Wood's Reach

by Steven Becker

  Inching over to the crane, Mac grabbed the control box. He was already familiar with the controls from the other night, and he slowly reached over, releasing the hook from its keeper. Ironhead was in front of him, bracing himself, using the transom and gunwale for support, preparing his shot. Hawk was firing at the approaching boat, but his shots went wild. With both men occupied, Mac hit the power switch, relieved that the noise of the engines covered the mechanism’s whine. The boom swung toward Ironhead. Mac hit the toggle to slow it and waited.

  The boats were neck and neck. Hawk was firing at close range, but the motion of the boat was throwing his aim off. Ironhead was patiently waiting for his shot when the next bottle came over the gunwale. Both men ignored it, knowing it would be ineffective. The backs of the four outboards had just passed the transom of the trawler when Mac saw Ironhead tense and squeeze the trigger. Anticipating the shot, he moved the toggle. There was a long pause before the boom built up momentum and slammed into him, taking him over the side, but the projectile had left the muzzle a fraction of a second earlier. Mac watched in slow motion as the heat-seeking missile found the four blazing engines and the boat erupted in a ball of fire.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They stood by the transom, surveying the water, each looking for something different—Hawk and Wallace for Ironhead; Mac and Alicia for any survivors from the explosion. Alicia stood next to Mac, trying to look stoic, but he could see tears running down her face. A low cloud of smoke still hung over the water, concealing the crash site. Slowly it lifted, and they saw the wreckage.

  “Wallace,” Hawk yelled. “Get in there and steer toward the debris.”

  He started toward it, but they stood, jaws dropped, as they watched what was left of the boat slip below the surface before they could reach it. There was still hope, with patches of debris everywhere, and Mac scanned the surface, desperate for survivors.

  “Careful that trash doesn’t wreck the prop,” Hawk yelled to Wallace.

  Mac continued to scan the water as the boat moved through the flotsam. Several bright orange life vests could be seen floating near the spot where the boat had sunk, but they were vacant. They continued to work the perimeter of the site, and finally Mac saw something move.

  “There!” He pointed to a section of wreckage that looked like the console of the boat with three heads clinging to it. Somehow they must have been hanging on when the boat blew and the force of the explosion separated the prefabricated unit from the hull. From this distance there was no way to tell if they were dead or alive. Wallace ignored him.

  Mac moved next to Hawk and pointed out the bodies. “You have to save them.”

  Hawk looked at him, unconcerned. “Right, let’s see if they’re still alive.” He pulled his pistol above the transom, ready to fire, and called to Wallace to move toward them.

  Slowly the boat picked its way through the wreckage, and they reached the console. What had been the small cabin was now bottom-up, giving the unit enough buoyancy to stay afloat. But instead of rescuing them, Hawk called for Wallace to stop, raised the gun, and aimed at the three heads, now looking to them for help.

  “Get under!” Mac yelled at them and went for Hawk, pushing him off balance.

  The gun fired and Mac was on him. Both men were on the ground now, Mac clawing at him, trying to get at the weapon.

  “Back off, Travis,” Wallace called.

  Mac chanced a look up and saw Wallace with his gun pointed at Alicia’s head. Reluctantly, he backed away from Hawk and crawled to the transom, where he looked over the edge to see if the shot had hit anything. With one hand, Wallace helped Hawk to his feet, but the other still had the gun trained on Alicia.

  The calls for help were louder now, and Mac moved to the gunwale, where he looked at the console. The current had moved them close enough he could almost reach them.

  Hawk was on his feet now, taking aim again. The range was almost point-blank, and he knew he had to do something quickly. “There—” He pointed to another piece of flotsam. “It’s another body.”

  Hawk turned, following Mac’s outstretched arm. From this distance it did look like a head on the surface. “Go,” he called to Wallace and put the gun in his waistband. Sticking his hand in his pocket, he withdrew the controller for the shock collar. Waving it so they could both see it, he said, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Mac looked back at the wreckage, trying to find Trufante. They were even closer than before, but quiet now after seeing Hawk with the gun. Hoping Hawk was too distracted to hear, Mac leaned over the gunwale and yelled, “Cheqea. Find her.” Hawk’s gaze moved to him, and he turned away from the wreckage, but before he did, he caught a look of understanding on Trufante’s face.

