Wood's Tempest

by Steven Becker

  The thoughts ended when Billy stopped in front of an old Conch house. They were in a neighborhood of single-story homes, looking like they dated back to the forties, when they were used by the armed forces stationed here. If not for the colorful paint and unique fences and rails, it would have looked like a thousand communities across the country, but the eccentricity of Key West saved it.

  “Hang out for a minute. I’ll go set it up.” Billy climbed down from the bike and walked up the path to the house. The door opened, and he entered, leaving Trufante alone with the women. Dannie’s head was resting against his shoulder and Sadie was leaning against the cab. He moved just enough to see if Dannie was awake, and when she only grunted, he knew the party was over.

  One of his saving graces, through all the screw-ups and bad decisions, was his hard-wired code of chivalry. Most of his acquaintances, including Billy, would ditch the women, but Trufante wasn’t like that. He remembered the name of the hotel they were staying at, and slowly, he lifted Dannie’s head from his shoulder and placed it against the other side of the cab. Stretching one long leg, he eased himself over her, extricating himself from the cab, and climbed onto the bike. Tru didn’t have a second thought as he started pedaling down the street. His code didn’t extend to Billy Bones.

  Seventeen

  Mac was up before the sun. Surprisingly, he had slept a few hours, and as the coffee brewed, he scanned his phone, piecing together the forecast models and reports from Ruth. The National Hurricane Center was the authority, but slow in acknowledging that the European models, with more data points, were more accurate than their own forecasting. Instead, Mac went back to Mike’s Weather App, where everything was combined. The models now formed a consensus that the eye would pass well to the north and east of Key West. That he was safe here was little consolation when he thought about his and Mel’s island home.

  There was still danger here, though—primarily tornados spun from the outer bands, as well as the storm surge. The devastating winds were usually close to the eye wall, but surge, expected to be six to nine feet, was the deadlier component. They appeared lucky that Ruth, if she didn’t stall out, would make landfall at low tide this afternoon. Even though the tidal range was less than three feet this far south, that could make the difference between the trawler floating high in its slip or sitting on Caroline Street. Deciding it wasn’t worth the risk, while he waited for Trufante and Ned, he started readying the boat to depart.

  For the last few hours it had been raining on and off as the outer bands of the storm approached. Huddled in the wheelhouse, he drank his coffee, watching the minutes tick down until six. Ned would be here, but Trufante was currently AWOL. Finally, Mac saw Ned approach.

  “Appreciate this, Mac,” he said as he climbed over the transom. “Where’re you figuring on running?”

  “Storm’s going north. We can make Fort Jefferson in about three hours. The harbor is well protected there; we should be okay.”

  “Make sense. Where’s Tru?”

  “MIA,” Mac said. The possibility that Trufante wouldn’t show up was very real. Mac had made it clear in his text that if Trufante wasn’t here on time, the boat was going without him. That was before Pamela emerged from the cabin with her hair askew, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

  “Tru show?” she asked.

  “Who you got here?” Ned asked.

  “Pamela, Ned.” Mac made the introduction brief. Despite their bonding session last night, she still scared him. And now, with Trufante missing, he wondered how she would react.

  “We have to find him,” she said.

  “No. We have to get out of here,” Mac said. Reaching for the ignition, he was about to start the engine when she stopped him.

  “No, Mac Travis, we have to find him.”

  Mac had seen the look on her face before, and released the key. The stubborn mix of desperation and commitment was one of the few traits Pamela and Mel shared. And that meant his plans were about to change.

  In response, he looked down at his phone and studied the radar image of the swirling storm. Wood’s island was already engulfed in yellow, with red approaching, but as the tentacles rotated counterclockwise around the eye, they seemed to break up after passing what would be due west of the island.

  “What do you think, Ned?” Mac asked, handing him the phone.

  “Until you offered the boat ride, I wasn’t going anywhere. The shield around Key West appears to still be intact.”

