A Cold Copper Moon (The Cooper Series Book 3) Page 4

When I looked into the water untouched by the engines, the water far out from the Canyon, where it was smooth and tranquil, I got to thinking of Maxie once again—can’t keep him out of my thoughts. When I’m looking for a missing person, I feel guilty about not finding him. As I stared into the wake, the roiling water drew me as though Franz Mesmer, the medieval mystic who developed hypnotism, was riding the wake and using the waves that rolled with an even cadence to induce a trance. He captured me and my eyes gave away to his magic.

  The road was moving away quickly now, Muskingum disappearing into the distance. A hand was pulling the Boy away from the window. He was straining to see if a blue Volvo was following—that would be me. But he didn’t see any cars at all, just the road falling away, a hand rougher on him now, forcing him into the seat. He had never seen them before—the man who was now removing his hand, saying, “That’s a good boy now” –-or the man driving, “Not to worry, boy, we’re friends of your dad.” He’s lying! I was trying to tell him—the Boy could hear it in the driver’s voice, that sound that made his stomach hurt, and I knew he was thinking of our warning, “Never get into a car with strangers,”—and these men were certainly strangers—the people I warned you about! They were driving faster now, past fields that he had watched on so many Sundays, past barns that sat back in the fields, past telephone poles that were flying by way too quickly, and remembering, “Don’t get into a car if someone you don’t know tells you to. Run. Don’t get in whatever happens.”

  “But they shoved me in,” he was thinking to himself. “I didn’t have a choice!”

  And I knew Maxie would be worried about what we would say when he got back home. He would wonder if we would be mad. And I heard the phone lines sing in the wind as the car headed south-southeast.

  Chapter Seven

  The Ten Thousand Islands

  Cynthia was staring at me. “You okay?”

  I shook my head. Damn dreams, I thought. I wondered if the years of searching for my son were just piling up, like the accumulation of drugs might do to the body, like Xanax might do to the brain.

  Cynthia guided the Canyon carefully into Snake Creek at Islamorada, past the Snake Creek Marina on our left, and past a series of peninsulas with houses lining each strip of land reaching out toward us and eventually traveled at idle through the No Wake zone into Florida Bay. From there we headed north to Madeira Bay—that’s on the southern end of Everglades National Park, a place where Cynthia said her father often took his clients fishing. A Coast Guard helicopter was searching the area just north of the islands, disappearing into the distance then reappearing on a line closer to the National Park, sweeping the landscape like a man cutting his lawn in a manner that no blade was left untouched.

  Once we were clear of the No Wake zone, Cynthia opened the throttle and we roared into the Bay, the boat slamming into waves as it rose and fell. It’s about twenty kilometers to the first island group and then another twenty to Madeira. I had brought a pair of Barska Zoom Gladiator binoculars. With a variable magnification of 20 to 140 times, the glasses gave me an up-front and personal view of objects that are a long way off—like the islands that we were searching. I was looking for signs of wreckage that could easily have been missed by the helicopter. Huck had found a pair of binoculars that Jack had stowed below. He was searching the starboard side. I was at port.

  “Jack loved to fish the Islands, but we’re sure as hell not going to find him here,” Huck said, dropping his glasses and looking up at the copter now directly overhead. We were approaching the first island group.

  “You knew…I mean, know… my father?” said Cynthia, catching herself.

  “Yeah, Miss Hayward. Fishing buddies,” he said, picking up his glasses and keying in on an island over starboard.

  “I don’t remember him talking about you?”

  “Jack didn’t talk much about his friends, did he?” More a statement than a question.

  Cynthia nodded. “It seems like the Ten Thousand Islands would be too far to get there and back in one day.”

  “When did Jack leave?” Huck said.

  “Sometime around 4:00 a.m.—according to the dock master.”

  “Plenty of time.” He paused and adjusted his binoculars. “No. Ol’ Jack’s not here,” his glasses sweeping the Bay.

  Cynthia looked my way, puzzled.

  I waited for Huck to put down his glasses.

