Rising Tide

by Wayne Stinnett

  Tank quickly unhooked the fish and put it in the fish box.

  Alberto’s rod bent and he nearly lost it, but he quickly leaned back, raising the tip. “I got one!”

  He moved closer to the gunwale, bracing his little body against the side for leverage. He worked the fish with some difficulty, as it dove and moved left and right.

  “Keep your line tight, son!” I coached. “That’s right. Move your rod in the opposite direction the fish goes.”

  Alberto looked over at me and grinned.

  I suddenly realized I’d called him son. It’s a normal thing for a man to call a boy, like kiddo or young man. But I suddenly felt something different deep in the pit of my stomach. If Savannah and I were successful in our application to adopt Alberto, he would be my son.

  “It’s a cobia!” Tank shouted from the bow, where he had a better view down into the water.

  Alberto continued to fight the fish, reeling as he lowered the rod, and the fish taking some of it back from the drag as he raised it. But Alberto was slowly winning the fight.

  He was also beginning to tire. It’d only been five days ago that he was pulled from a drifting boat, nearly dead from dehydration.

  I stood beside him, ready to catch him if he wore himself out too much or catch the rod if it slipped from his grasp. I could see the fish—a big cobia—well over the thirty-three-inch limit.

  “Do you want me to boat him for you?” I asked, concerned.

  He looked up at me, determination etched in his little face. “I can do it. I can catch him by myself.”

  Tank moved back with the net ready. I pulled a long gaff from under the port gunwale.

  “No need for the net,” I told Tank. “That’s definitely legal-sized.”

  I thought Alberto was on the verge of collapsing when he finally got the fish close to the boat. With a quick, fluid movement, I gaffed it and lifted it over the side.

  The sudden lessening of the tension on his line caused Alberto to stumble back. He landed on the deck, sitting up with the rod still in his hands.

  I dropped the cobia to the deck, where it flopped feebly, and then I knelt beside the boy. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded, breathing hard. “Yeah, but he got away.”

  “He didn’t get away,” I said, moving so Alberto could see his catch.

  “Holy cow!” he exclaimed. “That’s the biggest fish I ever caught.”

  I took the rod from him and helped him onto the little seat in front of the console. “Take it easy,” I told him. “You caught him all right. No man could have done a better job; that is one big cobia.”

  Tank went aft and held the fish alongside the ruler stuck to the inside of the hull. “It’s forty-four inches,” he said.

  “Can we keep it?” Alberto asked, looking back.

  “Anything over thirty-three at the fork is good,” Tank said. “This fish is well past that.”

  I got a small scale from the console, hooked it in the fish’s gill, and lifted it. “Just over forty pounds!”

  I carried it forward. “Stand up, young waterman. Check out your catch.”

  With the tail almost touching the deck, the fish and Alberto were practically eye to eye.

  “That’s a big fish,” he breathed, looking it up and down. “We didn’t let Savannah down.”

  “You sure didn’t,” I agreed, smiling broadly. “They don’t get much bigger than this on the Gulf side.”

  “Can we have it for dinner?”

  “Absolutely, little man.”

  Tank sat down on the gunwale and I noticed his face was flushed and he was breathing heavy.

  “You okay, Master Guns?” I asked, dropping the fish in the box.

  “Just a little winded,” he replied. “There’s an inhaler in the cooler.”

  I quickly retrieved it and handed it to him. He pushed the button and took a deep breath from the mouthpiece.

  “What’s wrong?” Alberto asked, moving over beside Tank, and putting a hand on the man’s knee.

  Tank squinted up at me and I nodded.

  He smiled at Alberto and ruffled his hair. “I’m sick, kid.”

  “Huh?”

  “I have a disease,” Tank said. “It’s called cancer and I don’t have much longer to live.”

  “Then you’ll be dead? Like my mom and dad?”

