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Book by Kling Christine
Les informations fournies dans la section « Synopsis » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
Extrait :
Chapter 1
Looking down at the old wooden Bahamian cruiser Miss Agnes, resting on her side on the white sand bottom, it was hard to imagine that people had died here. Every detail, from the peeling, eggshell-colored paint to the frayed wire at the base of the radio antenna, was so sharp, it was as if I were peering through a camera lens in crisp focus. It didn't look as if it were underwater. The cruiser and the water above were so still and clear that as I leaned over the bow of my boat, I felt like I was floating in air.
"I just can't picture a vessel that size carrying over fifty panicked people." I turned and saw B.J. standing outside the tugboat's wheelhouse door, dripping seawater, his wet suit unzipped to the waist, his long black hair slicked straight back. He joined me at the rail and stared down into the crystal water. "You know, Seychelle, it was like three generations-old people, young, even kids-all jammed in there like cocktail wienies in the can. Hell of a way to go."
"Cocktail wienies, B.J.?" I turned around and squinted at him, my elbows propped on the aluminum bulwark behind me. We both had to shout to be heard over the rumble of the generator on the barge. "I didn't think a guy like you even knew such things existed."
B.J. was my sometime deckhand and mechanic, a sort of New Age natural foods surfer; the only one I'd ever known who didn't make all that seem kind of fake and wacky. He certainly was not your typical blond surfer dude, since he had at least two college degrees compared to my zero-and an ancestry that was mostly Samoan but included a dash of every other ethnic group that had passed through the Pacific in the last hundred years. Though he'd never been to his islands, you could see in his smooth brown skin and almond-shaped eyes that he carried part of his homeland in him. "Natural" was not a fad to B.J., it was how he lived his life.
"You're right, I'd never eat such a thing, but I do like to observe the habits of the people around me. Take those guys, for example." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the men working the crane on the barge to which Gorda, my forty-foot tugboat, was moored. We were anchored a couple of thousand yards off the Hillsboro Inlet lighthouse. "Between them, they have three completely different ideas as to where I should put the straps under the hull so that when we lift this wreck to the surface, we won't break the back of the old derelict. Not a one of them is willing to compromise."
I looked at the characters he was referring to, and I suspected that not a one of them was hangover-free or had used a razor within the last three days. They looked like a labor pool collected from the Downtowner Saloon at closing. "I gather we're going to be here awhile?"
B.J. nodded, then moved into the shade, sitting on the deck box at the front of the wheelhouse. He began to scratch Abaco's ears. She was the black Lab I'd inherited along with Gorda and the Sullivan Towing and Salvage Company when my father, Red Sullivan, died not quite three years ago.
"I got tired of swimming around while they try to make up their minds," B.J. said, "so I came out here to bug you." He peeled the wet suit off his broad, brown shoulders. "It's too early to be this hot."
I turned away from the view of his chest. Today I had to concentrate on business. After working with B.J. for years, and swearing to myself I would never allow the relationship to change into something different, something romantic, it had changed. The how and why were a long story, but shortly after finding his toothbrush and coconut soap in my bathroom, I'd asked for a hiatus. I wasn't sure yet I was willing to give up my precious solitude.
The business at hand was a much-needed insurance job. Working for the corporate world beat working for the little guy-you gave them the bill and they paid it. They didn't cry and complain and try to wheedle you out of every nickel. Gorda and I were here to take the Bahamian cruiser under tow once these guys from Gilman Marine brought her to the surface and got her pumped out. Gilman's tugs were all huge monsters designed for moving ships, so while they had the barge crane to get the Miss Agnes off the bottom, they had subbed this towing job out to me. My father had designed Gorda and had her built specifically for the small boat and yacht trade back in the early seventies.
I had deck loaded two big thirty-gallons-per-minute gasoline pumps, and as long as she wasn't holed, we should be able to keep Miss Agnes pumped out and get her down the coast, into Port Everglades, and up to a boatyard. Old planked wooden boats like her would usually leak through their caulked seams, but my pumps should be able to stay ahead of the flow.
