Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3), John Cunningham [top fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

She turned toward the music as the steel drummer began Three Little Birds. He wasn’t singing, thank God. I didn’t think Crystal would agree that ‘everything was going to be all right.’

“I appreciate that.” She reached out, squeezed the top of my hand, and left hers there. I swallowed.

“So what can you tell me about the threats?”

She withdrew her hand. “Nothing we took particularly seriously—God, I can hardly remember what they said.”

“They, as in multiple? Were there letters? Phone calls? Emails?”

“Voice mails at our office, for one.” She leaned forward. “The first one was really strange—in fact I thought it was a wrong number. The voice sounded foreign. It said we should abandon our plans for the ‘save the children’ concert.”

“That’s it?”

“A few days later, John answered the phone—it was him again, the foreign-sounding guy. They had a brief conversation.”

Crystal suddenly slid off her seat, crossed her arms.

I waited.

“John never told me exactly what he said, but he was shaken, I could see it. I asked him what was wrong and he said nothing, then went for a long walk. I knew something was bothering him—I was afraid the network had cancelled their plans to carry the show or maybe one of the bigger names dropped out, but I didn’t find out until he got back that it was another threat.”

The drummer now started a version of No Woman No Cry.

“He said it was the same voice and he said if we continue with our ‘save the children’ concert, there’d be trouble. I pressed him for more, but he laughed it off, said we should ignore it.”

Not much to go on. The choice of words was odd, “save the children,” but if she was right and the caller was foreign, it could have been a translation disconnect—or was it some kind of philosophical statement?

“Is that it?” I said.

She sighed. She rolled her eyes. Finally she answered my question.

“We did get some posts on our website and Facebook page by what I would describe as religious extremists.”

I waited for more, but she just shook her head.

“You mean radical Christians, Jews, Muslims, what?” I’d have thought they’d support any alternative to abortion.

“Yeah, pretty much all of the above—some over-zealous types who think making it too easy to give up a child for adoption will promote promiscuity or may even threaten the institution of marriage.” She shrugged.

“Good grief,” I muttered.

I looked up. Crystal was signing the bill for the drinks. My beer had gone warm, but only ice remained in hers. We’d flown over a thousand miles today and I suddenly felt leaden in my seat, exhausted. Her revelations hadn’t helped.

“I need to get to Jost Van Dyke tomorrow to keep things under control, or the concert will fall apart,” she said. “Can you take me?”

“The BVI doesn’t allow water landings, but I’m, ah, trying to get a special permit. So we’ll need to take the ferry to Tortola, get our passports stamped, then take the ferry to Jost.”

When she nodded I noticed the dark circles—they accentuated her eyes, but she hadn’t been getting much sleep. She probably wouldn’t sleep tonight, either.

An idea had been gnawing at me since I spoke with Booth.

“If you’re okay with it, I’d like to stop on St. John first and see what we can learn from the Park Police about John’s disappearance. The first ferry’s at seven-thirty.”

“That’s fine.”

We stood, and just as I was about to turn toward my room, she stepped up and gave me a tight hug.

“Thanks, Buck. Jimmy was right—you may not have the best reputation, but you’re a good guy.” She looked up into my eyes. “I really appreciate your help. See you in the morning.”

I watched her walk away. She’d surprised the hell out of me, and my heart was racing. I wasn’t sure what hit me harder—that she’d said I didn’t have the best reputation, that she thought I was a good guy, or the hug.

I turned around and sat back down at the tiki bar, my mind swirling like the sky in Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It was more than her need that drew me to Crystal—I’d have to push that aside. But I’d do anything I could to help and protect her.

The toothy bartender returned.

“Rum,” I said. “I need rum.”

THE PHONE RANG IN the middle of the night.

I awoke with a jump from deep, dreamless slumber. At first I didn’t know where I was and rolled to the left toward where my nightstand is at the La Concha. When it rang again I rolled to the right and swung my arm toward the illuminated dial pad.

“Hello?”

“Help the woman and your plane will be on the bottom of the harbor.”

I shook my head. The room was pitch black. Was I dreaming?

“What?” I said.

“You help the woman with the concert, and your plane will be sunk—”

“Listen!” I shouted. “Where’s John Thedford? Do you want a ransom?”

Silence on the other end, followed by a click.

The clock read 4:15

Son of a bitch!

My mind went from zero to ninety in a flash. Who knew I was here? Right—anybody who watched the news, thanks to my nationally broadcast confrontation with the camera team.

The Beast. I hadn’t thought of her once since we left the dock. She was totally exposed at the harbor. Had I even locked the hatch? There was no security at the seaplane base because no planes were stored there. Except mine.

Way to go, dumb ass!

I scrambled around the room, pulled my clothes on, grabbed my flight bag—and stopped just as I was about to bolt out of the room. Crystal.

I called the front desk and asked them to relay a message.

“What’s the fastest way to town?” I said. “Is the launch to Charlotte Amalie Harbor running yet?”

“No, mon, not until eight o’clock. Hang on a second?” He put me on hold and after nearly a minute returned to the line. “But the launch leaves