The Wreck Page 16

  Mickey watched from above as the two lights moved away from the boat toward Diamond Crag.

  ✽✽✽

  Jackson Floyd ducked as he entered Leonard Shaw’s study on board Triumph. The yacht was out for an evening test drive to ensure everything was working properly for Shaw’s overnight party tomorrow. Local businessmen and a few fellow beach property owners were invited as a gesture of friendship, which Shaw didn’t need but could use to pave the way for future projects—political hassles like the dredging of Shelby’s Marina a few years back. However, this was not what Shaw had summoned Floyd about. Floyd closed the door behind him.

  “Leif, Beecher, Martin, and the woman were at Hutch’s house when I left.”

  “You confirmed what was in the chest?”

  “I could see it from where I was on his deck. They were counting the coins—a lot of them. There was also a piece of paper they took out before they dumped the coins.”

  “Any idea what it was?” Shaw said.

  “No. Beecher and Leif showed up and I had to vacate. I had two close calls on Big Sanisstey earlier and didn’t want to push it.”

  “How hard will it be to get our hands on the gold?”

  “It’s doable, but I think we should wait,” Floyd said.

  “Why?”

  “They don’t seem to be in a rush to tell anybody. Watching them another day won’t hurt.”

  Shaw reclined and crossed his hands on his chest. “Where’s your partner in crime?”

  “Dropped him off before I headed out to the bight. Said to call if we needed him.”

  “And do we?” Shaw said.

  “I think it would be smart to keep him along. For one thing it will keep his mouth shut.”

  Shaw didn’t like it. His one moment of weakness last summer had created a touchy situation that had to be navigated with care. Additionally, Bagley was now under the gun and who knew what might unravel if he went down.

  The phone call from Floyd earlier had changed everything. Bagley had just finished explaining that there never was nor ever would be treasure discovered on the Great Lakes and to shift his focus to helping him get his ass out of the sling it was in. The phone had rung precisely after Bagley had shouted, “For Christsakes, Leonard, help me unfuck this mess!” After listening to Floyd, Shaw had smiled and told Bagley to sit down.

  The discovery of gold on the Great Lakes went beyond equaling early retirement; it was pure intrigue. But it had to be orchestrated without mistakes. Quietly disposing of a platinum blonde that had threatened to expose Shaw’s one and only affair last summer had proven easier than Shaw had expected. Only Bagley, Floyd, and the man Floyd was working with knew about it. However, easier didn’t mean less expensive. The man Floyd was working with explained to Shaw that it would take cash to keep him quiet. Shaw was tired of paying.

  Taking credit for the discovery and cashing in on the treasure was a bigger problem. The only realistic way to do it was to secure the chest and then dispose of the men and woman in an “accident” or series of “accidents”. The proposition had tremendous risks. Floyd was right about waiting, but, at most, they had a day until the lid came off.

  Shaw stared at Floyd. “All right, let’s wait,” he said, “but we’ll have to make our move in no more than twenty-four hours.”

  “Understood,” said Floyd.

  “I want this handled with precision—clean,” Shaw said. “Keep the pressure on our man.”

  “And when we no longer need him?” Floyd said.

  Shaw kept a straight face. “You said it.”

  36

  Brooke Martin sat in a deck chair admiring the glow that hung around after the sun had disappeared below the horizon. A glass of red wine sat on the wooden table and Miles Davis was playing at a volume that wouldn’t disturb the neighbors. No lights were on inside the house or on the deck.

  It was cool but not cold, and she was still comfortable in her shorts and blouse. A cotton sweater hung on one of the empty chairs in case the temperature dropped too much. She took a sip of wine and closed her eyes, listening to the waves break on the shore. “Autumn Leaves” began to play and she leaned her head back. She would listen to the waves and the song, and then head in.

  A breeze brought the smell of a bonfire starting down the beach, and the mix of alto saxophone, trumpet, piano, bass, and drums moved within her. Whenever she listened to Davis, she felt transported to a different time and different place—a nightclub in the forties. She wears a conservative black dress, hair done up in a bun, and sits at the end of a long bar smoking a cigarette that comes from a silver case. She sips amber liquor from a highball glass with scarlet lips. She’s alone at the start, but then the door to the nightclub opens and she locks eyes with a stranger dressed in a suit and a Fedora. The man moves with ease across the room to her. Leaning on the bar, he asks if the seat next to her is taken. She says no.

  “Interrupting anything?”

  Brooke smiled as she opened her eyes. Coming across the sand was Tim Gibson. “Drifting away to some Miles Davis,” she said.

  “Good choice of music,” Gibson said, stepping up onto the deck. “Makes me think of the terraces where I’ve longed to dance.”

  He was wearing the same scent he had had on when he stood next to her, washing dishes. “So, you were right.”

  “About what?”

  “About seeing me again,” she said.

  “Couldn’t stay away from you and the beach,” he said, sitting down. “Do I need to ask if Nate is around? It seems every time I ask he’s out.”

  “You’re right again,” Brooke said. “Pull up a chair.”

  He was dressed in dark khaki slacks, sandals, and a powder blue v-neck sweater with no shirt on underneath. The wind brushed his hair back from his forehead.

