ESCAPE FROM AMBERGRIS CAYE (17 page)

“What'd
you say?” Morris Stone’s face took on the shade of crimson it always did when
his blood began to boil.

“I said
Jackson didn’t show up for work this morning.”

Stone looked
at the wall clock. It was a little after nine-thirty. “And you’re just telling
me now? Wasn’t he due in an hour ago?”

“Yes. I
thought maybe he got caught in traffic or overslept. When it got to be nine, I
called. He’s not answering his cell. I left several messages, but he hasn’t
called back. Want me to send someone to his apartment and make sure there’s
nothing wrong?”

Stone sat
back, absently swiveling the chair first one way then the other. He drummed his
fingers on the desktop. “Yeah, do that. And he’d better be in a coma if he
knows what’s good for him.”

As he
waved his assignment editor out of the room, he thought about the warning he’d
given Jackson after hearing about his escapade with the police: Staking out
some guy’s apartment, then telling a cop some cockamamie story about being a
reporter trying to uncover a human trafficking operation. He’d told Jackson if
he didn’t stop it’d cost him his job.

He
realized it was about that reporter. Why the guy couldn’t forget about Izzie
was more than he could fathom. As far as he knew, they'd only been co-workers,
partnered up to cover stories. He didn't think they weren’t dating, so why
Jackson felt obligated to keep badgering the police and then stick his neck out
like that was beyond him.

Well, he’d
better be home and so sick he couldn’t manage to call in or even answer his
phone—or else. Morris Stone knew he’d have to fire the guy. It wouldn’t do to
let the rest of the crew think they could skip work, not call in and still
expect to have jobs. Even if Jackson
was
one of his best
cameramen—talented, conscientious to a fault and, until the whole Izzie mess
started, the most reliable.

He
sighed. Some days his job sucked. The phone rang. Maybe that was Jackson now.
Maybe he'd had car trouble or was in some kind of a fender-bender. Honestly
hoping that was the case, he picked up the receiver and said, “Stone.”

After
what seemed more like years than days, Izzie awoke to what sounded like the
rattle of keys.  A few seconds later, the top of the container was yanked
back. The sudden light blinded her. After such a long time in the tight space
with little food and water, she could scarcely move. Every muscle in her body
screamed for relief.

As her
eyes began to adjust, she made out several men peering down at her. They spoke
a language she didn’t understand. They held their noses at the obvious stench
days without bathing or toilet facilities had produced. One bent down and
touched her hair. Then he smiled and nodded.

A man
grabbed her around the shoulders and pulled her to her feet. Terrified and
weak, Izzie collapsed into his outstretched arms. He laughed, pinched his nose
and pushed her away. Where
was she
and what did they
want with her?

One of
the men tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to a bathroom. He didn't have to
tell her again. She was only too happy to oblige. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad
after all. Then she saw the gun.

Leon and
Captain Tom finished up as Zac stood beside the steamer trunk hoping against
hope that his brother was all right. Motioning for Zac to join them, Leon said,
“This here’s my buddy, Zac.”

The yacht
owner turned. “How’re
ya
doin
’?”

Without
giving Zac a chance to respond, Leon continued, “When you get to Belize, just
leave the trunk on the dock.
Zac’ll
take care of it,
then you can be on your way.”

“He’s not
coming back with us?”

“
Naw
. He’s never been to Belize so he wants to check it out.
He’ll come back when he’s sick of all the tourist crap.” Both men laughed and
shook their heads.

“I hear
ya
’,” the captain said. “There’re only so many T-shirts you
can buy,” He glanced at the horizon.  “We better get going. I think a
storm’s brewing. Hope we can outrun it. I hate like hell being out there during
a hurricane.”

Zac’s
ears perked up at the words “storm” and “hurricane”. “You expecting one?” That
put a whole new slant on things. He’d agreed to the yacht trip, but being on a
boat during a storm was something else again.

Captain
Tom threw his head back and laughed. He was exactly what you’d expect in a
ship’s captain: ruddy complexion; dark commanding eyes; a beard compensating
for thinning hair up top; and a boisterous manner that seemed quick to find
everything hilarious.

“Relax,
Zac,” he said, and thumped him on the back. “You’ll be safe with us.” He
motioned to his yacht and a man who stood beside it. “This here’s my first
mate, Charlie. Between the two of us, you’re in good hands. I take it you’ve
never been sailing?”

