Walking to the edge of the pier, I stood directly behind the Sun Dog. She was almost exactly like the Lady Lorraine, except this boat was brand new, but looked in terrible condition. Her paint was chipped, railings bent and scratched, rust and corrosion was everywhere. She hadn't been washed down from her last trip, and sea salt clung to every wetted surface. It was a shame to see such a fine vessel treated so badly.
"Hey, you guys catching any fish? This looks like a really fine boat."
Barrel-chest slowly turned to face me. We were less than four feet apart.
"What's those long poles sticking out from the sides? Are they radio antennas? What kind of fishing y'all do?"
Easing the Anchor Rode down from his mouth, he cracked a malignant smile. "Bugger off, Mon. Get outta here before someone smacks your face."
Acting insulted, I turned and walked away like an offended tourist. I did get a good look at the boat and those aboard.
Barrel-chest's accent was one I was familiar with on Abaco Island. I would bet he was a lobster fisherman from around there. The people of Abaco are ninety-nine percent white, and are descendants from Loyalists who left America after the war with England. Settling Abaco, they brought their slaves with them from the plantations. Blacks in the Bahamas are descendants from these slaves, and they now run the country. The Loyalists are honest, hard-working people who make their living from the sea, boat building, and what few crops that can be grown in the thin, sandy topsoil.
There was a good view of Hurricane Hole and the Sun Dog from my room. If they left the dock, there was little I could do, but the bet was that they would stay in port long enough for me to formulate a plan.
Surveillance is something I've never grown used to. It's boring, and if you have a lapse in concentration, that's the moment something will happen.
At sunset, the two women went below deck. By nine o'clock nothing had moved aboard the Sun Dog. It grew too dark to see.
Going down to the casino, I found it crowded with pre-show gamblers. The show started at ten o'clock, and there was no sign of the foursome from the Sun Dog, but what I did see stopped me in my tracks. Sitting at a blackjack table was Lynn Renoir. There was no mistaking her. The long, blond hair was pulled tightly back from her face and braided into a single ponytail. A single strand of pearls enhanced the sculpted nose, thin, unpainted lips, and tanned skin. She wore a black dress with a single strap on the shoulder. No wonder Bill Moran couldn't find her, she was in Nassau.
Easing out of the casino so that she could not see me, I went to the front desk and asked if my wife, Lynn Renoir, had checked into the hotel. She had not, but there were two other hotels on the island, and all shared the same casino. The desk clerk checked with them and said that she wasn't registered at either.
Heading back to the blackjack table, I thought it time to confront Miss Renoir. She was gone. The dealer said she didn't remember her leaving with anyone, but she really wasn't paying that much attention. I thought of offering a bribe to jog her memory, but the cameras were looking.
Lynn had disappeared. Leaving the hotel, I walked down the path to Hurricane Hole to see if the Sun Dog was still there. It was, but blacked out. Going back to the hotel, I checked the dining room. Lynn wasn't there, but the foursome from the boat was seated at a table in the middle of the room.
Sitting down in the lobby to think, it was hard to imagine why Lynn was in Nassau. Glossman would not get her off the hook this time. I cannot babysit an amateur; it could get one or both of us killed. Exhaling a deep breath, I glanced at the entrance to the dining room. Now would be a good time to take a look around the Sun Dog. The dope pushers should be at dinner for at least an hour, longer if they took in the show.
The path to the dock was winding and narrow. Crushed seashells crunched under my feet, Palmetto bushes, Palm and Almond trees, and many species of tropical flowers bordered the path. In the cool night air an ocean breeze rustled the fronds. A brilliant field of stars lighted the sky. A romantic place, but the path was deserted.
Nearing the harbor, I eased off to the side and crouched under small palm trees surrounded by Bougainvillea shrubs in full bloom. Their aroma permeated the night air, reminding me of a good zinfandel wine.
Birds chirped and flitted in the shrubs, boat traffic on the channel produced throaty, muted rumblings. From my position there was a clear view of the Sun Dog. Nothing stirred on the boat. Lights from the tall poles surrounding the dock danced on the water as small ripples ran through the harbor.
Slipping off my leather-soled shoes, I eased down the path, slipped into the cockpit, and tried the salon door. It was not locked. Cool air hit me in the face and I could hear the air-conditioner humming quietly. I stood for a moment letting my eyes adjust. The interior was designed galley-up, which gave more room below. Rene was brought over to Bimini aboard this boat, and probably from this very dock.
Light filtering through the windows offered enough illumination to see clearly. It seemed as if some deranged person was playing a spotlight into the salon as the light moved spasmodically around when the boat nudged gently against her mooring. Starting down the companionway ladder to the lower deck and staterooms, I heard a faint noise. Stopping and standing deathly still, I counted to sixty. There were no more sounds. The smells emanating from the cabin were familiar, disinfectant, recently fried food, diesel fumes, coconut oil, and a perfume that I recognized, but could not name.
Entering the master stateroom on the portside revealed a queen-sized bed with wall to wall mirrors and a big walk-in shower. The mirrors gave a massive look to the room. There were several storage drawers built into the bottom of the bed holding the usual things, clothes, bathing suits, and socks. One drawer at the head of the bed contained two automatic handguns and several boxes of ammunition. This was not unusual, as most boats carry firearms for protection.
Looking closely at the mirrors, I noticed that they were also sliding glass doors. Inside were hangers of expensive clothing and, something much more interesting, six AR-15 assault rifles and dozens of cases of ammunition, along with several automatic pistols; guns resembling MAC-10s. This was heavy stuff. Snowpowder protection. How did Rene Renoir fit into this equation?
Every human being has a sixth sense for danger left over on the DNA strand from long ago when we were hunters and gatherers dodging meat-eating predators. The hair bristled on the back of my neck at the instant my world ceased to exist. There was no pain, only a millisecond of warning from a long ago ancestor.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There was a pounding, pounding. Something beat on my head with a horrible, steady rhythm. Opening my eyes brought more pain, and all I could see was gray paint. There was a nauseating smell of diesel fuel. This was the engine room of a boat, and I was lying in the bilge, bound hand and foot. The heat must have been over a hundred degrees. My clothes were soaked through with sweat; my hands and legs numb. It was hard to breathe.
Panic rushed over me like a dark veil. I fought it with all my mental resources. Deep breaths brought only scorching hot air. Rolling my head from side to side, I noticed the blood. There must be a pint coagulating on the nasty, oily deck. The flow must have stopped or I wouldn't be lying here looking at it.
By the motion of the boat, I knew that we were in open water. How long had I been out? It could be hours or a day. My eyes wouldn't focus and the smell was making me sick. I vomited. At least there was no blood from my stomach. I had a severe head injury and it worried me. Blood clots on the brain in the middle of the ocean insured but one inevitable conclusion.