Backwater Cove

by Steven Becker

  I led Misty into the mirror image of my home. The only difference was this one was clearly lived in by a family. I stepped on one of Jamie’s many toys strewn across the floor.

  “You got a name, honey?”

  “Misty,” the girl said.

  “I’m Becky. Let’s have us a cup of tea and let Kurt go have a look for your friend,” she said, leading her to the couch. “Go on, I got this,” she said to me. She turned back to the girl. “That a Lilly Pulitzer you got on there? Little worse for the wear, I’ll get you something dry.”

  I took one look at Misty and knew she was in good hands. “I’ll be back soon,” I said, turning and walking toward the door. Outside, I looked out at the water. The storm had passed and the weather had settled, leaving a strong north wind and clear skies. I shivered, noticing the temperature drop. There were usually several days of hot and humid weather before a front broke through, making the freshly arrived cool, dry air seem even colder.

  With Misty safe, I was able to focus on the missing woman. It had crossed my mind that in Misty’s condition, her girlfriend might or might not have existed, but I still had to check it out. I went across the lawn, opened the door to my house and gathered up the boat keys, my gun belt, and cell phone. On the way out, I reached for a slicker on a hook behind the door. It was lightweight, mostly useful in rain, but I hoped to add a little wind protection to the hoodie I had on.

  I went down to the dock and removed the extra spring line I had attached before the storm and hopped aboard the park service issued twenty-two-foot center console. After starting the engine, I released the other lines and idled into the channel. What had once been so foreign to me was starting to come naturally, and as I let the boat drift, I calculated which direction I would expect the water to move a body. The wind was coming out of the northeast and even though we were in the lee of the landmass of Elliot Key, I would still have to factor it in. The tide was also near its peak. I had the beginning of a vague timeline estimated only by Misty’s condition. At most, she had been out a few hours. That meant a flood tide and with the wind blown waves coming from the northeast, I would search to the north.

  With the spotlight in one hand and the wheel in the other, I idled into the channel and started to work my way around the small island. The high tide widened the skinny channel that followed the contours of Elliot Key allowing me a little comfort level. I was being extra cautious, knowing I couldn’t save anyone if I grounded. Usually this was kayak-only country. Daylight would have allowed me to gauge the depth by the colors of the water, and the depth finder was worthless, showing where I had been, not where I was going. Just to be safe, I raised the engine until the blades of the propeller just broke water. Keeping an eye on the telltale stream of water flowing from the exhaust, I moved slowly forward.

  There was a chance that if the girls had come from Elliot Key, the wind would have pushed them away from the shore and the tide would have taken them counterclockwise around the island. Misty, by swimming, had shortened her path. Panning the light back and forth, I could only wonder what I was missing as the beam fought to break through the dense mangroves on the back side of Adams Key. The shallow water wouldn’t allow a closer inspection and I continued, figuring I could cover much more water with the boat than if I had to go back in on foot.

  It would have been nice to have gotten more information from Misty—like whether her friend was a good swimmer or under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Misty appeared to be sober when I found her, but that didn’t mean she had gone into the water that way.

  Even in her current condition, Misty was well dressed and though dirty, well-groomed. I had plenty of experience with meth users and other hard drugs back in the Plumas Forest, and Misty showed no signs of either. She looked like someone who took care of herself. I didn’t know what a Lilly Pulitzer was, but her dress looked expensive. I could only assume her missing friend was from the same stock.

  I felt the wind increase when I reached the northern end of the island and looked out at the small white-capped waves marching toward me across the open water of the bay. From here I could see Elliot Key to the right. The shore of the low island was outlined by the moon, but the interior remained dark. The lights from the campground and small harbor toward the northern end of the key were blocked by Billy’s Point. The night air was clear enough that, across the water to the northwest, I could see the Miami skyline. But there was still no body.

  I was fascinated by water and what it could reveal. Sometimes it had to be cajoled, and others it was in your face. Fishing was my way to learn it. I had discovered the pot grow out west by watching the water and finding an eddy with a current running the wrong way. When I tossed my fly toward it, the feather had disappeared into an irrigation pipe. It was a simple matter of tracing it from there, up the steep bank, and walking into a forest of marijuana.

  This time what the water told me was clear. Heather, the missing women, would not be found north of here. The incoming tide, a weaker one this evening, couldn’t combat the wind and waves that would move anything on the surface to the south.

  That revelation took me around the island in the direction of the deeper channel. Before I reached it, there was a small cove with very shallow water. Even just slightly on the downside of high tide, I could see the tips of the seagrass poking through the water. It looked like there was some debris piled up on the shore and I picked my way across the shallows, shining the light at the shoreline.

  Crab buoys, pallets, and all sorts of trash often floated into the mangroves— especially after a storm. It looked like more of the same until an odd shape appeared, something larger than your typical flotsam. Shining the light at it, I tried to imagine the shape of a body there—but it was too far away.

  Nudging the throttle, I powered through the seagrass. I knew it was bad for the ecosystem and had often scolded boaters for the channels their propellers made—usually before grounding. The possibility of locating a body made the decision for me, and I plowed ahead until I felt the bow hit bottom. Dropping the engine to neutral, I went forward with the light getting as close to the shore as possible.