I leaned out over the water again to examine the wreck resting on the bottom. The sand beneath her looked as though it had been raked into neat furrows, the product of the swift current that flowed through the inlet. The illusion of flying was harder to maintain now as I spotted a school of smallmouth grunts darting in and out of the open pilot-house windows and a foot-long barracuda hanging motionless over the wreck. "Are you sure they said fifty people, B.J.?"
"Yeah."
Neither of us said anything for a while. That was one thing about B.J.-he never felt the need to fill the silences with unnecessary talk. When he spoke, finally, his voice was quiet, and I had to lean in closer to hear him. "See the jetty back there, off the north side of the inlet?"
I looked to where he pointed. The Hillsboro Inlet lighthouse stood back from the broad beach tucked in among the scraggly pines and low sea grape trees. The nearly one-hundred-year-old skeletal frame had been painted recently, white on the bottom half, black up top. A small rock jetty jutted out into the Atlantic along the sandy point at the base of lighthouse.
"Seems the Coast Guard patrol boat was sitting back in there," he said, pointing to the small cove formed by the point. "It was a moonless night. The smugglers prefer that, but the bad news for them was it meant they didn't see the patrol boat until they were almost into the inlet. When the Coasties turned their spotlight on, the Haitians panicked-tried to push their way to the far side of the boat. The weather was real quiet that night, and the crew had left all their windows and hatches open. She just rolled over and went glug."
"I heard six people drowned," I said. I also had read in the Miami Herald that two of them were children, little girls, ages ten and twelve, but I didn't say it out loud. I knew that B.J. knew, just as he knew that I knew most of the details of the events that had taken place here the night before last. It was our habit, though, to talk about these salvage cases, to rehash the details when we were working. All too often when salvaging wrecked boats there were also ruined lives, and B.J. and I usually did what we could to get around that, joking and laughing and avoiding the image of how it had happened. Those images would eventually catch up with me, often in that twilight moment that comes between wakefulness and sleep, when my imagination would sneak in the vision of those girls struggling in the water, surprised at the sudden cold, screaming for their parents, gasping what they thought was air but sucking in the sea in its stead.
"Fifty people is really only an estimate," he said. "These days, Haitians will do or pay anything to get to the States, and the way the smugglers pack the boats, it could have been more."
"I hope they catch the bastards and charge them with murder."
B.J. was staring at the little strip of sand inside the jetty. "Some of them made it to the beach and managed to lose themselves into the city. Probably got into waiting cars. Immigration picked up twenty-seven. They're either in Krome Detention Center or already back in Port-au-Prince."
"The Land of the Free," I said, "but only if you come from the right island."
"Gorda, Gorda, this is Outta the Blue, over." The transmission from the tug's VHF radio was barely audible above the rumbling of the generator on the barge.
"Damn." I slapped the palm of my hand against the top of the warm aluminum bulwark. "Not again." When I turned around, B.J. was laughing. "Stop it, you," I said. "It's not funny."
"Bet you he did it again."
"No way I'm taking that bet."
I swung around the door into the wheelhouse and grabbed the VHF radio mike hanging above the helm. "Outta the Blue, this is Gorda. You want to switch to channel six eight?"
"Roger that."
I punched the numbers on the keypad. "Hey, Mike, this is Gorda. What's up?"
"Hey, Seychelle, isn't this a scorcher of a day for June? Not a breath of wind out here."
"Yeah, yeah, Mike. I know you didn't call to discuss the weather. What's wrong?"
"Well, I've been out here fishing all night with my buddy Joe D'Angelo. Him and me, we go way back. Used to work together. We had some good times back in the eighties, boy." I made a circling motion with my hand to B.J. when he shot me a questioning look through the wheelhouse window. Mike rambled on.
A former Fort Lauderdale police officer, Mike Beesting had walked in on a disgruntled city maintenance worker who had brought a shotgun to argue an issue with his boss. The end result was that Mike saved several lives but lost his lower right leg to a short-range shotgun blast. Rather than work a desk, he retired from the department and, thanks to a nice settlement from the city, he now lived on his Irwin-54 sailboat at a dock on the Middle River and ran sunset cocktail cruises and chartered day sails.
