“What do you make of that?” he asked Trufante.
The Cajun put his hand to his brow and squinted. “Ain’t no one on her, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m going to have a look,” TJ said, cutting the wheel toward the drifting boat. “Hand me those binoculars.”
“What about Alicia?” Trufante asked, grabbing the glasses from the compartment running over their heads.
“This’ll just take a minute. Go on down and grab the boat hook. I’ll take you to seaward and let ’er drift in,” TJ said, adjusting the course to move parallel and windward of the boat. Before he approached, he scanned the drifting vessel with the binoculars, not seeing anything except the logo for what looked like a turtle hospital on the bow. He dropped speed and started to come alongside, gently correcting his course as the boats moved together. “Now,” he yelled to the deck.
Trufante was on the port gunwale. Leaning over, he extended his lanky frame over the side, using his long arms to reach for the drifting boat. The hook grabbed its bow rail, and he pulled the boat toward him. With one hand on the bow rail of the drifting boat, he took the dock line in his other hand and slung it over the rail. Quickly, before the boats could move apart, he released the boat and pulled the loop on the line toward him, threading the end through it. When it was snug, he tied it around the midship cleat. “There you go, cowboy,” he called up to TJ. The two boats were secured together.
TJ climbed down the ladder, tossing two fenders over the side. He went past the women, who were deep in conversation about something he didn’t quite catch, and went to the line. “Come on.”
Together they pulled the line in and brought the boat alongside. When it was secure, Trufante hopped gingerly between the boats, landing on the open bow of the center-console. He looked around and went to the helm.
“Blood,” he called to TJ.
“Where?”
Trufante held up a T-shirt, its original white, now a deep crimson.
“That’s the guy from Hawk’s boat,” TJ called back. “Hey, Pamela, do you remember what that guy was wearing?”
She left Cheqea and came to his side. “Yup, fashion first,” she said.
“How far’s this turtle hospital?” TJ asked.
“Just ’round the bend on the other side,” Trufante said.
“Can you start it?” TJ asked.
Trufante went to the helm and shook his head. “No keys.”
TJ went to a storage locker and pulled several lines out. “I’m going to make a bridle. Tie it off to both bow cleats.” He started tying lines together and handed the loop to Trufante, then went to the transom of the sportfisher and secured the ends to the port and starboard cleats.
“Come on back,” he said, climbing back to the bridge. He waited until Trufante was back aboard before pushing the throttle gently forward. Slowly he turned into the waves to gain control of the other boat. The line came tight, and he accelerated slowly, trying to find the sweet spot where the sportfisher could pull its tow efficiently.
Trufante climbed back to the bridge. “Change of plans?”
“It’s better than running blind out there, looking for a needle in a haystack. They could be in the Bahamas by now.” The following sea made the procedure difficult, with the different-size boats accelerating at different speeds as they surfed down the backs of the three-foot waves. They had several close calls where the smaller boat almost reached the transom of the sportfisher, but TJ fell into the rhythm and manipulated the controls, keeping the boats apart. The boats were running well together now, keeping the same speed.
They reached the Seven Mile Bridge, crossed underneath, and entered the channel on the Gulf side. Trufante pointed to the chart plotter. “You can take her through here. Plenty of water, just watch out for the bank out there.” He pointed to an area just to the north of the bridge.
The water was calmer on this side, and TJ pushed the throttle down, gaining a little speed. In fifteen minutes, they found the cove where the hospital was located.
“You know this place?” TJ asked Trufante, looking for information about the small cove.
“Knew a girl that used to work here,” he said.
TJ just shook his head and started slowly into the cove. Once inside, he docked the boat alongside a narrow dock and hopped down to the deck.
“Turtles,” Cheqea said like a little girl. “Come on, Bama, let’s check ’em out.”
The two women were on the dock, heading toward the large black tanks.
“Best if I wait here,” Trufante said. “Not sure if that girl is still here or not.”
TJ shook his head again and walked to the office. Inside he went to the counter and asked for the manager. A few minutes later, a woman came out, and he pointed to where they had docked the boat.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Not a problem, but I’m thinking something went on here last night,” TJ said gently. “Is there anyone I can talk to?”
“We talked to the sheriff already,” she said.
“Just a few questions,” TJ pleaded.
The woman thought for a second. “Okay. One of our doctors can help you,” she said, walking through a door.
TJ looked around the shop while he waited, paying special attention to a metal cutout of two turtles on the wall, thinking it might make a nice gift for Alicia.
The manager came back with another woman. “This is Jen. She can help you.”
“Do you know who the man was that took the boat?” TJ asked, after taking her to a quiet corner.
“Mean guy. Had a big gash on his side that I stitched up. He took some drugs and ran out of here. The next thing we knew, the boat was gone.”
His head fell at the dead end.
“But, I put a chip in him,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I think I have it,” Alicia said.
Mac was leaning against the wall in the hold, nodding off. “What?” he asked, trying to gather himself. Fighting through the headache and grogginess, he listened.
