Wood's Revenge

by Steven Becker

  Mac remained in the same position, squinting to make it look like he was asleep, while Len stood there drinking just a few feet away. The man drained the beer and tossed the can to the ground. Mac heard another top pop and then the faint sound of the skiff’s small outboard in the distance.

  A few minutes later, Mac watched as Glen pulled up in the skiff, executing the same maneuver to ground the boat. He got out and came toward the other boat. Rough hands grabbed him, hauling him over the gunwale. Mac found himself on the ground in the only small patch of land not taken beside the two boats and the cluster of trees.

  “What we gonna do with him?” Len asked.

  Glen ignored the question. “You drink all the beer?”

  “Nah. There’s still a few up in the stand.”

  Mac looked up and saw the poorly built but well camouflaged hide. Constructed like a treehouse between the trunks of the cypress trees, the roughhewn platform extended over the water. Although crude, it was functional; probably used to lure gators right below it before they killed them. He heard another beer crack.

  “Let’s tie him up to a cypress and use’m for bait,” Glen said. He went to the skiff and pulled a bucket out and dumped the contents on the ground around Mac. “Ground chicken gizzards and blood. Maybe that and our friend here’ll bring out that big sucker we keep missing.”

  Mac didn’t want another gator encounter tonight. He squirmed, trying to get a feel for the knot that bound his wrists together. Working with his hands tied behind his back was difficult, and he pried his fingers into the rough rope, trying to work it free, but was surprised to find a well-tied knot. There was nothing to be done about his feet if he couldn’t free his hands. Although they weren’t much use independently, he was able to use his hands together and pulled on the line that was tied around the base of the tree. If he was at least able to free that, he could make a run for the boat.

  He discovered about a foot of slack in the rope, enough to allow him room to manipulate the line to where he could reach the knot securing him to the tree trunk. What he found was a feeble attempt at a bowline, and within seconds he was free. It occurred to him that only one of them could tie a knot, but that knowledge was useless. Now he had to decide what his next move was. He could hear the two men talking in the tree stand built above him, and discarded the idea of running. They would have the perfect vantage point to shoot him, without even moving—and he didn’t doubt they would. Then, with his blood running in the water, they would surely get that big gator.

  Instead he rolled on his back and slid his butt, then his legs and feet through his bound hands. He waited a few minutes to see if Glen and Len suspected anything, but all he heard was their idle chatter and the tops of two more beer cans pop. Working quietly, he untied his feet. Several gators grunted, and Mac looked out into the dark water, sensing that they had smelt the chicken. He was out of time. His hands would have to wait. He needed a diversion to get the men out of the stand or at least vulnerable to an attack.

  Channeling his inner redneck, he thought about what Trufante would do. This was the Cajun’s element, and he tried to remember the stories of his days back on the bayou that he only half listened to when they were fishing. A gator grunted, interrupting his thoughts, and he looked around the small hump of sand and found what he needed. On the other side of the tree stand was a small fire pit and, to the side of it, a pile of cypress logs stacked against a trunk.

  Slowly he crawled to the wood, waiting for the sounds of the gators grunting to disguise his movement and knowing at the same time they were getting closer. When he had five sections sitting beside him, he started with the smallest diameter log. The rope they had used to tie him to the tree was about ten feet long, and he roughly measured halfway up the length and tied a loop around the log. Leaving six inches of rope between them, he tied in the next largest log. Continuing with the fattest log, he started reducing the size until another small log was tied to the end.

  The men above must have sensed the gators were getting close and were quiet, waiting for their chance. Grunts surrounded the small island, and Mac knew it was time. Hoping the gators were still out of reach, he slid away from the tree and quietly waded a few feet out into the murky water, Dragging the chain of logs behind him, he pulled it in front and jerked it back toward him without letting the logs leave the water. It was like fishing a jig, and within a few casts he had the decoy working as he intended. Moving closer to the stand, he whipped the logs into deeper water.

