by Bobby Akart
Peter was incensed. He whispered loud enough for the security guards to pick up on his outrage. “I’m talking about a man’s life, not your precious palm trees and patio furniture!”
This angered both men, who raised their weapons at Peter. “That’s enough. You’ve been warned. Martial law has been declared, and we can shoot you if necessary.”
Peter stood on his WaveRunner. He wanted so badly to climb onto the dock and pummel these two rent-a-cops, but that wouldn’t help Jimmy. Without saying another word, he gunned the throttle and did a quick one-eighty to leave the Marriott’s territorial waters. As he straightened the handlebars to direct him toward the sound once again, he lifted his middle finger to the two security guards. It was a gesture that conveyed a clear and unequivocal message that didn’t require him to strain his voice.
He was going nearly forty miles per hour when he turned the WaveRunner to the right in search of a place to tie it off. The Caribbean Club, another of Key Largo’s favorite watering holes, was just ahead. They had a T-shaped dock protruding into the water as well as a boat ramp that he could beach the WaveRunner on if necessary. When he arrived there minutes later, he was relieved to see he wasn’t greeted by men with guns.
Which reminded him. He felt his holster and realized that his weapon was miraculously secured in its holster. Then he looked at the National Guard uniform he’d stolen at the speedway. He began to wonder if this might get him shot by some overzealous local who’d bought into the whole Conch Republic secession thing.
Peter pulled the WaveRunner up to the dock and quickly disembarked. He tied it to a cleat and didn’t bother with the bumpers. He wasn’t sure he’d ever use it again anyway. Then he took off his shirt, leaving nothing on but a green tee shirt and the light green digital camo pants that were still soaking wet. He ditched the holster and tucked the firearm into the waistband of his pants. Then he covered the handle with the tee shirt.
With a deep breath and a quick look at his surroundings, he moseyed over to a boat that had been lifted ashore during the storm surge. Several bottles of water were strewn about the ground next to it. Without a second thought, Peter quickly gulped one down and then opened another, which he sipped. It provided him an instant lift and gave his throat some much-needed relief. Next, he made his way across the sandy parking lot of the Caribbean Club to the highway in search of anyone associated with law enforcement.
Chapter Forty-Three
Saturday, November 9
Blackwater Sound
Near Key Largo
Peter walked south along the highway toward the more populated part of Key Largo. He was concerned that if he walked all the way to the fire station at Lake Surprise, he might be mistaken for a National Guardsman, a sworn enemy of the Keys, he presumed. He’d just have more guns pointed at him.
Two women rode past him on bicycles, so he waved his arms to flag them down. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries.
“Hey! I need a cop. Do they have a station up here?”
“Nah, man,” one of the women said as she barely slowed long enough to make eye contact with Peter. “They’s all up at the roadblock.”
“You mean where it once was,” said the other woman. “They blowed up the bridge.”
Peter smirked and shook his head. I know. I was there.
He had to shout his questions as the women kept riding down the highway. “They don’t have another station down here? Maybe a place where they gather?”
“Try the fire station. This way about four miles!”
Frustrated, Peter mustered the energy to jog down the highway on the wrong side of the road. He expected some kind of shift change if they were still maintaining a contingent of deputies near the destroyed bridge. He’d stop every car coming his way, using his gun, if necessary, until he found help.
He’d jogged a mile or so before an MCSO deputy sheriff’s car approached from the south. Peter stood in the middle of the road and began waving his arms overhead so they would stop. The deputy slowed and tried to pull around him, but Peter quickly moved in front of his bumper. After honking and failing to move Peter out of the way, the deputy pushed the driver’s side door open and stomped out of the car.
“Get the hell out of—!” the deputy began to yell before Peter cut him off.
“I’m Peter Albright. Mike’s nephew. I need help.”
“Detective Mike Albright?”
“Yes. My dad is Hank over at Driftwood Key.”
