Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3) John Cunningham (psychology books to read TXT) 📖

the horizon for planes and the water for boats. I had to get my breathing under control.

Now what?

Since Peter Island was private and didn’t welcome boaters, there was little traffic. I spotted a long beach on the northwest coast, the water a deep blue that faded quickly to turquoise close to the beach.

With my headset back on, I flinched at the scream in my ears.

“Grumman Goose, Grumman Goose, return to St. Thomas approach, Grumman Goose, do you read me?”

I pulled the headset back off. Damn.

Was I about to commit yet another offense that would put me back in jail?

One last look around. No boats, private or police.

I smiled.

They’d have to catch me first.

THE BEAST SPLASHED DOWN with authority into the mild chop. As much as I missed Betty, I once again appreciated what a couple thousand extra pounds will do for stability.

I feathered the props and alternated throttles between the two engines to aim us toward the channel markers that led to the beach. The wings see-sawed, and each float alternately skimmed off the surf, but once my course was set the Beast sliced through the water like the regal old yacht she was at her core. People had emerged from villas, the restaurant, and cabanas on the beach to watch us approach.

Since Peter Island was private, there shouldn’t be any BVI police here to arrest me for making a water landing. Of course, there could always be an over-zealous security chief looking to make points with Roadtown. Even if the magistrate or Valentine Hodge had spoken to Duncan Mather, I had no signed piece of paper from them, and thanks to Booth the one I had from the FAA was no longer valid.

Once through the channel markers, the water color abruptly turned lighter, so I pulled back on the throttles. The draft on the Beast was about three feet, and I couldn’t take any chances with her recently patched hull. Seventy-five feet or so from shore, I manipulated the throttles to spin halfway around to face into the current and reduced the power to almost nothing. I unbuckled my seatbelt, sprang from the left seat, hunched down into the crawl space—

Clunk—stars! Haste makes hurt—I’d hit my forehead on the bottom of the instrument panel. I shook it off. With the handles on the forward hatch popped free, I pushed it up and the fresh air blew my hair back. Inertia and the current had carried us starboard and we were now almost perpendicular to the shore.

I grabbed the Danforth anchor and threw it as far as I could in the direction of the current. Then scrambled back to the flight deck, glanced at the shore now fifty feet behind us, and with my hand on the throttles watched the angle of the rope, hoping the anchor would catch. This was a hell of a lot easier as a two-person job.

Snap! The anchor rope pulled taut. I reversed thrust and added power—the anchor held. Excellent.

With the side hatch open I pulled off my shirt, took the stern anchor, jumped into the shallow water, set my back against the Beast’s fuselage, and pushed her straight into line with the forward anchor rope. Almost done. I splashed toward shore and extended the aft line until it ended, dropped it into the water, and shoved it into the sand with my feet

It held too.

When I turned around, what appeared to be around twenty-five people started to clap. The gold doubloon on my necklace bounced against my bare chest as I slogged toward the shore.

“My knight in shining armor,” a woman said with her eyes on my abs.

“Cool plane, dude!”

“You charter that thing?”

“Is it safe?”

I ignored them, pulled on my shirt and started up the beach toward the restaurant. A man in a silk floral print shirt hair pushed through the crowd.

“What are you doing?” he said. “You can’t just—”

“Who are you?” I pulled the soggy paper from my pocket.

“Mark Lander, general manager of Peter Island Resort. What makes you think—”

I held the letter so close to his eyes Lander couldn’t read it.

“I’m assisting the FBI in the search for Stud Mahoney.”

“But you can’t—”

“I have permission from both governments to make water landings.” This while steering him inside the restaurant.

“I’ve already told the authorities everything I know about Mr. Mahoney’s disappearance.”

“Special Agent Booth has so informed me,” I said. “I just have a few follow-up questions.”

He glanced around and drew in a deep breath. Not the best promo for a swanky resort, I imagined.

“How did Mr. Mahoney arrive on the island, Mr. Lander?”

“I already told… private boat.”

“Did it happen to be a red Cigarette?”

“I don’t know, but whatever brought him here departed immediately after dropping him and his manager off.”

“Were they in one room or two?”

“One.”

“Was it trashed? Did it look like there’d been a struggle?”

“Not really. The bed was messed up but nothing else.”

Not what Booth had said.

“Is there any chance he could still be somewhere on-island?”

He sighed. “Our security staff did a door-to-door search, then the Royal Police did one too. Nothing but upset guests.”

I tried a personal appeal.

“Look, we could really use your help and I’m sure you’d like to have us out of your hair for good. Do you have any idea how he may have been removed from the island?”

Lander glanced back over his shoulder in both directions.

“Not really—well, I’m not sure security has reported this back to the authorities yet, but we discovered today that one of our small rental boats is missing.”

“Could the kidnappers have stolen it?”

“I guess.”

“Any other guests check out around the same time Mahoney vanished?”

“No, I’m sure about that. It was later in the afternoon, our shuttle had already left, and all the other guests were present.”

I let his statement sink in.

“Buck?”

I turned to find Avery Rose, smiling so big I just had to smile back. Why did it feel like we were old friends?

Lander’s deeply tanned forehead wrinkled in surprise. I leaned close to him.

“If