Wood's Revenge

by Steven Becker

  Pamela followed him, but was little help once they were aboard. He started the engines and tossed the lines. Within a few minutes they were out of the canal and heading southwest on a course that would put Sombrero Light to their port side. Mac could already see the reflection of several boats hovering around the area. Unless there was a hot dolphin bite, that was the spot. He pushed the boat up on plane and cruised toward the scene, surprised when a small speedboat crossed his path.

  “Mac. He was here!” Pamela clung to him when they reached the site. “I know it, but he’s alive. He’s okay!”

  He was about to ask how she knew, but decided to hold that question for when he had a big glass of scotch in front of him, not two sheriffs’ boats and a Coast Guard cutter. He steered to deeper water to allow the investigation to continue and picked up the microphone. On channel sixteen he hailed the Coast Guard, asking if he could aid in the search and was interrupted by a voice he didn’t want to hear.

  “Travis, what are you doing out here?”

  It was the deputy. “Just aiding in the search if I can,” he answered.

  “Maybe you and I ought to have that conversation, sooner rather than later.”

  11

  Mac looked across the water at the deputy reluctantly catching the line he tossed over. He set two fenders over the gunwales to protect the hulls and secured the boats together.

  “What about Tru?” Pamela asked. “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”

  “Hopefully, this will just take a minute,” Mac said. “Stay here.” The last thing he needed was her quoting Dylan lyrics to the deputy. Giving her the best reassuring look he had in his arsenal, which wasn’t worth much, he straddled the gunwales and climbed onto the sheriff’s boat.

  “Okay, Travis,” the deputy started, pulling his notepad and a pen from the myriad of pockets woven into his pants. “You seem to be in all the wrong places these days. Want to explain?” He waited, poised to take notes.

  Mac removed his cap and rubbed his head. “It’s a small town.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that. First the floater in the backcountry, and now showing up, minutes after an explosion, out here. And wasn’t it you and your buddy Trufante that I saw the other day with those buoys? Suspicious activity, if you ask me.”

  Mac thought for a minute before answering. The deputy was tying things together faster than he would have liked. “You’re just all over, aren’t you? Sheriff’s office must be running thin to have you working so hard,” Mac said, trying to buy some time.

  He didn’t take the bait. “Too may coincidences, Travis. Maybe I ought to take you in for questioning.”

  “No need for that.” Mac needed to give him some reassurance. “You know I’m on the water about every day and Trufante works as my mate. The other day, we were checking on some stuff after the storm. Every fisherman does that. The body, I don’t know. I run that course a couple times a week between Wood’s place and town. It was just there.”

  “Gonna be harder to explain being out here with her,” he said.

  “She found me at the Anchor, all worked up and worried about Trufante being out here. He was supposed to be fishing the reef today and she saw the explosion. Kind of freaked her out. The only way I could calm her down was to run her out here.”

  “He’s out there,” Pamela called out, pointing toward the Seven Mile Bridge. “There must be some kind a way outta here, Mac Travis, said the joker to the thief,” she said, loud enough to be heard on the other boat.

  “She’s not all there, is she?” the deputy whispered sympathetically.

  Mac just nodded, confirming his look. The police radio clipped to his belt went off. He listened to the dispatcher and spoke softly into the microphone clipped to his lapel. “Well, Travis, good luck with that one,” he said. “Got a stolen boat to find. Guess I can at least eliminate you from that one,” he said, putting the notebook and pen back in his pockets.

  “So, we’re good?” Mac asked.

  “Good for now, anyway. I know where to find you if I need you.”

  Mac wasn’t going to stick around for him to change his mind. He climbed over the gunwales to the trawler and within seconds had the lines off and was floating freely. Back in the wheelhouse, he started the engine and idled away. “Well, where to?”

  Trufante was getting worried about Jeff’s condition. “Maybe you ought to let me take her,” he yelled over the sound of the engine. They were through the main span of the Seven Mile Bridge moving toward the backcountry, an area riddled with hidden obstacles.

