I saw the revolving blue light of the police launch and watched them poke at the form with a boathook. In a few minutes they had the body aboard and were parking the 22 foot Whaler at the gas dock. Frank started over and I followed. The marine patrol had stretched out the body, face down on the boards. All I could see was a mass of matted bloody hair on the back of its skull. There were cuts and welts on the arms and legs where the sea scavengers had already begun to feast. No movement. One of the officers was shaking his head and biting his lip.
Frank gingerly placed his hands under one shoulder and the hip. He turned the corpse onto his back. My teeth locked in the back of my mouth and I struggled to find a breath. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to see the thing that assailed my eyes. I knew the face all too well. We had cruised together, drunk an ocean of cold beer, and shared things that no other man would ever know. My friend, my brother . . . Chris’ flesh was the color of dull concrete. His mouth was slightly open and his bulging eyes stared up into a sunrise he would never see again.
I fought the yellow acid raging in my throat. I heard his laughter and saw the loving looks he and Holly had shared on KAMALA just a few nights before. Accident . . . that was my first guess. Maybe one too many and a stumble on a slippery dock or a rocking boat. Probably hit his head as he fell into the water. Unconscious, maybe too far gone to swim. It happened all the time. It just didn’t happen to a man I considered my own blood. Frank looked over at me, grim and determined.
“I promise we’ll investigate it fully. I’ll ask some questions, get forensics on it. We’ll know something in a day or two.”
I nodded and went back to my sanctuary, but it didn’t seem so safe now. None of us ever know when our number will come up. It is probably my Presbyterian upbringing and the words of a mother who qualified for sainthood. Call it destiny, fate, even a sort of fatalism. Chris’s time had come. Those were all the clichés I could summon at the moment. I always look like such a damned fool when I cry -- a 6’2” blubbering lump of twisted muscle -- but I sobbed like a lost child.
I called Sunny and left a message. I figured the rest of the Roundtable would know soon enough. The Cocoanut Telegraph in Key West is quick and efficient. I knew Frank would inform Holly as soon as possible. She’d been staying at the Ocean Reef, a small dive, but a clean one, not far from the marina. I didn’t really know her that well, but I knew she’d need someone. I decided to give it a few hours and pay her a visit to offer anything that might be useful. Chris would want that. It was around two when I knocked on the door of 301 C, the number the desk clerk had given me.
She peeked through a crack in the door, then opened it wide and nodded me in. As I stepped through the entrance, she threw her arms around me and clutched me like an infant who was drowning. She wasn’t crying, but I knew that each of us handled grief in our own way.
“I just found him and now he’s gone.”
She was wearing a yellow tank top with no bra, but it was the wrong time to notice. A pair of cut-off denims hung on her hips and she was barefoot. Her toenails were painted a bright red. Her eyes weren’t swollen and there was just a smudge of darkness beneath them. Her hair actually looked like she’d just brushed it out. It hung gracefully and glimmered even in the artificial light. Sunny’s observations flashed before me. She did look older, but then she should, given what had just happened. After all, her dad was dead. I looked for the watch, but her wrist was bare, no jewelry of any kind.
I sat in a threadbare chair next to a Formica table that should have been at Goodwill a long time ago. The carpet was a foam green that had faded in an obvious traffic pattern. The sheets were a tumble of white and I detected smears of mascara on one pillowcase. The room had an earthy smell . . . not necessarily dirty, but fully lived in. There was a half empty bottle of a Cabernet I recognized as one I couldn’t afford. Two plastic cups sat near it, one half full with lipstick smears and one with a trace of ruby liquid circling the bottom. She sat on the edge of the bed and now the tears welled up and crept down her cheeks.
“I don’t know what to say. He was your dad, but he was my friend. We can’t replace him.”
“I know, T.K. Even though our time together was short, he brightened up my life and made me feel loved. I can’t tell you what it meant, especially after just losing Mom to that hideous cancer. One thing he made clear -- I think it’s even in his will -- was that he should be cremated and you and Fritz should spread his ashes where the Gulf meets the Atlantic. You’ll hear it at the reading. I already called Malcom Parker, the attorney we used when Dad insisted that his wishes all be legal and without any questions. He’s gonna contact me when they release the body and I can get it all together.”