Zac
nodded. The whole idea which had intrigued him a few hours earlier quickly lost
its appeal. “You’re right about that.”

“We’ll
make a sailor out of you by the time we hit Belize, you wait and see.” He
glanced around, then motioned to his first mate. “Get that trunk on board and
we’ll be on our way.”

Watching
Charlie struggle to lift the chest and Captain Tom making no effort to help,
Zac picked up the other end. Groaning and bumping their way up the ramp, they
managed to get it on the boat. Zac shuddered as he thought about his brother
inside. He hoped for his sake the drug was still working.

“Charlie,
show this landlubber around and give him a quick lesson on what
things’re
called so I don’t
hafta
toss him overboard.” He threw his head back, whooping as though what he’d said
was side-splittingly funny.

Zac
glanced at Charlie to see if he’d joined in. The man wore a pained expression.
He’d only known Captain Tom a few minutes and the man was already getting on
his nerves. Imagine having to endure unexpected bursts of laughter all day
long. The word “mutiny” came to mind.

Charlie
looked from Zac to the trunk. “Want this stashed in your stateroom?”

“My
what?”

“It’s
where you sleep. You want it down there or should I leave it topside?” Before
Zac could respond, he said, “Probably best to stow it where you can keep an eye
on it, especially if a storm blows. Don’t want it to end up in the Gulf.”

The
thought of his younger brother washed out to sea locked inside a steamer trunk
gave Zac the willies. “No, that wouldn’t do at all.”

“Okay,
then let’s get her below.”

A few
moments later Charlie gestured at the space before them. “This here’s the
“saloon” where we relax. He indicated an L-shaped settee, flat-screen TV and
several comfortable looking easy chairs.

Everything
appeared to be bolted in place. Zac didn’t have to be told why. Anything loose
in a storm could become a missile capable of injuring someone.

They took
a few steps farther inside. “Here’s the kitchen or what’s referred to as the
‘galley’.” A tidy space with cabinets and built-in appliances presented itself.
Zac was amazed at how every square inch had been used. There was a stainless
steel sink, a refrigerator, range and microwave oven—even a trash compactor.
Spotless countertops gleamed.

“Nice,”
Zac said and thought about his mom’s kitchen back home which wasn’t nearly as
modern.

“Yeah, it
is, except when you’re on KP.”

“That
your job?”

“Of
course. Captain Tom…” he hesitated as if complaining about his boss might not
be wise. Then he added, “Yeah, I’m the chief cook and bottle washer on this vessel.”
He turned and gestured toward the rear. “The captain’s stateroom’s back there
and yours is below. Might as well take the trunk with us.”

Zac
didn’t know what he’d expected, but it was nowhere near what he saw. There was
a queen-sized platform bed with drawer storage below; lamps for reading and
wall lights; cedar-lined lockers adorned one wall; plush carpeting completed
the space.

Charlie
pointed to a small side room. “That’s the bathroom—called the ‘head’.”

Zac took
a quick look and was again surprised at how clean it looked. It didn’t even
stink.

“This
where you sleep?” Sharing the room with the first mate would be a problem.

“Only
when there’re no paying guests. On trips like this, I sleep on a bunk in the
pilothouse.” He glanced at Zac, “That’s where the boat’s…”

“I know,”
Zac interrupted. “I’m not a total idiot.”

Charlie
gave him a pained smile. “Never took you for one.” As they retraced their
steps, he added, “Now, you probably already know this, but…” The engine revved
and the boat began to move. “…when you face front, the right side’s ‘starboard’
and the left is ‘port’. The front of the boat is the ‘bow’ and the rear is the
‘stern’. I don’t mean to insult you, but if you call things by the right names,
the
captain’ll
treat you a whole lot better.”

Charlie
wasn’t quite finished. “Upstairs is ‘topside’ and the rear—where we got on—is
the ‘transom’.” Charlie hesitated, “Oh, and the Bessie Rose is a trawler
yacht.”

Zac
followed Charlie as he retraced his steps, tossing his words over his shoulder.
“It resembles a
commercial fishing vessel designed to drag nets called
‘trawls’ behind.” As he reached the steps, he said,
“Okay,
enough of that. Go topside and relax while I fix lunch.”

