Salty Sky (32 page)

The Spanish comment was made to ratchet up the likelihood of the visitors’ being the Escobars in the eyes of the powers that be. The likelihood was ratcheted tightly enough in Cale’s mind that he was a bit afraid the bolt heads were stripping.

Hearing silence from the other side, Cale proceeded.

“With Radcliffe dying in very unusual circumstances and now this at my house within less than a week, I have some questions. How secure are our classified files? If I Google my name, will some report show up talking about my history with the agency? Is there any reason to think some very undesirable Colombians are now traveling in the US?”

Presumably, the speakerphone was muted. Cale didn’t expect an answer. Well, not a truthful answer. There were too many interagency coworkers watching each other for anyone to take a chance with the information they released. There was probably very little
trust among the group sitting around Sheila’s desk, so ten cents to a quarter their response would be cloaked in national security nondisclosure bologna.

The silence dangled as they discussed the company stance. Cale passed the time by picking out his obit picture. Young man or present day? Formal or outdoors? The funeral was, for obvious reasons, more for the living than the dead, so his daughters could go with what they liked best. He didn’t think it would be the one he’d have picked, in which he holds, with arms outstretched to the camera, two seven-pound flounders. The photo he’d picked for Maggie was crystal clear in his mind. Casual. Outside. She was young. But, of course, she was young.

A long minute later, a voice returned.

“Mr. Coleman, we don’t have any reason to believe the Escobars or their proxies are operating illegally within the borders of the United States. In fact, outside of the Spanish-speaking countries in South America, their operation is largely shut down.”

Hmm, no introductions provided. The speaker wasn’t taking any chances that Cale might be recording the call. That’s one player with his cards on the table, the rest of the players with their cards in their hands. The voice was hiding behind ubiquitous plural pronouns—
they, we, us
; never
me, I—the buck stops here
(at least since Truman made that statement famous). This was the problem with government bureaucracy:
You must understand, it’s for the public good, just not yours, but, by happenstance, it is for mine
.

Cale dissected the answer. He was pretty sure only one country in South America didn’t speak Spanish. That left—guessing now—a couple of hundred million potential customers. Cale let the silly statement pass—not out of deference, but because he wasn’t confident in his South American census knowledge.

“OK. How about my records’ status?”

“Your mission work files are classified. We have no reason to suspect this status has been breached. In fact, it took no small amount of
effort to get them in preparation for this call. Upon reading them, I thank you for your patriotism.”

Patriotism? So it was a political attaché speaking. Someone from law enforcement would have laced the compliment with
doing your duty
. Politicians used
patriotism
. Nothing good would come from this call, but Cale asked anyway.

“So what have the investigators found in Radcliffe’s death?”

“Nothing to report, Mr. Coleman. We have yet to receive the report.”

No pause before answering that one. Cale wanted to quote Shakespeare,
The lady doth protest too much, methinks
, but let it slide.

“OK. Another question comes to mind.” Sure, sure, don’t poke the bear. But maybe a firm nudge to the belly wouldn’t hurt. “If there is nothing to report, and you think I have nothing to worry about, why are all of you on this call?”

More behind-the-muted-phone-line conversation. Sheila answered this time.

“Cale, I wanted to make sure you knew I took your concern seriously. I brought in all the interested parties to see if anyone knew something I didn’t.”

After a brief pause, another anonymous man came on the line. “Mr. Coleman, it is not uncommon for agents who have been involved in on-the-job fatalities to later need psychological counseling. In the military and now in the media, they refer to it as posttraumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. Sometimes, people who have been through incredible strain begin to weave stress-filled fantasies into everyday realities. Particularly if there is a trigger, like the death of a coworker or a natural disaster, like a hurricane. May I recommend you consult a psychologist that a grateful country will pay for?”

Grateful country
, was it, you son of a string of bad words that Cale kept himself from using to keep from getting himself further riled up? This felt like they were building a case. If something happened,
like he stopped breathing, suicide would be a likely cause of death. Given that the way Colombians handled personal retribution was traditionally up close and messy, it might pan out for them: If he ended up with his throat slit, they would already have noted in the files that there had been signs of PTSD. And what was with the need to define PTSD? Did they think he was Rip Van Winkle? You couldn’t unplug enough from society not to know what PTSD was after fourteen years of the country being at war.

Sheila’s voice again. “Cale, I will keep you updated when we hear about Radcliffe’s investigation. In the meantime, take care.”

They said thank you and good-bye, and everybody clicked off.

29

CALE PUT THE
Whaler in forward and headed toward the marina. The clouds had almost fully dispersed. A good rain on land made the earth glisten. A tropical storm in the Intracoastal Waterway made the water an obstacle course of floating debris. Cale trimmed the engines higher than normal to avoid hidden flotsam and ran two-thirds of normal cruising speed.

Saturday’s Caribbean-clear water was now Mississippi murky. You know who likes murky water? Bull sharks. This is when they swim into rivers. Their kidneys function highly enough to switch from processing salt water to processing fresh water. The bulls were mostly blind. The murky water reduced their preys’ eyesight advantage.

Alligators liked murky water, too, and it made them blend in easier with all the debris. They were just one more log. After a storm, alligators got flushed toward a river’s mouth, the water there not quite salty enough to impair their vision. Cale imagined that the Cape Fear River’s mouth today was a Nile Delta of carnivores. He and Ashley would definitely not be swimming on the inside of the barrier islands. If the ocean was stirred up, too, maybe they’d just cruise around for the day.

