Wood's Tempest

by Steven Becker

  Mac saw the troubled look on Kurt’s face and tried to figure out what to do when they reached Key West. The other consideration was if there still was a Key West. It would take another day or so for the seas to calm, but the sky was clear and sunny. There was no telling where the eye had passed, and whatever damage it had done was already in the books for the Keys. He wished anyone still in the eye’s path the best of luck and focused on what he had to do. For them, it was time to recover.

  “Bugarra’s going to want whatever information we have from Gross’s files in exchange for your family,” Mac said, after pulling Kurt back into the cabin, where it was quieter. “We’ve got to get ahold of Ned. He sounded like he was onto something, and he’s our best hope of figuring out what Bugarra wants. The sooner we can do that, the better the chance for getting Justine and Allie back.”

  “I can radio the fort,” Kurt said. “I’m also going to email Martinez for a leave of absence as soon as we get reception. If we’re going to get them back, I can’t be bogged down with the park service regulations.

  “Sounds good.” Mac had a thought: “Maybe one of the seaplanes can get Ned back to Key West. The storm’s about gone; they should be okay to fly.”

  Kurt pulled something out of his pocket. “I have the pilot’s card here.”

  “Let’s see if he’ll do it, then.”

  Kurt texted the number. “It won’t go through.”

  Mac pulled out his own phone and pressed the home button. “No service.”

  “Maybe it’ll go through once we’re closer.”

  “We can’t depend on cell phone networks. There’s no telling what kind of war zone we’re walking into. If you can get either of them on the VHF, we ought to try.”

  Kurt moved back to the helm. He picked up the microphone from its clip and changed the frequency back to channel nineteen, then started hailing the fort. Nothing. He tried the SSB next and was able to reach one of the rangers, who promised to find Ned and the seaplane pilot.

  “Okay, the sooner we’re all together, the better chance we have.” Usually Mac liked to work alone, but Kurt and Ned were valuable allies. Looking over at Trufante at the helm, Mac wasn’t so sure about the Cajun, but decided it was better to have a loose cannon in your backyard pointing at your neighbor than the other way around.

  Moving back to the helm, Mac stood behind the captain’s chair and checked the radar screen. “Looks like your bit of sabotage did the trick.” The icon was moving slower, although the gap still remained. Mac figured they could get about ten knots an hour more out of Ghost Runner, but deemed it not worth it. Better to conserve fuel and watch the other boat. For now, they had plenty of fuel, but there was no telling when the next time he could top off the tanks would be. Pumps needed power, and even if Key West had dodged the brunt of Ruth, there were likely outages. Sooner or later, Bugarra would stop and make the call Mac knew was coming.

  Thirty minutes later, the world came back to life. Within a few minutes, everyone’s phone was pinging and the radio crackling. “If we’ve got cell service now, let’s hold off on that radio call,” Mac said, preferring the privacy of the cell network over the open airwaves of the VHF.

  As if on cue, Mac heard the new name of his boat hailed over the speaker: “Ghost Runner, this is the National Park Service, Fort Jefferson.” It was Farnsworth. Turning the radio off, Mac decided the name that Pamela had christened her with was definitely appropriate.

  Mac watched as Trufante dropped speed slightly and programmed a course around the small keys dotting the water between their current position and Key West. Trufante looked at Mac for assurance and, when he nodded, set the autopilot.

  The communal feeling they’d felt on the run back from the Dry Tortugas ended with that first phone ping. Mac and Kurt were both looking down, their faces buried in their devices.

  As Mac checked his, he looked up at Kurt, who shook his head, indicating there was no message from Bugarra. Mac asked him to try Justine’s, but she had left hers in the fort when she and Allie went snorkeling.

  “I’m going to send that email to my boss,” Kurt said.

  Mac nodded and checked the notifications on his screen. He saw a dozen texts from Mel, opened the last, and saw Call me when you get service. He also saw several voicemails. Two were from her. Checking the timestamp, he saw they were from several hours ago. She was likely trying to reach him after he had disconnected so abruptly in the communications room.

  Now, over fifty miles from Farnsworth’s inquest and Fort Jefferson, Mac felt like he had regained some power. Bugarra had his boat back and had fled as well. Neither was going to jail, and Mac knew from the way the cards had been dealt by the administrator that was as good a resolution as he was going to get.

  His next voicemail was from an unknown number with a 305 area code.

  “Shut her down,” he called to Trufante. When the engines died, he held up the phone. The group gathered around, and he pressed connect. Bugarra’s voice came through the speaker. There was engine noise in the background, but the words were distinct.

  “I’m sure you know I have your two women. They will be safe as long as you comply with my demands. I know you are in possession of the research from Gross’s hard drive. That will be returned to me in due course. But before I release these two, I want what Gross was looking for. Please acknowledge receipt of this message. I will expect an update every twelve hours starting at six o’clock tonight.”

  Twenty-Six

  Sitting on the deck by the transom, Justine and Allie huddled together as the boat sped away from Fort Jefferson. Justine grasped Allie’s hand and gave a reassuring squeeze, thinking the self-assured sixteen-year-old had held it together pretty well. Justine was as proud of Allie as if she was her own daughter.

