there was no sign of the foursome from the Sun Dog, but what I did see stopped me in my tracks. Sitting at a blackjack table was Lynn Renoir. There was no mistaking her. The long, blond hair was pulled tightly back from her face and braided into a single ponytail. A single strand of pearls enhanced the sculpted nose, thin, unpainted lips, and tanned skin. She wore a black dress with a single strap on the shoulder. No wonder Bill Moran couldn't find her, she was in Nassau.
Easing out of the casino so that she could not see me, I went to the front desk and asked if my wife, Lynn Renoir, had checked into the hotel. She had not, but there were two other hotels on the island, and all shared the same casino. The desk clerk checked with them and said that she wasn't registered at either.
Heading back to the blackjack table, I thought it time to confront Miss Renoir. She was gone. The dealer said she didn't remember her leaving with anyone, but she really wasn't paying that much attention. I thought of offering a bribe to jog her memory, but the cameras were looking.
Lynn had disappeared. Leaving the hotel, I walked down the path to Hurricane Hole to see if the Sun Dog was still there. It was, but blacked out. Going back to the hotel, I checked the dining room. Lynn wasn't there, but the foursome from the boat was seated at a table in the middle of the room.
Sitting down in the lobby to think, it was hard to imagine why Lynn was in Nassau. Glossman would not get her off the hook this time. I cannot babysit an amateur; it could get one or both of us killed. Exhaling a deep breath, I glanced at the entrance to the dining room. Now would be a good time to take a look around the Sun Dog. The dope pushers should be at dinner for at least an hour, longer if they took in the show.
The path to the dock was winding and narrow. Crushed seashells crunched under my feet, Palmetto bushes, Palm and Almond trees, and many species of tropical flowers bordered the path. In the cool night air an ocean breeze rustled the fronds. A brilliant field of stars lighted the sky. A romantic place, but the path was deserted.
Nearing the harbor, I eased off to the side and crouched under small palm trees surrounded by Bougainvillea shrubs in full bloom. Their aroma permeated the night air, reminding me of a good zinfandel wine.
Birds chirped and flitted in the shrubs, boat traffic on the channel produced throaty, muted rumblings. From my position there was a clear view of the Sun Dog. Nothing stirred on the boat. Lights from the tall poles surrounding the dock danced on the water as small ripples ran through the harbor.
Slipping off my leather-soled shoes, I eased down the path, slipped into the cockpit, and tried the salon door. It was not locked. Cool air hit me in the face and I could hear the air-conditioner humming quietly. I stood for a moment letting my eyes adjust. The interior was designed galley-up, which gave more room below. Rene was brought over to Bimini aboard this boat, and probably from this very dock.
Light filtering through the windows offered enough illumination to see clearly. It seemed as if some deranged person was playing a spotlight into the salon as the light moved spasmodically around when the boat nudged gently against her mooring. Starting down the companionway ladder to the lower deck and staterooms, I heard a faint noise. Stopping and standing deathly still, I counted to sixty. There were no more sounds. The smells emanating from the cabin were familiar, disinfectant, recently fried food, diesel fumes, coconut oil, and a perfume that I recognized, but could not name.
Entering the master stateroom on the portside revealed a queen-sized bed with wall to wall mirrors and a big walk-in shower. The mirrors gave a massive look to the room. There were several storage drawers built into the bottom of the bed holding the usual things, clothes, bathing suits, and socks. One drawer at the head of the bed contained two automatic handguns and several boxes of ammunition. This was not unusual, as most boats carry firearms for protection.
Looking closely at the mirrors, I noticed that they were also sliding glass doors. Inside were hangers of expensive clothing and, something much more interesting, six AR-15 assault rifles and dozens of cases of ammunition, along with several automatic pistols; guns resembling MAC-10s. This was heavy stuff. Snowpowder protection. How did Rene Renoir fit into this equation?
Every human being has a sixth sense for danger left over on the DNA strand from long ago when we were hunters and gatherers dodging meat-eating predators. The hair bristled on the back of my neck at the instant my world ceased to exist. There was no pain, only a millisecond of warning from a long ago ancestor.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There was a pounding, pounding. Something beat on my head with a horrible, steady rhythm. Opening my eyes brought more pain, and all I could see was gray paint. There was a nauseating smell of diesel fuel. This was the engine room of a boat, and I was lying in the bilge, bound hand and foot. The heat must have been over a hundred degrees. My clothes were soaked through with sweat; my hands and legs numb. It was hard to breathe.
Panic rushed over me like a dark veil. I fought it with all my mental resources. Deep breaths brought only scorching hot air. Rolling my head from side to side, I noticed the blood. There must be a pint coagulating on the nasty, oily deck. The flow must have stopped or I wouldn't be lying here looking at it.
By the motion of the boat, I knew that we were in open water. How long had I been out? It could be hours or a day. My eyes wouldn't focus and the smell was making me sick. I vomited. At least there was no blood from my stomach. I had a severe head injury and it worried me. Blood clots on the brain in the middle of the ocean insured but one inevitable conclusion.
The engines stopped. The boat went dead in the water and turned broadside to the waves. The motion nauseated me again.
The engine room hatch opened, bringing welcome relief from the heat. Barrel-chest came down the ladder. Saying nothing, he picked me up like a sack of potatoes, carried me up into the salon, and threw me on the sofa with such force it made me wretch. My eyes were not focusing, but I could make out several people standing around. From the slanting rays on the cabin walls, it looked to be near noon.
The two women were there, the Latin American, Barrel-chest, and five other people I had not seen before.
The Latin American appeared to be in charge. His eyes were filmy ovals that held nothing but a dull, mindless hatred. His hand rose and moved over his cheeks and mouth, as if he needed to feel his expression to know what it was.
'We don't know who this one is, or who he's working for. His I.D. says he's a private dick from the states. It don't matter, he was snooping around the boat in Nassau and Moley caught him. We couldn't dump him in the water and take a chance of him washing up on the beach like them Cubans off Land's End. Take him ashore and bury him up by the lighthouse, where they used to keep the puercos. No mistakes or you'll join him.' The words seemed to fall with a singular emphasis. They were pronounced quietly, with no remnant of a smile on the olive skin face.
Thinking back to last night, nothing moved aboard this boat. Where did Moley come from? The unlocked salon door should have been a warning. It never occurred to me someone would be among the palm fronds and Bougainvillea doing the same thing I was doing. There was only my own stupidity to blame. Complacency is a deadly mindset, and now I'm paying for it.
Barrel-chest and the man I assumed to be Moley, dragged me out into the cockpit and loaded me into a cigarette boat with the four strangers. My hands and feet were still bound, my vision blurred, but clearing. I could see we were seaward of a string of small cays. Waves were breaking over a bar between two of them.
One of the strangers started up the boat and sped at full throttle toward the calm opening between the two cays where the water was deep enough for the waves not to break. We ran over the bar through a narrow, curved channel that opened up into a big protected harbor. This was a familiar place. Known as Johnston's Harbor, it's located at the south end of the main island of Abaco. I'd been here many times.
Twenty years ago this island belonged to an artist who lived and worked here for half a century. When he died, his son, who was a drunk and lived in Paris and never visited the place, inherited it. There was no running water, only a cistern that was kept filled with the seasonal rains that washed the islands regularly. A harbor protected from all weather, it was a utopian setting.
The boat ran up onto the beach in front of two shacks built near the water. I knew my fate was sealed. On
