Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (21 page)

I softly closed the door and moved to the next building. Again, I
stood at the door and listened. No sound at all. I tried the door. Locked. I
peered into the nearest window. The place was similar to the first; twelve
beds, all occupied. I didn't see any weapons. I moved to the next building.
The door was standing open, and the building was empty.

I crossed the courtyard and went to the end building on the crescent,
the one farthest from the house. A guard, carrying what appeared to be an
M-16 rifle, rounded the far corner of the building just as I reached the
front door. He was fifty feet from me. I dropped to the ground and rolled
next to the foundation of the cabin, concealing myself in the weeds that
had grown up there. He came toward me, and then turned and went to
the front door. He couldn't see me in my black wetsuit and hood. He
opened the door and peered inside, standing quietly for a few moments,
as if listening. Closing the door, he moved off the way he'd come, back
around the building.

I rose and moved to the door. I stopped and listened, but heard nothing. The cabin was quiet. The door was bolted from the outside, locking
the inhabitants in. I only had to slide the bolt back to open the door. What
I assumed to be the bathroom door at the far end of the room was ajar,
and some light escaped into the larger room. I saw the same bunkhouse
arrangement I'd seen in the other cabins, except this one seemed to house
women. Was Peggy here? No way to tell. I didn't want to chance waking
any of them and raising an alarm.

I turned to leave, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. I turned quickly, and found a woman in a white gown coming at me
like a wraith in the dark. I saw the glint of steel in the anemic light escaping from the bathroom. She held a small kitchen knife, raised in a stabbing
position. I grabbed her arm, twisted it behind her back and covered her
mouth with my hand, silencing her. The knife dropped to the floor. She
kicked at my shins with her bare feet, trying to wiggle out of my grasp.

I whispered into her ear. "Quiet down. I'm here to help."

She slowed her movements and then stopped completely.

"I need to talk to you. If I let you go, will you be quiet?"

She nodded her assent, and I loosened my grip on her mouth.

"Where can we talk?" I asked in a whisper.

"Bathroom," she said, her voice mumbling beneath my hand.

We went toward the bathroom, my hand still held loosely over her
mouth, her arm in a hammerlock. I pushed open the door and we walked
into the lighted area. I let her go, taking a chance that she'd be quiet.

She turned to face me. "Hi, Peggy," I said.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Matt Royal. Does that name mean anything to you?"

"Laura's ex?"

"Yes. She sent me to find you."

"Can you get me out of here?"

"Not now, but I'll be back tomorrow night."

"How did you find me?"

"Long story. I'll explain later. Are they drugging you?

"They tried. But I haven't eaten any of the food they've given me, so
I think I'm okay. I've been feigning a drug stupor when they're around."

"What about the guards?"

"They're checking all the time. They tie me to the bed at night, but
for some reason they forgot to do that tonight. I brought the knife back
from Key West, and they didn't find it. The guards usually just look in the
door, but sometimes they come inside. When I saw you, I thought you
were a guard. I was hoping to get off the island again. I know where they
keep the boats."

"I need you to stay put for one more day. Can you do that?"

"Yes. But I'm hungry. I haven't had anything to eat in two days."

I pulled the granola bars out of my waterproof bag and gave them to
her. "Maybe this will help a little," I said.

"You've got to put a stop to this. Something big is about to happen,
but I haven't figured it out yet."

"I know about the prostitution."

"It's much bigger than that."

"Any ideas?"

"No, but the Rev keeps bragging to me that he's about to do something bigger than anything he's ever done."

"Do you talk to him?"

"Mostly, I listen. He has me brought to the big house a couple of
times a day. He wants to sleep with me, but so far I've held him off."

"How did you get to the phone in the Sharkstooth Bar?'

"One of the Rev's goons took me to Key West. They were going to
put me in the whorehouse, but I got away."

"How?"

"I didn't eat anything the night before or at breakfast that morning.
I had some sort of a stomach virus, I guess, and I couldn't keep anything
down. The drugs wore off, but the goons didn't notice it. I scratched the
guy taking me to the spa and ran. I tried to call my dad, but they found me
and brought me back here."

"Did they hurt you?"

"No. They just gave me more drugs, which I didn't take because I
didn't eat the food."

"We're going to get you out of this, Peggy."

"Please hurry. I'm either going to end up drugged again or starved to
death."

"I have to go. The guard will be coming back soon. Stay put, and I'll
be back tomorrow night to get you."

She kissed me on the cheek. "Laura always said you were one hell of
a guy."

"She said the same about you," I said, turning for the door.

I had been aware of a low hum since I came onto the island. I assumed it
was from the generator that powered the lights, but I wasn't sure.

As I left the building in which I'd found Peggy, I tried to follow the
sound. Thinking that any generator facilities would be behind the main
house, I headed there. As I rounded the back of the house, the noise became louder. It was still faint, but I could tell the direction from which it
came.

I followed the sound, careful not to alert any guards in the vicinity. I
saw no one. In about a hundred yards, I came to a concrete-block house.
The hum came from inside. Large-gauge wires ran from the small building toward the house and cabins. This had to be the generator shed.