  “No signs of Jack here,” he noted, sounding like a tracker. “We need to take this bronco to the Ten Thousand Islands. That’s where he did most of his fishing...” and he turned to Cynthia, “...and not to worry. We’ll find him, missy.”

  Huck’s father and his grandfather were both trackers. Early on, Huck trained with the Shadow Wolves, members of the Sioux and Navajo tribes. He learned a method of tracking that involved “cutting for signs.” The “signs” being something as indistinguishable as a misplaced stone or a wisp of smoke from a campfire or a tree scarred by a knife. Signs would be more difficult to spot on the water—easier on hard ground. There are signs invisible to the naked eye of a normal man but visible to a skilled tracker and it is perhaps those that Huck now saw in the waters of Florida Bay. Then there is instinct. And maybe that’s what was guiding Huck as he decided we were in the wrong place.

  “All right,” Cynthia said, shaking her head.

  “I trust Huck,” I said. “Let’s go with what he says.”

  “Shark River,” Huck said.

  So, Cynthia turned the Canyon about and headed west-northwest toward the Ten Thousand Islands.

  The best route to the Islands is the open sea around East Cape, the southernmost point of Everglades National Park. The direct route would be tricky and dangerous, trying to dodge the crab traps that line the waters along the western shore of the Park. There would be some in the open sea route as well. But they would be fewer and spread further apart.

  Cynthia steered the Canyon around Triplet Keys and Club Key and out into the open water of the Bay again, then west-southwest around a series of smaller keys until we reached the open waters of Florida Bay again. Then she headed for the Gulf of Mexico. There’s a line on the map that separates the Bay from the Gulf. You can’t see it of course. But along this imaginary line, the two bodies of water merge like lovers in an embrace.

  Once we caught the open water, we headed north passing Sandy Key on our right and steered directly for East Cape. It was mid-afternoon by the time we were even with the Cape having been slowed by a web of crab traps that laced the waters off the Capes. And it would be late afternoon before we would hit the Little Shark River Inlet where we could anchor for the night.

  “A storm’s brewin’, buckaroo,” said Huck, pointing to a line of black and charcoal clouds piled high on the horizon. They were moving in over the Gulf from the west.

  Huck is proud of his ancestry as a Florida cowboy—thus greetings like ‘buckaroo’— as well as his Seminole heritage. My great granddaddy was in the Seminole wars, as is betokened by the totem in my living room, Cooper, which we have talked about on many an evening, explained Huck one night when I was drinking with him at his Everglades City house.

  The clouds moved in from the Gulf more quickly than I had expected, the storm now about a half-hour away. It looked like we would be entering the Little Shark River inlet about the time it would hit.

  “You ready to spend the night aboard?” I said to Cynthia.

  “There’s provisions in the refrigerator. Jack always kept the boat well-stocked. You like rum?” she said, gripping the wheel more tightly as waves began to build in front of the approaching storm.

  I nodded. “Rum and Coke or a good, dry white.”

  “We have both,” she said.

  The darkness was spreading toward us.

  Chapter Eight

  Shark River

  By the time we hit the Little Shark River inlet, I could see that the bank of rain that had been far out over the Gulf was now closing in, the first drops already hitting me in the f
ace. I had taken the wheel. Waves were beginning to build so I cut the throttle as the Canyon struggled with the rough surf. On my right was the green marker that signaled the mouth of the river—it’s lighted and so easily spotted in the dark. We would anchor at Marker 5 at mid-river about half a kilometer away.

  As the boat began to heave in the waves, Huck came topside to check out what was going on. “Better stay below,” I said. “It’s getting rough.”

  And just as I said it there was a deafening bang and I watched a huge ball of flame roll across the inlet toward us no more than a hundred yards away—a tumbling, silent wheel of fire, rhythmic in its movement, spinning like a whirling dervish, like part of the sun broken loose—a hell-on-wheels come to burn us alive.

