Wood's Revenge

by Steven Becker

  She sensed they were getting close and looked around for anything she could use for a weapon, but there was nothing. Approaching the end of the hallway, she saw a glow coming from behind an etched-glass door with a decorative steel grate over it. Jane reached into her pocket, removed a key, and with a click the heavy door swung open. Despite their circumstances, Mel couldn’t help but look around in awe at the collection. There had to be a thousand bottles, all in identical racks. Catching them off guard, Jane pushed them in and slammed the door. Mel heard a key turn, latching the dead bolt and locking them in.

  “Now what?” Pamela asked, running her hands over the locked cases.

  Mel was looking past the wine for a way out. They might break the glass set in the door, but the steel grate, although decorative, looked substantial and would stop any escape. She searched the room for any other openings to the outside. There was no other way out, not even an air vent. “We have to be ready when they come,” she said.

  “Be nice to get one of these bottles. I’m thirsty,” Pamela said.

  Mel was about to ignore the comment when she looked at the locked cases. If they could get to a few bottles, they could use them as weapons. “Right. Let’s see what we can do about that.”

  She went to the first case, admiring Dusharde’s taste. Built into each of the two dozen racks were eight sections built at forty-five degree angles to each other to hold the bottles. In front were doors with scaled-down steel grates that matched the style of the door. Again, they provided security as well as decoration. The grid was so close together, she could barely get a finger through one of the openings, not enough to provide enough leverage to break the lock on the front. Turning her attention to the hinged side, she studied the decorative hasps. Looking past the etchings in the handworked black metal, she saw they were basic barrel hinges welded to the face of the frame. If she could dislodge the pin, they could remove the doors.

  Together they searched the room for anything thin and durable enough, but the cellar was bare.

  “All this good vino staring at you sure makes you want some,” Pamela said. “What do you think they’re going to do with us?”

  Mel didn’t want to speculate. They just needed to get out. “Your belt. Give it to me.” Mel took the offered belt and turned the post ninety degrees to the buckle. Hoping it would fit, she inserted it in the open end of the barrel and, with the buckle against her palm, she pushed as hard as she could. The metal pin popped out of the hinge and hit the floor. She moved to the top hinge, which was out of her reach, and gave the buckle to Pamela, who easily released the pin. Together they lifted the door and set it on the floor. Pamela grabbed a bottle, stared at the cork, and without hesitating, slammed the post of the buckle into the opening, sending the unsuspecting cork into the bottle. She took a long drink and handed it to Mel, who took a small sip. Both women smiled at each other, but were distracted by a gunshot. They hit the floor thinking someone was shooting at them, but the house was quiet. It was a lone shot.

  Mac stared at the end of the canal. He was out of water. The GPS, of little use other than providing his general progress and speed since he had left Florida Bay, showed Lake Okeechobee dead ahead. It also told him it was one thirty in the morning. With four hours until sunrise, he needed to decide what to do. He didn’t want to waste the precious hours or the cover of darkness that might save Mel and Pamela’s lives.

  The smaller canal that he had been following for the last three hours had dead-ended into a larger waterway flowing east and west. The map he had studied earlier, still etched in his memory, told him that Clewiston was to the west, so he turned left. With the dark waters of the lake hidden behind brush to the right and a twenty-foot-high berm concealing the agricultural fields on the left, he sped toward Clewiston.

  “What the hell’re ya doin’?” a voice yelled.

  He had just rounded a slight bend and hadn’t seen the boat until it was too late. Although he was already well past the small bass boat, he could see it rocking in the large wake trailing behind him. Dropping speed, he said a silent apology to the anglers, thanking them at the same time for waking him up. He was back in civilization now, and as sparse as it looked, there would be people here. Watching the banks of the canal ahead of him as he drove, he looked for any sign of life. On his left he saw several lights and slowed further. A floodgate appeared, several times larger than the ones he had passed down south. Fortunately, this one ran parallel to the waterway.

  The lights he had seen moved, and he recognized a truck pulling away from what looked like a boat ramp cut into the dyke. Dropping to an idle, he coasted toward the small boat thinking if the fishermen were friendly he could borrow a cell phone and call TJ. He had been hailing him on the VHF with no luck, even trying a radio check as a last resort. It had gone ignored, and his hopes of relaying a message to Key Largo disappeared.

  “Hey, guys,” he called out as he approached the ramp. The aluminum boat painted in a dark green camouflage was pulled up to the bank, waiting for the driver of the truck to park.

  Instead of an answer he was greeted with the barrel of a rifle. “Hurry up, Glen. We got a live one.” He turned to Mac. “Let’s see them hands.”

  Mac complied, wondering what was going on. The boats slid closer, and he could see the black grease on the man’s face and the dirty clothes he wore. Another few seconds and he could see the man’s nicotine-stained teeth.

  The man spat over the side. “You ain’t Fish and Game, are ya?” he asked. The second man, he had called Glen, joined him and hopped into the bow.