  ***

  The last thing Mike remembered when he woke up, tangled in a mess of mangroves, was the blast when the boat blew. He recalled being thrown from the deck into the water, but besides the pain in his side, he had no idea what had happened. Slowly, he fought the mud sucking at his feet and used the branches from the mangroves to pull himself onto the small key. His side felt warm, and he looked down at the gash. A pool of blood was accumulating at his feet. He looked back to see a trail floating on the water like an oil slick. Feeling fortunate he hadn’t attracted a shark, he lifted his T-shirt and looked at his side.

  It was hard to get a good angle, but he knew he needed medical attention—and now. Pulling off his T-shirt, he wrapped it around the wound, tying it as tightly as he could. With the blood flow stemmed, he looked around, surprised to see the mainland only a few hundred yards away. Fortunately the current had pushed him toward shore. An outgoing tide would have pulled him into the deep waters of the Gulf, where he would have been easy prey for a cruising shark or just lost at sea. He looked across at the mainland, not recognizing where he was, but it didn’t really matter—it was close enough to swim. Feeling light-headed, he got up and waded toward shore. The sun was behind him, starting to set, but daylight was not a concern.

  The mud sucked at his feet, but he fought through it until he was deep enough to fall forward on his hands and knees. With his weight distributed on all four appendages, he was able to make it past the flat into a channel, where, with the help of the tide, he sidestroked for the shore.

  Exhausted from the effort, he climbed out of the water, sat on a small beach, and caught his breath. His side pounded in pain. Remembering the pills he had gotten from the VA clinic, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the bottle, and turned the lid. Though he had been hitting it pretty hard, he thought there should be a half dozen left, but the inside was half-full with cloudy water that had leaked in, dissolving the pills. He drank it like a shot, hoping that some of the contents remained, but the minute it hit his mouth, he gagged on the bitter mixture of the pills and seawater and threw it back up. Whatever medicinal value it had was gone now. To make matters worse, the mosquitoes had found him and were swarming around the wound and his head. He brushed them away and tried to rise. It took everything he had to make it to his feet, but one step at a time, he started walking to a light in the distance.

  ***

  Trufante, TJ, and Pamela clung to the console, not sure if they were better or worse off. They watched Hawk’s boat as it turned to the west and made for Moser Channel. They followed its path into the channel but lost sight of the boat when it passed under the tallest section of the Seven Mile Bridge.

  “What did he say?” TJ asked.

  “Cheqea. A name from the past,” Trufante said. “Bet it has something to do with the tattoos. Her brother and cousin had them too.” He turned to Pamela and saw her shivering. “Hang on there, Pajama Bama, we’ll get you out of here.” She didn’t respond, and he started to worry that she was injured or becoming hypothermic. The water was in the low eighties, but with enough time, coupled with the shock from the explosion, it would take its toll—she looked to be in bad shape.

  The first responders had arrived just after Hawk left the scene, but had not spo
tted them yet. A helicopter had been overhead circling for the last twenty minutes or so, and they could hear several boats nearby. TJ climbed higher on top of the console, pulled off his shirt and started waving it in the air. The helicopter must have spotted him. It changed course, heading in their direction. Seconds later, Trufante heard an outboard closing on their position.

  The sheriff’s boat idled toward them, and Trufante could see the deputy at the helm. He spun the wheel, and for a moment he thought they were moving away, but the transmissions clicked and the boat backed down on them. Minutes later they were pulled out of the water and onto the deck of the sheriff’s boat, where they sat wrapped in blankets.

  “What happened out there?” the deputy asked.

  TJ was about to respond, but Trufante cut him off. “Damn engine blew. Never seen anything like it.”

  The deputy looked at him warily, knowing him, at least by reputation. “Is that what happened, sir?” he asked TJ.

