Rising Spirit

by Wayne Stinnett

  Andrew stood there, looking out over the ’Glades for a moment. Soon, the dead man, the dead snake, and the dead croc would provide a bounty for others in the area.

  “You coming?” I asked him.

  Andrew glanced over at me. “I really liked that gun.”

  We made our way back to the beach, nobody saying anything about what we’d witnessed. The struggle for life and death in the wild is very real and seldom seen, though it is a constant battle for survival. We, as humans, are ill-equipped to match the merciless ways of nature, with or without our weapons and tools. Nature doesn’t recognize their strength and will do what nature does anyway.

  We crossed the dune and started wading out toward where the boats and Billy’s plane were anchored, shuffling our feet to avoid stingrays.

  “Is there a tow line on Cazador?” Andrew asked, as we sloshed through the water.

  “No need,” I said. “Take your boat to Flamingo and fill it up, and I’ll take Cazador back to my island.”

  “Your island?” Sheena asked.

  I pointed toward the southwest. “It’s about thirty miles that way.”

  “And you own it? The whole island?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “It’s not big, just a couple of acres of sand and mangroves.”

  “I’d like to see it,” she said. “I can have the plane moved to someplace closer, to take us back to Virginia. You need to pick up your plane. Besides, I need to get statements from all of you about what happened.”

  “I flew the plane down here and landed in the water,” Billy said. “End of statement.”

  “I drove Jesse’s boat up here to retrieve my stolen property,” Andrew added. “Not much more than that, I’m afraid.”

  Sheena stopped a few yards from Andrew’s boat. “Are you stonewalling the FBI?”

  I turned to look at her. “Come on with me. I’ll give you a full statement and we can go to Marathon Airport, where I’ll call and have the Gulfstream moved to. But really, what they said is pretty much the extent of their involvement.”

  Sheena put her hands on her hips and glared at me. “There is the small matter of how Stuart Lane got down here.”

  “I think if you check the flight records,” Andrew said, climbing aboard his boat, “you’ll find that he flew a three-hop from Virginia to Miami. Outside of that—” he shrugged “—he’s a tourist, or at least he was; they get lost all the time.”

  Billy stood next to his plane’s float and extended his hand. “Thanks for the adventure, Kemosabe.”

  I gripped his forearm and he gripped mine. “I’ll get your anchor. Send me a bill, okay?”

  He only grinned, then pulled himself up onto the float and climbed inside. He passed my jacket to me and I returned his rifle, then closed and latched the door.

  With Sheena behind me, I followed the anchor line and pulled the hook loose from the sand. As I coiled the line, I pushed and nudged the plane toward deeper water before dropping the anchor and rode into the box and closing it.

  “We better head toward my boat,” I told Sheena.

  When we were beyond the wingtip, I checked the area. Andrew had his engines running and was pulling his anchor. He was far enough away.

  “All clear,” I shouted.

  Billy waved to me from the open window and then started the Beaver’s engine. He pointed her away from shore and the plane moved downwind. Once clear of the point, he turned upwind and the engine roared. By the time we got aboard El Cazador, Billy’s plane was a disappearing dot to the north, and Andrew’s boat a disappearing dot to the south.

  “Déjà vu,” Sheena said. “Do your friends always take off so quickly?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ten years ago,” she replied. “When I turned around, you were all heading away from the dock, disappearing.”

  I just shrugged. “When the job’s over, it’s over.”

  “What are you going to tell your ex?” Sheena asked, in the quiet stillness that was Cape Sable. “I mean, Lane killed her boyfriend. What will you tell her about how he died?”

  I helped Sheena climb up the ladder. For a second, I looked up at her standing on the swim platform, silhouetted against the bright blue sky. Her red tank top and khaki shorts were soaked and clinging to her body. I climbed up and joined her, with just inches between us on the small platform.

  “We’ve been divorced a long time,” I said with a lecherous grin. “She doesn’t need to know anything.”

  Sheena punched me in the shoulder. “You know damned well what I’m talking about.”

