The next morning, I was up before the sun. It was going to be a busy day. Chyrel and Tony were supposed to arrive shortly, and we’d move her computers and stuff up to my island. One of the bunkhouses is set up as sort of an office. Chyrel uses it when she stays over, as does my daughter, Kim, since that half of the bunkhouse has four bunks.
Deuce had asked Billy if he’d be willing to stay in Key West with Lawrence, and added him to the payroll, which I hadn’t even written a check for yet. Billy agreed and would stick with Lawrence, day and night, in case the killer decided to come after him. Knowing Billy as I did, I didn’t bother to ask if he was armed. He probably had a second gun in his boot, a knife in the other, and probably more. As far as being able to protect Lawrence, there are few men I’d trust more with my own life.
As I stepped out into the cockpit with my morning coffee, Finn leapt over the gunwale onto the barge and then over to the dock, nosing around for a place to pee. I saw a white van creeping slowly into the parking area from under the driveway’s overhanging gumbo limbo trees. I stepped over to the barge and walked across the deck to the gangplank as Tony and Chyrel got out.
“Just in time for breakfast,” I said, approaching the van.
“Hey there, Jesse,” Chyrel said, giving me a big hug.
Tony came around the front of the van and I took his offered hand. “Been awhile,” he said. “Deuce told me you were going to be a part of his new company.”
“More like a silent partner,” I said, leading the way to the bar. “With you two on board, it’s bound to be profitable.”
As we reached the door, I could hear Rusty and Deuce laughing inside. Holding it open for the other two, I followed them in. Jimmy was telling a story.
“And then the other dude says, ‘What shark?’” Jimmy said from behind the bar.
Deuce, Julie, and Rusty all laughed. Rusty turned toward us as we approached. “Hey, y’all. Saw you pull in. Hope you’re hungry. I just told Rufus to put on some more breakfast burritos. Should be done in a minute.”
The three of us joined them at the bar. “I’ll be staying here,” Deuce announced. “I got a lead on an office that might be coming available. It’s only a half mile from the Coast Guard station, and when the call comes I need to get right up there.”
“Tony can dive with me,” I said.
“Sure, why not?” Tony agreed. “But who’s gonna stay on the boat?”
“A lady cop from Key West,” Deuce said. “Once you get Chyrel’s equipment up to the island and unloaded, you and Jesse can pick her up at Old Wooden Bridge Marina.”
“I thought we were going to pick her up at Garrison Bight,” I said.
“She texted me about an hour ago. Said she was on her way to Sugarloaf on another case,” Deuce said. “I told her to meet you there. Figured I’d save you some gas.”
“It’ll be low tide about noon. Call her back and see how early she can get there.”
Deuce picked his phone up from the bar and walked over toward the back door. Rufus was just carrying in a tray of food, which he slid onto the bar.
“I and I try something new,” Rufus said. “I blacken some janga and chop dem up in a omelet, wit goat cheese and peppers.” We tore into the little burritos.
Deuce returned, holding his phone away from his ear. “She can be there in less than an hour. Turning the case over to another detective.”
“It’s only a few miles further to get here,” I said. “If she doesn’t mind going up to the island for about an hour, so we can unload, it’d get us out on the Gulf a lot sooner.”
Deuce put the phone to his ear again. “You heard? Okay, turn right at the first rural mailbox you see after passing Kmart in Marathon. You can’t miss it.” He ended the call and laid the phone back on the bar. “Said she’s on her way.”
Rusty turned up the volume on the TV as we ate quickly. The latest update on Hurricane Ike showed it now moving northwest and nearing the western tip of Cuba. From there, the steadily widening cone of probability had it moving into the middle of the Gulf of Mexico over the next several days, and away from us.
Tony and Chyrel only ate a couple of the small burritos, saying they’d eaten before leaving Homestead a couple hours earlier. They went out to unload the van and put their gear on the Revenge.
“I’m gonna get the engines warmed up,” I said after my fifth janga burrito.
