Death of the Desperate Read online

  Chapter Five

  An illegal . . . that’s what Frank had called Carlos. There was something about that term grinding into T.K.’s head. Weren’t we all violators at one time or another . . . immigrants, adventurers eager to escape, to find something better? If half of what he’d read about Guatemala was true . . . the soaring crime rate . . . the drug trade . . . the murders . . . he’d be getting the hell out of there as fast as he could. His consciousness dissembled, and began to drift back to that horror . . . the one that haunted too many of his nights. His mind was vexed by that grotesque night.

  KAMALA was under full sail off the west coast of Florida. It was a moonless night, what he could see of the sky as dark as India ink. He had left the anchorage at No Name Key at dawn on his way south from Miami. He’d left Sunny there to take care of some business and see some old friends. He was no stranger to single-handing. He knew the boat better than he knew himself. NOAA’s forecast had been benign, 10-12 knots out of the northwest, one to three foot seas. Perfect for a reach down past the chain of the keys. He’d timed the arrival at the Northwest Channel at Key West for some time near sun-up. An easy 24 hours, especially with a favorable breeze, and the reliable autopilot on duty.

  She was making a steady six knots, cutting the light swells like a knife through melting butter. The sounds of the blue-black water rushing over the hull, the occasional flutter of the canvas. It was a night made in heaven, but then he felt the inversion. The temperature was dropping fast . . . too fast. The wind freshened a bit and began to build. He furled the jib, but decided to leave the main up to steady the boat. He could move the traveler to leeward and luff the big sail if needed. Next it was the rain. It fluttered softly for a few minutes, but soon the drops were insistent, then violent. They pierced his skin like so many fine needles. The water ran down his neck and soaked his thin t-shirt. Then came the howling.

  The shrouds shuddered and KAMALA began to fight the quartering seas. The autopilot couldn’t keep up. He disengaged the wheel and fixed his bloodless knuckles around it. He still couldn’t see much, but the boat found a rhythm as he wrenched the rudder back and forth to keep her on her feet. The lightning cracked and flashed on the water. Usually these storms were in and out as quickly as they had built. He’d wait it out. But the minutes dragged on and turned into hours.

  He was wet, and suddenly he knew he was very cold. Hypothermia, the silent killer. He began to shiver. Then his teeth started clacking together. He locked the wheel in place and dragged himself below. He stripped off the dripping t-shirt and replaced it with one that was dry, and even warm. He threw on his foul weather jacket and went back up to face the storm. It flailed and clawed at him like a demented giant. The lightning hissed and cracked, but the howling finally began to fade and the breaking seas started to subside. That was when he saw them.

  A bolt shattered the sky and they appeared. He told himself it was an apparition, a creation of his tortured mind and body. He tried to focus, but the rain still hammered his face. Another flash . . . and he was certain. They lay upon the rolling waves like the rising dead from an old British poem by Coleridge. At first they seemed to beckon, but he convinced himself it was an illusion. Then, gradually, the reality clubbed him into submission. He slammed his eyes shut, but when they opened, the lifeless meat was still there. He couldn’t count the bodies. The sea and the storm had swallowed them --- stolen the breaths, and left them to float, at least for a time --- like some succubus who had taken her fill and left the defiled flesh to decay in the depths. He grabbed his handheld VHF and called.

  “MAYDAY, MAYDAY. This is the sailing vessel KAMALA calling the Miami Coast Guard.”

  He heard the static. It spewed forth amidst the wailing. Then a voice. It was faint and crackled from time to time, but God, it was welcome.

  He gave the officer his GPS coordinates and told them as much as he could. He searched frantically for any movement, any form of existence on that onyx canvas. But the hellish motion of the boat, the piercing rain and wind, made it almost impossible. They were phantoms, being tossed like broken rag dolls. No sounds from their pale lips, nothing. One of the bodies thumped against his hull. He wanted to leave the helm and look, but he knew that only he and the gods would survive that night.

