“Gotta do what ya gotta do.” He turned away and started back to his place.
Things were starting to come closer to home than I preferred, but investigations have a mind of their own. The thought passed through my head that if Ray knew the FWC was after him, he could have killed Hayward. I tried to discard the idea, but it lingered. A good detective allowed investigations to run their course without inflicting personal bias. I knew I had to be careful how I proceeded.
As Ray called to Zero, who had been hovering nearby me, I waited until the screen door slammed behind them before turning the main breaker back on and heading up the stairs to my house.
With the storm gone, the living room didn’t feel quite so stifling. I knew another beer would be one too many to let me get anything accomplished, so I settled for water and started mulling over the events of the last few hours. It seemed my friends had turned into suspects, and my suspects into friends.
Living on a small island, there’s a magnetic force that has you constantly checking the weather and, after refilling my glass, I took it outside onto the screened porch and looked out at the bay. The water was flat calm, showing no indication of the violence that had just passed. The sun had broken through the clouds and hovered about four fingers over the horizon. For all the turbulence that preceded it, the sunset was sure to be memorable.
Law enforcement has a way of creeping under your skin and occupying your mind, even when off duty. To forget, some use alcohol; others, like Justine, use exercise to clear their minds. Fishing had always been meditative for me and, with an hour of daylight remaining, I grabbed my fly rod and went downstairs in the hope that tossing a few flies would get the gears in my head moving. Still curious about what Scott had been doing earlier, I hopped aboard my center console, started the engine, released the lines, and pushed off the dock.
I reached a comfortable cruising speed and started running a few degrees north of west to avoid West Arsenicker Key, I soon found myself smiling. The wind-whipped waves were gone, but there was still a sizable swell from the storm. Because a single rogue wave or debris in the water can ruin your day, running a boat at speed mimics many of the elements of a flow experience. That minuscule chance of life-threatening danger adds to the rush of flying over the waves. I let my mind go free as I focused on the water ahead of me. Justine had been helping me learn downwind surfing on a paddleboard, and I found the same techniques applied to even out the ride in a motorboat. The important thing wasn’t what was behind you, but rather what lay ahead. Avoiding the steep backs of the swells and staying on top of the waves gave a comfortable and efficient ride.
Before I realized it I was between the water access to the Turkey Point power plant, and Pelican Banks, a shallow shoal. With one eye on the chartplotter and the other on the water, I rounded Mangrove Point, and entered Midnight Pass. Dropping power, I allowed the boat to coast to a stop while I assembled the rod and reel. Chico had mentioned the tarpon were running through the channel and I meant to have a go at one. Checking the leader and tippet, I tied on a Clouser minnow and waited to see how the current affected my drift.
The boat moved quickly to the south and straight through the pass. Repositioning at the top of the channel, I cut the engine and moved to the bow, where I stripped about a hundred feet of line onto the deck and started false casting. Presenting the fly close to the mangrove-lined bank as the boat drifted again through the pass, I felt several small tugs, probably from pinfish. Pulling the fly from the last one, I stripped off another two pulls and snatched the line from the water starting the process over again. Once the inertia from several false casts had all the line in the air, I turned and faced the shoreline, pointing the rod tip in the direction of a depression in the mangroves.
The fly landed inches from the roots and disappeared. Stripping in a dozen feet to draw out whatever might be lurking in the mangroves, I braced myself for a hit and wasn’t disappointed when a fish inhaled the fly. Instantly the line came tight, the excess line sliding through my fingers. With only seconds before it reached the protection of the mangroves, I clamped my finger on the line and started reeling. Seconds later, a wake appeared, and the distinctive dorsal fin of a tarpon broke the water. Once the slack was on the reel, I was able to properly fight the fish.
