Backwater Pass

by Steven Becker

  “We never got a warrant for his offices,” Justine pointed out.

  “I’d say shots fired is a good enough excuse.”

  She headed toward the office and I walked to the excavator.

  The keys were in it and a few minutes later I had several scoops of green-tinged mud on the bank. The digging was easy, but had yielded no results. Looking at the growing pile of muck, I wondered if the consistency were similar to quicksand and the weight of the cylinders had taken them deep into the pit.

  I relocated several feet away in order to spread the excavations out. The growing pile would only entrap the evidence. Scoop after scoop came out of the pit and I started getting frustrated. I took a break to look around and noticed that the site was indeed swarming with police, both in and out of uniform. With this many people in on it, it would no longer be a secret and I expected the media any second. Turning back to the controls, I started to lower the bucket when I noticed Justine coming from the office. From the look on her face, I could tell she had been more successful than I was.

  “GPS got him!” she called out.

  I stopped digging and turned to her.

  “All the company vehicles have trackers—his truck included. I guess it’s to keep track of employees and to write off the miles. When I checked his truck, he was within a quarter mile of the bridge when it collapsed.” She grinned again.

  I thought it might be enough, but we still needed the cylinders and I turned my attention back to the pit. Digging with renewed energy, I placed scoop after scoop on the bank with still nothing to show for it. I paused for a second, thinking, and studied the bright green water, wondering what I was missing.

  Looking down at the machine, I saw what looked like a water line a few feet out of the water. It appeared I had misjudged the contours of the excavation and been too tentative. Now, assured by the mark that I was not going to sink, I eased the machine into the lake. Glancing around I saw I had an audience, probably betting when the lake would swallow me and rid the Miami-Dade police of my presence. Ignoring them, I continued forward until the water lapped against the top of the treads just inches away from the mark.

  I started digging again, but I was far enough into the lake that I had to retreat several feet before I could deposit the muck onto solid ground. It was starting to get dark now and I guessed I had less than a half-hour before we would either need to postpone or bring in lights. Taking what I thought would be the last scoop, I moved the machine back to solid ground, swung the bucket to the side, and dumped its contents. As the muck slumped off, I could see the last of the sun reveal the stainless steel cylinders.

  28

  We were anchored in twelve feet of water, just inside and to the north of the new reef site. I had entered the numbers of several of the sites we had scouted into the chart plotter and a blue icon displayed our location. While Allie prepared to roll over the gunwale I glanced over at the site of the new reef.

  With the mooring buoys long gone and the coordinates not yet released to the public, the water above the site was empty. Besides the short amount of time the reef would have had to attract marine life, it was in the Lobster Sanctuary and off-limits to what I guessed to be a hundred boats dotting the horizon.

  Allie was first in the water. Justine and I looked, bleary-eyed, over the side and followed her in. The embrace of the water woke me, and I floated down to join my daughter, watching her as she worked her way around the large coral heads.

  Martinez had never changed my assignment, so I figured I deserved a little easy overtime. Between catching Brockmore and the new reef in the park this had been a banner week for him. Even Susan had gotten some love.

  Allie frantically waved her tickle stick in my direction and I finned over to her. Before helping her, I looked over to where Justine was and saw a large burst of bubbles from an adjacent coral head. She must have found some herself.

  Turning back to Allie, I released air from my BC and slowly lowered myself to the sand to get a better look at what Allie was so excited about. When the silt settled, I could see at least a dozen antenna protruding from a small ledge. Some of these openings ran deep into the coral structure, allowing the lobster easy refuge. If this one was shallow, we would have our limit on one dive.

  The mesh bag attached to my BC hung up on a chunk of coral when I tried to unclip it, causing another minute to pass before the silt settled. When it did, the lobsters were still there. I nodded to Allie that I was ready and watched as she slowly reached the two-foot long rod in behind the lobster. With their strength in their tails, Lobsters swim backward. They needed a little nudge to make them feel like their backs were up against a wall, causing them to walk forward.

  It was not as easy as it sounded, especially for two novices. The crustacean’s instincts would have it kick backward. The tickle stick had to be perfectly deployed for each one to walk forward into the waiting net in Allie’s hand. The first lobster reacted to the stick and there was a commotion below the ledge. It appeared we were lucky. If the ledge had led to a deep hole, they would be gone. Instead, when the sand settled, the antennas shyly started to feel the water outside the ledge.

  I motioned for Allie to wait until they got comfortable and now, with a little experience, she was able to coax one out. Just as its tail became exposed she slid the net over it and looked over at me with a huge smile. We were only halfway there, and she had done her part. Now it was my turn. Reaching my gloved hand over the net, I grabbed the panicked lobster by the body, surprised at its strength when it tried to escape, and worked the net into the bag. Once inside, I released my hand and helped the lobster untangle itself from the net. It kicked down and I was able to retrieve the net and close the hoops that held the bag shut.

  Our celebration was short-lived. Now that she had some experience, Allie was back at the ledge ready for more. One at a time, we picked off eight of what I guessed were a dozen. Several were too small and had to be released, but we left the ledge with six.

  Justine was about fifty feet away, working another area. We swam over to her and I could see the bugs already in her bag. While she dug the last lobster out, I checked my air gauge, surprised to see that it had sunk below 500 psi. Despite being in only a dozen feet of water, I had almost exhausted my supply. I caught Allie’s gauge suspended in the water and saw she had about the same. Justine would probably have more, but we had decided to stay a group. Once she had bagged the last lobster, we ascended to the surface.

  “That was so cool!” Allie had dumped the lobsters onto the deck and was putting them in the cooler.

  “Looks like twelve. Almost there,” Justine said.

  There is some instinct in us that makes it hard to stop the hunt, and I wanted to teach my daughter to resist it and learn to become a good steward of the environment and our resources.

