Rising Water

by Wayne Stinnett

  Then the rain came. Not a misty summer rain, usual for this time of year, but a full-on torrent with gale-force winds.

  We went inside and dried off, after reveling in the cool for a moment. Finn was sleeping soundly, lying on the deck at the corner of the couch. Jimmy went straight to the computer and let out a low whistle.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “She’s back up to a five.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Wish I was, hermano.”

  DJ and I looked over Jimmy’s shoulder. The storm was massive, bigger than anything I’d ever seen. Its trailing edge was still battering the Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico with heavy rain, and the leading edge was dumping rain on the western tip of Cuba, a distance I knew to be well over 1000 miles.

  When the rain stopped and the sun came back out, the humidity ratcheted up. We spent the rest of the afternoon putting out more lines, strengthening our boat-holding nylon web of dock lines, then fell into our bunks with nightfall, exhausted. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, my sat phone buzzed. It was a text message from Chyrel.

  Flying home to Alabama in the morning. Thought you’d want to know this. A boat with Cayman registry was found abandoned on the beach earlier this evening in Key West. One body aboard, a small man stripped to his shorts. They think it’s the boat owner. Also found on the boat was a flight attendant’s uniform.

  I texted a thank-you reply and wished her luck.

  Sunna, in Key West?

  She’d stolen the uniform of the flight attendant she’d murdered. Allegedly, anyway. But my brain doesn’t need a lot of proof to make the obvious connections. Why would she go to the Rock? And from where? She’d been spirited away from the Caymans by a private jet that originated out of Mexico and appeared to be headed back there when it disappeared off radar. She was probably somewhere in Mexico. Why would she come to the States? The question was still on my mind as I fell into a restless sleep.

  Hiding out in Key West would be easy. Sunna left the dead man on his boat and went ashore wearing his clothes. She should have dumped the body before reaching shore, but the side of the boat was high and she couldn’t lift him over it. He was small, but not as small as she, so the pant legs and sleeves were rolled up, and his clothes hung limp on her small frame. She didn’t see anyone on the beach, and quickly faded into the darkness between a condo and a museum of some kind.

  A block and a half away, she realized that she’d left the flight attendant’s uniform on the boat. “Modur ridill!” she muttered as she turned to go back. Sirens could be heard as she neared the beach, and she saw several people standing around the boat. She turned and disappeared down a narrow street.

  She’d been filled with rage since the tall man had ridiculed her and the Onayans on the cliff, insinuating she was nothing more than a common drug dealer. He’d been behind the multiple coups on the Onayan communes, she was sure of it.

  She ran things, not Onay. He was simply a figurehead, nothing more. He was polished and people liked him, so Sunna provided him with a steady supply of young girls to satisfy his appetite. But where would he be without her wits?

  They’d set up the new communes in the Virgin Islands after he’d started his original in Japan and branched into Europe. Sunna had taken over most of the planning. Onay brought in new people, with promises of enlightenment. The ritual the tall man had interrupted was but one of many, stripping away the resolve of the new recruits and turning them into obedient followers, who freely gave up their wealth and all their belongings. There were other such communes all over the globe, and Onay moved among them, teaching his spiritualism.

  But it was Sunna who had organized the many far-flung outposts, which soon began to draw in more and more affluent people. She’d made Onay rich. It was also Sunna who had taken care of the troublemakers, bleeding them and feeding the corpses to the hungry sharks on Norman Island that the blood drew in. She used other means to dispose of the bodies in other locations. Her methods always ensured the bodies would never be discovered. And her security team did the dirty work. Most of the time.

  Sunna had people outside the Onayan communes, as well—people who gave her information when she needed it. Others moved the merchandise the small labs on the islands created. Yes, it was drugs. But the people in the streets would get them from somewhere, so she might as well make money from their misery. Someone was going to.

  One person on Norman Island had given her the name of the tall man’s boat. From that, it had been a simple matter to find out his name and where he lived. Jesse McDermitt, of Marathon, Florida, now just forty-odd miles away.

  She walked through residential streets, keeping to the shadows as she snuck away from the beach. The boat and the body of the man who’d brought her from Grand Cayman had been discovered sooner than she’d hoped. But there was nothing she could do about it now. Glancing down a side street, she noticed the next block over was better lit, so she went that way.

  At the corner, tucked into the shadow of tall tropical vegetation, she looked both ways. The signpost said it was Duval Street, which she had heard of. There were no cars at this late hour, still an hour before dawn. She moved along Duval, looking for a clothing store of some kind.

  Killing the flight attendant had been simple. Sunna had overheard that she was new. The woman worked in the back of the plane, where Sunna and the others from the communes had been sequestered. There were two lavatories, one forward and one at the tail of the plane. Before landing, a woman passenger in the front went to the forward lavatory and tripped, causing a commotion. Sunna told the policeman sitting two rows in front of her that she needed to use the facilities and he’d obliged by removing her handcuffs. Sunna had waited in the restroom until the new flight attendant came to the aft compartment, where they stored drinks and snacks. Then she’d made her move, first closing the curtain, then strangling the woman from behind. In the confusion of the landing and the injured passenger, Sunna had put on the flight attendant’s uniform and quietly slipped off the plane unnoticed.