Now she was shaking. I got up and placed my arm around her shoulder. She buried her head in my breast and shivered in spastic waves.
“It’s not much, but I’ll help any way I can.”
“Thanks, T.K. You don’t know how much it means for you just to be here now . . . holding me and letting my tears bleed into your chest.”
I squeezed her shoulders. “I’ll go now, but you call when you need me.”
For a moment I wasn’t sure she would let go, but the quaking had subsided and I’d done what I came to do.
I walked out into the sunshine, but it seemed like a cruel illusion. It should be dark and rain should be falling. The wind should be howling like a banshee mourning a demon lover. It wasn’t, but the howling had sunk into the abyss that was my heart . . . and even my soul.
Chapter 5
I wasn’t much good for anything for the rest of the day. I drank, but it didn’t help. I tried to sleep, but it wouldn’t come. Sunny was due around six, but I wasn’t even sure I wanted to see her. There are times when alone is the only thing to be. I guess this was one of them.
Late that afternoon the phone rang. I didn’t want to answer it, but it was insistent. I finally picked it up and checked the ID. Key West Police Department. It had to be Frank, and I guess I had to talk to him.
“T.K., I rushed things up, got some prelims. He did die of drowning. There were traces of blood on the edge of the finger pier. It looks like he probably fell while boarding the boat, hit his head and was probably unconscious when he hit the water. We questioned the liveaboards on the dock, but no one saw or heard anything. He’d been dead for less than twelve hours, so he must have gone in somewhere before midnight. That’s the obvious stuff.”
“Okay, Frank. That might make a little sense, but what about the not so obvious stuff?”
“You don’t want to hear it, but when we searched his boat we found traces of white powder on the table in the main salon. There were a couple of baggies in the nav station and some rocks of crack. The doc’s not sure until he runs the tests, but he thinks the powder was Flakka, a new designer drug that contains cocaine and crystal meth. You can snort it, inject it or eat it, and it sends you into the next galaxy. When the guys do the autopsy, we’ll know more.”
I felt myself boil.
“Bullshit,” I said vehemently, “he’s been off any of that shit for years. Maybe a little weed once in a while, and plenty of booze, but cocaine, crystal meth? He wouldn’t have touched that stuff on a bet.”
“Hey, don’t get pissed at me. I’m just telling you what we found. I know he was like your own blood, but people slide. Dope is like a beautiful woman you can’t forget. You might leave her for a while. You know she’s no good for you, but she haunts you in your dreams and begs you to return to her. A lot of them do.”
“Jesus, Frank. Go fuck yourself. I knew Chris better than his own mother. He was done with it . . . put that crap aside several years ago. . . and fall off a boat? I’ve seen him go on a pitching deck when it was blowing forty hells. The guy was like a cat.”
“Okay . . . maybe we ought to talk when you can be a little more rational. Come on, T.K., face the facts.”
He hung up.
I was breathing in short bursts and my guts were on fir
e. I slammed my fist down on the table. My brother, my blood, an accident, a hole in my life. But wasn’t this what it was all about? The unexpected, the tragedy, the movement of a bunch of mindless chessmen by something we couldn’t control, much less understand. Where the hell was the compassionate God, the merciful being who controlled and managed everything? Was there any fairness, reason, or meaning in our petty attempt at existence? I was the wrong guy to ask at this juncture.
When Sunny showed up I was damned near drunk. I’d started with beer, then gone to the hard stuff. She came on board, eyes swollen and ghostly pale, but she still looked like a lost sailors’ dream. She pulled me to her, squeezed me in a vice-like hug, then looked up into my face. I repeated my conversation with Frank. She shook her head and took a deep breath.
“You need something other than more whiskey. I’ll make some strong coffee.”
I watched as she filled the pot and measured the dark Columbian. There was no sound except the gurgling from the white plastic and the drip of the fragrant brew. She filled two cups and sat across from me on the settee.