  “She’s an environmental activist,” I said with a shrug. “Lane messed around with the environment and got what he deserved. She’ll understand.”

  I went to the helm and started the engine, checking the gauges. “There are some towels in the side locker,” I offered. “Port side, under the console.”

  As I pulled the anchor up, Sheena dried off and then handed me a towel. “You must be dying of heat in that flannel shirt.”

  I draped the towel over the rail and took my shirt off. Putting the boat in gear, I turned toward deeper water and let the engine idle as I dried off. It was good to get out of the cold and return to the heat and humidity I enjoyed.

  When I turned, Sheena was watching me, smiling. “If I said how uncomfortable those jeans looked, would they come off, too?”

  I felt my face flush, even though I was already sweating heavily.

  “Kidding!” she said, smiling brightly. “Oh, you should have seen the look on your face!”

  She joined me at the helm, and I pushed the throttle forward, heading almost due west, to give the shoals a wide berth. I could feel the heat from her body as we stood against the leaning post. Occasionally, our hips or bare shoulders touched as the light chop bounced us around. It was a sure bet that Sara would ask about what had happened. I wasn’t real confident about how much I would tell her.

  “You’re lucky you can take your shirt off,” Sheena said. “Mine smells like sweat and swamp.”

  I opened the port side overhead compartment in the hardtop Bimini and pointed to the stack of Gaspar’s Revenge Charter Service T-shirts. “Help yourself,” I offered.

  Sheena stretched and riffled through the stack till she finally picked out a yellow women’s shirt. Then she moved around in front of the console with the shirt in hand and sat down on the forward-facing seat. Before I could say or do anything, she pulled her tank top over her head, then looked back at me, smiling again. She unhooked her bra and let it fall to the deck in front of her.

  No tan lines. At least not on her back.

  Dammit woman! Do you not know what you’re doing?

  After pulling the low-cut T-shirt over her head, she lifted her blond hair out and let it fall down her back. Then she gathered up her dirty clothes, stuffed them into a side pocket of her pack, and rejoined me at the helm.

  I found myself scanning the horizon, and each time my eyes drifted her way, I could see the effect the bouncing boat had on her braless form.

  To distract my thoughts, I recounted to her the events since last week’s Thanksgiving visit from Kim, and the revelation that Sandy’s boyfriend had been murdered.

  Sheena went into professional mode, asking pertinent questions if I didn’t divulge enough information. She overlooked some of the things that bordered on illegal, like Chyrel hacking into computers and files.

  When we neared my island, I called Deuce and told him what had happened.

  “Your son-in-law spilled the beans to your ex,” he said. “She’s in my outer office now, demanding to see you.”

  “She lost her right to make demands on me a long time ago.” As soon as I said it, I realized what a position that statement would put Deuce in. “Tell her how to get to the Rusty Anchor. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “Trouble with
the ex?” Sheena asked, smiling coyly when I ended the call.

  “No trouble,” I said, slowing the boat as we approached the south dock.

  Jimmy and Finn were waiting there. Both looked surprised to see me. Or maybe they were surprised to see me with a strange woman.

  I introduced them and asked Jimmy if I could use his shower, so Sheena could use the one in my house.

  “I don’t want to put you out,” she said, as we grabbed our bags and headed toward the foot of the pier.

  “No put out, mi hermana,” Jimmy said over his shoulder. “Nuestra isla es tu isla.”

  She looked at me for a translation. “Our island is your island,” I said, as we reached the top of the steps. I opened the door to my house and waved Sheena inside. “You and Sara are about the same size. She has a few things in the top drawer in the back room.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “I know I’d be pissed if my boyfriend let another woman wear my clothes.”

  “She’s got a lot of clothes,” I said, “she won’t miss anything. Most of what she has here, she’s never worn.”

  “No need?” she asked, then went inside, and closed the door.

