Fallen Out: Jesse McDermitt Series, The Beginning

by Wayne Stinnett

  As we settled onto the bottom, he held up three fingers on one hand above 5 fingers on his other. Instantly, I knew what he meant, he had three lobster over five inches carapace length. I replied with two fingers over five fingers. That meant that everything in both bags under five inches could be released. We each started pulling bugs out of our bags measuring them and either releasing them, or putting them back in. We released six that although they were legal, were smaller than everything else we had.

  I put my two in his bag, then we went through the process again, looking for the one that would be pardoned. After measuring each of them again, as we transferred them into my bag, we soon identified the smallest and let him join his buddies on the reef.

  Back on the surface, we boarded the Revenge and added the four to the fish box. I turned on the fresh water wash down pump and rinsed our gear, then myself. While Russ was rinsing off, I climbed up to the bridge and started the engines.

  “Russ,” I yelled down, “there’s a small cooler on the deck inside the hanging closet in the salon. Grab a few beers from the fridge before you come up.”

  He gave me a thumbs up and went into the salon as I put the engines in gear and eased forward, engaging the anchor windlass and drawing up the anchor line as I went.

  “Here ya go, Jesse,” Russ said as he handed up the cooler. “I’ll get the anchor.”

  I turned on the forward spotlight and pointed it toward the pulpit. I had red tape around the anchor line, five feet before the chain and when it appeared, I disengaged the windlass, until he got up there. It only took him a second to lift the anchor and chain and put it in place then I engaged the windlass to take the slack out of the anchor line. When Russ was back up on the bridge, I pushed the throttles forward, bringing the big boat up onto plane and turning west.

  “That was fun,” Russ said. “Most of my dives these days are with metal detectors and shovels.”

  “Ever think you made the wrong move?”

  He thought for a moment. “There are times, yeah. Like last night, hanging out with other Jarheads. I could be retired with a full thirty, this year. But I love what I do, it’s fun and I’m my own boss. There’s a lot to be said for that.”

  “It’s been a year and a half for me,” I said. “Still going through the change, I guess.”

  “Looking for dangerous situations where there aren’t any?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “That means I did my job right,” he said. “I had a Platoon Sergeant in ’71, right after I finished Infantry training and went to 1st ANGLICO. Guy by the name of Quick. ‘Head on a swivel’, he pounded into us. His training kept a lot of us alive in ‘Nam.”

  I turned north around East Sister Rock and slowed down, dropping down off plane. “Now there’s an island home for ya,” Russ said, admiring the home on the little island at the mouth of Sister Creek.

  “Yeah, he’s close enough that he’s got electricity and running water,” I said, as we entered the creek. “Where I’m at, I’ll have to rely on a rain cistern and battery power.”

  We wound our way up the creek into Boot Key Harbor. Russ climbed down to tie us off, as I swung the bow away from the docks. Standing and facing aft, I used the throttle controls to align the big boat and slowly back into the slip.

  It sounded like a pretty lively crowd was at Dockside, even for a Saturday night. I climbed down and connected the shore power and water lines to the boat. Russ was looking toward the bar and listening to the music.

  “The guest head should have everything you need, Russ. Why don’t we get cleaned up and go have a beer?”

  “It’s like you’re reading my mind, old son.”

  We cleaned the lobster and got cleaned up ourselves. Then we headed over to the bar to see what all the excitement was about. The place was nearly packed, but we managed to find a table in the corner that wasn’t occupied. Funny how the best seats in most bars are usually empty. Robin was behind the bar and when I caught her eye, I held up two fingers and she nodded. A moment later a new waitress appeared with two ice cold Red Stripes.

  “I’m Madison,” she said placing the bottles on coasters. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?”

  She was pretty and half Russ’s age, but that didn’t stop him. “Can I get something that’s not on the menu?”

  To her credit, she smiled and countered back, “I’d have to check with Tom, the cook.”