  The ruse the following day, of running out to the private plane, its boarding ladder on the side away from most prying eyes, had worked well. She made sure someone had seen a blonde flight attendant run out to it just before it took off. It was a plane she’d summoned just for that purpose. Sunna had continued around the plane to a building and had waited for the plane to leave before hiring a boat to take her to Key West. Hopefully, the pilot had done his part and flew low enough to not be seen on radar, so the authorities would have no idea where she went. Doing so would reinforce the idea that she was on the airplane.

  She noticed a number of stores on the next block and checked the opening times. After locating one that opened at 8:00 am, she found a place nearby to hide out until morning.

  When Sunna suddenly appeared next to the young man opening the store an hour early, she startled him. “I need clothing,” she said, matter-of-factly. Then she flashed the man a demure smile.

  Her intent was to lure him into a backroom, offering sex if need be. Men were so very simple-minded in that regard. Then she would kill him with the small gun in her pocket, which she’d taken from the dead man on the boat after seducing him and getting him to disrobe.

  The store owner looked down at her and smiled. “You sure do, girlfriend. What happened to you?”

  Sunna immediately realized she wasn’t going to be able to seduce the man. So, she lowered her head and began to sob. “My boyfriend left me here.”

  “There, now,” the man said, turning the knob and pushing the door open before patting Sunna’s back comfortingly. “Come on in, Sugar, and we’ll get you fixed right up. That man must have been a jerk—you are just too cute.”

  She stepped inside and the man turned and locked the door. He stepped back and studied her a moment. “You’re a size two, right?”

  The rain started soon after Sunna left Key
West. The store owner’s early arrival had surprised her, but she’d gotten everything she needed and then some. Dressed in more suitable clothes, she’d re-locked the door and quickly located his car by pushing the lock button on the key fob and following the sound of the beep.

  The car was a nondescript import and it had nearly a full tank of gas. Knowing she could probably get to where she was going before anyone else arrived at the store and found the man’s body lying beside a pillow with two burn holes in it, she pressed on. The pillow had muffled the shots enough that she doubted anyone had heard.

  It had taken her a while to find her way out of Key West. The visibility from the storm didn’t make it any easier. Then, the closer she got to her destination, the more cars there were, all going the same way. Several times, she passed police cars on corners. The first one she’d seen nearly panicked her. But it seemed as if they were ignoring the speeders, as if waiting for something else.

  Sunna finally arrived at a very long bridge at 10:00 am, after nearly three hours of stop-and-go driving to get forty miles. She was worried, because the storekeeper’s body was bound to have been discovered by now. The rain had stopped, but there were more clouds approaching from farther ahead and it was still quite windy. She much preferred the weather of the Virgin Islands, especially Tortola.

  Once she made it safely across the long bridge, Sunna slowed and watched the addresses of the places she passed, while other cars sped past her on the four-lane highway. Finally, she found the right number, painted on an old mailbox, leaning slightly to the side. Sunna turned off the highway, the tires of the stolen car crunching on the shell driveway. Her excitement level was peaking.

  The wind diminished as the car was swallowed by a tropical jungle. She let the car creep forward slowly. This was the address she’d been given by a contact in London who was good with computers. The place she hoped to find McDermitt. She would dispose of the interloper and then disappear. The Onayan numbered accounts in Zurich held enough wealth for several lifetimes of opulence, and Onay wouldn’t be able to access it. She could disappear forever.

  The dense foliage opened up and the driveway widened into a parking area half-full of cars and trucks. It wasn’t the tall man’s house at all, but what looked like a restaurant, though there was no sign saying that.

  “Ah,” she said, as she drove further into the parking area and a house behind the business became visible. “I’ve got you.”

  Parking the car, Sunna got out and looked around. The rain had started again, a fine mist, as if the low-hanging clouds were trying to hold it in. There was a marina also, though it was nearly empty—only one small boat was docked next to a rusty barge. Far out behind the buildings, dozens of boats were parked on the grass and a concrete pad.

  Perhaps the cars and boats are only stored here, she thought. It might be a good idea to see if there was anyone in the business before proceeding to the house behind it.

  With the little semi-automatic handgun tucked into her brand-new purse, she walked toward the door, pulled on the handle and was assailed by a blast of cold air. As she stepped inside the place, she removed her new sunglasses. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, even though there was no bright sunshine outside. She wore the yellow-lensed “driving” glasses she’d found on the rack at the clothing store to conceal her, not to protect her from the sun.

  There were about a dozen people inside, mostly men, and none seemed to notice her entrance, except a rather tall young woman with dark red hair. Everyone else was busy watching a television behind an expansive wooden bar.

  The woman approached Sunna, carrying a menu. Her smile was bright and sincere. “Care for a table?” she asked.

  When the scent of food wafted into her nostrils, Sunna suddenly realized she hadn’t eaten anything in over a day. “Yes, please.”

  “I’m Naomi,” the woman said, leading her to a table next to a window. “Are you on your way out of the Keys?”

