by Matthew Rief
Inside, we both dropped our bags and let out a big sigh of relief. First things first—I stepped into the master bathroom and started up the shower. As the water warmed up, I looked up and saw my reflection in the mirror above the sink. It was the first time I’d seen myself in over forty-eight hours. I had dirt caked on the corners of my face, my beard was scruffy, and my brown hair was messy as hell. I also had a few scratches across my neck and cheeks, most of which were due to trekking through miles of razor-sharp sawgrass.
As the mirror started steaming up, I slid out of my dirty, sticky clothes and stepped into the shower. The warm water felt incredible as it splashed against my sore and aching body. I leaned over and looked down as it dripped down my face and splashed at my feet. The water was dirty for a few minutes as all of the accumulated grime from the past few days gave way.
I spent a glorious half hour in the spraying heat before cutting off the water and stepping out. I dried off, then opened the door and moved into the master bedroom with my towel wrapped around my waist. Ange had gathered some medical supplies on the living room table and was sitting on the couch, reading something on her phone. Her eyes darted up as I stepped into view.
“All fresh and clean,” she said as I walked over and went in for a short but passionate kiss. “Hubba-hubba. Even though you stank, I have to admit that there was something hot about your rough wild man look.”
I smiled, and we moved out back through the sliding glass door. I lit a row of tiki torches while Ange cleaned my wounds and stitched me up out on the balcony. Atticus ran up the porch stairs with a drool-covered tennis ball in his mouth. In between the stitching, I tossed it down across my backyard a few times, making him the happiest dog in the world.
Just as Ange was finishing up, we heard a car pull up into the driveway. I was a cautious guy by nature. I’d also pissed off a lot of bad guys in my time. As a result, I’d installed an impressive state-of-the-art security system after I’d bought the house. But I realized at that moment that I hadn’t switched it back on since I’d disarmed it upon our arrival.
“Relax,” Ange said, seeing that I was running over things in my mind. “It’s just some dinner. I didn’t feel like cooking, so I ordered it while you were in the shower.”
She smiled and winked at me, then headed inside. Less than a minute later, she returned with a big pizza box. After a few slices of supreme, we headed inside and Ange mixed up two Long Island iced teas.
“Trying to get me drunk?” I said.
She laughed and handed me one. “As if I need to.”
We barely finished the drink before embracing and staggering into the master bedroom. She flipped on some Gary Allen, and before long, there really was nothing on but the radio. We were all tangled up in the sheets and made love twice before passing out to the sound of the wind rustling the palm leaves and the water lapping against the sea wall.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Buck Harlan drove down the rough backroad, maneuvering over fallen branches, bouncing up and down, and splashing through muddy puddles. It was dark, and he had to keep it slow to avoid crashing into the occasional obstacle.
Finally, he covered the two miles of neglected dirt road and reached Main Park Road. That section of State Road 9336 stretched from the Ernest F. Cole Visitor Center nearly forty miles down to the Flamingo Visitor Center.
Buck eased on the brakes and idled for a few seconds. He looked left, then right. Seeing no other headlights, he pulled out and turned left, heading toward the entrance into the park. He had his radio set to the AM emergency station. After driving a few miles down the paved road, he heard an emergency report through the old crackling speakers. It was a replay of a report they’d apparently made earlier that day.
“Suspect is considered armed and dangerous,” the voice said. “Forty-year-old Caucasian male. Approximately six feet tall. Three hundred pounds. Dressed in ragged clothes. If you have any information regarding this suspect, contact the Monroe County Police Department at…”
Then the message repeated itself twice before the station crackled back to the normal news of the day. Buck motored for ten minutes longer before making a wide, sweeping turn and driving onto a long straightaway.
Suddenly, he spotted something unusual up ahead and slammed on the brakes.
Shit. Holy fucking shit.
He switched off the headlights and peered through the windshield. Up ahead about half a mile, he could see the entrance to the park. The only problem was, he could also see a group of police cars parked and officers standing beside the shack with flashlights. It was clear that they were inspecting any and all vehicles that were leaving the park. Buck had thought of everything so far. Had been ready for each step of the escape plan. But he wasn’t ready for this. He could hold his own, but not against a group of armed police officers.
A sudden flash appeared in his rearview mirror. Another car had turned onto the straightaway and was quickly approaching his position from a few miles in the distance. He needed to make a decision. He needed to move.
A moment later, he hit the gas, turned around and cruised back the way he had come for less than a minute before turning south down a road that led to a few trailheads and another visitor center. He knew the park as well as anyone alive and knew that the Anhinga Trail would be his best bet.
He reached a small empty lot at the end of the road. Wanting to keep his truck hidden from view, he drove off-road and parked behind a storage shed. Turning off the engine, he flipped off the headlights, grabbed his gear, and stepped out. He followed the trail until it started to loop back around, then stepped down into the swamp.
After half a mile of trekking east in the wet, muddy darkness, he reached a large government compound. It was a sprawling patch of cleared land littered with travel trailers, manufactured homes, and tents, all of it run by the Florida National Parks Association. It was where the rangers, maintenance workers, and various other temporary and full-time federal employees called home while working in the parks. But for Buck, the best thing about the place was that it was located outside the park, just past the entrance and the police inspection.
