Got the Look (15 page)

Chapter
19

Ernesto Salazar walked straight down the middle of the gray wooden pier at Key Biscayne Marina, toting a suitcase-on-wheels. The sun had set hours earlier, replaced by moonbeams from a low-hanging crescent that glistened against the black water. Most of the boats in the slips were completely dark, no signs of life. A big yacht at the deeper end of the marina was a notable exception. The happy crew was either partying after a day on the ocean or warming things up before going out for the night. The hell-raisers were too far away, however, to rob the marina of its eerie peacefulness. Even the most gentle breeze from the bay could set off a veritable chorus among the sailboats, the sharp, hollow sound of taut halyards slapping against bare aluminum masts.

Ernesto checked his watch. Ten P. M. He was right on time. Now all he had to do was find a boat called Mega-Bite.

Agent Henning had warned him about the disturbing video of his wife, but Ernesto watched it anyway. Once. That was enough. He went straight home and tried to put it out of his mind, but evidently the kidnapper had no intention of letting him stay above the fray. The succinct instructions came via e-mail, midafternoon. No more cops, no more Swyteck, no more fucking around. I'm dealing with you now. Put as much cash as you can inside a watertight suitcase. Go to Key Biscayne Marina at ten o'clock. Find a fishing boat called Mega-Bite. The captain will know what to do. In case you're wondering, the size of the suitcase and the denominations of the bills are up to you. But this is your last chance. Pay me what she's worth.

Ernesto found the Mega-Bite at the end of the south pier. The running lights were on. Twin inboard diesel engines churned the seawater beneath the vessel's hand-painted name.

You Mr. Salazar? the burly man at the controls asked. He had a fisherman's build, soft around the middle but arms big enough to reel in a Buick from the depths. The sleeves of his denim shirt were torn off at the shoulder to show off the intricate tattoos on both biceps. Not even for a second did Ernesto entertain the possibility that this guy was Mia's kidnapper. He was clearly an intermediary, a pawn hired by the kidnapper for his own purposes, like the homeless guy who had urinated on Swyteck's bench.

That would be me, said Salazar. Ernesto's the name.

Let me take your bag.

Ernesto stepped back, as if guarding the suitcase. That's all right. I got it.

The captain shot him a curious look and went back to the controls. Suit yourself. Toss me that line and climb aboard.

Ernesto untied the bow line and stepped down into the boat. He took a seat in the stern behind the captain, keeping his suitcase with him at all times. Diesel fumes assailed his nostrils as the captain slowly maneuvered the forty-two-footer backward, then forward, away from the dock. In just a few minutes they were out of the marina and beyond the no-wake zone. The captain idled the engines and went down into the galley. Ernesto couldn't see what he was doing, but the sound of Lucille Ball's voice was a fairly strong clue.

I don't need television, said Ernesto as the captain returned to the controls.

Neither do I. But the dude who paid for your ride said the television stays on from the moment we leave the marina. So it's on.

That seemed like a strange request, but Ernesto didn't have much time to consider it. The captain opened the throttle, and the sound of Desi Arnaz singing BabalAo was completely drowned out by the roar of over a thousand horsepower. The seas were calm, and the boat skimmed across the gentle waves at a good twenty-five knots per hour. They maintained that speed for almost forty-five minutes, but they didn't seem to be traveling in any particular direction. Twenty minutes due west. Five minutes south. Two minutes to the northeast, then south again.

Where are we? asked Ernesto, shouting over the engine noise.

Can't tell you.

Let me guess. The man who hired you said not to tell me.

The boat hit a swell, and foamy ocean spray soaked the captain's face. Well, yeah. He did tell me that. But even if I was free to run my mouth, I still couldn't tell you exactly where we are. Not with that damn television playing. Knocks out my GPS.

What? Ernesto said.

The powered antenna creates interference for the satellite signal. GPS either goes screwy or shuts down altogether when the TV is on. I could get a different marine antenna that doesn't mess up my GPS, but I never watch television except when I'm in the marina. So why bother with the expense?

