Baja Florida (14 page)

The rumble of the boat's engine roused her from her sleep. The engine idled for a few minutes, then revved and backed off and revved again. And then the boat was moving.

She was feeling stronger now. They had fed her well enough and given her plenty of water and fruit juice. The deep weakness that had plagued her was gone. In the beginning, it had helped her sleep and make it through days of doing nothing. But now the tedium was setting in. She was restless, anxious.

Nudging her face against the mattress, she succeeded in working the blindfold down just enough so she could peek out over the top, but not so much that she couldn't get it back up in a hurry when they came to check on her.

She also managed to loosen the bindings on her hands and legs. Not to the point that she could free herself—the knots were too tight for that—but enough that she was no longer so constricted. With enough effort she could roll over in the bed.

She moved to her side and looked around the cabin. It was early morning and soft light came in through the two portholes. The door leading to the head and the main cabin was closed.

The boat ran for at least half an hour, full throttle. The water started out calm and then it got rough and bumpy and then it got calm again.

The boat slowed and idled along and then stopped as the engine was thrown into neutral and then reverse and then neutral. Jen heard the anchor line being fed out. The engine—reverse, neutral, reverse. And then the anchor caught hold and the engine went silent.

Jen strained to hear the two of them talking up above, but she couldn't make out anything. And then there was no sound at all—no voices, no movement on the deck. Just the gentle slap of water against the hull.

She called out, “Hey. Down here!”

No one answered, no one came.

She called out again. She waited. And still no one came.

This hadn't happened before. Always when she called, someone had eventually come down below to find out what she wanted.

Had they abandoned her? What if they had left for good and made their escape and now she was stuck here, alone in a floating coffin? How long could she survive without food and water? If she screamed would anyone hear?

She screamed. She waited. She screamed again. She waited some more.

Nothing.

The tiny cabin had grown hot and stuffy. She fought off the panic. She took long, deep breaths and told herself:
OK, OK. Do something. Do anything. This is it. You have to get out of here. Now or never.

She wiggled herself to the edge of the bed. Another heave and she tumbled onto the floor. She landed on her stomach. She rolled onto her back, feet pointed at the door, a body length away.

Her arms were underneath her and that hurt but it helped her raise herself up just a little. She scooted her butt toward her feet and drew up her knees the best she could. Then she straightened out her legs and did it again. Like an inch-worm, moving toward the door.

And finally her bare feet touched it. She moved a little closer and planted her feet flat against the door. It slid easier than she expected and when it was open enough to get her legs through she slid it open all the way and inch-wormed through the doorway and into the main cabin.

Ten minutes it took her. She was sweating and exhausted and her shoulder hurt more than ever. What little energy she had left drained out of her when she looked around the main cabin and saw the steps, six of them, leading to the main hatch. The main hatch was closed. But that didn't really matter because how was she ever going to get up the steps?

She screamed. She screamed again.

She lay there, panting, trying to calm herself. Minutes went by.

And then she felt something—a bump against the boat. Footsteps on the deck. Someone had heard her.

“Down here! I'm down here!”

The hatch popped open. A figure outlined against the bright sky.

Him.

He leaped down beside her, bypassing the steps. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up.

“What do you think you're doing?”

“Nothing, nothing. I was just trying…”

“Trying to get out of here? Trying to escape?”

“No, no. I wasn't. Really.”

She began to cry. She hated herself for it. She wanted to fight him, to kick and hit. But she was broken inside. She had been terrified to see him. But, at the same time, relieved that he—that someone, anyone—was here.

“Water,” she said.

He brought it to her and helped her drink it. When she was done, he said, “Now, I want you to do exactly like I tell you. You got that?”

“Yes, yes. I understand.”

“And you better not try anything funny. Or, I swear to God, that'll be it.”

“I promise. I'll do what ever you say.”

“Good.” He reached into a pocket, pulled out a cell phone. “Because we're going to give your father a call.”

The hangover wasn't as bad as I deserved. By quarter 'til eight I was out of bed and fairly presentable, with the help of three Alleve and five minutes of sitting on the shower floor with hot water massaging the back of my head.

I rounded up Boggy and Charlie, and we went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. We got coffee and eggs and sausage and toast, and by the time nine o'clock rolled around, Will Moody still hadn't joined us.

We drove the mile or so to Dunning's Cottages and asked a woman in the office if she could ring Will Moody's room and tell him we were there. She looked at the guest book.

“No Will Moody here,” she said.

“Has he already checked out?”

“Never was here.”

“Tall guy, beginnings of a beard, dark hair, in his twenties.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “Not here.”

We got back in the car.

Charlie said, “So what do you think?”

“I'm still chewing on it,” I said. “But while I'm chewing, how about we find the police station.”

The officer working the front desk at the Marsh Harbour police station listened as I told him we had information about a possible boat theft. He didn't speak. He didn't nod. He didn't write anything down.

“You have a seat,” he said. “Superintendent will be with you.”

We sat in metal chairs. We watched the ceiling fan turn. We listened to the officer talking on the police radio.

A woman came in and told the officer she wanted to file a report about her neighbor. Something about his dog killing one of her roosters.

Another woman came in and said she wanted to see her husband who had been arrested the night before. The officer had her sign a logbook. Then he unlocked a door and showed her down a hall.

Thirty minutes passed. It was closing in on ten o'clock.

I approached the officer at the desk.

“Think the superintendent could see us now?”

“He'll be along. Have a seat.”

“Is the superintendent even here?”

The officer looked at me.

“He'll be along,” the officer.

Another thirty minutes went by. Charlie and Boggy went outside to get some air. They came back in. I walked up to the front desk again.

