Instead it could only be one thing.
Drugs.
I knew a little about it. A person can't spend much time in Florida without knowing that smuggling and dealing drugs is big business. Florida has the wide-open ocean. It was the perfect place to move drugs into the United States. It's against the law, of course. But that doesn't stop people. Drugs mean big money.
My Uncle Gord. A drug dealer? Maybe pretending his business was failing so no one suspected what he was doing?
I wanted to kick myself for not seeing this earlier. For believing his three friends were lawyers. Guys who were built like football players. These were the kind of guys you wanted around if you were breaking the law. These were the kind of guys you wanted around if you were working with dope dealers who didn't care if they murdered to make their money.
Thinking about it, I saw his plan was perfect. First, he told people they were spearfishing at night. It was easy to believe that's why they went out on weekends. After all, Uncle Gord ran a scuba-diving business for a living.
Then, to make sure people really were fooled, he probably started the rumors about a treasure hunt himself. It was like a lie within a lie. No one would ever guess there was a third lie within the second lie. And then the fourth lie: that his business was broke. Nobody in Florida who was a drug dealer ever looked broke. A bunch of perfect lies.
“You use this boat for a pickup, don't you?” I said to Uncle Gord. “You make it look like business has been bad, and you're making extra money by coming out here to pick up drugs dropped from an airplane. Those three guys went into the water to get it.”
“You're almost right,” Uncle Gord said. “We're anchored on the edge of the strong part of the Gulf Stream. Whatever drops from the plane will pass close to this boat. And yes, the three men are out there to look for it and pick it up.”
Splashing noises reached us. They were close to the boat now. I took a quick peek. The light bobbed in the water. I couldn't see much around it except the heads and shoulders of the scuba divers.
“Boys,” Uncle Gord called out to them. “Come in real easy. We've got company. Nothing for you to worry about, but I didn't want you surprised.”
“The FBI clown?” one of the voices called up to the boat.
FBI?
“Yup,” Uncle Gord said.
“How do we know he isn't holding a gun to your head?” one of the other voices asked.
Uncle Gord stepped over to the control panels of the boat. He flicked on a light. It showed him clearly. His gray hair. His bushy mustache. The gun in his hand. And the cold, cold look in his eyes.
Uncle Gord snapped the light off again. “You saw enough to know I'm in charge?”
“We're coming aboard,” came the answer.
There were more splashing sounds.
One man stepped onto the deck near us, dripping water from his wet suit. A second man. And a third. All big. Very big.
What surprised me was the fourth man. Much shorter than the other three. Where had he come from?
“What is going on?” the short man asked in an angry voice. He had a strong Spanish accent. “FBI? This was not part of our agreement.”
“Yes, Ian,” Uncle Gord said. “If it makes you feel better, I'm not into drugs.”
I wasn't sure anything could make me feel better. Judd was an FBI agent and I'd put him in danger. My uncle was pointing a gun at me. Three big guys were behind him to help. And a fourth guy had come out of nowhere.
“Enough talk,” one of the big guys said.
“What difference does it make?” Uncle Gord said. “I've got the gun. They're not
going anywhere. And this is our last run anyway.”
To me, Uncle Gord said, “Cubans. That's what we do. Help Cubans make it into the United States. We help them become citizens. We help them leave behind a terrible life.”
“Don't buy into that,” Judd Warner said. Coming out of the darkness beside me, his voice surprised me.
“Oh, really,” Uncle Gord told Judd. “If you're so smart, you tell Ian.”
“Not many Cubans can afford your uncle,” Judd said to me. “The man standing in front of us is a wanted criminal. He got his money by dealing drugs in Cuba.”
“Shoot this man!” the short Cuban shouted.
“Not yet,” Uncle Gord said. “I want to hear more.”
Judd didn't say anything.
Uncle Gord pointed his gun at my chest. “Tell us what you know, Mr. FBI, or this kid dies.”