  I never thought to turn the Canyon away, and it grew in size as it got closer—too late to get out of the way—and it was like a house on fire, and huge, and the heat—it boiled the water and it cooked the air—and this oven in motion headed right for us. It dropped when it was only a few hundred feet away, this ball of fire, this wheel of enormous flames. And I felt the heat of it, and the draft of it, and I smelled things burning and I hoped it wasn’t me. Then, I saw fire on the boat, and looked up, and just as quickly as it had appeared, the wheel was gone. But its effects were not: the hair on my arms and head was singed. I rose up in time to see the rolling ball of fire sweep onto the shore, and into the mangrove forest—already burned from another fire—and the skeletons of trees, still black from the last conflagration, were lit up again, as well as the forest undergrowth that had turned green but was now aflame—but the fire would soon be extinguished by the hard rain.

  “My God!” yelled Cynthia, who had just come topside with Huck and had come over to see how I was. “What was that?”

  And I told the two of them to look at their hair, and theirs was singed and frizzy like mine. And the fiberglass surface of the prow was blistered, and the flag that had been flying there—Jack’s flag of Ireland—was gone, the post it was hanging from, black.

  “The gods have spoken,” said Huck.

  We continued to check the boat for damage. But there wasn’t much—mostly surface stuff. We were like a house that was in the way of a forest fire but had escaped major damage, with only the paint blackened from the heat of the fire and the soot that filled the air. The temperatures of a forest fire can reach 1000 to 1500 degrees. I wondered what the internal temperature of that wheel of fire that had just missed us was.

  What we had seen, I’m convinced, was a ball of lightning. Something that sailors talk about but is rarely verified. The lightning ball is the stuff of mythology. To us, it was a reality. And the people we would relate it to would probably nod and say, “Uh-huh.”

  “The Thunder and Lightning Men are showing us where to go,” said Huck, wiping the rain away from his eyes. “The Bed-day yek (thunder) caused this,” he continued, pointing to where the ball of fire disappeared onto the shore. “The Thunder Boys have picked up the Bed-dags k’chisousan (the thunder bullets) and thrown them.” He paused. “Maybe Jack was caught in their play. Maybe he has been Thundrified. And maybe they will bring him back to us as a man on fire.”

  Cynthia just stared at him. I didn’t say anything. Better to let Huck opine. Who knows? Maybe he’s right.

  I steered for Marker 4. It was just after 5:00 p.m. The rain, coming down in sheets now, made visibility nearly impossible. We were about 100 yards from anchorage when a wave crashed against the boat, ripping me from the helm. I tried to hang on but couldn’t and was swept to the side of the boat, hitting my head against the gunnel.

  “Cooper, you all right?” yelled Huck over the wind, slipping and falling on the deck as he reached for me.

  “’This is one hell of a storm,” I said. “Fireballs, killer waves. What the hell…?” and I stared at my hand. My head hurt like mad and I had reached up to feel where it hurt.

  When I brought my hand down, I was looking at red water.

  “You’re bleeding, Coop,” Huck said, and called for Cynthia, who had gone below. He took the wheel. “Go below and take care of that cut.”

  I slid my way across the deck and started down the ladder. Cynthia grabbed my arm and helped me to a cot.

  “You’ve got a serious gash there,” she said, standing over me and checking my forehead. “Head wounds always bleed a lot and look worse than they are.” She had me hold a towel to the cut while she rose and rummaged through a cabinet. “Where the heck does Jack keep his first aid kit?” she complained, like we were just borrowing his boat for the day. She found it.

  Then, “Let’s get that head under a shower,” she said. And I stripped off my rain jacket, shirt and undershirt, and leaned into the shower as Cynthia turned on the water. I watched the blood flow into the drain.

  “Remember, it looks worse than it is.” Then, “A nasty little devil,” she said, studying the wound after I dried my hair. “But a bandage will bring it together.” And she worked quickly, spraying the wound with an antibiotic then applying a butterfly and then a large gauze bandage over that.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Dizzy.”

  “Okay. Then maybe you shouldn’t lie down—just in case.” I knew what she was thinking: concussion. But we had a boat to secure and Huck would need help. I paused to listen to the storm. It was quiet for a moment. Then the wind and waves were back at it. No rest.

