Mac travis adventures bo.., p.36
Mac Travis Adventures BoxSet, page 36
part #4 of Mac Travis Series
Several couples riding bicycles passed by, obviously residents, smart enough to get in their exercise before the real heat hit. The tourists were not as savvy and would come later. He walked for what felt like an hour, passing several small neighborhoods, but for the most part, the landscape consisted only of the low scrub and stubby weatherworn pines prevalent on the key. Soon he came to a paved street, which he crossed, and saw a sign for one of the few attractions on the island besides the deer. The Blue Hole was nothing but an old quarry, but it had an interesting name and a deck overlooking it. The only thing it really had going for it was the birds it attracted.
He left the road at the parking lot by the trailhead and started walking the well-trodden path. The Blue Hole was on his right, but he continued until the maintained trail became nothing more than an overgrown game path plowed by the small deer. It was somewhere in this uncharted protected area that he expected to find the old chief. Searching through this jungle of scrub and rattlesnakes was not a task he relished. Needing some kind of a vantage point, he looked around for the largest tree he could find and, ignoring the brush cutting his legs, headed straight toward the tallest one in sight.
Standing ten feet above the ground, the dead-looking trunk may have once been more substantial, its life probably taken by a hurricane, but for his purpose it would work. The slick trunk had no footholds, forcing him to jump for the lowest branch, which he reached after several misses. Hanging from the thick limb, he swung back and forth until he had enough momentum to swing a leg around it. He crawled on top and went for the next level. The branches were closer together now, but as he climbed higher, they became thinner, and he heard something crack beneath one of his feet. Until now, he had been so focused on climbing that he had ignored the landscape, but after deciding this was as high as he was going to climb, he looked around.
The few extra feet gained him what he needed. Now able to see the shore of the western end of the key, where he suspected he’d find her, he searched for signs. Just before giving up, he saw what he thought was a thin wisp of smoke being carried on the wind to the southwest. Taking a bearing on the sun, he climbed down, having to jump the last few feet. Once on the ground, he turned to the sun to reorient himself. He started moving cross-country, further cutting his legs on the sharp palmettos and hoping he would avoid the rattlesnakes he knew were hiding in the shade at their bases.
He made it to the shore, but there was no sign of life, and he sat down on a piece of driftwood to catch his breath and rest. There were no trees to climb this close to the water, and he was about out of energy, not even sure if he wanted to walk back across to the raft, when he smelled the unmistakable aroma.
“Trufaaante?”
He jumped in surprise, turning to see the woman he sought standing in front of him, smoking a long pipe. “Cheqea. What’s shaking?”
She laughed deeply and started hacking. Regaining her composure, she looked at him. “You always make me laugh, but now it hurts.” She took another pull on the pipe and handed it to him.
He took it and sucked deeply, wondering where she found weed of this quality out here in the boonies. Releasing the smoke slowly, he studied her. Although it had been at least ten years, she still looked the same, her grey hair roughly plaited, the split ends shining in the sunlight. Her face had the rutted look of someone who spent all their time outside, and she was dressed in clothes a thrift store would have passed on.
“Mac sent me to find you,” he said.
“Mac Travis?” she asked, reaching into her pouch to refill the pipe.
Under other circumstances, he would have been happy to spend the afternoon smoking and laughing with her, but he needed his head clear and declined when she passed the pipe to him. “There’s some trouble and he needs you.”
“Cheqea is not in trouble. This is federal land and I have a paper saying it is a reservation.”
“No, not you, old mother,” he said. “Mac and another woman are being held by Hawk.”
She spat at the name. “Hawk is no good man,” she said and coughed.
Trufante waited until the fit passed. “Will you come help?”
“I will help Mac Travis, but I need a favor in return.”
Here it comes, he thought. Cheqea was well known for her favors. Many had courted her to benefit from the privileges, as she called them, or entitlements, as others saw them, granted her by the government. As the last remaining member of her tribe, she held power, especially in the current political climate of appeasement.
“How ’bout you and him talk about that?” he offered, starting back along the path, hoping she would follow.
“You must make treaty now.”
He turned and smiled hoping to defuse her. “You know ol’ Tru will take care of you.”
“Trufaaante. Yes, you are my friend.”
He started back along the path, but she called to him. “I’m not walking across this island. Follow me.” She started walking along the thin strip of beach. In a hundred feet, the path cut just inshore, and they entered a well-concealed clearing screened by thick mangroves. To the side was a small structure pieced together from pallets and tarps that had floated up on the beach or were entrapped by the mangroves along the shore. She entered and came back a few minutes later with a small knapsack.
“What are you looking at?” she scolded him.
Trufante was standing by the other side of the clearing by a small still. “Got any samples?”
She spat again, “Trufaaante. Never the smoke with you, but the alcohol is your ghost,” she said and led the way to a trail he had not seen. Twenty feet later, they stood by a small wooden boat with an ancient outboard motor.
“This works?” Trufante asked, thinking his life raft with the scuba tank propulsion would be better.
“Push it in. Cheqea is losing patience with you.”