  “Why not,” he said. “Give me some more time to drink.”

  Jeff moved away from the helm a second before Trufante was ready to take it. The boat fishtailed on a wave, causing Trufante to lose his balance and sending Jeff crashing into the gunwale. Trufante grabbed for the wheel and quickly had the boat under control. It was Jeff he was worried about now. Looking back to check if anyone, especially that speedboat, was after them, he saw Jeff slide across the deck and grab the bottle. He leaned against the gunwale and took another swig, finishing what was left before tossing it overboard.

  Trufante watched the bottle hit the water and looked up. A flash had caught his eye. The reflection of the sun on a windshield. Reaching into the compartment below the wheel, he removed the binoculars. The wave action made it difficult to focus and he had to slow down to get a better look. Putting aside the glasses, he cursed in Creole under his breath—it was Manuel’s hot rod.

  His only hope was that if the woman didn’t know these waters, the coral heads and shoals could be an equalizing factor between the two boats. Several small islands were ahead, but steering directly toward the shallow water surrounding them would be too obvious. He needed a hidden obstacle. Steering straight ahead, he tried to calculate how long it would take the speedboat to reach them. It would be close, and that could be to his advantage.

  “What are you doing?” Jeff staggered toward him. “That’s Elbow Bank your runnin’ at.”

  “Yeah, and our girlfriend is right behind us,” Trufante said, cutting the wheel slightly. He had to rely on the speed of the boat chasing them, hoping the woman would blindly follow, not thinking about anything except catching them. “Watch this action.”

  He skirted the hidden obstacle and looked behind to place the shoal directly between the two boats. She followed and he unleashed his thousand-dollar grin, but it was premature. Bullets flew past his head, causing him to duck and inadvertently spin the wheel. Staying low to avoid the gunfire, he tried to correct course. It was too late; they were both past the bank and she was gaining on them.

  Given another few miles, he could have lost her in the maze of islands spread out in front of them. He looked down at the chart plotter, thankfully something that Jeff had spent money on. The GPS device overlaid the boat’s position on a nautical chart, a critical instrument for fishermen. They were running through the channel between Horseshoe and West Bahia Honda Key. Wood’s Island had just become visible on the horizon. Looking back, he saw her, only a hundred yards behind now and gaining. His only chance to avoid her was to steer wide of the shoals guarding the entrance to Spanish Channel, making it look like he was circling back and hope that she cut the corner.

  He cut the wheel hard to port, spinning the boat almost a hundred and eighty degrees. Trusting the electronics more than his memory, he stared at the chart plotter and depth finder, staying to four feet of water as he rounded the bend and entered the channel. Turning back again, he watched her, his grin showing every bit of the Cadillac grill he was famous for. She took the bait, steering too close to the shallows. Even above the engine noise of the lobster boat, he heard the speedboat’s lower unit ground, spouting a huge stream of water into the air as the angle of the propeller shifted skyward.

  “Got her!” Jeff slammed him on the back.

  Trufante was not as confident as he slowed and looked back at her. The two boats were close enough that he
could see her glare at him, one hand holding her phone to her ear, the other pointing the gun at them. He could see her close one eye and the flash of the barrel as a burst of gunfire tore apart the space his head had just occupied. Shards of fiberglass rained down on him.

  Grabbing the wheel, he pulled himself level with the gunwales and heard the gun fire again. Another round of bullets struck around him. From this position, able to see over the windshield, he pushed down the throttle. The boat accelerated and he nudged the wheel to avoid a large brown spot ahead. The chart plotter was too high to see from here—he would have to rely on his memory and the old mariners rhyme: “Brown, brown, run aground. White, white, and you might. Green, green, nice and clean. Blue, blue, sail on through.” Slowly he cut the wheel and watched the water color ahead. A little farther and they would be out of range.

  Finally he felt secure enough to stand and look back. The speedboat was visible in the distance, but there was a mile between them now. Wood’s Island was dead ahead, and he smiled seeing the trawler was gone. The only problem was they were directly in her line of sight.

