Blood of Cain

8

Jupiter was home. She was docked, back in her stationary course less than eighty yards from the Tiki Bar in the small universe of Ponce Marina, slip L-17. Seeing my old boat at her place secured to the docks, floating on a rising tide, was like seeing an old friend back in the game of life. Max and I walked down the long pier, Jupiter near the end. The breeze across the harbor brought the smell of a receding tide, barnacles drying in the sun, mangrove roots, and grilled shrimp. Three brown pelicans flew just above the masts of the sailboats. The birds cut a sharp right and alighted near a fish-cleaning station as a charter boat arrived. Fresh meat.

After watching the newsflash on the television hanging above the bar, I told Kim Davis that I'd seen the young woman, Courtney Burke, walking along Highway 314 last night. The girl refused my offer to drive her to town, or anywhere for that matter. But that's all I told Kim. No need to mention the two gents who tried to drag the girl into their pickup truck or what had happened after their attempt. I thought about the message Dave had left on my cell phone after recognizing my voice on the 911 call.

Max stopped, ears rising, nostrils testing the breeze, her eyes like heat-seeking missiles locking on smoke drifting from the St. Michael. The boat was forty feet in length with a much longer lineage connected to ancient mariners who sailed the Sea of Galilee two-thousand years ago. St. Michael was designed with an Old World style bow that could take high waves. The wheelhouse looked like it was lifted from a small tugboat and plopped near the bow. The large, open transom was intended for commercial fishing, and its captain, Nick Cronus, was one of the best in the business.

Nick stepped from the salon door, lifted the hood on his small grill perched in the center of his cockpit, and turned over a piece of fish. The smell of garlic, lemon, olive oil, and grilled fish filled the air. The smoke rose like a ghost beckoning Max. That's all it took. She barked once and darted down the dock toward St. Michael. Nick spun around, greeting her with a wide smile and open arms. “Hot Dog!” he bellowed. “Come see Uncle Nicky.” Max trotted to the boat; Nick, leaning over the side of St Michael, scooped her up in one hand and stepped to the grill, Max’s tail wagging in overdrive.

Nick, born in Greece, made a living from the sea, and he looked it. Wide shoulders, forearms like hams, olive skin, thick moustache, black eyes that smiled, and a mop of dark, curly hair styled from sun, surf, and salt. We’d become close after I pulled two bikers off Nick late one night. They’d accused him of making a pass at one of their women, and they jumped him from behind in the parking lot after the Tiki Bar closed. They were using a tire iron on his wrists and knees, and were about to split his skull when I pulled up and caught them in my high beams. I’d stepped out of my Jeep, Glock extended. Show over. I’ll always remember Nick looking up at me through swollen eyes, teeth red with blood, broken jaw, a shattered wrist, and grinning wide. “There’s a special bond when a man saves another man's life,” he said later. “I got your back forever.”

That was about three years ago. I stepped from the dock onto the cockpit of St. Michael and Nick said, “I’ll toss some more grouper on the grill. Wanna beer?”

“Little early for me. Stopped at McDonalds for breakfast.”

“Sean, you feed Max fast food and you'll clog her little arteries. That stuff's not chicken of the sea.” Nick used his fingers to break off a small piece of fish from the grill and hand-fed it to Max. “That's better, hot dog. No more chicken nuggets for you.”

“Kim told me you helped Bobby and his crew put Jupiter back in the water. Thanks.”

“No problem. New props looked good. Everything is jam up and jelly tight. After they lowered her from the sling, I just helped the boys dock her. Bilge is purring. Jupiter's lookin' damn sexy.” He took a long pull from a sweating can of Miller, his eyes animated, face hot. He gently lowered Max to the cockpit, looked over my shoulder, and said, “Here comes Dave. He had to go get a newspaper. Still likes reading them rather than using his tablet, phone, or computer. But he has to drive farther and farther to find a place that sells papers anymore.”

Dave Collins, dressed in shorts, flip-flops, Hawaiian print shirt hanging loose, carried a large Styrofoam cup of coffee, a small brown bag, and a folded newspaper. For a man in his late sixties he stayed in good shape, wide chest, thick wrists, white hair, beard neatly trimmed. His ruddy face was lined from a career in covert intelligence, the creases intersected with laugh lines around his mouth. His penetrating blue eyes were filled with wisdom and humor. He smiled and said, “Smells good, Nick. Sean and little Maxine, welcome back.”

