Bahamarama, page 24
part #1 of Zack Chasteen Series
“Come on,” I said. “I’ve seen enough of this place.”
But Boggy kept at it.
“Goddamit, Boggy, it’s just junk,” I said. “Let’s go.”
When he finally stood up he was holding something. He walked out of the cave and handed it to me—a cell phone.
I punched the power button and the face lit up. I hit the redial button and listened. It rang twice, the tone breaking on and off, the battery almost dead. Then a woman’s voice came on the other end.
“Dwayne? Dwayne?”
I grunted into the phone. Seemed like what Dwayne Crowe would do.
“I thought you were coming here,” said the woman. “We’re sitting here waiting on you.”
I punched the off button and turned to the others.
“That was Tiffani St. James,” I said. “She’s expecting visitors.”
55
It was just after sunrise when we arrived at the Downey compound. Despite all its fury the night before, the hurricane was a tight, compact bundle of torment, and it had moved on. The sky was still overcast, but the sun was threatening to break through. It would be another scorcher come afternoon.
Pederson and I had done some arguing, but finally agreed that I would walk up to Burma Downey’s house alone. That way they’d know we weren’t looking for a fight. At first, Pederson insisted that he should be the one to do it, but I talked him out of it, told him that if things turned bad it was better to lose someone who couldn’t handle a gun than someone who could.
I walked slowly, arms hanging loose at my sides. If Dwayne Crowe and his pals were watching—and surely they were—they could see I wasn’t carrying a weapon. Just call me Mr. Eager-to-Please: If someone wants to shoot me, I’ll make it as easy for them as possible.
But they weren’t going to shoot. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself as I approached the house, crunching my way along the shell driveway. I was the money hookup. If something happened to me they’d be SOL. It didn’t exactly give me bulletproof status, but it tilted the odds enough that I could accept them. As long as I ignored the fact that I didn’t have the money and had no intention of getting it. Get right down to it, I had no idea what I intended to do. It was play-it-as-it-lays time.
Behind me, Pederson knelt under the casuarina trees, his fancy-ass rifle trained on the house. Brindley was on the opposite side of the driveway, taking cover in the wax myrtles and palmettos. I couldn’t see Boggy, but I suspected he was somewhere in the sand dunes, between the house and the ocean.
I reached the steps and stopped. A golf cart was parked on the concrete slab underneath the stilt house. Next to it sat the air-conditioning unit with its fan whirring, the compressor emitting its steady drone. The intake vents were caked with dead bugs—moths and dragonflies, mostly.
I yelled up at the house, “Come on out, Dwayne. Let’s talk.”
I gave it a minute.
“Dwayne! I know you’re in there.”
I put a foot on the first step. On the landing above, the door swung open and Dwayne Crowe crouched on the threshold, rifle leveled. He swung away from me, and as I rolled behind the stairway and under the house, I heard a burst of fire and saw puffs of dust ripping down the driveway.
So this was what it was like getting shot at. Can’t say I felt particularly enriched by the experience. Still, it beat hell out of getting shot at and hit.
The shooting stopped. Whatever kind of rifle Dwayne was firing, it was mean and automatic, and seemed every bit a match for the AUG A2.
I couldn’t see the others in their hiding spots, but I figured they were OK. The shots hadn’t come close to them. If Dwayne was just trying to get our attention, he’d succeeded. But if he was after blood, then I was easy pickings. Even shooting blind, all he had to do was unleash a volley under the house and chances were better than excellent he’d hit me.
I looked for cover. The only thing that presented itself was the big, boxy air-conditioning unit. I crawled behind it.
A couple of minutes went by. I scanned the sand dunes, hoping maybe I’d spot Boggy, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Then, from inside the house, Dwayne Crowe yelled, “Pederson! I know you’re out there.”
Somewhere in the bushes, Pederson yelled back, “Don’t want any trouble, Dwayne. Just want to talk.”
“Then throw down and step out where I can see you,” Dwayne said.
“You throwing down, too?” said Pederson.
