I drifted off to sleep around midnight, the sounds from the marina and bar reaching my ears through the open hatch.
When dawn came, I was well rested and ready for the day. Instead of going to the galley for coffee, I just locked up the Dog and went up to the bar, carrying my Thermos. It was more than a one-mug ride back to the island.
To say that the Rusty Anchor Bar and Grill was just another bar was an understatement. Rufus and his niece made breakfast, lunch, and dinner for all the liveaboards in the little marina, as well as many of the locals and a few fishing guides and their clients. Information was shared over coffee about what was biting where, who got drunk and fell off a pier, or what boat was down for repairs. And whenever trouble came, like a hurricane, the Anchor was a rally spot for volunteers and displaced locals.
It’d been that way since before Henry Flagler’s railroad had arrived to build the long bridge beyond Vaca Key and what would later become the city of Marathon.
I had a quick breakfast and filled my Thermos before going back down to the dock, stepping aboard El Cazador, and starting the engine. While it warmed up, I called Savannah to see if she needed me to bring anything out, though I doubted she would. Our little island home was quite self-sustaining.
“How was your night alone?” I asked.
“I’m hardly alone,” Savannah replied. “These two are a handful when you’re not around.”
“Finn and Woden? All they do is lie around and watch me work.”
“That’s their favorite thing,” she agreed. “But you’re not here. So, they were both bugging me all day and pacing the floor all night.”
“Need anything?”
“Just you,” she replied.
I smiled. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you from Rufus. A bag of his “swimmer” spices.”
“How’d you get him to part with that?” she asked.
“I didn’t. Rusty handed it to me and said it was a gift for you.”
“That’s sweet,” she said. “Be sure to thank him for me. Have you heard anything from Detective Andersen?”
I spotted Rufus walking toward the dock.
“Nothing yet,” I replied. “I’ll give him a call before I leave.”
We said goodbye and I stepped back up to the dock.
“Savannah says thanks,” I said, holding up the bag.
“I and I hear what yuh and Miss Savannah did yestuhday,” Rufus said in his lyrical island accent. “She a brave woman, dat one.”
“No big deal,” I said. “The kid needed help, so we just swam the boat to shore.”
“Not talkin’ bout dat, Cap’n,” he said, looking all around. Then he lowered his voice, conspiratorially. “I see and hear tings, Cap’n Jesse. And not jest from udduh peoples. Whut yuh and Miss Savannah are gwon do will bring trouble, mon. Dat boy will bring trouble to yuh.” Then he smiled broadly, his teeth like white Chicklets against his dark features. “But di gods smile on peoples like yuh and Miss Savannah. Everting gwon work out. When tings look bad, jest remember dat.”
Without another word, Rufus turned and crossed the lawn toward the deck and his kitchen.
I scratched my head. Rufus always talked in riddles and often spoke of hearing from the gods. He was Rastafari, which was a monotheistic religion, but he once told me that the souls of his ancient African ancestors dwelt within him and he often spoke to them and their gods.
Shaking my head, I scrolled through my contact list and called Andersen’s cell number.
“Detective Andersen,” he answered.
“This is Jesse McDermitt. Any word on the boy?”
“I was holding off calling you until a respectable hour,” he said. “I should have figured a man like you would be up with the roosters. Yes. I spoke with the doctor who’s treating the kid just a few minutes ago to see if there was any change.”
“Has he remembered anything?”
“He’s doing great, physically,” Andersen replied. “The doctor said he could be released later today or tomorrow morning. But no, he hasn’t regained any of his memory.” There was a pause. “Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. McDermitt?”
“My wife wouldn’t have it any other way, Detective. Which means it’s what I want.”
“Happy wife, happy life,” he said. “I get that.”
“She’s already had me move a bed from the bunkhouse to our living room.”
“I should have word this afternoon,” Andersen said. “If he’s ready to be discharged, I can have him up there before nightfall. How do I find your place?”
“Got a pencil?”
“Shoot.”
Put these numbers in your GPS,” I said. “24.788714 degrees north and –81.452636 west. That’ll bring you right to my dock. Just don’t try going between Howe Key and Water Key unless you have a skinny boat and know the area.”
“Got it. I’ll phone as soon as I hear anything.”
We ended the call and I untied the lines.
Idling out of Rusty’s canal, I continued at slow speed through the channel until I reached deep water. Then I brought the beefy center console up on plane and swung a wide turn around East Sister Rock, headed toward Moser Channel and the high arch of the Seven Mile Bridge.
This whole notion of kidnapping girls and turning them into drug-addicted prostitutes was unsettling.
I’d learned that Cobie Murphy had undergone a similar experience during her captivity. Willy Quick had shot her and several other women up with what was later learned to be a barbiturate cocktail. The effects of the drugs, in his captives’ cases, was a depression of the central nervous system, making them completely compliant, but still conscious. When he’d used them up, he’d just dumped them, semi-conscious, for the gators to finish off.
What Quick used wasn’t nearly as addictive as heroine or crack cocaine, but the two survivors did have to go through treatment.
I feared that the drugs MS-13 was hooking their abductees on would be a lot more addictive. Enough so that a morally upright young woman with a fantastic future ahead of her would
