Bluewater Voodoo: Mystery and Adventure in the Caribbean (Bluewater Thrillers Book 3) Read online

  Giscard nodded and they turned to climb down the steel ladder that provided access to the battlements where they stood. As Martinez descended into the shade, he felt immediate relief from the heat of the sun, but he could barely breathe the dank, malodorous air of the enclosed space. He stepped from the ladder and waited for Giscard to precede him down the narrow, winding staircase. When they reached ground level and stepped outside, the sunlight blinded them for a moment. They both paused, blinking as their eyes adjusted to the glare.

  "The lady said that I should find the herbs in the undergrowth along the path," Giscard said, as he walked toward the beginning of a marked but overgrown trail down the western side of Le Chameau.

  Stepping into the shade of the stunted trees that clung tenaciously to the rocky, volcanic hillside as he followed Giscard, Martinez immediately lost his footing and grabbed a nearby tree for support. A cascade of loose pebbles rained down on Giscard. He was only a few steps ahead, but when he turned to see what had happened, his eyes were level with Martinez’s feet. "Be careful, señor. Machioneel trees are here. You know the machioneel?"

  "No," grunted Martinez. "What about them?"

  "They are called manzanilla de la muerte, in the Spanish of the Dominican Republic."

  "So? I won’t eat them, Giscard," Martinez said, sarcasm heavy in his tone.

  "Touching them is enough, señor. Not to die, maybe, but the juice from the leaves, if you grab them. It will make painful sores. If it gets from the hand to the mouth, then you are in some trouble. The Caribs poisoned their arrows with it."

  Martinez unconsciously began scrubbing the palm of his hand, sticky with sap from the tree he had grabbed, on the leg of his pants.

  "Do not worry. The tree you grabbed, it is not the machioneel. Not this time, but some are in here." Giscard turned away, hiding his smile.

  They made their way down the overgrown trail, Martinez taking great care about his footing. Giscard ranged far to either side of the path, as sure-footed as the goats foraging in the brush as he gathered herbs into his burlap bag.

  ****

  Jack Roberts slapped listlessly at a big horsefly that was sucking blood from his neck. "Shit!" he grunted, slamming a fist into the corrugated steel siding.

  "Stop that banging!" one of their captors roared in response.

  "Real bastards," Steve Williams said. He sat on the dirt floor of the shack, leaning against the rusty steel wall.

  "Damn horseflies," Jack said.

  "Them, too," Steve agreed. They had been confined in the shed for several hours. When the van had stopped in a clearing in the swamp, two men waiting at the camp dragged them out of the van, dumping them on the muddy ground. One of the men held them at gunpoint while the man called José cut the cable ties from their wrists and ankles. He and Pancho kicked them both hard.

  "On your feet," Pancho had growled, and the two new men had herded them into the shack, slamming the door with a resounding clang.

  Steve had almost immediately started trying to converse with Jack, but realized after a few minutes that something was wrong with his companion. He knew the symptoms; he had seen them often enough in Afghanistan. The listlessness, the blank stare, the complete lack of response to anything Steve said or did -- Jack was in another place. For some reason, he came around when he swatted the horsefly.

  "Surprised there aren’t mosquitoes," Steve said. "These guys must be spraying or something."

  "Maybe. What the hell do you reckon they want with us?"

  "Can’t figure it out, myself," Steve said. "Nothin’ I can come up with makes any sense."

  "Yeah. Me either. Can’t be good, though."

  "Startin’ to get darker outside," Steve said, pressing his eye to a small hole in the sheet metal wall. "Must be late afternoon."

  "How long we been here?" Jack asked, rubbing his neck. "I was lost."

  "Yeah. Few hours."

  "They give us any food?"

  "Not yet. You ain’t missed much."

  "We’re in the Everglades."

  "No shit, man," Steve said.

  "I did an escape and evasion course down here once, before I shipped out. If we can get out of this shack, they’ll never find us. Man could hide forever in the ‘glades."

  "Yeah. Well, there’s at least four of ‘em, and they ain’t made any mistakes yet."

  "We’ll just have to pay attention; look for a chance to make a break. Everybody makes a mistake eventually. Anybody gonna miss you tonight?"