The next few seconds were touch and go. I’d have to turn his head in order to pull the tarpon clear of the network of roots beneath the mangroves without breaking him off. With that much strain on the tippet and leader, there was a good chance of losing him, but if he reached cover he would be gone
12
The twelve-weight rod bent double and I could feel the line stretch as I tried to turn him. It was early in the fight to attempt this kind of control on a large fish, but this close to the mangroves I had no choice. His head shook in a violent effort to free the hook. I used the few seconds of the tarpon’s indecision and, with my finger on the line to secure it, swung the rod tip to the side. He started to pull, but I reeled in the slack and gave the rod another hard tug again. Suddenly I felt the tension release, and thought I had lost him, but a second later the wake appeared, this time moving away from the mangroves. With that obstacle cleared, I let him take line, giving myself a few seconds to catch my breath and also hopefully to tire the fish.
He was heading straight down the channel, trying to reach deeper water. Many tarpon fishermen anchor their boats and use buoys attached to their anchor lines to allow them to leave the hook and chase the fish. Drift fishing, I had the advantage of being able to follow the tarpon as it ran. Line poured from the rod as the fish tried to escape. Slowly, I tightened the drag enough to restrain the fish but not break the line. I felt the power of the fish as the bow of the boat turned and the tarpon pulled the boat forward.
A narrow opening in the mangroves appeared on my left, one I had never noticed before. The connection with nature was one of the things I liked about fishing. The focus provided by the hunt opened my eyes to things I would not have normally seen. The waning light gave no clue of the water depth, but I was determined to subdue my prey. The big three for fly fishermen are bonefish, permit, and tarpon. I had brought all but a tarpon to the boat and I wasn’t planning on losing this one, but grounding my boat wasn’t an option, either.
A hundred-pound fish doesn’t tire easily, and with the current assisting him, the tarpon towed the boat toward the opening. There was no time to check the depth on the chartplotter or to find a satellite view on my phone. I had to make a decision now.
Standing in the bow, unable to see the electronics, I had nothing but my senses and accumulated knowledge to work with. Color was the best indicator of water depth: The old saying “brown, brown, run aground” is one of the first lessons that boaters in these waters learn. In the low light the water had turned black, but there appeared to be a good flow coming from the channel, a sign that there was a fair amount of water ahead.
Checking the drag every few seconds I let the fish pull me into the channel. Seeing several bends ahead, I was able to tighten the drag and retrieve some line. Suddenly the pull increased and I saw the water break as the fish leapt. Six feet of silver scales flashed as I leaned forward, bowing to the silver king, and allowing the fish some slack. My heart jumped into my throat as the line stretched to its breaking point. Time stopped as the tarpon reached the apex. In what seemed like slow motion, the fish re-entered the water and bolted for a small lagoon.
Finally, with enough water around me, I started to fight the fish. After pulling the boat through the channel the tarpon should have been exhausted, but several jumps in succession told me otherwise. The effort did take a toll, and I was able to gain line.
One more run as the boat drew closer did him in. As tired as the fish, I leaned against the gunwales grasping his upper lip between my fingers. I removed the hook and aligned his body with the current. At first he stayed still, but after a few seconds his tail fin started to twitch as the water running through his gills resuscitated him. When I felt
a tug it was time. Gently, I released my grip, and watched my first tarpon swim away.
With my back to the leaning post, I drew several deep breaths, trying to bring my heart rate back to normal. As I relaxed, I looked around. It was almost dark; I’d been so focused on the fight I hadn’t noticed. Now, inside a body of water I didn’t know, I had a second of panic. Being on the water every day, I was attuned to the moon and tides, but that knowledge was of no use tonight. The sky was clear, but the moon wouldn’t rise for several hours and when it did, it would be just the thin sliver of a crescent.
Removing the spotlight from the console, I plugged it into the cigarette lighter outlet and shot the beam ahead. I had gotten used to boating at night on open water, but between the confines of the lagoon and having to navigate the winding channel to reach Midnight Pass, I faced a challenge. The narrow beam showed my way ahead, but a boat was not a car; there were no brakes. Trying to find the sweet spot where I had enough speed to maintain steerage, but not enough to do any damage if I hit something, I spun the wheel and turned toward where I remembered the channel being.