  Russ laughed and handed her a ten, telling her to keep the change and keep the beer flowing.

  “Hey, Madison,” I said. “Why’s it so crowded tonight?”

  “It’s Dan Sullivan’s last night on stage. He’s leaving in two weeks, to sail the Caribbean.”

  I looked up at the empty stage. He was apparently taking a break. This was the guy Jimmy had mentioned a couple of weeks ago and I’d wanted to meet. “Do me a favor, Madison. Send him a pint of Guinness and tell him it’s from a fellow Irishman.”

  She disappeared and Russ asked, “What was that all about?”

  “Just a guy I wanted to meet. Some kinda local celebrity.”

  A moment later, a tall man with curly dark hair with a tinge of red, and a thick mustache stepped up to the table. “Dia dhaoibh.”

  My grandpa spoke the ancient Irish Gaelic fluently, but I hadn’t heard it in many years. I struggled for a second to remember the correct response. I lifted my bottle and replied, “Dia is Muire dhuit.”

  “Ah, a real Irishman among us. Name’s Dan. Dan Sullivan.”

  I stood and took the hand he offered. “Jesse McDermitt. And this is Russ Livingston.” He shook Russ’s hand and I invited him to have a seat. “My First Mate was playing some of your songs on the boat a couple weeks ago. Jimmy Saunders.”

  “Jimmy’s your Mate? He did some recording for me a few months back. Smart guy.”

  We talked for a few more minutes before Dan had to get back up on stage. It turned out that Jimmy was right, I liked the guy. His music was simple, just his voice and guitar, and some of the stories he told in his songs were great. At the end of his set, he did the song I’d heard Jimmy playing about an approaching storm front. When he took his break, he stopped by our table again and I asked him about it.

  “It’s called Stormfront, my newest song. Ya like it?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Jimmy was playing it while we were anchored in Tarpon Bay riding out Hurricane Irene. He also mentioned you were into martial arts.”

  “Been practicing Taekwondo, yeah. You?”

  “I guess you could say mixed martial arts. I was a LINE instructor in the Marine Corps for a time.”

  “Line? What’s that?”

  “The Corps is big on acronyms,” Russ said. “It means Linear Infighting Neural Override Engagement.”

  “Yeah, I can see where an acronym would work better there,” Dan said with a grin. “You were both in the Marines?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Russ was once my boss.”

  “Well, a bonny Veterans Day to ya,” he said, lifting his beer.

  He asked more about what LINE was and I explained it was developed for Marines and some Special Forces Soldiers for close quarter combat, usually when fatigued and in low light situations, while wearing full combat gear, employing lethal strikes and holds.

  “Why would you want to teach martial arts to people who are tired and it’s dark outside?” he asked.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s not really martial arts in the way most people know it. We don’t teach how to defend, or incapacitate. It’s mostly how to kill quickly and quietly.”

  “Think you could tone it down a bit and not kill a sparring partner?” he asked.

  “Well, none of my trainees walked away dead.”

  He laughed and said, “I like you, Irishman. We’ll have to get together and share some techniques in the ring.”

  “Sure. That’d be fun. But, I heard you’re leaving soon.”

  “In two weeks, I’m sailing for the Leewards, to bring Conch music to
the heathens.”

  “Drop by the boat tomorrow. Slip number ten.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said, as he stood up. “Right now, gotta get back to work.”

  As he went back up on stage I saw Aaron come out of the office and start to go behind the bar. When he saw me and Russ, he stopped and went back into his office. A moment later he came out, carrying a folded newspaper, heading straight for our table.

  “Did you see the Keynoter, Jesse?”

  “Hey Aaron,” I replied. “Have a seat. This is an old friend, Russ Livingston. Russ, meet Aaron, the manager.”

  Aaron nodded at Russ and asked again, “Did you see the paper?”

  “The Keynoter? Not unless I have a fish to wrap. What’s up?”

  By way of an answer he opened the paper to the front page. There was a picture, a mug shot actually, but it was obviously Earl. The headline read, ‘Sex Slaver Escapes Prison’.

