“Pull back!” Coleman grabbed the port railing to keep from being thrown over the side. “We’re too close!”
“Here we go… almost there… Now!”
Serge cut the steering wheel all the way starboard, closing the angle around the vortex and going into a tight circle, drawing the parasail into the cone. A final scream from Greely and the rope snapped.
Serge and Coleman looked back as they accelerated away — the parasail going up, up, up into the waterspout, the end of the rope whip-snapping as it was sucked in like a piece of spaghetti. Then nothing but colorful silk shreds jettisoned from varying heights.
“What a horrible way to go,” said Coleman.
“It’s the Gulf Stream,” said Serge. “Has a nasty way of creeping up on you.”
The dock was silent. A leather organizer slipped from a hand and fell in the water. The boat disappeared over the horizon.
40
A SHERIFF’S CRUISER returned to the substation on Cudjoe Key.
“What an insane day,” said Gus. “I’ve never seen an event like it.”
“I don’t know. Fantasy Fest gets pretty out of hand.”
They went inside. Walter found a film of burnt coffee bubbling in the bottom of the pot. “Did I leave that on?”
The fax started up. Gus grabbed it. A mug shot. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
“I should have known! A serial killer right here under our noses!”
They ran out the door and jumped in the cruiser.
Walter radioed for backup. They told him the nearest unit was in Marathon.
“That’s at least twenty minutes,” said Gus. “Can’t wait that long. We have to find Serge before we have another body on our hands.”
“Where do you think he is?”
A ’71 BUICK RIVIERA pulled into Coleman’s driveway. Serge stepped on the brakes, but nothing happened. The Buick hit the trailer at low speed, buckling the bedroom wall.
“What the hell?” Serge got out and shimmied under the car.
“What is it?” asked Coleman.
Serge crawled back out and looked at a hand covered with hydraulic fluid. “The brake line’s leaking.”
“Did we hit something?”
“No, it looks like it was cut. That’s strange.”
“Just great. I don’t have money for a repair.”
“Don’t need any.” Serge opened the trunk and held up a gray roll. “Just wrap it in a lot of duct tape.” He crawled back under the car. “Of course you have to do it again every twenty miles, but this is about value.”
Coleman headed for the front door. “I’m pooped.”
Serge crawled out from under the car and followed him inside. “Boating does that.”
AN EMPTY QUART bottle sat in the road. A tire rolled. Pop.
The tire belonged to a brown Plymouth Duster. The door opened. Two black combat boots swung out and settled onto the ground. The driver wore gloves. One hand had a plastic bag of dynamite sticks and blasting caps. The other, copper wire and tools.
The driver walked a short distance and went to work. The explosives were soon taped under a driver’s seat, the one where Serge often sat. Copper wire was routed out of sight and up to the back of the ignition switch, just behind where the key was inserted.
A SHERIFF’S CRUISER raced into the parking lot of an old apartment building on Big Pine Key. Gus and Walter jumped out with guns drawn. They ran up the stairs and knocked on the door of unit 213. No answer.
Walter tried kicking in the door but only hurt himself. Gus shot the lock. They ran through the apartment, swinging around blind corners with guns in outstretched arms. They shoved open closet doors. Gus started going through a dresser.
“We don’t have a warrant,” said Walter.
“Look what I found.”
GLOVED HANDS FINISHED twisting copper wire to the ignition posts. Two black combat boots walked back to the Plymouth Duster and climbed in. The door closed. The Duster pulled away. Molly looked up in the rearview, making sure her hair was in place.
THE SHERIFF’S CRUISER raced back down Key Deer Boulevard.
Walter was driving faster than he had in years. Gus grabbed the radio again.
“What about that Coleman guy he hangs out with?” said Walter. “The one we met at the community hall?”
“What was his last name?”
“Don’t remember.”
“I’ll have the dispatcher look up all utility records with that first name.”
Walter hit the siren and swung onto U.S. 1. Gus radioed in his emergency request and started pulling on a bulletproof vest. Walter looked over at his partner. “This is your last shift. You sure you want to do this?”
“The fax mentioned the car in the Everglades had been wired with explosives, and we found blasting caps in the dresser.” Gus pulled the strap tight on the side of his vest. “She may have already rigged his car.”
The dispatcher came back. No records under Coleman.
“Must be a nickname,” said Walter.
“Wait. He had this cool car. An old Riviera,” said Gus. “Early to mid-seventies.” He got the dispatcher again and asked for a trace through Motor Vehicles.
A METALLIC GREEN Trans Am raced over the Bogie Channel Bridge to No Name Key. Anna held her purse to her chest. She stopped near the end of the street and checked a scrap of paper with directions. She looked at her watch. Early. She turned onto a dirt road.
Nothing but bumps and brush as she drove north until she ran out of island. The Trans Am entered a small clearing with an ad-hoc boat ramp, just a space in the mangroves and a dirt incline to the water. She got out and walked a few yards to the shore. No sign of anyone yet. Just something silver flashing through the branches. An aluminum hull.
The quiet was freaking her out. That’s when she heard the other car. She didn’t recognize the dark sedan, but it was raising a major dust trail flying down the road.
She ran for the Trans Am. The other car skidded to a stop. A man jumped out and sprinted toward her. Anna dove in the car and locked the doors. She stuck her key in the ignition.
“Anna, stop!” The man slapped an open wallet against her window. She saw a gold badge against the glass.
“Open the door, Anna. DEA, Agent Wilson.”
The badge looked real. It looked fake. She didn’t know what to think anymore or why she opened the door.
The man grabbed her arm. “We have to get you out of here!”
Anna pulled away. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”
“Your life’s in danger.”
“Now I recognize you! You’re that asshole from the pub, what’s-his-name….”
“Gaskin Fussels.”
“You’re supposed to be in jail, but…” She pointed at the badge in his hand. “What’s going on?”
“Explain later. We can’t stay here.” He stepped forward to take her arm again. “I know about Scarface… Fernandez’s murder.”
She jumped out of reach and started walking backward. “You’re lying.”
“We don’t have any time,” said the agent. “He’ll be here any second.”
Anna just kept backing up. She reached the water’s edge.
Wilson could see she was on the brink. She’d bolt, even if it meant swimming. He decided to talk fast.
“I’ve been watching Fernandez for a long time. I also know about the safety deposit box. I followed you from the bank.”
Anna stopped backpedaling.
“Listen to me. You were used. I can help with the judge, even if you pulled the trigger—”
“I didn’t!”
“We just want the head of the organization. I’ll need you to testify.”
Anna gave him the weirdest look. “What do you mean? Fernandez is dead.”
“Right.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?” said the agent.
“Fernandez was the head of the organization. And now he’s dead. So why do you need me to testify?”
“Oh, my God!” said the agent. “You really don’t know, do you?”