Blood island

'I don't have a car. I have a rental boat. We can put it in there.'

'Are you going night diving? I can add some lights to the package.'

'No. I'm going out first thing in the morning, at daybreak. I'll just store the gear in the boat.'

'I hope the stuff's there when you get back in the morning.'

'It will be.'

He put the gear in a two-wheeled cart and followed me to the rental boat. He handed it down into the boat, and I covered it with a tarp I found under the center console. It wasn't hidden well, but it'd do until I got back.

I had some time to kill. I was headed for Blood Island, but I didn't want to arrive before midnight. The later, I thought, the better the chance that the island would be asleep.

I walked over to a restaurant in the Historic Seaport, which wasn't very historic, but provided a sense of fun for the tourists. I took a corner table and sat with my hat pulled low on my face. I'd picked up a newspaper at the entrance, and held that partially in front of my face while reading it. I was about as inconspicuous as I could be.

I ate dinner while planning my next moves. I was hoping to find Peggy during my planned foray onto Blood Island, and then figure out a way to get her out the next night.

I'd told Logan to take my boat to Marathon, about fifty miles above Key West. Michelle knew who I really was, and I had to assume that the other people who were looking for me knew that as well. I didn't want anyone to recognize my boat and raise an alarm on Blood Island. I didn't think anybody would be looking for me or my boat in Marathon.

I was tired and grubby from a long day in the sun. I considered going back to my rooming house for a bath and a change of clothes, but I didn't want to risk being seen. I'd head back there when I returned from Blood Island. It would be late enough that any surveillance would probably have been pulled off.

If I could locate Peggy on the island, I'd be in a position to take her off the next night. Logan and I could bring my boat in close and, hopefully, with surprise and a little firepower, we'd be able to evacuate the girl. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was the best I could come up with.

I pulled out the schematic Debbie had faxed me. It showed the layout of the buildings on the island. There was a large main house, with three cabins on either side, making a letter C, with the house in the middle of the crescent.

On my morning visit to the island, I had seen that it was heavily wooded with Australian pines and other hardy salt-water resistant plants. Palm trees were plentiful, and the ground cover was mostly palmetto, with some blooming tropical plants. Mangroves bordered the water.

The schematic showed a path leading from the large clearing where the house and cabins sat, down to the dock where I had seen the go-fast boats. Behind the house was a small building that I assumed was a utility shed of some sort.

I finished my meal and left the restaurant. The sun had given up the day, and darkness enveloped the key. I could hear the sounds of the nightly revelry from Duval Street, but I had no desire to join it. I walked the few blocks to the cemetery, found a bench, and took a nap.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I stopped the boat near Blood Island's entrance channel and dropped the anchor. It was a few minutes after midnight. A new moon was dawning, and the sky was dark. A low cloud cover obscured the stars.

I'd run the last few miles at idle speed, running lights off, hoping that the noise of my outboard couldn't be heard on the island. There was an easterly wind blowing from the atoll, so I didn't think the sounds would carry from my position to the west of the channel.

I stripped down in the dark and began to pull the wet suit on. That done, I sat on the gunwale and pulled on the rubber booties and fins. I hooked up the regulator to the twin tanks, checked to make sure it was working, and swung the tanks over my head, settling them like a backpack. I put my gun, Reeboks, and a couple of granola bars into a waterproof bag, and hung it on my weight belt. I pulled the hood over my head, and seated the mask on my face. I was ready.

I slipped into the water and swam down the anchor line the few feet to the seabed. I set the anchor deep into the sand bottom. I didn't want to return and find my boat gone. The water seeping into the suit next to my skin was chilly, but as my body heat warmed the trapped water, it became comfortable.

I surfaced and took a bearing on the entrance to the little lagoon. I submerged and started swimming, pausing regularly to check the luminous dial of my compass.

In about twenty minutes, I surfaced to find myself in the middle of the lagoon. I could see the dock with the go-fast boats tied to it. The glow of a cigarette flared in the night. A guard inhaling. Then I saw the fiery arc of the butt as it was flipped into the water.

I submerged and swam to my right, making for the small sand beach I'd spotted among the mangroves. The bottom was coming up, and I stopped again, poking my head out of the water just enough to see. I was about a hundred yards from the dock and right in front of the little beach. I stayed there, kneeling on the soft bottom, quietly reconnoitering. There was no movement anywhere.

I knew there was a guard on the dock, but if there was anybody watching the beach, he was well hidden. I had to chance it. I crawled toward the edge of the sand, where it met the mangroves. As I lifted my body slowly out of the water, I tensed for a shout or a shot. Nothing.

I eased over to the mangroves, removed the fins, mask, and tanks and stowed them among the roots. I moved into the trees that came down to the beach. I sat and took off the booties and pulled my Reeboks from the waterproof bag. I took out the nine-millimeter Glock I'd taken from Michelle. It was loaded with a seventeen-round clip. I put the sneakers on and put the booties with the rest of the gear. I hung the waterproof bag on my belt.

There was a path leading off the beach. I followed it, moving quietly, remembering the jungle craft I'd learned a long time ago in a very different part of the world. A mixed choir of insects and frogs was hidden in the brush, singing loudly. Now and then, a small animal rustled the leaves as it moved about. I was just one more animal, a little bigger, perhaps, and more deadly, but at one with the jungle.

I neared a bend in the path, and became aware of the pungent aroma of a burning cigarette drifting on the breeze. I stopped, standing stockstill, not moving a muscle. I heard the rustle of feet walking the path, coming my way. I didn't want a confrontation that would arouse the island, and I didn't want anyone to know I'd made a visit. I ducked off the path into the bushes. In my black wet suit, I would be virtually invisible.

The steps moved closer, and I made out the shape of a man holding a rifle, walking carelessly along the trail toward the beach. A regular patrol, I thought. I hung back as he passed, and then slipped back onto the path.

I came to a clearing. I could see a large house in the middle, lights on in two of the upstairs windows, otherwise dark. Three smaller buildings flanked either side of the main house, forming a crescent, with the big house situated in the middle at the bottom of the figure. Just like the schematic from the Property Appraiser's Office. The guest cabins were dark. No lights in any of them.

I made my way to the first cabin on my right and stood quietly by the door. I didn't hear any sound from inside. Then, out of the darkness, a snort. Pigs? No, someone was snoring.

I turned the doorknob. It wasn't locked, and the door swung inward. I stepped quickly into the space and found myself in a bunkhouse. There was only one main room in the building, and a door at the far end that I assumed led to the bathroom. There were a dozen army cots spaced around the perimeter of the room, each one flanked by a tall metal wall locker. Lumps were in some of the beds, and an occasional snore erupted from one or the other of the bunks. I saw men's clothing hanging from hooks next to several of the lockers, and rifles leaning against the wall. This was the guardhouse.

I counted eight beds with occupants. The other four were empty, but not made. That probably meant that there were four guards stationed around the island. Two shifts were sleeping and would replace the others at whatever interval they used. I thought it might be like the old army guard regimen of two hours on and four off.

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