  Mac thought Ned was right, but there was too much at risk here. He wasn’t in a position to sacrifice his uninsured boat to Ruth. It was a point of contention between him and Mel that stemmed back to Wood’s distaste for anything to do with the government or bureaucracies. On a day-to-day or even year-to-year basis, money wasn’t a problem. Mel owned the island free and clear, and they had no debt or bills. It was pretty easy to make ends meet. But having to replace the boat, especially after the new electronics and engine, would force them into a situation he didn’t want to think about. Financing was not an option when the gross income on your tax return didn’t have many places to the left of the decimal point.

  Looking back, he saw the center console in the next slip. Towing it in the current conditions to the Dry Tortugas would burn too much fuel. Reluctantly, he decided it would have to ride out the storm here.

  He made some calculations in his head. Moving at fifteen knots, as last reported, even if Ruth veered south and west, it would take five or six hours to reach the Tortugas. Rain wasn’t a problem, but the spinning storm was already kicking up the seas. He figured he had an hour window before they were stuck here for the duration—not a spot he wanted to be in.

  Pamela had been staring at him as he computed the odds of losing the boat. “One hour.”

  “Agreed,” she said. “One hour and Ghost Runner is doing what she does best.”

  “You named the boat?” Ned asked.

  Mac shrugged him off. “He’s got to be close to Duval,” he said, turning and ducking into the cabin. A minute later, he came out with two bright-yellow rain slickers and handed one to Pamela. “We stay together,” he said, figuring that, at a fast walk, they could cover the street and get back in forty minutes.

  Nothing felt right: the inferior suite, the carpet, the air. Bugarra cut a path across the floor as the Weather Channel played in the background. If he looked, he could have seen the depressions made by his feet from the last twenty minutes of pacing around the suite.

  He didn’t fail often, but he had to admit his inability to obtain Gross’s research from Travis was just that—failure. Without knowing what Mac held, Bugarra had to wonder if it was Ruth that had brought him to Key West or something else. The wind-driven rain striking the patio doors brought him back to reality, but still a part of his mind wouldn’t let it go. Was Travis shrewd enough to use the cover of the storm to investigate Gross’s find? The answer slightly calmed Bugarra. Travis was an able salvor, but he had never been bitten by the treasure bug. Looking at his phone, Bugarra dialed one of his men to see if there was any movement at the marina. The two men in the Yellowfin who had screwed up the attack on the island had followed Travis down and had been watching his boat all night.

  Deciding against riding out Ruth in the hotel room, Bugarra had prepared his boat, figuring Travis might head out. Reaching for his rain jacket, he abandoned his route across the carpet and left the suite. Standing under the overhang covering the walkway, he pulled out his phone and pressed the contact for one of his men.

  “There are three aboard. Looks like they’re getting ready to head out,” the man said.

  “Three? Describe them.”

  “Travis, an old man, and some hot-looking tall chick.”

  “No sign of his mate?”

  “No, just the three. They look like they’re arguing.” He paused. “Wait, now they’re leaving the boat.”

  “One of you stay put. The other follow them.”

  Bugarra couldn’t figure out what they
were up to. Though he’d known who Travis was for years, dating back to his days working for Wood, Bugarra had never gotten a sense of the man. He had a reputation for being capable; “a good hand” was what Bugarra remembered Wood calling Travis, which was high praise from the old engineer. There’d been rumors about some of Travis’s subsequent adventures that, if they had any degree of truth, showed he was more than just capable. What was missing from the man, and why Bugarra was having a hard time figuring him out, were the two traits abundant in salvors: greed and paranoia.

  Travis was a different animal, but Trufante was not. He was made of greed and paranoia. Maybe not as much as Slipstream, who was sitting in Raiford Prison serving his time for killing Gross, but the Cajun was a known quantity—and Bugarra understood that.

