Mac travis adventures bo.., p.45
Mac Travis Adventures BoxSet, page 45
part #4 of Mac Travis Series
They left the island just as the sun broke the horizon, dappling the water with an orange glow. As beautiful as it was, he would be cautious; the color of the sky portended storms again this afternoon. Mac knew this was an everyday occurrence until late September, and the earlier they got back, the better chance they would have of dodging the inevitable. He had already untied the center-console from the trawler, securing it to the piling with enough line to swing when the tide changed. At the helm, he took a sip of coffee, started the engine, released the stern line, and hit the windlass switch. The boat had not been moved since the storm, and the anchor was still off the stern. With a couple of hundred feet of line out, he chose to use the mechanical advantage provided by the windlass. Slowly the line came in, dragging the boat toward the anchor and into deeper water. Once the anchor was stowed and secured, Mac negotiated the channel and steered toward the coordinates he had taken off the center-console’s GPS.
The trawler ran most efficiently at eight knots, making it a slower run than yesterday. Mac didn’t mind. He sat at the helm, the sea spreading out in front of him a glassy calm, allowing him to sip the hot coffee without spilling it. Mel sat beside him, a contented look on her face, something he had seen less frequently lately. With a challenge on the horizon, he was a happy man.
They pulled up to the coordinates and anchored by the marker buoy he and Trufante had left yesterday. Looking around them, he could see several storms brewing, but they were far enough away not to be an immediate concern. He took his time organizing the deck, checking the distant storms out of habit whenever he rose. Even with Mel’s help, it was a lot for two people to pull off the recovery, and he wanted everything in place before they made the attempt. Finally satisfied, he pulled on his dive gear and, with a hand on his mask, took a giant stride off the large dive platform.
Mac was always amazed at how alive the ocean was, changing from day to day. As soon as he hit the water, he could see the boat resting on the bottom. The visibility was so good, he could see sunlight reflect off the still-clean stainless steel on the bow. He ignored the small schools of baitfish that had already found the new structure, the first step in the process of becoming a reef. Circling the wreck, he wondered if it was worth the effort to remove the engines to lighten the load and decided to leave them in place. Even if they were scrap, he was at least removing contaminants from the water—if he could get them started it would be an added bonus.
After a brief survey, Mac kicked toward the surface, checking his air and bottom time as he ascended. The depth was thirty-five feet, just past the point where divers had to start thinking about bottom time and decompression. Although he would be working on the wreck while sitting several feet above the bottom, it was still close enough to worry about, and he knew he would be doing multiple descents, making the safety margin narrower.
He broke the surface by the transom and looked up at Mel. “Looks good. Toss over the straps,” he called up to her. A minute later, he swam the yellow webbing to the wreck. There were two straps, one which he threaded through the small stainless steel eye used for hooking the boat to a trailer, located just below the bow, and the other he looped under the bracket between the engines. The straps would take most of the weight, but he would need to add tag lines to keep the boat upright as he pulled it from the water. Dropping the ends of the straps, he ascended again and returned to the wreck with two heavy lines. Placing these through the loops in the straps, he again ascended. After rigging the lighter tag lines to the midship cleats, he took a break on the swim platform and drank a bottle of water.
After a few minutes’ rest, he took the pressure washer wand from Mel and finned back to the bottom. The pristine visibility quickly turned into a sandy quagmire as the pressure of the spray dislodged the sand surrounding the hull. In theory, this step would reduce the surface area connecting the hull to the bottom, decreasing the suction and making the initial lift easier.
Satisfied, he ascended through the silty water and climbed aboard. After removing his gear and drinking another bottle of water, he went to the winch. “Ready? One line at a time—nice and easy.”
Mel nodded and went to the controls. Mac took a gloved hand and reached out for the line attached to the strap on the bow. He gave a thumbs-up signal, and the sound of the motor broke the silence. The line came taut in his hand, and the entire port side of the trawler dipped toward the water. The whine of the motor increased as the tension built, but the wreck had not budged. He looked back at Mel and shook his head. This was going to be harder than he thought.
“I’m going back down and see if I can slide a bumper under her,” he said, reaching for one of the large red balls by the transom. Ignoring Mel’s inquisitive stare, he pulled the plug and released the air. It collapsed like a balloon and he held it up. “If I can get this under the hull and inflate it, the suction might break.”
Back in the water, he worked the wand of the pressure washer under the bow, creating a space deep in the sand. Taking the deflated buoy, he shoved it into the opening, having to dig sand out several times before he had it where he wanted it. After tying it off, he ascended and grabbed the air hose from Mel. Back at the buoy, he pushed the inflator onto the valve and patiently watched the ball fill.
It was past noon by the time he had finished and they had repositioned the trawler so the winch was directly above the bow. He nodded to Mel. The winch motor whined again and he felt the trawler move under his feet, but this time the steel cable kept coming and finally he saw the yellow strap. With a smile on his face, Mac reached for the strap, tied a sheet bend with a large dock line to it, which he then tied to a large cleat. When the strap was released from the winch, the dock line took the pressure. The same procedure was repeated on the stern, and soon the wreck was visible just below them. He scratched his head, trying to figure out what to do next.
