Wood's Tempest

by Steven Becker

  “Ol’ Mel scared them off,” Trufante said proudly.

  Mac suspected it was the plane flying above the island that had alerted the men on the ground that the trawler was beached on the backside of the island. A minute later, Mac heard one engine start and a second later, another. He relaxed when he saw the text from Commander that the strange boat, with three men aboard, was heading toward Marathon.

  “Mel,” he called out.

  She appeared on the wraparound porch, still holding the gun.

  “It’s good. They’re gone.” He rose and walked into the clearing.

  “Damn, girl, scared them off with that shot I taught ya.” Trufante smiled at her.

  “I got a bad feeling about this, Mac,” she said, ignoring the backhand compliment. “We should get out of here before they come back.”

  Mac wasn’t going to argue, and texted Commander to come around to the other side of the island. Mel came down the stairs with the gun still extended in front of her. “We’ll shutter the house and go,” he said, seeing the expression on her pale face.

  Fortunately, with all the windows being accessible from the covered porch, the shutter installation took less than an hour. Trufante and Commander might be good on the water, but they were worthless on land, and drank beers while Mac and Mel finished securing the house. Knowing many tasks were easier to accomplish when you did them yourself and didn’t have to give directions, Mac encouraged them.

  Finally, the house and shed were locked and shuttered. Mac disconnected the solar array. The valves on the propane bottles had been closed and the tanks were now secure in the shed. Mel came down the stairs with two duffle bags and a backpack with her computer. Mac recognized one of the bags as his.

  “Ready?” He took the bags from her.

  “I was just starting to get to like it here. Hope it blows into open water.”

  That was the best-case scenario. Mac led her to the boats and, reaching over the gunwales of the trawler, placed the bags on deck. He waded back to the center console and, using a hundred-foot line that was stowed aboard, made a bridle and attached the end to the bow cleat. Mel was already aboard the trawler and took the line, which she secured to one of the stern cleats, leaving only ten feet between the boats. She dumped the remainder on the deck in a loose coil. Once they were clear of the channel, they would properly attach the bridle.

  Mac was about to thank Commander and say goodbye to Trufante when his phone rang. He could tell right away, when Trufante’s teeth disappeared, that it was trouble. The conversation was one-sided, and Trufante ended it with the only word he had said: Okay.

  “That was Pamela. I’m going with you,” he said, stretching one of his long legs over the gunwale and hoisting himself on deck. The twin engines on Commander’s boat fired before Mac had time to react.

  “See ya on the other side, Travis,” Commander called, and sped out of the channel.

  Nine

  Key West’s reputation for being the capital of weird was often understated. Throw in a category-five hurricane a day away and it very much resembled what Hunter S. Thompson had said about Las Vegas: When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. Weaving through the boat traffic in the harbor, Mac called the dockmaster on the VHF and got a surprised response when he asked for a slip.

  A steady stream of boats exited the harbor, mainly larger oceangoing vessels capable of riding out the storm. There were more theories about how to secure a boat to survive a hurricane than there was time to consider them. The best solution was not to be in one, and as Mac observed the line of boats heading out to sea, he knew he might be right behind them if his estimation of Ruth changed.

  Mac watched as people scurried around the docks, moving back and forth in a controlled panic, knowing that with one change in the forecast models, the scene would turn into chaos. Some boats were being rafted together with a spider web of lines. Others were tied loosely to the dock with enough slack to allow the boat to go where the storm surge took it. Only time would tell which was correct, but after riding out several tropical storms and hurricanes over his three decades here, Mac knew that chance played as large a factor as preparation.

  Holding his phone to his ear, Trufante nervously paced the back deck. Mac noticed him waver several times and wondered how many beers he’d had on the way down, figuring it was at least a six-pack ride. Mel sat across from him with her face buried in her phone as well.

