Wood's Wreck (13 page)

She turned in the direction of Mallory Square and the cruise ship pier, taking a chance that Cayenne had gone toward the busier end of the street. After walking a few blocks and with no idea where the woman went, or even why she was following, she gave up and turned around. She didn’t particularly want to go back to the bar, but she owed Marvin a goodbye, and had to admit she was curious to see how her matchmaking skills had turned out. 

Before she went in, she checked her phone, hoping to see a message from Mac. But the screen was empty and she wondered again if he was all right. A tear formed in her eye, which she wiped away. Just as she braced herself to walk back into the bar, Marvin ran out, almost knocking her to the ground. 

She regained her balance and looked at his tear-streaked face.

“What’s up? I’ve never seen you behave like that. You’re usually the life of the party.” She waited patiently while he breathed and tried to control his emotions. 

“It’s a long story. But sweetie, why are you crying?”

“It’s nothing. Just missing Mac,” she replied. “I’m starting to think something might have happened to him.”

“Well maybe we can help each other. I can use some fresh air. How about we get out of here and take a ride to see your boyfriend.”

“That’s really sweet, but he’s on an island out in the backcountry—my dad’s old place.” 

He smiled. “All the better. I have a boat. If you can get us there, I’d be happy to go. My skin is crawling.”

She gave him a questioning look, “What’s going on with you?”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” he said and started walking.

She followed him as he turned down a side street and walked several blocks. There he reached into his pocket for the car keys and hit the unlock button on the fob. 

Mel was not about to question him. If she had a ride out to the island, she was going to take it. She knew the waters well enough to get there in the dark. 

***

“What’s got into you? Ain’t no gator gonna bite your ass the way you’re movin’ around.” Trufante held the bottle of rum in one hand and a lobster tail in the other. 

Mac paced the clearing, getting more agitated by the moment. “Get up. We’re going back there.”

“Back where?” Trufante slurred, glancing at the inch of liquor remaining in the bottle.

“To the island. We’re going in the back way. Whoever that is, or whatever is going on there, has something to do with this mess you’ve got me in.”

“Now?” Tru took a sip from the bottle and chewed the last bite of meat. 

“Night is best, especially after getting shot at today. There’s a small beach on the other side of the island that we can land on at low tide.” Mac looked at the sky, the full moon hanging low on the horizon. “Ought to give us enough light to see, and the tide will be down, too.”

“Shit.” Trufante swatted a mosquito and finished the bottle. “Think these bad boys are bad here. Wait ‘till we get in the mangroves over there.”

“I got a cure for that. Now get moving.” Mac didn’t wait for an answer. He walked toward the shed and came out with a gas can. “This is the last of it. Ought to get us out there and then to the mainland for a refill. Grab the empties from the clearing by the trailer and let’s move out.”

“What if we get shot at again?” Trufante moaned.

“I’ll take care of that.” Mac took the stairs to the house two at a time and opened the screen door. He couldn’t help but notice how much the passive solar design had helped cool the house off. He walked into the bedroom and went to the closet, relieved when his hand grasped the warm steel of the gun barrel.

He pulled out the 410 shotgun. The chamber was empty and he had a moment of panic before he found the box of shells on the shelf. Pistol grip in one hand and ammunition in the other, he left the house and went down the stairs. It wasn’t an AK or even a rifle, but the sound of a shotgun chambering its load was often as effective as a warning shot. 

“Whatcha gonna do with the snake charmer? Damn thing’s only good for shooting critters.”

“It’s more than we had a minute ago.” He sat on the bottom step and loaded five shells in the chamber, then cocked the gun. “The bark’s worse than the bite, that’s for sure, but it’s what we’ve got.” 

They walked together to the beach, Mac with the gun and Trufante with the gas can. When they reached the boat, Trufante stowed the can and went to the small clearing to retrieve the empties there. Mac climbed over the gunwale and set the shotgun beside the driver’s seat before starting the engine. 