I'd been on the island for more than an hour and didn't want to
stretch my luck. I turned and moved toward the trail that led to the beach,
stopping every few feet to listen for any movement.

As I approached the beginning of the path, a man with a rifle slung
over his shoulder appeared out of the night. He was standing right where
I needed to go. My watch told me it was almost two. If I was right about
the guard schedule, there would be a new guard shift coming on in a few
minutes.

I dropped to the ground and crawled silently along the edge of the
jungle-like growth, creeping slowly toward the guard. Hopefully, he would
be distracted while the new guard took his place, and I could slip by and
be on my way.

I crawled to within ten feet of the guard, controlling my breathing,
staying calm; using skills taught me long ago by an Army Special Forces
instructor. I waited.

Minutes passed, and I heard a door slam. Voices came from the
vicinity of the guardhouse. A man carrying a rifle slung over his shoulder
approached and called out, "Al, I've got it."

"I'm on my way," said the guard named Al, and he started walking
toward the approaching man. That gave me a split second's opportunity
to move quickly onto the path. I took it, crawling on my stomach, propelling myself with my elbows, slithering as fast as I could without making a lot of noise. I made it into the cover alongside the trail, and as soon
as I was out of sight of the guards, I began to walk toward the lagoon.

I got back to the beach to find that my equipment had not been
disturbed. I quickly put it on and moved into the water, took a compass
bearing on the opening to the sea and submerged.

I made it back to my boat without incident. I surfaced behind the
boat, intending to put my gear on the small swim platform and climb up
the ladder that hung into the water.

I undid the waterproof bag holding the nine millimeter and threw it
into the boat. I didn't want to lose it or get it wet. My tanks, fins, and mask
were on the platform when I noticed a small craft moving on the surface,
just to the right side of my boat. I was still in the water, and my gun was on
the floor of the boat.

I reached for the dive knife that was in the scabbard fastened around
my ankle. If I could get into the boat, I'd use my pistol. If not, maybe I
could take out the occupant of the boat coming at me. The knife wouldn't
be a whole lot of protection, unless my assailant was in the water.

The craft materialized out of the darkness, like a ghost. It was a kayak.
A black man was paddling toward the stern of my boat, where I hung
impotently in the water. I had been discovered. I wondered why they
didn't use one of the go-fast boats, but maybe they wanted to do this
quietly.

The kayak came abreast of me, inertia pushing it forward. The black
man was looking directly at me. His raised hand was holding the twobladed paddle over his head. He was going to bash me with it, and I
couldn't possibly get to him with the knife. Crap.

I started to submerge, thinking I might be able to swim away from my
attacker. He held the paddle out toward me, and said, "Give me a hand.
The current is strong."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Abraham Osceola. I can help you."

I had no choice. If he had a gun, he would have shot me by now. If I
pulled him closer, at least I'd have a better chance to knife him if he proved
to be hostile.

I grabbed the paddle with one hand, holding on to the swim platform with the other. I pulled him over until he reached out and grabbed
the stainless-steel handhold on the back of my boat.

"Thanks," he said.

"What do you want?"

"Let's get into your boat, and I'll tell you a story." He grinned.

His voice carried die lilt of the Bahamas, a pleasing dialect of English
that reminded me of clear water and gentle breezes. I pulled up on the
ladder and took the painter from the bow of his kayak, tying it to the cleat
on the stern of my boat. He climbed up after me.

I had the knife in my hand as I backed up to give him room to get
into the boat's cockpit. He was wearing only a loincloth. He looked at the
blade, grinned again, and said, "Not to worry. I'm a Seminole:'

Crap, I thought. Those guys from Florida State never give it a rest.
"I'm a Gator," I said.

He looked at me, puzzled. Then he laughed. "Ali," he said, barely
able to contain his mirth. "The University of Florida. No, no. I'm a Seminole Indian. Part Tequesta, too. Let's get out of here."

Feeling a bit foolish, I cranked the engine and idled away from Blood
Island, the kayak rolling in the little wake left by my boat's movement.

"I don't understand," I said. "You're a black Bahamian."

"I'm black, all right, but I'm a Seminole. And a Tequesta. Let me tell
you my story." And he did.

Back in the dim reaches of history, probably about the time of Christ, the
Tequesta Indians moved into South Florida and settled in present-day
Miami-Dade and Broward Counties and in the Keys. They were likely
subservient to the more numerous Calusa who dominated the Lower
Peninsula for hundreds of years. Historians think their language was a
Muscogean dialect spoken by the other tribes in the area. The Creeks of
Georgia and Alabama also spoke a language related to Muscogean.

When the Spanish came to Florida in the early sixteenth century, the
Tequesta welcomed them to their villages along Biscayne Bay. For more
than two centuries, the Spanish and Tequesta maintained a tenuous, but
mostly peaceful, relationship. Then, in 1763, the Spanish ceded Florida
to the British. Most of the remaining Tequesta asked for, and were given,
transport to Havana.

A small number of the Indians fled to the Everglades and sustained
themselves as hunter-gatherers. Over the next sixty years, their numbers
dwindled until there were only a few Tequesta left, eking out a subsistence
living in the swamps where no white man ventured.