  “Going to need some help here,” Mac called out to them. The dockmaster had assigned Mac a slip toward the corner of the marina after he had refused several others. After surveying the location, he thought it was as protected as there was available, and headed to the fuel dock with the center console still in tow. Gassing up in Key West was a necessary expense. With the island secure, he wanted the boats ready for anything, and that meant filling the fuel and water tanks.

  Pumping two hundred gallons exceeded Trufante’s patience level, and with the phone still to his ear, he went over to Mac, who was filling the freshwater tank.

  “Gotta go, man. Pamela’s freaked.”

  Mac knew exactly what Tru was dealing with. After finding Pamela dragging a suitcase around Duval Street several years ago, the couple had been inseparable, at least until the last fight. Pamela was an enigma that they couldn’t figure out. Mel had run, or tried to run, a background check on her, not so much to look out for Trufante as to protect Mac. It had come up blank, unusual, since she had used Pamela’s credit card to start the trace. All they knew was that she received money on the first of every month, and that the couple burned through it by the third week—at least, that was when Trufante started bugging Mac for work.

  Fear wasn’t what Mac felt when he saw her, but she seemed to have the same magnetic force that attracted trouble as the Cajun, and when they were together, with double the energy, the trouble was multiplied.

  “Go on, but best keep your phone close. This storm keeps coming. I plan on heading for the Yucatan,” Mac told him as Trufante hopped onto the dock and started loping toward town. Mel gave him a look that said they should dump Trufante now, but Mac wasn’t ready to abandon him yet.

  After topping off the tanks, Mac tossed the lines onto the fuel dock and headed across the marina to the slip.

  Mel looped the forward lines over the pilings as the boat coasted past, and after applying enough tension to halt the progress of the boat, she went to the stern and jumped onto the dock, catching the lines as Mac tossed them to her. Mac wasn’t overly concerned at this point about how the boat was secured. The calculation was already done, and he knew exactly where he stood. The trawler’s two gas tanks held a combined three hundred gallons of fuel. Even running fast, that was almost two hundred miles of range. Once Ruth committed to its course, he had about an eight-hour window to get to safety.

  “We’re in a good spot if you want to stay,” Mac said, as Mel pulled her bag out of the cabin.

  “I’ve wanted to visit some friends anyway. This is as good a time as any.”

  Mac knew that Trufante and Pamela played a part in her decision, and he couldn’t blame her. He just wasn’t the guy to hop on a plane to avoid danger. Running toward the bullets was how he had always rolled, and although he had a few scars to show for it, overall, it had proven a good tactic. “I’ll take you to the airport.”

  “You don’t need to,” Mel said, tossing her bag on the dock.

  Mac knew she didn’t need him to go, but with Ruth bearing down on them, he didn’t want this to be the way they said goodbye. “I want to.”

  “Suit yourself.” She stepped onto the gunwale and then down to the dock. “But I gotta go.”

  Mac checked his watch and realized he had cut it closer than he’d wanted. Her flight left in less than an hour. Though it was only a few miles as the crow flew, the streets of Key West were manic. Typically, it was a battle between the vehicles, bicycles, scooters, and golf carts—now it was all-out war. As he looked out on Caroline Street, he was worried that they wou
ldn’t make it in time.

  Brake lights and horns of all varieties gave a sense of urgency the laid-back island didn’t often have. Bicycles and scooters wove through the gridlocked vehicles. That would be the only mode of transportation that might have a chance of success. Just as he thought it, a bicycle-powered rickshaw pulled up to the curb and dropped off its passengers.

  “That looks like the only way we’re going to make it,” Mac said.

  Mel went toward the driver, then turned away. Mac approached her and saw what had stopped her.

  “We don’t have a choice if you want to make it,” he said.

  “Riding out a cat five with Tru might be better.”

  “Your call,” he said.

  “Mac Travis, and with the lovely lady.” The driver had seen them.

  “Billy.” Mac spat out the word as if it was poison.

  Billy eyed the bag. “Billy Bones at your service.”

