I was dreaming of Laura. She was in a casket, a white one with walnut trim. I didn't want to look at her. Jock was pushing me forward, telling me I had to say good-bye. I moved toward the front of the room where she lay. Lilacs were stacked around her bier, and the air was suffused with the smell of fresh vanilla. I could see her face, thin now, the color leached out of it, diminished by the absence of her soul. A single tear leaked from her right eye, and a smile played at the corner of her lips, as if her death were a sad joke.
I awoke with a start. Sun was cascading through the window, and the confounded chickens were clucking in the yard. Relief chased the agony of Laura's death from my consciousness. Jock was asleep in the chair, his pistol in his hand
I didn't want to startle him. I lay still for a moment, and then said softly, "Jock."
His breathing didn't change, but his eyes popped open. He surveyed the room without moving. His pistol was in his lap, safety off. He knew exactly where he was and what he was doing. Then he stretched in the chair and said, "Good morning, podner. Good nap?"
I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes after eight. I'd slept the better part of five hours, and I felt like a new man. I got up and padded down the hall to the bathroom. I washed my face and brushed my teeth. Life was looking up, but I couldn't shake the feeling of dread left by the dream. I hoped it wasn't a portent, some sort of augury seared into my unconscious by that part of me that was connected psychically to the woman I loved above all people. The thought of losing Laura was too much to bear, so I tried to put it out of my mind. I knew I'd be less than successful, and that the apprehension would ride with me until I found her.
When I got back to the room, Jock took my place in the bathroom. I called Debbie.
"Don't you ever sleep?" she said, mumbling into the phone.
"The sun's up, and I need information. What've you got on Simmermon?"
"You're going to owe me a lot of quarters. I found out a lot about him, but the story doesn't hang together too well. I don't understand it all."
"Talk to me."
"He was born in Troy, Alabama, graduated from high school there, and went to Troy State University. He dropped out during his freshman year, and then disappeared for a time.
"Two years later, he shows up living in Key West, working on a shrimp boat. Two years after that, he shows up in Boulder, Colorado. The odd thing is, there's almost nothing on him in Key West. He didn't have a phone, utilities, apartment, car, credit cards, none of the things we need to live. All I could find on him was some taxes withheld by a fishing company that's no longer in business. And, there's no record of a job in Colorado."
"What about his evangelical organization?" I asked. "When did he pop up with that?"
"About four years after he dropped out of sight in Key West, he began preaching in a small church in Anniston, Alabama. He preached at a number of small churches for about a year, but he never stayed in one place for more than a few weeks.
"About three years ago, he bought a big tent and began his revival meetings, traveling mostly in Alabama, Georgia, and Florida."
"Thanks Deb. I don't know what all that means, but I appreciate your getting it for me."
"You owe me, loverboy," she said, and hung up.
That was interesting information, but my first order of business was to get to my boat and Logan. I wasn't sure how we were going to get to Marathon. If I went back to the rental boat, somebody would probably be watching it. I'd rented it before my photo was broadcast around town, but they'd be watching all the rentals now. Jock could rent a car using one of the bogus IDs he always carried, but I'd have to ride in the trunk to be safe. That was probably our best bet.
Jock returned, and I told him what I was thinking.
"I don't know," he said. "Yesterday, when I came in, I asked the old woman who runs this place what your room number was. She's already ratted you out once, and now she knows what I look like. It wouldn't take much for Simmermon's men to put us together."
"I've got an idea. Let's get out of here."
I was dressed in typical tourist clothes, cargo shorts, Hawaiian shirt, and Reeboks. I put on the sunglasses and pulled the ball cap low on my forehead. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I led the way down the stairs and out the door. Thankfully, the old lady wasn't in sight.
Jock stood six feet and was lean and fit. He had a Houston Astros ball cap covering his bald head. The fringe of black hair that still clung to life was getting streaks of gray. He wore slacks, loafers, and a designer T-shirt. He was carrying a small suitcase that sported the logo of a Hawaiian Country Club. He looked a little too elegant to be with me, but people would probably think I was his valet or something.
"Where are we going?" Jock asked.
"Breakfast at the Hyatt."
"Isn't that a little conspicuous?"
"Not at all. I don't think Simmermon's people would be looking for us at a tourist hotel. Besides, we need to see somebody."
The hotel sat near the foot of Duval Street, next to the water. The superb views commanded a superb price from the guests, but the place was always booked.
We entered the lobby and went through to the restaurant. I saw a big table surrounded by senior citizens. Austin Dwyer sat among them, facing the dining room.
I asked the hostess to seat us at the table next to them. Austin looked up as we were escorted to the table and given menus. As soon as the hostess left, he came over.
"Ben," he said. "Nice to see you again."
I introduced him to Jock, who was sitting with a bemused look on his face, wondering, I thought, whether the old man was dotty or if I'd given a false name.
"Please sit down, Austin. I have a favor to ask."
He sat. "I owe you big time. What can I do for you?"
"I have a very delicate situation, and I need your complete confidence. Can you give me that?"
"Certainly. Mum's the word."
"First, my name isn't Ben Joyce. It's Matt Royal. I'm a lawyer from Longboat Key, and I've been doing some undercover work, trying to find a young woman who has been kidnapped. Jock here is an old friend who's lending a hand."
"Can't say I'm surprised, Matt. I thought you were too well spoken to be a transient. How can I help?"
"Jock and I need to get to Marathon this morning, and for reasons I can't go into, we can't rent a car. I was wondering if you might have room on your bus."
"We do. I'll make it right with the tour director. Get your breakfast. We're leaving as soon as everybody gets through eating. Our bags are already loaded."
I thanked him, and he went back to his table to finish his meal.
"Who is this guy?" Jock asked.
I explained how we met, and told him about the altercation two nights before. "We can trust him," I said. "And the bad guys aren't going to be looking for us on a senior citizen's tour bus."
"If you say so."
"Bring me up to speed on your agency's connection to Simmermon."
"Another agency, Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms was tracking some C-4 and other explosives that were stolen from a National Guard Armory in Macon, Georgia. Turns out that Simmermon was running a revival in the area at the time the stuff disappeared. Apparently, this wasn't the first time that weapons disappeared when he was in the area.
"It also looked as if Simmermon had ties to some pretty bad folks. He was connected to a bunch of right-wing nuts who want to overthrow the government, and maybe some Muslim groups with the same idea.
"My agency tried to put a man into Simmermon's organization. I don't know what went wrong, but somebody must have figured it out, because our agent ended up as buzzard food."
"Do you know who killed your guy?"
"We're pretty sure it was the jerk you shot at Hutch's."
"I don't get it. How did I get caught up in this?"
"You went looking for Peggy and turned over the hornet's nest. We think that when Simmermon's people heard that you had discovered our agent's body at Pelican Man's, they decided that you were one of us. They had to take you out."
Austin came back to the table. "You ready to go?"
We were.