  Justine had been too surprised to react when the two thugs attacked them in the water. Their snorkels had been visible behind them for a while, but she had thought nothing of it. Now, she realized her mistake—there had been no tourists at the fort. After being pulled from the water, it took her several minutes to realize it was Bugarra at the helm. Rage overcame her at the thought of endangering a young girl because of a treasure that might not be there. Her fists clenched, showing the hard muscles in her forearms, toned and built by hours paddling her stand-up board.

  It was sunny and warm, yet she felt Allie shivering, and pulled her close. She doubted it was from the elements; it was a hot, humid day, and the water they had been snorkeling in had been bathtub warm. Justine knew that, despite her stone face, Allie was scared—Justine was, too.

  The twin engines behind them were surprisingly quiet and, sitting below the gunwales blocked it further allowing them to be able to talk.

  “Your dad and Mac will come get us. You know that, right?” she said. Although she had no doubt the men were in pursuit right now, she was not the kind to wait passively. Trained to observe detail, she had studied and memorized everything about the boat and the men who had taken them. She had already seen Bugarra in action, both at the Shipwreck Ball, where she and Kurt had saved Gross’s daughter from Slipstream and the state archeologist Jim DeWitt, and just hours ago, when Bugarra had tried to kill Mac and his crew. She knew he was involved in the business at the Savoy with Maria Gross, but the investigation quickly had ended with Slipstream’s confession. Justine had no illusions—if Kurt and Mac couldn’t produce something of the treasure, she and Allie would be dead.

  “I know they will,” Allie said, squeezing Justine’s hand. “But we have to be ready.”

  Justine smiled and teared up at the same time. “Look around. Watch everything they do and listen to everything they say. We’ll get our chance.”

  She estimated it had been an hour since they had been pulled from the water, and tried to remember the trip down. From her present position, all she could see was blue water. Slowly, so as not to attract attention, she lifted herself up just enough to see that … there was nothing else to see. The limited view of the horizon didn
’t tell her much, but she figured they were doing around forty knots and Key West was seventy miles away. The math wasn’t hard. The Marquesas Keys would be coming up soon.

  She returned her focus to the boat and glanced around at the two thugs who had yanked them from the water. They were laughing and talking, probably trying to figure out how to spend the paycheck Bugarra was sure to have offered them for their services. With no threats in sight, they were relaxed and not paying attention to Justine or Allie.

  Justine’s first thought was to take them now, while they had their guards down. But, weaponless and in the confines of the boat, there was little chance for success. Patience was a virtue, but not one of hers, though she knew it was their only way out. She and Allie clung to each other, watching and waiting. Justine had evaluated every item in sight for its value as a weapon and decided there was nothing they could do until they reached their destination.

  The whine of the engines and movement of the boat had almost lulled her to sleep when she felt the attitude of the boat change. A few minutes later, it slowed, then stopped. She could tell there was land nearby—first, from the shade of a large cloud overhead, and then from a sound she knew well from staying on Adams Key: the rustling of the breeze through the mangroves.

  The men were more alert now, and she moved slowly, rising from the deck and stretching. A wide cove in the shape of a half-moon extended in front of them. Mangrove-lined shores stretched from the water’s edge a quarter mile in each direction. She surmised they were in the Marquesas Keys. An escape plan flashed through her mind. With their snorkeling gear by their sides, they could probably be in the water and moving toward the shore before the men could react, but once they reached the thin strip of land, her plan dissolved. The population of the small islands was comprised of stinging insects and snakes. There was no way to sustain themselves or communicate with the outside world, if they were to avoid being recaptured.

  Sitting back down, she looked at Allie and whispered, “We’re in the Marquesas.”

  Bugarra must have heard her. He turned toward them and spoke for the first time since they had been taken. “You’ll be fine. Your boyfriend and Travis will do what I want.”

  “And what is that?” Aside from it being the key to their survival, Justine was just plain curious.

  “Don’t be naïve, girl,” he said. “You know very well what Gross was up to when those two idiots killed him. The Sumnter was just the beginning. If they had just waited, they could have let him take them right to the mother lode.”

  “And what might that be?” Justine asked. She’d seen his ego on full display at the gala.

  “We’d need Gross’s research to tell us that, wouldn’t we?”

  “All very interesting, but what do you expect Mac and Kurt to do?”

  “Gross was onto something big.”

  “I think you’re expecting the impossible,” she said, trying to figure out if it was even possible that Kurt and Mac could satisfy Bugarra’s demands.

  “Don’t underestimate Gross. He was the best.”

  “Is that remorse I hear?”

  “It wasn’t me that killed him, and I didn’t sanction it.”

  He said it easy, like he had killed before, which confirmed Justine’s feeling that she and Allie were disposable.

  Mac looked at his watch. They were within sight of Key West, near Man Key, just to the west. There was still no information coming from the Keys about what Ruth had left in her wake, and that bothered him. The last thing he wanted was to pull into the port and find anarchy, but he needed to stay close. The radar signature from Bugarra’s boat told him they were nearby.

  “Any word on getting Ned flown in?” Mac asked Kurt.