  He took the stairs down, exited through the lobby, and started walking. There was little traffic, and no cabs, so he continued on foot, turning left onto White Street. Even on the quiet side of the island, he could tell that Key West was in a different kind of mood. The point of no return had been passed sometime last night, when it became safer to stay than leave. Known for being lawless, the city was strikingly quiet, almost as if the usual state of affairs was more show than go. Emergency services had been suspended and the Coast Guard had enacted Port Condition Zulu, closing the harbors. Most other cities would be experiencing a crime spree, but Key West danced to the beat of a different drum.

  Walking was not Bugarra’s preferred mode of transportation. The abundant pink cabs usually cruising the island were nonexistent, but he did see a scooter rental place with several randomly parked in front, as if they had been abandoned. Checking one, he saw the key was in the ignition and hopped on. He felt like a gorilla riding a tricycle, but it got him across the island. The predawn glow showed the marina was as quiet as the streets. Protected from the winds, the boats bobbed on the light chop. He spotted Travis’s boat and found his men.

  It had been the quickest ride to Key West in history, Kurt thought, as he drove Justine’s car across the Stock Island Bridge. With a short diversion off the turnpike, they could have switched to the larger park service pickup he usually drove, but decided the car was something they owned and would be safer in Key West. Allie was excited. Not really aware of the danger, she sat in the back texting friends and posting on Facebook.

  Kurt had never been through a hurricane, but he’d been around enough wildfires to know how dangerous nature could be. Justine was anxious. A lifelong South Florida resident, she’d experienced one major and several minor storms. It wasn’t surviving Ruth that worried her. Their destination was just outside of the furthest model. It was the aftermath that concerned her.

  They had barely reached Key West, and waves and spray were already crashing over the seawall, as Kurt turned left onto South Roosevelt. The entrance to the airport came up on the right, and he turned in and drove past the deserted terminal to the FBO area. After parking, he locked the car, and they headed toward the trailer to the right marked Seaplane Adventures.

  The office was locked, and Kurt had started to make a plan B if they had missed their ride, when he saw two men talking on the tarmac. They walked out to the planes and waited while the men readied one of the planes to ride out the storm.

  “Hey, you Hunter?” one of the men asked.

  “Yeah.” Kurt introduced Justine and Allie.

  “Gary. Hop aboard. I’ll be right there.” Gary continued to work on the other plane, cranking down a ratchet on one of the tie-downs.

  Kurt led the way to the twelve-seater and waited while Justine and Allie climbed aboard with their bags. He followed, spacing out their baggage to balance the load before moving to the right-hand seat in the cockpit. A few minutes later, Gary climbed aboard and shut the door.

  “Gonna be a little bumpy,” he said, as he strapped himself in and started running through the preflight checklist. “Put on the headphones,” he called back to Justine and Allie. Kurt donned the pair by his seat and waited.

  His stomach dropped as a gust caught the small plane on takeoff, and he was about to reach for the barf bag when the plane leveled out, its tail wagging back and forth as the engine fought for altitude. The feeling quickly left, and he could see Gary relax as their altitude increased. Twenty minutes later, the weather changed for the better and the ride smoothed out.

  Gary’s voice came over the headset. “Since the weather’s good, I’ll give y’all the ten-cent tour.” He started an almost continuous monologue as the plane flew first over the Marquesas Keys, then passed the Quicksands. The view removed all worries of the hurricane they had left behind. Two wrecks were visible as they passed, one from Mel Fisher’s Atocha fleet, the other a bombed-out hull used by the Navy for practice. It soon became quiet as the brick fort became visible and the plane landed in smooth seas. Gary taxied into a small beach by the fort.

  “You’d never know what we just left,” Justine said as she climbed down onto the float.

  “That was awesome,” Allie said behind her.

  Eighteen

  Trufante woke with a start. No stranger to waking up and not knowing where he was, he looked around in an effort to get his bearings. A dim light crept through the semi-closed shades. It appeared to be a small hotel suite, and he was surprised to find himself alone on the couch. A queen-sized bed in the corner revealed two lumps.