  The figure was clearer now and I thought I saw the head of a woman, but it could easily have been a crab buoy from this distance. The only way to find out was to get closer. I hit the switch for the LED lights mounted below the boat and scanned the bottom. I had hoped for sand, it was the only chance I had to reach the beach. The dark seagrass waving in the current only confirmed what I had first thought—muck—a combination of ingredients that were more like quicksand than mud. With this type of bottom and stuck almost fifty yards away, wading to shore was off the table. I had tried that once only to sink almost to my hips in the dark muck below the grass.

  The only way was in the kayak or on foot. In either case, I needed to get back to the dock. The engine kicked in protest when I dropped it into reverse and started to back out of the shallow water. Just as I reached deep water, I heard the sound of another boat. It startled me at first after hearing nothing but my own engine and the wind for the past half hour. It was unusual for someone to be out so soon after a storm.

  3

  The wind carried the sound of the engine across the water making it appear closer than it was. Had it been blowing the other way, I probably wouldn’t have heard it at all. A quick scan of the horizon showed nothing.

  I heard the boat again and instinctively turned. I saw what I thought was a shadow, but after staring at it for a moment saw the silhouette of a boat. Just as I saw it, the navigation lights, which I swore had been off, flickered on. It was suspicious behavior and had they remained off, it would have been cause to check them out. What would have been an easy excuse to take a look at the boat was gone. I might have checked it out anyway, but it was possible that the girl’s body was on the beach. Pulling the handheld spotlight from its holder, I spun the boat and faced the shore. Panning the beam across the beach, I wondered once again if it was her. The figure was still ther
e and had to be my first priority.

  I made my decision based on doing the right thing. More often than not, this put Martinez and me at odds. This time he would agree. My mandate from him was clear: if there was no apparent wrongdoing, move along. The park service was notoriously underfunded and one of the first things shut down when Congress failed to pass a budget. We all knew it was posturing, but when the notices said to go home, there was no choice. Our shortcomings often fell to Miami-Dade and several other alphabet agencies, who often assisted us—reluctantly. The FDLE, Florida Department of Law Enforcement, was often helpful, but the closest office was in Tampa. FWC, the Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission and ICE both had boats stationed on the bay out of the same marina as our headquarters. I had contacts in both, but had to use them carefully.

  As I spun the wheel and turned toward open water, I studied the boat. It appeared to be cruising at about six knots and staying to the channel. There was nothing to indicate that they were fishing either, which eliminated Pete Robinson and the FWC. I thought about giving Johnny Wells, my buddy from ICE, a call to see if he’d take a look. If he weren’t already out on patrol, the boat would be gone before he got here.

  I was back at the dock in minutes. It was a noisy landing and I heard Zero coming after me. Brushing him aside, I went for the kayak leaning against the house. With the plastic shell dragging behind me and the paddle in hand, I reached the dock and shoved the boat into the water. I had learned a few tricks, mostly from the mistakes I had made since I had been here and always kept a line tied to the bow of the kayak which I used to reel it back to the dock. Climbing down the ladder, I found my balance in the small boat and pushed away from the piling.

  Not having to worry about grounding now, I hugged the shoreline, which allowed me to stay out of the wind and reached the small beach in less time than it took to motor there in the larger boat. Shining my mag light on the shore, I blinked hard and followed the beam. There was nothing on the beach that remotely resembled the figure I had seen from the boat. Confused, I looked around and noticed the lights from the larger boat I had seen earlier receding into the distance. There was something suspicious about the boat. If I had the center console, I could have followed them, but in the kayak, with the wind blowing in my face, I’d be lucky to paddle at two or three mph. The phosphorescence from the boat told me they were up on plane and running at about twenty.

  I had been in law enforcement for a dozen years now and knew there were no such things as coincidences. Misty’s statement about a lost friend convinced me the figure I’d seen on the beach was her. The larger boat was no coincidence either. Putting that aside, I beached the kayak and pulled it above the tideline. With the light in my left hand and my gun in my right, I started into the mangroves. Wishing I had brought better footwear, I skidded and tripped on the invisible roots and debris. Pointing the light at the ground might have saved my bare feet but would do nothing to help find the girl.

  The island was small enough that I crossed it in a few minutes. Finding nothing of interest, I turned back and started a search pattern. After thirty minutes, my feet were shredded and I had found nothing. Back at the beach, I took my time inspecting the shoreline thinking I might have been wrong and was chasing a figment from Misty’s mind. After my short time with her, I started thinking this was the case. Although there were no blatant signs of the hard stuff I was used to, I suspected drugs or alcohol were involved. Most of my experience had been in dealing with pot and meth; these girls would probably fall into the designer drug category.

  I stood there, looking out across the water and tried to place myself back in my boat, so I could imagine where on the beach I had seen the figure. Thinking it had been about twenty feet to my right, slowly and deliberately, I walked in that direction. At a pace slow enough that I was able to see the smaller trash brought in by the tide, I moved toward the spot, but there was no body. I was about to turn around, write this whole adventure off to craziness, and leave Misty in the custody of Miami-Dade when I saw the footprint.