"Cut to the chase, Mike."
...
Présentation de l'éditeur :
Looking down at the old wooden Bahamian cruiser Miss Agnes, resting on her side on the white sand bottom, it was hard to imagine that people had died here. Every detail, from the peeling, eggshell-colored paint to the frayed wire at the base of the radio antenna, was so sharp, it was as if I were peering through a camera lens in crisp focus. It didn't look as if it were underwater. The cruiser and the water above were so still and clear that as I leaned over the bow of my boat, I felt like I was floating in air.
"I just can't picture a vessel that size carrying over fifty panicked people." I turned and saw B.J. standing outside the tugboat's wheelhouse door, dripping seawater, his wet suit unzipped to the waist, his long black hair slicked straight back. He joined me at the rail and stared down into the crystal water. "You know, Seychelle, it was like three generations-old people, young, even kids-all jammed in there like cocktail wienies in the can. Hell of a way to go."
"Cocktail wienies, B.J.?" I turned around and squinted at him, my elbows propped on the aluminum bulwark behind me. We both had to shout to be heard over the rumble of the generator on the barge. "I didn't think a guy like you even knew such things existed."
B.J. was my sometime deckhand and mechanic, a sort of New Age natural foods surfer; the only one I'd ever known who didn't make all that seem kind of fake and wacky. He certainly was not your typical blond surfer dude, since he had at least two college degrees compared to my zero-and an ancestry that was mostly Samoan but included a dash of every other ethnic group that had passed through the Pacific in the last hundred years. Though he'd never been to his islands, you could see in his smooth brown skin and almond-shaped eyes that he carried part of his homeland in him. "Natural" was not a fad to B.J., it was how he lived his life.
"You're right, I'd never eat such a thing, but I do like to observe the habits of the people around me. Take those guys, for example." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the men working the crane on the barge to which Gorda, my forty-foot tugboat, was moored. We were anchored a couple of thousand yards off the Hillsboro Inlet lighthouse. "Between them, they have three completely different ideas as to where I should put the straps under the hull so that when we lift this wreck to the surface, we won't break the back of the old derelict. Not a one of them is willing to compromise."
I looked at the characters he was referring to, and I suspected that not a one of them was hangover-free or had used a razor within the last three days. They looked like a labor pool collected from the Downtowner Saloon at closing. "I gather we're going to be here awhile?"
B.J. nodded, then moved into the shade, sitting on the deck box at the front of the wheelhouse. He began to scratch Abaco's ears. She was the black Lab I'd inherited along with Gorda and the Sullivan Towing and Salvage Company when my father, Red Sullivan, died not quite three years ago.
"I got tired of swimming around while they try to make up their minds," B.J. said, "so I came out here to bug you." He peeled the wet suit off his broad, brown shoulders. "It's too early to be this hot."
I turned away from the view of his chest. Today I had to concentrate on business. After working with B.J. for years, and swearing to myself I would never allow the relationship to change into something different, something romantic, it had changed. The how and why were a long story, but shortly after finding his toothbrush and coconut soap in my bathroom, I'd asked for a hiatus. I wasn't sure yet I was willing to give up my precious solitude.
The business at hand was a much-needed insurance job. Working for the corporate world beat working for the little guy-you gave them the bill and they paid it. They didn't cry and complain and try to wheedle you out of every nickel. Gorda and I were here to take the Bahamian cruiser under tow once these guys from Gilman Marine brought her to the surface and got her pumped out. Gilman's tugs were all huge monsters designed for moving ships, so while they had the barge crane to get the Miss Agnes off the bottom, they had subbed this towing job out to me. My father had designed Gorda and had her built specifically for the small boat and yacht trade back in the early seventies.
