Wood's Revenge

by Steven Becker

  After examining them she looked up. “I worked up at the Mote Marine Lab in Sarasota during a red tide. This looks just like what I saw from those fish.”

  “I’ve never heard of red tide reaching this far south,” Mac said.

  “Ever hear of Friends of the Everglades?” she asked.

  Mel answered, “Big Sugar.”

  “What do these fish have to do with sugar?” Mac asked.

  Before she could answer, they heard a crash and ran for the door. Outside, a group of people were gathered around one of the ambulances that had slammed into the large concrete base of a power pole and crashed at the base of the sign.

  “It’s Pamela,” Mel said.

  But Mac had already taken off. He ran toward the scene, pushing through the people gathered around. When he reached the driver’s side it was empty. Stepping back, he looked for Pamela.

  Mel joined Mac. “We gotta go before the police get here,” she said, tugging him away from the ambulance. “That deputy still wants to talk to us about the body, and this reeks of Trufante.”

  They slid through the crowd, making their way to the car. There was no getting through the parking lot with the crowd of people surrounding the wrecked ambulance. He backed up instead, hoping the rain-soaked grass would support the car. Slowly, he spun the wheel and started forward. The tires spun, kicking a stream of mud behind them, but the car inched forward enough for the treads to grab something solid and propel them onto the bike path. Several people yelled at him for cutting them off, and in the background he heard the first siren. Spinning the wheel toward the road, he jumped the curb and pulled onto the pavement. A quick glance in the rearview mirror showed several first responders behind him.

  He accelerated, heading toward the Seven Mile Bridge. The road was clear ahead, but across the way traffic was already starting to back up as rubberneckers slowed to check out the accident. Just as he started to relax, thinking that topping off the gas tank was not going to be enough payback, he heard a voice from the back seat.

  “Steal your face right off your head, Mac Travis. That was some escape,” Pamela said, leaning forward between them.

  He didn’t have to look across to Mel to see her eyes boring into him.

  Trufante took one last look at the dock. They were gone, and he breathed deeply. He turned the corner and headed for the channel.

  “So, that’s a fine automobile,” Trufante said to Jeff.

  “What the hell, Trufante. I got a hole in my leg, and you’re talking about cars?” Jeff grumbled.

  “Sure would like to take a ride in her,” Trufante said, revealing his thousand-dollar grin. “All we got to do is dump the fish and we’re good. What’s with the negativity?”

  “They got gators smarter than your dumb ass,” Jeff said, crawling toward the helm. He pulled himself up and tried to put weight on the leg. Wincing in pain, he fell back on the seat.

  “Before you get comfortable, think you could cut me loose?” Trufante asked, holding out his bound hands.

  Jeff slid over and took the wheel from him. “Help yourself.”

  Trufante moved to the gunwale, where a rusty fillet knife was set in a rod holder. He took the knife and in few seconds was free. Rubbing the abrasions on his wrists, he returned to the helm. “Where we takin’ ’em?”

  “Thought over to the bridge rubble. We can load the nets and sink them. Let ’em rot down there,” Jeff said.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Trufante said. “How ’bout one of those beers now?”

  “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said this week,” Jeff said, turning the wheel hard to port after clearing the last marker. He accelerated toward open water.

  Trufante reached into the cabin and pulled out the cooler. Placing it on the seat, he pulled the zipper and opened the lid. “Ain’t no beer in here, man.”

  Jeff looked over. “Shit.”

  Trufante knew what he was looking at. “I guess we’re supposed to go down with the fishes.”

  “Toss that shit overboard,” Jeff yelled.

  “Wait a minute. She ain’t gonna blow it yet. Gotta be cool here—too close in. She’d want us in the deep water past the reef.” Trufante poked a finger in the wiring. “Just gotta figure what triggers her.”

  “What the hell. You’re going to blow us up,” Jeff screamed.

  “Exactly,” Trufante said. “We gotta be dead to live.”

