Marcia Talley - Without a Grave

‘How on earth do they keep the drugs dry?’

‘I’m certainly not an expert in that department, Molly. Wrap them up good in plastic, I guess.’

‘What happens next?’

‘I don’t know. You’d think they’d fly the cocaine straight into the States without stopping here first.’

‘Maybe it’s easier to fly a plane into the Bahamas than it is into the States. DEA and the Coast Guard have really been cracking down if what I see on CNN is true.’

‘Maybe they’re putting drugs on the plane!’

We watched all the to-ings and fro-ings, taking careful notes.

By midnight, whatever they’d been doing was finished. The dune buggy disappeared, the lights were extinguished, and everything was as it had been before. Dark and quiet.

‘Let’s go over in the morning. Check out the pier.’

‘We can take my boat,’ Molly said.

‘I don’t mind driving.’

‘My outboard is quieter than yours,’ she said, sealing the deal. ‘When do you want to leave?’

‘Can you be ready at dawn? I’d like to get over there just as the sun is coming up. There’ll be less chance of being spotted.’ I grinned. ‘Especially since everyone seems to have been up partying so late.’

‘We need to tell Gator what we’re doing.’

‘We’ll tell Gator after we check it out.’

I was awake before the sun, stunned into consciousness at five thirty a.m. by the squeal of my wind-up alarm clock. The power was still out, but at least I could see in the gray light of dawn.

I got dressed, fed Dickie, then went over to wake up Molly. She was already up. When I entered her kitchen the aroma of fresh coffee nearly made me swoon. The woman was a magician. ‘How did you do that?’ I asked.

‘Gas stove.’

She handed me a paper cup. ‘So you can take it with you,’ and poured a cup for herself. She opened the refrigerator, grabbed the milk and closed the door quickly, so that as little of the cool air would escape as possible. ‘I’ll run the generator when I get back. It’ll be fine,’ she said, and repeated the procedure to put the milk back in.

She pushed a box across the counter. ‘Cinnamon bun?’

‘Where did you get them?’

‘Lola’s. Made a trip over to Man-O-War the other day.’

Lola’s cinnamon buns – and her bread and her rolls – are on everyone’s Best Of list. Heaven is Lola’s buns and coffee. We walked down the dock, sipping coffee and munching.

Good Golly ’s white rubber hull glistened with dew. Molly grabbed a towel and dried our seats, then I hopped down and joined her. She started the engine, backed slowly out of her slip, and soon we were on our way toward Hawksbill Cay.

Molly didn’t approach Poinciana Cove directly. We aimed for the settlement, then slowed the engine almost to an idle as we eased around the point, cutting as close to shore as possible.

Although the beach was deserted, we could see the plane still sitting on the runway. ‘It’s a Haviland, I think. A six seater.’

‘How do you know so much about airplanes, Molly?’

‘My late husband flew a Piper Cherokee.’

We passed the end of the runway, approaching the dock. The Zodiac drew only a few inches of water, so we could get up as close as the propeller of the outboard would allow. At the dock, Molly killed the engine, and we worked our way silently towards shore, using the oars.

‘What’s that?’

Intent on paddling, Molly said, ‘Where?’

‘Under the water. Looks like a torpedo from here.’ I told Molly about the object I’d noticed in Henry Allen’s slides.

Raising her oar out of the water, Molly peered down. ‘Could be some sort of water-sampling device.’

I shook my head. ‘I think it’s a submarine.’ I leaned way over until my face was almost in the water. ‘A real do-it-yourself job, too, like they put it together out of a plan in Popular Mechanics .’

Although my iPhone was dead, I’d remembered to bring my camera along. I snapped a picture of the object. Molly sculled, edging the dinghy a few feet closer and I shot another one, hoping the pictures would turn out in the flat, early-morning light.

‘Hey!’ someone shouted. ‘Private property! Get away from here!’

I snapped a few more pictures before turning around. ‘Is that the same guard that tried to run us off the other day?’

Molly squinted toward the beach. ‘I think so. Just ignore him. We’re not on private…’

Bloof-phoom ! The side of the Zodiac I was sitting on exploded. A split second later, I heard a gunshot. ‘My God! He’s shooting at us.’

Molly and I dropped to the floor of the inflatable trying to put the tube between our bodies and the shooter. Foomp ! Another bullet zinged into the section of the tube nearest the outboard engine. Air didn’t hiss out of the tube compartments, it exploded with a foosht like a balloon being let go, propelling poor Good Golly sideways.

Molly had been flung to the hard floor of the inflatable. I leaned over her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I think I broke my butt bone.’

‘Can you start the engine?’

It was impossible to keep her head completely down, but Molly eeled her way into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine cranked, caught, and Molly began to back us away from the dock.

This seemed to be the desired result, because the shooting stopped. When I dared to look toward the beach, the guard still stood there, holding his gun sideways like Brad Pitt in Seven . ‘We’re looking for sand dollars, you asshole! Are you trying to kill us?’

He lowered his weapon. ‘If I were, you’d be dead.’

That was probably true. In spite of his gangsta-style shooting posture, he’d been remarkably accurate. With a silent apology to Molly I yelled, ‘I’ve got an elderly lady with me here. We’re sinking! Call somebody!’

The guard turned, holstering his gun at the small of his back. ‘Sorry, don’t think I can hear you.’ And he disappeared over a dune.

As Good Golly limped toward Hawksbill settlement, I noticed that one of the guard’s bullets had passed completely though the starboard side tube, missing my leg by inches, and plowed into the port-side tube, deflating it, too. Only one of the four ‘air-tight’ compartments in the Zodiac was holding air. In less than five minutes, Good Golly had been transformed from a perky little wave-dancer into a flaccid cushion of uncooperative rubberized fabric.

Baling was useless. So was calling nine-one-one. We were in no danger of drowning in only four feet of water.

‘Keep her near the shore, Molly. Let’s try to make it to the beach this side of the marina. If we have to abandon ship, at least we’ll be able to walk.’

Molly managed to coax another ten yards out of Good Golly before the weight of the wooden floor and the outboard motor defeated her. We rolled out of the boat and dug our feet into the sand. Using the ropes that were looped on each side of the boat, we started hauling her ashore.

‘I hope my camera isn’t ruined.’ I huffed, tugging on the rope. Good Golly ’s propeller was dragging, making our job even harder.

‘Your camera? Boo hoo. How about my boat ?’

‘Sorry.’ We were standing in water up to our ankles. A few more yards, and Good Golly would be beached.

‘Hannah?’

While Molly tilted the outboard up and out of the way of the bottom, I gave the boat a final tug. ‘Ooph!’

‘If that submarine thingy is related to the activity we saw last night, and if someone is running drugs out of Tamarind Tree Resort, why aren’t we dead?’