“All classified, but her and Deuce seem to be getting on real well,” he said. “Y’all want a beer or something with those sandwiches?” Rufus had just walked in with two plates and set them on the bar.

  They shook their heads at the same time and asked for water.

  Mel had the laptop open and her fingers were flying across the keyboard. Every few minutes, she stopped and took a bite of her sandwich.

  “What’cha got cookin’ over there?” Rusty asked.

  Mac knew Mel was too engrossed in what she was doing to answer. “Hey. You know any marine biologist types around? Maybe someone who could look at something and keep it quiet?” Mac asked.

  Rusty looked at the cooler and then over at Mac. “I’d expect Trufante to be walking in here any minute, as secretive as you two are.”

  Mac thought about bringing him into the loop, but decided against it. The authorities already knew about one murder and the sinking of the boat. There was no reason to involve Rusty. “Just caught something I’m not real sure of.”

  Rusty gave him a look that clearly said he knew better, but let it go. “There’s a group from that Turtle Hospital that comes in here some nights. Good folk, mainly. Maybe ask over there.” He rubbed his chin. “Girl named Jen. Doesn’t drink much, looks pretty responsible.”

  Mac thought about bringing an unknown into the equation. He decided to trust a bartender’s personality assessment, and they needed someone to look at the fish. Alicia’s boyfriend, TJ, ran a dive shop up in Key Largo. He had some kind of marine science background too, but that was sixty miles away, and on a day like this he would be out on charters.

  “Turtle Hospital it is. What do we owe you?” Mac asked.

  “I’ll start you up a tab. Sounds like you two are up to something that’ll keep you in town for a few days.”

  Mac walked over to Mel and looked over her shoulder at the screen. “Can you break away for a few minutes so we can get these fish checked out?”

  She didn’t look up. “Sure. Just emailing Alicia to see if she can help with this phone. There are some password protected apps on it.”

  “Funny, I was just thinking about them. Figure they’re going to be out all day,” Mac said, looking out at the water, wishing he would be as well.

  “Take your car?” Mac asked.

  Rusty reached below the bar and tossed him a set of keys. “Just don’t wreck it,” he said.

  Trufante had slept despite the surroundings, mainly due to his after-binge hangover. He woke, fidgeting with his ties. With every movement, the barnacle-covered trapline that the brothers had tied him with cut into his skin.

  “This is your fault.”

  Trufante turned to the voice. “What are you talking about? It was your idea.”

  “If I didn’t have to meet you to get that net back . . . ”

  Light shot into their eyes, blinding them momentarily when the door opened.

  “You boys have some explaining to do,” a woman’s voice called out.

  Trufante squinted into the light, trying to see who she was.

  “Bring them over here,” she said.

  Hector and Edgar each grabbed one arm, pulling Trufante out of the building and dropping him on the crushed coral outside. He didn’t resist, grateful for the fresh air and to be away from the fish. A minute later, Jeff was deposited next to him.

  “These the guys that brought in the fish?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hector said, losing the British accent from last night. “This is them. Got the net back too.”

  “Good. Now boys,” the woman said, pulling the bands back on a speargun. Trufante saw the barbed end point toward him and felt another old injury twitch. “You set this deal up?”

  “We both came up with it,” Trufante said. Despite his loathing for Jeff, he was a stand-up guy and not going to throw him under the point of the spear. Maybe together they could get out of this.

  She pointed the spear at Jeff. “No. It was him. He made me take my boat and net these fish. I knew it was bad,” Jeff whined.

  Trufante turned and looked at him, amazed he had the balls to outright lie. Before he could come up with a denial, he saw the glint of metal as the spear flashed by and winced. It was not meant for him. The three barbs entered Jeff’s thigh, taking him to the ground. He squirmed, writhing in pain with both hands on the shaft, trying to pull it out. The woman calmly walked up to him and placed her shoe against his leg. Trufante thought she might show mercy and remove the spear. Instead, she pressed down and twisted the barbed tip deeper. Jeff screamed in pain.

  “That’s what you get for lying,” she said. “You two,” she called to Hector and Edgar. “Get him on the boat and load the fish.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” Jeff whimpered.

  “Take the fish out and dump the load somewhere they won’t be found,” she said to both men.

  Hector and Edgar stood to the side giggling, like two high school girls sharing a secret.

  “But what about this?” Jeff grabbed the shaft.

  She shook her head dismissively, reached over and yanked the spear out. Jeff screamed again and crumpled on the gravel, unconscious.