I had deck loaded two big thirty-gallons-per-minute gasoline pumps, and as long as she wasn't holed, we should be able to keep Miss Agnes pumped out and get her down the coast, into Port Everglades, and up to a boatyard. Old planked wooden boats like her would usually leak through their caulked seams, but my pumps should be able to stay ahead of the flow.
I leaned out over the water again to examine the wreck resting on the bottom. The sand beneath her looked as though it had been raked into neat furrows, the product of the swift current that flowed through the inlet. The illusion of flying was harder to maintain now as I spotted a school of smallmouth grunts darting in and out of the open pilot-house windows and a foot-long barracuda hanging motionless over the wreck. "Are you sure they said fifty people, B.J.?"
"Yeah."
Neither of us said anything for a while. That was one thing about B.J.-he never felt the need to fill the silences with unnecessary talk. When he spoke, finally, his voice was quiet, and I had to lean in closer to hear him. "See the jetty back there, off the north side of the inlet?"
I looked to where he pointed. The Hillsboro Inlet lighthouse stood back from the broad beach tucked in among the scraggly pines and low sea grape trees. The nearly one-hundred-year-old skeletal frame had been painted recently, white on the bottom half, black up top. A small rock jetty jutted out into the Atlantic along the sandy point at the base of lighthouse.
"Seems the Coast Guard patrol boat was sitting back in there," he said, pointing to the small cove formed by the point. "It was a moonless night. The smugglers prefer that, but the bad news for them was it meant they didn't see the patrol boat until they were almost into the inlet. When the Coasties turned their spotlight on, the Haitians panicked-tried to push their way to the far side of the boat. The weather was real quiet that night, and the crew had left all their windows and hatches open. She just rolled over and went glug."
"I heard six people drowned," I said. I also had read in the Miami Herald that two of them were children, little girls, ages ten and twelve, but I didn't say it out loud. I knew that B.J. knew, just as he knew that I knew most of the details of the events that had taken place here the night before last. It was our habit, though, to talk about these salvage cases, to rehash the details when we were working. All too often when salvaging wrecked boats there were also ruined lives, and B.J. and I usually did what we could to get around that, joking and laughing and avoiding the image of how it had happened. Those images would eventually catch up with me, often in that twilight moment that comes between wakefulness and sleep, when my imagination would sneak in the vision of those girls struggling in the water, surprised at the sudden cold, screaming for their parents, gasping what they thought was air but sucking in the sea in its stead.
"Fifty people is really only an estimate," he said. "These days, Haitians will do or pay anything to get to the States, and the way the smugglers pack the boats, it could have been more."
"I hope they catch the bastards and charge them with murder."
B.J. was staring at the little strip of sand inside the jetty. "Some of them made it to the beach and managed to lose themselves into the city. Probably got into waiting cars. Immigration picked up twenty-seven. They're either in Krome Detention Center or already back in Port-au-Prince."
"The Land of the Free," I said, "but only if you come from the right island."
"Gorda, Gorda, this is Outta the Blue, over." The transmission from the tug's VHF radio was barely audible above the rumbling of the generator on the barge.
"Damn." I slapped the palm of my hand against the top of the warm aluminum bulwark. "Not again." When I turned around, B.J. was laughing. "Stop it, you," I said. "It's not funny."
"Bet you he did it again."
"No way I'm taking that bet."
I swung around the door into the wheelhouse and grabbed the VHF radio mike hanging above the helm. "Outta the Blue, this is Gorda. You want to switch to channel six eight?"
"Roger that."
I punched the numbers on the keypad. "Hey, Mike, this is Gorda. What's up?"
"Hey, Seychelle, isn't this a scorcher of a day for June? Not a breath of wind out here."
"Yeah, yeah, Mike. I know you didn't call to discuss the weather. What's wrong?"
"Well, I've been out here fishing all night with my buddy Joe D'Angelo. Him and me, we go way back. Used to work together. We had some good times back in the eighties, boy." I made a circling motion with my hand to B.J. when he shot me a questioning look through the wheelhouse window. Mike rambled on.