The buoy he had placed under the bow answered his question. Inflated at two atmospheres of pressure, the over-inflated buoy looked like it was ready to explode, but the additional buoyancy pulled the bow toward the surface, With the aid of the buoy, Mac and Mel worked each line, bringing the wreck closer to daylight with each effort. Finally, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, the gunwales broke the surface.
Mac was ready and swam a pump to the floating boat. Tossing it over the gunwale, he removed all but the strap on the bow. After climbing aboard, he signaled to Mel to start the trawler and gave her the thumbs-up to idle forward. It was a similar feeling to getting up on water skis as the bow rose with the forward momentum. Another thumbs-up and Mel increased speed slightly. Water poured out of the hull as it was pulled higher in the water. Holding on to the wheel, Mac waited until the front cooler was exposed. When he saw the lid, he went forward and placed the pump on the flat surface, then set the intake hose toward the stern and the outflow hose over the gunwale. Between the momentum of the tow and the flow from the pump, within a few minutes the water level had receded enough for the boat to ride easily behind the trawler.
5
Mac tossed and turned all night thinking about the wreck. Its short time in the water left questions that would need to be answered. The reefs and shoals of the Keys were littered with wrecks dating back to the Mayans. Values varied, some having pure historical, others actual treasure, and some both. In his time here, Mac and Wood had found several wrecks and recovered a bit of treasure, enough to keep him hungry to find more, but not enough to finance a Mel Fisher style operation. Nor did he have any interest in an operation like that. He lived for fishing, diving, and lobstering. It brought in enough to support his lifestyle, especially now that he was living at Wood’s. If he wanted excitement, he only needed to seek out the Cajun.
Since before dawn, he had been working on the wreck. Once it was light enough for the flames not to cause an alarm if they were seen from shore, he had set a fire with the driftwood. When it was hot, he started tossing the rotten fish on. This was the only way to insure they did not contaminate anything else. He heard the brush moving behind him and looked up to see Mel coming down the path.
He was on alert. Mac had developed a certain kind of radar when she was upset. They had reached the point in their relationship where they didn’t need to talk to communicate. He could tell by her restlessness over the past few weeks that they were getting out of alignment again. They had been close for years, back to when he had hitchhiked from Texas to the Keys in the early nineties. She had been in high school then and their age difference had kept them apart. Their relationship hadn’t become romantic until a few years ago. And since then, it had been an on-and-off affair. There was definitely something between them, but they both had their own agendas and they didn’t always line up.
“Hey,” he called to her from a small clearing in the mangroves behind the beach where Wood had mounted a large winch to pull his boat out of sight. Mac stood behind the concrete block holding the winch, slowly turning the handle and hoping the rusty cable held as it pulled the wreck onto the beach.
“Hey back,” she said, coming toward him. “Smells like a fish fry. How long have you been down here?”
He had decided to beach the wreck in order to work on it without having to climb in and out of the water. “A little before sunrise. Couldn’t sleep,” he said, walking back to the boat and lifting the battery he had brought from the shed on to the transom.
“That’s my Mac. Got a mystery and you’ve got to figure it out,” she said, looking at the boat. “There’s no registration numbers.”
“I saw that. Figure it’s a documented vessel,” Mac said, climbing aboard, he opened the lid to the battery compartment.
“Small for that. If I remember my maritime law, it has to be twenty-six feet or five tons. Might be close in length, but there’s no way it meets the displacement tonnage,” Mel recited.
Always the lawyer, Mac thought. “Might be government,” he said, climbing back aboard. “There should be numbers on the interior. Let me just swap out this battery and I’ll have a look.” Reaching into the hold, he disconnected the terminals, pulled the waterlogged battery from the compartment and replaced it. He went to the helm, turned the key and was surprised to hear the port engine turn over when he pushed the start button. He knew better than to force it and shut it off. An engine that had been submerged needed special care. He could work on it later. Turning the key to the off position, he went to the door of the compartment in the console and pulled the handle, but it was stuck. “Locked. Can you grab me a flat-head screwdriver?”
Mel went to the toolbox sitting in the sand next to the boat, grabbed the tool and handed it up to him. Mac took it and went to work on the lock. Sticking the tip in the key slot, he slammed his palm against the butt of the screwdriver and tried to turn it. It took another two tries before the cylinder let go, and he stepped back as seawater poured from the compartment.
Mac had his back turned to the console when Mel called out.
“It’s a body!”
Mac spun and faced the slumped-over figure. Moving to it, he gently pulled it back, as if it might be still alive. Then he saw the pale face of a man, eyes bulging out, staring back at him. “Shit.”
“Is it dead?” Mel asked.
“Very,” Mac said.
“Better call the sheriff,” Mel said, pulling her phone from the back pocket of her shorts.
“Wait a minute. Let’s think this through,” Mac said. He pulled the body down, laid it on the deck and dragged it to the bow. Moving back to the console he slowly stuck his head into the dark space.
“Is that it?” she called up.