  “No. No,” Mac said, keeping his hands over his head. This time of night, dressed as they were and armed, he didn’t need the confirmation of the bloodstains on the outside of the boat to know they were poachers. “I’m just needing some help is all.”

  “We got no time for help,” Glen said. “Unless you’ve got cash for it.”

  Mac rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a wad of wet money. “Here. It’s all I’ve got.” He reached out and handed it to the other man.

  “Ain’t gonna buy you much,” the other man said, grabbing the bills and counting them. “Bit wet, but it’ll spend. We accept credit cards too.” Both men broke out laughing.

  “Not my style, guys. Listen, I just need to make one phone call and I’ll leave you be,” Mac pleaded, scanning the water for an escape route. If the answer was no, he was going.

  “He looks like he’s pretty desperate and maybe in some trouble too,” Glen said, eying the boat. “Sorry, mister. It’s gonna cost you the boat for a call. You good with that, Len?”

  Mac hated the redneck habit of using good manners when they were stealing from you. He thought about his options, hoping TJ had insurance. “Your boat and a phone and you’ve got a deal.” He paused for a second. “And I’ll take that shotgun too.”

  “Damned city boy’s got some big’uns,” Glen said.

  Mac looked around the boat to see if there was anything he could take. This had gone easier than he thought. He heard Len moving something in the skiff and turned, but it was too late. The barrel of a rifle slammed against his head, knocking him to the deck. He was stunned, but not out, and just as he tried to regain his footing, both men vaulted the gunwales and were on him. In seconds they had him trussed like a poached gator and pushed him into the corner.

  The boat started and he looked at the helm. Len backed off the embankment and quickly spun the wheel, trying to make the hundred-and-eighty-degree turn in one move, but was not used to a boat this size. Misjudging the angle and momentum, he hit the other bank before straightening out and accelerating. Sliding his body against the gunwale, Mac was able to sit tall enough to see the skiff following behind them. They must have had a prearranged spot, because the smaller boat was soon out of sight.

  After passing the floodgates, Len cut the wheel to the left and entered a series of small canals. He steered through this maze for about fifteen minutes and turned again. The further from the mai
n canal they moved, the narrower and more overgrown the canals became. Soon any kind of definition disappeared. Mac tried to remember any features besides big and small, but between the lack of light and the monotonous landscape of the lake, there was nothing he could do except judge time and direction.

  Another fifteen minutes passed, with enough turns to cause Mac to lose his bearings entirely. Just as he became totally disoriented, the boat slowed and coasted to a small patch of dry land. He could see it clearly in the moonlight. Too small to be an island and probably submerged during the rainy season, the small hump held nothing but a clump of cypress trees.

  Shoving the throttle forward, Len accelerated and Mac felt a jolt as the boat hit land and plowed up the sandy shore. It came to a stop with the bow poking past the other bank. Mac slumped down, feigning unconsciousness. Len ignored him and vaulted the gunwale. Mac heard the top of a can crack and a small motor in the distance. Len came back with a beer and rested against the gunwale, waiting for his partner.

  27

  Wade knew he had to get his rage under control. His exit had been too late. Intrigued by Melanie Woodson’s appearance, he had stayed to see if there was something he could use to his advantage. Scolding himself for his curiosity, he knew he should have left immediately. Now, he had heard too much, and his only way to leverage Dusharde into helping him was to find out more.

  Moving quickly through the house, he reached the front door and went outside to his car. Cursing himself for not bringing the gun in the first place and with a new resolve, he grabbed it from underneath the seat, stuck it in his waistband, and went around the back of the house. He crept carefully around the estate until he reached Dusharde’s study window, which overlooked the pool. Hiding behind a large plant, he suffered the mosquitos, trying to hear what was said inside. Struggling to get closer to the glass, he realized the well-made windows were not going to reveal any secrets. He could only watch when Jane took Mel and the other woman out of the room at gunpoint.

  Scenarios played out in his mind. He could rescue Woodson and use her against Dusharde, but he had dealt with her kind before. The memory of saving her life would be all too short. He could see it in her eyes that she was after Dusharde, and he would almost certainly be collateral damage. The answer lay with the man sitting behind the desk. He either needed to force Dusharde to protect him or eliminate him. After his service in Vietnam, he knew how to turn on the right part of his brain to do what was needed. When he was sure Dusharde was alone, he went around to the front door. Slowly he opened it, peering inside to make sure there was no one watching. With no sign of the women, he slid inside, eased the door closed and walked back down the hall to Dusharde’s office.

  “I need to wash my hands of this mess, and you need to help me,” he said, surprising Dusharde when he entered the room.

  “Why, Vernon, you’re as much a party to this as I am.”

  “I’ve done your dirty work all these years, and the least I should expect is an easy retirement.”

  “Let’s not forget our places,” Dusharde said as he reached back to the sideboard.

  Wade reacted quickly—too quickly—and drew the gun. Dusharde turned around with a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  “There’s no need for that,” he said. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Wade put his arm down, holding the gun at his side. “Go on.”

  “I’ll buy that property from you.”

  “That’s the least you can do.”