“The coin is Spanish and dates back to the late sixteen hundreds.”
“That leaves a lot of ships,” he said.
“Not as bad as it sounds,” she said. “Once a year the Spanish put together a flotilla to bring the riches of the Americas back to Spain. The convoys were well armed, often numbering into the twenties, to avoid privateers and pirates. There are records of individual ships being lost during the years after the coin was minted, but the 1715 and 1733 fleets both sank near here.”
“It’s not from either of those groups,” Mac said, moving towards her. “Those wrecks are too well documented. I think we’re looking for one of those single ships, either lost at sea or sunk in a battle.”
“I disagree. From everything that I’ve read, they would never send a solo ship. It’s more likely it was attached to one of the other flotillas at the last minute and not documented.”
Mac thought about what she said. “You might be right.”
“So, should I put together a trail of evidence from one of those fleets?” she asked.
“The 1715 was the most famous. Let’s steer him toward the 1733 flotilla.”
“You sure?” she asked.
“Look at it this way. If it’s either of those, the date and time are well known. That should keep him happy and narrow down the search area significantly,” he said. “Just hope Trufante gets here before he finds out we don’t know anything.”
“Got it.” She started typing.
Mac looked around the hold, trying to think if there was any way out or anything to use as a weapon. Alicia was working on the laptop, which in itself could knock a man unconscious, but it might also damage the computer in the process. Besides that, there was only the chart, the pad of paper and pencil. He remembered a movie where the hero had used common objects like these to make weapons and pulled them towards him.
Pulling a page off the pad, he experimented with different methods of creati
ng a weapon from the paper. The pencil could do some damage, but he would have to be in close quarters. He put both items down, not getting the results he was after.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I saw somewhere that you could make deadly weapons from this kind of stuff,” he said.
“Gimme that.” She reached for the pad. Tearing off a few pages, she started making tubes, one long one and one short one that fit around the longer one. Taking the elastic tie from her hair, she attached it to a slit in the longer tube. With the shorter section between her fingers, she slid the long piece through and while holding it, pulled back the hair tie. The smaller tube shot through.
“Nice, where’d you learn that trick?” he asked.
“What do you think we did all day at the CIA? Sit around and stare at data?” She put the sling down and started making what looked like little bullets. When she finished, she pulled back the smaller tube enough to allow one of the projectiles to sit in the end of the larger tube and released the trigger. The bullet flew out and hit the wall across the room.
“You could take someone’s eye out with that,” Mac said.
“Exactly. I’ve got a few more tricks just like it.” She grabbed the chart and started making a spear that, when completed, was hard enough to do some damage.
He was skeptical, but they had no choice. “Before we make a break for it, we need a plan,” Mac said. Just as he said it, they heard a boat cruise by. “Hear that?”
“Yeah, it’s a boat.”
“That’s our best shot. We are sitting over some prime yellowtail bottom. Sooner or later a fishing boat is going to anchor near here. All we have to do is wait until we hear a boat circling and we bang on the door, just like Hawk said,” Mac said.
“So far, so good. What happens then? I shoot their eyes out with this?” Alicia held up the paper gun.
“Honestly, I would scrap that one and just make a couple of blow guns. But, yeah,” Mac said, moving closer to the exterior bulkhead so he could hear if the boat was near.
A few minutes later, Alicia had two blow tubes and a dozen projectiles. Mac looked at the sword. It looked a little flimsy. “What if we reinforced that with the pencil?”
Alicia took it from him and started to rework it. She handed it back and tugged at the choker around her neck. “What about this?”
Mac moved toward her and examined the device. He would need tools to remove the collar, but the inside was what he was interested in. If he could insulate her from the shock, it would render the unit harmless. Working one finger around the inside of the collar, he felt for the probes. There were two—one on either side of her neck located by the carotid arteries. “I think this’ll work,” he said, taking a sheet of paper and folding it over and over until he had a one-inch strip several folds thick. He took this and wrapped it perpendicular to the collar, circling it several times before tearing a slit in either end and sticking them together.
She moved her neck around, clearly more uncomfortable than she had been before. “Would it be bad if I told you I was scared?”
Mac looked at her. “You know how far you’ve come since we first met. Running around the everglades in high heels, clutching a life preserver.”
She laughed. They were ready now, and just as he thought it, they heard a boat.
***
“What do you mean, you put a chip in him?” TJ asked.
“It’s a GPS device. We use them to track the turtles we release. Come on.” She led them through a door and into the hospital area. Around the corner there was a workroom with several computer stations. She sat at one and started typing.
TJ watched over her shoulder. She pulled a tag out of her lab coat and entered the number into a box on the screen. A long minute later, a flashing dot appeared, showing the location of the tag.
“Just past Coffins Patch,” TJ said after she zoomed in.
“Does that help?” she asked.
“It’s a place to start,” he said and then thought for a second, wondering what Alicia would do with this information. “Is there any way to track it in the field?”
“There’s an app for that,” she said.
