Deep Dirty Truth

by Steph Broadribb

  ‘It happened in fall 1968. The Bonchese brothers had come of age and the Old Man’s father wanted them to prove themselves by setting up a new operation – getting in on the action that was happening here. Word was that the locals had struck a deal with Colombian marijuana barons to smuggle dope out of South America and into the US through the wildest country of the Everglades – the Ten Thousand Islands.’

  ‘I’m guessing the locals didn’t much like them muscling in.’

  North sucks air in through his teeth. ‘Hard to say if it was the locals or the cops who got to the Old Man’s brother, Anthony. Things were hazy, the line between who did what – the law or the smugglers – was unclear. Way the Old Man tells it, they flew out to Colombia and made contact with the dope-growers easy enough. The trouble started when they were bringing their first loads back through the Ten Thousand Islands.’

  I take in the swamp around us. ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘It wasn’t the terrain that was the problem – those boys had memorised the route, every twist and turn – it was the patrols: trigger-happy cops and angry locals. None of them wanted a new enterprise – particularly non-local smugglers – taking any of their trade.’

  ‘So what happened?’ I ask, taking another swig of my water.

  ‘Anthony was the mastermind behind the plan, him being twenty-two – a year older than Giovanni – and the one in line to take over as head of the family after their father passed. They loaded two shrimping boats with weed, waited until after dark then came into US waters and headed through the Ten Thousand Islands. Giovanni’s boat was smaller and more nimble. He made it back before dawn and had the men waiting load the cargo into a couple of trucks and head towards Miami. When they’d gone, he sat down at the waterside and waited for his brother.’

  ‘Who never arrived?’

  North nods. ‘After the sun came up Giovanni took his boat out, searching for Anthony. Hours later he found his body splayed out on the mangrove roots in the cove we’re now heading to. He’d taken a single bullet to the head, and there was no sign of the shrimp boat he’d been sailing.’

  I slap a mosquito that’s feeding on my arm. ‘Well, damn.’

  ‘Yeah. That was the only time the Old Man took dope through the Ten Thousand Islands. After that he started to fly the stuff in. He only ever comes back here for his pilgrimage.’ North finishes the last of his water, scrunches the bottle into a cube and tosses it into the bottom of the kayak. ‘Mind you, I’ve heard that every man who crewed the patrol boats that night was murdered before the year was out.’

  Well, shit. Seems the whole Bonchese family lived lives doused in blood. ‘I can see how that might change a person.’

  ‘Word is, the Old Man would never have got into the family business if it hadn’t been for what happened to his brother. He’d always fought against getting involved until that point – only did the dope smuggling to help his brother. But when Anthony died, he was told it was his duty to step up.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Story he tells, it was his mother.’ North’s jaw tightens. ‘From my experiences with her, that doesn’t surprise me.’

  I think back to the house where I was held just a few days ago. It had a rustic charm to it, the feel of a place that your grandmother might live. ‘That’s real sad.’

  North frowns. ‘Don’t let that change your thinking on him. It all happened a long time ago – near on fifty years back. Every year he’s lived since has hardened him. He might talk like a gentleman and live by the old ways, but he’s a ruthless killer, make no mistake.’

  I remember how beat up and bruised JT was when he got out of hospital a couple of months ago. The stab wounds he’d received from the shanks of men loyal to the Old Man still raw and freshly stitched. They healed well, but he’ll bear those scars forever. It’s a miracle he survived. ‘Yeah. I know.’

  North picks up his oar and gestures towards a narrow gully between the mangroves to our left. ‘We need to go through there.’

  The gap between the roots seems impossibly small. ‘How the hell did he ever get a shrimping boat through here?’

  ‘Like I say, that was a long time ago. The Everglades are always growing. Now the only way in is by kayak.’

  I squint at the gap. ‘But, really, can we fit? How do—?’

  ‘Paddle towards the gap, and get up some speed. Then tuck your oar lengthways along the kayak, and use the low branches to pull yourself along.’