“Doesn’t work like that,” said Dwayne. “Not going to shoot you. Just want to see you.”
A few seconds later, Pederson emerged empty-handed from the bushes and onto the driveway.
“Tell whoever you got with you out there to move back to the road,” Dwayne said.
Pederson turned and said something to Brindley, then I watched as Brindley made his way through the wax myrtles toward the road.
I heard voices from inside the house and heavy steps on the landing. Then Dwayne said, “OK, Chasteen. Your turn. Get out front where I can see you.”
I stepped from under the house and saw Dwayne Crowe in the doorway, straddling the threshold, one arm crooked around Zoe Applequist’s neck, the other one pointing the rifle down at me. It had a dull camo finish and one of those banana-shaped clips that looked like it held about a hundred rounds. Which, at that distance, was about ninety-nine more than it would take to send me trotting off to God’s own locker room.
“I could’ve shot you if I’d wanted. You know that?” Dwayne waved his rifle as he spoke, then spat out the side of his mouth. “Should’ve done it from the very beginning when I had you in the limo. All you’ve done is get in the damn way.”
I didn’t say anything.
Dwayne was shirtless, wearing a pair of cutoff jeans. He seemed jittery, eyes darting in all directions. Zoe squirmed under his hammerlock. She mumbled something I couldn’t hear and Dwayne eased his grip.
The hallway behind Dwayne was dark. I glimpsed shadowy figures, but couldn’t tell who was who.
“Hey, Pederson. Get on up here with your boyfriend,” Dwayne yelled. As Pederson walked toward the house, Dwayne looked down at me. “Where’s the money, Chasteen?”
“Where’s Barbara?”
“For God’s sake,” said Zoe. “Just give it to him. Or they’ll kill us.”
“Money’s on its way,” I said. “The bank will notify me as soon as it arrives.”
I hate to lie, really I do. But if I’m on the path to hell, then I prefer it be well paved.
“Now, where’s Barbara?” I said.
“Inside,” said Dwayne. “With the rest of them.”
“Let me see her.”
Dwayne ignored me, speaking to Pederson as he came up and stood beside me. “Who have you told about this?”
“Nobody, Dwayne,” said Pederson. “Keeping everything just between us.”
“Good, that’s real good.”
Pederson said, “Who else you got in there with you, Dwayne?”
“None of your damn business.”
“Listen, Dwayne, I’m ready to bargain with you, make it easier on both of us. But I need to know how it all stacks up.” Pederson cocked his head, peering past Dwayne into the hallway. “That you in there, Donnie?”
Dwayne moved to block the doorway.
“Yeah, it’s Donnie,” said Dwayne. “Him and our cousin Curtis.”
“OK, that’s good, Dwayne. Appreciate you telling me that.” Pederson spoke low and easy. “Let’s just lay it all out and keep it cool, like we are now. Then everyone gets what they want.”
“I’ll tell you what I want,” said Dwayne. “Want you to guarantee us a way out of here. Or else everything is off.”
“No problem,” Pederson said.
“Want a boat, a big one. Don’t want you or anyone else following us.”
“Sounds fine, Dwayne,” said Pederson. “We’ll get whatever you want.”
I put a foot on the bottom step.
I said, “Now let me tell you what I want, Dwayne.”
Pederson reached out to pull me back, but I shook him off.
“I want to see Barbara.”
I moved up to the second step. Dwayne slung Zoe inside the house and pointed the rifle at me.
I took another step.
“Stop right there or I’ll shoot your ass, I swear to God.”
“I want to see Barbara. Now.”
Dwayne worked his tongue over his teeth, thinking about it. Eyes locked on me, he said, “Donnie?”
A voice from the hallway said, “Right here, Dwayne.”
Donnie moved out from the shadows. He was every bit as big as his brother, with a bad eye that was milky and goggled wide open. His brown teeth clenched a cigarette and both hands gripped a shotgun. He was filthy. Mud and crud covered his clothes. Debris hung from his lank brown hair. To see him was to smell him, and to smell him was pretty bad.
“Tell Curtis to bring her up to the window,” Dwayne said.