  “Yeah, son,” he said, pulling Alberto to his side. “Everyone dies sooner or later. It’s the only thing in life that’s guaranteed. But if a man’s lucky, he can choose how he spends his last days. I chose to spend mine down here, where the air is warm, and the fish are biting.”

  Tank smiled down at him. Alberto seemed to accept and understand Tank’s wisdom, and smiled back.

  We drifted along the bank, fishing. Alberto caught another cobia that was too small, but he made up for that with his next cast, boating a near thirty-pound black grouper.

  By the time the current carried us to the north end of the shoal, the fish box was half full. I started the engine and moved around to the opposite side. At the south end of Channel Bank, I shut off the engine and we drifted north again.

  “You called him Master Guns,” Alberto said, leaning against the gunwale, rod in hand. “And he called you Gunny. What’s that mean?”

  “Tank and I used to be in the military—the Marine Corps. Do you know what that is?”

  He shook his head. “Like a soldier?”

  “Soldiers are Army,” Tank told him. “Marines are soldiers of the sea. The smallest, fastest, and most deadly branch of America’s military.”

  “When I retired, my rank was gunnery sergeant,” I explained. “And Tank was a master gunnery sergeant. Gunny and Master Guns are sort of short for those.”

  My cell phone chirped, resting on its charging pad. It was Savannah.

  “Alberto didn’t let you down,” I said, grinning at him. “He’s caught the biggest so far—a forty-pound cobia.”

  “Really?” she asked. “That’s amazing. How is he?”

  “The fight wore him out a little,” I said. “But he was fine after a few minutes rest, and he’s caught a grouper and a couple of snapper.”

  “Are you sure he’s okay?” she asked, the concern clearly evident in her voice.

  “He’s fine, babe. Want to talk to him?”

  “That’s okay,” she replied. “Just make sure he doesn’t overexert himself. And be sure to put sunscreen on him.”

  “I will,” I assured her. “Was there a reason you called or just checking up on us?”

  “Jimmy called me,” she said. “He knew you were fishing. The boat wouldn’t start, and he asked if I’d go pick him and Naomi up at the Rusty Anchor. We’re leaving in just a minute.”

  “We?” I asked.

  “The dogs haven’t been off the island in days,” she said. “I thought I’d take them and let them run while I had lunch with Sidney and Rusty to catch up on things.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said, glancing at my watch, and seeing it was almost noon. “We’ll be home in a few hours.”

  We ended the call and I put the phone back on the charger.

  “You told her about my cobia?” Alberto asked.

  “I did, and she was amazed.”

  He grinned, just as his rod tip bent again. “I got another one!”

  Alberto worked the fish away from the ledge. He was still a little clumsy but getting used to the tackle. I could tell by the bend in the rod it was something large.

  “Shark!” Tank shouted. “A three-foot lemon.”

  “A shark?” Alberto asked, lowering his rod, and reeling as fast as he could.

  “Work him alongside the boat,” I instructed. “Get him in close.”

  “So you can get him with that big hook?”

  “Lemon sharks aren’t the most edible fish in the world,” I replied. “I want to get the hook out if I can and let him go. Tank, grab your phone and we’ll get a picture.”

  When Alberto got the little lemon shark alongside, I pu
t a glove on my right hand and grabbed it by the tail, hoisting it aboard. Sharks have denticles on their skin, which can tear the skin right off your palm.

  “Stay back,” I warned Alberto, as the fish tried to twist its mouth up to my hand. “He can still bite.”

  With the shark on the deck, I pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers from my pocket and quickly removed the hook. There was a second hook, which I removed also. Then I lifted it by the tail again and stood on the forward casting deck, making sure my shadow wouldn’t be in the shot.

  “Step over here, Alberto,” I said, as Tank got his phone ready. “Pretend like you’re holding it up, but don’t grab too tight. The skin’s real rough.”

  He stepped over to the other side of the shark and looked it up and down. “I never saw a shark in real life.”

  “And the first one you saw, you caught!” Tank said, as he knelt to take the picture.

  I stepped down and lowered the shark into the water, moving him back and forth to get water across his gills.