  It wasn’t until the next morning that he realized what he had witnessed. The sun appeared on a calm horizon. The sea was finally peaceful and the wail had become a light breeze, still from the northwest. But the squall had dictated its way. The VHF hissed with the reports of the Coast Guard cutters that had been sent on the rescue mission. But now instead of search and rescue, it was search and recover. They had already hauled 39 bodies on board. Immigrants . . . men, women, and children . . . all drowned when their small craft had capsized in the breaking torrent. They had set out from somewhere in the south . . . full of hope . . . or desperation. They had paid their fares to the Coyote, money they had scoured from the dirt . . . scraped together from friends and relatives. Money that would at least give them a chance . . . perhaps even a future. Now they were stacked on the deck of a ship like so many dead animals . . . hollow eyed carcasses that stared at nothing. No names, just bloodless swollen faces, robbed of hope, coldly executed by a cruel beast . . . a fluke . . . the madness of a storm that came from nowhere.

  T.K. had witnessed it in the howling gray torrent, and it continued to hang over him like a leering skull, a silent taunt . . . a reminder that we all roll the dice, and sometimes the rattling bones come up snake eyes.

  Chapter Six

  When the phone rang, it shook him from his nightmare.

  “Dr. Fleming, it is Carlos. Your music was good. I talk to Frank. I trust him. He tell me I can trust you. Maybe we meet in a place that is safe.”

  “Wait a minute, Carlos. I don’t know what Frank told you, but I’m not for hire to do anything but play a little guitar and sing a few tired tunes. For that, I come cheap.”

  “You are modest, Doctor. I know your reputation. The Ghostcatcher can do things no normal man can do. He search in places no one else think to search. He find things others overlook. It is a magic that courts the favor of the gods.”

  “I think you have been misinformed, Carlos. I am not sure I get what you are talking about.”

  “I am thinking you do, but I understand you do not know Carlos. Dere is nothing you owe to me. But permit me, if only as favor to Frank and Sunny, to offer de invitation. Come to my shop. I tell you a story. Then you decide.”

  I took a deep breath. He had pulled the right card. Frank, Sunny . . . an old friend and a lover. Each had saved my life at least once.

  “All right, tell me where and when. I’ll listen, but that’s all I can promise.”

  He gave me an address off A1A, a couple of miles north of Stock Island.

  “Four o’clock tomorrow. I have cold beer for you . . . and thanks.”

  I guess I’m getting a little stupid. After all, I didn’t know this guy. I’d seen him once for about fifteen minutes. I did know he was the leader of a motorcycle gang . . . and that wasn’t high on my list of men with great moral turpitude. He was also an illegal and I assumed his boys were, too. Sure Sunny and Frank had vouched for him, but I had to wonder what they might not know. “. . . love and violence” . . . Frank’s words hung in my ear. How much love and how much violence? I’d gotten pretty comfortable with my life as a boat bum and part-time jack-leg musician. Sonny and I were getting along great since our return to the Conch Republic. Why take a chance on messing up a good thing? Ghostcatcher, my ass. If I had ever been this ephemeral crusader, I was now retired. No more murders . . . no more mysteries for this lame cowboy. I shook my head. But what the hell? My social calendar wasn’t full for tomorrow.

  I’d promised Frank I’d listen . . . “So listen, you dumb sonovabitch,” that’s what I told myself. Then I could wash my hands of this whole affair, maybe even before they got dirty.

  I asked Sunny if I could borrow the Saab. Of course, s
he said yes . . . even asked me if I wanted her to go. “No,” I told her, “I won’t be long.” I was wrong about that.

  I left KAMALA about 3:30. It was tough finding the shop and when I did, I wasn’t even sure that was it. The structure sat about twenty-five yards off a deserted, pock-marked road. No sign. Just a few bikes parked to the side of a cinder block building that needed paint at least ten years ago. No Harleys . . . I was surprised . . . all crotch-rockets. I recognized the two big Hondas, and an old Kawasaki 900. They were flanked by two shiny Suzukis. Marlin Brando’s “Wild One” would be amused, if not ashamed. One faded blue Chrysler 300 was also in the lot, a counterpoint to big gas hogs. The windows were tinted much too dark to fall within the Florida law. Hey, not everybody wanted dusty and hot, especially in the fiery keys . . . and I wondered how much law would apply in this lonesome spit that lay between two small jungles.