Nick said, “Want some grouper? Gonna pile it into pita bread. Made a quart of my special sauce last night.”

Dave held up the bag. “Éclairs. The French lady at the Inlet Bakery is a goddess.”

Nick shook his head and glanced down at Max. “Pay no attention to Dave. Between him and Sean you'd go from hot dog to chunky monkey.”

Dave smiled and sipped his coffee. He said, “Save some for me. Sean, did you get my message? That may not have been your voice on that 911 call I heard during the newscast, but if it's not, then it’s someone who sounds a lot like you.”

Nick looked at Dave through the smoke from the grill. “What 911 call? Something happen, Sean?”

I glanced across the marina and watched a fifty-two-foot Beneteau motor out into the Halifax River. Within seconds, the spinnaker was unfolding in the light breeze. I said, “Nothing really happened. I tried to prevent something from happening.”

Dave held his hand up. “Whoa. This I have to hear. I'm coming aboard, claiming one of the canvas chairs, and will enjoy a fresh-baked éclair while listening.”

Nick used a large two-prong fork to lift the fish from the grill, stuffed it inside pita bread with sliced onions, tomatoes, and chopped lettuce drenched in an olive oil concoction. He took a bite as Dave settled into the chair. Max cocked her head, waiting for a sliver of food to fall from Nick's sandwich.

I said, “Dave, what you heard was me. I found a teenage girl walking on State Road 314 through the Ocala National Forest past midnight. I stopped to see if I could help her or give her a lift somewhere. That's when two good ol' boys decided to pull their truck in front of my Jeep, get out, and do some serious damage to me before forcing the girl into their truck.”

“Oh, shit,” Nick said, food bulging under his left cheek. He glanced at my right hand. “Looks like you got a few bruised knuckles.”

I told them what happened. They both listened without interruption, Nick chewing, speechless, his eyes filled with amazement, as if I said I'd stumbled upon an alien in the forest. Dave propped his feet on the transom and used a paper towel to wipe chocolate from his fingers.

Max uttered a growl as Joe, a large cat with calico markings, strolled down the dock, head in the air, not giving Max a second thought. I said, “Be smart Max. You're outweighed by at least five pounds.”

Nick grunted. “Sean, how in God's great universe does this stuff happen to you? Forrest Gump was talkin' about guys like you when he said 'shit happens.' I wonder where the girl went. What the hell was she doing out there?”

Dave cleared his throat. “This morning the lovely French baker said it better than Forrest Gump. When I asked her why she no longer sold my favorite buttery croissants, she said 'c'est la vie,' it is what it is, my inference was that more people bought the éclairs.” Dave glanced down at the newspaper in his lap. He said, “If the news is accurate, the girl Sean found walking in the woods is a little more than a typical runaway. She's a suspect, or at least a person of interest, in a murder.”

“Murder?” Nick crushed the empty beer can with one hand. “What murder?”

Dave said, “A carny worker was stabbed through the heart with an ice pick.”

Nick sat in one of the deck chairs. He scratched Max behind the ears. “Sean, you think the girl did it?”

“I don't know.”

“What'd she tell you?”

“Just what I told you and Dave. She was scared. A deer in the headlights. And then the guys in the truck showed up, half stoned, half drunk, and in full-bore rape mode.”

I watched Dave look over my shoulder, his eyes following movement on the dock. Nick looked in the same direction. Dave said, “Sean, describe the girl. What'd she look like?”

“About a hundred ten pounds, five-five maybe, shoulder-length dark hair, high cheekbones and eyes that drew you into them.”

When I saw Nick shake his head and purse his lips, I didn't want to turn around. Dave shifted in his seat and said, “Can't see her eyes from here, but everything else you described is spot on.”

I turned in my chair and saw Courtney Burke coming our way. Over my shoulder I heard Nick say, “I don’t care what your French baker said, Dave. When it comes to Sean, my man Forrest Gump said it best, shit happens.”