Florida Firefight (7 page)

Somehow he got to his feet and stood face to face with the Hispanic. Hawker's left arm was worse than useless. The Hispanic threw a sidearm right. Hawker tried to duck, without success. The blow numbed his neck and knocked him to the ground.

As the Hispanic dove for him, Hawker got his knee up in time, burying it in the man's crotch. He moaned something in rapid Spanish. As he writhed in agony, Hawker fished the little Walther from his pocket and got shakily to his feet.

The psychopath was sitting up now. His nose had been crushed, and blood rivered down his face.

Hawker found his keys and swung open the trunk of the Monte Carlo. “Get in the car,” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Move!”

“Not in the fucking trunk, man. We'll suffocate—”

“
MOVE!
”

The psychopath giggled as if he were delighted with the idea.

Hawker recovered the revolver, then drove north on the narrow road that lead to the Tamiami Trail. He pulled down the first dirt lane he found. It came to a dead end at the river.

Mosquitoes covered him in a veil as he opened the trunk.

“Get out. Keep it slow and easy. I'm going to ask you two some questions, and you're going to tell me more than I want to know or I'll give you each a third eye.”

The heavy man got out stiffly, flexing his neck. Then the psychopath unfolded, a broad grin on his face. It took Hawker a moment to realize why he was grinning. It was like a bad dream, a slow-motion nightmare in grim shades of black and gray and mahogany: a perfect nightmare for Mahogany Key.

A stiletto had somehow materialized in the psychopath's right hand. He was on Hawker almost before he had a chance to react. He got the Walther up just in time and squeezed off a quick shot.

The psychopath's head exploded backward, spouting blood. He took three frantic steps and collapsed.

The big Hispanic crashed into Hawker a moment after he fired. Hawker's right hand found the man's windpipe, and he locked his grip on the throat, knowing that to release it was to die.

Hawker swung the Hispanic hard to the left, jerking away as hard as he could, feeling the tough, fibrous tube collapse in his hand.

The Hispanic clawed at his throat, his eyes bulging, making a strange grunting noise. He fell to the ground, kicking wildly. The sudden stillness was like a death certificate.

Hawker sagged against the car. “
Shit
,” he whispered.

He had but one choice.

He opened the car door and switched on the headlights. The Chatham River was about twenty yards wide here. The water was tar black, moving in a slow flow. It looked deep.

Hawker noticed a set of fiery red eyes glowing from beneath the mangrove roots on the opposite bank. The eyes slowly submerged.

An alligator. And a big one.

Hawker found a chunk of rope near the spare tire in the trunk. He dragged the two corpses, one by one, to the edge of the river, then bound them tightly together.

He slid down the bank into the black river. The water was up to his neck, and cold. Hawker kept looking over his shoulder, as if it might help to see the 'gator before it hit him. He knew it was silly. If the 'gator wanted him, he wouldn't have a chance.

It took Hawker a little while to find the right spot. Finally, where the bank was undercut, the mangrove roots jutted out and then down, forming a tight cave.

Hawker pulled the corpses into the water with him, then used his own weight to force them under. Bubbles escaped from the dead lips as their mouths filled with water. Hawker jammed them into the underwater cave, tangling the rope deep in the roots and out of sight.

The rest would be up to the 'gator.

Hawker drove to the edge of the road, got out and broke the limb off a mangrove tree. He spent fifteen minutes obliterating the tire tracks of the Monte Carlo and his own footprints.

nine

Before meeting Buck Hamilton at the Tarpon Inn, Hawker decided to have a quick drive around the town to gather his thoughts as well as familiarize himself with the island. He needed some time to settle down—and let his clothes dry.

There were two main streets. Bayside Drive snaked along the edge of the bay on the west side of the island. The more expensive houses sat overlooking the water, separated from the bay by the road. They were big stilt houses, mostly, with screened porches and tropical landscaping. Many of them looked abandoned, their windows dark.

From the street you could look far out onto the bay. A winter breeze threw a light chop across the water, rocking the boats at the public docks. Beyond the bay were the dark hedge shapes of mangrove islands. A half-moon held the bay in frozen light, turning distant waves to ice sculptures.

