Legend in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  As McCabe walked off, he read the inscription on the back, and his hands began to shake.

  This is it. My break has finally come.

  The inscription on the back was a riddle. Though he couldn’t figure out its meaning right away, one part of it was clear: he needed to get to Key West.

  He glanced at his watch. It was four in the afternoon. The train station was just a few blocks away. He’d heard reports of a storm, but it wasn’t believed to be significant. A tropical anomaly, the local papers had called it. Nothing to cause too much concern.

  Pocketing his find, he took off for the station. When he reached it fifteen minutes later, the man at the ticket counter explained that there were no trains heading south.

  “The storm’s picking up, so I hear,” he explained. “Only train heading south is a relief train for the workers on Matecumbe.”

  He motioned toward the tracks. Old 447, a 160-ton locomotive, rested on the nearest railway with eleven cars attached behind it. A swarm of railroad workers were preparing to get underway.

  McCabe stepped away from the ticket counter. Reaching into his pocket, he wrapped his right hand around the compass. In his other pocket, he had two dollars. That was all that was left, the only wealth to his name. With a wife and three kids at home, he had no choice.

  I am a man of fortune, and I must seek my fortune, he thought, remembering the line from the famous pirate Henry Avery.

  He looked around, then headed down the walkway alongside the tracks. When no one was looking, he darted behind an outbuilding, then eyed the rear train car. There was a fence between them, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle with a running start. He looked around, then, just as he was about to make his move, a voice startled him.

  “There you are, Douglas,” a man said in a strong Irish accent.

  McCabe turned around, saw his friend Caleb O’Reilly. He was shorter than McCabe but wide-shouldered and strong. In addition to the red hair they both had, O’Reilly had a matching thick beard.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for yuh,” he continued. “John said he saw yuh headin’ for the tracks. Yuh—” He paused when he saw the look in his friend’s eyes. “What are yuh doin’, Douglas?”

  McCabe had no choice but to let his friend in on what he’d found. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the compass, and handed it to O’Reilly. The big Irishman froze in disbelief for a moment as he grabbed the antique and read the inscription. The story of Hastings and the hidden diamond was regarded as pure legend, but the two collectors knew that every legend usually had at least a little bit of truth to it.

  O’Reilly paused a moment, collecting his thoughts.

  “There’s a storm comin’, Douglas,” he said. “Haven’t you read the paper? We should wait until it passes.”

  A train whistle blew violently behind them, signaling the train’s departure.

  “You can wait. I’m going now.”

  McCabe grabbed the compass, pocketed it, then turned back to look at the train.

  “You’re crazy. You’ll get yourself killed. I received the latest word that the pressure’s dropped to twenty-seven inches.”

  McCabe didn’t care about the risks. When the coast was clear, he took off for the fence. O’Reilly hesitated, then followed right behind him. Without being seen, the two Irishmen boarded the rear car just as its wheels began to move. They hid in a cramped closet until the locomotive brought them up to speed, then ducked out into a row of seats.

  After a ten-minute delay crossing the Miami river, the train barreled south toward the Keys. The veteran engineer, a man named J.J. Haycraft, decided to shift the locomotive from the front to the rear in Homestead. This would allow him to back his way down the island chain, then hightail it out of there once everyone was piled aboard.

  McCabe and O’Reilly looked through the window panels at the menacing dark sky that they were heading toward. The winds were already roaring violently. Anything capable of movement began to shake and vibrate as they passed by.

  By the time they reached Key Largo, visibility was near zero. Sheets of pelting rain slammed against the cars, winds in excess of 150 miles per hour pummeled into the cars, and massive swells crashed up to twenty feet above sea level. The two Irish collectors were quickly realizing the significance of their mistake as they rode into the jaws of the massive, terrifying beast.

  They both felt their ears pop from the changes in pressure. O’Reilly had been wrong. The barometers in Islamorada had plunged from a typical 29.9 to 26.35 inches of mercury, the lowest reading ever recorded in US history.