  “That’s him. That’s the goddamned lunker,” Glen whispered.

  Mac felt movement above him as the men positioned themselves for the shot. He wiggled the line and heard the almost silent sound of their safeties release. Once more he jerked the line, and the water erupted with pellets. Mac jumped as several gators, closer than he expected, were spooked and fled. The water was chaos, and when the men fired again, he pulled the log chain from the water, stood, and swung it up at the stand.

  He felt contact, and a man screamed then dropped into the water. Mac shuffled toward him and grabbed his shotgun before he could move. Len squirmed in the water.

  “Toss it down,” Mac called up to Glen. A gator grunted and was answered by a chorus of amens.

  Len was spooked. “Do what he says, damn it. Ain’t no time to be playin’,” he called up to Glen.

  Mac heard the splash as the gun was thrown into the water. He motioned the barrel of the shotgun at Len. “Get out of the water and climb back up. I’m going to take my boat and go.”

  “That’s just fine, mister. Just let me get out of here,” Len said.

  Mac held the gun awkwardly in his bound hands. With the barrel still aimed at Len, he watched the man run from the water and climb the rough steps nailed to the tree and into the stand. “No trouble and I won’t tell the sheriff,” Mac called up as he moved to TJ’s boat. Still encumbered by the logs, he went around to the skiff, where he found a knife, which he used to cut the bindings.

  Free now, he cast one eye at the stand and checked the small boat for anything that might be useful. He kept the knife and found a box of shells for the shotgun. Then he saw what he really needed sitting on the seat and picked up the cell phone. Before leaving the skiff, he released the shroud covering the motor, pulled one of the spark plug wires, and tossed it into the water. The water churned where he had thrown the wire, and he found himself staring into the moonlit eyes of a ten-foot gator. They were back, and he wasted no time stuffing the shells and phone in his cargo pants before jumping into the cockpit of the cuddy cabin.

  After starting the engine, he pulled back on the throttle, hoping the propeller was deep enough to pull the boat off the sand. It struggled at first, but he was soon free and drifted back into the weeds. A few minutes later, he was cruising back out through the narrow channel. Now he just had to find his way back to Clewiston.

  28

  Mel yanked the still-sleeping Pamela upright. It had been several hours since their escape had been foiled, and Dusharde had them tied back to back in two patio chairs. After this morning’s attempt to escape, he was taking no chances; the ties were tight, and they were secured within sight on the lanai. He was right inside, working at the same table where Mel had seen him earlier, and she caught his eye whenever he looked up. Sleep eluded her, especially with Pamela jerking her every time her head nodded forward. Looking around, there was nothing she could think of to force their escape. She would have to be patient and take whatever opportunity presented itself—not her strong point.

  The patio door opened and Dusharde came outside. He stretched his back and walked over to her. “You and your friend seem to have good taste in wine. Those were some of my more expensive bottles. If I were a vindictive man, I would make you pay. Or should I just send her the bill?” He walked over to where Pamela was still sleeping. “As much as she appealed to me last night, drinking and women don’t do much for me.”

  That was something they could agree on. Mel was furious at Pamela
for the bungled escape. “What are you going to do with us?”

  He walked back around to face her. “It turns out that your being a minor celebrity in the progressive world may suit me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Why, you’re going to be the face of my plan,” he said.

  The patio door opened again and Jane walked out. She approached the group and checked their bonds. “Nice work,” she said to Dusharde.

  “Unfortunately, Manny is not in good shape. He could use a doctor. And then there’s the mess in the study from last night.”

  “No doctors. I’ll go have a look at him,” she said, walking back inside with Dusharde following behind.

  Mel tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together and figure out what they intended. But more importantly, she needed to buy some time. They were not going to escape this time. Rescue would be their only way out, and she wondered what had happened to Mac and Trufante. Even that group of kids he was hanging out with, that Bayou Brigade or whatever they called themselves, would be a welcome sight right now.

