Wood's Wreck

by Steven Becker

  “You’re sure this is cool?” the man asked.

  “Honey, I’m not going to risk all this,” Cayenne said. “We go out like the other days and have a look at the coral, but we make a slight detour and fill a couple of coolers with lobsters. You’ve taken me out there often enough that if anyone is watching, they’ve already seen you and won’t suspect anything.

  “A half-hour, that’s all. And I’m staying on board. You’re going to have to dive yourself.”

  Mel heard the doors close and the engine start. She stayed where she was until the truck had pulled out of the driveway. Her phone was out of the elastic armband before they had turned the corner.

  “Marvin. Get up. We have to go back there now.” She waited impatiently for him to gain his senses after obviously waking him.

  “Sweetie, what time is it?” he murmured.

  “It’s time to get moving. Come on. I need you here. She’s with that captain guy and they’re heading back to the casitas. This is my chance to catch her red handed and clear Mac.” She waited for a response, but none came. “Half-hour on the dock.”

  She hung up, crossed back onto Cayenne’s property, and went into the house. A quick change of clothes from what little she had brought from Mac’s and she was out the door and in the truck. Just being in Mac’s truck made her think about him and regret the way she had handled things last night. She had information that could help and she needed to get to him quickly.

  Invigorated from the sprints and ready to take action, she felt better than she had in months. The thought of watching Cayenne fall from whatever status she still had only added to her mood.

  As she drove, she tried to plan her strategy for setting up Cayenne and clearing Mac. But as she started to think it through, she realized it wasn’t as simple as it seemed. Calling Fish and Game or the Marine Patrol would only get Cayenne put in jail, and there wouldn’t be any leverage to clear Mac in that case. No reason for her to further implicate herself, especially after her father would send a plane load of suits to bully the locals and represent her.

  No, she needed to catch her red-handed and prove that the casitas were located inside her coral lease. Then she could offer some kind of deal to keep her out of jail. She had no idea how that was going to work, but she had a little time to think of something. The key was to catch her in the act.

  The marina was busy when she pulled into the parking lot. Fishermen, divers, snorkelers, and sight seers were congregated on the docks, waiting for their charters. She pushed through a throng of middle-aged tourists and jumped down to the deck of Marvin’s boat, where she pulled out her phone and checked the time of the call to Marvin. It had been forty minutes already, and she was getting anxious when the crowd parted and Marvin appeared.

  She had the dock lines off before he was on the boat, and watched him sit on the dock before swinging his legs over and easing onto the deck. His hangover was evident, and after watching his unathletic entrance to the boat, she realized he was going to be of no use if things got ugly out there.

  But he was all she had.

  He went to the helm, inserted the key into the ignition, and clipped the dead man’s key into its slot. The engines roared to life and he pulled out into the channel.

  Mel was happy to let him drive—at least for now—so she could focus on figuring out how to corner Cayenne.

  ***

  The man had spent the night in a small shack on the outskirts of town. He knew it was better to forego comfort and remain unseen. Mariel was a small town, and—typical of many Cuban villages—people neither moved in or out. The chances of running into someone that knew him were too high to risk. He climbed out of the cot and stretched his back. Between the boat ride and the old army cot, which looked like a remnant from the Spanish-American war, his body ached.

  He went to the small kitchen, set a pot of water on the stove to boil for coffee, sat in one of the two older chairs, and waited. There was nothing he could do until his contact arrived but drink coffee. He reached for his pocket, instinctively looking for his cell phone, but realized he had left it in the States. It would be no use to him here.

  Stashed under the shack was a locally purchased pre-paid phone that could access the internet. He would use GuerillaMail to send the message that all was ready for pick up. The anonymous mail server would send the message and within an hour scrub it from the server, so they couldn’t be tracked.

  The woman came in a half-hour and two cups of Cuban coffee later, and handed him a thin newspaper and a bag containing a pastry. She avoided his gaze and walked back out. He refilled his coffee and opened the paper. Usually filled with propaganda and sports, something on the front page caught his eye. He read the article with increasing interest and anxiety. The industrial pier he had passed on the way into the sound was scheduled to have Naval exercises starting tomorrow. Castro went all out on these occasions, taking his limited fleet and putting it in one place for the cameras to show the country that he still had power.

  This was bad news, as it would force him to accelerate his extraction. The Cuban Navy, although far from its technologically advanced neighbor, still had enough machinery and manpower to cover the small bay. Once they started to arrive, his odds of getting out unseen were small. And waiting until the operation was over was out of the question. The way they scheduled things here, the Navy could be moving in for the winter.

  He got up and went to the back door, where he peered out to see if anyone was watching and crept to the opening of the crawl space. Checking again to make sure he was unobserved, he pulled the access door off and slithered underneath the house. Moist sand and spider webs covered him as he crawled to the large girder that supported the floor joists. He reached his hand on top and moved it back and forth, looking for the bag. Finally he felt the plastic and pulled it out, stuffing the bag into his shirt.

