Wood's Tempest

by Steven Becker

The remodel, or rebuild, which it essentially was after the house had been firebombed by a rogue CIA agent several years ago, still looked new. The concrete piers that supported the single-story structure had replaced the old wood pilings that Wood had originally used. The additional ten feet of elevation would keep the house above all but the worst storm surges and allowed airflow through the upstairs living quarters. Off the grid, the house had solar panels along with a backup generator, which ran on propane. Water was heated by two 500-gallon black plastic tanks sitting on the roof. A small on-demand water heater, also fueled by propane, boosted the preheated water to a comfortable temperature.

  Mac passed the shed and climbed the stairs to the house. Crossing the covered porch that wrapped around the structure to keep the sun and rain out, he opened the screen door and entered. The shell of the building had been upgraded, but Mac and Mel had chosen to keep Wood’s original floor plan, with one bedroom in the back and a large great room with the kitchen off to the right. Though it seemed a little more crowded by bringing in the world through the addition of the satellite internet connection, it was plenty big enough for the two of them. Mac set the dry box on the table and went to Mel, who was sitting at an old table made from foraged driftwood, working on her computer.

  “Heard the red tide’s moving out,” Mac said, then kissed her on the top of her head. He knew better than to expect her to fall into his arms.

  “I hate to say it, but I’m hoping it was bad enough this time,” she said, looking up and removing the reading glasses that she had recently succumbed to.

  If there were a microphone present, the comment would have made the news, but Mac knew what she meant. In order for something finally to be done to stop Big Sugar from dumping millions of gallons of fertilizer into the water, the damage had to be newsworthy. This year’s edition had been.

  “Your boyfriend all settled in?”

  He let it go. “Won’t give us any trouble.”

  “If only,” she said. “You hungry?”

  “Famished. We have anything?”

  “Got a couple lobsters I can throw on the grill with some corn,” Mel said. Getting up from the chair, she went to the small kitchen and pulled two whole lobster, bigger than the ones the tourists overpaid for, and two ears of corn from the propane-powered refrigerator.

  Mac took them and headed out onto the deck. He lit the grill, placed the food on, and sat back in his favorite chair. Mel came out a few minutes later with an open bottle of wine and two glasses. She took the chair next to him, and they sat in silence, listening to the crackling as the juices flowed onto the burners. Florida spiny lobster, known locally as bugs, were actually more like crayfish than the bright-red Maine lobster. The tails were the only edible part, but many locals preferred to cook them whole to keep them juicier. It was the same principle as grilling corn in the husk.

  “How was your trip?” Mel asked.

  “Complicated. I was hoping that finding the wreck of the Sumnter would stay off the radar, but it’s likely to be all over the news. The only good thing is that it’s in federal waters.” Mac finished his glass and got up to turn the lobster. Mel held her empty glass out with one hand while she navigated her phone with the other. Mac filled both glasses and sat back down.

  “Top billing from every major outlet,” she said, skimming the newsfeed on her phone.

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Finally get something outside of the state’s grasp, but this publicity’s going to put it up for the highest bidder,” Mac said, sitting back and thinking how many times, in the name of archeology, the state had screwed both him and Wood out of their finds. Federal waters, lying three miles offshore, were less restricted, but often too deep for the average salvor. Mac got up.

  “What’s up?” Mel asked.

  “Be right back,” he said, and went inside. After grabbing the dry box from the table, he brought it outside and set it between them. One at a time, Mac released the three clasps that made the watertight seal and opened the lid. Their heads almost collided as they peered inside.

  Mac pulled back first.

  “It’s a hard drive,” Mel said.

  “Probably Gross’s. Kurt’s wife gave it to me as I was leaving.” Mac got up and took the lobsters off the grill.

  “Let’s eat and I’ll have a look,” Mel said, picking it up and turning it in her hands. She was clearly more intrigued than Mac.

  “Gross was like a pack rat. There’s probably two decades’ worth of research to comb through on that thing. And half in archaic Spanish.”