He pulled the boat to the edge of the mangroves, where he saw a gap in the brush. Moving behind the boat, he pushed it through the opening and then crawled after it, immediately sinking in the muck.
“What the—”
“Do not speak that vile language in front of me. If you would have come at high tide, we would have floated right out.”
Like it was his fault they had come at low tide. He fought through the muck, finally finding enough water for the boat to float freely. They climbed in and he primed the engine, worried about whether the sunbaked, cracked bulb would still provide enough suction to pull gas from the tank, and opened the choke. Surprised when the engine started after two pulls, he pushed the choke in and spun the motor to steer to deeper water.
Mac climbed aboard after Ironhead. Alicia was on the platform to help, taking first the near-empty tanks clipped to his side-mount harness, then his fins. With only the rebreather on his back, he climbed aboard and sat on the platform. Though the wetsuit was thicker than any he had used in the Keys before, he was still cold after almost two hours in the water. The search had lasted an hour, and the decompression stops had taken the balance.
Hawk came to the transom and glared at him. “I was expecting results,” he said, moving closer to Alicia than Mac liked.
“You know the odds of finding something on the first drop—zero,” Mac said.
“This leaves me to question how valuable our computer whiz is.” He grabbed the collar around Alicia’s neck and pulled her toward the gunwale. “This deep, on an outgoing tide, if the sharks don’t get her first, she’ll be dead by the time she reaches the Bahamas.” He released his hold on her and took the controller from his pocket.
“Stop the threats. If you want it, we need more information,” Mac said.
Hawk’s face turned red. “We will do another dive this afternoon and then two more tomorrow. After that I will determine if either of you has any value.”
He walked into the cabin, leaving Mac under the watchful eye of Ironhead, who was stripping out of his wetsuit. The man was larger and had already bested him once, but he was injured and Mac expected the pills would be wearing off. He would only have a few seconds while his arms were still entangled in the neoprene. Mac took the opportunity. Turning his back to the man, he grabbed a gaff from its holder under the gunwale, spun, and swung toward him, but Ironhead ducked under the hook, still struggling to free himself from the suit. Under normal circumstances, taking off a wetsuit was a strenuous process, but struggling seemed to make it worse.
Mac took a step forward and jabbed the stainless steel hook at him, feinting to the left before swinging from the right. This time Ironhead was too slow, and the hook hit him in the ear. Blood streamed from the wound, but before Mac could strike again, Ironhead reacted. Like a raging bull, he managed to extract one arm from the suit and grabbed the shaft of the gaff on the next swing. Using his one free hand, he pulled the shaft, and before Mac could release the handle, Ironhead cocked his head and butted him between his eyes. Mac crumpled to the deck.
23
Standing in the door of the plane, Mel hesitated. It was the first time she would set foot in the Keys in almost a year—not her longest absence, but her most emotional. An anxious couple pushed behind her, ready to start their party, and she reluctantly walked down the steel stairs pulled up to the small plane at the Key West airport. The breeze whipped her short hair into her face, forcing her to shield her green eyes from it, and she smelled the humid breeze. Stepping down onto the tarmac, she knew that whenever she touched the soil of the islands, things changed for her.
She was sure that Mac had saved her life that night on the sailboat, sacrificing his safety for hers when he released the life raft just before the boat sank. Finding out he was all right had taken a weight off her, but she felt deep down that, regardless of her feelings for him, their relationship was over. Trouble followed him everywhere he went, and although he was not responsible for it, the outcome was always the same—disaster. First her father, losing his life while saving the future president’s, then a crazed drug dealer, and finally, the incident with the rogue CIA agent that had led to the wreck that had almost killed her.
Fully recovered, at least physically, she grabbed her briefcase from the cart and followed the line of passengers moving toward the small terminal. There was no need for a carry-on—she had no intention of staying overnight. The group entered the glass doors, heading for the baggage carousel, but she walked right through the terminal, crossing the street in front of the obligatory pink cabs, and entered the covered garage. Scanning the line of cars, she checked the text message on her phone for the space number of her rental.
Finding the car, she stashed her briefcase in the backseat and got comfortable with the controls, especially the AC. Satisfied, she pulled out of the space and exited the lot. Turning left onto US-1, she saw the emerald water from eye level for the first time in a year and felt a pang of remorse for all that had happened. She turned right off the island and drove the sixty miles to Marathon. Now that she was here, she was unable to get Mac out of her mind. Surprisingly, she had become more like him in the last year than she wanted to admit. After taking nearly six months to recover, she had done nothing to move her life forward, either professionally or emotionally. In fact, she suspected she was depressed, and felt almost invigorated by the challenge of dealing with the building department.
She walked through the doors of City Hall, not sure if she should go into lawyer mode or just be another landowner. Before she could decide, a familiar face met her at the counter. They exchanged gossip about their high school acquaintances while she waited impatiently for the head of the building department to see her.
A balding, slightly overweight man came toward her, and she breathed in deeply, readying herself to present her rehearsed argument. She had fought with herself after receiving the copy of the notice by priority mail. In many ways she wanted her past to disappear, and that meant leaving everything Keys-related behind. But she knew how precious that island had been to her father, and now Mac. A piece of her felt she owed it to both of them to help preserve it, and letting Mac have the property might ease her guilt over their breakup. All those feelings aside, the notice just plain angered her.