  Mac looked at Billy, wondering how he was still alive. The last time Mac had seen Billy, he had thrown the man out of a boat twenty miles from shore. He guessed Billy must have come from the same feline gene pool as the Cajun—they both had nine lives. “You want to make the plane, we don’t have a choice.”

  Mac could see her weighing the pros and cons. “Can you get us across the island without doing something stupid?”

  “You misjudge me,” Billy said.

  “Hardly,” Mel said. She had made up her mind and climbed into the bench seat behind the driver.

  Mac shook his head, went around to the other side, and climbed in. “The airport,” he said. “No detours.”

  The tails of Billy Bones’ unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt floated back toward them as he pulled into traffic. Mac was grateful he was seated in front of them until Billy spoke. Without an engine, the cab was surprisingly quiet.

  “What brings you to Key West?” Billy asked.

  It might be the same line that he used on every other tourist, but Mac knew he meant it differently. “Just pedal, Billy.”

  “Tru down here with y’all? I seen Pamela around. Thought about making a move on her, but I wouldn’t do that to my buddy.”

  Mac knew that wasn’t the case and was sure Billy had tried and failed with her. “He’s around,” Mac said. Bones wove the rickshaw through the narrow gaps between the cars and sidewalks, receiving several curses and horns as he moved through the backup.

  “Whole damned island’s like this. Hurricane adds a little spice, don’t you think?”

  Mac wondered about why the wannabe gangster was driving a rickshaw. Billy Bones was typical of a class of the population here. Originally from New Jersey or somewhere similar up north, he’d followed the only road through the Keys to the end of US 1. Wood had a theory that, like marbles rolling downhill, the crazies landed at the bottom—Key West. Billy, like many others, had run out of money in Marathon. Wood had hired him, but the man was work-averse and had lasted one memorable week before he pawned one of Wood’s compressors. That gave Bones enough money to finish his pilgrimage to the pit of despair, or the capital of cool, depending on how you looked at it. Wood had let him go—knowing once they reached the end of US 1, they rarely came back.

  “What’s the deal with you driving one of these?” Mac asked. He shied away from Mel’s piercing glance. Billy seemed to turn up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mac wanted to know what he was up to.

  “Shit, Mac. I’m a business owner. Got me a half-dozen of these bad boys. Just running one today because the labor force is all freaked out about the storm.”

  Mac knew the licenses were limited and expensive. Billy had to have pulled a scam to get one. “How’d you work your way into this?”

  “Met this girl down at the city.”

  That explained as much as Mac wanted to know. In typical fashion, Billy was sponging off someone. “Good for you.” Mac glanced at his watch, figuring they would get there right when the plane started boarding. They had made good time crossing the island, and he hoped, as Billy turned left on South Roosevelt, that the conversation was over. The noise from the busier street helped, as did the phone call that Billy got just before turning into the airport. Mac looked at Mel, willing her to keep her head buried in her phone, because there was no doubt it was Trufante on the line.

  Trouble multiplied exponentially, and now with Trufante, Billy Bones, and Pamela all talking, Mac breathed a sigh of relief as Billy pulled up to the departure area. With fifteen minutes to spare, Mel would have to rush through security, but she would make the flight. “Wait here,” Mac told Billy, and walked her into the terminal.

  “It’s not too late to come with me,” Mel said.

  “You know I can’t do that with the boats here and all.”

  “And all better not be Trufante and Billy Bones. Stay clear of them, Mac.” She reached for him.

  Mac watched her through the glass partition until she had cleared security. After one last wave, she disappeared into the departure terminal. Mac waited for another minute, then turned toward the street and, feeling like a lonely salmon heading upstream against the fleeing islanders, walked out of the terminal, knowing he was going the wrong way.

  A flash caught his eye just before he stepped back into the rickshaw, and he followed the taxiing plane as it spun and stopped at the FBO terminal. “How much, Bones?”

  “Shoot, Travis. This one’s on the house.”