  “My favorite time of night,” he said.

  “It’s so calm,” she said.

  “Can’t argue with that,” he said. He ran his hand along the bowl of her wine glass. “And what are we indulging in tonight?”

  “A little red wine,” Brooke said. “Care for a glass?”

  “Please.”

  She left and returned with the bottle and a full glass.

  Looking out at the water, Gibson said, “Van Gough couldn’t paint this, not even if he was drunk.”

  “Should we make a toast?” she said handing him the glass.

  “Toasting has become a cliché, flowery words seeping out that are never remembered. However, there is one part of the tradition that I still follow religiously,” he said, bringing the glass in front of him.

  “What’s that?”

  “Someone told me that if you don’t lock eyes with the person you clink glasses with, then for the next year you’ll be cursed with a bad sex life,” he said. “I’m not willing to risk something that important.”

  “No words, then.” Brooke raised her glass.

  Eyes welded together, they gently touched glasses. The sound still hung in the air as they each took a taste.

  “Where did you learn to be so joie de vivre?” she said.

  “Gentlemen learn to be more,” he said. They toasted again.

  “Is that one of your own, or from a movie?” Brooke asked.

  “From me,” he said. “Here’s one that isn’t. You represent glamour above the decks, comfort below.”

  “Thank you,” she blushed. “Where was that from?”

  “A book by David Niven, Bring on the Empty Horses.”

  She smiled. “Now how could a book with that title have a saying like that in it?”

  Gibson set his wine glass down. “A conversation for another night,” he said. “Care to help me with my Miles Davis fantasy?”

  “As long as I don’t have to tell you mine.”

  He thought for a moment. “Agreed. For now.” He slid back his chair. “This deck could be considered a terrace of sorts,” he said. “Care to join me?”

  She moved her chair back and went to the player. Hearing each breath sh
e took, she backed the CD to “Autumn Leaves”. The glow on the digital display was the only light on the deck.

  She joined hands with Gibson and they began to dance. He moved with a confident, yet graceful sway. She followed, her free hand feeling the small of his back. The evening felt timeless, calm, and secluded in the darkness. The deck became a place where only whispers should be used to communicate.

  His hand held hers with a gentleness that felt natural. She was beginning to feel warm all over. He looked down into her eyes and then pulled her closer, resting his cheek against the side of her head. They kept moving.

  Her chest rose with a deep breath. He moved his hand across the top of her shorts and then down her waist. They stopped dancing and he began to move the hair away from her face.

  His lips were inches away from hers. She turned away.

  “You move well,” he said. “So far my fantasy has been everything I ever wanted.”

  They began dancing again. This time he let her take more of the lead. “I thought up a phrase the other day,” he said. “Care to hear it?”

  The talking relaxed her. “Sure,” she said.

  He stepped back and looked into her eyes. “Promise not to make fun?” he grinned.

  “Promise,” she said.

  He stepped forward and started in. “It goes something like this: I risked it all and lost, but I’d risk it again.”

  “Must have been about something important,” Brooke said. She was moving with more ease again.

  “Let’s just say I was inspired,” he said.

  The trumpet started in again, and Gibson took the lead as the alto sax took the pair in a circle. He held her close enough that their bodies rubbed against each other.

  “So, you have me curious,” he said and lowered his head to where she wouldn’t have to answer in a tone above a whisper.

  She obliged with a soft response. “About what?”

  “What your fantasy is.”

  “I thought I didn’t have to tell,” she said.

  “I’m sure it’s better than mine.”

  She began to describe the nightclub in the forties.

  “Do you look like yourself, or do you resemble, say, Deborah Kerr in An Affair to Remember?” Gibson said.

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  “It’s a must see,” he said. “Back to your story. After the gentleman sits down next to you, what happens?”

  “We have a drink together and talk like old friends.”

  “Old friends? I thought this was a fantasy.”

  “Well, not old friends. I—I can’t think of how to put it.”

  “But there is mutual attraction, right?”

  “Yes. He is handsome, and—”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t worry about things moving too fast.”

  He pulled her closer and then rested his cheek against the side of her head once again. His cologne smelled stronger. “That’s better,” he said. “You were starting to worry me with that old friends line.”

  She let out a laugh.

  “What happens next?” She went to answer, but he cut her off, “Wait. If I were him, I’d ask for a dance so that I could hold you close.”

  “Dancing is always nice.”

  A breeze blew across her face. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  He brought their joined hands under her chin and gently lifted up until their eyes met. “Does the dance lead to anything right away, or does that come later?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

  “Thinking always ruins it. What do you want to happen?”

  She stopped dancing and moved away. “I’ve never been one to not think things through.”

  “Something wrong?” He said.

  She retreated another step. “I need to clear my head. I—I should head inside.”

  Gibson frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” she said, turning toward the house.

  He shrugged, and left.

  Brooke entered the house. Using her phone’s caller I.D. function, she scrolled through the numbers until she found the one she was looking for. She wrote it down, then dialed it, and soon heard the voice of Lucille Hawthorne on the other end.