“I can’t feel the way you do, Captain. I know you and Chris go back for years, some filled with joy and others with things that were tough. Still, I’ll miss him. I like to think he loved me -- not like he did you -- but we had our own type of connection, and it breathed warmth. You have no choice but to grieve, but we’ve both got to pull ourselves together and make something right. I don’t know what that something is now, but we have to act, not just sit and whine. I certainly believe in coincidences . . . just not too many of them.”
“Jesus, Sunny. I can hardly move, much less think.”
“I got that . . . but we have to. If this was something other than an accident, we need to know and we need to make the perpetrator bleed. Otherwise, we sink into a dark hole that we may never climb out of. Drink some of that coffee and tell me about your visit with Holly.”
I tried to pull myself together and remember, despite the anvil crushing my chest. I know Sunny. She wants details. I told her about my time at the motel, general impressions and images that had fixed in my mind. She listened and didn’t say much until I finished. I sat and watched her prod and weigh it all in that cool analytical cast of hers. I still wanted Holly to be the mournful Madonna.
“Sheets rumpled. Two wine glasses. Expensive Cabernet. Maybe she’d had company.”
“She probably had. Could have been anyone. Lots of people loved Chris. Might have stopped by to pay their respects.”
“Perhaps, but would she offer one of them a glass of wine? You said she was braless and that her hair was freshly brushed. No signs that she’d been crying before you got there. You arrive and the floodgates open right on cue. I don’t want to be a dispassionate asshole, but something is poking me like a stick at an open sore. If it will close, I’ll be happy to shut up and admit I was stupid, but we need to know. See Fritz in the morning and ask him to use his computer magic to see what -- if anything -- is missing.”
The tone of Sunny’s voice told me it wasn’t a request or a suggestion. I nodded. Then I sneaked over to the galley and poured a little Jameson into my coffee. Sunny left a little after eleven. I promised her I would complete my mission by tomorrow afternoon. I can’t tell you I felt any better, but at least I had something to do. For that, I was thankful.
Chapter 6
I didn’t sleep worth a damn, still twisted and exhausted from the events of the last few days. I threw on some shorts and my cleanest dirty shirt. I was down the dock by eight. Fritz was below. I could hear the light click of computer keys and the whirring of his printer. He was making money already, doing what he loosely called his consulting work. The decks and the hull on NO DECISIONS, his old Grampian 30, were worn and stained, but then so was Fritz. In his case, it suited him quite nicely.
I knocked on the hull and a head like a grizzly bear just out of hibernation popped up in the companionway. I could smell the pile of Marlboro butts that I knew filled the ashtray on his nav station.
“Come aboard, Cap.”
I stepped over the lifelines, into the cockpit, took my last hit of fresh air, and sank into the bear’s den. It was actually tidier than usual. No dirty clothes on the floor or crusty dishes in the sink. The ashtray was only half full. I wondered if he’d hired a cleaning lady, but that was a reach too far.
“Lots of shit . . . too damned much,” he said, “what with Chris and his girl, Holly. I want to be there when you spread his ashes. We damned sure had some times.”
I’d never seen the grizzly cry, but he was close.
“Yeah,” I mouthed almost silently, “I need some help.”
I told him as much as I could remember. Sunny’s feeling that something wasn’t quite right, the Cartier watch, the details of my visit to Holly’s motel room, Chris’s will. He lit a Marlboro and sucked the smoke into his massive chest. Then he coughed slightly and cleared his throat with a sound like a rasp scraping over rusted metal.
“There’s one more thing,” he said, “I’ve seen Chris skip around on a bouncing deck like a chimpanzee on steroids. Never a misstep, never a hint of fear. The guy was incredibly agile. I just don’t see him falling off the dock getting onto his own boat. And the dope? I don’t get it.”
“So you and I are on the same train. Do this for me. Find an obit on Holly’s mother. Her name was Mary Elizabeth Adams, died in Wilmington maybe two or three years ago. If you can get into the records at UNC-Wilmington, check on a Holly Adams. Should be recent entries. Just nose around the internet. Anything that gives us a little more insight into the situation might be helpful. And this is just you and me. Strictly graveyard talk. Nobody needs to know what you find . . . at least for now.”
