The dogs continued to bark and he saw movement inside. Without hesitating, Dusharde opened the door and called to the dogs. Mac moved quickly before Dusharde could see what was happening and stepped behind him, pressing the barrel of the shotgun to the back of his head.
“No one needs to get hurt. We just want to talk,” Mac said.
“Then put the gun down,” Dusharde said.
The dogs must have heard his voice and came bounding around the corner. Mel followed behind them.
“You?”
“Let’s sit down and have a little chat,” Mel said, leading him to the chair she had been tied to. “For what I’m sure you paid for them, these are pretty uncomfortable.” She placed them face-to-face and sat in one, indicating for him to take the other.
Mac stood behind her, keeping the shotgun aimed in his direction. Dusharde appeared helpless, but Mac had seen too much over the last few days and remained vigilant.
Mel started. “We have an offer that you might want to consider.” He raised his head and looked at her, and she nodded to Mac.
He lowered the gun at the prearranged signal. Dusharde was already showing signs of stress, and she wanted him more relaxed.
“Maybe you should have a look at these before we continue. Kind of lay out the playing field, so we know where we stand.” She handed him the series of pictures they had printed from his phone.
He took them, slowly going through the dozen sequential shots that TJ had extracted. They clearly showed his face and then Jane pushing Mel toward the signs.
“That’s all you have?”
“I know. Staging a protest is no big deal, but here’s the part that maybe you should pay attention to. It places you at the scene where Wade’s body was dumped. That and the pictures of his car in your driveway would give a judge, even if he was in your pocket, enough probable cause to sign a search warrant for your house. I’m guessing you still have the gun, and we all know the ballistics will match.”
Mac knew from the look on both their faces that she had him.
“What do you want from me?”
She paused as if considering her options. “To do the right thing.”
“And pray tell what might that be?”
Mac could only watch the exchange.
“Build the flowway, and donate the land the state needs for the holding reservoirs.”
“My dear girl, that’s millions of dollars. Surely the state will get it done eventually.”
“You of all people know how the private sector can get something done. Tallahassee will muddle this up and take ten years to build it, if it ever gets done.”
He nodded in agreement. “The planning is a mess. Even Wade saw better than the engineers how the bridges will become dams,” he said.
“It is, and you have access to the right engineers. I don’t get why you and your buddies are so reluctant to clean up your mess?”
He was silent for a moment. “And if I do this?”
“Business almost as usual. Grow and sell your sugar, stop the pollution, and you’re free to move on.”
“The murder business?”
“There were dozens of people that wanted old Vernon out of office. Let him take the fall for some of this. Maybe that’ll scare some of his buddies straight,” she said.
“I see. And you will of course be overseeing this?”
“I will be your new best friend.” She paused. “You know, there’s no harm in any of this.”
“I know—all the goodwill. The public will eat it up.” He paused. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Ms. Woodson. Sometimes the game is more fun than the score. It’s easy to get carried away.”
She reached out, took the pictures back, and walked away.
Mac followed, glancing back at Dusharde every few steps, but he just sat there, staring out at the landscape.
“You’re not worried about him coming after us?”
“He understands. What he said about playing the game. It’s the same with all of them. You play until you win, lose, or the rules change. We just changed the rules.”
They were back at the Audi now and exchanged a quick smile of relief as they got in and headed back to Key Largo.
Epilogue
Mac pulled the laptop closer so he could see the screen. The Miami Herald’s web page was open, showing an image of a new section of bridge being built alongside Alligator Alley. The pilings were being set, and the headline praised the progress and the benefits. This two-mile stretch of bridge alone would allow millions of gallons of water to resume their natural course to Florida Bay. Mel had shown him the reaction from the other papers, from Tampa, on the west coast, to St. Lucie, on the east, all rallying behind the project that would alleviate their own water issues.
It had been three months since the meeting with Dusharde. So far, he had been cooperative and had used his influence with the government and the other sugar companies to build a coalition and show the power of the private sector. The project had been taken over by Big Sugar in its entirety. This had been his one condition, and Mel, acting in her new role as liaison between his coalition and the state, had backed him.
