'The plane's waiting to return you to Jackson,' I offered as a way of changing the lines of bitterness. 'I'm staying in Miami to find out what happened to Rene.'
The wrinkles smoothed out and were replaced by a faint smile. It held appreciation and an emotion not seen before. At once revealing and sensual, yet motionless, drawn as if from relief, a relaxed tension stretched by the moment.
'Why? It's over. There is nothing else anyone can do for Rene. She's gone. Joe said he would hire some local people to look into it. Why do you want to continue?'
Lynn had a lovely face, but it kept clouding over with the image of a bruised, battered, and dead young woman lying on a cold metal tray in a dank morgue.
'I don't like the way she died. It's despicable what was done to Rene. I don't care what she'd done as a teenager, she did not deserve to be pumped full of drugs, beaten, raped and then left to die. It took a sadistic, vile person to do this, and I'm going to find him.'
'Could I get another drink?' There was no emotion. 'Rene hasn't left Wiggins, Mississippi in three years. Why would she leave the cruise ship in Nassau? How did she end up in Bimini?'
The questions weren't directed at me. It was as if she were thinking out loud. I answered her anyway. 'Starting in Bimini and working my way back to Nassau may give us those answers. You can help a great deal by telling me what happened between your parents and Rene. It couldn't matter now if I know.'
'Never.'
Sighing, I leaned back in the booth, finished my drink, and looked at the inlaid chart on the table. It showed the Bahamas.
Lynn stiffened and seemed to shudder all over. She sat for a few seconds with her eyes closed, arms straight by her side, fists clinched so tight the blood was cut off from her fingers. Then, as if returning from a trance, she said, 'You can take me back to the airport, now.'
Even in the dimness of the bar she was a strikingly beautiful woman. The high cheekbones and sharp features of her face caused the pale light to give her an eerie glow like that of a forbidden goddess, or an evil, iniquitous and peccant being.
Stopping in the hotel lobby, I phoned Windom, alerting him we were on the way. Wanting to know what to expect, he was relieved to hear all was fine.
There was little conversation during the drive to the airport. Butler Aviation allowed me to drive out onto the ramp, directly to the airplane. The co-pilot had the onboard auxiliary power unit running and started the right engine when he spotted our car. Windom stood at the bottom of the airstair door and helped Lynn aboard. By the time I drove back through the gate, they were taxing to the runway.
Getting out and leaning against the wire fence, I watched the Falcon begin its takeoff roll, rotate, and climb into the blue evening sky heading directly into the sun. Suddenly a strange feeling came over me like a black storm cloud that I would wish before this was over I had boarded Joe Glossman's airplane back to Mississippi.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The ten thousand dollars felt heavy inside my coat pocket, like a weight-belt pulling me into the bottomless depths of the Gulf Stream. Down, down, until there was no light, just darkness and cold, a never-ending icy blue descent into nothingness.
Driving out to Chalk Airlines, I booked a seat on the last flight of the day to Bimini. There was only time to call the rental agency and tell them where their car was parked. The agent informed me that it could not be left there, and must be turned in at one of their check-in counters at Miami International Airport. Informing him that the car was in Chalk's parking lot with the motor running and the air-conditioner blowing, I hung up. They were picking it up as we took off for Bimini.
From Chalk's flight operation in Miami it is only forty-five miles due east to Bimini. The lumbering old Grumman Goose flew at a hundred knots low over the water. The beauty of crossing the Gulf Stream is worth the time spent. At first, it's the whites of the shallows, then the greens of deeper water and, finally, the inky purple of the Stream. Approaching Bimini the colors reverse, back to the greens, the white-sand bottoms, and finally leading to a piece of paradise on earth, an island in the Bahamas.
The seaplane touched gently down in the channel between North and South Bimini. We taxied out of the water at the Custom's shack and the pilots shut down the engines. They were the same two Steve and I talked with in Miami.
The airplane had a full passenger load, and the co-pilot got out and started unloading baggage. The Captain motioned for me to stay in my seat. As he came toward the exit he whispered to me, 'The big, black Bahamian in the red cap standing over by the Custom's shack is the one who helped your girl on board.'
Claiming my bag, I went and stood in line to pass through Customs. It was imperative to see whom the big Bahamian met. Thinking back over the passengers on board, I tried to remember the faces. There was only one female and the rest appeared to be Latin American.
The Customs agent gave me a hard time as I had no papers and did not know how long I'd be on the island. The Captain came over and said something to him and I was allowed to go on my way, but by then big Bahamian had disappeared with whomever he came to meet.
Picking up my ditty bag, I walked the half-mile to the Complet Angler Inn. The route took me past the End of the World Bar. It was closed. At one time you couldn't get inside for the customers. It had a dirt floor and the bar was made from a ship's timber laid across two water barrels. Owned by two young men from Key Largo, who came to the island as fishermen with a shallow-draft, wide-beamed vessel called a Smack boat. They failed at making a living fishing for lobster. The Smack boat was swapped for the shack where they opened the bar. It must have been the 'end of the world' for them.
Years had passed since I'd been to Bimini. The hustle and bustle along the narrow street surprised me. Small shops, bars, restaurants, and liquor stores along the shell-laden, pothole-strewn road took up almost every available foot of space. There were fifteen or more cars and trucks and even a Taxi. The last time I was here there was one car on the island. Everything was jammed up on the south end, which made sense, as that was where the marina and hotels were, but where were all these people coming from? The dope trafficking was thriving, but I never imagined this disaster.
The Complet Angler Inn appeared in the distance. It is a three story, wood-frame building at least a hundred years old, and was the only hotel on the island for many years. Walking up the familiar steps and in through the front door, I could not help but pause and look at the big display of photographs mounted under glass next to the small check-in counter. They cover a whole wall. Many notable people are pictured showing off giant fish caught in the Stream. My favorite depicts two big men standing on the dock holding deep-sea fishing rods with the Gulf Stream as a backdrop. At first glance one sees a huge fish hanging between them, but upon closer inspection the fish turns out to be a naked young lady hanging upside down. She has a smile on her face. Ah, Bimini.
A friendly clerk gave me a room on the third floor. The old stairs creaked as I climbed slowly up, the carpet long ago worn away. Throwing my bag on the bed, I noticed the place was the worse for wear. The room had not seen a coat of paint in years, water only trickled from the sink, and the toilet would not shut off. Having spent many nights here, it was rather sad to see it so run down.
Heading back downstairs, I went into the bar. I always liked this bar with its low ceiling made of thick beams and dark paint. Two huge square posts stood in the middle of the room, probably holding up the entire hotel. On one of them was the 'hook.' A long rope, attached to the ceiling held a big washer; you swung the washer and attempted to ring the hook. Many a gin and tonic I lost betting on that hook. Trying it again, for old time's sake, I missed.
Easing onto a stool, I was pleased to see the painting behind the bar was still there, only a little more soiled in spots. An old friend, who long ago ceased to worry about the problems of the world, created this canvas. The idea for the work came after a long night sitting at this same bar. It is modeled after Manet's 'OLYMPIA' that hangs in the Louvre in Paris. It is a damn wonderful painting and almost brought tears to my eyes to see it again.
There was only one other patron in the bar and he was in no condition to talk, so I tried a shot in the dark with the gin-slinger. He was a short man with a stocky build, round face, and receding hairline. His age appeared to