  I do not like the sound of that. ‘With my…’

  Before I can finish my question, North sets off towards the gully. With a sick feeling in my belly, I take a deep breath and follow. Eight strokes of the oar and I’m at the mouth of the opening. I give one final push, then tuck my oar up into the side of the kayak lengthways.

  The little craft only just fits. There’s less than an inch of water on either side before the mangroves rise from the water like deformed sentries, barricading us inside. The branches bend over us, forming a water-filled tunnel through the swamp, and blocking all but the most persistent shafts of light.

  It feels like we’re passing through the gates of hell.

  ‘Grip the branches, Lori,’ North calls from a few kayak lengths ahead. ‘Check them first, though. You don’t want to grab a snake.’

  ‘Yeah, great tip. Thanks so much.’ My faked bravado makes my words harsher than intended, but I do as he says. The mangrove tree branches feel damp in places, and kind of slimy to the touch. The sweat runs down my back from the humidity and the effort. Mosquitoes buzz loudly around my face. I stay alert for snakes.

  I see none, and for that I’m grateful, as for the last few hundred yards of the gully the trees grow progressively lower over the water, creating a tight, dark shaft. Soon I’m near-on lying backwards in the kayak, propelling myself forwards through the water, with just the branches and North’s voice to navigate.

  Then I’m out and blinking in the glare of the sun. I take a couple of breaths, letting the kayak slow. The waterway is a few yards wide here. Less claustrophobic.

  ‘Keep going, Lori,’ North calls. ‘This isn’t a good spot to rest.’

  The sun’s hotter now, but it’s less humid in the open than inside the mangrove tunnel. I take a quick gulp of water, my kayak’s momentum propelling it on a few yards before stopping.

  I feel it then – something brushing the belly of the kayak. There’s a loud scraping sound beneath me, and my kayak jerks sideways. I’m powerless as I’m shunted a yard closer to the roots. I let out a sharp cry.

  North turns. ‘I said don’t stop.’ He gestures at my arms. ‘Keep your elbows the hell in. Have nothing of you sticking out over the water.’

  My heart’s pounding. Adrenaline pumps through me. I ask the question even though I fear I know the answer well enough. ‘What the hell was that?’

  ‘Paddle, Lori. For God’s sake!’

  Then I see them in the water all around us. Gators, and lots of them, their eyes and nostrils just visible above the surface. Grabbing my oar, I start paddling after North. The gators seem to move with me, gliding silently through the water alongside. Watching. Waiting for me to make a mistake.

  My stomach turns and I taste bile in my throat. I try not to think about my last trip to the Everglades; the blood in the water, an arm severed at the elbow floating on the surface.

  Try as I might to be cool, my breathing gets faster and more shallow, my movements more erratic. In my haste to catch up with North I stick my oar into the water crooked, and almost lose it to something below the water, unseen.

  Panic rises inside me. Has a gator grabbed my oar? I cling on, clutching the oar tighter, and wrestle it free. Then paddle faster. Keeping my eyes on North.

  A few minutes later the gators seem to lose interest. My breathing begins to return to normal, and I concentrate on the sounds around me – the splash of our oars and the occasional bird calling above us in the branches. We take a turn, and I catch a glimpse of a white egret, leaning ou
t over the water’s edge, looking for food.

  ‘This is it,’ North says.

  I look towards where he’s pointing his oar and see a small area in the mangroves where the roots have been cut back. Laid in the middle of the nook is a bunch of gardenias and a church candle in a mason jar, the wick alive with flame. I turn back to North. ‘Where’s the Old Man?’

  He’s opening his mouth to answer when the first shot is fired.

  52

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd, 09:58

  ‘When we get there, can I take her into dock?’ Dakota says. She’s standing beside Red at the helm, her hair tucked up into JT’s Yankees ballcap.

  JT shakes his head as he passes Red a coffee. He’s amazed at the resilience of his daughter. Even when he fetched her from the closet where she’d been hiding out during the battle with the mob heavies, and she was shaking and fearful, she raised the penknife he’d given her, blade drawn, ready to fight if he’d turned out to be one of the heavies instead. It was her who found the duct tape they used to patch the fuel line – she’d spotted it in the back of Red’s closet when she was hiding. The sharks circling the boat as JT and Red battled to fix the line hadn’t fazed her at all. She was a real little trooper, just like her momma; one tough cookie for sure, but sweet with it.