Being summer, the slow season in the Glades, most of the spaces were vacant and most of the homes empty. Buck kept to the shadows as he headed toward a travel trailer near the back edge of the compound. There was light emanating from inside and a park ranger SUV parked in the gravel lot beside it.
He crouched down beside the trailer, then peeked through one of the side windows. There was a middle-aged woman inside, sitting at the table staring at her laptop. Buck waited a few seconds to make sure that she was alone, then headed for the door.
Dropping his gear onto the grass, he snatched his revolver and stood right in front of the door. He gave two raps with his knuckles. Not so loud as to sound threatening, not so quiet as to sound suspicious. He was hoping that she’d open the door without taking a look first. If she looked, he’d be forced to resort to plan B.
He saw fingers, followed by a set of eyes peering through the blinds.
Plan B it is.
Buck raised his revolver into her line of sight, aiming the barrel straight at her face.
“Open the door or you die,” he mouthed without making a sound.
Her hands shook and her mouth dropped open. She hesitated for a moment, and Buck could tell that she was struggling to make a decision.
He moved his face closer, mouthed the words again, then pulled back the hammer. The door clicked, then slowly swung open.
“Grab my shit and load it into your car,” he said quietly, motioning toward the two bags resting in the grass.
She frantically grabbed her keys from the counter beside her. She wasn’t even wearing shoes, but she did as he said. She loaded up everything into the back of the SUV, then stood for a moment, her body shaking in fear.
“Now you’re going to drive me out of here,” he said. “If anyone stops us, you make something up. If you say a word about me or give away that I’m h
ere, you’re dead.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
The next morning, we climbed aboard my twenty-two-foot Robalo center-console and motored over to the Conch Harbor Marina. I kept it stored in a small boathouse right on the channel in my backyard. I prefer it to my truck from time to time. It takes a little longer but is much more scenic and fun, and there’s usually less traffic.
It was just after 0800 when we cruised into the marina. The sky was mostly clear, the water calm, and it was already eighty degrees. But it felt a hell of a lot better than the Glades heat given the nice cool ocean breeze.
Ange tied us off next to the Baia at slip twenty-four, then we climbed up onto the dock. Jack and Pete were talking to Gus over near the office but headed over our way when they saw us.
“I’m surprised you’re up,” I said to Jack when they walked within earshot. “I was expecting to have to dump this on you to get you out of bed,” I added, holding up a bag of ice I’d brought from my house. Jack was notorious for his sleeping in. That combined with the fact that he refused to wear a wristwatch resulted in my dragging him out of bed at least a few times a month.
“I took care of it half an hour ago,” Pete said with a laugh.
“Hey, after what we just went through in the Glades, don’t we deserve a little rest?”
I laughed. “You can rest out on the water. I need my lobster fix.”
The eight-month lobster season in the Keys runs from the beginning of August until the end of March. I’d already missed the first few weeks, so I was anxious to make up for lost time.
“Aren’t you supposed to be recovering, bro?”
Jack motioned at my recently stitched-up wounds.
“I think a little light exercise might do me good,” I said, glancing over at Ange, who just shook her head.
“That’s gonna be quite the scar,” Jack said.
He was right. The big attack dog had scratched me good. I’d have a full paw’s scar right across the right side of my chest when all was said and done.
“You guys see my baby?” Pete said with a big grin on his face.
Ange and I looked at him in confusion, so he turned and motioned toward the parking lot. I drew my gaze down the dock and spotted a beautiful red ’69 Camaro with black stripes. Pete had been working on it for the past few months, and even from that far away I could tell that it was a head turner.
“It looks great, Pete,” Ange said.
“Yes, it does,” I added. “Hard to believe that’s the same rusted car I used to see under a tarp behind your restaurant.”
“She’s a beauty alright,” Pete said. “And she’s running as good as ever. Now I just need to take her someplace where I can really stretch her legs. The Keys have more cops per capita than a donut shop.”
We all couldn’t help but laugh at that.
I climbed aboard the Baia alongside Ange with Atticus right on our heels. Grabbing my cooler from the galley, I lifted open the lid and poured in the ice. I threw in a few beers, coconut waters, and bottles of water, then lugged it up to the main deck. We gathered our gear for the day while Ange blended up a mango-banana smoothie for breakfast. We untied the lines, started up the Baia’s twin 600-hp engines, and motored out of the marina while sipping the delicious frozen concoction.
“Either of you heard anything from Mitch?” Pete asked.
“Not since the island,” Ange said. “What about you?”
“No, but I just got off the phone with Billy.”
“And?” I asked.
Judging by his brief silence, I figured the news wasn’t good.
“They haven’t found him yet,” Pete said. “The choppers flew back and forth for hours. Never even saw an airboat anywhere out that way.”
“What about Shark River?” I asked. “Police said they were sending a few boats to see if he made the crossing.”
