Wood's Wreck (7 page)

The solar system was a setback; the missing inverter converted the 12 volts supplied by the photo-voltaic panels to the 110 volts needed for some of the tools and equipment. But he figured he could wire the panels directly to the battery bank to turn on the 12-volt lights and pumps, at least.

The house cooled as soon as the plywood was removed and the windows opened. Wood had used a passive solar design when he built the house, situating the windows to the southeast to take advantage of the prevalent direction of the winds here. The thatch roof, constructed from palm fronds, had two ventilation rings near its apex, allowing convection to suck the hot air out through the roof, while bringing cooler air in through the windows. The large overhangs and covered porch worked to shade the interior from the hot afternoon sun. 

His next thought was for his rumbling stomach. Back outside, he checked the chest freezer below the house and quickly closed the lid. The freezer was one of the appliances that ran on 110 volts and from the smell, it hadn’t been running for a while. He went to the hand pump, filled a bucket with water, and headed upstairs. Until he rewired the solar system, there would be no running water. The refrigerator in the small kitchen ran on propane though and still worked. A few beers and some butter were the sole occupants of the cooler section, but in the small freezer compartment he found two lobster tails. He laid these on the counter and went outside. 

While the tails thawed, he went back to the shed, figuring the solar system should be his next priority. The batteries and charge controller checked out, and he took a spool of wire, some cutters, and wire nuts back outside with him. In theory, he only needed to connect the hanging wires together and the system would work; but without a means of disconnect in between, he would have to make the connections hot. He quickly made five of the six connections and then picked up a pair of lineman’s pliers to connect the wires. With one hand he grasped the insulated wires, and with the other used the flat-jawed pliers to twist the bare copper together. He flinched when the wires touched and sparked. Once they were connected, he took a large wire nut and threaded it over the joint. 

Back inside, he checked the charge controller, now buzzing as the voltage from the solar panels on the roof surged through it. Green lights were illuminated on the display, showing that the unit was functioning. He wiped his brow and relaxed. Now for some food. 

He went back upstairs and into the house to check on the lobster tails—now mostly thawed—and took them down to the gas grill under the house. Fifteen minutes later he was relaxing upstairs, the fan spinning mindlessly above him, a plate of lobster and a cold beer from the refrigerator on the table. 

As content as he was, he knew he had to make a plan. Once he finished with his lunch he set the plate in the sink and went back outside to the shed. He pulled a variety of fishing gear from the back wall, put it outside, and started organizing it. Next he took a small gas can and a machete and headed back toward the beach. 

As he approached Wood’s old skiff, he realized that it was improbable that the only thing stolen was the inverter. The island had been uninhabited for almost two years. He had come out and checked it once every month or so, but with the exception of a brief stay by Mel last year, it looked abandoned. Thieves would have taken anything they could have gotten their hands on. The aluminum hull was undamaged, but the motor was gone. Now his situation was looking grim. He could use the kayak to fish and check traps, but he couldn’t cover anywhere near the area the motor boat could—and successful fishing was all about covering ground. But he knew he needed a boat with a motor to scout the area Trufante and the woman had been poaching. 

Using the machete, he slashed at the palm fronds and mangrove branches encroaching on the trail, and arrived back at the clearing covered in sweat. He was tense and nervous, and the labor of clearing the trail had done little to take the edge off. It was a strange feeling having things stolen from you, but unless you lived here you had to expect it. Since Wood had died no one had set foot out here for months at a time. The house and shed were burglar proof, but as he had witnessed, the inverter and motor had proven to be fair game. 

Tired and hungry, he went for his phone to see how Mel was. Though it was far from the first time he had thought of her today, he rarely communicated with her … or anyone, unless he needed something. The power was off on his phone, and he pushed the button on top. 

Nothing happened.

The battery must have drained from using the light last night. He hadn’t worried about that, as he’d assumed he could just plug it in to recharge, but without 110-volt power that was impossible. He searched the drawers and cabinets for anything with a cigarette lighter attachment that he could rig to charge it with the 12 volts available, but came up empty handed.