  37

  Nate and Hutch reached the bottom of the limestone wall. Hutch aimed his light to a spot ten yards to the right and Nate saw a crack that was around five feet wide and ran about six feet up from the bottom until it narrowed to a close like the shape of a tent opening. A school of fish swam by to inspect the box and then left. Hutch led the way in and Nate followed. The inside was larger than he had expected, and the main tunnel they traveled had a good six feet of clearance on all sides. As they kicked further in, Nate saw that the passageway was full of branches that led off into darkness. He could see how getting lost would be easy, and he gripped the chain tighter, focusing on Hutch. The tunnel rose upward and Nate’s legs began to tire. Then, the passage narrowed. They slowed and Nate tugged on the chain below him to get the buoy to pass through.

  The top opened up and Nate saw that Hutch was no longer swimming upward but treading water. He kicked hard and soon broke the surface next to Hutch.

  Hutch pulled the regulator out of his mouth. “Follow me over to the side,” his voice echoed.

  They swam over until they were both hanging onto the side of the cave. Together they lifted the box out of the water and slid it onto a level surface.

  “Hold your light on me,” Hutch said.

  Nate aimed the beam at him and watched as Hutch got out of the water and stripped off his gear. Then, he walked over to a metal box that had a crank on the side of it, like an antique telephone box. Hutch cranked furiously for a minute and then flipped a switch on the top of the box.

  The entire cave illuminated. There were lights hung on the ceiling above the water where they had surfaced, on the wall above the crank box, and on the opposite wall. Nate got out of the water and as he took off his gear, Hutch cranked for another minute.

  The cave was close to circular. The platform was widest where they stood, about 20 feet, and rose about a foot above the water. The wall above the crank box looked like a miniature version of Hutch’s storage shed. Two complete sets of scuba gear and accessories hung on hooks and racks that had been anchored to the rock wall.

  The cave looked to have a spare room past the dive gear, and as if Hutch had read Nate’s mind he picked up the box, now detached from the buoy chains, and said, “Follow me.”

  Hutch handed the box to Nate and then cranked a handheld flashlight for thirty seconds and then turned it on. They entered the small room and Nate froze as the light stopped on a cross rising up from the rock.

  “Meet my wife,” Hutch said.

  “Your wife?” Nate said.

  “She left it up to me where to bury her. We had the funeral at my house and when I asked my daughter where she wanted her mother buried, she didn’t want to talk about it. I had Sherry buried in the back yard, but I never liked her there. When I found this place I decided to move her out here.”

  “You mean, you took her body—”

  “Oh, hell no,” Hutch said. “She was cremated. I just took the urn out here.”

  “In one of the dryboxes?” Nate said.

  “Yep.”

  “Was it in the box that we brought the chest in?”

  “Could have been, I guess.”

  Nate swallowed.

  “Don’t worry, she won’t bother us,” Hutch laughed. “She’s just going to watch over the chest.”

  Hutch set the drybox down in front of the cross, and they returned to the main room.

  “How’d you find this place?” Nate said, joining Hutch on a natural rock bench that extended out from the wall.

  “Did you see the wood and other junk at the bottom of the limestone wall?”

  “Yeah, I wondered what that was,” Nate said.

  “Bunch a shit down there from a couple o’ wrecks. Nothin’ wo
rth writin’ home about. I was pokin’ around one day and saw that crack. Figured I’d see where it led to,” Hutch said.

  “Mickey told me he’d been here,” Nate said.

  “He, Tyee, and Lucille all have,” said Hutch. “They came to the burial ceremony I had after I found the place. Out here, I can be completely alone with my wife. You know by now that I’m not the most sensitive person in the world.”

  “I didn’t pick up on that,” Nate joked. “Lucille dives?”

  Hutch broke a smile. “Swims like a fish,” he said and then stood up. He walked over to the wall with the scuba gear and hung the buoys and chain on two hooks. “Let’s get back and see what Tyee’s been able to find out.”

  ✽✽✽

  Tyee was at the desk writing on a piece of paper when they returned to the house.

  “Mrs. Hawthorne headed out awhile ago,” said Tyee. “Said to give her a buzz on VHF later.”

  Hutch nodded as he walked to the desk and picked up the decanter of dark rum. He poured fresh glasses while Mickey disappeared down the hallway. There was the sound of a door being opened, shuffling footsteps, then the door being closed. Mickey reappeared holding a rocking chair.

  Tyee put down his pencil. “That’s all I can get from this,” he said rubbing his eyes and then took a drink of rum.

  “What do you make of it?” said Hutch. All attention turned to Tyee.

  “The letter is written by Jean La Rousseau. He doesn’t say where he’s from or who he is. I’d say he’s a French noble. He writes that he was picked up at St. Ignace on the morning that he started writing the letter by a ship that had stopped en route to Niagara. The name of the ship was written down, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t make out the name. It didn’t help that it was on a fold in the paper either. Anyways, the ship sets sail from St. Ignace with Rousseau aboard. Then, the letter gets pissy. He says that he was guaranteed passage to Niagara, but after one of the crew members went into the ship’s hold and looked at what was in Rousseau’s chests, Rousseau was brought topside and questioned.”