  “The pilot said he needed to make sure the runway was clear of debris before he made the trip. He was thinking it would be tomorrow.”

  “That’s too late,” Mac said. Bugarra had been clear about being updated often, and Ned was crucial if they were going to solve the puzzle. Mac knew they needed to work on two fronts. One to satisfy Bugarra—provide him with what he wanted, and they would get Justine and Allie back. The second was to get the two back without providing the treacherous salvor any useful information. The word useful stuck in his mind.

  “The only way to get Ned here tonight is to go get him here ourselves,” Kurt said.

  Mac knew he was right. Avoiding Key West because of what might be going on there was a cowardly approach to this business. “All right.”

  The determined look on Kurt’s face was enough to tell Mac he had made the right decision. He’d been there before himself, when Mel had been abducted, and knew exactly what was running through Kurt’s mind. “Whatever it takes,” Mac said.

  With somewhat of a plan, Mac watched the water ahead knowing nothing else could be done until they reached Key West. When they finally approached the marina, Mac started looking for signs of what to expect ashore. He’d been here twenty-five years, through Wilma and more tropical storms than he could recall. So far, the water remained clear, a good sign. If the island had been leveled, the first thing he would see was brown water from the erosion of the shoreline. Then the organic debris: trees, stumps, branches, and leaves. If devastation had occurred, there would be parts of buildings in the water. He saw none of that. Key West had done what it did best—survive.

  The marina was much like he had left it. Several boats whose owners were either out of town or confident that their insurance would cover any damages were askew, but they were all still in the water. The boats whose owners had taken precautions were mostly intact. Mostly what he saw as he backed into the slip was leaves and garbage. Ruth had been here, but it looked like the damage had been minimal.

  “We need to get to the airport,” Kurt reminded Mac as he secured the lines.

  Mac looked around the marina, but the Yellowfin was not there. He knew there were as many slips in Key West as barstools on Duval Street, so he wasn’t overly concerned.

  Once they reached dry land, Mac’s guess that Key West had been spared was proven accurate. There were branches and litter everywhere. Several trees were down, some unfortunately landing on structures, but for the most part, the city was unscathed. Hard to believe just slightly more than twelve hours had passed since the Ghost Runner had left the marina that morning.

  “Look at that, your old Reef Runner made it through,” Trufante said.

  Mac glanced over at the center console. There were some fresh dings where it had slammed into the dock, and he was relieved to see it whole but just now he needed land transportation, not another boat.

  “We need to get to the airport,” Mac repeated Kurt’s words, as he secured the stern lines.

  “I’ll stay and watch the boats. You never know what kind of unsavory elements are out after a storm,” Trufante said.

  Mac dismissed his offer, thinking he was probably trying to avoid walking across the island. A pink cab cruised by on the street and he remembered the young driver he had exchanged numbers with. He was kind of relieved he had an excuse to call her and make sure she was all right. It wasn’t his style, but he felt an odd connection with the girl. Texans had strong roots, and it might have been their common link to Galveston that did it, or any number of other instincts that bound people together. His brain was going down a road that would benefit no one, and he pulled himself back to the present and pressed the phone icon. The phone rang several times, and he was composing a voicemail in his head when she picked up.

  “Hey.”

  “This is Mac Travis—remember the guy from the cab?”

  “No offense, but a lot of guys ride in my cab.” She paused. “But I remember you.”

  “Did you get through the storm okay?” Mac asked, noticing the others were eyeing him. Trufante made a joke about him making small talk with the girl—something very out of character.

  “All good. Power went back on about an hour ago, and we’ve got plenty of food and water.”

  “Looks like the isl
and dodged a bullet. How about your cab?”

  “Nothing fell on it, if that’s what you mean. I haven’t been out yet.”

  Mac asked her to pick them up, telling her to use the main streets, as they would be cleared first. She agreed and said she’d be there in fifteen minutes.

  She arrived several minutes early with a report that the roads were generally passable. Mac watched for signs of damage as they went. Palm Avenue was clear, as was the causeway. Sonar turned onto First, which turned into Bertha, then turned left onto South Roosevelt.

  The windward side of the island showed more damage, but it was still minimal. The beaches were littered with debris, some having been swept over the road by the storm surge.

  When they reached the airport, she turned left. Mac could see several pieces of heavy equipment working to clear the main runway. He directed Sonar to drive past the terminal to the FBO area, where they stopped. The runway was covered with leaves and littered with palm fronds and branches, and it had a light coating of sand.

  “Call the pilot,” Mac jumped out of the cab, ran through the open gate in the chain link fence, and waved to a driver working a bulldozer to clear the runway, and saw him head toward the FBO area.

  Twenty-Seven

  The small plane appeared to come at them right out of the setting sun. It banked slightly as it flew overhead, and Mac could see the pilot looking out the window. The airport was still officially closed, meaning no one was manning the control tower. That wasn’t an issue, though. Only a fraction of the airports in the country actually had a manned tower, and Mac knew pilots landed all the time by using a hailing channel to state their intentions. Anyone else in the area would hear, and the pilots worked out any conflicts themselves.