The deputy looked around and sighed. He walked toward Peter and pointed toward his chest. Before he was able to ask, Peter explained.
“I was trying to get home, and then they blew the bridge. My friend who works for my dad was working as a deputy at the checkpoint. He tried to help me, and we got stuck on the wrong side of the bridge. Anyway, we were arrested by the National Guard. They beat Jimmy and, um, well, we had to steal a guy’s uniform to get away. Listen, none of that matters. Jimmy and I got caught on WaveRunners last night on Blackwater Sound. He fell overboard, and I can’t find him. I need a team to help search for him.”
“Peter. Right?” asked the deputy.
“Yeah.”
“Listen, I’ve got some bad news about your uncle. He was attacked the other night by someone staying at the inn. He was stabbed and is in pretty rough shape.”
“What? You can’t be serious!”
“Afraid so. He’s at Lower Keys Medical in Key West. I heard he’s in stable condition, but I’m really not certain because—”
Peter slapped the sides of his head with both hands and grabbed fistfuls of hair. He wandered in circles, alternating looking back toward Blackwater Sound and then in the direction of Key West. Conflicted, he paced for several seconds before he made a decision. Mike had medical care. Jimmy didn’t.
He plead with the deputy. “Okay. Okay. I’ve gotta find Jimmy. He’s out there floating somewhere. Can we get the WET team on the water to search for him?”
The deputy chuckled although it was more of a reaction to the request rather an attempt at being disrespectful. “Here’s the thing. Nobody knew about this hurricane coming. Sure, some of the old-timers who had those weather-glass things on their kitchen table might’ve called it. However, the rest of us were blindsided, as I gather you were. It’s all hands on deck right now to stop looters and rescue people.”
“Jimmy needs to be rescued,” said Peter dryly. “Can you call my aunt, Jessica Albright. She’s on the WET team.”
“Yeah, I know her. Gimme a sec.”
The deputy returned to his patrol car and slid into the front seat. He spent more than a minute on the radio, trying to raise Jessica on her two-way. Their coverage area had been greatly diminished following the collapse of the grid, and the repeater towers weren’t always functioning.
Peter approached the driver’s side door. “What did you find out?”
“Deputy Albright didn’t respond to my call on the open frequencies. I contacted dispatch, and she hasn’t reported in since leaving the hospital yesterday.”
“What about a search party?” asked Peter.
“I’m gonna be honest. We’re disorganized as hell. The mayor had us focused on kicking people off the Keys, and then she shifted gears to blowing up the bridges. Now, with the storm, I don’t think I could organize a one-man fishing tournament much less send a flotilla out to find your friend.”
“I’ve gotta do something,” lamented Peter.
The deputy furrowed his brow and looked up the highway. “Blackwater Sound, you say?”
“Yeah. I think we were close to the Marriott, but it was so dark, and the wind was howling …” Peter’s voice trailed off as he became emotional.
The deputy noticed his change in demeanor. “You know what? Get in. I have an idea. No promises, though.”
Peter nodded and turned away to wipe a few tears from his cheeks. He hustled around the back of the car and jumped into the passenger’s seat after the deputy set aside his rain gear.
“Thanks for helping,” began Peter as he settled into the seat. The deputy immediately turned on his emergency lights and roared up the road, drawing the attention of several residents who were cleaning up debris.
“No promises, remember. I have some folks at Captain Jax who owe me a favor. They’re not much, but they have boats, and I think I can get ’em to give you an hour or two.”
Peter sighed. He’d take anything at this point. A minute later, the deputy slowed at the entrance to Captain Jax Mobile Home Park. He stopped short of the open entry gates, not because they were guarded but because a travel trailer had been picked up and dropped on its side just beyond the entry.
“Jesus,” muttered the deputy. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “It’s like this all up and down the Keys. Nobody’s been spared.”
Peter grew frustrated again. “This is a waste of time. These people will be digging out for days.”
“Maybe. Do you wanna give it a try? I’ll make the introductions, but dispatch needs me at the bridge.”