  “No. I’ll pay you.” The last thing Mac wanted was to owe Billy anything—especially a favor.

  “Forty’ll do it.”

  Mac fished in his wallet and pulled out two twenties. He handed them to Billy and walked away. The plane had come to a stop, and he watched as Buck Reilly climbed out of the cockpit.

  Ten

  When Vince Bugarra travelled, he preferred the penthouse suite. The staff at the Casa Marina Hotel knew him on sight, and though they weren’t expecting him, and there were more people checking out than checking in he got his usual VIP treatment. In fact, he was the only person at the registration desk. Fleeing guests glanced over at him as they moved quickly by, consumed with the single-minded task of getting off the rock before the hurricane hit. Bugarra caught several staring, asking themselves why someone would be checking in with the storm coming this way.

  “Mr. Bugarra,” the clerk said. “I didn’t see a reservation? Perhaps we’ve made a mistake.”

  “No, I didn’t make one, but …” He looked around the lobby. “It looks like you might have some room.”

  “Your usual suite, sir?”

  Bugarra paused for a moment. His usual was on the top floor. It offered sea breezes and views. Both he figured would be detrimental now. “No, I think something facing inland on a middle floor.” He wanted protection if he was to ride the storm out here. An inland room would offer slightly better protection than a waterfront, and the middle floor would be above the storm surge and below the beating the top floor would receive. The clerk handed him a plastic card.

  “You have any real keys?”

  The clerk gave him a look like he had already answered this question more times than he cared to. “The locks all have battery backups. You should be fine in the event of a power outage. Do you have any bags?”

  Bugarra nodded and took the card. “It’ll be transferred from the plane. I just have this carry-on for now.” The small bag sat at his feet. Aboard the plane was all manner of surveillance equipment—for underwater and above.

  “Just let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable.”

  Bugarra thanked the man and headed toward the elevator. The only thing that would make him comfortable now was to recover Gross’s research and get out of here before the power went out.

  He opened the door and turned up his nose at the accommodations. The single room had the standard king bed and several pieces of furniture, with a bathroom off to the side. It brought him back to the old days, when he had just started out and stayed in rooms like this in high-dollar hotels to give
the illusion he was doing well, often smuggling in a hot pot and ramen noodles.

  After dropping his bag on the bed, he went out to the balcony. It wasn’t an ocean view, but the immaculately groomed grounds were far from an eyesore. Several workers were trimming some of the larger trees, a sensible precaution if hurricane-force winds hit. He pulled out his phone and pressed a button on his favorites’ screen.

  “Are you in place?” he asked when the man answered.

  “Yeah, pulled into the harbor about half an hour ago. Travis is here with the trawler and his center console. Looks like he’s going to ride it out here.”

  “Any sign of the woman?”

  “They both got into one of those bicycle rickshaw contraptions a little while ago. Traffic is a freakin’ mess. We tried to follow on foot, but lost them.”

  Bugarra had noticed the traffic was heavier than normal on the short drive over from the airport, but he wasn’t near the business district. “What about the deckhand?”

  “He took off earlier.”

  “Find him.” He paused. “He’ll be in a bar,” Bugarra said, then hung up. There were about two bars per capita here, but the search would be easier than finding Travis. He would take that task on himself.

  “Hey, Mac.” Buck lifted his head from the engine and came down the ladder, wiping his hands on a rag. “My partner says there’s a bad cylinder.”

  “If it was a boat, I could help you out,” Mac said. “What’s going on around here? Place is crazy.”

  “We’ve been flying folks out of here nonstop for the last few days.”

  “I was hoping on checking out a few sites by the Quicksands,” Mac said. When he mentioned the Quicksands, an area off the Marquesas Keys where Mel Fisher had found the Atocha, he could see the look in Buck’s eyes. Where a second ago, he had been focused on the engine, now his attention was riveted on Mac.

  “Any other time,” Buck said.