Deadman's Cay

by Boyd Craven

  “You know you’re gonna have to do it, Mark,” Charles said.

  “I know, and somebody is gonna raise hell come election time, but I don’t give a shit. This is the right thing to do.”

  “What are they talking about?” I asked, confused.

  “I think you should put your hand on this and raise your right hand,” Carly’s dad said, holding up a Bible that had previously been sitting on the table next to him.

  Sheriff Mark Williams swore me in; deputized me on the spot.

  “Now we just have to find you some guns, unless you have got spares?” Williams asked Terrey.

  “Actually,” Carly’s father said, “I can help with that. Carly, where’s your keys to the store?”

  “Over there, Daddy.” She pointed to a cabinet, where they’d stored her personal things.

  They got them, while I thumbed out a text to Donnie that things were a go. I walked over to Carly and leaned in close.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I asked her softly.

  She took a deep breath, smoothing the hospital gown down, then ran her hand through her hair. She pursed her lips a second, then poked me in the cheek, smiling.

  “I’ll be a lot better knowing the guy who shot me is locked up, but I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “I’ll be safe, besides, I’m too ugly to get hurt or dead.”

  “You’re so ugly I fell for you the day you crushed those guys the first time.”

  “It’s a Shrek and Fiona moment,” Terrey said, cracking a joke.

  “I am not an ogre,” Carly said crossly, flipping the detective off immediately.

  Her dad sputtered, but the rest of us cracked up.

  Mark and Charles went to pack. They were bringing ID, but they needed to look the part of fishermen or tourists. They were going to be leaving notes with wives to give a call to their offices in the morning when they didn’t show up. They would also be responsible for setting up backup in Miami, but assured us they could do it via phone and radio. We hoped by midday tomorrow things would be resolved one way or another. I didn’t think we’d be going anywhere as near as fast as the cops thought we would. My boat wasn’t made for speed; it was about stability and a wide deck to fish from.

  Carly’s dad and I went to the pawn shop. “The sheriff and detective might have given me a hard time about this, so I’m glad they were busy,” he said, taking me into the back room where Carly had been robbed before.

  I expected him to go to the safe, but instead he felt along the top edge of the wood paneling on one side and then fished out first one piece of cloth made into a loop, then another from the edge of the drop ceiling. Then he pulled. With a ripping sound, Velcro parted, and the entire vertical piece of paneling came off. Between several studs was an even larger safe, almost four-foot-wide and six feet tall. He worked the dial, putting in the combo, and opened it up.

  Long guns were lined up side by side, with two hard cases on the far right. He got one of the cases out and opened it up. Now I wasn’t a gun guy, but I recognized this one from TV, and the shaped magazines folks on TV called banana clips. They had different colors of tape across the bottom.

  “These are the specialty magazines,” he said. “Green tip, black tip, red tip, silver is for silvertips. This baby hates hollow points, and I’m thinking those won’t be what you’d really want here. This here is all around ball ammo.” He pulled up a belt with what looked like a sagging pouch attached to it.

  “An AK-47?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “Except for the red tips, all this is legal and compliant. Semi-Automatic. Don’t go shooting this further than a couple hundred yards unless you have a lot of practice.”

  “Or a big target…”

  “Do you shoot? Have you fired a gun?” he asked me suddenly.

  “Mostly hunting rifles,” I admitted. “Rented a pistol a few times at the range; kind of because it was a novelty in Chicago, and I had to leave the city a few times for work.”

  “What kind of handgun did you use?” He closed the safe, then fit the panel back in place.

  “Glock, 9mm,” I answered immediately.

