Chapter Twenty-Three
Standing in the door of the plane, Mel hesitated. It was the first time she would set foot in the Keys in almost a year—not her longest absence, but her most emotional. An anxious couple pushed behind her, ready to start their party, and she reluctantly walked down the steel stairs pulled up to the small plane at the Key West airport. The breeze whipped her short hair into her face, forcing her to shield her green eyes from it, and she smelled the humid breeze. Stepping down onto the tarmac, she knew that whenever she touched the soil of the islands, things changed for her.
She was sure that Mac had saved her life that night on the sailboat, sacrificing his safety for hers when he released the life raft just before the boat sank. Finding out he was all right had taken a weight off her, but she felt deep down that, regardless of her feelings for him, their relationship was over. Trouble followed him everywhere he went, and although he was not responsible for it, the outcome was always the same—disaster. First her father, losing his life while saving the future president’s, then a crazed drug dealer, and finally, the incident with the rogue CIA agent that had led to the wreck that had almost killed her.
Fully recovered, at least physically, she grabbed her briefcase from the cart and followed the line of passengers moving toward the small terminal. There was no need for a carry-on—she had no intention of staying overnight. The group entered the glass doors, heading for the baggage carousel, but she walked right through the terminal, crossing the street in front of the obligatory pink cabs, and entered the covered garage. Scanning the line of cars, she checked the text message on her phone for the space number of her rental.
Finding the car, she stashed her briefcase in the backseat and got comfortable with the controls, especially the AC. Satisfied, she pulled out of the space and exited the lot. Turning left onto US-1, she saw the emerald water from eye level for the first time in a year and felt a pang of remorse for all that had happened. She turned right off the island and drove the sixty miles to Marathon. Now that she was here, she was unable to get Mac out of her mind. Surprisingly, she had become more like him in the last year than she wanted to admit. After taking nearly six months to recover, she had done nothing to move her life forward, either professionally or emotionally. In fact, she suspected she was depressed, and felt almost invigorated by the challenge of dealing with the building department.
She walked through the doors of City Hall, not sure if she should go into lawyer mode or just be another landowner. Before she could decide, a familiar face met her at the counter. They exchanged gossip about their high school acquaintances while she waited impatiently for the head of the building department to see her.
A balding, slightly overweight man came toward her, and she breathed in deeply, readying herself to present her rehearsed argument. She had fought with herself after receiving the copy of the notice by priority mail. In many ways she wanted her past to disappear, and that meant leaving everything Keys-related behind. But she knew how precious that island had been to her father, and now Mac. A piece of her felt she owed it to both of them to help preserve it, and letting Mac have the property might ease her guilt over their breakup. All those feelings aside, the notice just plain angered her.
She had escaped the Keys after high school to attend college and then law school in Virginia. During her time there, she had fallen in with a group of activists and interned for the ACLU, who had offered her a job after graduation. For a decade after passing the bar, she had fought the government, arguing for the activist causes the group represented. Her view of the world had changed over the years and now she considered the time wasted, but politics aside, this was just wrong. She had clear title to the island, and if Mac wanted to rebuild her dad’s house, he should be allowed.
The man stopped short of the counter, his bureaucratic radar alerting him to the danger ahead. Mel had already spoken to him on the phone, and he had expected the meeting, but from the look on his face, he was regretting scheduling it.
“Mr. Baldwin,” she said, extending her hand. “Melanie Woodson. But just call me Mel.”
He inched forward and shook, his grasp feeling like that of a ten-year-old girl. “Why don’t you come back to my office?” he said, lifting the counter.
She shook her head, wanting witnesses. “Out here is fine,” she said, opening her briefcase and pulling out the certified letter. “In my opinion, this notice is in error.”
“And how’s that?” he asked.
She pulled out a sheaf of papers copied from the building code. It was neatly bound in a folder with yellow highlights throughout. “How many examples should I cite?” She sensed he was close to folding and backed off. “Surely we can find a section somewhere in here.” She lifted the folder, flipped through the pages, and dramatically set it back on the counter. “That allows a property owner to rebuild damaged property.”
Every eye in the room was on them, and he turned red. “But you see,” he stuttered, “it was never permitted.”
She cleared her throat, making him jump. “Well, what if we paid the original permit fees from the nineties, when it was built?” She sensed this was about the money.
He thought for a second. “That might be acceptable,” he said and gave instructions to one of the clerks. “If that is all.… ”
“Thank you so much for your time,” she said, about to shake his hand, but his back was already turned to her. Walking over to the woman he had assigned the task, she removed her checkbook and waited for the bad news.
A half hour later, she stood outside the building wondering what to do. The permit was settled, for a fraction of the cost they had wanted, and she felt drained, the emotional buildup of coming here and then the petty negotiation with the building department leaving her hungry. She looked around for a familiar place to eat, or maybe avoid. A sandwich shop across the street caught her eye—one that she didn’t remember, which was a good thing. She walked over, ordered, and took a table by the window. While she waited, she grabbed a copy of the Keynoter from the next table and stared at the headlines.