  The night came back to him slowly. For the way he felt, it would go down as a disappointing effort. He got out of bed, wanting to leave before the women across the room woke. Just as he stood, the strands of violet hair occupying one pillow moved. He sat up slowly. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong—or anything at all, for that matter—and he didn’t feel any further responsibility toward the women.

  “What are we going to do about Ruth?” she asked, lifting her head.

  Trufante remembered she went by Dannie. The we was not sitting well with him, and now he knew why Mac hated the word. “I gotta go find Mac.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Never mind. Get some sleep. This place looks pretty well built.” In fact, he had no idea, but it was by the cemetery, which he knew was the high point of the island. Standing, he looked on the coffee table, then around the room for his phone. It wasn’t visible anywhere, and he checked his pockets.

  “You lose something?”

  “My phone. Can I borrow yours?”

  “Sure,” she said, getting out of bed. She picked up her phone from the nightstand, punched her code into the screen, and brought it to him before heading to the bathroom.

  Dannie emerged from the bathroom. The streaky makeup was gone and her hair was brushed. “Coffee?”

  He nodded, dialing, and waited for the call to connect. “Hey,” he said into the phone, and gave Mac the address, already knowing he was in trouble. He turned to Dannie. “Be safe now. See y’all on the other side.”

  Sketchy circumstances were the norm for Trufante, but it looked like Mac had finally found him. With his phone still in hand, he entered the address Trufante had given into the map app. Anyone else, under any other circumstance, he would have told to get here now, but with Pamela freaked out and the clock ticking, Mac decided to find the Cajun and provide an escort.

  Ned had gone back to the boat. Pamela had refused, and together she and Mac jogged across the island. Cursing his sea legs, he struggled to keep up with her. Finally, they found Trufante walking down the sidewalk with his grin leading the way. Seeing Pamela it quickly disappeared.

  “We need to get moving,” Mac said. From his last glance at the radar, Key West was clearly not going to take the brunt of the storm, but the next few hours were not going to be pretty either. For now, in the calm between the tips of the squall bands whipping around the eye, it was almost pleasant standing on the street, but he knew it wasn’t going to last.

  “Storm’s going to hit early this afternoon. That gives us just enough time to reach the harbor at Fort Jefferson.” The plan was still the plan. If Key West was only exp
eriencing mild effects of the storm, at seventy miles away, the Dry Tortugas would be virtually untouched.

  Mac was thankful for the tailwind and, with a sense of urgency, the three of them ran back to the marina. The slightly downhill slope from the cemetery to the water also helped. Reaching the marina, they boarded the boat, and, without wasting time to catch his breath, Mac started the engine. With Ned and Trufante handling the lines and fenders, they were underway in just minutes, and Mac, anxious that their window was closing, pushed down on the throttles. His worries were not unfounded, as the wake from the trawler was smaller than the waves being pushed by the wind out of the harbor. Taking one last look at the center console, he turned into the water being pushed toward them by Ruth.

  Once clear of the point, he selected a half-dozen waypoints that would keep them well clear of the shallows and entered them as a route in the chartplotter. Engaging the autopilot, he stayed at the helm for several minutes to make sure the equipment was working properly before handing over the helm to Trufante. After pointing out the route on the screen, he stepped back to the cockpit and motioned for Pamela and pulled her into the cabin. The tension between them was unbearable and Mac needed to fix it—at least for the duration of the trip.

  “I need you to be good with him,” he said. He saw her face start to screw up and cut her short. “This is gonna be a rough ride. I need my mate. Whatever feud you two have going waits until we hit dry land.”

  She nodded like she understood and turned back to the cockpit. “I want to let you-all know that the cloud over this boat is gone now. We will have safe passage aboard Ghost Runner,” Pamela declared.