  Jeff slammed him on the back. “We made it!”

  “Not so fast. She can still see us. Gonna have to go around to the back side,” Trufante said.

  “Whatever, man. Mac keep any beer out there?”

  “We need to get out of here as quick as a snapper goes for a shrimp. I seen her on the phone. I’d be expecting those two nimrods anytime. Just hope they don’t bring Manuel into this.” He passed the small channel leading to the lone pile with the center-console drifting from a line looped around it, and he cut the wheel to avoid the flats ahead. Steering a wide circle, he rounded the northern side of the island, wondering what their next step was. Ditching Jeff and taking the center-console might solve his problems. Mac would understand, and it seemed like the only way out until he rounded the point and saw the boat anchored off the beach.

  Slowly he idled the lobster boat over the white sand flats. When he felt the first tug of the bottom on the bow, he stopped before the propeller hit. The old twenty-foot boat had an inboard diesel engine, setting the propeller higher than the bow. “Wait here and sleep it off,” he said to Jeff, who was already snoozing in the shade of the overhang.

  He slid over the gunwale, unable to gauge the depth of the gin-clear water. Hip deep, he waded toward the empty boat, scanning the shore for any sign of its occupants. Nothing moved except a pair of bonefish he spooked. Using the anchor line, he pulled himself toward the boat and was surprised when he reached it to see the PVC pipe. Curious now, he climbed the dive ladder and went to the cockpit. Shaking his head, he saw water pooled in the bottom of the gauges and wondered what was up. The question was, could he make it run.

  The key was still in the ignition. He turned it and pressed the start buttons for each engine. Not expecting anything, he was surprised to hear the motors turn over, but they did not start. This was interesting, he thought, and went to the transom, where he removed the cowling from the port engine. It had definitely been underwater. Under normal circumstances, the oil should be drained and replaced from both the lower unit and engine itself, then the fuel lines would be purged of water, but he heard the throaty roar of the speedboat and knew these were not normal times.

  Pulling the fuel line from the engine, he depressed the ball and tasted the gas. It appeared good and he reconnected the line. A few squeezes and the ball tightened, indicating the line was primed, and he went to the helm. With his fingers crossed he pressed the start button for the port engine and held his breath as it turned over. The starter ground against the flywheel and finally the engine sputtered to life. He left it running hoping it would even out while he replaced the cowling and removed the line from the PVC pipe. Back at the helm, he pushed the throttle forward, retrieved the anchor, and idled to Jeff’s boat.

  “Come on, dude,” he yelled to Jeff. “Wake your ass up before the she-devil finds us.”

  Jeff’s head rose over the gunwale and he suddenly came to life. “What the fuck?” He stared at the boat.

  “Hop in. We can hightail it outta here in this,” Trufante said.

  Jeff climbed over the gunwale, looking back at the fish rotting in the white bins. “We should take this and sell it,” he said, starting back to the lobster boat.

  “Screw that. It’s rotten. Even Billy Bones ain’t buying that shit,” Trufante said, pushing down on the throttle and sending Jeff reeling backward toward the transom. He crashed against the gunwale and collapsed on the deck.

  The longer the engine ran, the more it evened out. He left the wheel for a second and kicked Jeff. “Get up, dude. You gotta drive.”

  Finally Jeff rose and went to the wheel.

  “Ain’t got no electronics, just the compass. I’m going to work on the starboard engine,” Trufante said, setting one leg over the transom into the motor well.

  “Where are we going?” Jeff asked.

  “Key West, dude—where else?”

  12

  Mel leaned back in the chair and rubbed her eyes.

  “Still alive?” Rusty asked from across the bar.

  She got up to stretch and looked around. The previously deserted bar was now close to full. She went toward him. “Do you know anything about Big Sugar?”

  “Just enough to enjoy a little in my coffee,” he laughed. “And enough to know it’s dirty politics in this state.”