He had to admit he was happy with the way the motor sounded as he pushed the throttle slightly to ensure there were no hitches. Whoever was at the island was dangerous, and he needed to have enough confidence in the boat to get him out of there fast if things went bad. 

Just then, Trufante handed four empty cans over and hopped in the boat. Mac looked at him as he secured the cans to the boat with a bungee cord and wondered how drunk he was. Not that he was much good in a fight anyway, but at least he could take orders if he was sober. 

Trufante finished tying down the cans, sat in the other seat, and put his feet up on the dash. Mac reversed the boat out of the narrow channel, wishing it had twin outboards instead of the single. Two motors would have allowed him to put one in forward and the other in reverse, turning the boat on its center line. With only the single motor, he had to use the forward momentum of the boat to make a turn. 

A hundred yards out he spun the wheel and waited for the boat to come perpendicular to the channel, then pushed down on the throttle and took off into the night. 

***

Mel looked at the boat in the slip, wondering how much water the hull drew. She was probably the only person to evaluate the sleek cruiser by its draft. Everyone else admired its lines and expensive appointments. Not worried about the comfort the boat would provide, she was more worried about taking it into the backcountry. She moved to the stern of the thirty-something-foot vessel and looked in the water.

“Sweetie, no worries. She draws a smidgen less than two feet. Better than most of these boats.” Marvin waved his arms at the other boats moored in the marina, expensive outboards hanging from their transoms. “Twin drive and pretty fast.”

Mel looked up, relieved. The shallowest flat they would have to cross was over three feet at low tide, and with the moon the way it looked, low tide was going to be pretty low tonight. But with an extra foot under the keel, they might be fine. It would be up to her to navigate the treacherous waters and make sure of that. 

“Got a chart plotter?”

“Yes, and a blender. Ready for anything.”

Mel hopped the short gap between the boat and the dock, landing easily on the clean fiberglass. She went to the helm and looked at the electronics. Satisfied, she turned to Marvin. “She’ll do.”

“Sweetie, she’ll more than do.” He went forward and untied the dock line, tossing it onto the bow, then went to the stern and released the line there. With a hop he was on the boat, key in hand. “I guess you ought to drive. I can barely get out of here in daylight.”

Mel already had the engines started and waited for the gauges to come up. Once the engine had warmed, she pulled forward from the slip into the channel leading to the Gulf of Mexico. She held course close to the red markers—shining in the moonlight—on her port side, knowing the channel was deeper here. As soon as they passed the last marker, she pushed the throttles down.

“OK. We’ve got an hour and a bit. Let’s hear what’s going on with you.”

***

The moon provided the perfect amount of light for Mac to navigate the dangerous waters at night. He kept the running lights on as he crossed the flats and entered Harbor Channel, figuring that with the light of the moon, the boat would be visible anyway. No reason to attract attention running dark like they were doing something wrong. 

There was a faster, more direct way than backtracking to the channel, but at night, the slightest mistake would ground them. He saw the lighted pile marking the deeper water and turned west just short of it. Now on the outside of the chain of barrier islands, he got the boat up on plane and quickly covered the four miles to the Sawyer Keys. Ten minutes later, the outline of the mangrove lined shore came into view. He cut the running lights and slowed the boat.

He kept the boat a quarter mile offshore as he passed the entrance. He had intimate knowledge of many of the small keys in this area, but had never been interested in Sawyer, mainly because of the area’s status as a Wildlife Management Area. There were plenty of other productive fishing and lobster grounds around, and he had no reason to be anywhere near a managed area, although that just added to the irony of Trufante getting caught here. 

He had found a chart in Wood’s living room and studied the island earlier, committing the shape, water depth, and landmarks to memory. The Sawyer Keys were exactly that—a cluster of mangrove-covered islands with a small lagoon and a tidal creek. 