  "Nah, man. You think I’d be at the damn Mission if I had anybody to miss me?"

  "Just asking. My P.O.’s gonna miss me tomorrow. Probably won’t do nothin’ but tell the cops to pick me up, but that’s somethin’. Maybe we can dig our way out tonight."

  "Don’t count on it, man. Two of these assholes were talkin’ while you were checked out. Maybe José and one of the guys that was here when we got here. Somethin’ is gonna happen tonight. Some boss man of some kind is comin’. Moraga, they called him. Said he called earlier and told ‘em he’d pick up the two men tonight. I figure that might be us."

  ****

  Vengeance was 12 miles east of the island of Dominica, boiling along at nine knots under full sail, spray flying as her clipper bow cut into the waves. Dani was at the helm, leaning back against the cockpit coaming, both arms stretched to the sides, her feet on the helm, barely needing to steer. The zombie was stretched out on the starboard, downhill cockpit seat, still unconscious. Liz and the professor were below, napping in preparation for their evening watch.

  "I love seeing the rainbow colors in the spray from the bow," Lilly said. She sat on the windward side of the cockpit, legs extended, feet braced against the opposite side of the footwell to keep from sliding off the seat.

  Dani smiled her agreement.

  "I had no idea that sailing in the ocean was so beautiful; Dominica was lush and green this morning, and now that the sun’s behind it, it looks almost blue. The sea’s changed from that vibrant bright blue color to silvery gray."

  Dani nodded, still smiling.

  "You think I’m an idiot, don’t you, just blathering away; it’s beautiful beyond words out here, but I guess you see it every day."

  "I don’t think you’re an idiot. You hit it when you said ‘beautiful beyond words.’ I gave up trying to express it a long time ago; I just sit and take it in. It never gets old, but I don’t remember back far enough to recall what it’s like when it’s a new experience. I like hearing you try to put it into words; don’t let me make you self-conscious."

  "That’s kind, Dani," Lilly said, sounding surprised. She was silent for a few minutes, taking in the view, breathing the fresh, clean sea air. "It smells different when you’re upwind. When we sail on the west side of the islands, the air smells different."

  "It sure does," Dani agreed. "Each island smells a little different; different parts of the coast of each one smell different, too. Even the smell of the anchor chain when it comes aboard varies from one anchorage to the next. Back in the old days, before electronic navigation, pilots could tell where they were by sampling the bottom with a sounding lead; they’d look at the color, feel the texture, smell it, and taste it. The old leads had a cup in the bottom that was filled with tallow to pick up a bottom sample. I’ve got one of my father’s below – I’ll show you when we get to Martinique."

  "Amazing," Lilly said, a faraway look on her face. "When we sail on the west side of the islands, you stay closer to shore. On the east side, you stay way offshore. Why is that?"

  "When we’re out on the east side, I like to keep a lot of sea-room. If something happened and we couldn’t sail or use the engine, I wouldn’t want to get blown up onto the rocks or the beach. Dominica is what we call a lee shore, downwind from our position; you always want to stay well off of a lee shore. Besides the danger, the closer you get, the rougher the ride, because all these waves pile up on the shore and get reflected back. It makes a choppy mess. On the west side of the islands -- that’s
called the lee side, when the wind is from the east -- I usually run closer to shore where the water’s flat. There’s a long wind shadow on the lee side, and you usually can’t sail much anyway unless you’re miles off shore. If you’re just hopping from island to island, that’s too far out of the way – you can sail, but then you have to beat into the wind to get back to where you’re going. Then there’s the current. There’s a prevailing current that sets to the northwest in the eastern Caribbean. It does funny things around the islands. Along the east coast, it gets bent when it hits the island, so as you get closer to the shore, you’ll find a strong current pushing you north. That would be against us, now. If we were northbound, we could go in a little closer and get a lift from it. On the lee side of the islands, you’ll find eddy currents, so you move in closer or out farther, looking for a favorable eddy. More than you wanted to know?"

  "No, it’s fascinating. Not like driving a car, is it?"

