Rising Fury: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 12)

by Wayne Stinnett

  “Like I said, mister, we ain’t here to catch no shrimp and we’ll be moving along as soon as it gets dark.”

  “See that you do,” Charlie shouted, turning the wheel and shifting to forward.

  Both boats moved away from the trawler toward their own fleet. Nearing Night Moves, they slowed and then stopped.

  “If they ain’t here to shrimp,” Ernie said, “what the hell are they doing here? It’s a friggin’ shrimp boat, and more than a hundred miles from its home port.”

  “Something about that crew strike you as odd?” Bob asked Al.

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t put my finger on it till you just mentioned it. You’re right; it was the guys on the rail. They weren’t like other fishermen I’ve met. Downwind, that damned boat stunk to high Heaven.”

  “All our boats stink,” Charlie said, “but I agree. There was something that just didn’t sit right about those guys. Who do we know up in the Fort Myers area?”

  “Dammit!” Rusty Thurman cursed, crashing the phone down in its cradle and shoving it roughly under the bar.

  “What’s the matter?” Jimmy asked, sitting on the other side.

  “Sorry,” Rusty said somewhat sheepishly as he realized Angie Trent was sitting at the bar with Jimmy. Rusty had a colorful vocabulary to say the least, but not usually in mixed company. “That was Jodi. He ran aground and ain’t gonna be back in time to play tonight, and maybe not tomorrow.”

  “How does the dude get stuck for a whole day?” Jimmy asked.

  “It’s Jodi,” Angie said. “Why do you waste your time with him, Rusty?”

  “’Cause anyone who’d play here, I can’t afford.”

  “That sucks, man,” Jimmy said. Though Jimmy Saunders had been born and raised in the Keys, he’d picked up the west-coast surfing bug when he was stationed in San Diego in the Navy. “But you ain’t been around if you ain’t run aground. Hard to find live music on short notice.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t think his grounding has anything to do with his getting around.”

  A stranger sitting two stools down looked over, a grin on his tanned face. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said, with a slight East-Texas drawl. “Did you say you need a musician?”

  Rusty looked over at the guy. He’d come in from the parking lot half an hour earlier and had been nursing a couple of beers as if waiting for someone. Rusty guessed him to be a few years younger than himself and half a foot taller than his five-six. Dark blond hair curled past the man’s collar, a week’s stubble covered his chin, and his clear blue eyes didn’t seem to miss much of anything.

  Glancing at the man’s hands, Rusty could tell he was a picker, at least. The telltale callused fingertips were a dead giveaway. His own daughter Julie had the same callouses. The anchor-shaped guitar tattooed on his upper left arm was a pretty good sign, as well.

  “You any good?” Rusty asked. “Play anything besides Texas twang?”

  The guy smiled. “I can play anything from Bob Wills to Bob Marley. If you want, I can grab my guitar from the truck and show you.”

  “You do that,” Rusty said. “Meet me out back in five minutes. You’ll see where to set your stuff up.” As the man went out the front door, two familiar faces came in. Rusty walked out from behind the bar to greet them. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. Wives loose your dock lines early on a Friday for once?”

  “Funny,” Al Fader said, as he and Bob Talbot shook hands with their old friend. The two men took stools next to Jimmy, greeting him and Angie by name. The Florida Keys stretched more than a hundred miles from Key Biscayne to Key West, and another forty beyond where the road ended in the old pirate town. Made up of about seventeen-hundred islands, Key West had the largest resident population, with about one-third of the seventy-thousand inhabitants who called Monroe County home. Distance didn’t dictate friendships in the Keys.

  Rusty produced a Dos Equis for Al, and a bottle of water for Bob. Having been a bartender for most of his life, Rusty had a knack for remembering drink orders.

  Rufus came in from the back door and approached the bar. “Mistuh Rusty,” he said, in his song-song Jamaican accent. “I been needin’ to ask you something for a long time now.”

  “What’s that?” Rusty asked.

  “Dem fish sandwiches I make,” he said, almost bashfully. “Di bread, it not right.”

  “I can get any kind of bread you want,” Rusty said, unsure where this was leading.