Ahead was a small opening and I steered toward it. Moving the light between the mangroves ahead and the water below to check the depth, I saw something submerged dead ahead. Moving closer, I dropped to an idle and focused the beam into the water. The dark metal framework was hard to see, but the lobsters inside were clearly visible. As I swung the light around, the pen was easier to see. I had found what Scott was up to earlier.
Though I suspected they would officially be worthless, I used my personal phone to take pictures. Through its backup to the cloud, Martinez had access to my business phone, and this evidence was not something I was ready for him to see—not yet. I took as many pictures as I could to document the find, until darkness seemed to shrink the small lagoon, and I brought the light up to find my way out. Several missteps later I emerged into Midnight Pass and then the open bay.
Faster than I would have liked, the euphoria from the fight was over. The difficulty of navigating the dark waters at night and what I just had found weighed heavily on my mind. Arriving back at Adams Key, I docked and secured the boat. Taking my fly rod to the house, I hosed it off and leaned it against the Column, then headed upstairs to sort things out.
Checking my phone to see if there were any messages and to have a look at the pictures, I saw several texts. The usual “SUP?” from Allie, and a longer one from Justine that warranted an immediate reply. It was her first “official” day back after the murder, and in the course of processing the evidence she had found some information to share. I felt like a live wire stuck out here, my mind and body cranked up from the storm, Scott’s visit, fighting the tarpon, and finding the lobster pen. I knew sleep was far off and texted Justine back, asking her if she was alright with me staying in Miami tonight.
The emojis said it all: clapping hands and a big smiley face. They did come with the condition that we would paddle together in the morning. Tossing a few things in my backpack, I locked up the house and went down to the boat. Thankfully Zero either didn’t care or missed my exit, and I was soon motoring across the bay.
Looking like a delicate bowl holding the stars, the crescent moon cast just enough light to reveal the small waves. The swell from the storm had passed and the boat skipped across the water. My smile was back, if for nothing else than being able to see Justine.
Reaching headquarters, I checked that all the FWC boats were accounted for, then pulled into my slip and secured the center console. The tarpon had distracted me, but as I drove hunger started to envelop me. It had been a long time since my last meal and I pulled in to a grocery store where I bought bacon, eggs, and some other staples, figuring I would cook breakfast when Justine got home.
I realized I was exhausted too after I put the groceries away, and figured I would crash for a minute on the couch. My breakfast plan turned awry some time later, when I felt another body on top of mine. Through bleary eyes, I gazed at Justine’s face directly above mine. Her body had me pinned and she apparently had other plans before breakfast. There was no fight from me—we would eat later.
I have to admit to falling asleep again and the faint glow of the predawn sky was breaking through the darkness when I finally woke.
“Breakfast?” I asked her.
“You bet. Worked up a bit of an appetite last night. Got some pent-up aggression there?” She punched my arm.
I swung my body and set my feet on the floor. “Lemme get some food going and I’ll tell you the sordid details. You have some information, too?” I made a motion to lay back down, but was stopped by a pillow swung at my head.
“Daylight’s burning. I want to get in a paddle before work.”
I envied the simplicity of Justine’s schedule: rise early, eat, paddle, eat, nap, work. Avoiding the pillow, I made my way to the bathroom, cleaned up, and moved on to breakfast. Standing at the stove, eggs and bacon to cook, I felt hands around my waist and the warmth of Justine’s body against mine. I hated to kill the moment with work talk, but as she said, daylight was burning.
I explained what had happened yesterday.
“Ray? Really? But he’s one of the good guys.”