Deuce and Julie walked out with me, Finn trotting ahead of us toward the boat, as a brown Ford Crown Victoria parked next to Tony’s van. I never could figure out why they call them unmarked police cars. The big sedan screamed cop.
We angled away from the docks and met Devon as she was getting out of the driver’s side. I don’t know why, but I’d assumed Morgan would be dropping her off.
“This isn’t gonna work,” I said, looking her up and down. She was conservatively dressed as she had been yesterday, except her jacket and slacks were blue. On her feet were hard soled shoes. “Those shoes don’t go past the pier. And it’s gonna be hot out on the water this afternoon.”
“I have a go-bag she said. “But the only change of clothes in it is another suit like this one.” She smiled and added, “You’ll just have to bear with the stench.”
I glanced at Julie, and then back at Devon. They were close to the same height and, outside of Julie being pregnant, were about the same build. “Can you help her, Jules?”
“What?” Julie asked, “Have you run out of women’s clothes on that boat of yours?” She extended her hand. “Julie Livingston, Coast Guard.”
When Devon shook her hand, Julie leaned in and loudly whispered, “Jesse’s boat sometimes makes women’s clothes fall off.”
“Tequila does that for me,” Devon said, winking at Julie. “Devon Evans, Monroe County Sheriff’s Department and former Marine.”
“Ha!” Julie exclaimed. “I like you already, Devon Evans. My dad and Uncle Jesse are both Marines. Come with me. I’ll let you get into my shorts.”
As the two of them walked toward Rusty’s house, Deuce and I could only stare after them with our mouths open. “Is it just me,” I asked, “or has Jules gotten a bit saltier since picking up petty officer second class?”
“I think she’s just exhibiting her true colors to me now, after a lifetime spent living among knuckle-dragging Jarheads.”
I clapped him on the shoulder, and we walked down to where Rusty’s big barge was tied up at the top of the turning basin. The sun was above the horizon, but not yet above the trees. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and it felt like the weather would hold. But there were still a few wind gusts reaching twenty or so miles per hour.
Tony and Finn came out of the salon as we crossed the barge’s deck to the Revenge. “We got everything secured,” Tony said, as Finn curled up by the transom door for a nap. “I just checked NOAA. Sounds pretty sloppy out in the Gulf, seas two to four. But it should start laying down soon.”
“Need help with anything?” Deuce asked, as I climbed up to the bridge.
“I don’t think so,” I called down, noticing for the first time that my sat-phone was in its cradle and fully charged. “I’ll call you if we find anything. Good luck with the office.”
I started the two big supercharged diesel engines, letting them rumble at idle to warm up. Finn barked as I climbed down, always anxious to go for a boat ride. I went into the salon and found Chyrel pouring the contents of the coffee pot into a big Thermos bottle. “Ah, thanks,” I said. “That’s what I was just coming down for.”
She followed me out, and I climbed back up to the bridge. I poured a mug of coffee and stowed the Thermos in one of the upper storage bins. When I looked down at Tony and Deuce on the barge, they were both staring across the yard. I followed their gaze and saw Julie and Devon walking toward us.
Devon had changed into a pair of Julie’s faded cut-off blue jeans and a white tank top, with the Rusty Anchor logo on the front. She filled both out quite nicely, I noticed. In her left hand, she carried a gy
m bag with one of Julie’s old, faded-denim work shirts draped over it. Her feet were bare and tan, like the rest of her legs.
“Cast off the lines!” I shouted down to the barge.
Deuce looked up and grinned, then started toward the bow lines. Tony was frozen in place for a second before going to the stern. Devon stepped down into the cockpit, seeming unsure of herself, and Chyrel took her inside to find a spot for her bag.
The lines were tossed, and Deuce pushed the bow out. Tony stepped aboard and walked along the side deck to the forwardmost fender, pulling it up and putting it in its holder. I engaged the transmissions, spinning the Revenge away from the barge, as Tony went aft and secured the rest of the fenders and coiled the dock lines.
“You didn’t say she was a hot lady cop,” Tony said, climbing quickly up the ladder. At thirty-four, he had the strength and stamina of a teenager, with the same loose, wiry build. “Good thing Tasha didn’t see her. The woman gets a little jealous around other hotties.”