  “Not much more I can do about Big Sugar tonight. Maybe I’ll find something.”

  Mac gave her a look that clearly showed he thought not, and took the tray with the lobsters and ears of corn inside. Mel followed with the remnants of the wine, which he dumped into her glass before tossing the bottle in a bin.

  Though Mac and Mel both tried to avoid it, their eyes kept returning to the hard drive as the flickering light from the oil lamp danced on the metal case. They ate in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Mac was worried about what the drive might reveal; Mel, clearly anxious to see what mysteries it held, in a rare case, finished her dinner before Mac. She picked up both their plates and took them to the sink, where she left them and returned to the table.

  While she tried to figure how to connect the drive to her laptop, Mac went back to the kitchen, did the dishes, and brought back a bottle of Pilar rum and two glasses. After pouring two fingers into each, he slid one across to Mel and leaned back to watch her. Her eyeglasses were a new look, and he tried to decide whether he liked them or not, finally deciding that he did. In an unspoken competition, she had succumbed first to wearing them, claiming it was hard to read the computer screen, but he knew he would be right behind her.

  Mac and Mel had known each other since she was a senior in high school and Mac was a twenty-three-year-old commercial diver looking for a change of scenery. After ditching his crazy girlfriend in Galveston, he had hitchhiked his way to the end of the world. His plan was to go all the way to Key West and seek out work with the famous treasure hunter Mel Fisher and his team, but in a pouring rainstorm, Wood had picked Mac up and his future had been sealed. The six-year age difference had been insurmountable then, but when they became reacquainted five years ago, it seemed like nothing. There were no regrets.

  He sipped and watched Mel as she furrowed her brow, patiently trying each end of a pile of cables lying on the table. He was just thinking about how much she looked like Wood, when, with the same expression that her father had used, she crossed the thin line between patience and stubbornness.

  “You have those tiny screwdrivers?” she asked, pushing away the pile of cables.

  As much as Mac didn’t want to know what was on the drive, neither did he want it ruined. “Why don’t we take a run up to Key Largo after Tru and I get back tomorrow?” Tech gurus Alicia and her boyfriend, TJ, ran a dive shop. It was their passion and a good cover for their contract work with the CIA. Alicia had been a top analyst and TJ was a computer whiz.

  Mel pushed the drive away and drank half the rum. “That is, if you two don’t get into any trouble tomorrow.”

  Mac wasn’t sure how they could, but knew if Trufante was involved, anything could happen. He finished his drink and went around the table behind Mel. Wrapping his arms around her, he lifted her from the chair and brought her back to the bedroom. Having the Cajun on either of their minds was not conducive to a good night’s sleep, and he had a plan to fix that.

  Three

  A strange anxiety crept over Mac as he and Trufante pulled in the traps and stacked them. It wasn’t the fishing; the catch was good. A few shorts, but most of the stone crab traps were bringing in double digits of the tasty and expensive claws. Even though the sky was clear, between Ruth and the drive there seemed to be a cloud hanging over him. He had to admit that adding internet to the island had its advantages. A glance at the weather this morning had shown no change in the storm’s tra
jectory, and as he had expected, it had picked up speed overnight.

  “Not a bad haul for a two-day soak,” Trufante said as he snapped the larger claw off a stone crab and tossed it back into the water. In an odd irony, his stump of a right middle finger, which had been lost to a sadistic drug dealer in a chum grinder, was the digit that the crabs tried to snap first when he pulled off their claw. Though it was legal to take both claws, leaving the crab with one pincer gave it a good chance to remain alive while it regenerated the other. Watching the crab get another chance, Mac wished that he could do the same in his life; once something crossed his path, it was forever a part of him.