  “I used to make me own bread, coco bread, from a recipe me mother had.”

  “I’ve had that before,” Jimmy said. “He’s right, it’s really good.”

  “So, where can I buy it?” Rusty asked.

  “Yuh don’t buy coco bread,” Rufus replied, handing a mail-order catalogue to him. “I need me a small oven so I can make me own from Mama Pearl’s recipe.”

  Mama Pearl, Rusty thought. Another little pinch of information. Though Rufus had worked at the Anchor for nearly a decade, Rusty still didn’t even know his last name. He paid him in cash at the end of the week, and as far as Rusty knew, he might just as well be on the run from Interpol or something. But he did his job, and did it quite well. In the Keys, that was usually good enough, and folks didn’t pry. Even if they did, the old Jamaican seemed somehow above it all and locals treated him a little differently.

  Rusty looked at the page the catalogue was open to. “Everything in your kitchen’s gas-fired,” he said, noting the high price tag on the oven Rufus was showing him. “This is electric.”

  Rufus glanced down. “Sorry, suh,” he said, flipping the page. “Dis one is gas, and much smaller.”

  Rusty looked at the picture, with the description and a very affordable price. “You can make even better fish sandwiches with this?”

  “Much better,” Rufus replied, showing his gap-toothed grin.

  “I’ll go ahead and order it, then,” Rusty said. “You got room for another appliance out there?”

  “It don’t take up much space,” Rufus said, with a smile. “Thank yuh, Mister Rusty. I got just di spot on di far end of di long counter.”

  When Rufus left, Angie leaned over to look at the two shrimp boat captains. “How’s Nikki and the baby, Bob?”

  “She’s doing well, thanks. And he’s growing like a weed.” He chuckled. “I finally found a way to get her to take some time off the boat.”

  “You know you just been had,” Al said.

  Rusty eyed him sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Al grinned. “Rufus showed you the expensive one for the sticker shock, knowing you’d like the price of the one he really wanted.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Rusty said. “It’s a game we play. So, what brings two of Key Weird’s finest skippers all the way up here?”

  Forty-five miles wasn’t a long way from the southernmost city, but he knew how hard the two men worked. He rarely saw any of the shrimpers until April.

  “Had some good runs,” Al said. “Filled the holds early.”

  “We were hoping to get some information,” Bob added. “You hear anything about boats from other fisheries hanging around down here and acting strange?”

  “Yeah, in fact I have.” Rusty glanced out the back window and saw the guy setting up on the little stage, which had been ripped off by a close encounter with a hurricane. Rusty had rebuilt it even better. “But let’s go out back; I’m auditioning a Texican. Mind the bar, Jimmy?”

  “No problemo,” Jimmy replied, looking around and seeing there was nobody else in the place.

  Rusty led Al and Bob out onto the deck and over to an umbrella-covered table in front of the stage. A liveaboard couple occupied another table.

  “What sound do your patrons lean toward?” the man asked from the stage, as he adjusted the mic.

  “Mostly boaters and working-class folks hang out here,” Rusty replied. “They like a mix of a lot of stuff, even original.”

  “I have a few originals,” he said, plugging his guitar i
nto the small amp and speaker Rusty had bought. He turned the volume down and spent a minute tuning up.

  “I heard about something odd happening up toward Islamorada,” Rusty began, leaning in conspiratorially. “A shrimper out of the Port Charlotte area slipped in with some other boats out of Key Largo and anchored up with them during the day. When it started to get dark, the boat just up and left. Kinda weird.”

  “That’s what happened yesterday out on New Ground,” Bob said.

  “Vessel’s name was Eliminator, out of Cape Coral,” Al added.

  “Hmm,” Rusty said, thinking, as the man on the stage launched into an upbeat tune that Rusty recognized. “The boat up there wasn’t that one, but owned by the same company what owns Eliminator. I know the guy and he’s not one to fish far from his home port.”

  “I know that song,” Bob said, as the guy sang about becoming a reggae guy. “That’s Eric Stone.”