I knew what she meant. Without Ray’s vigilance and work ethic the outer islands of the park, including the two campgrounds, would fall into disrepair. Sun, salt, rain, and heat didn’t abide by schedules. The elements did everything in their power to thwart man’s intrusion into the wilderness. I knew firsthand that Ray worked more than he reported, doing things when he knew they needed to be done, before nature had her way. Today, for example, I would bet he was already checking the campgrounds for damage from the storms.
“I guess you can be good and still break the law,” I said.
“If that prick Martinez would pay you guys what you’re worth, he wouldn’t need to.”
I hated to defend Martinez. His priorities were often questionable, but he did what every good government administrator did and spent his entire budget—needed or not—every year so as not to lose it the next. Unfortunately, our pay was above his own paygrade.
“What about your news?” I changed the subject.
“Right.” She went back to the bedroom and returned with her phone. After a few swipes she handed it to me. “Scroll through them. Vibrio at its finest.”
The Latin was my first clue; otherwise, I would have no idea what the tubular images in the pictures were. Thankfully, she embellished.
“Sid called and sent them over. Bacteria abide by their own rules and keep growing after the death of the victim. They’re the culprits responsible for decomposition.”
“From the wound?” I asked.
“Yup. It’s called Vibrio vulnificus.” The words rolled off her tongue without pause.
“Let me guess. From handling lobster?”
“Bingo, kemosabe. Not sure how he got it, though.”
I had some idea. The process of detaching the tail from the body of the lobster is done by twisting them apart by hand. Even wearing gloves, on our best days when we harvested eight or so, I often ended up with puncture wounds from the sharp extrusions in the shell. Hence the name: spiny lobster. If my calculations were correct, Hayward was handling fifty or more bugs a day. Any one of them could have infected him. The question now was: What did this have to do with solving the case?
As usual, Justine provided the answer: “Any other guilty parties will have it, too.”
13
Before I could decide what to do with the information, my phone rang. It was about Martinez time and, with his multitude of tracking devices, I had to assume he knew where I was. Instead, after glancing at the phone, I saw it was Susan McLeash. Usually there’d have to be ice on the bay-waters before I’d want to talk to her, and I risked a quick glance at the weather screen before answering. Partly cloudy and eighty-eight degrees was the forecast, but I went ahead and accepted the call—this time I needed her.
“Well, good morning, sunshine,”
she started.
I might have wanted to talk to her, that didn’t mean I had to like it.
“Susan.”
There was a long pause while she figured out I wasn’t rising to the bait.
“Hunter. I’ve made some progress with my assignment. If you’re going to be down in this neck of the woods, maybe you could stop by and we can review.”
It was all I could do to act civil after she referenced where I was. I’d gone as far as to buy a personal phone after Martinez’s constant invasions of my privacy. Apparently having an adjacent office to Martinez was a good enough reason to share my location.
“Right. Should be down in an hour or so.”
“Traffic depending.” She laughed, and disconnected.
“Crap,” I said, staring at the screen.
“Sounds like that was our girl?”
“The one and only. I’ve got to get going. Maybe this time she might have done something helpful. Thanks for the info on the bacteria.” I wasn’t sure how I was going to use it yet. Evidence from investigations tended to be random strands of information. You never knew which was going to be the one that solved the mystery.
It appeared that Susan was savvy to my route as well as my location. Her laugh made sense as red brake lights greeted me as I crept toward the merge on 836. A long thirty minutes later I had covered the five miles to the turnpike, where, driving opposite of the rush-hour flow, it became a speed-limit ride. Sitting in traffic, I had found it impossible to think, but once I started moving, so did my brain.
I had two assumptions I needed to confirm: Hayward was dirty, and Scott was clean. From our conversation and what seemed to be Scott’s attempt to reintegrate the short lobsters back into the bay, he might even have been in the ultra-clean category. These types tended to be activists, so passionate about their fight they would often cross lines of legality. I was rooting against it, but it kept Scott near the top of my suspect list.
Backwater Flats Page 8