He looked up, realizing he had no phone. “That’s going to be a problem,” he said and explained what happened. They both stared at the screen, watching the blinking dot. “They must be anchored out there.” He peered at the screen. “Looks like a couple of hundred feet of water.”
“Tell you what. Keep your VHF on sixteen and I’ll check on it every so often and let you know if the position changes.” She took a pad and wrote down the coordinates of the chip.
TJ thanked her, then left the hospital and ran to the boat. He called out on the way to Pamela and Cheqea, who were leaning over one of the turtle tanks, to meet them aboard. Climbing the stairs to the bridge, he shoved a sleeping Trufante to the side and started the engine. He was about to ask Trufante to get the lines, but he was still half-asleep, so TJ called down to Pamela. She helped Cheqea aboard, untied the lines, tossed them on deck, and stepped over the gunwale. As soon as her feet hit the fiberglass, he pulled away from the dock.
“Wha’s up, my man?” Trufante mumbled.
“You get into the old chief’s weed?” TJ asked.
“Mmmm. Maybe,” he said, laying his head against the bolster.
TJ ignored him. For the first time in days, he had some tangible information that might lead to Alicia. Restraining himself from pushing the throttle down until he was clear of the breakwater, he moved into open water at a fast idle and, once clear, accelerated toward the bridge.
“Turtle Hospital, Turtle Hospital, do you read? This is Alicia’s Dream, over,” he called out on channel sixteen, repeating it several times before he got a response.
“Roger. Go to seventy-two,” came the response.
He switched channels and confirmed that the chip was still in place. Pulling the coordinates from his pocket, he engaged the autopilot, entered them into the chart plotter, then hit the GOTO button. The path showed a straight line over land, the most direct route, but he ignored it, knowing it would adjust once he cleared the bridge. Once on the ocean side, they would be there in twenty minutes.
***
“So are we going to stand here or go do something about it?” Mel asked.
“Effin’ right, girlfriend. Give me a second, and let me get the keys to that bad boy,” Celia said, walking toward a small shack on the corner of the dock.
“That’s yours?” Mel asked when she returned.
“Shit, yeah. You think these freakin’ fools can run a business? It’s bad enough they think they’re captains because they can put a piece of dead fish on a hook. No, no, no.” She shook her finger in the air. “They work for me.” She jumped aboard the boat, and a minute later, one at a time the five engines started. “Think you could get the lines?” she called to Mel.
Working a boat was in Mel’s blood, and she untied the boat, instinctively knowing what effect the tide and wind would have on it. With one line slipped over the outside pile to keep the wind from blowing the boat into its neighbor and the other lines free, she called to Celia that they were ready. The boat started moving backwards into the lagoon, and Mel sensed when it had enough momentum to overcome the wind and released one end of the line. They were clear now, and she pulled the line towards her, leaving it in a neat coil on the deck. She went back to the cockpit, where Celia was juggling the throttles, reversing the port engine and using the forward momentum of the starboard engine to turn the boat.
“Looks like your old man taught you a thing or two,” Celia yelled over the scream of the five 200-hp engines.
“Something like that,” Mel said. “Where we going?”
“Thought we’d check out that old place of your dad’s. Word is, that’s where Mac’s been hanging out,” she said, pushing the throttles to their stops.
Instantly the boat pulled out of the water and was up on plane, running fifty knots, cutting easily through the
backwater chop. Mel leaned against the padded rocket launcher behind them, having to admit it was exhilarating riding on a boat again—especially one this fast. She watched the familiar landmarks go by, and before she knew it, they were in the channel leading to Wood’s island.
“Watch that rock there and take her straight in,” Mel warned her as they approached. Celia pulled up, and the memories flooded back the minute her feet hit the sandy bottom. Taking a line to the single pile, she tied off the boat and waded to shore. “You coming?” she called back to Celia.
“Just got a pedi yesterday, and I freakin’ hate sand. You check it out. I’ll be here,” she called back. She turned on the VHF and called out over the static, “Going to listen in on my idiots. Always talkin’ trash to each other, bragging about what they’re catching and lying about where they are.”
Mel walked down the path, not knowing what to expect. She called out Mac’s name several times as she approached the house, but there was no answer. Her emotions got the better of her when she saw the burned-out remains, and tears welled in her eyes, but at the same time, she felt a tightening in the pit of her stomach that she knew was resolve. Collecting herself, she turned to the shed and opened the door. Hoping to find some kind of clue, she looked around. She saw his phone and picked it up. Holding it, she felt something—it was as if she was connected to him.
On the off chance that there were any recent calls or texts, she powered it up and scrolled through the screens. Nothing looked useful, just Trufante’s number and someone named Alicia. She set it down and left, finding nothing else that might help.
Without looking back, she walked toward the small beach, waded out, and pulled the line off the pile. “Nothing,” she said to Celia once she was back aboard. “Unless you know someone named Alicia.”
She was silent for a second. “Alicia’s Dream?”
Mel looked blankly at her.
“I just heard a boat called Alicia’s Dream hail the Turtle Hospital,” she said.
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