  Red thanks JT then smiles at Dakota, steering one-handed as he takes a sip of his coffee while considering her question. ‘I’m not too sure on that. But you can captain her now for a little while, if JT here doesn’t mind helping you.’

  JT scans the ocean. There’s no sign of any other crafts; no immediate trouble. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good. Here you go then, Miss Dakota.’ Red moves away from the wheel, letting Dakota take it. ‘I’m making you captain of this vessel for the next half-hour. I’m going to have me a little nap.’

  Dakota takes hold of the wheel with both hands. ‘Cool.’

  ‘You look after her well, mind. I’ll be checking for scratches when I get back.’

  Dakota giggles as Red heads into the cabin.

  JT glances towards the back of the Liberty, where the mob guy’s bullets punched holes clear through the boat’s gleaming green-and-gold liveried flanks. Red’s not said anything, but JT’s seen him over there inspecting the damage, caressing the pockmarked wooden panels. Damage like that isn’t the sort easy to claim on insurance.

  ‘When we get to Miami can we go to the beach?’ Dakota’s voice is bright and full of excitement. ‘I love the beach.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, but it’s not a good idea.’

  She frowns.

  JT knows he has to keep his resolve. The beach isn’t in the plan. It’s too hard to be vigilant with all those people around, and unfamiliar territory too. He doesn’t know Miami. Wants to limit who sees them. Reduce the risk of being spotted. They need to lie low, stay close to the marina. ‘Haven’t you had enough adventure for a little while?’

  Dakota turns the wheel a little to the right, heading the boat along the crest of a wave. She shakes her head. ‘No. Course not. Momma says never say no to adventure. She says girls are just as brave as boys. We can do anything we put our minds to.’

  ‘Is that right?’ JT smiles. That sounds like Lori for sure. ‘Because I was thinking that this trip has been adventurous already. Things got pretty dangerous yesterday.’

  ‘I’ve nearly died twice already. I’m not afraid.’ Dakota sticks her chin out, defiant. ‘You can’t ever have too much adventure, and I need lots, so if I get sick again I’ve got good things to think about when they’re giving me the medicine.’

  His daughter’s illness. They’ve never much talked about it, him and Lori. The timing’s always seemed off. He knows Dakota was diagnosed with leukaemia before her eighth birthday is all. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that does sound a good reason for adventure.’

  Dakota nods, but the smile has disappeared from her face. ‘I don’t want to get sick again. If I do, and they can’t find me a donor, I might die.’

  JT frowns. ‘Why’d you need a donor?’

  ‘Last time my body didn’t get better right away from the medicine. The doctor said I might need a bit of someone else’s marrow to heal properly. They tested Momma, but her marrow wasn’t right.’

  JT clenches his fists. His daughter might have needed a bone-marrow donor, and Lori didn’t call him, even once she knew she wasn’t a match. She let what happened between them cloud her judgement so bad that she’d have let Dakota die rather than tell him they had a daughter together. He presses his knuckles hard into the boat’s wooden panelled side. Tries not to let his tone betray the rage he’s feeling. ‘That must have been hard.’

  Dakota nods, dropping her head as she blinks back tears. Overhead, sea birds call out, wheeling in the sky above the Liberty, waiting to be fed.

  JT puts a hand on her shoulder. Couldn’t bear for anything to happen to her. ‘You know, sweetheart, if you did get sick again, you can count on me to give you some of my marrow.’

  She looks up at him. ‘But you might not have the right kind.’

  He forces a smile. ‘Don’t you go worrying on that. I’m pretty sure that I will.’

  Dakota holds his gaze for a beat too long, then reaches for his hand. Squeezing it, she says in a quiet voice, ‘Thank you.’

  JT nods and looks back out to the ocean.

  He can’t answer – doesn’t trust what he’ll say.

  He’s furious with Lori for not telling him this truth.

  53

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd, 10:04

  This place is death. There’s no place to take cover.