***
“That your boat, Trufaaante?” Cheqea said when they pulled up to TJ’s boat.
“You know better,” he said, cutting the engine and coasting up to the swim platform. Pamela came through the transom door to help with the line.
“That’s a nice-looking chiquita. She yours?”
Pamela smiled. “I’m Pamela, but you can call me Pajama Bama, like Tru does.”
“I like her,” Cheqea said, taking Pamela’s hand and climbing out of the boat. “Where’s Mac Travis?”
“It’s like I told you, he’s in trouble,” Trufante said.
Cheqea started to shake. “Don’t you talk to me like I’m some old fool. I ask you a question, I want an answer.”
Trufante was starting to wonder if dealing with her was such a good idea when he saw Pamela go to her and whisper something. They both giggled, and he suspected whatever she said was at his expense. Leaving them to each other, he climbed the ladder to the bridge to talk to TJ.
“Well, now that you have her, what are we going to do to get Alicia back?” TJ asked.
Trufante rubbed his face, thinking a beer would be good around now. He was tired from the cross-country hike across the island, and now that she was here, he had no idea what to do with her. He avoided TJ’s stare and looked down at the two women sitting next to each other on the transom.
“She says she can find him,” Pamela called up.
Trufante wondered where this was coming from, but with Cheqea involved, anything was possible. The woman was a reputed mystic, according to some New Agers who thought she could see what they couldn’t. They sought her out and paid her in goods or pot for her visions, but the general consensus was that she was a charlatan drug addict. At this point, he didn’t care. He’d consider anything to get TJ’s eyes off him.
“I can read your mind, Trufaaante. You better watch what you think.” She leaned in and said
something to Pamela. “I will speak to her only.”
Shit, here we go, he thought, surprised it had taken her this long to go off the deep end. He looked down at Pamela.
“She wants us to go to the where the water’s blue,” Pamela called up.
“What the hell, Tru? This isn’t getting us anywhere,” TJ said. “Maybe I should try some of Alicia’s contacts at the Agency.”
“We got no phones, remember?” Trufante said. “Lost in the explosion. Maybe she’s not far off. They’re looking for a wreck, right? Let’s head out to the ocean side and have a look around. We know the radar signature of Hawk’s ship. It’s a long shot, but I got nothing else.”
“Better than just sitting here,” TJ said and started the engine.
Trufante went down the ladder to the deck to help clear the anchor and secure Cheqea’s boat with a large weight he pulled from a storage locker. TJ cut the wheel and they backtracked toward the Bahia Honda Bridge.
***
Mac sat up slowly, trying to get his bearings. He felt his head, discovering a large knot where Ironhead had butted him. “Where’s Alicia?” he asked Wallace, who was standing in the shade of the cabin with a rifle by his side.
“Hawk’s got her locked up. Haven’t seen him this mad in a long time,” he snickered.
“Go tell him I want to talk,” Mac said, shuffling his body to the gunwale and sitting up.
Wallace nodded and stuck his head in the cabin. A minute later, Hawk appeared.
“That was stupid,” he said.
“Let’s have it,” Mac said.
“What are you talking about?” Hawk stared at him. “Did Mike knock the rest of the sense out of you?”
Mac’s anger supplanted his injury and fatigue. “You’re holding out.”
Hawk didn’t respond.
“There’s got to be something more. You wouldn’t risk a search like this expecting to get lucky on one dive without some other information.” Coincidences were uncommon, in his experience. “Why don’t you let me take a look at that coin? Maybe Alicia can figure something out.”
He still needed to buy some time. His head was spinning, and the only way he saw to get out of this was to find whatever Hawk was looking for and hope an opportunity presented itself.
Hawk reached into his pocket, withdrew the coin, flipped it, and tossed it in his direction. “Don’t guess you can spend it here.”
Mac grabbed the piece of silver and slowly rose to his feet, using the gunwale for support.
“You don’t look so good, Travis. And Mike is out of pills, so you might want to steer clear of him,” Hawk said and went inside.
Mac sat back on the deck, studying the coin. A minute later, he was surprised when Alicia came out the door. She went right to him.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine, but we need to get out of this, and the only way I can figure right now is to find whatever he’s looking for.” He handed her the coin.
“What’s this?”
“I don’t know how it ties in, but I expect it does,” he said.
She rubbed the silver piece between her thumb and forefinger and then held it to the light. “It’s old and Spanish, but that’s all I know.”
“Old? That’s it. Maybe we can date it and use that for the declination.”
“If you’re right, it might get us closer, but it’s still not the key,” she said. “I thought this had something to do with the Mayans.”
“I’m thinking I was looking for the wrong thing all these years. I assumed the clues led to Mayan gold, but thinking about it, they had an early presence here and were certainly wreckers. Maybe they just used their tattoos as a way of passing down information. If this coin is connected, I’d bet it’s a Spanish wreck he’s looking for. Help me up,” he said, reaching out for her.