  Twenty minutes later, we were back aboard Cazador and heading toward the Seven-Mile Bridge. Even in the wind, I could smell the fresh scent of her hair. It wasn’t anything of mine, so I figured she had stuff in her pack for just this kind of situation. She smelled good. Not a perfume smell, just a clean scent.

  Passing Sister Rock, I backed down on the throttle, and turned Cazador into Rusty’s channel. The back door of the bar opened and Rusty came running toward the docks. For his size, the man could move pretty quickly when he needed to.

  He grabbed the line off the bow rail and quickly made it fast to a dock cleat. “You’re not gonna believe who’s here.”

  “Sandy,” I said, helping Sheena step up to the dock. “I know.”

  “Sandy?” Rusty asked. “What the hell would she be doing down here?”

  When I stepped up beside him, I looked toward the bar. Sara was coming out the back door, hurrying toward us. She stopped about twenty feet away, looking from me to Sheena. Then she looked Sheena up and down. There was no doubt that she recognized her own clothes on the woman.

  “What’s going on here?” Sara demanded.

  I looked from one woman to the other, trying to come up with a coherent sentence. Sheena moved toward Sara, pulling her ID from her pocket, or Sara’s pocket, as it were.

  “You must be Sara,” Sheena said, extending her credentials. “I’m Special Agent Sheena Mason with the FBI. Jesse has told me so much about you. I’m afraid my clothes were ruined chasing a suspect up on Cape Sable. Jesse was kind enough to let me borrow something of yours. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Sara took a few steps closer as I approached her. In an uncharacteristic manner, she stepped into my arms and pulled my head down to hers, kissing me passionately. I recognized it for what it was, even if she didn’t; she was marking her territory.

  When Sara hugged my neck, she whispered in my ear, “Do something like that again, and I’ll cut off your balls.”

  “Did you catch the guy?” Rusty asked.

  “Not exactly,” Sheena replied. “He was killed by a snake.”

  “You’re kidding,” Sara said stepping back. “What kind of snake?”

  “I’m pretty sure it was an anaconda,” I replied.

  “Anaconda?” Rusty said. “Not many of those up there, thank God. Pythons are the big problem. They have regular snake hunts these days. Pythons, boas, and the occasional anaconda are squeezing out native species.” He chuckled at his own unintended joke. “No pun intended.”

  As we started toward the bar, Rusty pulled me aside. “It wasn’t Sara I was talking about, bro.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pointed to the end of the canal, where a big Grand Banks trawler was tied to the side of his barge, the name Sea Biscuit visible on the stern. “Sara just got here a few minutes ago. Savannah’s been here since yesterday.”

  Savannah? Here?

  I’d first met Savannah Richmond a couple of years after I retired from the Corps. Our time together was short but had produced a child; a daughter she’d named Florence, following a family tradition of southern city names. I’d only learned about Florence a couple of years ago, but so far all we’d done was talk on the phone occasionally.

  I stopped in my tracks as the back door opened and a tall young woman stepped out. We’d sent pictures back and forth by text message and talked on the phone, but I’d only seen her a few times when she was a young girl. Florence had her mother’s blond hair and blue eyes. Though no more than seventeen, she was probably taller than Savannah, who was five-ten.

  “Fl-Florence?” I stuttered.

  She looked me in the eyes for a moment without answering, then let her own eyes move across my face, studying me. “I thought you’d look older.”

  “So, who’s this?” Sara asked.

  Florence looked at Sara and Sheena, as if seeing them there for the first time. “I’m his daughter,” she said. It sounded so natural. Then she looked at me again. “You’re my father.” Without a word, the girl stumbled into my arms. “It seems like I’ve waited for this moment forever.”

  Holding Florence close, I stroked her hair. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “We tried several times,” Florence said. “Either you were away, or we had to be somewhere.”

  “I know,” I said, holding her out at arm’s length to look at her again. “And I’m sorry.”

