Contraband

3

Stone turned over in the night, reaching for Max, only to find the covers on that side of the bed undisturbed. “Oh, well,” he muttered. As he slid back into sleep, a bright light flashed against his eyelids. He opened his eyes a moment and stared at the ceiling, where the light had seemed to come from. Then he turned over again and fell asleep.

Breakfast was on the rear deck, with everyone in bathing suits and terry robes.

Max spoke up. “Did anybody else hear that machinery noise last night?”

No one had.

“Maybe it was some piece of equipment in the engine room,” Stone suggested. “I did think I saw a flash of light, though, when I woke up for a moment.”

“It’s pretty deserted out here,” Max said. “Did you notice that our company is gone?”

“Who was it?” Dino asked.

“Not sure. Looked like another motor yacht,” she replied. “It was hard to make out in the dark.”

“Maybe they sailed at dawn,” Stone said.

“We’ll have company soon enough, though,” Max said. “The first seaplanes will be in soon, and the tour boats will be here before noon.”

“Not your first visit out here?” Viv asked.

“I’m a Key West girl. I’ve been coming out here to swim since before I could walk.”

After breakfast, Stone called for the SCUBA gear and he and Max strapped on their tanks, weights, and masks.

“Are you certified?” Max asked.

“No, I never took the time,” Stone said, “but I’ve probably made a couple dozen dives.”

They were standing on the fantail, next to an unclipped wire railing. Max stepped off into the sea, Stone followed. In the clear water the wrecked airplane was visible to the west. She led the way to the aircraft.

As Stone arrived, he could see the rear cargo door standing open and tied back with a piece of cord. The rear compartment was empty.

Max pointed and shrugged.

Stone pulled himself into the roomy compartment and looked around. He saw a small picture frame fastened to the rear bulkhead, with nothing inside. He went outside again and swam to the vertical stabilizer. No registration numbers; neither were there numbers painted on the sides of the fuselage. He turned to Max and gestured a thumbs-up. She nodded. They broke the surface near the yacht and swam to the boarding ladder, where the crew waited to take their gear and hand them robes.

They joined Dino and Viv, who were sunning themselves on the fantail deck.

“What did you find?” Dino asked.

“Zippo,” Max said. “Nada.”

“No luggage?”

“No, but I saw a cargo net on the bottom when we were swimming back.”

“There was no aircraft registration aboard, either,” Stone said. “Only an empty frame. And no registration numbers anywhere.”

“Can you paint over them underwater?” Viv asked.

“No, but you can have them made of plastic in a design shop and stick them on and pull them off at will.”

“Maybe that flash of light you saw in the night came from underwater,” Max said. “And our neighbors were gone early this morning.”

“Maybe that’s who the airplane was meeting here,” Stone said.

“Can’t the airplane be identified by an engine number?” Viv asked.

“Maybe, but it’s a lot of trouble to get to the engine underwater.”

“Or to haul the wreck out of here,” Max said, “and take it to a shop.”

“What do you think they were carrying?” Viv asked. “Drugs?”

“Maybe,” Max said. “More likely cocaine than grass. It makes a better payload. Stone, what did the suitcases look like?”

“They were black, probably aluminum,” Stone said, “and seemed to be identical in size.”

“Gotta be cocaine,” Max said. “Those things seal to be watertight.”

That evening, Stone and Max yielded to their mutual desires, while not far away, another couple were about to experience a different outcome to their tryst.

At Key West Hospital, Keith Barron, a resident, and Julie Harmon, a registered nurse, found each other in an empty patient’s room. Julie ripped off the sheets, so she wouldn’t have to replace them with fresh ones later. As they were kissing and fumbling with each other’s buttons, an alarm on her wrist went off.

“Shit!” she exclaimed. “I’ll be right back.” She trotted down the hallway to a room with a card on the door that read “Dix” and opened the door. Her patient, whose hands had been restrained to keep him from turning in the night, had one hand free; the IV on his opposing arm had been pulled out. She knew it had been yanked by the attached tube because the needle had been firmly fixed in place with cloth tape, and now one end of the tape was dangling free.

She turned to her patient, and he shrank away from her. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he complained.

“No, Mr. Dix, I’m the night nurse.”

“A different one tried to kill me,” he said.

“Why do you think that?”

“She came in here with a little kit in her hand, and I woke up. She said she had brought me something to relieve the pain and help me sleep. I told her I had been sleeping just fine until she woke me. But she pulled out a syringe that was too big for the job, and filled it all the way up, then she jabbed the IV bag with it and plunged it in. Then she said, ‘Sleep tight,’ and hurried out. I knew what she had done, so I got my hand loose and pulled the needle out.”

“How do you know so much about syringe sizes and doses?” Julie asked.

“I used to be a junkie,” Dix replied, adding, “in my extreme youth.”

“I’ll get you a new bag,” she said. She left, taking the existing fluid with her. She ran back to the room where Keith was waiting. He was lying naked on the bed.

“Get up, get dressed, and call the police,” she said to him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone just tried to murder my patient.” She handed him the IV bag. “Give the police this and tell them to test it for something besides saline.” Then she left to get a fresh bag.