Framed
floated in an outside slip and was docked stern-to. The captain was hosing her down. Ashley sat on a small cooler, with a
knapsack resting on her lap. She held her flip-flops in one hand and a magazine flipped open and folded back in the other. The hose’s pressurized water, searching for exit, crossed her feet. A prism of light reflected in the water. Cale decided the captain was using soap.

The Whaler pulled along the dock’s butt end, and Cale looped a bowline around a cleat, backed up, and put a half-hitch knot on a stern cleat. He killed the engines but left them in the water, hopped on the dock, and approached
Framed
‘s gangway steps. Ashley reached the steps from above as Cale reached them from below. She handed over the cooler and descended, holding her flip-flops and magazine in one hand and the flimsy cord rail down the steps in the other.

At the greeting hug, Cale enjoyed the smell of her suntan lotion. She introduced him to the captain, and they exchanged pleasantries before saying good-bye. Cale held Ashley’s hand as she climbed aboard the Whaler. Jimmy came up for a rub, then laid back in the shade. The engines turned over, and they cast off, pointed roughly south. They passed the state park where their paths first crossed, which had a significantly smaller flotilla today.

Cale still ran at two-thirds speed. The pair stood in the center console. Their shoulders bumped occasionally, slightly more than the chop necessitated, which Cale noted favorably. Ashley held the tubular aluminum rod holder overhead to steady herself. They passed the outlet of the Cape Fear River. The water was browner and full of more debris, but there were no visible monsters in the water. Visible or not, Cale wasn’t stopping for a dip.

They darted out into the open ocean and continued south. At a big, round, bald beach peninsula, they looped back into a protected marina.

A decorative replica lighthouse overlooked the sheltered water. The marina had fuel pumps beside the harbormaster’s hut. Nobody was inside, but there was a leathery-skinned man in Vans resetting boat fenders whom Cale assumed was the harbormaster. The Whaler bypassed the fuel pumps and passed the big slips with shore
power and water plug-ins. At the farthest dock, where there were no slips, a menagerie of small boats were tied to pylons and cleats. Most of them had six inches of water in them. Cale found a clear path and backed the Whaler to the dock and cleated it. He floated it forward and looped a bowline over a pylon. He and Ashley then climbed onto the dock.

No bridge connected the island to the mainland. Cale knew this place and liked to come here for dinner, especially in late October, just before it closed for the season. The island’s homeowners’ association documents allowed only service vehicles and golf carts, which was pretty cool. Vacationers didn’t have to worry about their kids getting hit by a car when they were out biking. The deer loved the island without their main predator roaring down the asphalt. Of course, coming with a minivan full of kids and missing the ferry wasn’t super awesome. Nothing started a vacation better than ending an eight-hour drive from Pennsylvania by watching a ferry depart without you.

They walked over a series of decks. The storm damage looked minimal. There were no missing boards and only a few shingles off the roof of the harbormaster’s shack. Several boat fenders either hung on by one end or floated untethered around the marina. The harbormaster would rectify these items today.

A two-story building sat several feet behind the seawall, with a neon light in the window that said
OPEN
. The first floor was a polished restaurant. Cale loved its air conditioning. There were white tablecloths, grass cloth walls, and soft carpet. Cale knew they would do a Sinatra sound track until seven thirty, a Coltrane from then to close. The lighting from the floor-to-ceiling tempered-glass windows with slightly tinted frames was dim but clean. The windows faced southeast, with a view of the marina below to the left, the mainland to the right, and the short channel to the ocean straight ahead. It was a perfect restaurant for a romantic date.

But today, Cale bypassed the restaurant’s door, went around back,
and took Ashley up an exterior stairwell to the second floor. Upstairs was a fish fry, where the days’ catch was deboned, seasoned, and flashfried in cast-iron pans. No breading. It was always fresh—whatever they bought that morning at the docks from the guides, charters, or enthusiasts who showed up. Was it a little risky not to use commercial crews? It was probably riskier to run multiple deep fryers on the second floor of a wooden building. It was a day after a hurricane, and they were stocked with fresh fish. The food was served in paper trays with sides of okra, corn on the cob, green beans, and slaw. No choices; you received them all. This was probably why the waitresses never delivered a wrong order. Cale always drank sweet tea there.

Inside, the upstairs area was shallower than downstairs, with a long bar where you ordered, paid, and took your number. Cale looked past the cashier and saw the morning’s catch being filleted. Red drum it was. You could either sit at the bar or on the deck outside.

They ordered and headed out to the deck. It was lined with rows of oversized picnic tables equipped with built-in benches and covered with waxy red-and-white checked tablecloths. Cale produced two cushions from the Whaler, which would provide a dry place to sit. Who said chivalry was dead? Ashley and Cale sat on the same side of the table facing the water.

Ashley asked, “Is this big white pole behind the building an antenna?”

“No, it’s the first part of a range.”

Should he ask her whether she knew what he meant, or was that condescending? Did he continue on, assuming she didn’t know, or was that too pompous? So many decisions. And he was supposed to worry about narcotraffickers?! He didn’t truly sweat this decision, but his mind naturally channeled through the options and possible outcomes, which made him hesitate. Now that he was being tracked by narcotraffickers, he needed to stop hesitating.

Ashley asked, “What’s a range?”

See, things usually worked out.

“It’s a way to find the deepest part of a channel. Look farther into the island, where there is an even taller pole.”

They pivoted in their seats. Cale pointed toward the second pole in the range. She leaned into him. Her eyes followed where he pointed. She nodded. He again enjoyed the scent of her lotion, perfume, shampoo—whatever it was that made her smell so good. Reluctantly, when looking at the taller pole was no longer justifiable, they unwound and turned back to the sea.