Ernesto suddenly realized what all the cruising around was about - and why the kidnapper had told the captain to keep the television playing.

He thinks there's a GPS tracking chip in the suitcase that needs to be disabled.

They reached another no-wake zone. The captain cut their speed, the bow dipped, and the engines became much kinder to the ears. In the cabin below, the television continued to play. It was Nick at Nite, or some such all-rerun station, as Ernesto recognized the whistler's theme song from the original Andy Griffith Show. As far as he could tell, they'd done almost a complete nautical loop, and they were approaching a marina near Coconut Grove, just a few miles from where they'd started. This marina, however, wasn't just boats in slips, one neat row after another. Rather, scores of vessels were moored offshore, scattered across the open harbor, accessible only by dinghy, not by piers. Some were houseboats, and this was home for the winter months. Others were impressive sailboats, stopping in Miami for a few days before continuing on to Martinique, the Virgin Islands, or countless other Caribbean paradises.

Ernesto walked quietly toward the bow as the captain maneuvered between and around moored vessels. Their wake was minimal but big enough to give other boats a gentle roll. Even that slight motion made the halyards sing, and all those bare masts swaying in the moonlight gave the illusion of a vast wintry forest.

The captain killed the engines, and the boat started to drift. The television continued to play. Some surrounding boats, Ernesto noticed, also had television. There was GPS interference all around. One smart, sick bastard, thought Ernesto.

This is the spot, said the captain.

What spot?

Throw the suitcase over.

Into the water? Ernesto said, incredulous.

Yeah. Those were his instructions. Drive you around the bay for an hour, keep the television playing, and then stop just outside the Coconut Grove Marina thirty feet north of The Whispering Seas.

Ernesto glanced to starboard and saw The Whispering Seas. Then he looked at the captain and said, Do you have any idea what's in this -

I don't know, and I don't care, said the captain, holding up one hand in the stop position. All I know is that the guy paid me two thousand bucks to do exactly as he says. That's a very good two hours of work for me. Now throw the suitcase over.

Ernesto wasn't sure what to do. It sounded crazy, but it seemed unlikely that the captain was making this up. He lifted the suitcase by the handle and rested it atop the boat rail. He paused, wondering if this really made sense. Don't overanalyze things, he told himself. Then he drew a breath and pushed it over the side.

The suitcase landed with a splat, then floated away from the boat. It would take a while to sink, as the kidnapper had specified a waterproof suitcase. Ernesto watched it closely, barely allowing himself to blink. Then, suddenly, he noticed a change in the water around the suitcase. Bubbles. It was difficult to see much of anything in the darkness, but those were definitely bubbles rising to the surface.

The suitcase bobbed to the right, then to the left. A second later, it vanished, as if sucked into the black water. Small rings of water rolled out to mark the spot, the way a pond rippled when swallowing a stone. Ernesto stared for a moment, saying nothing. With his gaze riveted on the fading trail of bubbles, he asked, Does GPS work underwater?

Some of the new ones do. Most don't.

He nodded, realizing that even the ones that did probably didn't when surrounded by five hundred other boats with television and marine antennae.

Why do you ask? said the captain.

Just curious, he said, realizing that, in all probability, he'd just gotten way too close to the man who'd murdered Ashley Thornton - and the man who'd kidnapped Mia Salazar.

Or worse.

Chapter
20

Mia Salazar feels no pain.

Curled up in the corner of a dimly lit room, she kept thinking that same thought over and over again. The words fixed in her brain like a mantra, a technique she'd developed years ago in her first half-marathon race, when a nasty side stitch had brought her to the verge of collapse. Running was often a matter of mind over body, and her little trick had worked beautifully in every race since. Today, however, it wasn't working at all.

Mia Salazar feels - damn, this hurts!