  “What are you doing?” Alberto asked.

  “You’ve seen how fish open and close their mouths to breath, right?”

  He nodded.

  “That moves water across their gills, which gives them oxygen, like when we breathe air.”

  “Even when they sleep?”

  “Some sharks never sleep,” I replied. “At least not like we do. They don’t have eyelids and they’re visually aware of everything around them, even those that can breathe at rest like other fish. Some sharks, like the great white, have to swim to move water across their gills. They start swimming when they’re born and don’t stop until they die. I’m just helping this guy breathe.”

  I felt movement in the tail and let the shark go. It swam to the bottom and headed back toward the shoal.

  “Take a look at this,” Tank said, holding his phone out.

  I knelt beside Alberto. Tank got the shot perfectly, with my hand above Alberto’s and completely out of frame.

  “Whoa!” he exclaimed. “I can’t wait to show that to Savannah.”

  Several hours after the murder in the warehouse, Santiago’s white Escalade crossed the bridge onto Grassy Key. He and Manuel Ortolano were in the back, while Julio Mendoza drove. Bones rode up front, giving directions from his cell phone.

  Bones turned in his seat. “It’s just a few more miles, jefe. Just past the airport.”

  “Remember what I told you,” Santiago said. “It’s almost noon. If the man isn’t home for lunch, we hold the woman until he gets there. We’ll go in hard and fast.”

  Ten minutes later, the Escalade made a U-turn and next to a leaning mailbox that had the right address on it, it turned onto a crushed shell driveway. Bones had been quite proud of himself for getting the address of the guy who owned the boat. Tropical foliage enveloped the big SUV immediately.

  Santiago sat forward in his seat as the vehicle emerged into a large parking lot alongside what looked like a restaurant—a low, metal-roofed building with many windows.

  “This isn’t a house, Bones,” Santiago said.

  “Look,” Bones said, pointing off to the right. “There’s a bunch of boats here. Maybe he uses this as his address and lives on his boat. From what I was told, it was big enough.”

  “This complicates things,” Santiago said. “There are a lot of cars here, so there’s bound to be a lot of people.”

  “Should I turn around?” Julio asked.

  “No. Find a place to park where we can see everything and let’s just wait and watch.”

  Julio backed into a spot away from the other cars, where they could see the whole parking lot and the building.

  “There’s another place back there,” Bones said, pointing beyond the metal-roofed building. “Looks more like a house.”

  Santiago dismissed the house and studied the bigger building directly in front of them, thinking that a man who owned a fishing boat as big as Bones had described wouldn’t own a restaurant too.

  He was sure that’s what it was; it had all the markings of a restaurant, even beer signs in the windows, which stretched along the side deck. But there was no name anywhere that he could see.

  “Julio, go walk the dock,” Santiago ordered. “What was the name of the boats, Bones?”

  “One was called Gaspar’s Revenge and the other was Sea Biscuit.”

  “Look and see if either of those is at the docks,” Santiago said. “If not, my guess is that this McDermitt guy and his wife live in the house out back, but I’m betting this belongs to someone else.”

  Julio got out and walked toward the dock area. So far, there hadn’t been any people outside, which was good. After a moment, Julio reached the end and returned, then went around to the other side and walked the length of the dock area. The two docks straddled a wide canal.

  When he returned, he was walking faster. He got in and turned around in his seat. “No boat called Gaspar’s Revenge,” he reported. “But the last boat on the far side is Sea Biscuit—a big cabin cruiser.”

  “Was anyone on it?” Santiago asked.

  “No, jefe. At least not that I could see or hear.”

  “We’ll go inside,” Santiago said. “Me and Manuel first. You two wait a minute before coming in. We’ll find a place inside where we can see just what’s going on. What does this man look like, Bones?”

  “Real tall, jefe,” Bones replied. “Taller than Manuel and just as big as him. I was told he was clean-shaven and had dark blond hair. Oh, and a tattoo on his forearm—a skull.”