  The farther south they steamed, the closer they came to the eye of the most powerful storm ever to make landfall on US soil. Near its center, gusts exceeded two hundred miles per hour, winds stronger than most tornadoes. The islands were being stripped completely bare. Houses, trees, cars, roads, everything was being blown away in a horrific storm that left behind nothing but sand.

  As the train muscled along at just twenty miles per hour through the category five behemoth, Haycraft spotted a group of refugees holding on for dear life beside the track right at the end of Plantation Key. Somehow he managed to see them through the chaotic, black bottomless pit surrounding them. The train was the last and only hope for the 650 World War I veterans living in mere shanties as they worked as part of FDR’s New Deal, along with the hundreds of locals in the Matecumbes. But Haycraft couldn’t leave these helpless people to die in the storm. He brought the train to a stop, and the crew helped them aboard.

  McCabe and O’Reilly moved into the adjoining car to avoid being seen, then sat and remained hidden as the train struggled to accelerate. The wind and rain pounded the car, shaking it like a violent earthquake.

  O’Reilly had been staring at McCabe’s pocket, and he couldn’t take it any longer. He reached for the compass, but McCabe slid sideways and shoved him away.

  “What the hell are you doing?” McCabe said, staring angrily at his lifelong friend.

  The storm outside was striking fear into both of them, but O’Reilly seemed to be doing a good job of avoiding it.

  “You take me for a fool, Douglas,” O’Reilly said. “You intended to find the diamond and take it for yourself. To leave me in the shadows. Twenty years, Douglas. Twenty years as partners and friends since childhood.”

  A loud gust of wind whipped the side of the car, causing it to shudder and shake like a terrified quarry.

  McCabe snatched a switchblade from his coat pocket and pointed the blade at O’Reilly. O’Reilly laughed menacingly, then lunged for McCabe, grabbing him by his shirt and slamming him to the floor. The train accelerated suddenly, causing both men to roll back down the aisle as they struggled to subdue the other.

  O’Reilly punched McCabe twice in the face while yelling out curses. McCabe managed to retaliate by slicing a gash in O’Reilly’s cheek, causing blood to spill out.

  Enraged, O’Reilly grabbed hold of his friend and slammed him into the side of a seat. Squeezing McCabe’s wrists, he slammed the knife from his hands, sending it rattling to the deck. A subsequent punch sent McCabe staggering back into a seat.

  O’Reilly shuffled as best he could in the shaking train. Grabbing the knife from the deck, he regained his balance, then lunged toward McCabe and stabbed the blade deep into his chest. The two men made sinister eye contact for a few seconds. Just as O’Reilly was about to finish off his friend, there was a sudden loud crashing sound as a palm tree was thrown through one of the windows. Glass shattered, and the massive projectile nearly killed them. A waterfall of rain pelted their faces. The wind was so strong that they had to bend down and cup their mouths to get even the smallest amount of air into their lungs.

  McCabe crawled desperately toward the door. He managed to grab the handle, but the wind was howling too strong for him to push it open. During a short break in the relentless gusts, he managed to shove it open a few inches. O’Reilly staggered to his feet and ran after him, his body shifting left and right from t
he shaking car. He tackled his old friend out the door, sending both of them into the dark inferno of the terrifying hurricane.

  The two men yelled and fought with everything they had before a powerful wind-fueled wave grabbed hold of them and pulled them into the storm like a monster ripping its prey from a hiding place.

  O’Reilly’s head slammed hard against the edge of a trestle, crushing his skull and killing him instantly. McCabe splashed into the surging swells, the torrent tossing him around like a feather in the merciless pitch-black hell. He managed to catch two short breaths before he was dragged deep into the vortex and his lungs filled with seawater. As nature took his life, the gold compass fell from his pocket and sank into the dark, thundering tempest.