  "No, not at all. Not like running a power boat, either. Different set of tricks…"

  "Garrrrrrgh! Unnnnh…" the zombie’s sudden, loud choking breaths interrupted Dani. Lilly stood and shifted to where she could reach him, but he was ominously still and quiet after the initial noises.

  "I don’t think he’s breathing," Lilly said, "and I’m not feeling a pulse…"

  Chapter 29

  Giscard gritted his teeth as the RIB smashed through the rough seas off Cape Melville on the northwest corner of the island of Dominica. There was a tidal rip where two opposing currents ran together, aggravated by the cape effect, which accelerated the 20-knot trade winds to gusts as high as 50 knots, making for a treacherous patch of water that extended several miles to the northwest. Martinez had slowed down to minimize the pounding, but it was still rough. It was late evening, and the moon had set as they were leaving Les Saintes. Most of the 20-mile trip had been pleasant enough, with Martinez steering for the lights on the north end of Dominica.

  After a few more minutes in the wild, frothy seas, Martinez was able to hug the shoreline, running slowly in the smooth water to avoid the fishermen in their small, often unlighted boats. When they rounded the point of Prince Rupert Bluff, the bay opened up before them. There was enough ambient light from the town of Portsmouth to let Martinez pick his way through the anchorage. The third small, battered freighter that he approached bore the name Polaris, painted in dirty white letters on both sides of the rounded stern. Giscard noticed the Venezuelan flag, fluttering gently in the light breeze as they rounded the stern and approached the pilot ladder on the port side. Martinez throttled back to idle speed and spoke softly into a handheld VHF radio. Soon, a man appeared at the top of the ladder, signaling with a flashlight for them to come alongside. Martinez tied the RIB to the ladder and scrambled up, motioning for the houngan to follow.

  "Señor Martinez?" the solidly built man at the top of the ladder asked.

  "Yes, with my associate, Giscard. And you are?"

  "Raúl Suarez, señor."

  "Thank you, Captain Suarez. You have your orders?"

  "Si, señor. My ship is at your disposal. I have discharged my cargo here and we are in ballast. I have customs clearance to depart within the next four hours. If you wish to stay in Portsmouth, I can change that."

  "No. That’s good. Have your men bring the RIB aboard, and let’s go."

  "Si, señor. And where do you wish to go?"

  "West. 15 miles or so – over the horizon. Then we shall hold our position until I give you further instructions."

  "Si, señor. Please follow me. I’ll show you to your quarters."

  ****

  Henri Giscard was stretched out on the berth in the small, private cabin aboard Polaris, his hands clasped behind his head. Martinez was quartered next door, although Giscard had heard him leave his cabin a few minutes ago. He had been surprised at the comparative luxury of his quarters compared to the dungeon-like space he had occupied aboard Santa Magdalena.

  His thoughts were drawn to Martinez’s demands that he make zombies of two more men, yet to be brought aboard the vessel. He was thankful that he and Martinez had failed in their efforts to catch puffer fish while they were in Les Saintes; he couldn’t proceed without the fresh liver from at least one of the creatures. He had been surprised that Martinez knew that the liver extract was a critical element in the potion. Giscard had at first considered faking the potion, but now he wasn’t sure how much Martinez knew. Published information was scarce, but Martinez could have interrogated other bokors; there was no way to tell. Could he know the process for extracting the poison from the fish’s liver? To keep his niece’s children safe, he had to assume that Martinez knew enough to recognize an attempt to mislead him.

  ****

  Gines Moraga was in a light plane, en route from Bimini with his two heavily sedated captives. Pancho and José had ferried the three of them from the Miami River to the rendezvous point several miles east of Bimini. It had been a calm night on the Great Bahama Bank, and once they were in position, he made the agreed-upon call on the boat’s VHF radio. Within minutes, the small float plane had touched down on the glassy water. Bringing the boat alongside the plane’s pontoon, Pancho and José had helped Moraga and the pilot lift the two men into the cramped passenger compartment.

  Expecting that the open Caribbean would be too rough for the plane to land near Polaris, Moraga and Martinez had arranged to meet along the middle of Dominica’s west coast, a couple of miles offshore. The sea state in the lee of the island would be calm, and they would be far enough offshore to avoid attracting attention. Polaris would hold her position over the horizon, and Martinez would meet them in the RIB, minimizing the amount of time that the plane was afloat.