  I wasn’t sure this was the usual hangout for any respectable motorcycle gang, but then I’m not sure what was. A couple of dogs the color of aging paste scrounged around the building, sniffing for a discarded morsel of damned near anything remotely edible. There was one garage door on the side, but no other windows. So this was a repair shop? I heard the strains of Megadeth trying to pound through the concrete walls.

  Chapter Seven

  I parked the Saab in the barren sandy lot and went to a dented metal door. Everything screamed neglect, even abandonment, but it had to be the place. I rattled the door with my fist. Another Hispanic tree trunk peeked through the opening and nodded. It was one of the guys I’d seen at Vinnie’s. He didn’t exactly exude friendliness. When he turned I spotted a rather large pistol tucked in the small of his back. Maybe a Glock.

  “Senor Fleming,” he growled, “The Capitan awaits.”

  Carlos sat in an old canvas butterfly chair like the ones that had been trendy in the 70’s, a small plastic table at his right hand. There was a sweating bottle of Modelo Especial and a yellow ashtray with an overkill of Marlboro butts. The smoke blended stale body odor and the pungent scent of grease with a sweet whiff of Marijuana. His followers were in various reclining positions, but curiously alert. The Capitan wore a smile that welcomed, and at the same time chilled. This was his domain. These were his lieutenants. They would tear me apart like hungry wolves at the mere wave of his hand. I just hoped they’d shoot me first.

  There were two rusty bike frames hanging on hooks on the back wall, and what I thought might be a vintage Indian disassembled in a corner, a big rolling tool box with an assortment of wrenches, screwdrivers, and bolts. Everything looked dusty and unused, a least during this century. Still, a dark man hunched over it looking for something and cursing under his breath over what he couldn’t find. I wondered if he was just faking it for effect.

  Carlos nodded to the biker nearest the old stereo and he fiddled with the volume. The Capitan rose slowly and extended his thick right hand. Again I shuddered. When he let go, I flexed my fingers to make sure everything was still functional.

  “Dr. Fleming, I am honored that you take my invitation. These are my compadres.” His voice sounded like he’d been gargling gravel. “You would sit.” He waved again and a burly man with the Ruedas de Dios vest shoved a cold Modelo into my hand.

  I scanned the room. There were six of them, five males, each thick and muscled. There was also a young woman, silky raven hair falling over her shoulders. She could have been a model in CYCLEWORLD. Believe me that edition would have sold out. Her long legs were covered with paint-on leather jeans and black boots with chains across the instep. The top was barely that . . . more a swatch of black satin hiding sumptuous breasts that threatened release. All she needed was a riding crop and a set of hand cuffs. Any respectable Dominatrix would have been proud. She eyed me like I was a rattlesnake she was ready to crush under her heel.

  “Of course, you know not why you are here. Be comfortable and I will tell you.”

  He offered me a Marlboro. I closed my fingers around it and placed it nervously between my lips. Tree trunk #1 leaned over and flicked a plastic Bic. I took a swig of the beer and tried to do my best “cool, calm, and collected”. I didn’t think it was working.

  “You know I am illegal, as are my muchachos. We are here and we intend to stay. But we ask for nothing and make no trouble. America is good thing. It provides my people with a way from the horror that has become Guatemala. We want de chance to work, raise our families, and prosper. De beautiful land around the Rio Dulce is become a cesspool. We are disciples of God. De Bible is great holy book, de guide to salvation. We love Jesus and respect his word. But we know, and you know . . . dere is evil within man. He gropes and ravages much of what he touch. De dope, de whiskey, de slavery, de attempt to drain de helpless of any share in meaningful existence. Dose are things that make de man less than he should be, a destroyer of de dignity, and an enemy of God.”

  He stopped for a moment, took a drag on his cigarette, and eyed me at an angle, trying to check my reaction. I sat very still. He lifted his bottle. Tree Trunk #1 offered him a half-smoked joint. He waved it off, and went on.

  “I see you stare. You wonder at de weed. Yes, we use it . . . all of us hypocrites to some extent, but God forgives us as long as we carry his banner . . . and we do. We fight de devil. It is sad, but we cannot always turn de other cheek. We try, but when it is no possible, we believe in “an eye for an eye . . . a tooth for a tooth”, grind your heel into them until dere power is no more. This is also in de Bible. Often de only way to keep de demons at bay is to stomp them into the dust. Your friend Frank knows this. It is why we work with him . . . with de policia . . . quietly together. I think maybe you know it, too.”