Chapter 8

Sometime during the night, the wind and rain woke him from a sound sleep. He got up and closed the windows, and then he moved from the couch where he had fallen asleep to the bedroom. It was a little after four and he lay in bed, unable to sleep. The wind was not the culprit; it was the first time since leaving his house that he had taken enough time to think about his situation. 

Up until now, he had been focused on getting out of town and basic survival. Although he didn’t have the food stores to last long, with the fertile waters in his backyard, he knew he could find food. Wood had set the house up to collect fresh water using two five-hundred-gallon tanks to collect the rain runoff from the roof. A 12-volt pump pushed water to a black tank on the roof, where it was heated by the sun. That provided enough hot water for at least a day. Most of the year, when it often rained at least once a day, the tanks remained full. And using fifty gallons a day meant that there were almost three weeks’ worth of water to hold through the dry season, when it rained less frequently. As far as he knew, the tanks had never run dry.

Knowing his basic needs were met, he started to toss and turn, trying to figure out how to clear his name and get his boat and house back. As far as he was concerned, Trufante could go down with the ship. He knew Mel could only defend him to a point. She had been instrumental in getting him released quickly, but he knew how emotional she could get about her causes and her work, and that would get in the way at some point. This was too close to home for her to stay objective. As Mel had said, the burden was on him to clear his name. 

With his stash on the reef gone, he had no assets to hire a lawyer … and he suspected he would need a good one to get out of this mess. The red-haired woman with the fake boobs held the key. He was sure of it. Trufante wasn’t motivated or shrewd enough to think up and execute something like this on his own. Those casitas had been down there before him, and the woman knew exactly where they were. Which meant she was the one at fault here. And she’d pulled Trufante into the mess.

The sun was starting to rise now and he did what he was best at and put his problems on the back burner. He went outside to get some water and noticed the sway of the trees. His plan had been to take the kayak out to catch some fish and then check some unmarked lobster traps that Wood had on a nearby reef. But with the wind blowing what he figured to be 15 knots, the kayak would be unmanageable. For now, he was stranded and out of food. 

Back upstairs, he turned on the 12-volt marine radio and tuned to the weather station. The forecast was not favorable for the next day or so. Fifteen to twenty-knot winds were expected today, tonight, and into tomorrow. He thought about the skiff sitting without a motor, but realized that without power that was worse than the kayak. There was a wrecked boat on the other side of the island that was worth a look.

He drank a large glass of water to fill his empty stomach and cursed himself for taking the food staples off the island to control the rat population. But there was still a chance he could catch some fish on the better-protected north side of the island while he checked out the wreck. The sand flats there extended out quite a ways, but he could wade out to deeper water and try and cast to a hole or depression that might hold fish. Considering the weather, it was his best chance for food, and with no other plan, he gathered the gear he had set by the shed, grabbed the machete, and set out on the little-used path, slashing at the growth as he went. 

Soon the tangle of branches opened to a small beach overlooking a shallow lagoon protected from the wind. The light green water extended for several hundred yards before it turned slightly darker. If there were any fish they would be in the darker, deeper water. He cut a sturdy branch about four feet long and skinned the wet bark from it. Using it as a wading staff, he grabbed a fishing rod, stuck a box with several lures in his pocket, and started wading toward the deeper water, shuffling his feet as he went to scare off any stingrays in his path.

The tide pulled at his ankles as he reached the color change and stuck the pole in the sand. For several minutes he stood there observing the water, looking for any clues that would lead him to fish. Most fishermen made the mistake of walking up to a piece of water and blindly tossing a line in. Taking the time to read the water was often the difference between success and failure. Even the smallest structure could hold fish, and he soon spotted several birds diving on an area of disturbed water. Without taking his eye off the spot, he unhooked the lure from the eye on the rod, released a few feet of line, and cast. The lure hit about ten feet past the swirling water, as he intended, and he started reeling, jerking the rod as the lure closed in on the action. As it reached the area he gave a quick pull and the rod bent over. 