“Hottie?” I asked. “She’s a police detective.”
“Yeah, kinda like us, huh?” Tony said, his big white teeth gleaming in his dark face. “Only with curves.”
“Shut the hell up, you animal,” I said. But my grin betrayed my thoughts and he laughed.
A moment later, as we idled down the long canal, Chyrel and Devon joined us on the bridge and I introduced her to Tony.
“I thought Agent Livingston was coming,” Devon said.
“Tony’s filling in for him,” I replied. “He used to be on Deuce’s SEAL team. And Chyrel’s former CIA.”
“Hey,” Chyrel said, sitting down and waving a hand. “Just a cyber spook. None of that Mitch Rapp kinda stuff.”
“Just how big a security company do you have?” Devon asked.
“Just the five of us, right now,” Tony replied. Then to me he added, “We’ve got two more coming—Paul and Andrew—which will make seven.”
“Our two DHS teams comprise twenty individuals each,” Chyrel added. “All of Deuce’s new employees are coming from there.”
“Andrew’s in?” I asked. “I thought he was going back to finish his thirty.”
“He looked into it,” Tony said. “Even the Coast Guard is offering a sweet early retirement package right now. I’m getting almost a year’s pay to retire four years early. Regular retirement will kick in then.”
Passing the last of the boats tied to the dock, I bumped the throttles up just a little. The big twin diesels responded instantly.
“I know Julie was kidding when she said that bit about women’s clothes falling off,” Devon said, sitting on the port bench, next to Chyrel. “But it’s not really a stretch. This is a gorgeous boat.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “You said you’d never been on one?”
“A few times,” she replied. “Whenever the job requires it, but nothing this big. Actually, this is the second boat I’ve been on today.”
“The second?”
“I had to go out on another boat very early this morning.”
I glanced at her for a second. She did clean up nice and, judging by those legs, she was a runner. That’d be what all that food fueled.
“How big is this thing?” Devon asked.
“She’s forty-five feet of pure Wisconsin muscle,” Tony said, as we idled out of the canal, encountering the first small waves. Checking the radar and sonar, he added, “Ten feet under the keel, Skipper. Nothing on radar.”
Here in the bight, it was usually flat calm in October, sheltered from the prevailing northeasterly breeze. In summer, the wind was off the water, but with a shallow barrier reef just a few miles offshore, there was rarely much wave activity. Now, there were a few whitecaps. Compared to the waves right now on the other side of Cuba, these were nothing, and were barely felt against the sturdy hull. I pushed the throttles forward enough to get the big boat up on plane at twenty-five knots. The Revenge responded as she always did, eager to challenge the sea. I started a wide hundred and eighty degree turn to the west that would loop us around the end of Boot Key and Knight Key, lining up on a northerly heading toward the big arch in the Seven Mile bridge.
“What’s the other case you were on up here?” I asked Devon, as the Revenge began dancing her way through the slop in the deep channel. “Anything to do with the two murders?”
She was looking up at the high span of the bridge as we passed under. “I never realized it was so high,” she said, then turned around in her seat to look at me. “A woman’s body was found in the water on Sugarloaf Key. Possibly a prostitute, but even though it was only a few miles from where the salvage boat was found, I doubt if they’re connected to our case. But, I was on call last night, so I went. I left another detective with it, when his partner arrived. They’re waiting on the ME.”
“Ever met Doc Fredric?” I asked.
“A few times,” Devon replied. “You know him?”
“He likes fishing the back country. I’ve taken him out a few times.”
“Where exactly is this back country?” she asked. “I’ve heard it mentioned a few times.”
“Look behind you,” I said, pointing over her shoulder. “That long stretch of land is Big Pine Key. See all those islands way in the distance ahead of us? That’s the back country. My house is on the outer edge of it. It’s part of the Content Keys group of islands.”
Navigating the back country is more about knowing where the shallows are than following any markers. The natural East Bahia Honda Channel runs mostly ten feet deep and is very wide, going roughly north from the bridge. After a few miles, it angles north-northwest toward Horseshoe Banks.
