Wood's Revenge

by Steven Becker

  “What about the documentation numbers?” she asked. “If we know who the boat belongs to, maybe we can figure out who this is.”

  Mac looked again. He didn’t see the required three-inch numbers, but did see the metal manufacturer’s tag. Using the camera’s phone, he snapped a picture, adding another item on his list of pros for the device. “Here,” he said, handing her the phone and climbing over the side.

  They stood together on the beach staring at the boat. “We need to call the sheriff,” Mel said again.

  “Can we think about this for a minute? He’s not getting any deader,” Mac said, rubbing his head.

  “This has Trufante’s fingerprints all over it,” Mel said. “We need to call it in and wash our hands of it.”

  He knew she was right, but he was curious. The freshness of the wreck, the lack of registration, and now the body. The deputy had been clear that he was just looking for a missing boat. That could make the man aboard the thief, but then who locked him in the cabin?

  “Mac?” she said when he didn’t respond, and brought the phone to her ear.

  “Wait, Mel. Just a minute.” He went back to the boat and grabbed the case. “Something weird’s going on here. First the fish kill, then the body, and here.” He handed her the case. “I’m not even sure whose jurisdiction this is in. The wreck was in federal waters.” In truth, the last thing he wanted was the sheriff out here. He and the new man had gotten off to a bad start, and he doubted a personal visit would go well.

  She sat on a stump with the case on her lap. “It’s a cell phone,” she said, opening the cover of the waterproof case.

  “No way it works after being in the water,” he said.

  “This is a pretty rugged setup,” she said, pressing the power button.

  The phone gave him an idea. “I’m going to see if I can start the electronics. See if there is a track on the GPS that shows where the boat has been.” She didn’t look up.

  Her head was still down, fingers flying over the keyboard. A swarm of black flies greeted him when he moved to the console. He and Mel were not the only ones to discover the body. The smell soon reached him and he stepped back. “We have to do something with the body.”

  “We?” Mel asked. “I’m calling someone right now. It’s a murder, Mac.”

  “It’ll be the same body if it’s just floating around, and we can still call it in. This is bigger than one dead man. If we turn it over to the sheriff, it’ll end there,” Mac said.

  Mel stared at the screen for a minute. “Don’t you watch CSI—crime scene?” She paused. “This is interesting.”

  “Is that good interesting or bad interesting?” Mac asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I think whoever this is worked for the National Science Foundation,” she said.

  “Who would kill a scientist?” Mac asked, but he already knew the answer.

  “What did you say about a fish kill?”

  “Trufante and one of his no-good buddies were out there netting. Apparently that king tide and storm pushed the leading edge of the red tide fish down here. They thought it would be easy pickings,” Mac explained.

  “That idiot’s selling diseased fish now?” Mel looked up.

  Mac just shrugged. The breeze kicked up, pushing the smell toward them. “We need to make a decision.”

  Mel was quiet, but Mac could tell from the look on her face that her brain was working in overdrive. “You’re right. If we give the crime scene to the sheriff, he’ll do everything he can to bury it. The last thing his campaign needs is an ecological disaster in his backyard.” She paused. “We’ll tell him we were out fishing and saw if floating.”

  “And then?” Mac asked.

  “Then we figure this out. If someone or something wants a scientist dead, I’m interested,” Mel said. “Could be the Feds are already involved, and in a bad way.”

  Mac saw the light in her eyes that had been missing for the last few weeks. She had been looking for a cause, and now it seemed she had found one. “Let me use your phone. I’ll make the call.”

  She handed him the phone and watched while he started to dial. “Wait. We need to get out where we ‘found’ the body. If they have any kind of technology, they can track the call to here.”

  “I’ll get a tarp, and we probably need to wear gloves, too,” Mac said, leaving the beach.

  “I’m going to hang onto this,” she said, sticking the dead man’s phone in her pocket.

  They changed into clothes that they would later burn and grabbed lobstering gloves, as they were the only ones available. Back on the beach, Mac looked at the two boats bobbing in the light chop and chose the center-console. There was no way he was going to endanger the trawler if this went badly.

  Taking an old painter’s tarp, he spread it on the deck and rolled the body onto it. Mel came aboard, and they tucked the ends in, making what looked like a large burrito. It took both of them to get the dead weight over the side of the beached boat and onto the center-console. Once it was loaded, they hopped off, stripped, and tossed their clothes onto the smoldering fire. After changing again, they pushed the boat back into the water.

  “Where are we going?” Mel yelled over the engine.

  “Coconut Key,” Mac said. “I’ll go in the backside. We’ll tell them we were drifting the channel by East Bahia Honda and saw something in the water.”

  Mel grabbed the stainless steel tower as Mac brought the boat up on plane. They were silent; the roar of the engine and their own thoughts about what they were about to do kept conversation to a minimum. Ten minutes later, Mac slowed and idled toward the mangrove-covered key. He checked the current and adjusted their position so the drift would put the boat where he wanted it. They both went forward to the body.

