Wood's Wreck (4 page)

Chapter 4

They emerged from the cabin a half-hour later. Cayenne gave him a sheepish smile, then went to her dive bag and started unloading her gear onto the deck. Trufante watched her move as she started assembling the BC and regulator to the tank. 

She turned toward him, all business now. “How do we do this?”

“Do what?” he asked. “You’ve been a little light on the details. I got the part about abandoned traps, but these have buoys. They’re marked”

“The buoys are for our coral farm. The traps are a little further out and they’re not marked,” she smiled. “Promise. The buoys mark lines that are anchored to the bottom. There are short lines every few feet that the coral grows on.” 

“Coral what?” He looked out at the calm water, wishing his eyes could penetrate the surface. He had an ear for the wrong, and this didn’t sound right.

She seemed to sense his mood. “They’re loaded. Just tell me what to do.”

“Loaded, huh?” He rubbed his forehead and shielded his eyes from the sun as he continued to stare at the water. The lure of the potential payday distracted him and he went toward the starboard side where he released the winch line. The wheel spun slowly as he pulled the steel cable off. “You know how deep it is?”

“I think it’s about thirty feet.”

He laid the cable on the deck and went for a small buoy with a line attached. “What we’re going to have to do is get right on top of them. That means you’re going to have to go down and mark the spot with this. Then come back up and we can move the boat.”

“We have to move the boat? That’s a lot of time and work,” she whined.

“Sweetheart, if you want what’s in those traps, you’ve got to pull them straight up. I don’t even know if there’s enough cable to reach from here.”

She looked down. “I’m a little scared to be diving by myself. You’re not supposed to do that, you know.”

Trufante looked at her. “Ain’t nothing to be done about that now. I’ll be on the boat. I can see you from here,” he said and handed her the buoy.

She shot him a nasty look, tossed her hair back, put the mask over her head, and went to the transom. He grabbed the tank and brought it over to the swim platform where she waited, then helped her into the straps. She was acting like a spoiled teenager, and he hoped they could get this done quickly. The politics of women were
not
in his wheelhouse. 

He checked the air and tapped her shoulder, giving a thumbs-up sign. She stood and took a giant stride into the water, submerging awkwardly with the buoy line in hand. 

He squinted through the glare trying to follow the bubble trail that marked her progress and location. After several minutes that looked like she was swimming in a circle she surfaced a hundred feet from the boat. He waved her over to the swim platform and helped her on. 

“You good for a minute here? Don’t worry ‘bout the gear. I’ll move the boat and you can hook up the trap.” Without waiting for a response, he went forward and surveyed the conditions. The marker was close to the boat. If he used the wind and current, he could stay tied up where he was, drift back, and get close enough without moving the boat. He went to the cleat and unhooked the knot, slowly paying line out as the current moved the boat back. 

“What are you doing?” she called from the stern.

“Nothing to worry about. Almost got it.” He tightened the line in his hands and tied it off. Winch cable in hand, he dragged the hook back toward her. “Now all’s you got to do is take this down and hook it up to something in the middle of the trap.” He could see her fear through the lens of the foggy mask. “It ain’t rocket science. Just hook it up.” 

Without giving her a chance to respond, he started to throw the cable into the water. Assuming she was correct and the water was thirty feet deep here, fifty feet of cable would allow enough slack. 

She took the hook and stood, her entry even less graceful with the steel cable dragging behind. He was almost enjoying her anguish as he sat on the gunwale and waited. Several minutes later she was back, and he used the tank stem to haul her aboard.

“You’re being a little rough,” she said as she took off her mask and brushed her hair from her face.

“Ain’t no charter boat. Let’s see how you did.” He went forward to the side of the wheel house and started the winch motor. Slowly it picked up the slack in the line, and the motor lowered an octave, the boat jerking. “Got’er now.” 

The cable was coming in much slower with the weight of the trap. Trufante guided the wire back onto the spool with a gloved hand and leaned over the side of the boat. The trap was visible now, about five feet below the boat. He could see it clearly, and his blood surged. “That’s not a trap. That’s a casita.” There were rules for legal traps, restricting their size, construction and allowing openings for juvenile lobster to escape. Through the water he could see this trap was an illegal trap used by poachers.