  Back in the kitchen, he pulled the phone out of the bag, inserted a SIM chip into it, and turned it on. The card had never been used and would be destroyed as soon as the message was sent. He went immediately to the web browser and entered the address for GuerillaMail. Hunched over the phone, he entered Norm’s private email and punched in the message to move the extraction to sunset.

  ***

  Mac had been shivering for hours when dawn finally broke, and he knew he was past the point of no return if he didn’t get out of the trap soon. Although the tropical waters surrounding the Keys rarely dipped below eighty degrees, that was still cold enough to cause hypothermia; it just took a while. The eight hours that he’d been captive was already affecting his entire nervous system. He had been experiencing uncontrollable shivering and muscle cramps—symptoms that he was hypothermic. Without the foam noodle to support him and keep his upper body out of the water, he might be dead.

  Now that it was light, he searched for any means of escape that he’d been unable to see last night. There was nothing in sight that he could reach, though, and he glanced down in the water. With the increasing light, the water was clear enough to see the bottom, and he could see the eel’s head swaying in the current, its body hidden under a rock. It must have been at least five feet long, from the size of the head.

  A door slammed and he turned to see the man coming toward him with two bottles of water in his hands. He tossed one toward Mac, and went to a freezer underneath the lanai, where he pulled out a fish carcass. He walked back to the pen and tossed it into the water.

  “Gotta feed your friend there, we don’t want him eating you while I’m gone. I gotta go run an errand. Try and save the Nationals’ season, if you can believe it. You be a good boy now and we’ll have another chat later. Until then.” He nodded at Mac and went toward the big boat.

  Mac grabbed for the plastic bottle, barely able to grasp it before it sank, and tried to balance himself and open it. His fingers barely obeyed the command from his brain. The boat started, but he stayed focused on the task at hand, worried that he could not grip the cap. Finally he put it in his mouth
and used his teeth as a vise to open the bottle. He spit out the cap and started to drink as he watched the boat move away.

  Again he assessed his situation. The sun was rising now and the feel of its rays on his head brought some clarity back to his thoughts. He had to figure a way out and now.

  The only tools at hand were the noodle and plastic bottle—both useless against the metal cage. The water level was rising, and only a foot of wire extended above the water, now. With the tide still incoming, he thought, this was the time to make whatever move he could. He leaned on the noodle and settled back to wait for high water.

  When the tide crested, he would take the noodle to insulate and protect his hands and vault the fence. As he waited, the warmth of the sun quickly lulled him into a semi-conscious state.

  ***

  Jay had to stop in Key West for gas—another annoying delay—but he had used almost three-quarters of his fuel on the last trip. Crossing the Gulfstream to reach Cuba took twice as much fuel, running into the 6-knot current as it did on the way back.

  After filling the three tanks with one hundred gallons each, he headed back to the blue water to make the crossing. The wind was still up, but the weather was good at least, and crossing in the day was much safer than at night. He watched the tachometers and tuned each engine to 3800 rpms—a little slower than the previous trip, but more economical. Might as well save some dollars; the fill had cost him $1,800, and he didn’t need to arrive before dusk.

  The early extraction made this a one-way trip, and he’d had no time to organize any contraband for delivery. While he steered he calculated the fuel cost, deciding to add a surcharge onto his bill. The bean counters at the CIA would surely understand the economics of smuggling.

  ***

  The man washed off in the old porcelain basin and wished he had another shirt. But at least with the dirty clothes and no deodorant, he would fit in perfectly. His contact had left several minutes ago, with instructions to deliver the player to the beach at 4pm. With six hours to kill, he slicked back his hair and left the shack.

  The streets were quiet in the heat of the day, and he went unnoticed as he walked the dirt road, avoiding the main streets. Soon he reached a modest house, at least for the impoverished area, opened the short chain link gate, and followed the path to the door. He knocked and waited, a picture of her from several years ago in his head.

  It was a risk—one he never would have taken if he weren’t leaving later in the day—but seeing the woman was on his mind whenever he set foot on the island’s soil. It was several years since he had waited on this stoop, and wondered what she would do.

  His question was answered when the door opened and a man crowded the opening. He took one look at the figure and turned away.

  “If you are looking for Maria, she does not want to see you,” the man in the doorway said.

  He kept walking, not wanting to show his face. He would have to be careful now, maybe just go to the beach and hide.

  As he walked back to the beach, taking the most remote route, he started to glance over his shoulder. The man would certainly call the police. There was bound to be some kind of a reward for turning him in. This was the politics of Cuba.

  Chapter 19

  Something bumped the pen, waking Mac from his stupor. He looked up at the sun, now high in the sky, to try and gauge how long he had been out when the cage shook again. Around him, chunks of fish were floating in the water both inside and outside the cage. The last thing he remembered was the man tossing the carcass into the water before leaving.

  The eel had been subdued during the night, possibly realizing the size of the man in the cage, but whatever the reason, the warm water had turned the frozen fish into chum that was now formed into a slick, floating out of the cove with the tide.

