I had to cross the island and then head west to reach Simonton Street. Another two-mile trek. I started walking at a pace that would get me to my destination in thirty minutes. I was sweating in the evening heat, but at least I was wearing my walking shoes.
I was on Caroline Street approaching Simonton, when I noticed three men standing on the corner. One was elderly, and he seemed to be pleading with two young men, one black and the other white, who were standing on either side of him. As I got closer, I saw that the white man was one of the guys who backed up the thug with the pool cue at the Sharkstooth earlier that afternoon.
"What's going on?" I said.
"None of your business," said the black guy. "Move on."
The white guy stared at me for a moment. "Shit, that's the dude what kicked the shit out of Big Rick today. He's got a gun."
They turned and ran. I looked more closely at the shaken victim. It was Austin Dwyer, my seatmate on the bus from Marathon.
"Mr. Joyce," he said. "You're just in time."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, thank you. Another minute or two and I might not have been."
"Glad I could help." I turned to leave.
"Ben," Dwyer said. "I was on my way to the Seaport Boardwalk for dinner. Will you join me?"
I looked at my watch. Nine o'clock. I hadn't eaten since Tampa Airport. Dwyer seemed anxious over his encounter with the thugs, and I decided to keep him company.
"Sure," I said. "I could use something."
Austin Dwyer was probably in his late seventies. He was a small man, about five eight and couldn't have weighed more than one sixty. His ruddy face reminded me of a happy leprechaun, a grin lighting up his features. His head was covered in gray hair, and I could still see strands of the brown that had been there in his youth. His accent was pure New England.
We walked the couple of blocks back to the boardwalk along the Key West Bight, and took a table on the deck of the Turtle Kraals Bar and Grill. Dwyer told me that he had been a history professor at a small college in New Hampshire. When he retired, he moved to Key West, but when his wife died, he moved back north, to Connecticut, to be closer to family. He had taken the seniors' tour on a whim. It was sponsored by his alma mater, the University of Rhode Island, and he thought it would be entertaining as well as educational.
When our server came, I ordered conch chowder and blackened grouper along with a Miller Lite. Dwyer asked for a salad and Chilean sea bass.
"Did you ever hear of Blood Island?" I asked.
"Sure. It's down in the Mule Keys."
"Where is that?"
"Just a few miles west of here. They're part of the Key West National Wildlife Refuge."
"Does anybody live there?"
"A couple of park rangers on Mule Key. That's about it."
"I heard that somebody lives on Blood Island."
"Maybe so. That's a private island that's not part of the refuge. I used to fish out that way."
"What can you tell me about it?"
"Back in the Teddy Roosevelt administration the government decided that all the islands between here and the Dry Tortugas would be part of a wildlife refuge. That includes the Marquesas Keys, which lie between the Mule Keys and the Dry Tortugas. But, as often happens, politics got involved. It seems that one of old Teddy's big financial supporters owned Blood Island on the western edge of the Mule Keys, out past Boca Grande Key. It's about twelve miles from here, not far.
"A deal was struck, and the supporter was able to hold on to Blood Island. It's the only island west of here that's not part of the Refuge," Dwyer said.
"That's an odd name for an island."
"Like everything down here, there's a story attached to it. Do you know about the Nuestra Senora de Atocha?"
"Sure. That's the Spanish treasure ship that Mel Fisher found."
"Right. But he wasn't the first to find it. She went down in a hurricane in September of 1622, near the Marquesas. Of the two hundred sixty-five passengers and crew aboard, only five survived, three crewmembers and two black slaves. Another ship, the Santa Margarita, grounded on a sandbar about three miles away, and a large number of her crew and passengers were rescued. The surviving fleet returned to Havana.
"A Spanish captain named Gaspar de Vargas found the Atocha within about three weeks of her sinking. Unfortunately for de Vargas, another hurricane hit in early October, and completely hid the wrecks of the Atocha and the Santa Margarita. He spent months looking for them and finally gave up.
"Four years later, a Spaniard named Melian found the Santa Margarita. He and his crew salvaged a great deal of its treasure and thought they knew where the Atocha lay. They set up camp on one of the Marquesas and worked for four years on the salvage operation. They never found the Atocha.
"Indians lived in the Marquesas in those days, and they sometimes helped the Spaniards and sometimes fought them. A crew in one of the small boats used in the salvage operation was blown east during a major thunderstorm in the summer of 1627. They ended up on the eastern side of what today is called Boca Grande Channel, and the sailors took shelter on a small island.
"A few days later, a search party located the beached boat and went ashore. They found the twelve men dead, their throats cut. They were lying on the beach, and their blood had soaked into the sand. They called the little island Isla de Sangre, Blood Island."
"That's quite a story."
"The Keys are full of grand and bloody stories," he said.
Over dinner, he regaled me with tales of bad men and good who had made the Keys what they are today. We finished our meal, and he thanked me again for helping him out of a bad situation. He stood to leave. I told him I'd stay for one more beer.
"Let me know if I can ever return the favor," he said, as we shook hands. "I'll be here another couple of days. We head north the day after tomorrow." He walked out the door with a group of people headed his way.
I sat quietly for a while, thinking about my day. My fear for Laura was escalating. I had to control that. I couldn't let my love for Laura and my fear for her safety cloud my judgment. This was just another battle in another war. I had to take charge of my emotions. I knew Laura wouldn't do anything foolish. She knew I was looking for Peggy. If she'd decided to take steps on her own, she would have let me know. She would never have left Jeff and Gwen alone and worried. Something bad had happened to her. Maybe Peggy was the key to Laura. I grabbed desperately onto that thought and banished the fear. For now.
I looked at my watch. It was nearing ten o'clock, and I still had to check out the massage parlor. I needed to find out who lived on Blood Island, and I thought I knew how to do that.