. She smiled at me and gave me a thumbs up. I reached to the shelf for the book of poems. One last look at 'Annabel Lee.' It was gone. I went back to sleep.

We got back two weeks later, relaxed and brown and maybe a couple of pounds heavier. KAMALA had been true to her pedigree. Quick, ladylike, and comfortable. I talked to Frank. Monique had already agreed to a plea deal. No incarceration, but some undetermined time at a quiet place north of Palm Beach. Laverne, Durant's 'placee', had made a miraculous recovery and his followers were convinced his magic was as strong as ever. There was whispering about some kind of sacrifice, but there were no missing persons reported. I still don't know about Chris, but I figure we'll see each other again if it's in the cards.

Buffett's Roundtable still meets at the Green Parrot. Sunny, Fritz, Whip, Miss Julianne, and some new additions, aka reprobates and boat bums. If you're looking for us, we'll be the ones laughing.

####

About the author:

Karl Tutt is a licensed captain, veteran cruiser, former sailing instructor, and author of sailing articles for several national publications. He lives in Florida and teaches English in a dropout prevention program. He is currently working on a sequel to DEATH OF THE INNOCENT.