  “Just a few more of the stone traps, then we probably ought to pull the lobster traps and bring them in.” He looked at the bin full of crab claws glistening in the sun. Trufante was eyeing the bin as well, calculating his cut. Lobster and crab fishing was all about risk and reward. The early-season lobster take had been good, but had tapered off after two months. Pulling those traps would get them to safety in case the storm came through, but with what Mac saw in the bin in front of him, if the storm didn’t come, it was going to cost him. Losing even a couple of days when the crabs were around could cost him thousands of dollars. He could tell from the look on Trufante’s face that he had calculated that as well, but Mac wasn’t about to ask Trufante’s opinion—risk was his middle name.

  “Maybe ought to get these onto the island and stack ’em,” Trufante said.

  Mac knew what he was after. “Okay. Mel wants to go up to Key Largo. We’ll get the lobster traps tomorrow morning.” It was a rare circumstance where Trufante and Mel’s agendas aligned. Mac looked forward, lining the bow up with the last string of traps, and started toward the next buoy. As they worked through the remaining traps, he started thinking about the hard drive and what might be on it.

  The carefully lit pedestals displaying ancient clay pottery and the glass-covered cases of Spanish coins and artifacts made the conference room look more like a museum than its intended purpose, but as with everything else he did, Vince Bugarra was all about effect. To that end, he stared at the printout in front of him. A larger-than-life character in both physical size as well as personality, he crossed his tanned legs and waited.

  The man sitting next to Bugarra had a laptop in front of him. Despite wearing thick glasses, the accountant squinted and moved closer to the screen. The man wasn’t someone who would be his friend, but Bugarra knew the value of the man—while creative accountants were easy to find; good creative accountants were not.

  “Preliminary numbers from the fundraiser are good.” The accountant slid several printed pages toward Bugarra. “That incident with Maria Gross slowed things down for an hour, but we rebounded and should finish a couple of thousand dollars higher than last year.” The man shrank back when he saw the pensive look on Bugarra’s face.

  “Can you move some of the charity money around? We need to show more growth.”

  “Yes, sir. Ten percent over last year should make the backers happy.”

  Bugarra nodded. The charities that had participated would make enough, but without showing year-on-year growth, his backers might not put up the money to run the event next year. It was easy to justify the three-card Monte game in his head: If the backers weren’t happy, there would be no event; if there were no event, there would be no money for the charities. It was unfortunate about the incident. Maria hadn’t been the same since, something that he would have to rectify. He wondered if the accountant could balance her moods as well as he did the books. With her father, Gill Gross gone, Maria was the only link left to his years of research. Getting his hands on that research had become a priority. His backers would up their antes the minute they found out he had it. More important to Bugarra personally was what Gross had been working on. “Do what you need to,” Bugarra said, rising from the captain’s chair. Like everything else in the room, the chairs were staged for effect.

  “Right. What about the Sumnter?” the accountant asked.

  “Whatever it takes to get the bid. If Gross was hiding it, there’s something there. Just wish it wasn’t in that damned park.” Unlike most salvors, Bugarra was entirely comfortable paying off the state archeologists and keeping the lion’s share of the profits, as well as the coordinates, for himself. With DeWitt locked up for accessory to murder, there would be a new representative for the State of Florida, adding another worry to his growing list.

  Bugarra left the accountant fretting over his spreadsheets and walked down the hallway toward the door at the end. Made to look like a ship’s hatch, the polished mahogany was fitted with gleaming brass fittings. After he entered a code into the pad concealed to the right, the electronic lock released and the door swung open, revealing a rendition of a captain’s cabin. Bugarra walked around the plush chairs and passed the cut-crystal decanter of Appleton thirty-year-old rum, which, despite the early hour, he was tempted to taste. He almost surrendered, but things were moving too quickly to allow the alcohol to slow down his brain. One badly timed decision could cost him his fortune.

  Moving around the large hatch-cover that had been made into his desk, he sat and pulled out his cell phone. There was a text from Maria, which he decided to ignore for a minute. Going to his contacts, he found the number labeled Rat, and pressed the connect button. He wasn’t even sure if it rang before the Rat’s nasal whine came over the line.

  “Mr. Bugarra?”

  “Did you find it?”