“Sure. Thanks.” Peter exited the patrol car. His tee shirt rose on his back, revealing the pistol grip protruding above his waistband.
“You armed?” asked the deputy.
Peter’s face turned pale, and he closed his eyes momentarily. He’d completely forgotten about the weapon. “Yes. I should’ve told you. I’m so preoccupied with finding Jimmy that I—”
“Don’t sweat it, bud. Let’s go.”
The deputy led Peter through the debris. Several of the mobile homes had been tipped over while others had been torn open like a sardine can. Many of the owners were wandering around aimlessly, some of whom were bloodied and injured.
The deputy confronted a group of residents. “Hey! Where’s Jax?”
They all pointed toward the office adjacent to the boat slips.
The two men stepped over a fallen power pole. Its transformers lay partially covered in a heap of sand while the power lines were twisted on the ground at its base. The irony wasn’t lost on Peter. The evidence of America’s beating electrical heart was just as dead as it had been before the hurricane. At least now it could be given a proper burial.
“Wait here,” instructed the deputy. “He owes me the mother of all favors. I’ll call in the chit just to get you some help.”
Peter grimaced and nodded. After several minutes, the deputy returned with Captain Jax and a handful of others.
“Okay, Peter. Here’s what you’ve got. Jax and these folks can give you a couple of hours. They’re gonna need to be reimbursed for their fuel. Do you think your dad’s willing to do that?”
Peter scowled. He was grateful for the help and not all that surprised they’d requested their tanks to be refilled.
“Deal.”
“And they said you can have a boat for yourself,” the deputy continued as he threw Peter a key attached to an orange floating key ring. He fumbled the catch, and the keys hit the sand. He knelt down to grab it and nodded his appreciation to the deputy at the same time.
Captain Jax addressed Peter. “You can have the boat. The owner died last night, and we got more boats around here than you can shake a stick at. Besides, it’s full of empty fuel cans. Fill them up when you get back to your place and return ’em full. Are we straight?”
“Yep. Thanks for helping.”
“All right, let’s get to it. Two hours. That’s it. Understand?”
Peter nodded again and followed Captain Jax with his rescue contingent to the marina, where the first order of business was to clear a path to get the boats out.
Chapter Forty-Four
Saturday, November 9
Blackwater Sound
Near Key Largo, Florida
Peter and the other boaters spent more than two hours looking for Jimmy. He didn’t like the conclusion Captain Jax had reached at the end, but it was inarguable. Jimmy was no longer in the water. Well, on top of it anyway.
Peter raised the issue that Jimmy might have swum to shore. He explained to the disbelieving residents of the mobile home park that his friend was a helluva diver and swimmer. They didn’t try to dissuade Peter, and they encouraged him to keep the faith, but the search was done as far as they were concerned.
Peter cut the engine for a moment and floated adrift just beyond the entrance to Dusenbury Creek near Bush Point at the southernmost end of Blackwater Sound. He checked his fuel levels and then did some calculations.
He felt he had more than enough fuel to make it to Driftwood Key, roughly fifty miles to his southwest. Then he had a thought. He stood on the aft deck of the center-console fishing boat and looked around Blackwater Sound. He guessed there was ten to fifteen miles of shoreline to cover around the perimeter.
He returned to the center console and searched for the horn. A silver button was positioned to the left of the steering column, and he gave it a try. It wasn’t a loud air horn; however, it was good enough to get someone’s attention.
Logically assuming Jimmy was able to receive some help if he’d made it to Key Largo, Peter turned the boat and began ambling along the shoreline of the hammocks, such as they were. The semicircle of land that encompassed much of Blackwater Sound was nothing more than scraggly plant material protruding up through the shallow water. If Jimmy did make it to the hammocks, he’d likely be hugging a tree.
At first, he tried to holler for his friend as well as honk the boat’s horn. As his vocal cords became strained, it was too painful to yell, so he repeatedly pressed the horn’s button.