  Trufante watched as the two men hauled Jeff toward the dock and loaded him on his boat. They came back down the path, each one giving Trufante the evil eye, before entering the storage building. A forklift emerged a few minutes later with the crates and moved slowly toward the dock. It stopped and the two men grunted and grumbled as they loaded the bins of fish onto the boat. The last one loaded, Hector returned the forklift and came toward them.

  “Might as well get going,” she said to Trufante. “In the trunk of the car is a cooler.” She pointed the bloody tip of the spear at the Audi. “Put it on the boat.”

  Awkwardly, he gained his feet and shuffled to the car. The trunk was open, and he reached in, both hands still bound together, to grab the handles of a soft-sided cooler, which he carried to the dock.

  “Ahoy, matey. What’s in the bag?” Hector asked.

  “Lady said to put it on the boat,” Trufante said, extending his long frame across the gap between the boat and the dock.

  “Cheers, mate,” Hector said, jumping off and releasing the lines. “Maybe she bought you some beer for the ride back.”

  Somehow he didn’t think so, but with Edgar’s gun trained on them, he had no choice but to set it under the seat.

  Jeff was still crumpled on the deck. Trufante went to the helm and turned the key. The old diesel started with a throaty cough and he pulled away from the dock, wanting to be rid of the woman and the two brothers. He turned before they left the channel and saw the brothers and the woman staring at him. Nothing good ever happened to him at Monster Bait.

  9

  Mac and Mel left the Anchor and turned left onto US 1. After about a mile, Mac saw the sign for the Turtle Hospital in the distance and slowed.

  “It’s all the way up there. What are you doing?” Mel asked.

  “Look. That’s Pamela, Tru’s girlfriend,” Mac said, pulling over to the side. “Something’s not right.”

  “I’ll say. The fact that you’re pulling over to help the loser’s girlfriend. Come on, Mac. We have stuff to do.”

  “It’ll only take a minute. Looks like something’s wrong,” he said, getting out of the car and walking to the bench.

  The walking and bike trail was a dozen feet off the highway, protected by a barrier of grass and trees. Mac walked up to the prone figure on the bench and shook her shoulder.

  “Hey, Pamela, you okay?” he asked.

  She moved slightly and turned toward him, squinting into the sunlight. It must have been a rough night. Her hair was a mess, and mascara had run and dried in black lines down her face. “Huh?”

  “Pamela, it’s Mac. Tru’s friend,” he said, waiting for her to get her bearings.

  “Mac Travis. Look here. Tru said to find you. I been walking all night,” she said.

  “It’s okay. I’m here. But what about Tru?” Mac asked.

  “These creepers came into the bar and took him last night.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “No, but the guy was talking in a strange accent. Kept calling Tru matey, and he called me a broad,” Pamela said, running her fingers through her hair. “Can we get some water or food or something? It’s been a long strange trip.”

  “Yeah. Sorry, come on,” Mac said, leading her to the car.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” Mel said.

  “Come on. She needs help and Tru’s in trouble,” Mac said, helping Pamela into the back seat.

  He went back around to the driver’s side and got back in. Mel’s look tore through him. “What?”

  “Mac Travis. Picking up strays and trying to save the world,” she said.

  He could see the old Mel coming out. She had a plan, and anything that interfered with it got brushed to the side, including himself at times. “It’s got to be connected. Let me get her a bottle of water and some food. She can wait in the car,” he said, starting the engine and pulling into traffic. A few blocks ahead he saw a gas station. After stopping in front of the pump, he gave Mel a “play nice” look and went in, coming back with a large bottle of water and a bag of chips. Handing them through the open window, Pamela took them greedily. He decided to top off the gas to make sure Rusty got the car back better than he’d taken it and pumped a few gallons into the tank.

  Leaving the gas station, he drove another few blocks and turned right into the Turtle Hospital. The lot was almost full, and he parked next to their orange and white “turtle ambulance.” The facility had grown over the years rescuing, rehabilitating, and releasing thousands of turtles. You could still tell it was built from the bones of an old motel, but they had been successful and were able to expand.

  “We’ll be right back,” Mac said to Pamela. There was no response, and he looked back at her. She looked like a feral cat, eating greedily, and constantly scanning their surroundings for danger. Stuffing her face with chips and alternately washing them down with large gulps from the almost-empty water bottle, she looked like she hadn’t slept in days—which was probably the case, he thought, thinking back on Trufante’s history.

  Together they walked into the office. It looked like a tour was getting started, and it took a few minutes for the woman behind the counter to acknowledge them.

  “We’re looking for someone named Jen,” Mac said.

  The woman gave him a protective look. “She expecting you?”