  “Um, yes,” Sunna replied.

  She took Sunna’s drink order and left her with the menu, explaining that she didn’t really work there, but was just helping her aunt.

  Sunna looked at the menu while listening to the conversation among the men at the bar. A loud ring came from behind the counter, and the bartender, a short, fat, bald man with a mostly red beard, yelled for quiet. He took an old desk phone from under the bar, placed it in front of him, and lifted the receiver.

  “Y’all hunkered down, Jesse?” the bearded man said, instantly getting Sunna’s full attention. “Looks like we might get a direct hit here.” He listened a moment, obviously talking to the tall man, Jesse McDermitt. “Anyone I know?” he asked.

  The bearded man nodded at one of the patrons and put a beer bottle in front of him.

  “Not exactly,” the bald man said. “We’re all boarded up and everything’s secure, but I put a few folks up in the house. Me and some of the guides are gonna ride it out here at the bar.”

  Sunna didn’t quite understand what he was talking about but suddenly realized that she couldn’t see out the window she was seated next to. The storm shutters were pulled closed.

  “Yeah,” the fat man replied. “Heard about some looting already. It was down to Key West, though. A store owner was robbed and killed when he opened up this morning. The killer got away with his credit cards, a couple hundred in cash from the till, and his car.”

  While the man listened on the phone, he raised his chin in question toward another bar patron. The man shook his head, and stood to leave, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. The bartender waved him off.

  “We’ll likely lose telephone and power tonight,” the man said into the phone. “Check in with me on my satellite phone first thing tomorrow, okay? I just turned it on.”

  He hung up the phone and put it away. One of the men at the bar said, “Is McDermitt riding it out at his little house up in the Content Keys?”

  “Nah,” the man behind the bar replied. “He took the boat up to Tarpon Bay.”

  “Gutsy call,” the other man said, as Sunna slipped out the back door.

  The man who’d left the bar was heading toward the docks, and she hurried after him.

  Saturday morning was dark and gray, but it wasn’t raining. The wind had started to kick up, whistling eerily through the branches all around us. By mid-morning, we’d cleared the mangrove canopy of any dead branches, and went to work on the boats.

  Deciding to break for lunch as another squall bore down on us from the southeast, we headed inside. Finn was dancing around the door, and I realized he hadn’t been able to relieve himself since last night. He didn’t have a problem aboard Salty Dog. I’d converted the shower pan in the forward head to a place any dog would be proud of, even adding an overhead portlight.

  I clipped his leash on and took him to the transom door. “Don’t jump in,” I cautioned him. “It might look like shore’s just beyond the mangroves, but we’re in the ’Glades. No land for miles.”

  He looked disappointed but did what he had to do on the swim platform, and then I hosed it off.

  “What’s the latest?” I asked, as Finn and I stepped back inside the salon.

  “After making landfall on Cayo Romano late last night, it buzzed right up the Cuban coastline, bouncing ashore in several places.” Jimmy looked at me and grinned. “You called it, man. Down to a Category-3 now and they expect further weakening. The storm center is 200 miles south-southeast of Miami.”

  “Tonight then?” DJ asked.

  “No,” Jimmy replied. “The interaction with land has slowed it down, too. They’re still saying it’s gonna turn north and are now predicting a landfall in the Keys tomorrow morning.”

  “But weaker,” DJ said. “Maybe not even a hurricane as fast as it’s weakening?”

  “There’s over eighty miles of warm water in the Straits,” I said. “It’ll likely strengthen so
me.”

  Using my sat phone, I pulled up Rusty’s landline at the bar. “Y’all hunkered down, Jesse?” he said by way of hello. “Looks like we might get a direct hit here.”

  “Yeah, I think we’re good,” I replied. “We’re rafted up with a friend we met along the way.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “No, you never met him. Sort of a co-worker. Have you closed up yet?”

  “Not exactly,” Rusty said. “We’re all boarded up and everything’s secure, but I put a few folks up in the house. Me and some of the guides are gonna ride it out here at the bar.”

  That was typical for Rusty. He’d give a stranger the shirt off his back. There was no doubt that they’d be without power at some point, so he was probably feeding everyone, too. And I also knew that once the storm passed, the men would fan out into the community, helping others before ever checking on their own homes.

  “So, everything’s okay there?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Heard about some looting already. It was down to Key West, though. A store owner was robbed and killed when he opened up this morning. The killer got away with his credit cards, a couple hundred in cash from the till, and his car.”

  “Yeah, well, we both know these things bring out the loonies.”

  “We’ll likely lose telephone and power tonight,” Rusty said. “Check in with me on my satellite phone first thing tomorrow, okay? I just turned it on.”

  I told him I would and ended the call.

  “All that’s left is your mast and rigging,” I told DJ. “It’s deck-stepped and I have plenty of tools. It’d probably be better to take it down.”

  “And do what with it?” DJ asked. “Even lashed to the deck, it could come loose and do all kinds of damage.”

  “Coil the rigging, and stow it and the wiring inside,” I replied. “We can sink the mast and put a dinghy anchor on it, so it doesn’t drift away.”