A former Fort Lauderdale police officer, Mike Beesting had walked in on a disgruntled city maintenance worker who had brought a shotgun to argue an issue with his boss. The end result was that Mike saved several lives but lost his lower right leg to a short-range shotgun blast. Rather than work a desk, he retired from the department and, thanks to a nice settlement from the city, he now lived on his Irwin-54 sailboat at a dock on the Middle River and ran sunset cocktail cruises and chartered day sails.
"Cut to the chase, Mike."
...
Christine Kling’s first novel, Surface Tension, introduced a remarkable sleuth in Seychelle Sullivan. Now, in Kling’s electrifying new book, Sullivan returns–a tall, strong, beautiful woman in a man’s world, caught up in a complex drama set on the South Florida seacoast, where the crimes, hopes, and follies of dreamers and con artists all come washing ashore.
Seychelle is proud to follow in her father’s footsteps and work the waters on a tugboat. She remembers Florida before it fractured between rich and poor, white and black, Cuban and Haitian. For Seychelle, life is all about making a living, making love, and keeping her eye on the beauty that still remains in an ever-changing community. Then her life takes a turn when her tug intercepts with a swamped fishing boat in the Gulf Stream. Inside the boat are a murdered woman and a little girl in a white dress.
When Seychelle returns to shore with a traumatized Haitian girl named Solange in her cabin, she is faced with the border patrol, the police, and an unraveling love affair. Determined to protect Solange, and somehow keep her from being sent back to Haiti, Seychelle becomes obsessed with the forces that nearly killed the girl–and left her speechless with terror. All Seychelle knows for sure is that Solange’s father was an American . . . and that somehow she slipped through a murderer’s hands.
Exploring the hidden world of Florida’s Haitian community, Seychelle realizes that Solange is still in great danger–and that one killer has claimed dozens of lives. With a murderer stalking the child, Seychelle is racing to unravel dangerous truths. But to get the answers she needs, she must return to where it all started: in the waters of the Gulf Stream, where people died for a hope and prayer– and a man with a machete did the work of the devil himself.
Taut, suspenseful, and filled with remarkable descriptions of Florida’s many moods and guises–from million-dollar waterfront homes to haunted, backwater mangrove swamps and secret Voodoo rituals– Cross Current is alive with personalities and passion and the work of an author boldly staking out territory all her own.
From the Hardcover edition.
Seychelle is proud to follow in her father’s footsteps and work the waters on a tugboat. She remembers Florida before it fractured between rich and poor, white and black, Cuban and Haitian. For Seychelle, life is all about making a living, making love, and keeping her eye on the beauty that still remains in an ever-changing community. Then her life takes a turn when her tug intercepts with a swamped fishing boat in the Gulf Stream. Inside the boat are a murdered woman and a little girl in a white dress.
When Seychelle returns to shore with a traumatized Haitian girl named Solange in her cabin, she is faced with the border patrol, the police, and an unraveling love affair. Determined to protect Solange, and somehow keep her from being sent back to Haiti, Seychelle becomes obsessed with the forces that nearly killed the girl–and left her speechless with terror. All Seychelle knows for sure is that Solange’s father was an American . . . and that somehow she slipped through a murderer’s hands.
Exploring the hidden world of Florida’s Haitian community, Seychelle realizes that Solange is still in great danger–and that one killer has claimed dozens of lives. With a murderer stalking the child, Seychelle is racing to unravel dangerous truths. But to get the answers she needs, she must return to where it all started: in the waters of the Gulf Stream, where people died for a hope and prayer– and a man with a machete did the work of the devil himself.
Taut, suspenseful, and filled with remarkable descriptions of Florida’s many moods and guises–from million-dollar waterfront homes to haunted, backwater mangrove swamps and secret Voodoo rituals– Cross Current is alive with personalities and passion and the work of an author boldly staking out territory all her own.
From the Hardcover edition.
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurBallantine Books
- Date d'édition2005
- ISBN 10 0345448308
- ISBN 13 9780345448309
- ReliureBroché
- Nombre de pages327
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