  TJ looked dead ahead and followed his lead. “Yeah. Don’t know what happened.” He turned to Pamela. “Is she okay?”

  “Just shock, I think. Soon as the chill wears off, I think she’ll be fine.” He turned back to TJ, obviously wanting no part of Trufante. “Whose boat was it?”

  “Celia over at the marina by the Keys Fisheries loaned it out,” Trufante replied.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” the deputy said, looking at TJ, who just nodded.

  Trufante could see the look of distress on the deputy’s face. He knew firsthand that Celia could have that effect on people. He looked around for the first time, noticing that the boat was just entering Boot Key Harbor. “Where are you taking us?” he asked.

  “Not really sure. I’ve got nothing to hold you on. Do you think she needs to go to Fishermen’s?” the deputy asked.

  Trufante looked at Pamela. Her color had returned and she shook her head. “No hospital. We’re good. How ’bout you drop us over at Pancho’s?”

  “That’s fine, but I’ll have to get a statement from you when we tie up.” The deputy went to the helm and spoke to the officer at the wheel.

  Five minutes later they were tied up off the side of the fuel dock answering questions. Trufante did most of the talking, although the deputy was clearly looking to TJ for a more substantial or truthful version. He finally gave up and looked squarely at Trufante.

  “You know the deal. Don’t leave town,” he said.

  Trufante climbed onto the dock and helped Pamela off the boat. TJ followed, and together they watched the deputy pull away. “We gotta get your boat and go to Big Pine,” Trufante said as soon as the sheriff’s boat was out of earshot.

  “I’m for getting my boat, but what about Alicia?” TJ said.

  “Mac said to find Cheqea. That’ll lead us to her. Probably thinking a trade or something,” Trufante said, knowing it was not going to be as simple as that—anyone crazy enough to want to deal with the old chief was in for a load of trouble.

  “Can we get some food and maybe a drink or something while you guys figure this out?” Pamela said.

  Trufante went to her and put an arm around her. She was still wrapped in the blanket, but had stopped shivering. “We’ll take care of you, babe.”

  “How far is Mac’s?” TJ asked as they started walking away from the water.

  “Couple of miles, but I got a plan. Look.” He pointed to the end of the parking area. “There’s a gang of bikes over there.” Trufante pointed to several racks crowded with rusty bicycles. “It’s the liveaboards. They leave ’em here. Bettin’ a bunch are abandoned and don’t have locks.” He went to the rack and pressed the tires of a dozen or so bikes to make sure they still had air before pulling three from the rack. “This’ll do.”

  They left the marina, wound past the ballfields of the community center, and turned right onto US-1. Several blocks later, they turned again and rode to the end of the street. Portable sections of chain-link fence surrounded the property that had once been Mac’s house, but at least the police tape was down.

  They left the bikes and looked for a way in. There was a gate with a chain and padlock out front, but after a few minutes, they found a section of fence by the corner that wasn’t secured to the next panel. Trufante pushed against it and slid through the opening, signaling TJ and Pamela to do the same. Once inside the perimeter, they took a circuitous route around the demolished building and were about to approach the dock when the security lights on the house next door turned on. A door opened and a man appeared.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  Trufante saw something long in the man’s hand. “Just gettin’ the boat. We ain’t lookin’ for no trouble.”

  “The whole lot of you’s trouble—Travis, you, that lawyer woman. I’m still fighting with the insurance company for my sailboat that Travis took and wrecked.”

  Trufante ignored him and kept walking toward the dock.

  “Why don’t y’all wait right here?” The man pointed the gun at them. “Sheriff’ll be here shortly.”

  ***

  Mac looked back at the Seven Mile Bridge, wondering what had happened to Trufante, TJ, and Pamela. The sun was setting off to the side, and from this distance, only the arch at the center was visible. Hawk had ordered them off the scene quickly, before the first response boat had arrived. The trawler had escaped unnoticed and was now cruising toward the lighthouse on Sombrero Reef. He had to assume they had been rescued. The explosion had happened only a mile or so from land, which would reduce the search area significantly.