Looking at the cluster of islands from a bird’s eye view on the chart, he’d seen where he had entered the concealed creek and where the building was. That approach was too dangerous, as was the more open entry from the shallow lagoon. He had passed by the larger Key several times and noticed a narrow beach on the seaward side of the island, and after seeing it on the chart, he felt comfortable that they could make landfall there and bushwhack through the mangroves to the other side of the island. 

It wouldn’t be pleasant, but he had no doubt they would be unobserved.

He took the boat past the island, headed inshore, and approached the islands by the unmarked Johnston Key Channel. The beach came into view and he slowed the boat further. 

“Hey, toss the anchor,” he said quietly.

“What you mean toss the anchor? Why don’t you take her up on the beach?” Trufante whined.

Mac had no patience to negotiate; remembering the chart and knowing how low the tide would be later, he realized he wouldn’t be able to plow through the sandy bottom to get out of there. It was out here, in the deeper water, or nothing.

He pulled back on the throttles, left the wheel, and went forward to open the hatch on the bow and take out the small anchor. It looked more like a dingy anchor, too light for the weight of this boat and he felt no better as he pulled out only eight feet of chain with it. Rental boats were famous for skimping on ground hardware, knowing that many customers would fight the charges when they lost the anchor and line. The waves rocked the light boat and he was thrown off balance as he held the chain in one hand and the hook in the other. It would have to do.

The anchor splashed as he dropped it into the six-foot-deep water and looked back at Trufante, who must have sensed Mac’s anger and had gone to the wheel. Trufante pulled the throttle and the transmission clicked into reverse. Mac fed out the rode while Trufante backed down the boat. The current was with them, and the boat drifted closer to the island until it came to a quick stop as Mac tied off the line to a cleat. He had set much of the line out, hoping the extra scope would compensate for the small anchor and lack of chain. 

He was over the side and into the waist-deep water, holding the shotgun over his head and a flashlight in his teeth, a moment later. He waited for Trufante, who joined him with a machete held over his head. They waded the one hundred feet to the beach and exited the water. There, Mac looked at the moon to get his bearings and motioned for Trufante to start hacking a trail through the brush as he held the light from behind. They waded through muck and swatted mosquitos for an hour as they slowly cut their way through the brush until they saw a small light through the branches.

Mac leaned toward Trufante and whispered, “Got to be quieter from here on out. I got it.” 

He took the machete and started slashing at the branches, his blistered hands stinging. He wondered if the rum had made Trufante’s numb, since the other man hadn’t said anything about it. They were getting scraped and bitten but moved faster now, as he cut as narrow a trail possible for them to get by. 

Minutes later, they reached the end of the brush and stared at the back of the house ten feet away. The house was dark, with the exception of one window, where a light showed. Mac stepped out of the brush, hunched over, and ran for the house. Trufante was on his heels and they moved along the building, away from the light. They circumnavigated the structure and relaxed slightly when he noticed the boat was gone. 

The house appeared to be empty, and he made his way to the lit window and nodded to Trufante, who at six foot five could easily see inside. 

“Son of a bitch. There’s some flesh in there.”

“What are you talking about?” Mac inched closer to look in. He didn’t have the vantage point of the Cajun, but he could clearly see three women lounging on cushions. 

“Hot damn. I got to meet these ladies,” Trufante mumbled, staring.

Mac started to pull him away when they heard a scream from the room. “Now you’ve done it.” 

Three faces stared back at him, one girl banging on the glass. It appeared they were trying to get his attention. One of the girls made a motion with her hands that looked like she wanted him to go around and unlock the door. 

Mac knew the boat was gone, and was hoping the house was empty except for the women. He paused before he moved, trying to figure out if the women would be any benefit to him. In the end, although they might be trouble, he decided to see if they knew anything that could help him. 

His mind made up, he headed for the front, Trufante following like a dog.

Chapter 15

The man watched the lights from shore with trepidation as the boat closed on the coast. It certainly wasn’t America, he thought, as he waited for the boat to deliver him. The US coast was lit up like a Christmas tree, while here the lights were sparse and intermittent—a sure sign of the difference in economies and culture.