The Water Keeper(75)
I shook my head.
She covered her mouth with her hand.
The girl was unable to speak. I held her hand and waited while her eyes focused on us. When she finally made eye contact, I asked the question differently. “Did you know the other girls?”
She shook her head.
“Sorority? Class?”
A single shake. “We responded to a model call. Photo shoot. First the beach. Then a yacht. Five hundred dollars if they chose you. They chose the ten of us, loaded us onto a small boat, maybe about the size of yours, and then dropped us at that house.”
Clever. “How many days have you been there?”
“Five. I think.”
“Any idea where they were taking you?”
“No.”
I returned to the boat, pulled my dry phone out of the OtterBox, clicked to Angel’s picture, and held it up. “Do you recognize her?”
She looked and shook her head.
“You sure? Look closely. Please.”
She looked again and shook her head one final time.
I looked at Summer. “Call 911. Tell them what you know. Anything and everything she can tell you.” I climbed back into Gone Fiction.
Summer grabbed me by the arm and wouldn’t let go. When I turned, she didn’t speak. She just stood there. Hopelessness screamed at me from behind her eyes.
“Give me a couple hours. I’ll be back at daylight. If I don’t find anything, we’ll be in Key West by lunchtime.”
Tears appeared. She wouldn’t let go. “Summer. I—”
She pulled me to her and kissed me. When finished, she looked at me, pressed herself to me, and kissed me again. This time longer. Her lips trembled and tasted salty. The tears broke loose, trailed down her cheeks, and hung on to her chin.
I thumbed away each, speaking softly. “I’m coming back. I promise.”
She let go and began dialing her phone. From the helm, I glanced in the direction of the bay and Gunner’s watery grave. “Better let me tell Clay.”
I reversed out of the private beach, turned due west, and began studying the charts for channels that led out into deeper water. While the transport vessel had certain advantages out in the bay, back here, in shallow water, I could navigate easier. She probably needed three to four feet to draft. And at least four to get up on plane. I only needed two. Sometimes less. That meant I could go places she could not.
To my way of thinking, the captain of that transport tender had two options: deliver the girls to a larger yacht anchored somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico and then make a slow overnight to Key West while they took on clients, or make a fast run down the calm waters of the inside en route to Key West, where a larger vessel and clients awaited. Either way, I felt Key West was the destination and that there was some urgency to it; otherwise they never would’ve risked the Stiltsville pickup.
The Keys of Florida separate the sometimes angry waters of the Atlantic Ocean from the relatively calm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. There are obviously exceptions, such as when hurricanes roll up from the south, but on the whole the Gulf is far calmer than the Atlantic. At times, it’s more lake than ocean. The Gulf is also much shallower.
The exposed ocean floor around the Keys is limestone dusted with sand, where depths range from a few inches to a few feet. Safely navigating this to the deeper waters of the Gulf requires local knowledge of channels, or something akin to underground rivers that have been marked over time to allow larger vessels access to deeper water.
These channels are easier to see from the air and tough to find from the waterline. A good chart is a must, as is local knowledge. Whether the black boat transporting nine girls was taking them a short distance to a larger boat or a longer distance to Key West, the captain had to know these waters. Meaning he’d done this before.
I throttled to full, trimmed the engines, and navigated via chart southwest through skinny water past Plantation, Islamorada, Lower Matecumbe Key, Duck Key, and finally Marathon. I thought if I could race down the inside, I could hop in front of him because he would have to divert due west to find safe passage, whereas I could skim over the top. From Marathon, I turned northwest and rode seven miles out into the Gulf, where I anchored and stood on my T-top staring through my Leicas as the sun broke the skyline east of me. Theoretically, this gave me at least fourteen or fifteen miles of perspective—probably farther. If any vessel traveled north or south along the inside, I’d have a good chance of seeing her.
My problem was sleep. Or lack of it. I’d not slept in at least a day, and I couldn’t remember when I slept more than four hours in a stretch. I was exhausted and could barely hold my eyes open. Between my stitches, deep bruises, and the stress and pounding of last night’s bay crossing, my body hurt everywhere. I knew if I sat down, I’d sleep several hours I could not afford.
I lit my Jetboil and made some coffee. It helped. Coffee can be a comfort when comfort is hard to find. As the sun rose higher, I stood and studied the edge of the world. Boats passed, but not the one I was looking for. I must have missed her.
At noon, I climbed down, pulled up the anchor, and set a course for Key Largo. An hour later, I tied up at my slip. Clay, Summer, and Ellie were sitting on the beach. I knew my conversation with Clay would not be easy.
Summer informed me that the girl we rescued from the water last night had been evaluated by the paramedics and—other than the trauma of being kidnapped and the shock of nearly drowning and the horror of learning she’d almost been a cog in the sex-traffic wheel—she’d be fine. Turned out she was the daughter of a wealthy tech manufacturer out of Miami with friends in government. Summer and Clay had spent all morning talking with agents, and up until a few minutes ago, this place had been crawling with men wearing guns—all of whom wanted to talk with me.