She leaned in, placing an arm under his. Together they got him to his feet and went to the cabin. Side by side, they sat in front of the computer screens comparing images of Spanish coins to the one sitting on the table between them. Holding it up to the camera mounted on the screen, she took a picture of it and was about to start running her recognition program when Hawk appeared behind them.
“We’re going to be on the next set of numbers shortly.”
Mac looked at him. His head was pounding from the blow he had taken, and he doubted they’d had enough of a surface interval to get any kind of bottom time without an extremely lengthy decompression schedule. Without thinking through the consequence, he blurted out, “I’m done for the day.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mac heard the lock engage. He knew he had set Hawk off, but didn’t expect this reaction. Now, locked in the hold, he was starting to get desperate for a way out of this. He looked for anything on the inside of the steel door that would free them, but it was a watertight hatch—the only lock was outside. Alicia lay on the floor where she had landed when they pushed her in. In the corner were a single laptop, a pencil, a pad of paper, and a chart.
“You okay?” Mac asked.
She nodded and pulled herself up, resting her back against the cold steel bulkhead. “What are we going to do now?”
“Sorry. It was worth a shot,” Mac said, the guilt of his unsuccessful attack eating at him.
“Hand me the computer,” she said.
“You’re not really going to help them,” he asked.
“Of course not. I’m going to help us. I was hesitant to try anything before, thinking he’d check the computer, but we’ve got nothing to lose now. If he was going to kill us, we’d be dead. He needs us.”
Mac knew she was right. “You could have reached out before?”
She nodded. “But the risk was not worth it.” She paused. “I have to admit to being sucked in by the puzzle. If we can solve it, it could make us all rich.”
“But if we solve it and don’t have a plan, we’ll be dead.”
They sat in silence for a minute. “Okay. So back to the beginning.”
Mac had an idea. “You keep on the puzzle. I’ve got some thinking to do.” He slid the laptop toward her.
“The coin should give us a date range. That’ll narrow things down, but it’s still going to be plus or minus a mile or so. That’s a lot of ocean,” she said.
“We need to keep on it. While the recognition program is running, can you search for wrecks around the time of the coin?” Mac asked.
She turned back to the computer and started typing. “I’m going to try and get a message to TJ.”
“Worth a shot.” Even if Hawk was monitoring her, things couldn’t get much worse.
***
Mel read the article beginning to end. She pulled out her phone, reluctantly scrolled to Mac’s contact info, and tried to call, but the phone went to voicemail. That was not at all unusual for him, and she wasn’t worried, but the headlines had sucked her in. First there was an article about the chase through the backcountry. His name wasn’t mentioned, but she knew the area, and it was very close to her father’s island. Hawk was involved, and that was never good, but though a coincidence, it didn’t directly involve Mac. She remembered several run-ins her dad had with the antiquities dealer that left a bad taste in her mouth.
A smaller article had a picture of a wrecked boat run into a bridge near Flamingo Key. The top-billed article was more disturbing. Two days earlier, a boat had blown up after several witnesses reported a chase and gunshots. The wreck had just been recovered. Boats blowing up and crashing into bridges was not the norm here, the trail usually leading to Trufante and then to Mac. Her curiosity got the better of her. She put down the paper and paid the bill, asking the waitress if she knew anything about who owned the boat that had blown up.
The answer tightened the circle, and adding in the stop-work order on the house, there was enough circumstantial evidence for her lawyer brain to kick in. Whether through reason or paranoia, the answer came back the same—the incidents were related and all had something to do with Mac.
With some time on her hands before her flight back and her curiosity piqued, she drove to The Keys Fisheries, where the waitress had told her she could find the owner of the boat that had exploded. Parking by the retail store, she got out and walked over to the dock. Not really knowing why she was here, she gazed at the marina. Leaning against the same well-worn spot on the rail where the tourists would watch the tarpon feed later tonight, she checked out the remaining boats. The marina was only half-full, many out on charters, but several caught her attention. One had five outboards hanging from the transom, and she laughed to herself about the ridiculousness of the setup.
Though she had distanced herself from the Keys, she still knew her boats, and the display of power amused her. She moved her gaze to the boat next to it, a small center-console, similar to one her dad had owned, and realized it was damaged. Walking toward it, she could see the top had been removed and walked closer to get a better look. It meant nothing by itself, but this was starting to look like another in a growing list of coincidences. She was about to leave when she heard someone call her name.
“Woodson, is that you?”
Walking toward her was a heavyset woman with sleeve tattoos on both arms and a streak of blond running through her auburn hair. On first sight, Mel didn’t recognize her and was about to ignore her and walk past.
“It’s Celia, Monica’s sister,” the woman said.
Mel recognized her now, though she was considerably different than the young girl she remembered.
Wood's Reach: Action & Sea Adventure in the Florida Keys (Mac Travis Adventures Book 6) Page 16