On the far west side of the sound, he reached the Boggies, a stretch of the hammocks that was more sandbar than plant material. The trees that protected the beach from eroding had been uprooted by the storm, and many floated in the water. Peter was uncertain where Blackwater Sound ended and Florida Bay, which led to the Gulf of Mexico, began.
He stopped for a moment and studied the landscape in front of him. He thought of how high the waves had grown during the worst part of the hurricane. He looked across the opening that had been created by the surge of water that had swept over it for hours.
Suddenly, a sick feeling came over him, and he became physically ill. Without warning, his stomach retched, and he hung his head over the side of the boat to vomit.
What if Jimmy had been swept out of Blackwater Sound?
Peter continued around the perimeter of Blackwater Sound. He slowly drove past Gilbert’s Resort and looked up at the void where the bridge had once stood. The place where it had all started. As he thought about the events of the last couple of days, like so many others would do once he brought the news of Jimmy’s disappearance to Driftwood Key, resentment began to build inside him.
Peter didn’t know all the circumstances of why Jimmy had been forced into manning the checkpoint in furtherance of Lindsey’s ill-conceived plan. Regardless, she was directly responsible for Jimmy being placed in that position to begin with, and therefore she should pay a price.
With the anger welling up inside, he completed his circular search grid and returned to the mouth of Dusenbury Creek. He stared at the hundred-foot-wide opening. It was the most direct route to Driftwood Key and would require the least amount of fuel. Then he turned his attention toward the western end of the sound. That nagging sensation that Jimmy might have been swept away with the storm surge bothered him. It was even possible that he’d grasped onto something floating atop the water that took him outside the confines of Blackwater Sound during the storm.
Peter turned the boat toward the Boggies and pressed down the throttle. He was going out into the bay to search for a while, and then he was going home to get help. No matter what, he wasn’t giving up until he knew what had happened to his friend.
For Peter, not knowing meant it was possible that Jimmy was still alive.
Chapter Forty-Five
Saturday, November 9
Blackwater Sound
Dejected and exhausted, Peter lost track of time as he wandered around Florida Bay just outside the barrier sandbars and
hammocks protecting Blackwater Sound. He repeatedly tried to call out for his friend but once again strained his vocal cords so bad that he began gargling with salt water to help heal the irritated tissue in his throat.
After hours of circling in an ever-widening arc, Peter became aware of his fuel levels. He was not an experienced boater. Growing up before he left for college, he’d rarely taken the Hatteras into the Gulf on his own. He almost always had his dad or Jimmy with him, the two people on Driftwood Key who seemed to enjoy being on the water more than on land.
That wasn’t to say Peter disliked boating. But with Jimmy and Hank around, the opportunities to go it alone were few. He wasn’t sure how far away he was from Driftwood Key when he noticed the fuel gauge drop off precipitously. He didn’t want to stop looking, but it was a fruitless exercise under the circumstances. An occasional dry gust of wind swept over him, a reminder that the storm was not that far away.
He’d seen hurricanes stall and even wander back toward the Keys when a strong high-pressure system collided with it in the Gulf. He didn’t have sufficient fuel to risk running out that far away from the Keys.
As it turned out, he didn’t have enough fuel to make it home, either.
Unlike the rest of his family, Peter wasn’t completely familiar with the shorelines and all the landmarks that helped identify the Keys. Not that it mattered because the constant haze that smothered the area reduced visibility to a minimum like a dense fog would obscure London from approaching ships.
But there wasn’t a glimpse of light to help with his navigation, and the boat he had been given at the marina didn’t have the usual navigation devices. It was stripped to its bare minimum with only a compass to work with.
Peter tried to calculate his location based upon where he’d exited the Boggies and how far out his circular search pattern took him. Since he’d never run into the Everglades at the southern tip of the mainland, he presumed he was safe to sail due south. Southwest might have been a more accurate option, but it also meant he might miss the Keys entirely if he miscalculated.