She had escaped the Keys after high school to attend college and then law school in Virginia. During her time there, she had fallen in with a group of activists and interned for the ACLU, who had offered her a job after graduation. For a decade after passing the bar, she had fought the government, arguing for the activist causes the group represented. Her view of the world had changed over the years and now she considered the time wasted, but politics aside, this was just wrong. She had clear title to the island, and if Mac wanted to rebuild her dad’s house, he should be allowed.
The man stopped short of the counter, his bureaucratic radar alerting him to the danger ahead. Mel had already spoken to him on the phone, and he had expected the meeting, but from the look on his face, he was regretting scheduling it.
“Mr. Baldwin,” she said, extending her hand. “Melanie Woodson. But just call me Mel.”
He inched forward and shook, his grasp feeling like that of a ten-year-old girl. “Why don’t you come back to my office?” he said, lifting the counter.
She shook her head, wanting witnesses. “Out here is fine,” she said, opening her briefcase and pulling out the certified letter. “In my opinion, this notice is in error.”
“And how’s that?” he asked.
She pulled out a sheaf of papers copied from the building code. It was neatly bound in a folder with yellow highlights throughout. “How many examples should I cite?” She sensed he was close to folding and backed off. “Surely we can find a section somewhere in here.” She lifted the folder, flipped through the pages, and dramatically set it back on the counter. “That allows a property owner to rebuild damaged property.”
Every eye in the room was on them, and he turned red. “But you see,” he stuttered, “it was never permitted.”
She cleared her throat, making him jump. “Well, what if we paid the original permit fees from the nineties, when it was built?” She sensed this was about the money.
He thought for a second. “That might be acceptable,” he said and gave instructions to one of the clerks. “If that is all.… ”
“Thank you so much for your time,” she said, about to shake his hand, but his back was already turned to her. Walking over to the woman he had assigned the task, she removed her checkbook and waited for the bad news.
A half hour later, she stood outside the building wondering what to do. The permit was settled, for a fraction of the cost they had wanted, and she felt drained, the emotional buildup of coming here and then the petty negotiation with the building department leaving her hungry. She looked around for a familiar place to eat, or maybe avoid. A sandwich shop across the street caught her eye—one that she didn’t remember, which was a good thing. She walked over, ordered, and took a table by the window. While she waited, she grabbed a copy of the Keynoter from the next table and stared at the headlines.
“That your boat, Trufaaante?” Cheqea said when they pulled up to TJ’s boat.
“You know better,” he said, cutting the engine and coasting up to the swim platform. Pamela came through the transom door to help with the line.
“That’s a nice-looking chiquita. She yours?”
Pamela smiled. “I’m Pamela, but you can call me Pajama Bama, like Tru does.”
“I like her,” Cheqea said, taking Pamela’s hand and climbing out of the boat. “Where’s Mac Travis?”
“It’s like I told you, he’s in trouble,” Trufante said.
Cheqea started to shake. “Don’t you talk to me like I’m some old fool. I ask you a question, I want an answer.”
Trufante was starting to wonder if dealing with her was such a good idea when he saw Pamela go to her and whisper something. They both giggled, and he suspected whatever she said was at his expense. Leaving them to each other, he climbed the ladder to the bridge to talk to TJ.
“Well, now that you have her, what are we going to do to get Alicia back?” TJ asked.
Trufante rubbed his face, thinking a beer would be good around now. He was tired from the cross-country hike across the island, and now that she was here, he had no idea what to do with her. He avoided TJ’s stare and looked down at the two women sitting next to each other on the transom.
“She says she can find him,” Pamela called up.
Trufante wondered where this was coming from, but with Cheqea involved, anything was possible. The woman was a reputed mystic, according to some New Agers who thought she could see what they couldn’t. They sought her out and paid her in goods or pot for her visions, but the general consensus was that she was a charlatan drug addict. At this point, he didn’t care. He’d consider anything to get TJ’s eyes off him.
“I can read your mind, Trufaaante. You better watch what you think.” She leaned in and said something to Pamela. “I will speak to her only.”
Shit, here we go, he thought, surprised it had taken her this long to go off the deep end. He looked down at Pamela.
“She wants us to go to the where the water’s blue,” Pamela called up.
“What the hell, Tru? This isn’t getting us anywhere,” TJ said. “Maybe I should try some of Alicia’s contacts at the Agency.”
“We got no phones, remember?” Trufante said. “Lost in the explosion. Maybe she’s not far off. They’re looking for a wreck, right? Let’s head out to the ocean side and have a look around. We know the radar signature of Hawk’s ship. It’s a long shot, but I got nothing else.”
“Better than just sitting here,” TJ said and started the engine.
Trufante went down the ladder to the deck to help clear the anchor and secure Cheqea’s boat with a large weight he pulled from a storage locker. TJ cut the wheel and they backtracked toward the Bahia Honda Bridge.