  Jeff looked at him. It took a minute for him to figure out what Trufante was talking about. “Not as dumb as you look.” He slowed the boat as they approached the reef. “How’s she going to know when to call it.”

  “Those two nimrods probably told her it would take us about forty-five minutes to get past the reef. I’d bet she waits an hour, just in case,” Trufante said, looking back at the net in the corner by the transom. “How deep are we?”

  “Just passing a hundred,” Jeff said.

  “A little deeper. We don’t want anyone looking for a wreck and not finding anything,” he said, reaching for the net. He laid it out on the deck and placed the cooler in the center. He wound the netting around the cooler, cinching it with the buoy line.

  “Two hundred fifty,” Jeff called out the sounding.

  “Slow down,” Trufante said, grabbing a dock line and attaching one end to the bundle. He tossed it over and tied off the line when it was twenty feet back.

  “Ain’t much of a safety margin,” Jeff said.

  “Let me know when we get to four hundred. Ain’t nobody diving that deep for us losers,” he said.

  A minute later, Jeff nodded to him and he released the line. “Best run a wide circle around her. I’ll start getting rid of the fish.”

  “No. We can still salvage something out of this and sell them,” Jeff said.

  “Haven’t you had enough of this?” Trufante said.

  “Got a guy in Key West that’ll take them. No point coming back to Marathon. We’re dead—remember.”

  Just as the words were out of his mouth, the bomb blew.

  10

  Jane looked at the plume of smoke to the south, then at the two brothers, laughing and slapping each other on the back. She would have been happy to be speeding north on US 1 and pulling into South Beach in time for a cocktail—but there were still loose ends.

  “Clean up this mess. Get rid of any trace of those fish and those two idiots,” she scolded them. “Then forget you ever saw me.”

  They moved away quickly, which did nothing to calm her down, almost preferring one of them to mouth off and give her an excuse to expel some of her pent-up anger. Murder at a distance was distasteful. In this case it was the best way, but that didn’t mean she liked it. She looked at Edgar, wondering how much satisfaction she could get from poking a hole through his fat stomach. The thinner one would be more challenging. Maybe a simple garrote. He talked too much anyway. She smiled thinking of the irony. Still, she was not satisfied.

  “Is there a boat here I can use?” she asked.

  “Couple of old ones and that hot rod over there,” Hector said, pointing past two run-down fishing boats.

  The reflection of the sun on the polished chrome was the first thing that caught her eye. She surveyed the twenty-foot boat, knowing it would be fast. “Whose is it?”

  “Owner of the place, Manuel,” Edgar said. “He’s particular about who even touches it.”

  “Never mind him. Where are the keys?” Her adrenaline was flowing just looking at it.

  “You sure? He can be a mean hombre,” Hector said.

  She stared him down. Yes, she was sure, needing it to verify that those two idiots had died properly and that the fish and the boat were gone. He came back a few minutes later with a key ring.

  “If anyone asks, tell them the Audi’s there for collateral,” she said, taking the keys and walking toward the boat.

  “You need any help? One of us to go with you?” Edgar asked.

  She really wanted to poke him, but restrained herself. “No, thanks. I g
ot this.” She had to sit on the dock to climb down into the boat because of its low freeboard. Once aboard, she settled into the bucket seat. Checking the gauges and controls, she couldn’t wait to get going and put the key in the ignition. At first it didn’t start and she saw the brothers coming toward her. Too proud to ask for help, especially from these two, she racked her brain for what could be wrong. The answer came and she looked back at the transom and saw the chrome plated carburetor cover. She went back toward the engine, lifted an access cover, and primed the fuel line. Back at the helm, she smiled at Hector and Edgar and turned the key. The roar of the engine and the vibration of the hull beneath her were like foreplay. She couldn’t wait to get out on the open water.