Donnie stepped away. I heard doors opening and closing inside. Zoe picked herself up from the floor and stood behind Dwayne, just inside the doorway.
I said, “What about Lord Downey?”
“He’s OK,” Zoe said.
Then the blinds went up on one of the bedroom windows and I saw Barbara standing there. The guy who was with her, Curtis, couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen, scrawnier than his cousins, but with a streak of mean that showed on his face. He had one arm wrapped tight around Barbara’s shoulders, a pistol held to her head. He looked like he was enjoying himself.
Barbara’s eyes found mine and held them. Her hair was tangled, her eyes puffy and tired. But she has never looked anything but beautiful in her life and she looked more beautiful than ever then. She smiled a sad smile. She raised a hand and put it on the window glass. Her lips formed the words: I love you.
It was too much, too much for me to hold back. I bounded up the steps and hit the landing. Dwayne lurched out of the doorway, swiveling with the rifle, slamming the butt against the side of my head. I fell back against the railing. Dwayne swung again and I blocked the blow with both arms, the rifle cracking against bone and stinging like hell. He swung again and I caught it with a shoulder, going down, and then feeling the rifle muzzle jabbing hard against my gut.
Dwayne saying, “You want to die, Chasteen? You want to die?”
Then Zoe was pulling him back, screaming: “Dwayne, stop it, goddamit . . .”
He reared back to swing at her, then stopped himself. Zoe never even flinched. She stood there, defiant, fists clenched. Dwayne turned back to me.
“Get out of here,” he said.
I pulled myself up on the railing, my hands and arms tingling from the rifle blows. I looked at the bedroom window. Barbara was gone, the blinds down.
Pederson met me halfway down the steps and helped me the rest of the way. When we reached the bottom, Dwayne said, “Get the money, Chasteen.”
He backed inside the house and closed the door.
56
We decided to pull shifts watching the house. Brindley drew the first one. Pederson and I headed back to Miz Blitz. Boggy still hadn’t shown up. I had no idea where he was.
I sat and listened to Pederson chew me out for getting into it with Dwayne. I tried to act contrite. Then I made some coffee and we sat there drinking it. After he was finished being pissed off at me, Pederson said he figured it had all played out to our advantage.
“Dwayne’s sitting in there now, thinking he’s in charge of the show. Buys us time,” said Pederson.
“How much time you think?”
“Maybe twenty-four hours. Then they’re going to start getting fidgety, wondering why you haven’t brought them the money yet, wanting some proof that we’re doing what we told them we were going to do.”
“Meanwhile, we execute our secret plan, capture the bad guys, and save the girl.”
“Exactly.”
“And that plan would be . . . ?”
“Don’t have a clue,” said Pederson. “But let me ask you something: Can you get that money?”
“Some of it, not all of it. Not nearly as much as they want.”
“But you don’t want to get them any of it, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“What if I said I think you might have to get the money even if you don’t want to do it?”
I drained my coffee and stood up from the table.
“You hungry?”
“That an answer, Zack?”
“It’ll have to do.”
I made us each a fried egg sandwich, with mustard and Bermuda onion to go with it. And after we were done eating them, I made us each another one.
Pederson said, “Only way in’s through that front door. No way we’re going to storm the place.”
“What about from underneath the house?”
“I thought about that,” Pederson said. “Think there’s a garbage chute, one of those dumbwaiters, that dumps down from the kitchen. But we’d be going up one by one. Not good odds in that.”
“There’s the air-conditioning duct, but that’s even smaller than the garbage chute. Don’t think you or I could fit in that.”
I poured us more coffee. Outside, it had started to rain again, just a sprinkle. The wind had laid a little, but every now and then it would still stir up a gust.
Pederson said, “So what you figure? Dwayne and Tiffani were planning to kidnap Lord Downey all along? Then Barbara showed up and they decided to get more bucks for the bang?”
“Something like that.”
“So Dwayne rounded up the muscle and snatched the two of them . . .”
“And killed Bryce Gannon.”
“Then Tiffani kept an eye on everything from the inside.”
