I motioned toward our daughter, who was sitting beside the guy she’d saved and sliding her trusty Spare Air back into its pouch.
The idiot laughed. “Thanks for looking out.” He chugged the rest of his beer, then tossed it to the deck and grabbed another from his cooler, adding, “You guys want a cold one on me?”
I shook my head, genuinely shocked that this guy was for real.
“You realize you can get a DUI operating a boat, right?” Ange said.
The guy laughed stupidly again, then spread his arms out wide.
“Good thing there’s a shortage of cops out here.”
He kept his arms held out and looked around with a big goofy smile on his face.
To prevent losing any more brain cells by associating with the guy who made Mr. Bean look like Albert Einstein, I focused my attention back on Cody.
People drowning while freediving is more common than it should be. Sometimes, unavoidable instances occur. Sometimes every rule is followed, every preparation made, and still a fluke whacks you out of nowhere.
But the vast majority of victims are claimed due to a lack of respect for the ocean, or whatever body of water you’re in. It doesn’t matter if you’re a foot or two hundred feet down. When your lungs throb for unattainable air and you can’t move, your depth will be irrelevant.
“You should really look into getting a freediving certification,” I said to Cody.
“They have those?”
I nodded.
“Yeah. Most reputable is PADI. It’s a fun course and you’ll learn a lot. FYI the first rule is to never freedive without a buddy.”
He hung his head and bit his lip.
“Sorry for this. And thank you for saving my life. All of you.”
“You’re welcome,” Scarlett said with a proud grin.
“You’re alive,” I said, “and you’ve learned a good lesson. The ocean can be the most awe-inspiring, as well as the most terrifying thing you’ve ever encountered. It must be respected.”
“And you’ll have a cool scar,” Scarlett added. “You could embellish the story a little, make it a real sea story by saying that sharks or eels were involved.”
He smiled for the first time, then we helped him to his feet.
“Be smarter next time,” I said as I shook his hand. I leaned in closer and lowered my voice. “And get yourself some new friends.”
He nodded meekly, then climbed over to the Bayliner.
“You’re buying me a new camera if you broke it,” the idiot said to Cody as he stepped beside him.
He said other stuff too, but I turned away and stepped forward so I couldn’t hear it.
“Well, that was exciting,” Ange said. “Saving helpless victims? You’re becoming more like your dad every day.”
Scarlett beamed at that.
“And your mom,” I said, popping open the cooler and pulling out a few chilled coconut waters. I handed them out, cracked open one for myself, then took a few refreshing swigs. “You did good, Scar. I didn’t even see him. And it’s a good thing you had your can of Spare Air.”
“Sorry for dropping it,” she said. “You all right?”
I waved her off. “You didn’t. He smacked it away. And I’m fine. Not my first run-in with those pesky purple spike balls. And I’m sure it won’t be my last.”
FIVE
Preferring to avoid crowds, we motored away from the statue and anchored down beside the edge of Molasses Reef. Just minutes after diving the reef, Ange spotted a few lionfish spread out in a long rocky alcove. We made quick work of the colorful tropical fish with our pole spears. In a world of regulations and licenses and specified seasons, going after lionfish offers a breath of fresh air. The invasive species is always in season; in fact, spearing the colorful spiny fish is encouraged.
After another hour soaking up the bountiful marine life and exploring the seafloor, we took a break for lunch. I whipped up one of my favorites: fresh lobster dripping in lemon juice and shoved between leftover rolls from Old Town Bakery.
While enjoying the succulent sandwiches with sides of potato chips, Scarlett brought up the incident back near the Christ statue.
“After grabbing the canister, your mask was filled with seawater,” she said. “How did you keep calm like that? Didn’t your eyes sting?”
I washed down a bite with a sip of coconut water, then chuckled. “Like hell. But I’ve experienced a lot worse.”
“When?”
I looked out over the water. I didn’t have to think hard to resurface the memories. They were engraved in my psyche as if they’d happened yesterday.