  Leaving the engine idling, she released the lines and expertly dealt with the wind and current, letting them assist her in pushing the boat away from the dock. Once clear, she pressed the throttle forward and the boat moved into the canal. She knew boats, but not this area, and took her time navigating out of the harbor. Once clear of the markers, she turned toward the plume of smoke and accelerated.

  Dancing across the small waves, the boat flew up on plane. Grinning, she looked down, scanning the gauges. The tachometer was still well below the redline. Slowly she increased power, watching the speedometer climb to fifty knots. At this speed, she needed to steer each wave as the lightweight hull bounced on the crests. If she misjudged one, it could flip the boat. Several times the propellor came out of the water as the boat became airborne, but that only made her smile. The bad taste she had in her mouth from watching the explosion from afar was fading as the boat quickly crossed the reef line.

  The smoke from the explosion had long dissipated, and she had only a vague idea of where the explosion had occurred and could find no sign of it now. The wave action distracted her momentarily as she had to slow for the rollers, increasing in size when she passed the reef line. There were two other boats nearby, circling around an invisible spot, and she guessed they had been fishing the reef and responded when they saw the explosion.

  It took her only seconds to reach them. “Hey, guys,” she yelled over the throaty idle of the engine to one of the boats as she approached. “What happened?”

  “Don’t know. We were fishing off the light and saw something blow. Can’t see any sign of it now,” one of the men responded. “We called the Coast Guard. They should be here any minute. Maybe they can figure it out.”

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling at him. She cast an eye toward shore, looking for any other boats heading their way. The last thing she needed was to be seen by law enforcement. A second later, she heard one of the men on the other boat yell that he had found something and she idled toward him.

  “What do you got?” she asked.

  He held up a life preserver and a piece of wood. Something was not making sense here. Neither had any sign of fire or damage—they were too clean. She wanted a closer look, but a quick glance showed several larger boats heading their way.

  “See you around, boys. Looks like the cavalry’s here,” she said, cutting the wheel to starboard and spinning away from them. She accelerated, steering a wide loop to avoid being seen by the approaching responders. When she felt she was a safe distance away, she stopped and watched the scene. Bobbing on the waves, she didn’t expect the low profile of the boat to catch the attention of the sheriff and Coast Guard vessels now on site. They appeared to be asking the other boats questions and then started working a search pattern. A few minutes later she heard the thump thump of a helicopter approaching and knew it was time to go.

  Running back, she tempered her speed. As much as she wanted to open up the throttle, she knew it would only attract attention. Deep in thought, she almost missed the first marker for the harbor. Finding only the two pieces of debris was troubling, and she expected that something was not right. Thinking about the old lobster boat, and feeling the power beneath her feet, gave her an idea.

  She slowed and pulled out her phone. She could easily outrun the old boat if it was still floating. “Hector?” she yelled into the phone. The engine was too loud to hear, forcing her to slow to an idle, where it was barely audible. “Where would they have gone, if the boat didn’t blow?”

  “What do you mean? We saw it,” he said.

  She was not going to debate him. “Tell me,” she ordered.

  There was silence on the line for a minute and then he answered.

  Trufante yelled over the roar of the engine. “Wait a minute!”

  Jeff slowed. They were just past the opening in the middle of the Seven Mile Bridge, several miles from where the bomb exploded. “What?”

  “Just thinkin’,” Trufante said.

  “That’s never good.”

  Trufante ignored the barb. He looked back at the site of the explosion and saw several boats on their way. It looked like two were already in the area. “Look there.” He pointed his long arm at a silver flash in the distance. It was moving at twice the speed of the other boats. “I know that boat.”

  “Not too many hot rods out here,” Jeff said.

  “Too much of a coincidence. You got binoculars?” Trufante asked.

  Jeff shrugged and reached into the compartment below the wheel. “Use them for spotting birds when the dolphins running,” he said, handing them to him.

  Trufante cleaned the dirty lenses with his shirt and put them to his head. “Damn if that ain’t the lady. She’s got Manuel’s boat.”

  “What’s that to us? We’re dead, remember?” Jeff asked.