  “I’m going topside to help Huck,” I said.

  “Here, put this on your head,” said Cynthia. “Cover that wound.” She tossed a hooded rain jacket at me. I put it on.

  Huck was already steering the Canyon to anchorage. He swung the boat around so that the stern was pointing against the tide and the incoming waves just like it would be if it were docked. I let out the stern anchor. When it was set, Huck shut down the motors. Several boats were already anchored around us.

  In the distance a sailboat was heading our way running through the storm, trying to trim its sails. A sudden gust of wind caught it, and the crew struggled to keep it from capsizing. I watched to see if they needed help. They dropped anchor about 100 yards from us, staying clear of the shallows.

  Huck had secured the wheel and was letting the front starboard anchor out. “Double check that anchor,” I yelled over the noise of the storm. “I don’t want the wind to drag this damn thing into the middle of the river.”

  “She’s as set as she’s gonna be,” Huck replied, pulling hard against the anchor to test it.

  Once the Canyon was secured, we headed below and cracked two small screened windows to let some air into the cabin.

  “This feels like a tropical storm,” I said to Cynthia. “You have anything on the weather?”

  “No. Nothing out in the Gulf or in the Caribbean or the dock-master would have certainly said something.” Then, “I hope,” she added—to herself.

  There were several changes of clothes in a dresser. Both of them fit Huck. I found some shorts. I was too tall for Jack’s pants. Cynthia was already in the bathroom changing into dry clothes she found in a locker. When I came out of the shower, I saw Huck rummaging around in one of the lockers.

  “Rum,” he said, holding up a bottle of Captain Morgan—my favorite. “Got any Cokes?”

  Cynthia pointed to a lower cupboard.

  “Helps keep the spirits of the storm away,” he said—which, by the way, was picking up again. When we anchored, the wind was at twenty-seven knots. I checked the wind gauge. It read thirty-five knots.

  We scavenged a dinner of crackers, cheese, and baked beans from Jack’s larder, sat in the berth and listened to the storm blow. Huck and I poured rum and cokes. Cynthia had trouble getting her wine into a glass, the boat tossing us around like a teapot in a bathtub of kids playing with the water.

  After about an hour the storm subsided and the boat settled into a gentle rock. We went topside, taking our drinks with us and checked for damage. Not much—just some debris on the deck. And we hadn’t drifted far from where we had an
chored.

  I dried off the captain’s chair, sat, and stared at the stars that were visible now. My thoughts wandered back to Maxie and I wondered where he was. The rum must have reached my brain, because...

  When I woke, the deck was deserted. The moon was lighting up the river like a thing of magic, and the stars were hanging over me in the millions. I pulled myself, headache and all, out of the chair and went below. Huck was half hanging out of his berth. He wasn’t breathing. I poked him and he started up again, like an engine that needs priming.

  It was 3:05 a.m. I heard movement around the boat. I grabbed the Gator Light that Jack kept on board and went topside. The lamp is useful for hunting gators; its warm and soft yellow beam finds the gator’s eyes in the dark without startling him. A few lights were blinking over the water from boats that had anchored around us. I passed my beam over the surface, now peaceful, looking for the source of the noise, crossing through a path of silver laid there by the moon now low in the sky. I swept the beam toward the shore. About 30 feet from the shore, eyes stared back at me. I held the light steady and the eyes sank into the water, quietly. I was uneasy about our closeness to shore and our vulnerability to gators and snakes. But at the moment, I was beat and my eyes were closing. I went below and flopped into my berth, clothes and all. Huck was snoring.

  “You look like you been to the Happy Hunting Ground,” said Huck, when I shook him hours later. It was 7:30 a.m.

  “Your fault,” I said. “Your damn snoring kept me up.”

  Cynthia was already up, a cup in her hand. “There’s coffee.”

  “Decaf?” I said.

  She looked at me and shook her head. “At 7:30 in the morning?” Her hair was pulled back in a single braid allowing her neck and shoulder blades to stand out. “You staring at me, Cooper?” she said, smiling.