  "Ten minutes, señor," the pilot shouted over the roar of the plane’s twin engines.

  Moraga nodded and extracted a handheld marine VHF radio from his pack. He switched it on and called Martinez. Within a few minutes, he and the pilot both saw a strobe light flashing ahead of them. Moraga began counting off seconds. The light disappeared. After 15 seconds, it began to flash again. "Get a bearing on it," he said.

  "Got it, señor," the pilot responded, as Moraga’s count reached 15 seconds again and the light disappeared.

  "That’s the boat. Set us down as close as you can," Moraga ordered, as the light began to repeat its 15-second cycle.

  The pilot throttled back sharply and the plane began a steep descent. Soon, Moraga felt the pontoons kiss the surface of the water. The plane bounced and settled into a rhythmic motion as they began to ride the smooth, long-period swell in the lee of the island. They coasted to a stop and the pilot shut down the engines as an unlighted RIB came up next to the plane. Moraga climbed out onto the starboard pontoon and took a line from Martinez, tethering the boat and the plane loosely together. The men nodded an acknowledgement to each other but wasted no words. Martinez kept a careful watch for approaching boats as Moraga turned back to the plane. The pilot dragged the first semiconscious captive to the door, and Moraga pulled him out of the plane, balancing the limp form on the inflated tube of the RIB for a moment until he could time his movements to the regular rise and fall of the boat. He dropped his burden roughly into the front of the RIB and turned back to take the next man. The pilot touched his right hand to his forehead in a quick salute and pulled the door closed as Martinez cast off the mooring line. As soon as the RIB was safely away, the plane’s engines roared to life and it took off into the darkness.

  The whole exchange had lasted less than a minute, and within 20 minutes, Moraga and Martinez were hooking the hoisting cables from Polaris to the lift-points on the RIB. Once the RIB was solidly in the chocks on the freighter’s deck, Moraga and Martinez climbed out.

  "Okay?" the captain asked.

  Martinez nodded. "Have your men put the two prisoners in the hold, Suarez. See that they are chained; we’ll deal with them later." He led Moraga to his cabin.

  "When will the witch doctor work his magic?" Moraga asked, once th
ey were behind the closed door.

  Martinez was reaching into a locker for a bottle of rum and two glasses. He slammed the locker door and rounded on Moraga. "You will call him houngan, or by his name, Giscard. He’s no witch doctor, and he’s critical to our plan, so you will show him respect, whatever you think. You understand, Moraga?"

  "Yes, Jefe. Of course. I meant no disrespect."

  "What you mean does not matter. Giscard is reluctant; he is a kind man, and he already does not want to do this thing, so you must not give him cause to thwart us," Martinez said. "He will do as we say because he believes that we will harm his niece’s children. He is distressed already because we destroyed the yacht and killed those people."

  "Sí, señor. I understand."

  Martinez turned back to the locker and took out the rum and glasses, placing them on the small desk in his cabin. He sat on the edge of the bunk and motioned Moraga to the bench at the desk as he uncapped the bottle and poured them each a drink.

  "We have what we need for the houngan to make zombies, except for one thing," Martinez said.

  Moraga waited, his gaze fixed on Martinez.

  "We need puffer fish," Martinez said, after taking a sip of his drink. "We tried to catch them in the Saintes, but we didn’t get any before we left."

  Moraga swallowed a mouthful of rum, holding his silence.

  "I want you to take the RIB in the early morning and run in close to the island, where the fishermen are working. Buy some puffer fish, or trade beer for them."

  "The fishermen will think that’s strange, Jefe. Puffer fish are trash."

  "So, tell them that the tourists buy them in Florida. I have seen them, dried and varnished like little spiked balloons, in the gift shops along the highway."

  "Yes, you are right, Jefe. The yanqui tourists, they buy anything if it is strange and expensive enough. So I will tell these fishermen that we are going into this business, then?"

  "I think that’s enough of an explanation. What do they care? You will buy fish that they throw back; they may think you a fool, but what does it matter?"