  “I was able to access the Wi-Fi network in Gross’s house, but I can’t find the drive.”

  “What do you mean?” The Rat had earned his nickname by burrowing into every computer Bugarra had asked him to, including the state’s secret database of permits—and their GPS coordinates.

  “It’s not physically there,” he said apologetically. “If it was in the house, I’d find it.”

  “What about Maria’s place? Maybe she took it.”

  “Checked that as well.” He paused for a second. “Something you should know. Her browser history shows some recent searches for a guy named Mac Travis.”

  Bugarra slammed the phone down on the desktop, adding a real dent to the distressed top. He picked up the phone. “Did she find him?”

  “She’s craftier than I gave her credit for. Found some woman named Melanie Woodson, whom she emailed.”

  Bugarra’s eyes bulged at the mention of Wood’s daughter. This had moved above the Rat’s pay grade. “Keep an eye on that and let me know if she gets a response.” He cursed under his breath and started to rise. It took all his restraint to stay seated and avoid the decanter with its amber liquid that was calling his name. Instead, he picked up the printouts the accountant had given him and started scanning the lines. Running a salvage enterprise required him to wear several hats. It had been decades since he had been able to spend his days underwater looking for treasure. Now, he was a CEO, and that required the ability to present the numbers in front of him to anxious backers.

  He threw the pages down in disgust, both from the information they contained and the way the name Woodson still floated in the air. The Shipwreck Ball, which he sponsored every year, had generally been a success. The fake galleon, usually staged near the beach of the Savoy Hotel for the event, was now tainted after Slipstream’s failed attempt on Maria’s life. It had cost well into the tens of thousands of dollars and lasted five years, only half its depreciated lifespan, but the run was over. Next year he would have to find a way equally as creative and dramatic to part people from their money.

  And Woodson. He hadn’t heard that name in years, but it still left a bad taste in his mouth. Pushing the papers to the side, Bugarra opened a browser window on his computer and entered Melanie Woodson into the search field. The first results were her social media profiles. Scanning them, the first thing he noticed was how attractive she was, something that might be used in his favor. Further down the page of results were several business related links, which he opened and skimmed through. Satisf
ied, he leaned back and started to calculate a strategy to win the woman over. That, he was confident he could do, but Travis would have to be dealt with first.

  The salvage business was a small community. The barriers to entry, between the equipment and the ability to finagle a permit from the state, required resources out of reach of most divers. With billions at stake, it was a ruthless occupation. Wood had been a guy lurking on the fringes, making most of his money from his ability to engineer and build or rebuild the bridges linking the Keys together. Along the way he had made some notable finds, but he was risk-averse and happy enough to build, fish, and dive. Travis was the same, but Wood’s daughter was a different animal.

  Two websites had given Bugarra a snapshot of her life. The Florida Bar Association and the ACLU both had extensive biographies on her. He only had to skim a few paragraphs from each site to know she had legal teeth and wasn’t afraid to use them. He all kinds of people to do the “behind the scenes” work, but one of the keys to his success was the ability to do the heavy lifting himself. In this case, that meant a trip to the Keys.

  When his worlds aligned, Mac got nervous. There was a large payday coming from the bin of stone crabs he and Trufante had pulled from the traps, just another harbinger that this storm was coming for them. Tru was actually a help. Together they stacked and tied down the crab traps in the old clearing, the second highest point on the island where Wood had kept his skiff. When that was complete, Mac sent Trufante to load the catch on the center console, while he went to the house to get Mel.

  She was also in a good mood, and despite Trufante lingering less than a hundred feet away, she leaned in and kissed him. “Better get a shower,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  Mac went through the house and stepped onto the porch from the back door in the bedroom, where he used the screened outdoor shower to clean the morning off him. Mel was dressed for town, and he knew better than to wear his usual cargo shorts and t-shirt. He found a pair of flat-front shorts and a button-down shirt that would be suitable for the dinner out he guessed was in his future, and left the house.