  “You’re not going to like the price.” He sat back in his chair. “You see, to wash your hands of this mess, you’re going to get what you paid for it. That way, if it ever comes out, and it will, you can tell your constituents a good story about the loss you took for the benefit of the environment and all that. Weave it however you want. Do we have a deal?”

  Wade stood there stunned. Getting his money back was actually a huge loss. After having to pay his ex-wife half the appraised value of the land when they divorced, the loss was into six figures. “That’s your offer?”

  “I’d think about how I left this room, if I were you. It might not be the way you think.” Dusharde reached his hand under the desk.

  Wade jumped and raised the gun, but it was too late. The bullet from Dusharde’s gun was already on its way. It took him in the chest and he fell to the floor.

  Mel glared at Pamela and rubbed her eyes. She had finally fallen asleep, and now the woman was pacing the wine cellar. “I told you not to drink that much.”

  “I’m not drunk. I just need a bathroom. If I could do it in this,” she said, extending the empty bottle, “believe me, I would.”

  Mel rolled her eyes.

  “You said we needed two empties. I got ’em. Two dead soldiers, right here,” she slurred.

  She had mentioned just pouring them out, but Pamela had not gone for that. She was on her third bottle now. It was just a matter of time before someone came to check on them—she hoped. Surprisingly, in the middle of Florida, she was cold. Sitting on the hard concrete floor had sucked the heat from her. All she could do was wait, and she stared at the door, waiting for the light in the hallway to come on. That would be the signal.

  It happened sooner than she thought. Popping to her feet, she grabbed the empty bottle and signaled to Pamela. They had already agreed on a plan and took their positions. A shape could be seen through the etched-glass door. Footsteps were audible now. She hoped it was Jane.

  “Ready?” Mel asked Pamela.

  “Yupper,” she said, taking the last swig from the bottle and stepping behind the hinge side of the door.

  Mel hoped she was sober enough to execute her part. She didn’t doubt the wine would supply enough courage to strike a man over the head with an empty bottle. But motor skills might be an issue. They had replaced the cabinet door, and she doubted a casual inspection would reveal the broken lock. Everything was in place, and she moved to the wall to take her position. For their plan to work, whoever opened the doors would need to face her, allowing Pamela to strike them from behind. With the wine bottle behind her, within easy reach, she settled back in the corner, pretending to be asleep. Taking one quick look around the room to make sure they were ready, she breathed deeply and closed her eyes.

  Every noise was accentuated by the concrete, and Mel could hear the key slide into the lock and the bolt click. She readied herself when she heard the knob turn. It happened faster than she could have anticipated. The man turned toward her, as she had guessed, and Pamela sprung from her position behind the door, slamming him on the head with both bottles.

  He dropped onto the hard concrete floor, unconscious.

  “Hurry. We have to tie him up,” Mel called to Pamela, who stood over the man. She looked like she was about to freak out, and Mel gave her a hard look that seemed to bring her back. “He’s not dead,” she said to reassure her. In fact, she wasn’t sure and didn’t want to risk finding out before the man was bound and gagged.

  Taking Pamela’s belt, she pushed the end through the buckle and cinched down hard around the man’s wrists. After winding the rest of the material around, she tucked the end under a few loops and tied a knot. She then tore a piece of the man’s shirt and stuffed it into his mouth. Trying to stop her hands from trembling, she reached for the man’s neck to feel for a pulse.

  “He’s alive,” she said, looking at the wound. There was a large bump on his head, but he would live. She looked at his face. It was no one they had seen, and, from his brownish skin and dress, she assumed he was a worker. A pang of guilt rang through her, thinking maybe they could have talked him into letting them go, rather than assaulting him, but it passed. There had been no option.

  Pamela was already out the door, both bottles still in her hands.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Bathroom,” she said, turning into a doorway.

  Mel thought about locking her in and leaving her to sleep off the wine, but she emerged before she could act. With that much alcoh
ol in her, Mel would have to watch her closely. “Let’s go upstairs and scout things out. Maybe we can take a car and get out of here.” There was no telling what was going on upstairs, and she remembered the gunshot from last night. Without windows, she didn’t even know what time it was.

  “What about the man?” Pamela looked back to the wine cellar. “Maybe he has keys or something we can use.”

  Mel cursed herself for not thinking about it. “Go look. I’m going to the top of the stairs to see if anyone’s there.”

  She moved toward the staircase and climbed to the main floor, stopping a few treads before the landing. The huge windows in the living room adjacent to the stairs showed a predawn sky with faint tendrils shooting colors over the horizon. She took another step and peered around the corner. Illuminated by the glow of the laptop in front of him, Philip sat alone at a table by the kitchen. He had a cup of coffee in front of him and was already dressed. They would need to wait until he moved before they could do anything.

  Mel turned around and crashed into Pamela, who started to fall backward, her balance affected by the wine. Mel reached for her, but it was too late. Pulling back to recover, she felt a hand reach out and grab her. Both women found themselves tangled at the bottom of the step. She looked up and saw the barrel of a rifle pointing at them.