  Bullets ping against the mangrove trees around us, sending bark and roots splintering into the water. Birds screech overhead. Then I hear a shout and footsteps against the roots somewhere to my right, both almost eclipsed by my own heartbeat thumping loud in my ears.

  Hunching down over the kayak I paddle back towards the turn. Glance round, scanning the mangroves, trying to work out where the shooter is hiding. I see no one, but, from the sound and angle of the gunfire, I figure they must be somewhere in the mangroves on our right, hiding in the shadows of the trees. Pulling my Wesson Classic Bobtail from my shoulder holster I let off a couple of warning shots in that direction.

  I hear a shout. The gunfire ceases. Think maybe I got lucky.

  Before I can check it out, a loud splash draws my attention back towards the nook. Shit. North is in trouble.

  The back end of his yellow kayak is riddled with bullet holes. It’s listing backwards in the water, getting lower by the second. North’s fighting to get out one-handed while holding his messenger bag containing the iPad above his head with the other.

  Yellow eyes surface around him. First one pair, then three more. I hear a faint splash beside me and look down. A huge gator, at least fifteen feet long, glides past me. Its hide is as gnarled as the mangrove roots surrounding us. Its gaze is set on North.

  I’ve still no clue if I hit the shooter. Could be as soon as I move from this spot, they’ll return fire. But I have to do something. If I don’t, North’s going to be gator food.

  Holstering my weapon, I jab my oar against the roots at the side of the waterway to push off and paddle fast towards North. The sudden movement makes the gators dive, but I know it’s the surprise rather than my presence that’s startled them, and it won’t hold them off for long.

  Ahead of me, North’s gotten his legs free of the kayak and has turned it over, emptying the water that gushed in through the bullet holes so he can use it as a raft. His belly is over it, the messenger bag still held out of the water. But his legs are dangling over the side, from mid thigh down they’re beneath the water.

  ‘North, quick.’ I bring my kayak alongside him. ‘Get in.’

  Scowling, he shakes his head. ‘It won’t hold us both.’

  Yellow eyes, four pairs, surface a few yards from us.

  ‘It damn well will.’ I scoot forwards as far as
I can get inside the kayak, and hook his stricken kayak with my oar as a makeshift way to bind us. I use my strictest mom voice. ‘Now get yourself behind me on this kayak right this minute.’

  It has the desired effect. He hands me the messenger bag, and I lift the strap over my good shoulder, letting the cargo rest across my chest. Then hold out my free hand, helping North scramble over his kayak and straddle mine. He doesn’t fit inside the craft, so he tucks his legs up over the side, his feet crossed around my waist. My kayak sinks lower in the water, but stays afloat.

  The gators glide closer. Black vultures circle overhead. My gunshot wound hurts like a bitch.

  We need to get out of here.

  Passing North my gun, I start paddling towards the mouth of the clearing. ‘I might have hit the shooter.’ I nod in the direction the shots came from. ‘We should check it out.’

  ‘Yep.’ North’s voice is loaded with fury. ‘I want to talk to that son-of-a-bitch.’

  I paddle the kayak towards the place I aimed my fire. It’s harder work now – North’s weight is pulling us lower in the water; we’re now just a couple inches from the surface. There’s a damp sheen across my skin, and I feel sweat running down my face from the effort. My left arm throbs even more.

  We reach the place in the water closest to where I figure the shooter must have been. I butt the kayak against the edge of the mangrove roots and point with my oar in the direction I fired. ‘I think he was back through there. Hiding in the shadows.’

  North nods, and says the thing I both knew and dreaded. ‘We’ll need to go across there on foot.’

  Suddenly being inside the kayak seems a whole lot nicer situation than climbing across the snake-filled mangrove roots, looking for a shooter. ‘Yeah.’

  North slides off the back of the kayak then helps me step out. We haul the craft up across the roots, taking care not to damage the bottom of the hull, and leave it buffered against the trucks of two ancient-looking trees.

  I pass North the messenger bag, thankful my left shoulder is relieved of its pressure. Leaving him with the gun, I take out my Taser and lead us across the roots in the direction I fired.