  “We’ve got some good spots left. How about we save some for tomorrow and check out the new reef?”

  “Okay,” Allie said.

  I could tell she was disappointed, but hoped the bad dad attitude would be short-lived. After we had secured our catch and stowed the gear, Justine drove forward and I pulled the anchor. We changed places at the helm. I pressed down the throttle and spun the wheel in the direction of the new reef.

  Looking to the north and east I could see the line of boats sitting just outside of the park boundaries. Marine biologists had studied the area and said that the sanctuary had been extremely effective in repopulating the park’s reefs. Not knowing exactly where the imaginary line was, the divers beyond the boundary hoped the bounty, would wander onto the adjacent reefs and into their nets.

  I zoomed in on the icon on the chart plotter that marked the reef, and slowed once I was close. Justine was already on the bow with the anchor in hand when I idled into the light breeze. When the boat was directly over the mark, I told her to throw the hook. With all the debris below, anchoring was easy and I expected one of us would have to do an additional drop to retrieve the hook before we lef
t. After paying out about a hundred feet of line, Justine tied off the rode and we started to gear up.

  I checked my watch and helped Allie onto the gunwale. She and Justine bailed backward into the water, surfaced, and gave the okay sign. We were in open water now, and diving to sixty feet we needed to be more organized. Having agreed to meet on the anchor line and descend together, they disappeared beneath the bow of the boat.

  I took a deep breath, picked up my phone and sent a quick text. Hitting send, I geared up and was quickly in the water. There was little current and I met Justine and Allie at the anchor line. We all nodded and descended together, using the line to guide us to the reef.

  Three days after we had set the first ball, the debris was already coated in green and small fish swam in and out of the openings. Because the bridge portions had already been rubble, the explosions had done little noticeable damage except for maybe collapsing a few of the larger openings. We swam around the perimeter, surprised to see a Goliath grouper had already taken residence. I expected in another week the reef would be teeming with life.

  I checked my watch and air, waiting in quiet anticipation for the sound of a boat that should be here any minute. As if on cue, ten minutes later I heard the sound of the engines approach and then stop. An anchor dropped into the sand outside the debris line and I looked over at Justine and Allie. We were forty-five minutes into our dive and it was time to surface.

  Slowly, careful to ascend slower than our bubbles, we started toward the surface. I took the lead but a minute later caught a look from Justine. She pointed at the other hull just visible on the surface, indicating that I was going to the wrong boat. I ignored her and kicked hard in the direction of the larger boat, careful to stay at the same depth.

  I could hear both Justine and Allie banging brass clips against their tanks to get my attention, but I continued toward the surface, hoping I would reach my destination before they could reach me.

  Just five feet below the dive ladder, I stopped and waited. Justine looked angry and Allie scared as I kicked once toward the surface, hoping those looks would change.

  We broke the surface together and I turned to them. Their looks had turned curious now. I swam between them, grabbed their hands, and swam backward a few feet so we could see the deck of the Interceptor.

  “Get the hell out!” Justine yelled.

  Allie looked confused.

  On deck, Johnny Wells and crew were in their dress uniforms and Mariposa and her husband were off to the side.

  “You good?” I asked Justine, then thinking I ought to say the words, asked her if she would marry me.

  “You betcha,” she said.

  Get the next book in the Kurt Hunter Mystery Series

  There is one word that brings out the worst in people: TREASURE.

  When special agent Kurt Hunter finds a boat adrift in the Biscayne National Park with the dead body of a famous treasure hunter aboard, the race is on to find his killer. Alliances shift and the bodies start to pile up as Kurt and Justine navigate the devious and dangerous world of treasure hunters to find the killer.

  From the iconic Intracoastal Waterway of Miami to the beauty of the Biscayne National Park, this new mystery from bestselling author, Steven Becker, reveals the good, the bad, and the ugly of South Florida.

  Get it now!

  About the Author

  Always looking for a new location or adventure to write about, Steven Becker can usually be found on or near the water. He splits his time between Tampa and the Florida Keys - paddling, sailing, diving, fishing or exploring.

  Find out more by visiting www.stevenbeckerauthor.com or contact me directly at

  booksbybecker@gmail.com.

  Get my starter library First Bite for Free!

  when you sign up for my newsletter

  http://eepurl.com/-obDj

  First Bite contains the first book in each of Steven Becker's series:

  Wood’s Reef

  Pirate

  Bonefish Blues

  By joining you will receive one or two emails a month about what I’m doing and special offers.

  Your contact information and privacy are important to me. I will not spam or share your email with anyone.

  Wood’s Reef

  "A riveting tale of intrigue and terrorism, Key West characters in their full glory! Fast paced and continually changing direction Mr Becker has me hooked on his skillful and adventurous tales from the Conch Republic!"

  Pirate

  "A gripping tale of pirate adventure off the coast of 19th Century Florida!"

  Bonefish Blues"I just couldn't put this book down. A great plot filled with action. Steven Becker brings each character to life, allowing the reader to become immersed in the plot."

  Get them now (http://eepurl.com/-obDj)

  Also By Steven Becker

  Kurt Hunter Mysteries

  Backwater Bay

  Backwater Channel

  Backwater Cove

  Backwater Key

  Backwater Pass (July 2018)

  Mac Travis Adventures

  Wood’s Relic

  Wood’s Reef

  Wood’s Wall

  Wood’s Wreck

  Wood’s Harbor

  Wood’s Reach

  Wood’s Revenge

  Wood’s Betrayal

  Tides of Fortune

  Pirate

  The Wreck of the Ten Sail

  Haitian Gold

  Will Service Adventure Thrillers

  Bonefish Blues

  Tuna Tango

  Dorado Duet

  Storm Series

  Storm Rising

  Storm Force