  TWO

  Key West

  October 2009

  Walt Grissom stepped off the white bus with wavy green and blue stripes at the corner of Whitehead and Fleming Streets. He directed his gaze to the green sign with white letters across the street that read “MILE 0.” It marked either the end or the beginning of US-1, depending on your direction. For Walt, it marked the end of the line. His last hope.

  He was average height and weight but had an endurance and spring in his step that were unusual for a man in his seventies. His thick hair and scruffy beard were all salt and no pepper. His skin was leathery from a lifetime out on the ocean. He wore tan shorts, leather flip-flops, a dark blue long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of JFK-style sunglasses connected to a strap that hung loosely around his neck.

  He turned to the west, stood stoic and breathed in the fresh sea air mixed with diesel fumes from the idling bus. Once the pale, wide-eyed visitors exited and the sunburned ones boarded, the bus’s hydraulics engaged, lifting the end up off the curb.

  If he walked ten blocks southeast on Whitehead Street, he’d come face-to-face with the oversized concrete buoy that marks the southernmost point of the continental United States.

  Key West, the tropical paradise he’d called home for much of his life. It felt good to be back, but Walt didn’t have time to reminisce. He wasn’t there just for a visit. No, he had important, life-or-death business to attend to.

  He turned around and looked down the long stretch of Fleming Street. His destination, and last hope for survival, was only a few blocks away. Just off the main hustling and bustling downtown area. He clutched his worn backpack tightly, then secured it over his shoulders. He didn’t have much, but he’d always been a bit of a minimalist.

  Once considered to be one of the greatest treasure hunters in the world, Walt had made a substantial living scouring the Caribbean for treasure. But after fifteen years of failed expeditions, he’d whittled his small fortune down to nothing but the little wad of cash in his front pocket. Needing to regain his former glory, he’d decided to go after a famous wreck in the Mediterranean. But he’d needed to borrow money to do it. A lot of money.

  “Our institution doesn’t approve loans for hobbies,” managers told him at every bank he stepped into.

  Desperate, Walt had turned to the wrong kind of people. Illegal gamblers and lifelong criminals from Albania.

  After four months of searching, the wreck had been found by a maritime survey team from Egypt. Walt had spent nearly everything and had nothing to show for it.

  With no other options, Walt had snuck off the operation before his creditors had come to demand payment. He didn’t know how much time he had before they figured out where he’d run off to, but he knew it wouldn’t be long.

  Stopping for a moment at the corner of Fleming and Duval, he reached behind him and made sure that the backpack’s main compartment zipper was still secured. Its contents were his last chance. A Hail Mary like no other he’d tossed up before. But if he succeeded, he’d not only be able to pay off his debt, he’d also solve one of the world’s greatest mysteries.

  Walt kept his eyes forward and his gait rushed as he made his way through the busy downtown streets. Among the Conch Republic, Key West is often referred to as Key Weird. Never is that title more fitting than during the ten days at the end of October every year. The wild weirdness is amplified off the charts, with madness and parties filling the streets long into the night. This unique and unforgettable event is known as Fantasy Fest.

  Since its inception in 1979, Fantasy Fest has become the biggest annual celebration in the Keys. Over sixty thousand people turn out every year, nearly tripling the city’s population. The famous festival is known for its wild costumes, parades, fireworks, and boat races.

  As the sun began to fall in front of him, he turned down Mangrove Street. Just a few quick blocks from the hustle and bustle of the main drags, he gazed upon his old friend’s restaurant for the first time in nearly twenty years. He read the words “Salty Pete’s Bar, Grill, and Museum,” painted in white letters against a blue backdrop. He barely recognized the renovated structure. The colors had changed, the seashell parking lot had doubled in size, and he could see a large added balcony extending from the second floor out back.

  He stepped up onto the front porch, past a few small groups standing idly, and pulled the door open. A bell rang out, signaling his entrance. The high-pitched sound was barely noticeable over the voices and chaos of the packed house. Every booth and table was filled with locals and tourists alike, filling their stomachs with some of the best seafood in the world.