  “He was being transferred from the federal prison in Miami, up to Raiford. The van was in a wreck and he escaped.”

  I read the story. The wreck happened on US-27, just north of Alligator Alley. There was a guard and a driver, plus two inmates in the van. Apparently, Earl took advantage of the situation and killed the guard and the other prisoner. Witnesses at the scene said he fled on foot into the swamp. The driver was knocked unconscious and was in critical condition at Northwest Medical Center in Margate, near Fort Lauderdale. A Division of Prisons spokesman said that the dead officer’s weapon was not recovered at the scene and Earl Hailey was to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. It happened yesterday.

  I handed the paper back and Russ asked, “Who’s this Earl Hailey?”

  Before I could say anything, Aaron said, “Jesse was instrumental in his being captured with three captive women. Well, one woman and her two teenage daughters. Him and his friends were all convicted and got life sentences. Jesse left three of them stranded up Shark River during the hurricane.” Turning to me, Aaron asked, “You think he’ll come back down here?”

  “I seriously doubt it.” However, in the back of my mind, I thought it a pretty good possibility. I was number one on Earl’s payback list.

  “You left them stranded in the ‘Glades during a hurricane?” Russ asked. “You must be getting soft.”

  I ignored him and said, “Thanks for letting me know, Aaron. I wouldn’t worry about Earl. He’s probably half way to Mexico.”

  Russ and I listened to Dan’s songs a while longer, but he had to get up early to meet someone on Big Pine for breakfast. After he left, I wandered down the dock to the Revenge. Truth is, I was pretty certain Earl would be back here, if he wasn’t here already.

  I was glad Jimmy and Rusty had convinced me of the need for a security system. But even the best system can be thwarted. Standing next to my boat, I studied the water. If anyone was aboard, their slightest move would cause the tiniest ripple as the boat moved. After a moment, I was sure nobody was aboard and stepped down into the cockpit.

  Keying in the alarm code, I opened the hatch and went inside. I went straight to my stateroom, punched in the key code to raise the bunk and retrieved one of the Sigs. I checked the chamber, inserted a loaded magazine, put it in a clip holster and tucked it into the waistband of my pants, under my shirt.

  Grabbing a cooler, I put a couple of Dos Equis in it and went up to the bridge. After a few minutes, I began to relax. The more I thought about it, the less I thought Earl would return. There’s only one way in and one way out of the Keys. He’s bound to know this and know that the authorities would be looking for him here. It would be foolhardy to return here.

  “Nice boat,” came a voice intruding on my thoughts.

  I looked down and saw a short haired woman a few years younger than me, late twenties or early thirties maybe. She was tall, slim and attractive. Her hair was a light brown with lighter highlights, longer in the front than the back.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Just a working boat, though.”

  “Are you the crew? Or do you own it?”

  “Both,” I replied with my best smile. When in the Keys…

  Chapter Fourteen

  Her name was Barbara, an elementary school teacher from up the coast a couple of hundred miles. She’d driven down by herself for the weekend, just to watch the sunsets and found Dockside by accident while looking for a beach.

  The smell of coffee and bacon woke me the next morning. When I looked at my watch, it was already 0800. I rarely sleep that late. Either I was getting old, or Barbara wore me out. Maybe both.

  I got up, pulled on my boxers and walked up the steps to the galley. “Hope you don’t mind,” she said turning toward me. “I woke up very hungry.” Her hair was tousled and she was wearing my tee-shirt, which barely covered her backside. I couldn’t help notice it was bare, which caused a stirring in my groin.

  I stepped up behind her, reached around and ran my hands over her taut, flat belly, pressing myself tightly against her. “I woke up hungry, too.” She turned the alcohol stove off and moved the half cooked bacon off the burner then turned inside my embrace and kissed me.

