Free Baja Florida by Bob Morris Page B

could walk. He guided her to the head and backed her inside.
    â€œClose the door,” she said.
    And this time he did as she asked.
    Her hands immediately went for the blindfold. She didn’t pull it all the way off. Just enough to peek over the top.
    She saw: A narrow stall, white fiberglass walls. Not much in there except for the toilet. One shelf with cans of Comet and Lysol and some rolls of toilet paper. Not even a sink.
    In the ceiling above the toilet—a Plexiglas vent, about eighteen inches square, the kind that can pop up to let in air or seal tight in a storm. It was up.
    She stood atop the toilet and did her best to peek out the vent. The opening was only about five inches high. It gave her a glimpse of the boat: Bigger than she thought, thirty-four feet at least, its deck pale blue. A sleek sportfisherman with a pair of fighting chairs near the transom and a ladder that led to the flying bridge.
    She turned atop the toilet, looking beyond the boat in all directions and saw: Open water. More open water. A scattering of boats at their mooring buoys, the closest maybe two hundred yards away. And a mangrove shoreline, at least a half mile in the distance, with a long dock, a few houses tucked here and there, a couple of spindly radio towers, and the flickering image of cars passing on a road behind the mangroves.
    Her spirits lifted. All this time she had thought they were at some remote location, an uninhabited cay, a hidden cove. Yet, here were cars and boats and houses—other people, the chance for escape.
    She pushed against the vent. It wouldn’t open any farther. Its top was fastened to the base on aluminum hinges. The hinges were attached to the base by rivets. Easy enough to work loose.
    A knock on the door.
    â€œYou done in there?”
    She stepped down from the toilet.
    â€œJust a second,” she said.
    She pulled the Leatherman from the purse. It had several types of blades—a hacksaw, a file, a basic knife. None of them more than a couple inches long. Capable of doing some damage, but only if her first strike was directly on target—the middle of his forehead, an eye. If she missed or if the blade was deflected or any number of other misfires, then that was it. He’d be all over her. She didn’t have a chance of fighting him off.
    Better to use the Leatherman to undo the hinges on the vent. The vent was narrow but she felt sure she could squeeze through. But where to hide the Leatherman? She looked around. The only place was behind the toilet. She tucked it away.
    She sat down on the toilet. She put the blindfold back in place.
    Another knock on the door.
    â€œAll done,” she said.

13
    Charlie brought the plane in low and made a quick loop around Walker’s Cay before putting down.
    Over the centuries, all kinds of characters have dropped anchor at Walker’s Cay. Ponce de Leon visited the island during his search for the Fountain of Youth. Confederate blockade runners sought haven in the Civil War. And a long pro cession of treasure salvors have scoured the nearby shoals for sunken ships and hoards of gold.
    A fellow by the name of Bob Abplanalp bought the entire seventy-acre island back in the 1960s after he made the first of many, many millions from his most famous invention—the aerosol nozzle, the little thing that goes “sssssssst” on top of a spray can. Abplanalp was drawn here mainly for the fishing. More than a dozen world record catches have come from waters within just a few minutes of Walker’s Cay.
    Abplanalp spruced up the place, built the Walker’s Cay Hotel & Marina, and turned it into a favorite haunt not only for sportfishermen but those who wanted to kick back and enjoy themselves well removed from the public eye. One of Abplanalp’s pals, Richard Nixon, made several trips to Walker’s during his presidency.
    After Bob Abplanalp died, his family continued to run their little fiefdom as it had always been