"I'm happy to have learned something tonight," I said, "but how does this help me?"
"I grew up on the stories that form the oral traditions of my people, the Seminoles and the Tequesta. When I came to the States, I brought those traditions with me. I worked the fishing boats for many years, and now I'm retired. I'm almost eighty years old."
That was a shock. He could have passed for fifty. He was a powerful man, with no flab about his body. He was paddling a kayak on the open sea at midnight. I nodded my head, signaling him to continue.
He said, "What you call Blood Island was once a sacred place for die Tequesta. We called it by a different name, but even the name is sacred and can only be spoken to others of the tribe. They buried their caciques, or chiefs, there, and the warriors would often visit to commune with the spirits of those gone before. When I retired, I searched the islands of the Marquesas and Mule Keys. One day I found the burial grounds of my ancestors on Blood Island.
"I visited regularly, to pray with my ancestors, and to feel their spirits. One day, about three years ago, some rough men with rifles escorted me off the island and told me I'd be shot if I returned.
"I had to find a way on and off the island that would not alert the owners that I was there. The burial mound is on the northwest corner of the island, and there is a way to get in there by boat if you know how. I can show you."
"Why would you do this?"
"I heard you talking to the girl, Peggy."
"How?"
"I often wander the island in the night. I feel the spirits of the Tequesta there and I know I'm among my kinsmen. Tonight, I saw you sneaking around and followed. I couldn't imagine what a guy in a wet suit was after. I was at the open window of the bathroom when you were talking to the girl. I've been suspicious for a long time that something bad goes on there, but I've never been able to prove it. I would have gone to the authorities if I had any proof. I think you are the man to get that proof."
"Why do you care?"
"Those are bad men, and they desecrate a land my people think of as holy. Do you have a chart?"
I spread out the nautical chart of the area, and in the glow of a flashlight, Abraham showed me the exact spot where I could land my boat.
"See," lie said, pointing to the chart, "this shows very shallow water all around this area. But, there's a tall Australian pine here at the tip of die island. It stands above the others, so you should be able to spot it even at night. From the Boca Grande Channel, you want to line up at exactly eighty degrees true to the tall tree. Head straight in. There's a deep-water channel right up to the tree, but it's narrow. When you get close, you'll see a cut in the undergrowth. There's a path that leads toward the houses, but it peters out before it gets there. You'll be able to get far enough in to see the generator building, and you can take it from there. I don't think they know about that trail, because it's never guarded."
I penciled in the information I needed and charted an exact latitudelongitude position in die Boca Grande Channel from which I'd start my approach to the island. I rolled up the chart.
"Thanks, Abraham. Where can I reach you?"
"You can't, my friend."
With that, he pulled his kayak to the boat, slipped into it, and paddled into the night. He never looked back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
I motored back to the Key West Bight in a drizzling rain. I'd changed into my street clothes and put on a windbreaker I'd carried to the boat earlier. I belted the dive knife and scabbard to my arm under the jacket, and put the pistol in the pocket. I stowed the dive gear under the tarp in the bow. By the time I docked the boat, I was soaked, and it was nearing three a.m. I'd call the kid from the dive shop in the morning and ask him to retrieve my equipment and store it. I started walking toward my rooming house.
The light rain continued, leaving a thin sheen of water on the pavement. The streets were empty, the rain dampening the usual carousing on Duval Street. The colored lights that adorned the windows of the bars reflected off the wet streets, giving the appearance of many small rainbows. The smell of the sea tickled my nose.
I stopped at the corner, two doors down from where my rooming house loomed out of the darkness. I wanted to make sure there were no bad guys watching for me. The street was quiet and deserted.
I climbed the stairs to my room, key in hand. I saw light coming from under the door. I was sure I'd turned the lights off before I left that morning.
I pulled the nine millimeter from the pocket of my windbreaker. I eased up to the door, listening for any sound. I heard a thud, as if someone had kicked the wall, then quiet again. I tried the doorknob. It turned, and I pushed quickly into the room, my Glock held in front of me.
"Don't shoot, podner," said a familiar voice. "I'm a friendly."
Jock Algren was splayed out on my bed. A muscle-bound man was trussed up in the corner, a gag in his mouth. He kicked the wall with his bound knees, making the thud I'd heard from the hall.
"Who's your friend?" I said, lowering the gun.
"Says his name is Martin Holcomb."
"Is he telling the truth?"
"I think so. He wouldn't tell me at first, but with a little encouragement he fessed up."
Holcombe's little finger on his right hand was pointing at an odd angle. "What happened to his finger?"
"I broke it."
"Ali, a little encouragement."
"Yeah. He's a sissy."
"Who is he?"
"He works for an outfit called The Circle. Told me he lives in a place named Blood Island. I found him in your room when I came to visit."
I had met Jock Algren on the first day of eighth grade, and he became my best friend. We'd stayed close during the intervening years. Jock was an oil company executive, but unknown to most anybody, he moonlighted as an operative of our country's most secretive spy agency.
"What're you doing here?" I said.
"Logan called me this afternoon. I was in Miami and caught a commuter flight down."
I was glad to see jock, but a little surprised that Logan had called him. "What did Logan have to say?"
"He said you'd called and wanted him to bring your boat down and to bring some weapons. He told me you were looking for Laura's stepdaughter. He wasn't sure what was going on, but asked if I could get out of Houston in time to come with him. I told him I was in Miami and that I'd check things out and get back to him."
I pointed to the man on the floor. "What're you going to do about him?"
Jock winked at me. "I thought I'd kill him."
The man squirmed and mumbled something from behind the gag.
"What did he say?" I asked.
"It's not important,"Jock said. "Do you want to kill him here or wait until we get outside?"
The mumbles became louder, the squirming more intense.
"Let's see what he has to say," I said, walking toward the trussed up man.
I leaned down, holding my knife so that he could see it, and whispered into his ear. "If you do anything more than talk to us, I'm going to gut you like a fish. Understand?"
The man nodded, and I removed the gag. I recognized him as the man I'd seen drive Simmermon's boat away from the restaurant earlier in the day.
He licked his lips and worked his jaw, tried to speak, and tried again. This time a raspy voice came through. "Don't kill me."
"I can't see much reason for keeping you alive," I said. "Besides, you were going to kill me."
"No, I wasn't. I was just going to take you back to the island. The Rev wants to see you."
"Why?"
"I don't know He just does."
"How did you know where to find me?"