“The first time I experienced it was during BUDs.”
“Basic Underwater Demolition School?” she said.
I smiled. “That’s right. Our instructors made us fill our masks to the top, then tread water while holding ten-pound rubber bricks over our heads. Then they’d spray us with hoses as well, or knock the bricks from our hands and force us to dive down and get them. If the water in our masks ever dropped below our eyes, they’d yell at us to submerge and fill it back up.” I chuckled and shook my head. “I think I swallowed about a gallon of chlorinated pool water on those days. Good times.”
“Sounds nuts. Did they just like tormenting you guys?”
“It sounds crazy, but the training serves its function well. Since then, I’ve never been uncomfortable in the water. Ever. That’s the purpose of it. If you can operate under the worst conditions, you’ve got a serious leg up on whatever situation you encounter.”
“You should really think about being a recruiter,” Ange said with a laugh. “Hell, you’re making me want to sign up.”
I chuckled.
“Can girls join the SEALs?” Scarlett asked.
I paused and thought for a moment while looking out over the water.
“That’s a good question. I don’t think so. I know for sure that they couldn’t when I was in, but times are changing. I know they’ve just started allowing women to serve on submarines, which is a huge deal.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
I shrugged.
“It’ll be an adjustment for sure. There’s a good saying that ‘the first one through the wall always gets bloody.’ It rings true no matter what the endeavor. But things change and adapt. There was a time when black people weren’t allowed to serve in the same units as white people. Crazy to think about now. But I doubt many women would want to be SEALs, let along be able to pass all of the training. Most men who qualify don’t even make it through.”
While finishing up, Ange asked Scarlett how school was going. Her answer was much more animated than I’d expect from a fifteen-year-old girl.
“I love it!” she exclaimed. “It feels good to be experiencing the normal high school scene.”
Having spent the past two years living at a group foster home that provided in-house schooling, Scarlett hadn’t been to public school since the seventh grade. She was smart and likeable, so Ange and I hadn’t worried about her too much since she’d enrolled as a sophomore at Key West High.
“I’m writing a paper on Henry Flagler and his Overseas Railroad,” Scarlett said. “You guys know anything about him?”
Ange and I glanced at each other and smiled.
I thought back to a series of events almost two years ago. Ange and a few local friends of ours had managed to follow clues and track down a rare diamond that had been stolen from Flagler just days before he’d announced to a large crowd that he was going to bring his railroad to Key West.
“A little,” I said. “Though Pete knows a lot more. He’s even got a corner dedicated to the railroad tycoon at the restaurant.”
While we were cleaning up, my phone buzzed to life in my pocket. Sliding it out, I saw that I’d received a message from a friend of mine in Marathon. Nick Alto owned Queen Anne’s, a boatyard that offered a wide variety of services. I beamed as my eyes trailed over the message.
“Our new baby’s ready,” I sa
id.
Excited to take possession of our new boat, we rattled up the anchor and locked it into place, then I started up the 200-Hp engine. I quickly brought us up to thirty knots and piloted us southwest, skirting along the tropical island chain. Just under two hours later, I brought us into Florida Bay. I could see the boatyard up ahead, rows of seagoing vessels of all shapes and sizes on the hard along with cranes and metal buildings.
It had been two months since we’d returned from a three-week hiatus to Curacao in the Dutch Caribbean. Upon our return, we’d had two things on the agenda. The first was to enroll Scarlett in school, which she’d insisted on doing the day after we got back. The second had been to replace my boat, a forty-eight-foot Baia Flash that had been destroyed by a former comrade of mine who’d turned down a dark path years ago. He’d set my old boat ablaze right after murdering a close friend. Though he’d slipped through our fingers, we’d managed to take down Richard Wake, the puppet master behind the incident, and get away with our lives.
Fortunately the Baia had been fully insured. In love with the design of the boat, I’d decided to replace her with the same make and model, but with a few custom touches. And that was where Nick and his experienced motley crew came into play.