Pete shook his head. “Came up dry there too. The guy disappeared. Like a ghost. But they’re keeping after it. They’ve got a police inspection at the park’s main entrance to make sure he doesn’t get out that way. I’m sure they’ll find him. He’s gotta be somewhere—if he’s still alive, that is.”
“Probably won’t get far,” Jack said. “Even if he gets out of the swamps, he’s still screwed. Didn’t strike me as a guy with a lot of extra money lying around, and he can’t sell his coke. He left the haul down in their bunker house thing.”
“Maybe,” Pete said. “Or maybe he just took as much as he could carry and left the rest. Which would mean he’s now gonna try and sell it as quickly as he can.”
We fell silent for a moment.
“Makes sense,” I said. “If that’s the case, I’m sure he’ll try and sell it to whoever he’s been working with over the years.”
We shifted our thoughts and conversation to happier topics as we neared the end of the no-wake zone.
“Alright, Jack,” I said. “Where are we heading?”
He smiled and grabbed a cardboard tube from his bag. Uncapping the top, he pulled out a roll of paper that was probably his most prized possession on earth. It contained our location of go-to bug sites. What we liked to do was hit up the well-known sites first, then shift over to our secret sites as the season dragged on. It was our own little system to ensure that we never came back from a day on the water without a livewell full of our daily limits.
“Let’s do the Kremlin,” he said.
Our fathers had named the site the Kremlin years ago, since part of the rock and reef formations bear a resemblance to Saint Basil’s Cathedral.
Jack leaned forward and punched the coordinates into the GPS without bothering for a reply.
Jack was a fourth-generation conch, and if he decided on a site for the day, I had no place to object. I’d also dived for lobster at the Kremlin a few times before and always enjoyed the cluster of patch reefs.
Once clear of the harbor, I hit the throttles and rocketed us into the Atlantic side. We cracked open a few Paradise Sunset beers, cranked up the satellite radio, and leaned back. The sun on my face and the ocean wind in my hair gave me a high-on-life feeling that was tough to beat.
We reached our destination twenty minutes later. After dropping and setting the anchor, I killed the engine and we excitedly donned our gear. Even though lobster season was young, there were only a handful of other boats in sight, and the closest one was a quarter of a mile south near the main reef.
Once ready, we grabbed our tools of the trade: tickle sticks, aluminum lobster gauges, nets, mesh bags, and gloves. Pressing my mask snug against my face, I flipped backward and splashed into the warm, clear tropical water. I had my long free diving fins, allowing me to reach the bottom twenty feet below with just a few smooth kicks.
Lobster like to hide under whatever they can find, usually the edges of reefs, rocks, or other structures. The key is to look for their antennae, which stick out from their hiding places and give away their position. I finned for thirty seconds along the bottom, then spotted a few under the edge of the reef.
Moving close, I held my net in place, then prodded them out with my tickle stick. Two bugs whooshed out and swam right into my net. One was obviously too small, but I grabbed the other with my gloved right hand and measured its carapace length. Three inches is the legal minimum, and this guy was three and a quarter, so I stowed him away in my mesh bag.
I bagged two more before turning back to the boat and surfacing. There are few things I enjoy as much as spending a day out on the water, hunting down lobster. I’m in love with the tropical underwater world. The colors, the incredible variation of marine life, the silence of it all. It’s like meditation or going to church. I guess everybody has their own kind of escape, or means of returning to their true selves. I’ve never been a religious man, but being in a place this extraordinary makes it difficult to believe that there isn’t some kind of master artist behind the scenes. The world we live in can be beautiful beyond comprehension, and I always feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude every time I
drop beneath the waves. I always feel lucky to be able to drop down at least one more time.
After hours in the water, we all climbed out and admired our day’s catch. We all easily reached our daily limit of six and were able to choose only the biggest ones to harvest. We cleaned and cooked up a few bugs right there on the deck using my portable grill. While lounging and enjoying the fruits of our labor, we spoke animatedly about what we’d seen.
“I’m surprised you didn’t spear that hogfish,” Ange said, nudging me on the shoulder. “It was plenty big and swam right past us.”
I shrugged. “Maybe next time.”
“Don’t worry,” Pete said while toweling off and playing with Atticus on the sunbed. “Hogfish are like deer crossing the road. There’s always more than one.”
“Or serial killers in the Everglades,” Jack said with a grin.
After filling our stomachs to our heart’s content, we splashed back into the water for some spearfishing. By early afternoon, I had my livewell and two coolers full of the ocean’s bounties.
TWENTY-NINE
Previous Evening
Upper Keys
Just before midnight, the park ranger SUV pulled up to the gate of a dark boatyard on the Florida Bay side of Tavernier. The place was surrounded by a high fence with curled razor wire on top. It was small and out of the way. There were a few dilapidated boats on the hard. One sailboat was tied off to a neglected dock that was missing many of its planks.
A skinny guy with dreadlocks stepped out the side door of a small rusted warehouse. He walked right over to the gate and was about to tell his visitor to piss off when Buck rolled down the window and leaned out.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Dreadlocks asked, freezing in his tracks. He was young. Maybe mid-twenties. He looked at the side of the SUV, reading the words. “And what the—”