As he
went on deck, Zac’s head buzzed with the new information: bow, stern,
starboard, port, head, galley, stateroom, and, what was the living area called
again? Oh yeah, “saloon”—as in a bar. Odd name for a living room, but he
guessed that’s where they drank. Then there was: topside, transom, pilothouse
and that trawler business.

He sat
back in a comfortable deck chair and looked out over the water that stretched
blue and calm as far as he could see. Seagulls trailed behind, hoping for a
handout. A close look at the surface revealed a pod of some kind of large fish.
Cool. He stood and leaned over the edge to get a closer look. “Well I’ll be a
son of a bitch,” he said aloud. “They’re dolphins.” He watched until they
disappeared from view, then sat back down.

The sun
and rocking motion made him sleepy. Remembering all those odd names shouldn’t
be that hard, figuring out how to keep Jackson safe and hidden was what
mattered. He’d close his eyes just for a moment.

“Hey,
Zac.” Charlie shook him. “Lunch’s ready. Have a good nap?”

Zac
blinked then remembered where he was. “Uh, yeah, real good.”

“Join the
captain.”

“Aren’t
you eating with us?”

“Somebody’s
gotta be at the helm. Oh, yeah, new word—the ‘helm’s’ the steering gear of a
boat. Now go eat while it’s still hot.”

Zac
didn’t look forward to sitting across the table from that buffoon, but he had
no choice. If the man exploded in laughter one more time, he’d punch him and
throw him overboard. Charlie would, no doubt, give him a medal.

“Hey,
Captain Tom. How’re you doing?”

The captain
nodded, his cheeks bulged as he chewed. “Grab a plate and dig in,” he said from
the side of his mouth. “We don’t stand on ceremony around here.” He took a swig
from what looked to be a mug of beer. “Food’s good and there’s plenty of it, so
don’t be shy.”

Zac
didn’t have to be told a second time. His stomach growled as the smell of
barbecued beef wafted through the air.

“Charlie
teach you a thing or two?”

Zac
nodded and swallowed. “He sure knows his stuff, doesn’t he?”

“Wouldn’t
be my first mate if he didn’t.”

To Zac,
the captain’s response sounded a tad sharp, as though the compliment he’d paid
Charlie annoyed him.

“Now you
know the difference between a bulkhead and the ship’s hull?”

Bulkhead?
Hull? Zac didn’t recall hearing those terms. Taking a big bite of bun dripping
with sauce so he wouldn’t have to respond, he nodded as he reviewed what he’d
been taught. Those two words weren’t in his lexicon.

“Then
tell me, what’s a bulkhead?”

The man
was nothing if not persistent. Zac cleared his throat, picked up the mug of
beer and took a mouthful. The delay didn’t help. He still didn’t know a
bulkhead from a bulwark. The meaning of both escaped him.

“It’s
another name for the bathroom?” The inflection in his voice gave away his lack
of conviction.

The captain
leaned back and howled. “No, idiot, that’s called a head. Bulkheads are walls
separating rooms. They prevent water or fire from spreading. Guess Charlie
forgot to tell you that.”

“Guess
so,” Zac’s temper was beginning to rise. The man was an asshole.

“And
where’s a boat’s hull?”

By now
Zac had had enough. Setting the mug down, he leaned in and said, “Captain, I
don’t give a rat’s ass what or where the boat’s hull is. Topside, backside,
upside—sideways—who gives a good shit as long as this damned thing floats. I’m
a paying guest. If you want more business from Leon, start treating me with
respect.” Then he stopped speaking and waited for the explosion that was sure
to follow.

The
captain wiped his mouth on a paper napkin and stood.

Zac
braced himself anticipating the taste of blood as he got socked in the jaw.

Clearing
his throat, Captain Tom said, “Didn’t mean nothing, I was just
funnin
’ with you. Finish your lunch then go downstairs and
take a nap. Forget all this, ain’t important
nohow
.”
He started up the steps then turned and said, “In case anybody asks, the hull’s
the outer skin of a boat.”

With the
saloon to himself, Zac enjoyed what was left of his meal, proud that he’d stood
up to the man. Maybe the rest of the trip wouldn’t be so bad. First he’d go to
his stateroom and check on Jackson, then take a nap.