  The inside looked different but was similar to how he remembered it. The walls were covered with old photographs, fishing nets, an impressive marlin, a few wooden helms, and various other nautical memorabilia from around the island chain.

  “Afraid the wait’s half an hour for a table,” a brunette waitress said. She was pretty and had a ready smile. “But you’re in luck if it’s just you.” She motioned across the dining area and added, “Got one spot left at the bar.”

  Walt eyed her name tag, which was pinned to a light blue Salty Pete’s tee shirt.

  “Thank you, Mia, but I’m here to see the owner,” he said in a high-pitched, crackling voice. “That crusty barnacle around?”

  Mia quickly eyed the man up and down. She’d never seen him before but knew that Pete’s list of acquaintances ran deeper than their beer kegs.

  After a few seconds, she nodded. “Last I checked, Pete was upstairs. I can get him for you, Mr.…?”

  “No need,” Walt said, waving a hand at her. “I’ll go up and find the old seadog myself.”

  “You hungry?”

  Walt sniffed the air and smiled.

  “For Pete’s grub? Of course. What’s the catch today?”

  “Grouper.”

  Walt nodded. “I’ll order a plate a little later. Got some business to attend to.”

  Mia told him to let her know, and he headed for the large wooden staircase at the back of the dining room. The second story of Salty Pete’s was the museum part. Rows of glass cases displaying artifacts from around the islands covered the floor. A group of tourists stood admiring an old cannon and reading about its history.

  Walt headed for a large sliding glass door that led out to a balcony just as packed as the main dining area below. The moment his hand wrapped around the handle, a familiar voice called out from behind him.

  “Wally?” Pete Jameson said as he stepped toward Walt. “Who the hell let you in here?”

  Walt turned around and smiled. Pete’s low, pirate-like voice was unmistakable.

  “Place looks nice, Petey,” Walt replied, nodding at the glass cases surrounding them. “Looks like you’ve made a little dinero for a change.”

  Pete laughed and pulled his old friend in for a big hug.

  “It’s good to see you, old-timer,” Pete said. “How the hell have you been? Haven’t seen you in what, twenty years?”

  They let go of each other, and Walt nodded.

  “You always said the islands would call me back someday.”

  “Yeah, well, I figured it’d be a few years tops. Last I heard you were looking for a ship in the Mediterranean. Any luck?”

&nbs
p; Walt’s smile quickly vanished.

  “Oh, that bad, huh?”

  Walt looked over his old friend’s shoulder.

  “Your office still back in the corner? I could sure use a drink.”

  “That it is,” Pete replied. “And I’ve got just the bottle.” He turned and motioned toward the corner. “Come on, let’s take a load off. You look terrible, old friend. Long travel day?”

  “You have no idea.”

  THREE

  The two old friends headed across the room, and Pete pushed open a creaky wooden door, welcoming Walt into his corner office. Like much of the restaurant, the walls were covered with pictures and old maps of the Keys. He had a few large bookshelves filled with everything from Cussler to the Encyclopedia Britannica. An old wooden desk rested in the far corner with a faded leather chair behind it. The desktop was covered in papers, a few open books, and various knickknacks.

  Walt sat on a linen sofa, and Pete plopped down into the leather chair. Reaching into a small compartment under the desk, Pete pulled out an old, faded bottle of rum and two diamond whiskey glasses.

  “Found these in a pirate treasure trove on Lignumvitae,” he said. “Over three hundred years old. The pride of the pirate Captain John Shadow’s reserve.”

  Walt grinned as Pete poured the drinks and added a few chilled whiskey stones from a tiny freezer behind the desk. They each grabbed a glass, clinked them together, then took small sips to savor the flavor.

  Both men leaned back and gave satisfied expressions.

  “Not that I’m complaining,” Walt said, “but I thought you’d decided to trade up your metal detector for a spatula?”

  Pete took another sip, then leaned back into his chair.

  “You remember what you said when I told you that I wanted to open a restaurant?”

  Walt laughed. “Once you catch the treasure bug, it never goes away.”