Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3) by John Cunningham (novels for beginners txt) 📕

ATC barking in my headset, I continued north over Cane Garden Bay. I glanced over at Jost Van Dyke to the west, noting the concentration of white dots—boats in Great Harbor where Foxy’s was located—and vectored east around Guana Island, Great Camanoe, and Scrub Islands, adding flaps as we circled.

I straightened out toward Terrance B. Lettsome Airport and touched a third of the way down the 4,500-foot runway. I taxied along toward the FBO, where I was directed to park the Beast on the tarmac, just before the private aviation building.

The trip had been too short to process all the beauty I’d observed along the way: the brilliant turquoise water, rugged rock outcroppings, white strips of sand, and red terracotta roofs dotting green hills. Nothing replaced the feeling I always got when soaring above the islands, all of which I knew by name. It imbued my soul with a sense of peace that calmed the fears I had in coming here.

With my flight bag over my shoulder and the letters from the FAA and FBI in my breast pocket, I was as ready as I’d ever be to go through Customs. Not just because it was a mind-numbing process, island time being especially prevalent where bureaucrats reign, but because it was Tortola.

The line was short and it only took a few minutes before I handed over my passport to the blue-uniformed agent who looked as if he’d fall asleep if left alone for more than a minute. He glanced at the passport, then my face, then back to the passport photo. Okay, so I hadn’t updated it post-e-Antiquity, but it’s still me.

His fingers dragged over the keyboard. He stopped typing, glanced up at me again, looked over his left shoulder toward a closed door.

“Hang on a minute,” he said.

I watched him walk to the door, knock, glance back at me, then enter the room. My gut twisted tighter with each moment that passed. The customs agent came back out followed by a woman with two gold stripes on her epaulets and a scowl on her face. A moment later, the door that led outside to the street opened up and two armed police officers entered the room—headed straight for me, of course.

I swallowed.

“Charles Reilly, III?” the woman said.

I nodded.

“Gentlemen, please escort Mr. Reilly to holding room one.”

The policemen, who now stood on both sides of me, each took one of my elbows and turned me toward another door.

“What’s this about?” I said.

No response.

“Commissioner Mather’s expecting me,” I said.

Still nothing.

The door opened to a short hallway. A painted number 1 adorned a gray metal door with a massive lock and steel bolt fixed on the outside.

Crap.

Was it because of the seedy appearance of the Beast? All of the drug and weapons smuggling in the area? Or because law enforcement tends to be paranoid about amphibious aircraft?

“Please take a seat,” one of the policemen said as the other officer closed the door. The sound of the locks being secured didn’t help my stomach. “Empty your pockets, please.”

“What’s the problem, officer?”

He gave me an impatient nod and I began to empty my pockets. Wallet, Chapstick, wad of paper with the schedule for Ray and Lenny’s pick-ups. I felt the phone in my breast pocket. Just then, the policeman’s cell phone rang. He stepped back to answer it and turned away for a moment.

I pulled out my phone, scrolled down the saved numbers, found the one I wanted, and hit SEND. I placed the phone on the table and covered the screen with the wad of paper.

The officer turned back around.

“Welcome back to Tortola, Mr. Reilly.” His British accent was anything but welcoming. “There’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

“For what?”

“The murder of Stanley Ober.”

Shit. Crap.

“I was released—the judge threw the case out—”

“You were ordered to remain on-island, but you disappeared.”

“That’s crazy! My attorney—he said I was free to go.”

Officer Robertson, according to the gold nametag, held up his right palm.

“Save it for the magistrate, Mr. Reilly.”

I slumped into the metal chair, which was bolted to the floor.

Dammit!

Officer Robertson scooped up my possessions and knocked twice on the door, which opened slowly. He exited without a glance back.

I slumped forward and took my face in both hands. When your only hope is T. Edward Booth, you know you’re in deep shit.

AFTER BEING HANDCUFFED AND taken by van over the bridge to Tortola and through the hills into Road Town, I was back in the same cell where I’d spent a month nearly four years ago. Time hadn’t been kind to either of us: the 8’ x 10’ cut stone chamber smelled even worse of piss, vomit, and feces than I remembered. The cell walls were scarred with more graffiti, the toilet in the corner was plugged up with more of the previous occupants’ detritus, and the flicker of the lone fluorescent bulb was already driving me crazy. As for me, last time I was here I was still wealthy, still married, still at the helm of e-Antiquity, and had a flock of attorneys fighting to gain my release.

I lay back on the hard bunk and looked up at the window, a foot-square slash in the two-foot-deep wall. At least I could tell it was still daytime. Avery Rose would expect me at Peter Island, and Crystal Thedford would await us at Jost. Good luck to them, since I was at the mercy of the local court system. Customs processing at the airport might be on island time, but due process here was glacial.

Footsteps sounded outside my door, followed by the clank of the locks. In stepped none other than Officer Bramble, fists on his hips. His belly was bigger but he seemed shorter than I remembered.

“King Charles, back where you belong.”

“The judge threw this out—”

“Shut up. When I saw you on TV in St. Thomas, I reissued the warrant and reserved your room here.”

“That murder charge was bullshit. I’m