  “Let’s go, Manuel.”

  The two got out of the back of the SUV and strode confidently toward the entrance. Just before they reached it, the door opened, and a man stepped out. He stumbled slightly and the door banged into his shoulder. To Santiago, he appeared drunk, but he held the door for them.

  Entering, it took Santiago a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkened interior. It was a restaurant. And it had a long bar against part of one wall. A short, fat man with a bald head and bushy beard stood behind the bar, talking to two men and a woman, who sat on stools in front of it. Both men had long hair and he noted that the woman was very pretty. Aside from them, the place was empty. This didn’t fit with the number of cars and trucks in the parking lot.

  Maybe they belong to people who were on the boats, Santiago thought.

  “Have a seat anywhere,” the fat man said. “I’ll be right with you.”

  Santiago moved to a window table, where they could see the SUV parked in the lot. The two men sat down and looked around. The interior was all wood, each plank a different shade, but all of them with knots.

  The fat man arrived at their table quicker than Santiago would have thought he could move, sliding menus in front of them.

  “What can I get ya to drink?” he asked.

  “Just water,” Santiago said, picking up the menu. “What’s good?”

  “Everything at the Rusty Anchor is good, mi amigo,” the man replied. “I’m Rusty—the owner. We just had some fresh hogfish delivered by the guy who almost ran into you at the door. Dink’s one of the local fishing guides.”

  “Sounds good,” Santiago said, putting the menu down, and wondering just what a hogfish was. “We’ll both have that.”

  “How do you want it? Platter or sandwich? Grilled or blackened?”

  “Grilled sandwiches,” Santiago replied. “Make it for four. We’re expecting a couple of friends.”

  “That comes with fries and a pickle,” the man said, picking up the menus. “I’ll be right back with your water.”

  When the man left, Bones and Julio entered, spotted them at the table, and came over.

  “I don’t think any of those is the guy,” Bones said, nodding toward the bar.

  Santiago looked over. The man sitting next to the woman turned and glanced at them. He nodded a friendly greeting and turned back to the fat man. The woman was more than just pretty. She was tall, with long dark hair. She looked like she could be in mov
ies or a model.

  Santiago’s lips curled slightly in a lecherous grin.

  Behind the bar, a door opened and a tall, redhaired woman came out. The bartender said something to her, and she nodded, then went to work putting glasses on a tray. She filled a pitcher with ice and water, then brought the tray to their table. She was older, but still well put together, and, like the younger one, very tall.

  “Rusty just put your order in, gentlemen,” she said, placing the pitcher and four glasses on the table. “It should be up in a few minutes. I’m Sidney, if you need anything.”

  Santiago jerked a thumb toward the window. “Do you know who owns that boat on the end? Sea Biscuit?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, without looking. “I’ll ask Rusty. He knows everyone.”

  Santiago thought the woman was lying.

  When she left, he leaned toward Bones. “Didn’t you say the other boat was a fishing boat?”

  “Si, jefe. One of those offshore fishing boats.”

  He thought about it a moment. “I think the man is out fishing,” he said. “And I think the woman must be on that boat out there. The waitress was lying.”

  Slowly, as if he were just looking around at the décor, Santiago glanced toward the bar. The two men were turned toward each other, both looking over at his table, as was the dark-haired woman. The fat man was looking at him, also, and the redhead was leaning in and telling him something in a low voice.

  “It is time,” Santiago said, scooting his chair back and rising. He pulled his gun from under his shirt.

  Manuel was a half-second behind him, then the other two came up, all of them with guns in their hands.

  “Don’t any of you move!” Santiago shouted, pointing the gun at the fat man behind the bar.

  After lunch, we went back around to the other side of the shoal. It had been more productive, and the fish box was a little more than half full. As we drifted along, my phone chirped again.

  “You ought to turn that thing off when we’re fishin’,” Tank commented.

  It was Rusty’s cell phone.

  “Hey, Rusty,” I said, answering the call.