  “Eric Stone?” Rusty asked, looking toward the stage. “I heard of him, even got a couple of his CDs on the juke box. He played Dockside not long ago.”

  As Eric finished the song, a blond woman carrying a margarita came out of the bar and took a table next to the men. Eric started playing a Jimmy Buffett song, and Rusty gave him a thumbs-up. He was good. Winding up the Buffett tune, Eric placed his guitar on a stand next to the mic and stepped down off the stage.

  The blonde stood and walked toward him. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  He took her by the arm and turned toward Rusty’s table. Rusty and the other two men stood as the couple approached.

  “This is Kim Hess, my girlfriend,” Eric said.

  “You didn’t say you were Eric Stone. Hell, I got your CDs on my juke, wasn’t any need for you to play a lick to get a gig here. But why would you want to play a rundown joint like mine?”

  “That’s why I asked you to meet me here,” he said to Kim. “Dockside closed down. Out of business.”

  “Oh no,” she said. “What about the BVI?”

  “That sorta depends on this guy,” Eric said, turning back toward Rusty with a question in his eyes. “I was scheduled to play Dockside for the next few weeks.”

  Rusty extended his hand, knowing good fortune when it smiled at him. “Name’s Rusty Thurman. I own the place. It ain’t nothing but windows and Dade County pine, but it’s been in my family for generations.”

  “What do you say, Mister Thurman?” Eric asked. “I need a steady gig for a few weeks. We’re planning to head to the Virgin Islands after the first of the year.”

  Stroking his beard, Rusty wondered how little he could get the talented singer and songwriter for. Some have said that if Kenny Chesney kept waffling between country and trop-rock, the young man standing in front of him was the heir apparent to Jimmy himself.

  “I ain’t near as big as Dockside,” Rusty said, playing it humble. “The guy who was supposed to play tonight, I was gonna pay him a buck-fifty. I could go as high as two hundred a night.”

  “I can do that if you can give me four nights.”

  “Eight hundred bucks?” Rusty said, thinking it over. If Dockside was closed, and it had been shut down a few times in the past, that would mean more locals coming by the Anchor, maybe even a tourist or two. The man even had a following, maybe folks from up and down island would drop in. Things had slowed through the summer and an influx of cash, even if it was tourist dollars, would be good.

  “Tell ya what,” Rusty began. “How about three nights, tonight through Sunday night. And if you bring in the customers, next week we’ll do a Thursday night show, too.”

  “Throw in dock space for our boat?” Kim asked.

  Chance favors the prepared mind, Rusty thought. The quote from Louis Pasteur had always been one of his favorites. The empty dock space wasn’t earning a cent anyway. Nor was it costing him anything.

  “And dock space,” Rusty said, smiling. Never one to let another get the last bite out of a deal, he added, “But you gotta pay for electric if you use it. Each pedestal has a digital meter; you pay what the going rate is when you leave.”

  “You have a deal, Mister Thurman,” Kim said, extending her hand.

  “Hey, Jesse,” a voice behind me said.

  I heard footsteps and turned to see Carl walking toward me.

  “Charlie running late?” I asked.

  We work in spurts, here on my island. When something needs to be done, we do it. And when there’s nothing to do, we enjoy the life moments that come our way, in whatever form they present themselves. Sitting at the end of my pier, I’d been enjoying the moment by watching pelicans dive on baitfish in the distance.

  He sat down on the pier next to my dog and gave the back of Finn’s neck a scratch. “She just called. The kids are having sleepovers and after she drops them off, she’s gonna go have a few drinks with some of her friends. You know her—she’ll probably stay at Nancy’s rather than run the boat after she’s been drinking.”

  “Devon’s working tonight and Kim won’t be at the Anchor until sunset. I was thinking of diving that hole we found last week once it gets dark. Wanna join us?”

  “Could be productive,” Carl replied, somewhat vaguely. I could tell he had something on his mind, so I just looked out over the water and waited for him to sort his thoughts while a line of pelicans suddenly rose and banked steeply, all diving like choreographed fighter planes. The sun was high overhead and felt warm on my back.