  Mac was lost. There seemed to be no pattern to the waterways of South Bay, which was probably why it had been a poacher’s haven since the regulation of alligator hunting in the 1920s. The propeller had already nudged the bottom a few times, even though he had it tilted up as much as the water intake would allow. He constantly checked behind him for the telltale stream that told him the engine was getting enough water to cool it. Blowing the motor here would be bad business.

  He had idled back and forth in the dark night, aimlessly looking for any opening he could find, and finally gave up. With limited gas, he at least needed sunlight to help him unravel the maze. Pulling into a small cove, he shut off the engine and let the boat coast into a clump of brush. Mosquitos immediately found him, and he ran for the cover of the small cabin, quickly closing the doors to keep the beasts at bay.

  Lying on the single berth, he tried to unwind, but found that impossible. Every so often he swatted at the lone mosquito that had gained entrance, never seeming to get the last one. The cabin was hot, cooled only by the single hatch. Fortunately, it had a pullback screen that still worked, but it provided little airflow. He turned the cell phone back and forth in his hands, reluctant to use it on the chance the poachers had gotten free and had a way to track him. He got over his paranoia and turned the power on.

  The screen lit up and he smiled. Despite being lost, civilization was close—three bars showed on the top left of the screen. He scrolled through the apps, finding mostly games. There was no email setup, and the few text messages were one or two words each. Maybe when he was done with it he would turn it over to Fish and Game and see if they could get any information and track the owner. Wiping his brow, he pressed the button for the dial pad and entered Alicia’s number. The ex-CIA agent had forced him to memorize it rather than rely on the contacts list in his cell phone, and now he was glad for it.

  “Hello,” a sleepy voice answered.

  Mac looked at the screen and saw it was four thirty. “Sorry it’s so early, but I’m in a bit of a jamb.”

  “Mac?”

  He could tell she was awake now. “Yeah. Not my phone’s why you don’t know the number.”

  “Are you okay? TJ wants to know if the boat is in one piece.”

  “Tell him it’s all good,” he said, thinking the poacher story would be better told under better circumstances. “I’m good right now, but Mel and Pamela are in trouble, and I have no idea where Trufante is.” He gave her the CliffsNotes version of the story.

  “Why didn’t you let me know sooner?”

  He ignored the question. “Can you pinpoint this phone and get me out of here? I’m stuck in South Bay at the bottom of Lake Okeechobee.”

  “Give me a minute and I’ll call you back,” she said.

  He didn’t want to break contact, but figured she was right and it was better to conserve the battery. He heard noise outside and looked at the window. The first sign of pink was on the horizon. That gave him some hope, and he opened up the cabin, only to be immediately assaulted by mosquitos when he stepped onto the deck. Ignoring them as best he could, he riffled through the holds. Finding some insect repellent, he liberally coated himself and waited for her to call back.

  As the sky lightened, he realized that daylight alone was not going to get him out of here. Back at the GPS, he looked at his position on the screen and saw nothing that looked like where he was. Finally, the phone rang.

  “I’ve got you located,” she said, wasting no time. “I’m going to hand you over to TJ to get you out of there. I’m working on Mel and Pamela.”

  Mac was glad to hear that she was on top of things and wondered if Trufante was okay. TJ came on the line and started guiding him through the channels. “How are you doing this?” Mac asked.

  “Google Earth, bro. It’s like I’m right there with you.”

  Mac steered, following TJ’s directions until he was back in the wide canal with the tall embankment. “I’m back where I started. Now what?”

  Alicia interrupted. “I’ve traced every link I could find and came up with nothing.”

  Mac’s heart dropped.

  “But you said you followed the trail of the monitoring stations, right?”

  “Yeah.” He had no idea where she was going with this.

  “Okay, so there was a report I picked up about two guys rescued out in the Gulf, claiming someone blew up their engine. It was right by the station at Sprigger Bank.”