  Hawk moved behind him. “Better get some rest. We’re diving in the morning,” he said.

  “Don’t think rest’ll be happening,” Mac said.

  Hawk thought for a second and then, apparently realizing there was no harm in telling him, said, “Sombrero Light. We’ll tie up on one of the balls out there.”

  Mac couldn’t knock his logic. The mooring balls were safer than anchoring, and they were also in federal waters, which would keep the local sheriff away. They were moving towards one of the deeper balls, frequented by dive boats during the day, and away from the swells created by the shallow water around the light. “Where’s Alicia?”

  “She’s resting inside. I had to sedate her.”

  Mac thought that was probably for the best. There was nothing to be gained until Trufante found Cheqea. If he was able to enlist her help, they might have the final clue to the puzzle and a bargaining chip.

  Once they tied up to one of the buoys, he went back into the cabin and grabbed a plate of food that Hawk offered. Sitting down to eat, he thought about what would happen next, knowing that having to rely on Cheqea was not going to make this any easier.

  Chapter Twenty

  They froze at the sight of the shotgun pointed down from the balcony of the house next door, but Trufante was not going to wait for the sheriff.

  “Nice and slow,” he encouraged them. “Damn fool’s always been cranky. Don’t mind him,” Trufante whispered to TJ and Pamela. They started walking.

  “I’m serious,” the man yelled.

  They heard the sound of the shotgun chamber a round, and Trufante turned back to him. The man stood above them on the second-floor porch. He had a clear shot if he wanted it. “Go on,” he whispered to TJ. “I’ll deal with him.” TJ went for the boat, pushing Pamela ahead of him. “Easy, now. We don’t want no trouble,” he called to the man. Headlights hit Trufante in the face, and he looked toward the street, his view unobstructed now that the house was gone. The sheriff’s car came to a stop. “See that?” he yelled up to the man. “Sheriff’s here. He’ll take care of everything. For once he was thankful for the law’s prompt response.”

  The sound of the boat engine starting broke the silence, and Trufante used the distraction. He took off just as the beam from a spotlight coming from the sheriff’s car caught him, but he kept going.

  “Son of a bitch,” he heard the man yell.

  A shot was fired, and he ducked. The spotlight shi
fted to the house next door where the shot had come from, and he ran for the boat. “Go,” he yelled to TJ, who was already at the wheel. Trufante untied the dock lines and kicked the bow away from the pilings. The boat was already moving when he jumped. Barely clearing the gunwale, he landed on the deck.

  A bullhorn blasted. “You there. Return to the dock.”

  TJ was halfway through his turn when the order was repeated.

  Trufante climbed up to the bridge. “Can’t hear what he’s saying. Can you?” he grinned at TJ.

  “What? I really need to do something about these engines,” TJ said, laughing with him as the boat made the turn and headed toward the harbor.

  Pamela climbed up just as they turned out of Mac’s canal. She started singing “On the Road Again” and sat beside them. “You guys ever do anything boring?” she asked.

  “Just wanting to keep you entertained,” Trufante said.

  “Where are we headed?” TJ asked.

  They were in the main channel of the harbor now, passing several rows of sailboats tied up to white mooring buoys. “Cheqea’s bad business when the sun goes down. Don’t think we want to mess with her tonight.”

  “Where to, then?”

  “I could use a bite to eat. Let’s head over to the Rusty Anchor. Rusty’ll let us tie up overnight. We can head to Big Pine at first light. Damn, I can smell Rufus’s hogfish sandwich from here.”

  ***

  The pain was intense, but Mike continued toward the light, which had turned into the back of a house. It was an older-style home built in the ’70s, before all the houses were required to be elevated above the flood plain. The main floor was just above the ground—a good thing, because he didn’t think he could climb stairs right now. There was music coming from an open window, and he thought he smelled the bittersweet aroma of pot. He banged on the door then backed up several feet to be less intimidating. A few minutes later, after another attempt, a woman came into the room. She walked to the door and peered out.