Wood's Wreck (18 page)

He quickly found two wires for the dead man’s switch, stripped them, and twisted them together. Next he located the wires that ran to the starter. The two wires cut and stripped, he moved to the transom, pressed the fuel ball until he could feel the gas inside it, and went back to the helm. The hot wire clamped in the jaws of the pliers, he moved the neutral wire to it and touched them together. 

The engine coughed and died. 

Again he joined the wires, and this time the engine caught. He released the wires and went to free the dock lines. The boat was free now, and he pulled back the throttle and eased backwards into the main channel before shifting to forward and heading out of the canal.

He scanned the horizon for the boat he expected to return any time, but was distracted by something large against the mangroves. Thinking it was a manatee and not a threat, he looked out to the rental boat he had abandoned last night. He thought about towing it, but didn’t want to waste any time. Seconds later, he found the sweet spot for the single engine and the boat got up on plane and started to skip over the small waves as he steered a course back to Wood’s. 

***

Mel yelled at Marvin to slow as they pulled past the Spanish Harbor marker and into deeper water. She had been watching the helicopter circle the Sawyer Keys, but with no boats on the surface, their search was in vain and it moved away. Cayenne had probably been underwater when her boat left, and she thought about going back to search for her, but with the helicopter still in the area, that didn’t seem like a good idea. 

She knew she had to go back to her dad’s and see what was really going on with Mac, and hoped the information she had discovered would make her apology easier. She was feeling guilty at the way she had treated him last night, running off without giving him an opportunity to even try and explain the obvious—how it was all Trufante’s fault. 

“We’re going back to my dad’s, OK?” She felt badly about how she had used Marvin as well. But he just nodded and changed course for the small key in the distance. 

He must have caught her veiled apology. “You know, sweetie, this is the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

She smiled and punched him gently on the shoulder as he navigated the channel. They reached Wood’s ten minutes later and tied up to the same piling they had the night before. Hard to believe it had been less than twelve hours, she thought as she climbed off the swim platform into the knee-deep water and waded to the beach. This time Marvin followed, and she waited at the shore line for him. Together they followed the trail to the house, not sure what to expect as they entered the clearing and looked around. 

It appeared deserted. She called out for Mac, but there was no answer. After calling again, she climbed the stairs to the house and went in. There was no one there. She searched the bedroom and went back onto the deck. 

***

They had been there for several hours and were mosquito bitten and restless, but both knew the consequences of being caught. The two men huddled together in the mangroves, waiting for the sun to reach the horizon. The man started to move toward the roots where he had stashed the scooter the night before. 

“It’s time.” He spat in the mask and washed it with the scummy water. “Hope you know how to use this. He handed him the extra mask and snorkel. It’s about half an hour to get out of the bay and to the pickup point. Just hold on and keep your head in the water.” 

He placed the mask on his face and the snorkel in his mouth. With a nod, he submerged the scooter and waded after it. The other man hesitated but then followed him into the water and held onto his shoulders as instructed.

The scooter pulled the men through the bay at a mere four miles per hour. The pickup point was two miles away, and they had half an hour to the rendezvous. He had timed it perfectly, he thought, as he lifted his face out of the water to check his course. It was hard to see anything, the setting sun placing a harsh glare on the water, but as hard as it made it to navigate, it would also help make them invisible. 

There was a compass strapped to the handle of the scooter, but the path out of the bay was complicated, and he needed to follow the landmarks instead of a set course. They were halfway to the open water now as he raised his head, squinted into the sun and adjusted their course to the breakwater. This would be the hardest part of the trip—pushing through the surge as they entered the open ocean. 

He pulled the trigger to the maximum speed, hoping the scooter had enough power to propel both men through the waves pushing through the inlet. His head underwater and breathing through the snorkel, he kept the scooter at full speed as it slowly pulled them through the break. Several minutes later he lifted his head out of the water again and looked back at the land receding in the distance. 

He checked his watch and realized they still had ten minutes until the rendezvous. With nothing to keep them buoyant, he slowly circled the spot, looking and listening for the sound of the boat coming for them. Again he checked his watch. 