  I said nothing, and I still didn’t know why I was here. I had worked my way through the Modelo. Before I knew it, another one was in my hand. I lit a cigarette from my own pack and waited. After a long pause, Carlos went on.

  “My sister, little Carmela, was to come here. My father leave us many years ago. My mother passed in May and de girl, only twelve, was left alone in de old country. I send her money, much of it, to pay a coyote to get her to de states. She should have been here two months ago, but she did not appear. No word, no information from dose who call themselves friends. I was her last hope, what you say . . . her lifeline. She is my blood. I must know. De police can no act in my behalf. I do not exist, nor does she. I reach out to you, the Ghostcatcher. You know things. You know people. I will pay. You must find her, or least let me know dat I must put her to rest.”

  He handed me a dog-eared photograph of a laughing child well on her way to becoming a woman. Her dark eyes celebrated and screamed life. At the same time, there was something sad . . . a silent, almost indefinable thing . . . perhaps a pleading. I took a deep breath, and fought off a sense of mourning that I really couldn’t explain.

  “I am sorry, Carlos. I do not know who, or what you think I am. I don’t even know where this Ghostcatcher shit began. Frank and I are friends. And Sunny is convinced you’re one of the good guys. But that doesn’t change anything. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  I handed him the photo.

  “Keep it,” he said, “I have others. Dis I will tell you. My brother Francisco . . . he has his own muchachos. Dey are Messageros de Infierno, de messengers of hell. Dey follow their own brand of scripture, one that defiles the word of our merciful God. They have dere own deities . . . money, hatred and violence. Dey are many . . . and we are few, yet we stand. De fight is hard, but it must not be lost. Francisco is strong. I think he know what happened to Carmela. We need de help of one who is also strong . . . one who has known de demons and how to cleanse us of dem. That is de Ghostcatcher.”

  I had a brittle feeling that Carlos wouldn’t take no for an answer. The toughness was there, but so was the pain. I scanned the faces of the “muchachos”. There was nothing pretty about it. Grim, dead eyes darting, waiting to see if the Capitan would pronounce me friend . . . or prey. One thing I did know . . .
now was the time to get the hell out of there.

  “Okay . . . let me think about it. I’ll be back to you in a couple of days.”

  It was lame, but sometimes lame is all you have. I put the empty bottle down on the table and got up. A couple of the tree trunks stood and one stepped to the door as if to block it. Carlos looked hard at me and waved his hand. The trunks stepped aside. I think maybe they were a little disappointed. They wanted to beat the shit out of me. The woman in the paint-on leather followed me out the door and into the sandy lot. She grabbed my sleeve just as was about to get into the Saab.

  “I am Vee,” she said like an undertaker, “and if you betray Carlos, and our compadres, I will cut off your dick, stuff it in your mouth, and fry your balls for my breakfast burrito.”

  If it was a joke, I wasn’t laughing. I think she meant it.

  Chapter Eight

  I went back to KAMALA. Sunny was working, hustling cold beer and ignoring the stares of the locals who worshipped her ass like a living incarnation of Aphrodite. I needed her input. It was often damned sure better than mine, but I’d have to wait. I poured a little Evan Williams over the rocks and got out my spiral notebook. I scrawled.

  1.I don’t want any part of this shit.

  2.There are no real clues . . . just names and hearsay.

  3.I may have unwittingly been some sort of “Ghostcatcher” at one time, but those days are gone. Make that GONE.

  4.Spoiler alert . . . I will exit quickly, and as gracefully as possible . . . oh, and I hope Vee doesn’t get her wish.

  That was enough. I swirled a bit more Evan in the glass, cracked the hatchway, and lit a Marlboro. I’m gonna quit again . . . just give me time. At least that’s what I told myself.

  I had dozed a bit on the settee. It felt pretty good until the phone rang. I didn’t want to answer, but the sound was insistent. If I didn’t get it, they’d just call back to inform me that space invaders had landed in the Keys and I needed a new security system in my villa by the sea.