“I don’t know what you call it, but it’s full of lobsters.” She stood next to him, watching it come out of the water. The box was about the size of a sheet of plywood with a few hundred compartments, all filled with lobsters. “Wow. We’re rich!” she exclaimed.

He scanned the water around them and noticed a few reflections of metal or glass reflecting in the sun, showing the location of other boats. “We ain’t rich if we’re dead. This is poacher’s ground, here. That’s why they’re not marked.” None of the reflections seemed to be moving. “Damage is done now. If anyone was watching, we’d be dead already.” He went for the trap. “Hurry up. As long as we got this far, might as well take them.” He released a lever and swung the lid open. His jaw dropped as he saw the hundreds of crustaceans glisten in the sun. 

Back at the winch he started the motor again. It lifted the casita from the deck and dumped the contents. Without looking at the catch, he swung the trap out of the boat and started to lower the winch line. 

“What do I do with them?” she asked.

“Take a broom from the cabin and sweep them in here.” He opened a compartment. “Never mind. I’ll get that. You need to go back in and release the hook. That thing’s too big to do it up here.”

Surprised she didn’t complain, he watched her gear up and enter the water again while he swept the lobsters into the fish box. A minute later she surfaced.

“Do it again. I got another one.”

“Shit, girl. You gotta know you’re looking trouble in the eye. Go unhook it, we gotta get out of here.” He scanned the water again, thinking that one of the dots on the horizon was getting closer. 

“No. You want it unhooked, you go do it.”

He turned from the water and looked at her, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. Back at the winch he raised the second trap and quickly had its contents on the deck. 

“That’s it. We’re pushing our luck in a big way.” The trap lowered into the water. This time she came back with the hook, and he wound the cable back on the winch, ran forward, and unhooked the line from the mooring buoy, then tossed it over and ran back to the wheelhouse. One of the reflections he had seen earlier had turned into a fairly large boat that he was certain was coming at them. Better to lose a line than get caught. Back at the helm, he fired the engines and pushed the throttles to full, almost knocking Cayenne off her feet.

“What’s the bid deal?” she asked as she came over to him and put a hand on the small of his back.

He tried to ignore it and pointed over the port side. “There’s the big deal. That ain’t no ordinary boat. It looks like the law to me.”

“So? We’re not doing anything anymore.” She slid her hand down to his butt. 

He ignored her and started to set course back the way they had come when he saw a small inflatable launch from the larger boat. Decision made, he turned 180 degrees and headed west, skirting the shallows surrounding the island until he turned to port at an unmarked patch of deep water. Johnston Pass led into the shallows of Cudjoe Basin, where he slowed to avoid a shoal. 

He turned to check on the pursuit, but they were gone. 

Back in deeper water, he got the boat on plane and followed Kemp Channel past the mangrove-lined shores of Cudjoe Key. A bridge was visible in the distance and he zoomed the chart plotter in, trying to get a line on the markers leading through the winding shoals. He slowed the boat as they approached. This was not one of the easier ways into the Atlantic, especially for a large boat, and grounding would be bad. 

Once through the pass, he turned and headed east toward Marathon. Several more glances behind him and he relaxed slightly, thinking he had lost his pursuers. The detour had taken them off course, though, and he checked the plotter, which showed them still eighteen miles from Sister Creek, the inlet past Boot Key and near Mac’s house. There was no way he was bringing this load into the main harbor and past the gas docks. There was a good chance the marine patrol would be looking for him there. He sat down and wished he had brought a cooler full of beer. 

“We OK?” she asked, visibly shaken.

“Ain’t sure. I think we lost them through there, but I don’t know why they stopped following us. That inflatable could have gone through those waters faster than us.” 

“Well what do we do now?”

“Now we sell this load and party.” He grabbed her butt. “But I’m gonna take the long way in and drop the boat at Mac’s. Those boys out there got radios, and the faster we get those tails off the boat the better. 