“I know it was me you were trying to kill with the broken valve on the scuba tank,” Judd said.
“Yes,” Uncle Gord said. “We've been onto you for a least a week. Ever since that letter came from the IRS saying your identification was phony.”
Judd frowned. “What?”
Uncle Gord ignored the question. “Plus you asked a few too many questions. We did want you dead before tonight, but it had to look like an accident. Too bad the wrong guy went down.”
“
You
wrecked the tank?” I said to Uncle Gord. “But, but...”
“Sorry,” he said. It didn't sound like he meant it. “That's the way it goes.”
Sorry
? All he said was
sorry
? This was my uncle. My sister's brother. The guy I had been visiting nearly every summer I could remember.
“Keep going,” Uncle Gord said to Judd. “What else do you know?”
The boat bobbed gently in the waves. A nice warm breeze crossed my face. Just
a regular Florida night. It seemed unreal to be watching my uncle with a gun in his hand.
“It's a simple way of doing it,” Judd said. “You've got a pilot in a seaplane who picks them up from a rowboat off the coast of Cuba. You know that airplanes are watched on radar and that it's too risky to bring them into Florida that way. So the plane drops them into the water, and you pick them up. You hide them on the boat and bring them in. You have fake passports ready for them and you send them on their way.”
“A hundred thousand dollars,” Uncle Gord said. “Cash. Divide it four ways. That's twenty-five grand for each of us every Friday and Saturday night.”
He shook his head sadly. “It was a great way to make money. Too bad it ends tonight. You work for the FBI. I'm sure you've been filing reports. Even after you're dead, we'll have trouble. So we decided this run is our last.”
After you're dead?
My uncle was going to kill a man?
“And by the way, Ian,” Uncle Gord said. “We'll have to kill you too.”
“After we drop the Cuban off at Key West, we're going to the Bahamas anyway,” Uncle Gord said to the men behind him. “So on our way east, we might as well put weights on these two and let them go off the wall. That way, no one will ever find their bodies.”
I felt my knees go weak.
Off the wall.
Uncle Gord was talking about the continental shelf. For about the first three miles
from shore, the ocean didn't get much deeper than 150 feet. The land beneath the water was like a shelf.
But three miles out, the land just dropped away. It was like stepping off the edge of a table. Divers called it going off the wall. The ocean went from 150 feet deep to 10,000 feet. Nearly two miles straight down into deep, deep blackness.
“Good idea,” one of the men said. “No bodies, no more trouble.”
Uncle Gord handed the pistol to the closest man. “Cover me,” Uncle Gord said. “I'm going to handcuff them together. If one of them even blinks, shoot.”
Uncle Gord dug the handcuff key out of his pocket. He unsnapped the cuffs. Then he cuffed Judd's left hand to my right hand.
“Keep covering them,” Uncle Gord said. “One of you get behind the wheel. Take the boat in so we can drop off the Cuban.”
As the boat began moving again, Uncle Gord wired a length of anchor chain to the middle of the handcuffs. The other end of
the chain was attached to the anchor.
I kept hoping that Judd would do something to save us. I mean, he was an FBI undercover agent. Didn't he have some kind of training?
But there was a pistol pointed at us. Judd didn't try anything.
“How could you do this?” I said.
Uncle Gord shrugged. “Twice a week since the beginning of May. Do the math. I'm nearly a million dollars richer. I'm not going to jail, not when I'm that rich. And I can't trust you to keep your mouth shut.”
“But I'm your nephew.”
He shrugged and taped my mouth so we couldn't yell for help when we got to Key West.
The boat reached the docks. They kept us out of sight. They dropped the Cuban off and headed back out in the darkness.
Toward the deep, deep water. Where they were going to drop us off the wall.
I guess the worst way to die is to see it coming. If you're in a car accident or something like that, you don't have time to worry.
Instead I was on a boat going thirty miles an hour, knowing that in less than ten miles I would be thrown overboard. There was hardly any time left, but there was also way too much time to think.
