The Water Keeper(89)
So “Use the red silk and turquoise belt” meant all was well. “You should have seen the stars last night” meant Angel was in play. “I leave in three days and we’ll have five days to get ready for the show” meant three more bad guys, a total of four, and five girls. And any mention of black or white meant things were not good. Come running.
Lastly, the nuclear option was one word: ballet. No particular reason other than it was so different from anything else. Ballet meant things were bad and he knew about her. And absolutely every bit of this was dependent on cell coverage. No cell, no communication. I was flying blind.
When we finished with our code debriefing, Ellie shook her head and asked, “Is all that NCIS stuff really necessary?”
I spoke more to myself than her. “I hope not.”
“So what’s the worst thing she could say to you? Like the world has come to an end . . .”
“Midnight ballet.”
She waved me off. “Catchy.”
I didn’t like the thought of Summer leaving without me. I felt helpless. Responsible even. What if I was wrong? What if . . . ? The questions surfaced. Summer was tough, courageous even, but she was nothing against these guys. There comes a point in every search where you lean out a little too far. Where you hear the clock ticking and your thinking gets muddled and you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do. Stupid stuff. Problem is, you can’t see it at the time. Like asking a fish to describe water.
I wondered how blind I’d become.
Chapter 42
Sitting by the pool, I turned my phone in my hands, fingers tapping. Ellie and Clay sat nearby. Gunner lay on the end of Ellie’s lounger, her hand rubbing his stomach.
Clay broke the silence. “You know, someone has to dial a number for that thing to actually ring.”
I dropped the phone in my pocket and ordered a coffee. A shadow appeared over my shoulder. Clay and Ellie looked up, surprise spreading across both faces. I turned to find Sister June wearing her habit and staring down at me. Her hands were folded. Her kind face had been replaced by one much more serious.
I stood. “Sister June.”
She turned to one side and gestured to me and Ellie. “Would you two come with me, please?”
“What’s this about?”
Sister June considered her words. “I have some information for you. Or—” She rubbed her hands together. “I wasn’t entirely truthful with you.”
Ellie rose to her feet. “You weren’t?”
She gestured again. “Please.”
I stared at my phone. Then out across the water. Finally at Sister June. “Can it wait? We’re a bit busy here.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Go ahead.” Clay stood, nodded to Sister June, and whispered, “I’ll hold down the fort.”
I was afraid to look at Ellie. When I did, her eyes were pleading.
We drove Gone Fiction. Sister June smiled when I suggested it but said nothing. We launched, circled south, then headed east and along the southern side of Key West. We passed my rock and the southernmost marker, then Smathers Beach, the airport, and the little cut leading to Stock Island Marina. Finally, we slowed in the waters leading into Boca Chica Beach. The cottages of Sisters of Mercy sat beneath the trees directly in front of us.
Idling into shallow waters, I felt my phone pulsate in my pocket. I opened the text to find that Summer had sent a picture of the boat. Which meant he had called. Which meant she was now in play. And something in me did not like that.
Not at all.
The picture had been taken from an odd angle, maybe thigh high, which meant she’d taken it without him knowing. Or attempted to. When I saw it, I scratched my head. I knew that type of boat.
Custom-made in collaboration with Mercedes, they are the crème de la crème of boats in this class. The 515 Project One is over fifty feet long, almost ten feet wide, and boasts a rum runner’s pedigree that goes back to Prohibition. Once used to smuggle rum and drugs, they were popular with the offshore racing guys from the islands to the mainland. Boats like this have a deep V shape, making them remarkably comfortable in rough water. This particular version was custom-made from bow to stern light and powered by a pair of Mercury racing engines producing 1350 horsepower apiece. When racing fuel was used, that horsepower rose to 3100, pushing the boat to 140 mph. A waterborne rocket. From Key West, it could be in Cuba or Bimini in less than an hour. Even worse, it could be there and back in under two. His problem, which was also my problem, was the thirty-plus mph wind and eight-foot waves in the Atlantic. None of which currently existed in the glass-calm waters of the Gulf.
As I stared at the picture, my heart sank. If he decided to take off, all I could do was watch. To add insult to injury, the name painted across the back was Daemon.
Summer followed the pic with his name. Michael Detangelo. I doubted it was real but forwarded the name and the pic to Bones, who would run a check on both. Bones, my eyes in the sky, had been and was tracking Summer’s cell phone, but he’d only be able to keep it up as long as she had cell coverage. Still, even a short amount of time should allow him to identify the heat signature of the boat and follow it with satellite. Which allowed us to track him anywhere he went as long as the engines remained hot.
A few seconds later, Bones replied, “Locked on.”