***

Mac paddled along the mangroves, dragging a small spoon behind the paddleboard. He had been cruising around hoping for a hit, killing time until the tide change. After a quick check of the sun, he figured it was about three o’clock; the start of the incoming tide. He leaned forward and grabbed the rod from the milk crate he had attached to the deck of the board with bungee cords, and started to reel in the line. 

Fishing had been slow so far, but he had enjoyed being on the water by himself. He had paddled through the harbor and turned into the mangrove-lined channel running into Boot Key. Now, with the tide changing, he had to work harder as he moved toward the entrance to Sisters Creek, where the incoming tide often brought big fish with it. 

It took a half-hour of paddling for him to reach his spot on the shallows, now flooding with water and baitfish. He reached around and took the small anchor from the cooler tied down behind him and tossed it ahead of the board. The line snapped tight as the hook set, and he waited until he was sure he wasn’t moving before he picked up the rod and balanced himself. He aimed for a small outcropping, opened the bail, and cast, allowing the line to free spool after the lure hit the water. The tide took the light line and lure into a small cove. The bail clicked and he started to retrieve the line, jerking every few turns until he felt a tug. 

With a quick yank, he pulled the rod to the side to set the hook and checked the drag before he started to reel. 

The fish was halfway in when he heard a boat approaching; not unusual here, but he knew the sound of this engine. He kept pressure on the fish as he turned and saw his boat cruise past, faster than the no-wake zone allowed. Suddenly the boat coasted to a stop and he paddled toward it, the rod—secured by his bare foot—still dragging the fish

Trufante leaned over and grabbed his hand as the board coasted up to the swim platform. 

“Go ahead and take it.” Mac said as he handed up the rod. “And then you can tell me what you’re doing blowing through here and not back at the dock. This is a little out of the way from what you said.” He saw the flash of red hair and turned to the girl. Typical Trufante he thought. 

“I can explain,” Trufante said as he pulled the snapper over the transom. 

Mac used the dive ladder to enter the boat then hoisted the SUP aboard and slid it to the port side, where he strapped it to the gunwale. He set the paddle down and stared at the couple. “OK. This should be good. Entertain me.”

Trufante started to babble some excuse that Mac only half listened to as he watched the water to see if the marine patrol or sheriff had seen Trufante entering the inlet at that speed. They had been together too long for Mac to even wonder how the Cajun got into so much trouble. Usually it was harmless and good for a few laughs or a good ribbing, but once in a while his antics had consequences. 

He went to the helm and started to steer toward Boot Key harbor, where he turned and headed for his dock. The boat was turning into the canal when Mac saw several figures standing on the seawall by the dock. 

As the boat closed the last hundred yards, he saw that they were in uniform.

Chapter 5

Mac thought about turning the boat and running, but that wasn’t going to get him anywhere but deeper into whatever it was that Trufante had gotten him mixed up in this time. If they were on his dock, they knew who he was and what the boat looked like. He looked over at the lanky Cajun as he slowed to approach the dock.

“Spit it out now—and fast,” he said.

Trufante started to mumble, and Mac was about to confront him again when he reached over and opened the fish box.

“Oh, man. I don’t guess those are from our traps.” He looked over at the woman sitting on the opposite gunwale. “She got something to do with this?”

“Shit, it don’t matter where we got them. It’s not too far over the limit. I’ll just tell them I miscounted or something. I can play dumb.”

Mac let that one pass with a look. “Well, let’s get this settled with the law and then I’ll deal with you. Does she at least have a name?”

“Tell him your name, sweetheart,” Trufante called over to her. 

Cayenne went toward Mac with her hand extended. “Cayenne Cannady. Pleased to meet you.”

Mac looked at the figure in front of him—almost falling out of her bathing suit—and wasn’t sure what to make of her. “Maybe you can tell me what’s going on. Old Tru here seems to have lost his tongue.”

Cayenne looked to Trufante for support, but he remained mute. “These were in abandoned traps off my coral farm. The lobster would have just died if we didn’t take them.”