I maneuvered us toward a planked wooden dock jutting out from the boatyard.
“Ahoy, Captain Dodge,” Nick called out as I eased the starboard side of the Robalo against the fenders.
I shielded my eyes from the late-afternoon sun and spotted Nick flip-flopping toward us. He was average height, with a decent build, cargo shorts, and a dirty shirt. Scarlett hopped onto the dock and made quick work of the forward and aft lines while I slipped on a tank top, then waved back at him.
“Nice to see the whole Dodge clan,” he said, lumbering up to the gunwale.
“I think Dad’s more excited to get his boat than he was when he adopted me,” Scarlett said with a chuckle.
I smiled and shook my head.
“Well, I’m excited to show her to you,” Nick bellowed.
“She still float?” I asked.
He held out his arm and teeter-tottered his flattened hand side to side.
“Only one or two leaks,” he chuckled.
“You should put that on your business cards,” Ange said. “It’s one heck of a catchphrase.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” he said as Ange and I climbed onto the dock. “What happened to you?” He slid his sunglasses down and eyed the bandages on my chest and shoulders.
“Got in a fight with a gang of urchins,” I shrugged.
“Eek. At least it wasn’t a pride of lionfish.”
“No, we won that fight today,” Scarlett said. “And we’ll be savoring our victory at dinner this evening.”
I gave Scarlett a double take. Sometimes it was hard for me to believe that she’d only lived in the Keys for three months. She’d fallen into the conch lifestyle as comfortably as anyone I’d ever seen.
Nick led us up the dock, across a dusty gravel driveway, and into one of the buildings. Our new Baia was on the hard, its freshly painted dark blue hull and spotless decks looking like they’d just come out of the factory.
Nick led us up a set of temporary wooden stairs and onto our boat. It was a few years older than the one I’d lost, but the leftover insurance money allowed us to spruce it up a bit, with a pair of sparkling 600-Hp engines, upgraded electronics, and a few custom touches in addition to the new paint.
Nick led us past the reupholstered sunbed, the topside dinette, and the cockpit. Opening the saloon door, he led us below deck. Everything looked new—the galley, the half-moon cushioned bench seat, and both cabins.
The guest cabin aft of the saloon had a full-sized bed, along with a twin bunk that could fold out and hang by straps if we needed it. Under the bed and along the opposite bulkhead, Nick had added spacious lockers for our scuba and rebreather gear and our underwater drone, as well as our magnetometer.
Nick had also added a few secret hiding compartments per Ange’s and my requests. Though both proud law-abiding citizens, we often find ourselves in situations where being armed is significantly preferable to not being armed. And since much of the Caribbean doesn’t allow you to bring in firearms, or requires you to turn them over to authorities for the duration of your trip, the compartments would surely come in handy.
My favorite secret space was topside, just beside the cockpit. It ran flush with the paneling and could only be opened by pressing from the bottom up at a certain point. The easily accessible hidden mini compartment was just big enough for a Sig Sauer P226 9mm, my handgun of choice and the bread and butter of SEALs since the late eighties.
Nick ushered us onto the swim platform, then lowered a white cover, revealing the boat’s name painted in navy-blue letters on the white upper half of the transom.
“I christen you Dodging Bullets II,” he said, taking out a small bottle of champagne. Instead of cracking it against the hull, he handed it to us. “Make sure you do the official honors once she’s in the water.”
I grabbed it and assured him that we would.
“Hopefully this one will better live up to its name,” Nick said with a chuckle. “I lost count of how many times you motored your old one here with more holes in it than Swiss cheese.”
One of Nick’s employees started up his massive forklift and rumbled it over. Within minutes he had our sleek new home away from home floating in its natural habitat. Like a Ferrari or a Ducati, she was a thing of engineering beauty. A real head turner, or a head snapper given its speed.
“Ange, you and Scar can do the honors,” I said. I signaled toward our twenty-two-foot center-console and added, “I’ll take the Robalo home.”