He took a long drag off the cigarette, hacked a bit, and gave me a mock salute.
“Consider it done, Cap,” he growled, “I’ll print it all and have it to you first thing in the morning.”
I got off NO DECISIONS while I could still breathe. The fresh salt air hit me like the sacred elixir of life. Despite all the rough edges, Fritz was a lover and he’d treasured Chris like I did. He’d do anything he could for our dead friend. It was about the only comfort I could find right now, but it was something.
Chapter 7
My mind told me the sky should be angry and gray. It should be raining and the wind should be keening like a motherless child. It wasn’t. Key West was in its finest array . . . the sun playing hide and seek with fluffy, snow white clouds, a light breeze off the Gulf, whispering and caressing our cheeks. It was Sunny, Fritz, Louis, Holly and me.
I hit the starter on KAMALA’s diesel. She fired up instantly and purred, unknowing, but eager to be away from the dock dedicated to her mission. The group from Buffett’s Roundtable stood on the boards, heads bowed, palms waving reluctant goodbyes to a trusted mate and a stunning example of some of the best things a man can be.
The thing in the Holly’s arms was black and about the size of a shoe box. She gripped it tightly. I could barely hear her sobs over the sound of the wind and the hum of the engine. Fritz was on her left, his craggy paw placed gently on her shoulder. Sunny was on the other side, her hand resting on Holly’s knee. No one said much of anything. Louis handled the bow lines and we were off, leaving Sombrero Reef to port. The cruise ships and the tour boats disappeared in our wake as we slid out to where the Gulf of Mexico kisses the blue Atlantic.
I’m not a religious man, but as captain and best friend, I had been assigned to say a few last words. I wish I could tell you I had some moving tribute with a thread of philosophy and wisdom, but in the end, I forced some words out of my mouth that I knew were inadequate, if not pathetic.
Holly stood, shaking a bit, but resisting any help. She stepped to the stern and opened the box. The breeze immediately caught the ashes and they became smudges of gray on the water. They lingered for just a moment and disappeared into the indigo swells. I looked at the faces. We were just what w
e were supposed to be, a funeral brigade. And our friend, my blood, was consigned to the deep.
Some like the word “closure”. It means it’s all done . . . nothing else to do but grieve. I knew there would be none. The agony and the loss would haunt me as long as I breathed. Sadness . . . yes, but I felt a palpable rage building in me. I’d felt it before. It was part of a darkness I wanted gone, but there was also fear. It took some time before I came to grips with an ugly truth. It was myself I feared more than anything else. I wanted to kill.
We got back to Land’s End and the crew helped me tie up KAMALA. They drifted off one at a time until just Sunny and I were left staring at each other and searching for some words . . . any words that would staunch the bleeding inside of us. I didn’t want a drink. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted blackness, relief, respite, anything that fought the tears and allowed the breath to ease in and out of me.
Sunny stood speechlessly and put her arms around me. She buried her head in my chest for a moment, then kissed me lightly on the cheek and started down the dock.
I watched her move like a wounded lioness and slide into the green Miata.
Now I did need an old friend. I poured too much Jameson into a stout aluminum cup and let it slide down my throat. I drank until I couldn’t drink any more. Then I collapsed on the settee and tumbled into a fitful sleep.
I was sailing. The canvas was drawing steadily and I cut through the swells with little effort. I knew it was night, but there was a gunmetal cast on the water, not like moonlight, but enough illumination to see the muscular ripples of gray. Suddenly I had the sense that something was missing. Then something faint and indistinguishable found my ears.
I looked astern and caught a glimpse of a torso bobbing behind me. I couldn’t make out a face or the words, but I knew I had to turn back. I tried the wheel, but it wouldn’t budge. The jib sheets were made fast to the cleats. I strained, but I couldn’t release them. I reached for my rigging knife and tried to saw the lines in half, but the blade ran over the ropes like they’d been greased. I struggled with the gleaming metal, but it was blunt and the lines grew even more taut. I was running away and the cries grew fainter.