  It was a beach only in the sense that there was a small flat area with no mangroves intruding on it. There was no white sand. Mostly it was covered in debris: leaves, twigs, and seagrass brought in by the tide. There were few clear areas, but I had been more focused on the brush on my first pass. Now, with the light shining at the ground, I saw the indentation of a boat shoe in the sand. It was well defined and below the high tide line. It had been placed here in the last few hours.

  Misty had been barefoot, so unless she had lost her shoes, it wasn’t hers. Leaning over to inspect it, I guessed it belonged to a man. I was no forensics expert. Justine could probably judge the height and weight of the person by the depth of the print. To me, it simply looked too large for a woman. I hovered my bare foot over it for reference and knew I was correct. The print was larger than my foot. Finding the first clue that I wasn’t crazy set me on a thorough search of the mangroves. Perspective is everything and once I was sure that the body was gone, I took my time. After retrieving several pieces of torn clothing from a branch that I thought might have blood on it, I returned to the kayak and placed the evidence on the seat.

  The footprint was a big clue and with the tide coming in now, there was no time to do the usual documentation. Forget about a tape measure, I didn’t even have my phone to take a picture of it. Justine and Martinez would probably have the same reaction to what I was about to do, but I had no choice. I removed the plastic cover from the water-tight compartment on the kayak and brought it to the footprint. Using the hard, plastic edge, I dug as deep as I could and slid the cover underneath the indentation. The sand started to fall apart as I went. All I could do was hope that I could remove it and get it back to my house without destroying it. The other evidence might have been proof that Misty was right. This could prove foul play and provide a valuable clue.

  With what was left of the print on the lid, I returned to the kayak and set it on the beach. I placed the other evidence inside the compartment and looked for a place to hold the cover. The exterior of the kayak had bungee cord systems in both the bow and stern, but using them would crush the delicate sand. The only choice was my lap. Placing the lid on the seat, I pulled the kayak into the water. Before I started to sink into the muck, I straddled the seat—removing the lid before I sat. It fit on my lap and, using exaggerated strokes so as not to disturb it, I paddled back to the dock.

  Once there I encountered another problem. Built for larger boats and the occasional storm surge, the concrete surface was several feet above my head. Under the best of circumstances, with little wind and a high tide, it was a circus act to reach the dock without going for a swim. Now with the lid on my lap, I was stuck. I sat there for several minutes trying to figure out what to do when I noticed the light was still on in Ray and Becky’s house. My best option was the island’s alarm and I called out to Zero.

  It didn’t take long before I heard the screen door open and the sound of small toenails on the concrete dock. Unfamiliar with me sitting in the kayak, he started to bark. I let him go until finally, the door opened again and I heard Ray trying to calm him down. I urged him on and finally, Ray, with no other choice, investigated. He stood above me with Zero by his side.

  “Sorry for the bother, but I could use a little help.”

  “Bothering’s been going on since you brought that girl over. Becky’s been fussing with her since you left. Now, the damned dog’s woken Jamie.”

  I knew Ray liked his routines, and one of those were regular hours. Island time was best lived by the sun and tides. After a few weeks out here I had acclimated to it as well. “Can you take this?” There was no point in apologizing any further. He was a man of action, not words.

  “What you got there?” he leaned over to look at the lid.

  “Evidence. Misty said there was another girl. I didn’t find her, but I did find this.”

  “Humph. Don’t know what you’re going to get out of a broken-up footprint.” />
  I wasn’t sure either, but I extended my arms until he took it. Once it was safely on the dock, I pulled myself to the ladder and climbed to the surface. Smelling the muck around my ankles, Zero came right for me. “I better hose off, and then I’ll take that girl off your hands.”

  “That’d be a good thing. Becky gets a little lonely out here. She’s probably interviewing her to be a babysitter right now.” He shook his head, called Zero, and walked back to the house.

  I figured Becky was going to be upset, but I had to get Misty to the mainland and figure out what was going on. Following Ray and Zero, I stopped at an intersection where the path branched off to the day-use area and using the wash station there, cleaned my feet. My toenails still reflected my adventure, but with the rest of me fairly clean, I went toward the house.

  I called out through the screen door, and figuring Ray had left it open for me to retrieve what was mine, walked in. Becky and Misty sat at the kitchen table drinking tea and chatting like old friends. Misty was loosely outfitted in some of Becky’s old clothes and had cleaned up her hair and face. Makeup attempted to cover the bruises, but they were still evident.

  “We gotta go,” I said. “I found some evidence of your friend across the island, but I think someone has taken her. “

  “Becky said I could stay here,” Misty said, looking over at Becky for support.

  “Girl needs a friend, Kurt.” Becky folded her arms over her chest.

  “I’ll bring her back if you both like, but for now, I have to take her to Miami-Dade to give a statement.”

  “No,” Misty said, matching Becky’s posture and looking at her.

  “What do you mean, no?” I asked.

  Becky eyed me. I had seen that look before and knew I was in trouble. I only hoped Misty and her friend were in less trouble than me.