“Let me have your phone for a minute. I think I see something,” Mac said, pulling his head out and taking several breaths of fresh air. The corpse had just started to decompose. Preserved by the surrounding water, he suspected it had been there less than a week.
She handed him the phone and he pressed the flashlight app—one of the few things he found worthwhile about the smartphone, With the phone extended in front of him, he moved back to the dark cavity and shined the light inside. The space was small, barely enough room for two. Inside were the various Coast Guard required safety items: life preservers, air horn, and flares, all still in their original packages. There was no sign of a fight and he didn’t have to be a detective to know the man had been taken by surprise, or knew his murderers. Pushed to the back in a corner was a small case. He reached for it, turned, and set it on the deck. After another look, he saw nothing else of importance.
“What about the documentation numbers?” she asked. “If we know who the boat belongs to, maybe we can figure out who this is.”
Mac looked again. He didn’t see the required three-inch numbers, but did see the metal manufacturer’s tag. Using the camera’s phone, he snapped a picture, adding another item on his list of pros for the device. “Here,” he said, handing her the phone and climbing over the side.
They stood together on the beach staring at the boat. “We need to call the sheriff,” Mel said again.
“Can we think about this for a minute? He’s not getting any deader,” Mac said, rubbing his head.
“This has Trufante’s fingerprints all over it,” Mel said. “We need to call it in and wash our hands of it.”
He knew she was right, but he was curious. The freshness of the wreck, the lack of registration, and now the body. The deputy had been clear that he was just looking for a missing boat. That could make the man aboard the thief, but then who locked him in the cabin?
“Mac?” she said when he didn’t respond, and brought the phone to her ear.
“Wait, Mel. Just a minute.” He went back to the boat and grabbed the case. “Something weird’s going on here. First the fish kill, then the body, and here.” He handed her the case. “I’m not even sure whose jurisdiction this is in. The wreck was in federal waters.” In truth, the last thing he wanted was the sheriff out here. He and the new man had gotten off to a bad start, and he doubted a personal visit would go well.
She sat on a stump with the case on her lap. “It’s a cell phone,” she said, opening the cover of the waterproof case.
“No way it works after being in the water,” he said.
“This is a pretty rugged setup,” she said, pressing the power button.
The phone gave him an idea. “I’m going to see if I can start the electronics. See if there is a track on the GPS that shows where the boat has been.” She didn’t look up.
Her head was still down, fingers flying over the keyboard. A swarm of black flies greeted him when he moved to the console. He and Mel were not the only ones to discover the body. The smell soon reached him and he stepped back. “We have to do something with the body.”
“We?” Mel asked. “I’m calling someone right now. It’s a murder, Mac.”
“It’ll be the same body if it’s just floating around, and we can still call it in. This is bigger than one dead man. If we turn it over to the sheriff, it’ll end there,” Mac said.
Mel stared at the screen for a minute. “Don’t you watch CSI—crime scene?” She paused. “This is interesting.”
“Is that good interesting or bad interesting?” Mac asked.
“I’m not sure, but I think whoever this is worked for the National Science Foundation,” she said.
“Who would kill a scientist?” Mac asked, but he already knew the answer.
“What did you say about a fish kill?”
“Trufante and one of his no-good buddies were out there netting. Apparently that king tide and storm pushed the leading edge of the red tide fish down here. They thought it would be easy pickings,” Mac explained.
“That idiot’s selling diseased fish now?” Mel looked up.
Mac just shrugged. The breeze kicked up, pushing the smell toward them. “We need to make a decision.”
Mel was quiet, but Mac could tell from the look on her face that her brain was working in overdrive. “You’re right. If we give the crime scene to the sheriff, he’ll do everything he can to bury it. The last thing his campaign needs is an ecological disaster in his backyard.” She paused. “We’ll tell him we were out fishing and saw if floating.”
“And then?” Mac asked.
“Then we figure this out. If someone or something wants a scientist dead, I’m interested,” Mel said. “Could be the Feds are already involved, and in a bad way.”
Mac saw the light in her eyes that had been missing for the last few weeks. She had been looking for a cause, and now it seemed she had found one. “Let me use your phone. I’ll make the call.”
She handed him the phone and watched while he started to dial. “Wait. We need to get out where we ‘found’ the body. If they have any kind of technology, they can track the call to here.”
“I’ll get a tarp, and we probably need to wear gloves, too,” Mac said, leaving the beach.
“I’m going to hang onto this,” she said, sticking the dead man’s phone in her pocket.
They changed into clothes that they would later burn and grabbed lobstering gloves, as they were the only ones available. Back on the beach, Mac looked at the two boats bobbing in the light chop and chose the center-console. There was no way he was going to endanger the trawler if this went badly.
Taking an old painter’s tarp, he spread it on the deck and rolled the body onto it. Mel came aboard, and they tucked the ends in, making what looked like a large burrito. It took both of them to get the dead weight over the side of the beached boat and onto the center-console. Once it was loaded, they hopped off, stripped, and tossed their clothes onto the smoldering fire. After changing again, they pushed the boat back into the water.