“Yeah, that could be,” I said.
“Only something still isn’t fitting, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
I needed to change clothes and get into something dry. I went through my pockets, took out everything, and found the note that Zoe had given me the day before, the one from Burma Downey. I was still looking at it when I heard footsteps on the bow and Boggy came in through the hatchway, his machete in a sheath strapped across his back. He shook off water like a dog coming in from a storm. Then he strode past us and into the galley. He opened a drawer and pulled out two big knives, testing their blades with a finger. He grabbed a box of Hefty bags from under the sink.
He handed us each a knife and said, “Come, we must hurry.”
“What’s going on?” I said.
“The house,” he said. “There is a way in.”
57
Three hours later, we were back on Front Street, outside the Downey compound. The rain had stopped.
Across the road, in the vacant lot next to Miss Melodie Michaels’s house, rubbish and underbrush had been piled into a heap, and a fire was smoldering under it, sending a thick plume of smoke out across the Downey compound. It smelled awful—a mixture of burning tires and garbage and palmetto stumps. Pederson had recruited Nixon Styles to help us out, and he sat off to one side of the lot, keeping an eye on the fire, making sure it didn’t get out of control.
This time, Pederson and I walked up the driveway to Burma Downey’s house together. I couldn’t see Boggy and Brindley, but the plan—such as it was—called for them to be hiding behind the bougainvillea hedge that sat between the house and the dunes.
“Dwayne,” Pederson called out. “Need to talk.”
The door opened and Dwayne stepped out with Zoe Applequist. He kept her in front of him, his rifle ready.
Pederson said, “Just wanted to let you know that everything is moving forward.”
Dwayne sniffed the air, made a face.
“What’s that stink?” he said.
Pederson said, “Oh, it’s coming from Miss Melodie’s, across the road. She decided to burn off her garbage, along with some of the tree limbs got knocked down in the storm. She’s got a boy over there watching it. Wind’s blowing it right this way.”
Dwayne looked beyond us, to where the fire was burning in the vacant lot. Then he looked at me and said, “You got the money?”
“Tomorrow morning,” I said. “I can’t get it before then.”
“How much you getting?”
“I thought we’d agreed on seven hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
Zoe Applequist said something that I couldn’t hear. And then Dwayne said: “OK, seven hundred fifty thousand dollars. You get that here tomorrow morning.”
I said, “There’s something else, Dwayne. I want to see everybody.”
“What do you mean, everybody?”
“I want to see Barbara and Lord Downey and Burma.”
“I’m not dragging them out here,” he said.
“Then have your guys bring them to the windows,” I said. “I just want to lay eyes on them, make sure they’re OK.”
“I don’t have time for this shit,” Dwayne said.
Zoe said, “Everyone’s fine, Mr. Chasteen, trust me.”
“Look, Dwayne,” said Pederson. “We give you a little something. You give us a little something. All we’re asking is to get a look at everyone.”
Dwayne stuck his head inside the door and said something.
We stood there, the smoke from across the road beginning to sting our eyes. Finally, the blinds went up on one of the bedroom windows. Barbara had an arm around Lord Downey, helping him stand. He looked wobbly and half-asleep. Barbara smiled. She gave me a halfhearted thumbs-up sign. I gave her one back.
“Where’s Burma?” I said.
“She’s resting,” said Zoe. “I thought it best that we let her be. I assure you, she’s alright.”
“I want to see her.”
“Did you hear what the woman told you?” Dwayne said. “She’s OK. So drop it already.”
“Bring her to the window. Let me see for myself.”
Zoe shook her head, exasperated. She turned to Dwayne and said, “I’ll go take care of it.”
Dwayne let her go and she stepped inside the house.
We stood there, none of us talking. Dwayne kept his rifle pointed at Pederson and me. Five minutes passed. Finally, the blinds parted on the window in Burma Downey’s bedroom. Burma Downey sat in her wheelchair, her gauze-wrapped head the only part of her visible above the windowsill. Zoe stood behind the wheelchair, Tiffani St. James beside her.