Nick waved a hand. “No need. I’m heading to Key Weird this evening to catch the Wayward Suns at Salty Pete’s. I’ll tie her off at Conch Harbor if you’d like. I’m sure I can hitch a ride back.”
“You sure? It’s no problem.”
“Of course! Can’t let the captain miss the maiden voyage, after all.”
“Ange’s the real captain,” I said, shooting her a wink. “But she occasionally lets me wear the skipper’s hat in the relationship.”
We unloaded our stuff from the Robalo and stashed it away in the Baia. Walking about the beautiful boat felt good. Like coming home. I’d only been without the original Dodging Bullets for a few months, but it’d felt a lot longer.
I handed Nick the keys to our center-console, then thanked him again for everything. We did an official christening once aboard, pouring a few drops over the side to abide Neptune and drinking the rest ourselves. We even let Scarlett have a sip, though she wasn’t a fan.
I handed Ange the half-empty bottle, then started up the Baia’s twin engines. The initial grumble followed by the steady purr induced a deep satisfaction within me.
“You want to catch the Suns at Pete’s tonight as well?” Scarlett asked.
It wasn’t a school night, so I said, “Why not? There’s something I’d like us to do first, though. A way to really put an exclamation point on this day.”
“A Mallory Square Sunset celebration, perhaps?” Ange said.
I smiled. The sunset celebration was a daily tradition in Key West that dated back to the 1960s. Local legend has it that renowned playwright Tennessee Williams himself began the tradition when he applauded while watching Mother Nature’s evening spectacle.
“You think we can make it in time?” Scarlett asked.
“If we were still aboard the Robalo?” I said, raising my eyebrows. “Not a chance. But this baby won’t even break a sweat. There’s a reason it’s called a Flash.”
We waved to Nick, then cast the lines and chugged out of the cove. Once beyond the no-wake zone, I asked if either of the ladies would care to stretch the boat’s legs.
They both got comfortable and told me to take it away. With my left hand tight on the helm, I slid the throttle forward. The engines roared and accelerated us over the turquoise water. I held o
n as the bow rose up on plane, then splashed down and leveled off. Wind whipped past as I brought us up to her top speed of fifty knots.
I zipped us around Knight Key, then cut under the Seven Mile Bridge. Turning the helm to starboard, I put us on a southwesterly course, jetting along the Atlantic side of the Lower Keys.
I cracked open a coconut water, took a few swigs, then slid it into a cupholder. I reached for the radio to find out what song Island Vibes was playing, but Ange called out before my finger pressed the power button.
“Logan!” she shouted.
I snapped my head and focused on my wife. She was still sitting on the cushioned bench wrapped around the outdoor dinette, but she was huddled over her phone, and her expression was stone-cold serious.
I eased back on the throttles, causing the engines to simmer down enough for me to hear.
“Where’s your phone?” she added.
Her words were rushed, her tone focused.
I patted the front pockets of my swim trunks. Feeling nothing, I looked around and remembered I’d left it in my waterproof bag.
When I stepped to grab it, Ange stopped me. She had her phone glued to her face, her eyes big and sullen.
“Logan, it’s Harper.”
Her words and tone caused my heart to skip a beat, then ramp up. Harper Ridley, a longtime Key West local, was a good friend of ours.
“She was attacked,” Ange said. “And her uncle was murdered last night.”
A hundred questions popped into my head, but one took precedence.
“Is she all right?”
Ange nodded. “She’s at the hospital now with Jack and Pete.” She paused a moment, then looked up at me. “Jack says the killer’s still at large.”
SIX
Less than an hour later, I motored us into Conch Harbor Marina in downtown Key West. After tying off at slip twenty-four, we quickly changed, then locked up and headed for the parking lot.
The celebration at Mallory was already heating up, with a few early conch shell horns echoing across the water. But we’d have to pass this time. On the ride over, Jack had informed us that Harper had been released from the hospital and that they were gathered at Pete’s.
Avenged in the Keys Page 3