This time he realized the boat was late. 

From experience he knew that these things never went off on time, but with every passing minute he became more anxious. At ten minutes past the set time, he began to worry even more as he noticed the man on his back start to struggle. There was nothing he could do except circle, so he ignored the man and continued listening for the boat.

A long five minutes later he heard a motor and reached for the cyalume light stick attached to the lanyard of the scooter. He removed the stick, careful to loop its cord around his wrist. If he dropped the light, there would be no pick up, as they would be invisible in the dark. The green light grew brighter as he snapped the stick and held it over his head. The sound of the boat came closer and he breathed in relief that the driver had seen the signal. 

Several minutes later he was on the transom helping Armando out of the water. Once the man was on the top step of the ladder, he climbed onto the boat and had to catch himself as the driver gave a quick glance back to make sure they were aboard before gunning the engines and heading towards Key West. The lights of Cuba faded behind him as he glanced over at the player, who was watching the horizon, getting his last glimpse of his home.

Chapter 20

Cayenne was getting scared as she waited in the mangroves for the sound of the boat to recede. With her head under water she had been fine, the water clear and the current easy, but now that she had to raise it to see what was happening and she found herself surrounded by mangrove roots and branches. Bugs dropped from the trees and then a screach from the brush sent a chill down her spine. She decided to take her chances on who was in the boat and where it was going and swim for the cove. 

The clear water soon became murky as she closed on the dock, and something brushed past her, causing her to scream in her regulator. She panicked, using her arms as well as her legs to flail through the water. Her air ran out or at least she thought it had as she started hyperventilating and spat out the regulator. Tears streamed from her eyes as she saw the dock and the feeding frenzy around a caracass. Sharks. Sharks in the water, and she was swimming right for them.

She screamed and turned, swimming frantically for the other end of the dock. 

She reached the wooden structure and tried to haul herself out of the water, but the tank and gear weighed too much, causing her to fall backwards twice. She was breathing hard and still crying, but somehow she realized she needed to lose the extra weight, and started to fumble with the buckle of the BC. Finally she gained enough composure to unbuckle it and took off the gear, sending the vest, tank, and weights to the bottom. Without the extra weight, she propelled herself with her fins and jumped onto the dock. 

It took several minutes for her to catch her breath and calm down enough to take in her surroundings. The first thing she noticed was that the boats were gone. Then she couldn’t help but look at the activity around the cage. She took off her fins and mask, laid them on the dock, and walked over to the cage, where she saw the shark carcass, torn apart at the stomach. Several predators were feeding on the entrails and meat, fighting amongst themselves for the prime cuts. She heaved the contents of her stomach into the water. 

Turning away, she looked toward the house. If both boats were gone, it was probably empty, and she could clean up and think up an excuse for being here. She felt confident—as long as she played it right—that Jay would be happy to see her. She could tell him she felt badly about the whole lobster thing and wanted to make it up to him. The captain who had brought her the other day had dropped her off and here she was, ready to make up.

***

Mac saw the boat from a distance as he approached, its profile sitting high above the water, and wondered what was going on. Did they circle back after his capture or did he just make a bad call going after them? Mel wasn’t like that, though—once she made up her mind, that was usually that. 

In any event, he was glad that she was here, and eased the boat next to the larger craft, tying off to its starboard side. There were no fenders onboard the center console, so he pulled the lines tight enough that their rub-rails were touching, jumped off, and headed for the beach.

He was running blindly down the path, both his body and brain reeling, when he felt the tip of the spear pushed into his stomach.

“Put that thing away,” he said as he saw her.

“Good to see you too.” She looked him over. “What happened? I heard a boat pull up and grabbed the only thing around.” 

“Can we go back to the house?” He looked down at his cut-up legs.

“Sorry. Of course.” She lifted the butt of the speargun to her stomach and pulled off the tension band. 

They walked side by side back to the house, not avoiding each other, but not touching, either. When they reached the clearing, Mac saw Marvin on the balcony. “Can we talk privately?”