  An hour later, I dumped the bacon remnants into the trash and we carried our coffee mugs over to Dockside for a late breakfast. She explained that she had to leave by early afternoon, so she could make it to work on time tomorrow. After breakfast, I walked her to her car and invited her to come down again sometime, knowing that it was unlikely, but also not really caring that much.

  When I got back to the boat, Dan was there, sitting on my gear box. He was dressed in a traditional white taekwondo uniform, with a black belt tied around it. “Feel up to a little work out?” he asked. “No contact, no kill.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I replied. “Come aboard while I change.”

  We went into the salon and I told him to grab a couple of water bottles, we could go down by the boat ramp in a grassy area to spar. I went down to the stateroom, dug a seabag out of the bottom of the hanging closet and started hunting through the bottom of it. I found a pair of jungle camouflage utility trousers, a tan tee-shirt and my black web belt. In the back of the hanging closet was a well-worn pair of black jungle boots. I pulled on the trousers, bloused them at the bottom and tucked in the tee-shirt.

  When I stepped up into the salon, Dan laughed. “Is that how you dress to work out?”

  I grinned and said, “This is the traditional sparring uniform of my people, funny guy.”

  We walked down the dirt road toward the boat launch, where a grassy area with a couple of picnic tables stood off to the side. Several people from other boats and a few from Dockside saw us and followed. We squared off on opposite sides of the small grassy area and went through our own stretching exercises. I watched him closely as he stretched. Taekwondo, literally translated, means ‘the way of the foot and the hand’. I’d studied it as a teenager, achieving brown belt status and expanded on what I’d learned in the Marine Corps LINE training.

  Dan did a lot of leg and back stretches. He was a kicker. LINE training has but one goal. To kill your opponent, using various kicks, hand strikes and holds from many different forms of martial arts, including Taekwondo. My favorites were Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and the Israeli combat fighting technique known as Krav Maga, which, in itself, is a combination of many disciplines and known to be extremely efficient and brutal.

  While watching Dan, I did various stretches designed to loosen many muscle groups at once, never giving away any secrets as to what my style or method might be. When we were ready we met in the center of the small field and bowed to one another. By now, a good dozen people had gathered around, mostly sitting on the picnic tables.

  Dan was loose and quick on his feet. I assumed a modified boxers pose, crouched slightly lower. He started with a series of two quick whip kicks with his right leg, aimed at my head, which brought a cheer from the onlookers. I easily blocked the first and deflected the second. He followed that with a spinning left backhanded fist strike, which I expected and ducked under.
As his fist flew over my head, I spun quickly on the ball of my left foot and left hand, snaking my right leg out and catching him, not too hard, on the back of his planted right knee. It was hard enough though. His knee crumpled and as he stumbled forward, I rolled in front of him, swinging my legs up to scissor his head and snapped to my right, bringing him rolling to the ground on his back. I did a quick snap kick with my right heel, stopping it only a fraction of an inch from his throat, before rolling out and jumping to my feet.

  He was up a second later. “You move a lot faster than I would have expected of a guy your size. What was that take down?”

  “A form of Krav Maga, Israeli contact combat fighting.”

  We continued sparring for another ten minutes, each of us picking up a little more on the other’s techniques and each landing focus kicks and punches that, had they connected, would have been knock out blows. He was good, better than I thought. When we finished, the crowd cheered us both as we bowed again then turned and bowed to the crowd, very theatrically.

  “Yours is a little more than taekwondo,” I said, as we walked back up the dirt road, both sweating and breathing hard in the crisp morning air. “You started showing a little Muay Thai technique there at the end, it seemed like.”

  “But you caught it,” he said, “and countered very effectively. How many disciplines do they teach in that LINE training?”

  “It varies between instructors, but the basics combine the best incapacitating techniques from boxing, Judo, Okinawan Karate, Taekwondo, Kung Fu, and Jiu-Jitsu, to name a few. I worked with the IDF, the Israeli Defense Force, for a few months in ‘95 and picked up some of their Krav Maga techniques.”