Beyond the mangroves, Hawker knew, was the open Gulf of Mexico. From there it was six hundred nautical miles to the Yucatán, or just over two hundred to Cuba.

At the north end of the island, Bayside Drive swung suddenly east. There was a small harbor here. A clustering of a dozen stilt houses outlined the harbor, which glistened with lights from the houses and big commercial boats.

Spanish rock 'n' roll and calypso music blared from the open windows of the houses, and men drank beer on the high porches.

At the northwesternmost point of the harbor was a squat wooden warehouse with a tin roof. There was a massive cement quay with a cranelike loading winch. Two lone silhouettes stood in the blue glare of antiburglar lights on the quay: guards.

Just beyond the warehouse was an opening in the pinelike casuarinas. Red and green ground lights marked both sides of the opening. The lights funneled into the distance.

It was a landing strip.

All too obviously, this was the Colombian stronghold. And they had chosen a good one. They could police it easily, on both the landward and seaward sides.

And from the air, too.

Hawker drove on.

Bayside Drive made a huge semicircle. At the north and south ends of the island, it was connected to Mahogany Key's second main street, Loggerhead Boulevard, which bisected the island. Loggerhead Boulevard was a pretty street with oak trees and greens and the old moon-globe streetlights. The houses here were neat and pleasant, shaded by trees.

Hawker drove past Winnie Tiger's place for the second time. It was a tiny little cottage of white clapboard and dark hurricane shutters. The yard, the little garden and the drive were all outlined by rough coral rock.

It gave the place a safe and solitary look, like a haven.

As he idled past, he saw the Indian woman move across the scrim of lighted window: a dreamlike vision of face, and the outline of breasts and slim hips. He felt a deep sexual wanting tighten his stomach, and he realized it had been a long time since he had been with a woman.

And it would be longer yet. That he knew. He was on Mahogany Key on business. And he had a feeling it would turn into a very rough and brutal business before it was all over.

And he couldn't allow feelings for a woman to cloud his thinking or interfere with his work.

In Chicago he had become known as a loner, a tough cop who didn't like emotional attachments slowing him down.

And that was the way he wanted it, right?

Hawker's hand tightened on the steering wheel.

Right
.

The Tarpon Inn had seen better days.

It was a little marina-type operation on the north lip of the island, where the dark water of the Chatham River emptied into the bay. Beyond the river was a hundred miles of mangrove swamp, sawgrass and cypress heads.

There were a half dozen outbuildings: a mechanic's shed, a concrete-block store that sold boating supplies and fishing tackle, a dry storage area for small boats, some ratty-looking storage dumps.

In the middle of the shell parking lot was a sign that advertised Gulf Gas and Cold Beer.

The sign was made of metal, and rust showed through the paint. The sign creaked in the wind.

There were a few cars and pickup trucks in the parking lot. Hawker swung in beside them.

The main building was built on stilts, half on land, half in the water. It looked like some Indiana barn that had lost its way.

The white paint was peeling, and an open porch reeled around the outside edge of the building, fifteen feet above the water. The sound of country-and-western music and the smell of fried food drifted outside into the night.

A lighted wooden sign on the tin roof of the building was in the shape of a giant jumping fish: Tarpon Inn, Restaurant and Lodging.

Hawker pulled open the door and went inside.

A few tables were filled with men in T-shirts and fishing hats, hunched in beery conversation. The bar's elegance was all out of proportion to the building that housed it. It was a massive curve of polished woods with brass rails. The walls were of pecky cypress. They were decorated with fishing rods crossed like sabers and mounted tarpon. The skins of the tarpon had turned to dark leather over the years.

As Hawker walked in, the room went immediately silent. The jukebox still played the whiskey voice of Waylon Jennings.

The men buried their eyes in their glasses, stealing looks at Hawker. Somehow they seemed to recognize him. Stories about his run-in with the Colombians must have spread quickly through the little island town.

The sudden fear that had filled the room evaporated. The men exchanged looks and seemed to nod in approval. A couple of them held their glasses out briefly in a gesture of greeting.

