Who were these Knights of New Granada? And how was it possible they knew these things about him?
The letter was written in perfect Castilian Spanish; they were obviously educated people. So they were probably reasonable men. When they made contact with him again, he would explain his untenable situation: Once entangled in the drug world, there were no neat options to rid oneself of that stigma.
And how could he possibly dump all that money in such a short time without drawing notice? Maybe these “Knights” had some suggestions for his deliverance from the dilemma he now found himself in. Maybe he could make a donation to their cause.
They had given him a month to begin corrective action. Enrique hoped to hear from them soon. The fear that these men would expose his wrongdoing to the world had driven him near-mad with anxiety.
For yet another day, he had been ineffective at the office. He might as well go to the club and drown his bad thoughts in good bourbon. Enrique pushed a button and asked to be picked up downstairs.
He felt for his sidearm, then emerged cautiously from the building’s private entrance. His new limousine and driver were waiting. Quickly, he slid into the back seat.
Enrique’s eyes darted from one side of the street to the other as the limousine pulled through the security gates and out onto the main thoroughfare. Then he turned and looked through the rear window. Seeing nothing unusual, he sat back and pulled out a cigar and lighter.
At that moment, the vehicle made an unfamiliar left turn. Enrique leaned forward and asked, “Why the detour?” Only then did he realize the man behind the wheel was not his new chauffeur.
Enrique reached for his pistol. But the driver’s reflexes were quicker. Enrique Martinez would never be heard from again.
μ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN μ
The word spread throughout BRI: “The Coast Guard Corpus Christi was on the phone with Diane.” It had been more than two months since Vincent’s disappearance.
Diane thanked the caller, gently replaced the phone in its cradle and stared out the window at the bay.
David Crowley appeared in her office doorway. “Knock, knock.”
“Come in,” she said softly, without looking up.
David walked in, eased himself into a chair across the desk from her and studied her face.
“They think they might have found Woodwind,” she said in a flat tone.
“Where?”
“South Texas. A sailboat has washed up on a barrier island—Padre Island. Some sea turtle watchers reported it. It’s partly buried in sand, and most of the name is gone. ‘Wind’ is the only word visible on the transom.”
Diane continued without taking a breath: “The Coast Guard suggested I fly down there to identify the boat. They couldn’t give me anything more specific than: ‘On the beach, south of Corpus Christi.’ I need more information than that. Or what’s the point in my trekking down there? I’m not familiar with the area. But even if I were, how could it be Woodwind? Her last known coordinates placed her 400 miles south of there. And the officer agreed with me that probably half of all sailboat names have the word ‘wind’ in them—”
“Do you want me go with you?”
For a moment David’s kind offer threw her off balance.
Then she sucked in a ragged breath and blinked back tears. “Okay. Yes…. Thank you.”
μ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN μ
Padre Island National Seashore is the longest undeveloped barrier island in the world. It is separated from the mainland by the Laguna Madre, which stretches from Corpus Christi Bay in Texas to Rio Soto la Marina in Tamaulipas, Mexico.
Throughout history Padre Island has been a wilderness, with the exception of a settlement established by a Spanish priest in the early 1800’s. Before that time, only nomadic Native Americans, Spanish troops and survivors of three shipwrecks in the 1500’s were known to come to the island.
Padre Island has been owned by four different nations: Spain, Mexico, Republic of Texas and the United States. It was designated a National Seashore by the U.S. in 1968.
Of the island’s 65.5 miles of beach on the Gulf of Mexico, 55 miles are open to four-wheel-drive vehicles only.
The Padre Island National Seashore entrance booth was piling up with sand on its windward side. David lowered the jeep’s window and paid the fee. Then he took the beach permit from the park ranger and handed it over to Diane.
“How far y’all goin’?” the khaki-clad ranger yelled over the wind.
“”We’re gonna take a quick look at the surf, then duck back in again.” David said.
The ranger nodded. He knew about peoples’ fascination with storms. “That system out there’s s’posed to cause some unusually high tides. You could get cut off if you go down island too far.”
David nodded in appreciation of the warning, then put the jeep in drive. But the ranger wasn’t finished with them yet.
“This afternoon, I’ll probably have to evacuate a few hardy fishermen and some determined Kemp’s ridley sea turtle conservationists encamped down ‘ere past the five mile point. High tide’s around three o’clock, according to the chart. But Mama Nature’s gonna send us an unscheduled preview today.”
With that, he reached out and thumped the vehicle door. “ Y’all better get goin’ now if yer gonna make it back. Remember to stay in the tire tracks that’re already there.”
David gave a half salute, Diane waved and they pulled away, heading toward the Gulf. After a minute, David stopped and shifted into park. The rental jeep shimmied on its chassis from yet another blast of wind. He turned to Diane. “You sure we want to do this today? It’s your call.”
Diane glanced at her watch. She knew what David was thinking: They had been thrice warned. Last evening the Padre Island Visitor Center’s recorded message reported tropical storm development fifty miles offshore with deteriorating weather and beach conditions.
This morning, throughout Corpus Christi Airport, Diane heard fretting about the coming weather, in Spanish as well as English. And Maria, the car rental agent, had all but insisted that they purchase extra insurance after David requested a four-wheel drive vehicle that would handle well on the beach.
In a stern, motherly tone, Maria asked if they were aware the National Park Service did not tow vehicles. And the cost for a private wrecker could be several hundred, even a thousand dollars to come “down island”—that was if they could even call for help. Cell phone service out there was spotty at best. Then there was the possibility that the wrecker wouldn’t even be able to get to them.
Now, they had the park ranger’s assurance that it wouldn’t be just another day at the beach.
Diane rolled the permit into a cone shape, then rubbed it flat against her knee. “What are the chances the storm will wash Woodwind back out to sea? If, in fact, it is Woodwind.”
“We don’t know how far up on the beach the boat is. Of course, the higher the tide and the rougher the surf, the greater the chance she’ll be dislodged.”
Diane turned and made eye contact with David. “Then we’d better get to it today.”
“Here we go.” He reset the trip mileage log, put the jeep in four-wheel drive and headed out.
“David?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever driven on sand?”
“I grew up near here. Learned to drive on the beach.”
“Good.” Her voice cracked. “Thank you for coming.” She glanced at her watch again. It was 10:30 a.m.