  “You’re not getting the gravity of the situation. Just tossing a few life preservers and a couple of pieces of wood ain’t gonna satisfy anyone with half a brain,” Trufante said. “Especially right after it blew. Another few hours, they would have wrote it off to the seas spreading the debris, but not this soon.”

  “It was your idea,” Jeff said.

  Trufante scratched his forehead and ran a hand through his long, stringy hair. “Wasn’t expecting the she monster to come looking herself. Coast Guard or sheriff would take it as if the boat sank, but she planted the bomb. She’d know there was not enough damage.”

  “Well, what do you expect we should do?” Jeff asked, taking the binoculars back and focusing on the site.

  “If there was a beer, I’d drink it, but seeing there’s not, we gotta get outta here. And another boat’s probably a good idea if she’s looking for us.”

  “Got that right. And I can barely put any weight on my leg,” Jeff said, putting the binoculars back and taking out a bottle. “This might help with the pain, though.” He took a deep swig of the amber liquid.

  “Maybe that’s not a bad idea,” Trufante said, taking the bottle from him. “We need to hole up somewhere and figure this out. Maybe we should take a run by Wood’s old place.”

  “Mac don’t like me. And Wood’s daughter—she won’t even look at me,” Jeff said, taking the bottle back.

  “I heard that. There’s a bunch of islands up in there. We just need to hang out there till dark.”

  Jeff took another swig and spun the wheel toward the bridge. He pushed down the throttle, causing the engine to stutter and blow a cloud of black smoke before it stubbornly accelerated. They passed under the bridge and headed toward the mangrove-covered islands in the distance. Trufante watched both ahead and behind, not trusting Jeff. He barely trusted him sober, now, after he had taken at least a half dozen more swigs from the bottle, he trusted him less.

  Pamela’s head stuck over the front seat between Mac and Mel. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she said.

  “Me too, but it’s not about that,” Mel said, moving toward the window and away from her.

  The smoke plume was dissipating and Mac automatically looked around for a few landmarks to triangulate the spot. They were sitting in the parking lot by the Pigeon Key Bridge, the last turnoff before committing to a fourteen-mile drive—both directions of the Seven Mile. The apex of the roof of the tiki bar across US 1 lined up nicely, an
d he looked for a second reference point, but from where they sat, there was just water.

  “What do you mean?” he asked Pamela.

  “Tru’s out there. I just know it,” she said with a detectable quiver in her voice.

  “And how do you know this?” Mel questioned her.

  Mac stayed quiet for a few minutes, hoping the two women would sort this out without him getting involved.

  “Those guys that took him from the bar. They work over at the bait place.”

  Mac turned to her. “You remember them now?” he asked, hoping she had sobered up enough to be some help.

  “Well, we were in the bar, and those two guys come in and grab him. He told me to find you, and here I am,” she said proudly.

  Mac was getting frustrated.

  “Do you know who they were?” Mel asked, questioning her like a witness.

  “From the bait place. Smell. One’s skinny, the other’s gordo,” she giggled.

  “Come on. What else did they say?”

  “They didn’t. Just marched him out of the bar, leaving me there to pay the bill.” She started to cry. “I can feel it. Whatever that was,” she looked to the water, “Tru’s in trouble.”

  “It’s okay,” Mac said, trying to figure out a way to placate her. He turned to Mel. “Maybe we should run out there if she’s so sure.”

  “The only thing she’s sure about is her next drink,” Mel said. “You want to go chase around out there, drop me at Rusty’s so I can do some real work.”

  Mac pulled out of the space and into the parking lot. The smoke was gone now, but he thought he knew where the explosion was. It was only a question of how far out. He pulled onto US 1, turning left and headed back to the Rusty Anchor.

  They pulled into the lot. “This won’t take long. If Hector and Edgar are involved, it might have been him out there,” Mac said, getting out of the car and heading to the basin. Mel nodded and walked toward the bar.