All his problems were forgotten as he focused on the jumping fish. It was too far away to see, but he hoped it was edible. Bonefish and permit patrolled these flats, and on many days he would be delighted to hook one, but neither fish were good table fare. After several runs, each shorter in intensity and duration, he turned the fish and started taking in line as it came toward him. Now he needed to land it, but he had neglected to bring a net or gaff out with him. Dragging the fish to the shore was an option, but he dismissed it as being too risky, as the hook could easily slip from the fish’s mouth. 

When you were fishing for tonight’s dinner, you tended to be more careful. 

As it came toward him, he set the rod between his knees and leaned over to scoop the fish out of the water. The twenty-four-inch sea trout was slimy, and escaped his grasp on his first attempt, but he wiped his hands on his cargo shorts and bent over for another try. This time he was able to grab the fish and held it tightly as it started flapping as soon as it left the water. 

Finally it quieted down, and he stuck his index finger through its gills and used his thumb to secure it. With the other hand he took the fishing pole, its line still hooked to the fish in case something happened on the way in, and put it under his arm. He pulled the branch from the sand and started to wade for shore. 

Still smiling, he reached the shallow water of the flat, where he saw the small white spot showing the location of the boat through the mangroves crowding the edge of the beach. A little surprised that it was still there after two years, especially as close to the waterline as he remembered, he grinned again. He knew the boat was probably in bad shape, but still worth a look. It brought back some bad memories, though, and the smile left his face as he remembered how the man driving the boat had been spying on him and Wood, but hadn’t known the water around the small island and had run aground, severely wounding his friend in the process. 

The incident had started a chain reaction that led to Wood’s death while stopping a terrorist plot. 

He reached the beach, set his gear and the fish down, and went to a small palm tree, where he pulled a leaf off. With the fish ensconced in the palm leaf, he buried it in the sand to keep the birds away and headed toward the end of the beach. He had to wade to get around the mangroves, but soon found himself in a small clearing, the surrounding brush making the wreck almost invisible from the water. 

The boat lay as he remembered it, the blood stains erased by time and weather. Mosquitos swarmed as he leaned over the gunwale and noticed the two feet of water in the cockpit. He moved toward the bow and saw the large hole right on the water line, where the man had hit the sandbar in the shallows, launching the boat toward its resting place. Moving around the boat, he checked the outboard engine—still attached to the twenty-two-foot hull. The bracket must have broken, allowing the motor to hinge when it hit, possibly saving the engine. 

There weren’t many engines that he
couldn’t
get to start, so he went back to look at the damage to the hull. Mosquitos instantly attacked him as he bent over to examine it, and he pulled his head back, swatting at the critters. He went back to the transom and dug a small hole in the sand, reached in, and unscrewed the plug. That would remove the water and hopefully scatter the pests. 

Water was soon flowing out onto the sand. Without a pump it would take at least an hour to drain the hull, though, so he decided to go back to the house, clean the fish, and come back later with some tools.

If things went right, this could be the answer to his problems.

***

Cayenne cursed under her breath when she pulled up and saw the truck in the driveway. She had hoped to find the house empty after yesterday’s fiasco. What was Mel doing here, while her boyfriend was in the process of losing everything he owned? Surely she had better things to do than tell her how bad a business woman she was. 

It really was about time to let her go, she realized. 

She ran her hands through her oily hair, desperately in need of conditioner, and tried to look presentable enough to get past the gatekeeper and into her inner sanctum. She was sure that Mel hadn’t seen her on the boat yesterday, and also confident that Mac—though her boyfriend—didn’t know who Cayenne herself was. If she could get past her, she could lock herself in her room, recover from her night in jail, and figure out what to do next. Eventually she would face Mel, and see if she was suspicious.