  “Then let’s go there next and see what I have for holsters.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It was almost dawn when we left. I was absolutely worn out. The front right bunk had been cleared, that’s where Mark had fallen asleep, with Charles grabbing space on the floor. The table had been put down flat and converted into a bed, that was where the Boom Brothers were getting a nap. I started the trip by letting Irish John drive the boat, while I got out the fishing gear for props as we headed to the marina. We topped our fuel tanks with diesel, and I filled two jerry cans with gasoline. We were going without a dingy, but I had taken the motor off my small aluminum boat and had it stored. If we really wanted to look the part of a fishing charter, I’d got all three coolers full of ice filled. I figured if we needed more room and they were in the way, I’d chuck ‘em in the ocean. Sorry environmentalists!

  “You know boy, you should get some sleep,” Irish John said as the diesel motor thrummed.

  “You good for an hour or two?” I asked him.

  “If Irish John not, he wakes you up. Is easy, just have to head south toward Miami, stay out of bigger boats’ way. Should be four or five hours until we get to first waypoint to look for Eduardo. Is a spot Serf said where things were dead dropped?”

  “Thank you for coming with me,” I said getting the hammock out, and stringing it.

  “Wouldn’t miss ’dis ’tings. Irish John wants to see man’s face when you shove in ‘da hat!”

  I chuckled and got into the hammock. The boat swayed one way, gravity kept me mostly straight, but then the gentle rocking, exhaustion from nerves and the entire week caught up with me all at once.

  “Let me do the talking,” Sheriff Mark Williams said.

  I sat up and swung my legs over the hammock, seeing a fast boat approaching us.

  “Hey, you’re awake,” Williams said. “Looks like a random check by the FWC.”

  “Got it,” I said, shuffling down into the cabin, getting my laminated licenses and paperwork out.

  By the time I got up top, they were beside the boat, and Irish John had cut the motor and tossed them a line.

  “Hey fellas, fish biting?” the designated spokesman asked from the FWC.

  “Haven’t dropped a line yet today,” I called, not knowing if this was true or not, but I didn’t see anything unstrung.

  “Got your ID and paperwork handy?” he asked.

  I handed it over. “Irish, will you open the coolers for the guys so they can see, I know they gotta do their jobs.”

  “Dummy asshole FWC, don’t you know, Irish John and Anthony Delgado greatest fishermen in all of Florida? Why you harass us so?”

  “Just doing our job, sir,” another one said, reluctant on the last word. “You got ID?”

  “Irish John has paperwork on file with the immigration office. He does not take such important paperwork away on a fishing trip where he might lose it!”

  “Uh huh, how about the rest of you?” the designated spokesman said.

  “Sure, want to come aboard?” Terrey asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do. Makes this go quicker,” he said, hopping over to the deck.

  He almost slipped, but Mark grabbed him by the shoulder, steadying him.

  “Here’s mine,” he said pushing his Hawaiian shirt back, showing his sheriff’s badge in the holder he took out.

  “Here’s mine,” Terrey said.

  From below, I could hear Serf and Donnie moving around quietly.

  “Forgot to show him your other ID,” Mark told me.

  “Oh yeah,” I said, showing him the shield Mark had loaned me, proclaiming me to be a deputy.

  “New at this?” the second guy asked from his boat.

  “Just swore in the kid. Figured we’d all go out drinking, fishing, and chasing girls to celebrate.”

  �
��And what’s his story?” the first guy asked, pointing to Irish John.

  “Irish John is first mate to ‘dis legally owned and operating ocean-going vessel. I not need shiny badge for ‘dat, do I?”

  “No,” the first guy said with a chuckle.

  “Mind if we check below?” the second called.

  “I don’t care,” I said, “but you’re not going to find anything.”

  “Guns, drugs, booze, illegally caught fish or overages?”

  “Yes, no, yes, and no,” I told him, ticking them off on my fingers.

  “Which ones are yes?” He asked, already smiling.

  “Yes, on the guns and booze. None of us are drunk, but if you would have been around for the party last night at 11pm…”

  He chuckled and made sure the big coolers on deck were in fact empty, then hopped on the side, then stepped over to his boat, “You guys be safe. Congratulations Deputy,” he said, giving me a grin and a nod, “I hear the fishing is good down by Marathon Key right now, and if you are really looking for fish instead of chasing tail… Go out past Key West.”