  Mac almost laughed. Thinking about the trouble with Hector and Edgar seemed insignificant compared to what he had dealt with since. “That was me.”

  “I thought so. I know your MO. Apparently there were enough warrants out on those two that they sang like birds trying to cop a plea deal. They might have exaggerated to get on the good side of the DA, but they started talking about some terrorist plot to blow up the Everglades and how Big Sugar was implicated. Pretty farfetched, huh?”

  Mac didn’t answer right away. He had left the rocket and explosives out of the story. With her relationship as a contractor with the CIA, she might have been conflicted and reported it. Somehow he knew he was going to need to leverage that information to get Mel and Pamela back. If the Feds showed up at the site, there would be no reason to keep them alive. “I’m right in the middle of Big Sugar country.”

  It was her turn to ignore him. “Stay in the main canal and head west toward Clewiston. I’ll have something by the time you get there.”

  Alicia spun in her chair and looked at TJ scrolling through the overnight scores on his latest online game. Frustrated, she said, “I don’t know where to go from here.”

  “Turn it on its head, babe,” he said. “That’s what you always tell me.”

  She thought for a few minutes. One of her training classes at Langley had been about lateral thinking, a technique used to change the problem to find different solutions. It only took a second to figure out the missing link. “Trufante.”

  “Bingo. That boy’s in the middle of everything.” He got up and kissed her forehead. “Gotta go. Have to do double time on the charters since Mac’s got the six-pack boat.”

  She whispered Trufante’s name out loud and smiled thinking about him. There was a place in her heart for the Cajun. As much of a shit magnet as he was, he had helped her through her first field operation. She had gained more experience from being around him for twenty-four hours than she had learned in a year of classroom lectures. Hoping he was okay, she turned her attention to the computer and started with the low-hanging fruit—the police. With easy access to the Florida Law Enforcement database, she scanned the last few days of activity and smiled. At least he wasn’t in jail. That would have required her to go up the ladder at the agency to help him. Next was the morgue, and after a quick search she found no one with his name or any John Doe’s that fit his description.

  Hospitals were the last place she could hope to find him. She started in Key West and moved tow
ard the mainland. As there was no interconnected database between them, she had to check each hospital individually. Finally she found him, under his own name, in Homestead. Picking up her phone, she quickly jumped to the hospital’s website and found the number. She dialed and waited, pressing zero for every question the automated phone tree asked. A woman picked up after a few minutes and she asked for his room. After a lecture about how she could have got that information from the automated system, she said she would connect the call.

  “Hellooo.”

  It was good to hear his voice, although from the slur, she could tell he was drugged—not that he minded. “Tru! It’s Alicia. Are you okay?”

  “Righty oh.”

  She sensed she might have trouble getting any information out of him. “I need your help.”

  “And I need your credit card or I’m gonna have to pull the great escape out of here.”

  There was no way he had insurance. But that was a problem she would deal with later. “I’ll handle that. Listen, Mel and Pamela are in trouble.”

  “Pajamabama?”

  “Yes, and I need your help.”

  “Roger that.”

  At least she thought she had his attention now. “I need everything you can remember—anything with a sugar connection.”

  The line was silent for a minute, and she thought she heard him humming in the background. Patience didn’t come easily for her. From her San Francisco childhood under her mother’s constant pressure to be the best, through Stanford and on to MIT, where she had to admit she had run across the country to escape her tiger mom. After graduating, she had moved back to the Bay Area and done well working for several start-up tech firms that had gone public, only to become frustrated when the companies were sold or their products became obsolete before they hit the market. A friend who had gone the government service route, and seemed happier than she was, told her about an opening at the CIA and she jumped on it. The money wasn’t as good, but before the budget cuts, she had worked all the time anyway. Since meeting TJ and moving to Key Largo, she realized everything her mother had preached about getting ahead was wrong.