There's nothing people in the islands dislike more than pushy Americans who can't tear themselves away from the clock and get cozy with the “Mon, soon come” mentality. I respect that. I really do. And I appreciate a good case of the slows as much as anyone.

But this was pushing it.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but do you have any idea when the superintendent can see us? Because I've got plenty of other things I could be doing.”

“Suit yourself,” the officer said.

“Suit myself what?”

“Go do these other things. The superintendent he usually does not come in until after lunch.”

“Why didn't you tell me that to begin with?”

“The superintendent's comings and goings are not your business. He is a busy man.”

“Would it help if I filled out a report or something?”

“Not necessary,” the officer. “You come back and we make a report then.”

“You want me to leave my name and my contact information so you can call me when the superintendent is in his office?”

“Not necessary. You come back after lunch.”

“Thanks so much for your time.”

“My pleasure,” the officer said. “Enjoy your stay in Marsh Harbour.”

 

I owed Williamson two hundred dollars for his tip about spotting
Chasin' Molly,
but I still wanted to see the boat for myself before I paid him. And there was no way I was returning to the Dailey brothers' boatyard unless the police were with me this time.

So we went back to the Mariner's Inn to kill time until the superintendent saw fit to show up at his office.

We dropped by Abel Delgado's room and knocked on the door. I was hoping the events of the previous evening might have humbled him, at least to the point that we could have a civil, sober conversation and I could convince him that his work for Mickey Ryser was done. I was thinking maybe I'd drop a little cash on him, just to help soothe any wounds and get him on his way back to Miami. He didn't really deserve any more money, but the posters he'd put up had ultimately led us to Dailey's boatyard and that was worth something.

But Delgado didn't answer the door. I went to the office and had the receptionist call his room, but he didn't answer that either. I left a message asking Delgado to get in touch.

We went to my room and sat around watching ESPN Sport Center. Fewer things are more pathetic than grown men sitting around watching taped highlights of games they don't really care about. But it was either that or three channels of gospel music, the Home Shopping Network, or Nickelodeon. We were on the third loop of the Ducks besting the Coyotes one–zip in thrilling NHL action when my cell phone rang.

“Zack-o!” Mickey Ryser greeted me. “She just called. I spoke with her. She's on her way here.”

“Jen called?”

“Just got off the phone with her,” Mickey said. “She's flying into George Town this afternoon. I'm sending someone to pick her up.”

“Good news,” I said.

“Damn straight it is.”

“She mention anything about
Chasin' Molly
?”

“Just to say that everything's alright. Nothing to worry about. Music to my ears,” Mickey said. “So you know what that means, Zack-o.”

“What?”

“You need to get off that sorry ass of yours and get down here with my boat.”

There were good reasons for me to stick around Marsh Harbour.

I had unfinished business with the Daileys. I wanted to settle all accounts with Abel Delgado. And I wanted to make sure he was on his way home.

But there were more prevailing reasons to get to Lady Cut Cay with Mickey Ryser's boat.

The fact that Jen Ryser had finally surfaced made finding
Chasin' Molly
somewhat of a moot proposition. At least until she could shed further light on the subject.

Mickey had sounded good on the phone. Full of vigor, anxious to see his daughter. A new lease on life, such as it was.

The sooner I got his boat to him the better. And then I could go home.

An easy decision.

I put some money in an envelope along with a note to Delgado that read, “This will get you back to Miami. Thanks for your help.”

I knocked on Delgado's door again, but still no answer. So I left the envelope with the receptionist at the Mariner's Inn and asked her to make sure Delgado got it.

Then we checked out. We turned in our rental cars at the airport. And we hopped aboard Charlie's plane for Nassau.

On the thirty-minute flight south, I kept thinking about what Will Moody had said the night before. Maybe I had blown everything out of proportion.

So what if Jen Ryser and her friends weren't sticking to any particular schedule? So what if they hadn't communicated regularly with those who might want to hear from them? They were adults. They were capable of making their way in the world without someone like me coming along to check on them. And even if they weren't capable of it, they were entitled to screw up all on their own.

Maybe I had imagined something bad where no bad existed. Maybe, as much as I was reluctant to admit it, I'd been wearing old-fogey goggles. Maybe I'd been viewing the innocent meanderings of six young people on a boat with the prudish disingenuousness of someone who was just a little envious—of their youth and everything that went with it. Untethered lives. Casual hookups with the opposite sex. Living in the moment.

Ah, for the days, Chasteen.

There is the tendency of one generation to run wild, break rules, enjoy itself, and then condemn those who come along next to give those indulgences a new spin. Especially when the youngsters seem to be having too damn much fun.

“Don't criticize what you can't understand/Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command/Your old road is rapidly agin'…”

Dylan sang the words before I was born, but they still resonated when I was growing up. I embraced them then, honored them as a personal anthem. It seemed hypocritical to discard and dishonor them now.

I tried to envision Shula, cutting her path in the world. She would settle into her own generational tribe, with its own music, mores, and politics; its own hairstyles, handshakes, and slang. All of it a natural product of time, place, and circumstance.

Try as we might and even if we wanted to, Barbara and I would be unable to shape our daughter in our likenesses. All we could do was guide her and love her endlessly. Teach her the difference between right and wrong. To be comfortable in her skin. To think for herself. And then let her fly.

Twenty or so years down the road, she would set out on an adventure of her own. At least, I hoped she would.

And I'd be cool with it.

I wouldn't pass judgment. I wouldn't cling. I wouldn't meddle. I wouldn't worry.

The hell I wouldn't.