  “Is this the right thing to do?” Mel asked.

  “Too late now. We’ve already messed up whatever crime scene there was,” Mac said, grabbing one end of the burrito. Mel grabbed the other and they rolled the body overboard, each holding the end of the tarp. Mac said a silent prayer, stowed the drop cloth, and went to the VHF radio. After the dispatcher told them to stay put, he idled about a hundred feet away from the body and dropped anchor.

  What felt like an hour was probably only twenty minutes. Finally, they heard an outboard coming toward them. The sheriff’s boat, lights flashing, came down off plane and idled over. Mac immediately grimaced.

  “Afternoon, Travis,” the deputy said. “Interesting seeing you out here.”

  Mac tried to keep a stone face. “We were just fishing,” he said.

  “Between you and Trufante, it’s always something. Gotta tell you, it’s a bit suspicious, after seeing you yesterday, that you come across a floater today.”

  Mac shrugged. “You want us to stick around or what?”

  “At least till the coroner gets here. Can I trust you to come by and make a statement, or do I have to haul you in?” His attitude changed when he saw Mel come around the console.

  “We’ll be by later today,” Mel said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “All right, Ms. Woodson. I’d trust your word.”

  Two other boats approached and the deputy went for his radio, giving instructions. Within minutes Mac and Mel were all but forgotten as everyone watched the coroner wade out and check the body. He finished his initial exam and called for a backboard. The body was quickly loaded onto the deputy’s boat.

  “Today, Travis,” the deputy yelled across as he pressed down on the throttle and followed the two other boats toward Marathon.

  6

  “First we see what’s on the cell phone. Then we decide how and when we give a statement,” Mel said.

  There was no point in fighting her once her lawyer brain kicked in, not that he had any plans of facing the sheriff right away. And there was always the concept of “Keys time” he could fall back on. Things rarely stayed on schedule here. “I’d like to have another look at the boat too,” Mac said, spinning the wheel to starboard. The weathe
r had settled, and the southeast wind was back. The swells brought in from the Atlantic were blocked by the mainland, leaving the Gulf-side waters calm. He focused on the islands in the distance and adjusted course slightly to port. As the boat skipped easily over the light chop, he thought about what they had found. The recovered boat was in good condition, the engines would take some work, and the electronics were probably ruined, but there was no major damage he had found on his initial look. This led him to the obvious question of how the boat sank, and then who killed the man they had found. His initial thought was that the murderer shoved the body in the console and pulled the drain plug.

  The insurance company would pay for the boat as is, but a few days’ work, especially if he could get the engines started, would more than double the payday. He also wanted the boat out of sight if the deputy got impatient and came for a visit. The western side of the island would be the best place to stash the boat. It was less accessible and visited only occasionally by flats fishermen seeking bonefish or permit in the skinny water. Mel could help him move the boat, but to repair the engines he would need help, and he wondered what she would say if Trufante showed up. The Cajun was trouble. But good help, especially mechanics, were hard to find here. Mac chose the devil he knew over the one he didn’t—especially when it came to having strangers to the island.

  “Salvage on that boat’s going to be high, especially if I can get the engines running,” he said over the whine of the motor, hoping to break the ice. He glanced over at her, knowing the look on her face, and dropped it. She was either off in her own thoughts, or knew where he was going with this. Having a lawyer for a girlfriend had its perks, but also its pitfalls.

  The island came into view and he steered toward the unmarked channel leading to the beach. In typical backcountry Keys style, Wood had placed a single pile near the beach, short enough to be almost underwater at high tide, and a small stick marking a rock pile just on the outside of the channel. Both were clearly visible in the current low tide, but there were no shapes or colors showing which side was safe and which would ground you. The Keys were littered with these kinds of markers, which often caused more trouble than they prevented when tourists misread them and grounded. Only insider knowledge or a very careful study, in the right light, would show where the channel was. He slowed and then stopped, letting the wind push the smaller boat against the port side of the trawler.

  Mel helped secure the boats and headed back to the house. Thankfully, it had been sunny today, allowing the solar system to fully charge the battery bank that powered the island. As long as the power lasted, she would be content working on the cell phone and her laptop. He waded to the beach and started inspecting the boat, noticing things he had not seen in his quick survey earlier.

  Starting at the bow, he went slowly over each section of the hull. The low tide, although not as radical as it had been a few days ago, was still lower than normal, and the boat was high and dry, allowing him to see well below the waterline. The gelcoat was largely pristine, indicating that the boat was either new, or the operator was skilled. The highly polished outer layer of fiberglass often held clues, but in this case there were only a few scratches just below the rub rail, which were pretty common and probably came from brushing against a dock. He moved around the hull, rubbing his hands over it as if it would tell its story. There were no registration numbers, no name or hailing port on the boat. Mel had mentioned the man worked for the National Science Foundation, and so far, that fit what he saw. Finally he reached the transom and saw the drain plug missing confirming what he had guessed.