  What she had just found out amazed her. “How come no one outside of Florida knows about this?” All those years working federal cases and living in Virginia and she had never heard of the travesty that a handful of companies were committing to the Everglades.

  “Everglades have been buggered up since Ponce de Leon first laid eyes on them,” Rusty said.

  “Those fish Mac had are just the tip of a big iceberg. I’m surprised there has been no other fallout here.” From what she had read, Fort Myers had been especially hard hit, and that was only a couple of hours away. The sugar industry had caused a multitude of problems, and it had been going on far longer than most people thought.

  Rusty walked away to serve someone, then came back over, handed her a soda water and looked over her shoulder at the screen.

  Mel recited from her notes. “Back in the 1920s, the first diversion ditches were dug to create more agricultural land for the sugar companies. After the 1928 hurricane flooded low-lying settlements along Lake Okeechobee, the Army Corp of Engineers came in and started shoring up the south shore. The Herbert Hoover Dike was begun and the earthen berm continued to rise, blocking not only the flooding, but also the natural drainage from the Kissimmee Basin and the lake through the Everglades and into Florida Bay.

  “In the thirties, developers turned their sights on southeast Florida. Seeking more land from Palm Beach to Miami, they looked west to the Everglades. Canals were dug and huge swaths of the ecosystem were lost forever. Now the whole shooting match is controlled by bureaucrats.”

  “Big Sugar and real estate tycoons.” Rusty shook his head. “That’s the history of Florida right there.” He went to help a couple that had just come in.

  “Don’t forget the South Florida Water Management District,” a woman at the next table said.

  Mel looked over at her. It was the marine biologist from the Turtle Hospital. “Jen, right?” she asked.

  “A whole bunch of us are part of Friends of the Everglades. Check out the website.” She slid her chair over and reached for the keyboard.

  Mel watched as the site appeared, and she started reading.

  “Those fish that you guys brought in today, where did you get them?” Jen asked.

  “Mac found them out in the Gulf.” She looked at the younger woman, wondering how much she could trust her. Deciding they at least shared a common concern for the environment, she leaned in so no one could overhear. “Out by Sprigger Bank.” She started pecking on the keyboard, opened the spreadsheet from the dead man’s phone and slid the computer back to Jen.

  Jen looke
d at the numbers, scrolling back and forth. “Fish kills. The supermoon and that storm must have pushed the edge of the red tide down. Where’d you get this?”

  Mel hesitated. She liked the young woman, but hadn’t known her long enough to trust her. “The Internet. I’ve been through so many sites, I’m not sure which one.” At least that much was true.

  “Hey, any chance of getting a water sample where he found the fish?” Jen asked.

  Mel felt alive with a cause now. “Sure,” she said, wondering where Mac was.

  Mac stared at the catatonic woman sitting next to him in the wheelhouse. Pamela had gone into a trance, trying to channel her inner Trufante. He looked out at the water and wondered whether he should dump her off and head back to the Anchor. Mel would be wondering where he was by now, and bringing Pamela with him was a recipe for trouble. But he agreed with her that Trufante was involved in the explosion and he felt like he had an obligation to his friend.

  She interrupted his inner turmoil.

  “New boat,” she said.

  Great, Mac thought. She was as whacked-out as her mentor. Cheqea and he had known each other since his first days here in the early nineties. Trufante had mentioned that Pamela had been hanging out with the old chief. Whether the Indian actually had any powers or got her followers so stoned on her mixture of fermented seaweed and homegrown weed that they thought she did, he had no idea. But Pamela had obviously bought in. “What about a new boat?”

  “Shush, I’m getting something.”

  He gripped the throttle, wanting to start up, but in her present state he was wary of her going over the edge. “Listen, we should go back and get Mel.”

  She ignored him and started rocking back and forth. Mac started the engine, not caring now. The sooner he got her off the boat, the better. He spun the wheel and pushed down the throttle, steering a heading toward the Rusty Anchor.