“He’s in this almost as deep as we are. I think he should hear whatever it is you have to say straight from you. He also uncovered some interesting things about our redheaded friend and her non-profit.”

Mac gave her a questioning look.

“Our Miss Cannady was the redhead that suckered Tru to take your boat and poach those lobsters. Where is he, anyway?”

“Tru? I have no idea. I’ve kinda had a hard night.” He went up the stairs, nodded at Marvin, and went straight for the bedroom, where he closed the door. Alone for a minute, he took stock of himself. Small cuts and scrapes covered his legs and feet, and the blisters on his hands from pulling the crab traps were scraped raw, but nothing looked infected. Otherwise he was tired, but unhurt. He headed out the back door of the room onto the small deck, turned on the shower, and soaked under the hot water fed from the solar tank on the roof. 

The water soon turned tepid, then cool as the tank ran out. He dried off and went into the bedroom, the towel slung around his waist, to retrieve his clothes. These he hung over the rail to dry in the sun. He faced the door, ran his hands through his thinning hair, and pushed the door open.

The first thing he noticed was Marvin staring at him, but before he could say anything Mel gave the man a stern look. They went outside on the deck and sat facing each other, though Mac arranged his chair using Mel as a shield to screen him.

“OK, so let’s go back to the beginning. Tell me about the girls and Tru,” Mel said.

“Jeez, girl. I think we’re on the same side here … or at least we should be. Lose the lawyer tone.”

“Sorry, can’t help myself sometimes. But really. What happened?”

Mac gave her the rundown of his reconnaissance effort the night before. How they had found the girls and brought them back. “That’s it for that chapter. We came back here, you saw the girls and flipped out. I followed you, ran out of gas, and was taken by that freak on the island.”

“So we have no idea where Tru and the girls are?” she asked.

“None.” Mac could feel his body now; the adrenaline of the escape was wearing off fast, leaving him more tired than he would admit. “And I’m not really caring about that one.”

She dropped the question. Trufante was of no consequence at this point. He would likely bugger up any plan he was involved in. “So that guy on the island is mixed up in this, too?” She asked.

“I’m thinking so, but we have no direct proof of that. He’s crooked for sure—smuggling, girls, and all—but I don’t have anything to tie him to the poaching.” 

He thought of the picture he had taken from the house on the island, and went back inside to retrieve it. Back outside, he handed the frame to Mel before sitting down. 

She held the picture out. “I’m not sure how much we want to connect them now. This is CIA headquarters and the older man is the current director.”

The picture started to become clear. The whole smuggling thing smelled and now that Mel had identified the man in the picture he knew it must be a CIA operation. There wasn’t enough money in smuggling stuff in and out of Cuba to make it worth the risk and expense for anyone without another agenda. The girls were a question, but not really a concern. 

“So he’s CIA? That doesn’t mean he’s not mixed up in poaching, though.”

“True, but let’s get past him for a minute. Cayenne is the logical person to clear you, since she was the one involved. Marvin, why don’t you tell him what you found.”

Mac turned to face him, wondering what the flamboyant guy could add to the conversation.

“Well, it seems like our redheaded temptress is in some trouble with her little non-profit coral thingy. The books are sketchy and she’s using IRS forms, declaring that there is money missing from the business.”

Mac wasn’t sure what this had to with his problem. 

“She’s desperate, Mac,” Mel added.

Marvin continued, “She’s broke, but has to keep the coral farm open for appearances. You know, running a groovy little non-profit to farm coral. Please, she gets invited everywhere because of that - you know it’s not her charming personality. Anyway, she’s running cash into it from unnamed sources, with no records or receipts, and always keeping the deposits to less than ten thousand. Then she’s taking whatever is left out on the back end, declaring that it’s missing. It’s common for non-profits to do this. For some reason, the IRS gives them a kind of immunity against being responsible with their business. As long as you declare it on the right line of the right form, they let you off without any questions. It’s really a pretty sweet money laundering scheme—way above her badly died head.”