I thought of everything nice I would miss. Orange sunsets. The feel of sand on bare feet, of sun on skin.
Milkshakes with Sherri.
Then I thought of how my dad had left me.
I thought of how my uncle had betrayed me too.
I thought of how Sherri had said she wanted me to be her guy.
I cried. Not sobbing crying, like a baby. But tears of sadness that the wind pushed across my face.
I was scared.
When the
GypSea
stopped, it took all four of them to get us into the water. Uncle Gord and the three big ugly guys.
One of them lifted me. One of them lifted Judd. And two of them lifted the anchor that was hooked to the middle of the handcuffs that held Judd and me together.
I couldn't yell at them. My mouth was still taped shut.
Even though I had one hand free and one hand attached to the handcuff that was wired to the anchor, I didn't try anything.
I had given up. What chance did I have? It was two miles straight down in the black water. If the anchor was so heavy it took two guys to lift, it was going to pull me and Judd down like a piano falling through air.
Judd didn't fight either. We were just a couple of sacks of potatoes.
“We'll toss them on the count of three,” Uncle Gord said.
“One...”
They swung once.
“Two...”
A bigger swing.
“Three!”
They let go on the third upswing. We cleared the edge of the boat and dropped through the air.
I drew one final breath through my nostrils.
Then...
Splash. Just one sound. Judd and the anchor and I hit the water at the same time.
The water was cold. We dropped in total black silence.
We fell and fell and fell. We sank so fast that the water peeled my shirt and pants upward.
And still we fell into the deep black.
My lungs began to hurt. Any second I wouldn't be able to help myself. I would suck for air through my nose. All I would get would be water. I would be dead long before we hit the ocean floor two miles down.
Then, suddenly, the water stopped tugging at me.
I was free!
Both my arms could move!
My lungs were screaming for air. I bit down hard and kicked my legs.
Up, up, I told myself, kick up!
I fought against the water. I had to get to the surface. All I could think of was reaching air.
I kicked. But the harder I kicked, the more I needed air.
I kicked. I felt myself growing weaker, but still I kicked.
And I reached cool air. The black of the water was now the black of night. With stars above. I tried to gasp for air, but my mouth was taped. I got a little air through my nostrils, but I needed more. I ripped the tape from my mouth and pulled in lungful after lungful of air.
The noise of the
GypSea
grew fainter and fainter as it left me behind.
I took in more air. It was great to be alive.
It hit me.
I was alive.
What had happened? Where was Judd?
There was a splash beside me.
“Judd?” I called out.
“Over here.” His voice croaked just like mine.
We kept splashing until we were side by side. We dog-paddled to keep our heads above the water.
“I can't believe this,” I said. “How did you do that?”
He coughed out water. “I had the key in my free hand.”
He stopped again to cough out more water. “I didn't dare try to unlock the handcuffs until we were in the water. I had to unlock your side first, because if I didn't, you'd still be dropping and I'd have no way to catch you...”
“Um, thanks,” I said.
“Don't thank me yet,” he said. “We're miles from shore. I'm not a good swimmer. And I'm scared of sharks.”
“Let me show you something,” I said. “You got us here. I'll get you to land.”
He was paddling hard. He was afraid.
“Listen,” I said. “Slow it down. It doesn't take much effort to paddle. And if you swim in jerky movements, you draw in sharks. They look for quick, hard movements. It makes them think of scared or hurt fish. And that makes them think of food.”
“I hate this,” Judd said. “Thinking of sharks circling us.”
I did too. I had strong memories of watching the bull shark close in on me. But it wouldn't do to add to Judd's fear. So I didn't say anything about it.
Instead I got him thinking about doing something positive.
“You can float without moving much,” I said. “Take a big breath. It will fill your lungs with air and help you float. When you breathe out, you paddle a bit to keep your head above the water. Then breathe in again.”
“Thanks for the lesson,” he said.
“No problem,” I said. “We may be in the water for hours.