The Water Keeper(48)

“You’re playing with me, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m trying to talk about something I don’t want to talk about.”

She nodded. “I guess I had that coming.”

Hidden in the safety of the eye of the hurricane, Summer wrapped both hands around my waist, pressed her chest to mine, and kissed my cheek. Then the corner of my mouth. Her lips were tender. While my heart fluttered, fear flooded me. I’d been down this road. I’d seen what we were about to see. Angel could be dead. Or worse, about to be dead after having been violated by God knows how many men. To Summer, Angel was her daughter. The product of her womb. Bone of her bone. To the men who held her, she was property. Worth about as much as the wrapper on a candy bar. And while Summer was hopeful, sometimes the end of this road was real bad. Sometimes where we were headed and what we were about to see were the two most awful things any human would ever witness.





Chapter 20


With one no-wake zone following another, the trip south took an hour. We passed through Juno Beach and under US1 and were about to turn into the northern tip of Lake Worth when we saw Fire and Rain moored inside the Old Port Cove Marina. She was in a slip at the end of the dock made for hundred-plus-foot yachts. We circled around her, but I didn’t like it.

The marina was a safe-harbor marina, meaning the water was calm and protected. It also meant one way in and one way out, so I returned to the IC, cut the wheel north, and then slipped into the narrow channel leading into a cul-de-sac of sorts that gave water access to about a dozen homes. I docked on the bulkhead but knew it wouldn’t last long. The first homeowner to catch us would have us towed. My hope was that we could get in and get out before somebody noticed, but this was West Palm. I had my doubts.

We tied up, walked around a pool, over a chain-link fence, through a parking lot, across Lakeshore Drive, and into the parking lot of the marina. Fortunately, the dock was empty of people save a few crew members washing various boats. We walked past the harbormaster’s office, alongside the dock house, and onto the dock for about two hundred feet before ending at a ninety-degree corner. The dock was wide enough for a golf cart, which is the case with most high-end marinas. We turned right, walking in between boats ranging from fifty feet to well over a hundred.

Her bow pointed south. An ominous compass needle. The Intracoastal Waterway south of Jupiter Island is where the wealthy bring out their toys. They may invest in homes, but their boats are where they brag. And Fire and Rain was no different. She was on display for all the world to see, which suggested she was empty.

Summer and I started making our way down the boardwalk. In order to minimize suspicion, I held her hand—just two lovers on a walk. She adopted the ruse and leaned into me—although I wondered if the leaning was ruse or need. We stopped at a waterside café and bought two coffees, giving ourselves a few moments to study the decks. The boat was quiet, but its tinted windows made it impossible to determine who, if anyone, stirred inside.

Walking alone and blind into a boat manned by bad men was one thing. Walking into the same boat with an unsuspecting woman was something else entirely. I gave her one last chance. “You can stay here.”

She gritted her teeth. “Not a chance.”

We stepped onto the aft deck and walked up the stairs and into the main salon. She was nicely appointed. Mahogany. Marble. Granite. China. Crystal. No expense spared. Unlike the first boat, this one was a bit cleaner. Not clean, of course; just cleaner. There had been a party here but with some restraint. Which possibly suggested wealthier clientele.

Summer followed me as we began searching the staterooms, galley, lower level, crew cabins, guest cabins, upper level, and helm. Finding the boat empty, I began filtering through drawers. Turned out, Fire and Rain was owned by a company out of Australia and rented for $42,500 per week. Sifting back through the bedrooms, I turned on every electronic screen I could find. My guess was that these guys were paying that bill by bringing paying customers aboard in one port and dropping them off at the next—allowing them time and freedom to purchase what they wanted while aboard. A flesh buffet. One swipe with Amex Black. In my experience, men who did what these men were doing liked to have a record of it. Which meant video. Most men were careful to take the evidence with them as a memento when they disembarked, but copies were often made, and copies had a way of multiplying. I also took note of the multiple closed-circuit television cameras pointed at us. Every room, every hallway contained a camera. All of that data had to be going somewhere. I had a feeling it was live-streaming off the ship at that very moment, but every camera had a backup. It’s just the nature of electronics.

I returned to the main stateroom. Decadence defined. I turned on the TV and then rummaged through the external inputs—one of which was labeled “Library.” Didn’t take long to find the list of last week’s videos.

I turned to Summer. “I’m pretty sure you don’t want to watch these.” I was certain I didn’t either.

She crossed her arms.

There were sixty-some videos in just this one library. I did not like this aspect of my life. No matter how many times I had come upon just such a cache, I still had a tough time removing these images from my mind. They didn’t titillate me. Didn’t entertain me. Didn’t excite me. They made me want to vomit. I didn’t want to see them. Ever. And these men were the sickest among us. Animals. While the slave trade was abolished in England in the nineteenth century, it was alive and kicking in the twenty-first.