Hawker nodded back and went to the bar.

The bartender was a muscular, middle-size man in his late twenties. He had blond hair and a Burt Lancaster chin. His wire-rimmed glasses reflected the dim light of the bar.

Hawker took a stool. “Beer,” he said. “Draft.”

Hawker was surprised that the glass was frosted and the beer had been drawn with a proper head. “It's on the house,” said the bartender when Hawker reached for his money. His speech was clipped with a hint of accent.

Hawker swallowed the beer. “Australian?”

“New Zealander,” said the bartender.

“Why the free beer?”

“It's a courtesy we always extend to new owners.” The bartender gave a crooked expression that must have been a smile. He held out his hand. “Graeme Mellor, Mr. Hawker. Word spreads fast on this island. You'll learn that.” The crooked expression flashed across his face again. “You've only been here a day, and already you're one of Mahogany Key's leading citizens. Town hero, you bloody well are.”

“Bloody well is right.” Hawker chuckled. “The men in here all local?”

“Born and raised here. Fishermen, mostly. They run net boats or stone crab pullers. A couple of fishing guides, too. Old Harley Bates over there, the one in the khaki shirt with the Polaroids tied to his neck, has been written up in
Field and Stream
a couple of times. Knows more about fly fishing for tarpon than anyone in this part of Florida, supposedly. Works out of the marina here.”

“Seems as if we don't have much female clientele.”

Graeme Mellor winked and nodded. “Don't want any. Not in the bar, anyway. The Tarpon Inn began as a fishing and hunting club back in the 1920s. Men only. The rich and famous types heard about it and joined right up. Teddy Roosevelt, Clark Gable, Hemingway and some of his buddies, too. Hard to believe, looking at the place now. But back in those days the old Tarpon Inn was something. We've got their membership cards framed over in the lobby. The restaurant's open to ladies, but not the club bar. A few years ago some of them women's libbers came over in a caravan from Miami. Marched on the place, they did. Carried signs and sang songs, all for the television cameras.”

“So what happened?”

The bartender smirked. “They made the mistake of coming in summer. You've never been here in the summer, Mr. Hawker. The mosquitoes and sand flies come at you in a cloud. After an hour those poor women only wanted to be liberated from the bugs. They hightailed it back to the big city, with those news people right after them.” He laughed and gave Hawker a look of suspicion. “You wouldn't be meaning to open the place to women now, would you?”

Hawker was laughing himself. “If I changed anything, it would be to expand the men's part of the club.”

Mellor nodded his approval as Hawker finished his beer. “Buck's over in the dining room waiting, Mr. Hawker.”

“James. Mr. Hawker was my father.”

“James it is, then. Anyway, Buck's looking forward to seeing you. No one comes to eat in the dining room much anymore, so the place is empty. You want me to have the cook fix you a nice dinner?”

Hawker realized that he hadn't eaten all day and that he was very hungry.

“What do you recommend?”

The bartender didn't hesitate. “Nice mess of stone crab claws, with a fillet of grouper on the side? Baked potato, if you want, but french fries would be quicker.”

“Sour cream with the french fries, and Russian on the salad?”

Mellor flashed his funny smile again. “You'll be eatin' in twenty minutes. I'll stick a pitcher of beer in the freezer for you.”

Buck Hamilton was a squat, bowlegged man with the shoulders and hands of a man three times his size. He wore a western plaid shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. There was a garland of gray hair around the bald head, and bifocals gave him a professorial look. His jeans were belted tight around narrow hips, and there was nothing at all academic about his language.

“Goddamn,” he bellowed, happy to meet Hawker, “I thought them spics had seen to it you leaked to death first day in town!”

Hawker smiled at the strength of the old man's handshake and took a seat across the table from him. Hamilton had a broad, Celtic face that was splotched by a lifetime spent in the tropic sun. His eyes were watery blue, and it was only in the eyes that Hawker could read the fear and worry the man had been suffering. Everything else about him suggested the likable bravado of a strong man who had spent his years in complete and total control of his own life.