Free The Sound of Many Waters by Sean Bloomfield Page A

see its features. Unlike the Jupiter Lighthouse which always gave Zane a feeling of security, this one—painted white with black stripes like a convict—was foreboding.
    He continued ripping into the bale. When he had broken through the Styrofoam he came to a black duffel bag stuffed with a mystery. His hands quivered. He found the zipper. As he pulled it open, a strange sheen emanated from inside. What exotic delight awaited him? He would know soon. Movement, however, caught his eye; he glanced toward the beach and saw Miguel standing in the surf, bent over with his hands on his knees. Something in Miguel’s hand glinted.
    “No,” whispered Zane.
    He watched Miguel look down the beach in both directions and then at the ground in front of him. Zane’s heart sank when he saw what Miguel was looking at—there, preserved in the sand, were Zane’s footprints and, between them, the line left behind where he had dragged the bale. Miguel set off following them.
    Zane smacked himself in the forehead. How could he have been so stupid? He looked down at the bale and, aware that only seconds remained, ripped open the zipper. Yellow luster bathed his face.
    “Holy—” he said. The beam of the lighthouse crept across the dune and in the radiance he saw the full glory of what lay inside the bag: stacks upon stacks of gold rounds. There had to be a thousand coins, all shrink-wrapped together in stacks of ten. Someone had taken great care in their preparation. He sat there mesmerized. It was too dark to see the features of the coins, but he assumed them to be rounds of bullion. Gold bullion, he knew, was the latest trend in trafficking b e cause—unlike currency—it was anonymous and untraceable. Now he understood Miguel’s determination, and it made him even more afraid. But despite the riches that lay before him, he felt an ache of disappointment. He would have preferred drugs. He hated himself for thinking that way.
    Zane rubbed his eyes and peered through the sea oats. Miguel had almost reached the dunes. The thing in Miguel’s hand, he could now see, was a dive knife, typically carried by scuba divers as a safety precaution but certainly sharp enough to be a weapon. If Zane tried to run now, he would undoubtedly be seen. He felt angry at himself for not fleeing when he had the chance, but his curiosity about the contents of the bale—or, more accurately, his hunger for narcotics—had been too great.
    “Where are you, boy?” Miguel’s voice was eerily singsong.
    Something in Zane urged him to jump out and surrender. If he gave up, maybe Miguel would be merciful. But then he remembered the insane look in Miguel’s eyes when the IRS boat had approached, and he crouched lower.
    “I know you’re up there,” Miguel said from the other side of the dune. Zane could hear the shuffle of his feet in the sand, but the sound stopped.
    “You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Miguel. “A damn turtle?”
    Miguel stormed away down the beach. Zane looked at the tracks in the sand again and realized that they were not even his. What he had mistaken for his own footprints were actually made by the turtle’s flippers as it scuttled up the beach; the drag mark was from the turtle’s shell, not the bale. Still, M i guel would soon find his real tracks, which were only a little farther down the beach.
    Zane looked at the coins. What should he do with them? With this kind of fortune he’d be set for life—a new boat, a new truck, and a big mansion on the water. This was, he figured, the only chance at serious wealth he’d ever get. He had to at least try.
    He strained to lift the bag but realized that he would not get far with so much weight. He looked around; his eyes came to the turtle. An idea struck him—he was not sure if it was ludicrous or ingenious but he could think of nothing better.
    This is it, Zane thought. Make it happen, captain.
    He flung himself over the peak of the dune and rolled down its steep face, dragging