  Both agents were grinning at each other, one slapping the other on the shoulder.

  “Thanks for the tip, guys. We’ll radio if the fishing is more than we can handle,” Terrey said, a grin plastered across his face.

  We waved as they fired up their boat and moved off. Irish John got us started, then looked over at me.

  “Yeah, I’ll take over.”

  “Good. Irish John needs a drink.”

  As soon as he went below, Serf and Donnie came up on deck, looking in the distance as the FWC’s boat raced away.

  “Just a random check,” they both said.

  “Did you really get deputized?” Donnie asked me.

  I showed him the badge.

  “Dude, I’ve always wanted one of those. Sheriff, I—”

  “Eat your hat full of shit,” Williams said. “Wait, shit in your hand and… wait…”

  Irish John started laughing hard from below and was up a moment later with a pint half empty already, and got in the hammock I had just departed.

  “How far out are we?” Donnie asked.

  “Another hour,” I told him, rubbing my eyes.

  “Go get geared up,” Terrey said. “I moonlight as a fishing captain and can run this boat without hitting anything for the time it takes you to wake up and gun up.”

  “You got it,” I said and went below decks while the cops and Boom Bros started talking and planning.

  Putting on the belt with the dump pouch was easy enough. I had an outside the waistband holster on the right, with extra magazine pouches threaded on the back left. I was a right-handed shooter, but I was only a target practice guy. I opened the gun cases that had been stowed near the head, and got the Glock holstered, and the AK out. There weren’t a lot of places above deck to lean a rifle, so I just slung it over my shoulder after putting a mag of black tips in it and pulling the charging handle, then putting it on safe.

  “You don’t fuck around,” Donnie said when I came back above the deck.

  “Is this too much?” I asked them.

  Donnie and Serf looked at each other, then laughed. I felt my cheeks heat up, and went below decks, putting the AK back in the hard case. When I got back to the top, everybody looked at me in surprise.

  “Why’d you put it up, man?” he asked. “I was just fucking with you, bro.”

  “You should see what he brought,” Serf said with a grin. “Makes the gun grabbers nervous just knowing regular guys can own skeery black guns.”

  “Nowhere to put it right now, unless everybody with binoculars wants to see rifle barrels sticking up,” the sheriff said.

  “True. I just… I don’t know what we’re going to be seeing when we get close,” Serf admitted. “I promise you the info is good.”

  “You were pretty vague on where you got it from?” Detective Charles Terrey said, turning to him with a grin.

  “You were pretty vague about arresting one of Eduardo’s boys,” I shot back.

  Everybody turned to stare at me.

  “You know this how?” Detective Terrey asked, an eyebrow cocked.

  “I dunno, figured everybody had secrets here. I just want you to know that I know some of what you know, and I think I know what I need to know with what Donnie and Serf know. You know?”

  “He’s bumped his head,” Irish John said from the hammock. “Wake me before ‘da shooting starts.”

  “You’re staying with the boat, along with Tony. You two are guarding our rear and making sure we don’t get stuck somewhere.”

  “Caving ladder?” Donnie asked.

  “Of course, it’s in the bag.”

  “What’s that?” I asked them as I ducked back below to get the hard case.

  “Basically, the way we’d try to get onto a taller boat than this one. But we don’t know if we’re meeting a boat or a no name little island in the middle of a mangrove swamp.”

  “You boys have done this a time or two, I’ve heard,” Terrey said as a statement, but I recognized it for the question it was.

  “A few. If we’re dealing with an island, and we think they are there, Donnie and I will slip overboard while this fishing boat does some slow trolls, and swim in with dry bags. We gave you guys the frequencies we’re using, so you’ll know if we need you to do more than fish.”

  “Why did you bring us around if you’re going to bench us?” Charles Terrey asked.