  Carl seemed to be enjoying the moment before speaking. “Living out here, off the grid like we are, has been really good for us. It’s let us bond as a family. A lot more so than on the mainland, I think. I just want you to know that.”

  “Out here, it’s kinda like the Keys were when I was a kid.”

  “I know what you mean,” Carl said. “Did I ever tell you my great-grandpa worked down here for a while?”

  “No, I don’t think you ever mentioned that.”

  “He fought in the First World War. When he came home, he couldn’t find work in Louisiana, so he came down here and hired onto Henry Flagler’s railroad crew.”

  “Must have really been something,” I said, “back before the highway and the train, not to mention satellites to tell you the weather.”

  “He was on Islamorada when the Labor Day storm hit,” Carl said. “He was one of the few survivors. He stayed on, taking a job as a shrimper. Dad was born here, but moved to Louisiana as soon as he finished school. He brought us down a few times in the sixties.” He turned and faced me. “It’s been really nice living here,” he said again.

  “It’s been a pleasure having y’all here,” I said, sensing there was more to his statement. “You’ve more than pulled your weight.”

  Beside me, Finn lifted his head, looking toward Content Passage. A sound reached my ear from far in the distance—a deep, chugging noise, like a tired old two-stroke diesel boat.

  “What the hell?” Carl said, pointing out toward the main body of the Content Keys. The mangrove-covered islands to the northwest that made up the rest of the group hung low on the horizon. “Look, out beyond the Contents, west of the pass.”

  Looking where he indicated, I could just make out the movement of the outriggers and netting of a shrimp boat. It was moving slowly toward the east. We stood up, and Finn rose and began pacing the tee-dock, ears up and a puzzled look on his face.

  “Where do you suppose he’s going?” I asked as the boat came into view far beyond the pass. It looked as if it was right on the horizon, most likely beyond the three-mile limit. I went to the little closet where we keep towels and soap for bathing and got a pair of binoculars we kept there.

  “No pinks in the bay,” Carl said matter-of-factly. “Ain’t nothing but trouble the direction he’s going.”

  He was right. Oh, there were shrimp, but not the ones most shrimpers were after this time of year. The big pink shrimp that Key West is famous for is what most skippers would be dragging nets after in December. Besides, the waters to the east of here in Florida Ba
y had an irregular bottom, not good for dragging nets. And it was covered with small coral heads and limestone ledges, sure to foul nets. And then it got real skinny.

  “Maybe he’s taking a short cut home,” I said, looking at the boat through the field glasses. A short cut didn’t seem likely. Shrimp boats draw a lot of water and there were countless shoals, rocks, reefs, and wrecks, any one of which could spell bad news. The time saved wouldn’t be worth the risk.

  “Charlie wants to move to Louisiana.”

  “Huh?” I looked away from the passing shrimper. Carl was still staring out over the Gulf, eyes not really focused on anything. “Why?”

  Carl looked at me. “She wants family around, Jesse. My folks still live in Slidell, and her mom’s just across the border in Gulfport. And my mom can get the kids in a really good charter school. Carl Junior has been having some trouble. I have a brother who lives near my folks and Charlie has a bunch of siblings scattered from the Florida Panhandle to Beaumont, Texas. She thinks the kids need more of a social life, and to get to know their family.”

  “That’s understandable,” I said. “I won’t talk you out of it if that’s what you guys want to do, but I’m gonna miss—”

  Just then a white-hot flash caught our attention, causing us both to flinch. Bright yellow flames shot out from the side of the boat’s hull, clearly visible, though more than three miles away. A bright orange ball of fire rolled upward for a moment, then the flames just stopped burning, leaving only a gray cloud rolling upward and out around the boat.

  A second explosion came from the stern, where darker orange flames rose, igniting the cloud of gas from the first blast. Instantly, everything vaporized in a brilliant flash of bright yellow.

  I knelt on the dock and began untying the stern line holding my eighteen-foot Grady-White Spirit to the tee-dock. “You have your phone on you?”

  Carl tore his eyes from the burning wreckage, confused. He patted his pockets, looking for his phone. “Yeah,” he finally said, moving into action, untying the bow line.