She wasn't crying, but it was only because her body seemed incapable of producing more tears. The pain had triggered the release, to be sure, but the emotion had been building up inside her for days, since this ordeal began. She'd awakened from an incredibly deep sleep with absolutely no idea where she was or who had taken her. Her last memory was of her morning run. It was sunny and cool, and she was making good time through her favorite part of her three-mile course, weaving through sand dunes and sea oats along the beachfront. Although this isolated part of the trail could be a little scary after dark, in daylight she'd never felt threatened - until this time. Seemingly out of nowhere, a man leaped from behind the dunes and wrestled her to the ground. She resisted and tried to scream, but everything was a blur. A thick blanket of blackness nearly smothered her. She was flat on her stomach, her face in the sand, as the weight of her attacker's body nearly crushed her kidneys. The prick of a needle pierced her right thigh, followed by a burning sensation that ran the length of her leg. In a matter of seconds her body went numb, and she blacked out.

Next thing she knew, she was a prisoner, her hands and feet bound, her mouth taped shut. She allowed herself a few tears out of fear and loneliness, the utter sense of helplessness that comes with such complete uncertainty. Then she tried to sharpen her senses. She felt the sting of bindings too tight around her wrists and ankles, the chill of a musty room, the discomfort of a bulging bladder. Those initial pains and inconveniences were about the only thing that made her feel totally awake, as her blindfold made it difficult to distinguish dreams from reality. When she closed her eyes, she saw nothing. Eyes open, nothing still. It was yesterday, or maybe the day before - she couldn't be certain - when the blindfold came off for the first time. A light was shining directly in her eyes, which made it impossible to see who had removed it. She saw only a silhouette standing behind the glowing lamp. Just the sight of that menacing human form made her want to scream, but she couldn't. The gag prevented it.

By the third or fourth encounter, the removal of the blindfold and bright light in her eyes had become something of a ritual - not a welcome one, but at least a reminder that she was still alive. The silhouette would hand her a bucket for a sponge bath, another bucket for her waste, and a plate of cold food. He never unfastened the bindings on her ankles, but for ten much-needed minutes her arms would be free to wash and feed herself, albeit in the company of the silent stranger. That same routine continued for several days.

Then everything changed.

Almost immediately, she'd realized something was different. She heard the door open and the sound of her captor's footfalls across the room. The blindfold came off, and the light was shining in her eyes. This time, however, he brought no buckets, no articles of personal hygiene, no food. Instead, she noticed another light, a more focused beam that was not as blinding as the other one. Squinting, she was able to determine that this second light emanated from some kind of electronic equipment. Then she heard a short beep, and she realized what was happening. She was being filmed, and all kinds of terrible reasons for it raced through her mind.

On your back, he'd told her, speaking through wads of cotton that disguised his voice.

Those three words sent chills coursing through her body. She was certain that her worst fears were about to be realized, that her captor was at best a rapist, and at worst she didn't want to think about it.

Do it! he said sharply.

Trembling, she lay back onto the mattress. She tried not to let her imagination run wild, but it was impossible to shut down her mind entirely. Her body was tense with anticipation, the muscles instinctively recoiling at the mere thought of his touch. Slowly, the white light came toward her, and the discerning lens of the video camera came into view. The cold, mechanical eye was staring at her, pointed directly at her face, which could not bode well. She closed her eyes, but that brought the quick reproval of her captor. Eyes open! he told her, and her lids quivered with obedience. She lay still, her heart pounding, her eyes growing wider with fright as they adjusted to the lighting. And then she felt it.

It was unlike any pain she had ever experienced in her life. Something - pliers, perhaps - had taken hold of her big toe and squeezed so hard that it felt as if her eyes might pop from her head. She screamed until her throat was raw, but the squeezing only got worse. Finally, it stopped. She could only guess how long it had actually lasted, but it felt like an eternity. The camera light blinked off. The dark silhouette stood over her, his form backlit by the sole remaining light in the room. He handed her a wash bucket with a sponge and a bandage. She took it and cowered in the corner.