  Next he climbed aboard and, starting at the bow, carefully checked every compartment. The anchor and ground tackle were more than adequate for the size of the boat and appeared to be well used. The other forward compartments were empty, their hasps all open, allowing whatever had been in them to be taken by the sea. He moved back to the helm and checked the electronics, doubting they would work. The small rubber cover that protected the slot where a memory card could be inserted was still in place and, to his surprise when he opened it, a card was there. Whoever had killed the man and scuttled the boat was not very thorough. He pushed it with his index finger and it popped out enough for him to retrieve it. Secure in his pocket, he continued.

  Behind the bench seat was a live well. The top was open and the drain plug in place, indicating that it had possibly been in use at the time of the accident. Glancing under the gunwales, there were no fishing rods, but they could have floated out when the boat sank. Finally, after studying the deck and gunwales, it was the lack of blood stains that told him it had not been used for its intended purpose as a fishing boat. Even the most meticulous owners had a hard time removing all traces of fish blood.

  There were two built-in fish boxes in the rear deck—both closed. On his knees, he opened the port side one. It was empty, and he moved to the starboard. Two fish floated on the surface of the water trapped inside the insulated compartment. One a redfish, the other a snook, both unusual in these waters this time of year.

  A quick examination of the fish found nothing overtly wrong with them. Setting them aside, he continued to check the storage compartment built into the transom. They held nothing but dock lines and a quart of oil.

  Back in the console, he checked again for any numbers indicating registration and, after moving the life jackets, saw only the same tag as before.

  There was nothing else inside. He grabbed the two fish, slung his leg over the side and headed toward the house. After carefully wrapping the fish in a double plastic bag, he set them in the chest freezer by the shed and went upstairs.

  Mel looked up from the computer screen when he entered, a perplexed look on her face. He ignored her and went to the kitchen, where he grabbed a beer.

  “I’m working on the registration. A real internet connection would help,” she said. “I’m stuck using the god-awful reception on my cell phone for a hot spot. I could do better with a tin hat.”

  He didn’t take the bait—he liked it that way.

  Philip Dusharde sat in a comfortable chair on the painted deck, staring at the gingerbread detailing made to look like it was holding up the wrapped beams supporting the roof. The deck was on the second story of a house built above drained swampland, now landscaped to look like a golf course. The house always made him happy, unfortunately, the location was far from optimal. Twin fans installed in the beadboard ceiling cooled him, as did the drink in his hand. He ignored the condensation dripping from the glass onto his pressed chinos and waited for the stuttering, accented voice of the man on the phone to finish.

  “Your funds have been wired,” he said, taking a sip of the old-fashioned. “In fact, I added a small bonus.”

  “That is not why I am calling,” the man said.

  “Then what, pray tell, is this call for?” Dusharde asked, starting to get annoyed. The Cuban was leaving a bad taste in his mouth, ruining the comfortable feeling the house gave him and reminding him where he was—Clewiston—the agricultural hub of the sugar industry, located on the south shore of Lake Okeechobee. Forced by both his business and political interests to maintain residence in Hendry County, he had built his forty-acre compound to transport him to where he would have rather been—anywhere with “beach” after the name. But business dictated he would live here and the eighty-foot yacht he kept in Miami would have to do when he needed to escape.

  The man paused, as if scared to speak.

  “Go on,” Philip urged.

  “The scientist and his boat are gone,” he stuttered.

  “Yes, I am aware of that,” Philip said. The man had messaged him with pictures of both the dead scientist and then the sinking boat. He had an urge to check them again, but they were deleted from his phone.

  “When I was leaving, I saw a boat pull up in the area,” the man said.

  “Did they see you?” Philip sat up straighter and put his drink down on a coaster to protect the table.

  “I can’t be s
ure. I ran far enough to be out of sight and turned on the radar. From what I saw, they stayed in the area for a couple of hours.”

  “Maybe they’re just fishermen. That is what those people do down there.”

  The man seemed more relaxed talking about his home. “There’s no reason to go that far. And sitting there for that long, it doesn’t make sense. It’s seagrass, not good bottom for fishing.”

  “I think you’re worrying over nothing,” Dusharde said to set the man at ease, but not really knowing what he was talking about. “I do appreciate you bringing your concerns to my attention.” Philip dismissed him with these words. He had been angry that the man had called, but he had done the right thing—at least for Dusharde Sugar.

  Philip picked up his drink and slowly drained it as he looked at the phone on the table. The first thing he did was delete the man’s contact information, then checked the photo app and text messages for any trail. Tomorrow he would have the phone destroyed and get a new one. He had been warned about the cloud, and although he didn’t understand it, he had people to take care of anything that went there.

  He set the glass back down and dialed a number from memory. A woman answered on the second ring. “We have a problem,” he told her, and went on to describe the conversation he had just had.

  “I’ll handle it,” said a voice that sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. The Southern accent was the only thing that made her tone remotely bearable.