  The door opened again, and Savannah stepped out onto the deck. The last time I’d seen her was in the Virgin Islands. Florence had been about ten or twelve. I’d gone looking for them, to find out once and for all if the girl was my daughter. But I’d spotted Savannah in the arms of another man and for nearly two years after that, I’d tried to kill myself with pot and rum. I’d nearly succeeded several times. She was still as beautiful as the day we’d met.

  “There’s nothing to apologize for, Dad. Mom told me what you do.” She paused for a moment and I could sense fear. “Is it okay if I call you that?”

  I pulled my daughter into my arms again. “I’d love it if you did, Florence.”

  “We just happened to be in the area,” Savannah said, extending a hand to Sara and Sheena. “Hi, I’m Savannah.”

  I introduced everyone and suggested we go inside. Rusty led the way to a table in the corner. “I bet y’all are hungry,” he said. “I’ll get Rufus to make some fish tacos. That be all right?”

  “Yum!” Florence said, as we all sat down.

  Sara and Florence sat on either side of me, as Naomi, Rusty’s step-niece, brought over a bucket of beer. There was also a bottle of wine stuck in the ice, and several bottles of water and soda. The bucket sat on a tray with a half dozen glasses.

  I didn’t realize how hungry and thirsty I was. Savannah and I reached for the same bottle of water, our hands touching. I grabbed a different one, realizing that it was the first time I’d touched her since our time together so long ago.

  “You haven’t changed, Jesse,” Savannah said, then smiled at Sara and Sheena. “Always with a beautiful woman on your arm. Or two.”

  “Sara’s the girlfriend,” Sheena said, obviously enjoying my misery. “I only work with him now and then.”

  “What kind of work do you do?” Florence asked.

  “I’m an agent with the FBI,” she replied. “I work out of Washington and your father was kind enough to bring us in on a big drug bust up in Virginia.”

  Florence’s eyes went wide. “The FBI? A drug bust?” Then she looked at me in wonder. “Are you a spy, too?”

  “FBI agents aren’t spies,” I said. “They’re more like cops for the federal government.”

  “Yeah,” Sheena agreed. “Now, the CIA
? Those guys are spies.”

  “Deuce kept me up to speed on what was going on,” Sara said.

  “Who is it you work for?” Sheena asked her.

  “I’m the one who approved your use of the company Gulfstream,” Sara replied.

  “Ah,” Sheena said, nodding. “Is that how you met? Through Armstrong Research?”

  I heard the front door open and turned, as Sara explained how she’d trained me aboard Ambrosia, Armstrong’s primary research vessel.

  A blond woman was standing in the doorway. When she removed her sunglasses to let her eyes adjust to the darker interior, I was pretty sure she was my ex-wife, Sandy.

  Perfect, I thought. Four women.

  “Excuse me,” I said, and rose from the table.

  When I turned toward her, Sandy spotted me and started my way.

  “Sandy?” I asked, still not quite certain it was her.

  “Sandra,” she corrected me. “I stopped being Sandy a long time ago.”

  Rusty moved out from behind the bar, his wife Sidney joining him. He had a big grin on his face as he approached us.

  “Sandy McDermitt,” he said, coming toward us. “Is that really you?”

  Sandy stared at him for a moment, unsure. Finally, recognition shone in her eyes. “Rusty Thurman?”

  Rusty wrapped her in a big bear hug, though she was a couple of inches taller than him. When he finally released her, she was smiling.

  “Sandy, meet my wife Sidney. Sid, this here’s Sandy, Jesse’s first wife.”

  Though Sandy was taller than most women, she had to look up at Rusty’s Amazonian wife. The two shook hands and Sandy turned to me. “First wife?”

  “I remarried in 2005,” I said.

  Sandy glanced over at the four blondes I’d been sitting with. “I’d like to meet her.”

  “She died the night we were married,” I said.

  Sandy, never one to shy away from any sort of encounter, had already taken a step toward our table, but stopped. “She died?”

  “Murdered,” Rusty said.

  I saw tears begin to form in Sandy’s eyes and couldn’t help myself. I put my arms around my ex-wife and whispered, “I’m really sorry for your loss.”