  “To give us an extra level of security and, to be honest, this is the biggest group of kids we’ve been able to track. We’re going to need your connections and people. If we can find this mothership, island, whatever… Once the kids are out of the way they need to be stopped. By kind of any means necessary. Since it’s international waters and we’re not pirates, it’s nice to have backup, and then another layer of backup,” Serf explained.

  “You’re not talking about—”

  “No, we never try to do anything more than disable those we take down. Most of our loadouts are nonlethal, but we do have taped magazines like your boy here,” he said pointing to me.

  Several had been near the top of the pouch I wore on my left hip, and he’d probably seen one of the magazines in the AK. I had it loaded with regular ball ammo right now, not knowing why I might need any of the fancier stuff yet.

  “Okay, I get it,” Sheriff Mark Williams said, “but operating in the middle of nowhere like this…”

  “We operate in the gray areas, the cracks, right on the line of the rule of law,” Donnie said. “We get the shit done that you guys get your hands tied up on by the higher ups. We don’t have higher ups, unless you count the big guy,” he said pointing to the clouds, “We do it because nobody else is doing it with any sort of effect. Even if we get all these kids back, how many more are stuck out there? How many more have already been delivered to their end destinations?” His knuckles popped as he made fists, his tone of voice showing the anger that was barely contained.

  “It’s because of your past record, and a shared interest personally and professionally is why I didn’t argue too much,” Charles Terrey said softly, “and I don’t even go to your church.”

  “You should,” everyone but Irish John chorused, then I busted up laughing.

  Irish on the other hand, had started snoring softly.

  “So now that we’re closer and we can pinpoint things,” I said, “are we looking for an island, a boat, a spot in the water where they drop things and dive to retrieve them?”

  Everybody looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

  “I saw it on a tv show once,” I said shrugging.

  “The GPS and plotter show it to be in the water, with the depths coming up to six feet or so right there, but it could be a structure on stilts or…” Donnie let the words trail off.

  “It literally could be anything,” Serf finished.

  “Ok, then let’s pretend to fish,” I said, getting some rods ready. “We didn’t cast for any bait,
so we can troll, throw some topwater lures, things like that.”

  “Whatever works. I wouldn’t complain about getting hooked into a big tuna or a snook though,” Terrey said.”

  “If this waypoint is a bust, where’s the next one?” Mark asked.

  “About twenty miles off of Miami. Good spot for us to refuel,” Donnie said looking at me, and I nodded.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The first waypoint was a bust. Somebody had a buoy out there, anchored to the seabed with a massive block of concrete or stone. I’d let Irish John sleep, but as we approached the Keys, I woke him up.

  “Boat traffic is starting to get heavy and I could use an extra set of eyes on the depth charts, maps, boats…”

  “’Tis ok, Irish John meant to wake earlier ‘dan ‘dis,” he said, rolling out of the hammock.

  We had let him sleep for almost four hours. Serf and Donnie had taken turns helping me and keeping me awake, while the other napped in the spare hammock. The detectives had in fact caught a dolphin, the fish not the cute mammals the tourists swim with, and several mackerel. They had gotten the most sleep of us but were having a good time pretending to be fishermen. I didn’t blame them, it was hard not to get caught up in the excitement as the reels suddenly started trying to spool out, and they fought the fish back to the boat.

  “Thanks,” I said and moved over when he bumped me with his hip.

  “Let us gas up at Marathon Key, instead of going all ‘da way round ‘da tip. Save us time, I ‘tink.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He was much better at driving the boat than me, and I mostly watched as he kept an eye on the radar, the GPS and other pleasure boats and jet skis zipping around as we motored into the marina in Marathon Key. He motored us up to the fueling docks and I hopped onto the dock, tying us off.

  “How much you want?” the gas jockey for the marina asked me.

  “Fill it,” I told him.

  “You gonna pre-pay?” he asked, nodding to the credit card slot.

  “Any cash discount?” I asked, pulling the wad of cash from the tuna catch out of my shorts pocket.