  He suspected the bump was caused by one of the large bull sharks that roamed the flats, drawn in by the chum slick. But from his position, he was unable to see anything but his feet; the glare from the water hit his eyes as he tried to look for the culprit.

  The cage shook again, and he had an idea. Suddenly awake, his adrenaline telling him this was his last chance, he studied the structure of the cage. In the daylight he could see the netting was made of PVC with strands of uninsulated wire, intertwined every foot or so to conduct electricity.

  He saw a dorsal fin cut through the water and started to work his feet along the bottom until one of his toes snagged the fish carcass. The eel was far from his mind—probably hiding from the larger predator, not knowing it was safe inside the cage. He pinched two toes together and lifted his foot to waist level where he was able to grab hold of the fish and stick it in the space between two of the wires. There, he rubbed it back and forth against the mesh.

  The fish started to disintegrate, and he hoped the shark would take the bait before it dissipated.

  He rubbed the fish again, but his hand hit the wire and he jerked his had back from an electrical shock, releasing the fish to the bottom. It took several minutes to recover the carcass before he could start the process over.

  This time the shark went for the fish, slamming into the enclosure between the two wires. It drove its head further into the space, touching both wires as Mac pulled the carcass from its reach.

  Nothing happened. The shark’s skin must be too dense for the current to penetrate it.

  Mac pushed the fish forward, holding the carcass inches from the shark’s nose, fully aware that it could easily tear through the netting, but it went for the bait and slid further between the wires.

  He was out of room, pinned against the seawall as the shark came closer. It was inches from him when he pushed the fish against a wire and stuffed the carcass in its mouth. The fireworks started and sparks flew from the wires as the cage shorted and the shark stopped.

  He wasn’t sure if it was dead or stunned, and was not inclined to find out. With a section of the torn swim noodle in each hand to protect him from the wire, he hoisted himself onto the barbed wire and gained the seawall, where he lay motionless.

  It took several minutes for him to recover his wits. He was still shivering, but the sun was warming him quickly. A look into the cage revealed the shark floating belly up, clearly dead.

  His balance was questionable when he tried to rise, so he took his time and went to the chair his tormentor had sat in the previous night. Tossing the worthless control box onto the deck, he collapsed into the lounge chair.

  ***

  Marvin slowed the boat once the Sawyer Keys came into sight and looked at Mel for direction. She took the binoculars from her eyes and went to the helm.

  “That’s the Sawyer Keys over there.” She pointed to the land on the starboard side, then put the glasses back to her eyes and started scanning the area, stopping at a point on the horizon. Without taking the binoculars down, she pointed in the direction she was looking. “Take it slow. Over there.”

  Marvin steered the boat toward the spot she indicated and drove forward until she held her hand up for him to stop and set the binoculars down.

  He looked at her for more direction, but she remained motionless as if stalking prey. Not sure what to do, she put the glasses back to her eyes and watched the boat.

  A dive flag hung limp from one of the outriggers and she could only see one person aboard. Cayenne must be in the water, she thought as she watched the boat. What she needed was proof that Cayenne was poaching lobsters from the site of her coral lease, and inside the boundary of the wildlife management area. She thought about calling the marine patrol again and pulled out her phone. With one eye on the screen and the other on the boat, she opened the web browser and found the number for Fish and Game, but then decided against it. If they arrested her, she had no doubt her father’s lawyers would cut a deal and grant her immunity or some other deal for her cooperation. As far as the authorities knew, their only case was against Mac. An arrest would only make matters worse.

  “We’re going to wait until she comes up and then
run close and shoot some pictures,” she said to Marvin as she started to play with the settings on her camera app.

  Several minutes later, she was startled by the sound of a helicopter coming from the direction of Big Pine Key. The driver of the other boat must have heard it too because she saw him look around and then go forward and pull in the anchor. She watched him through the binoculars as he tossed the anchor on deck and ran back to the helm, where he started the boat and quickly moved away. The binoculars moved from the water to the sky and she focussed on the yellow helicopter cruising overhead.

  “Move out to the channel and head toward open water,” Mel yelled at Marvin. It looked like the helicopter that was based at Marathon airport for sightseeing tours, not the authorities, but not willing to take a chance she wanted them away from the scene.

  ***

  Cayenne heard the engine start while still under the water. With no idea what was going on above, she grabbed her bag full of lobster and ascended the forty feet to the surface. It took her a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight as she stared in the direction where she thought the boat should be.

  Immediately she started to panic, then heard the helicopter and spun in the water, looking for the boat. The charter boat was gone, though, and all she could see were two boat’s wakes moving away from her.

  She felt exposed bobbing in the waves and there was a chance the helicopter pilot would spot her and without a boat nearby think that she needed help. The paranoia she had felt on the surface left her as she submerged. Although not an experienced diver, the surroundings gave her security. The visibility was excellent and she knew land was only a few hundred yards away. With 1500 psi, she could easily swim toward the cove and Jay’s house. The swim would give her time to come up with a story of how she got there. Several scenarios were forming in her head as she started finning in the direction of the cove.