The sugar companies had donated or bought the land needed, hired the engineers, and commissioned the environmental reviews. The efficiency of private enterprise was on full display. The costs were confidential, but from what she had seen, they were well under the state’s projections. The big factor was time. The project, void of government bureaucracy, was already years ahead of schedule. The irony of it was that the cost would probably not exceed what Big Sugar had been paying to buy influence and stall it before. The sugar companies had lost little in the deal, in many cases allowing easements instead of giving up land, and had now ensured their future.
Mel had been consumed with the project. Mac was happy she had something to sink her teeth into that really meant something. She had that renewed vigor and purpose that had been missing before. The only cost was her traveling and the satellite internet connection she had added to the island.
Since that afternoon on Dusharde’s patio, he had been restless. He’d done well through dolphin season and had his lobster traps soaking now, but there was something missing. A voice from below broke his train of thought and he went to the door.
Trufante stood at the base of the stairs, still leaning on an old gaff he now used as a cane. His recovery was complete, as far as Mac could see, but he suspected the Cajun liked walking around with a hook.
“Y’all want to go fishing?” he called up.
“I might go. What are you thinking?”
“Heard there was some broke up rafts from the last round of Cubans to come over. Coast Guard’s been using them for target practice after off-loading the refugees. Southeast wind’s stacking it up. Probably some big dolphin sitting under the flotsam,” he said.
“I’d be good with that.”
He went inside and told Mel where he was going, kissed her on the forehead, and turned for the door. “Better watch your back. There’s always something when Trufante’s around,” she said.
Author’s Note
I hope you enjoyed the latest adventure of Mac, Mel, and Trufante. When starting a new book, I usually have a general idea of where I want to go, the main characters, and locations. Then I let it go where it will. In this case it went deep into the Everglades, all the way to the shores of Lake Okeechobee.
I first became familiar with this area when writing the first book in the Tides of Fortune series: Pirate, where Nick and the gang are forced to flee into the Everglades. I used Marjorie Stoneman Douglas’s book River of Grass as my primary resource to describe the ecosystem as it was before man had a hand in changing it.
I had planned on writing about Big Sugar, but had no idea the overall impact a few companies and their executives have on the State of Florida, both politically and environmentally. I generally research enough to try and make the stories believable and minimize the “suspension of disbelief” that an author must tread ligh
tly with, but in this case it went much deeper.
Skimming the surface in the search for realism didn’t work, and I was drawn in to the history of man and nature. Since the 1920s, farmers and developers have been tinkering with this delicate and important ecosystem that feeds Florida Bay. When I started reading, I found it hard to stop. I came in with the general impression that Big Sugar was evil and came out knowing it. The disregard for our health and environment, by these few companies and politicians willing to turn a blind eye, was appalling.
I hope I have given this information in small enough doses to allow the reader to enjoy the adventure, but at the same time to learn what is happening. I also got a little Ayn Randish in the end with my advocacy for private enterprise being more effective than big government. To quote her: “The hardest thing to explain is the glaringly evident which everybody had decided not to see.” This is how I see the sugar industry. If they channeled their resources into fixing this, rather than fighting it, the cost would remain the same, yet the benefits would be indescribable. And I believe one of them would be their own companies’ long-term success.
The discovery of the Aerojet plant in the middle of the Everglades was a side benefit of my research and provided a good backdrop for an important part of the story. The plant and canals built for it are real and in the condition described. The silo, still housing the rocket, was covered over with concrete sections a few years ago. The largest solid-fuel engine ever built is sitting in a 180-foot deep hole in the Everglades.
Thanks for reading, and please feel free to write me with any comments. I’ll be posting from time to time on my blog and Facebook about this important issue.
Steve Becker
February 2017
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While tarpon fishing in the backcountry of the Florida Keys, Mac Travis discovers a plot to drill for oil in the pristine waters.
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Wood's Revenge Page 23