Fifteen minutes later, we cleared the banks and I turned slowly toward the west, avoiding the shallows of Monkey Bank and Bullfrog Banks. The light at Harbor Key Bank came into view, and I adjusted course to the north of it. When I was sure I was clear of the shallows at Turtlecrawl, I slowed and turned southwest, entering Harbor Channel near its northern end. Harbor Channel was another natural deep water cut. It was a good twenty feet deep at the northeast, where it flowed into and out of the Gulf. Here in the middle, it got a little deeper and it was here that we ran a line of lobster and crab traps in the deeper part. I slowly backed the Revenge down off plane, approaching the first lobster pot float, and Finn trotted forward to sit down in the middle of the foredeck. Ahead, the channel curved to the south next to my island and disappeared into a maze of shallow, narrow cuts through the back country.
Devon looked all around. The water in the channel was a deep blue, and I could just make out the shapes of small coral heads and seagrass interspersed on the yellow sandy bottom. Straight ahead lay the Content and Water Keys, beyond which only a small skiff could go, and only at high tide.
“Past those islands,” I said to Devon, pointing ahead, “is a maze of small islands, sandbars, and mangrove flats that only a kayak can get into at low tide.”
“Is that your house?” Devon asked, as I brought the Revenge down to idle speed near the entrance to the channel I’d dug out with a shovel more than seven years ago. I’d deepened and widened it since then, using Rusty’s barge and backhoe. The roof of my house was just above the mangroves on the south side of the island. I made a mental note to do some pruning next week. I like to see all the approaches, even if you have to be a local to try the cuts to the south.
“My island,” I corrected her. “There are four houses on it. But, yeah, the one you can see above the trees is where I live.”
We entered the narrow channel and didn’t see anyone on the dock. Tony and Chyrel went down to put the fenders over and tie off. I eased the bow close to the pier, and Tony used a boat hook to snag the line coiled on one of the posts. I shifted the port engine into neutral and the starboard into reverse. The big boat gently drifted back alongside the pier. While Chyrel tied off a second dock line to a stern cleat, Finn leapt the gunwale and raced up the steps.
“We’ll be here only as long as it takes to unload Chyrel’s gear,” I
shouted down to Tony.
“Roger that,” he replied, dropping into the cockpit and disappearing into the cabin.
“What’s behind those big doors,” Devon asked, as I glanced over the gauges and shut down the engines.
“Dock space,” I replied. “For the Revenge and a few other boats.”
“How many boats do you need?”
“Each has its own purpose,” I said, “and none can do it all. The Revenge is my primary charter vessel. But some clients don’t want to go way out to the Gulf Stream and she burns sixty gallons of fuel an hour, so I have another, slightly smaller boat called El Cazador.”
“The Hunter?”
“Si,” I replied with a grin. “Para peces de caza. Neither of them can get back into the flats south and west of here for bonefish, though. So I have a shallow-draft skiff for those clients. Then a couple of boats that are just for knocking around in and fetching supplies.”
“We’ll be taking this one to look for the dive site?” she asked.
I’d noticed a little color draining from her face when we’d entered Harbor Channel and had slowed in the two-foot chop coming in off the Gulf. The Revenge takes waves on the bow effortlessly, but rolls some when she’s going slow and the waves come abeam. Her bridge, being higher, rocks violently at times.
“You prone to sea sickness?” I asked, going down the ladder.
“Prone would be an understatement. But I took a Dramamine.”
I helped her down and said, “Better take another one. Out on the Gulf, it’ll be a little choppy until late afternoon.”
Wondering where Carl was, I trotted up the steps to the deck and found him coming up the other side. “Wasn’t much of a blow,” he said. “We’re cleaning up some debris that washed up on the east side and around the base of the north pier.”
“Brought some guests,” I said and introduced him to Devon as Tony lumbered up the steps with a large, white box slung on his back with shoulder straps.
“Hey, Tony,” Carl said. “Good to see ya. Whatcha got in the box?”
Fallen Hero: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 10) Page 14