  “No. We got kind of referred to her about a marine biology question,” Mel said, shoving Mac aside. “My dad was Bill Woodson. I think he knew the guy that founded this place. Just take a minute.”

  Now she smiled. “Hold on then. Let me see if she’s free,” she said, getting up from the stool and walking out the back door. A minute later, she was back with another woman.

  “This is Jen,” she said.

  “What can I help you with?” the woman asked.

  “We found some fish washed up on the beach. Something’s not right with them, and we were looking to get an opinion,” Mel said.

  “I have a few minutes. Why don’t you bring them around back,” she said.

  “I’ll get the cooler,” Mac said, going toward the door. He left the air conditioned building and walked across the parking lot. The car was empty. The empty water bottle and bag of chips were all that remained of Pamela. Shaking his head, he went to the trunk, opened it, and removed the cooler. It was probably a good thing it had been locked in the trunk, he thought. As ravenous as Pamela was, she might have eaten some bad sashimi.

  He took the cooler back to the office and went in. Jen led them through a side door and they entered the medical part of the facility. Mac glanced around, surprised that it looked like any hospital he had been in. Walking past a large room that looked like it was set up for surgery, Jen took them into an exam room.

  “Okay. Let’s see what you have,” she said.

  Mac set the cooler on the table and stepped away. Jen opened the lid and removed the gutted snook and its stomach contents from the baggie. She set them aside and took out the redfish. Under a strong light, she examined the fish. “These from down here?”

  He shook his head. “Strange this time of year. I’m thinking that king tide and storm brought them down,” he said.

  She nodded her head. “We got a lot of turtle activity the last few days too,” she said, taking a scalpel from a drawer and slicing the stomach open. Mac winced, but the fish were still frozen. A minute later, she laid the stomach contents on a stainless steel pan.

  After examining them she looked up. “I worked up at the Mote Marine Lab in Sarasota during a red tide. This looks just like what I saw from those fish.”

  “I’ve never heard of red tide reaching this far south,” Mac said.

  “Ever hear of Friends of the Everglades?” she asked.

  Mel answered, “Big Sugar.”

  “What do these fish have to do with sugar?” Mac asked.

  Before she could answer, they heard a crash and ran for the door. Outside, a group of people were gathered around one of the ambulances that had slammed into the large concrete base of a power pole and crashed at the base of the sign.

  “It’s Pamela,” Mel said.

  But Mac had already taken off. He ran toward the scene, pushing through the people gathered around. When he reached the driver’s side it was empty. Stepping back, he looked for Pamela.

  Mel joined Mac. “We gotta go before the police get here,” she said, tugging him away from the ambulance. “That deputy still wants to talk to us about the body, and this reeks of Trufante.”

  They slid through the crowd, making their way to the car. There was no getting through the parking lot with the crowd of people surrounding the wrecked ambulance. He backed up instead, hoping the rain-soaked grass would support the car. Slowly, he spun the wheel and started forward. The tires spun, kicking a stream of mud behind them, but the car inched forward enough for the treads to grab something solid and propel them onto the bike path. Several people yelled at him for cutting them off, and in the background he heard the first siren. Spinning the wheel toward the road, he jumped the curb and pulled onto the pavement. A quick glance in the rearview mirror showed several first responders behind him.

  He accelerated, heading toward the Seven Mile Bridge. The road was clear ahead, but across the way traffic was already starting to back up as rubberneckers slowed to check out the accident. Just as he started to relax, thinking that topping off the gas tank was not going to be enough payback, he heard a voice from the back seat.

  “Steal your face right off your head, Mac Travis. That was some escape,” Pamela said, leaning forward between them.

  He didn’t have to look across to Mel to see her eyes boring into him.

  Trufante took one last look at the dock. They were gone, and he breathed deeply. He turned the corner and headed for the channel.

  “So, that’s a fine automobile,” Trufante said to Jeff.

  “What the hell, Trufante. I got a hole in my leg, and you’re talking about cars?” Jeff grumbled.

  “Sure would like to take a ride in her,” Trufante said, revealing his thousand-dollar grin. “All we got to do is dump the fish and we’re good. What’s with the negativity?”

  “They got gators smarter than your dumb ass,” Jeff said, crawling toward the helm. He pulled himself up and tried to put weight on the leg. Wincing in pain, he fell back on the seat.

  “Before you get comfortable, think you could cut me loose?” Trufante asked, holding out his bound hands.

  Jeff slid over and took the wheel from him. “Help yourself.”

  Trufante moved to the gunwale, where a rusty fillet knife was set in a rod holder. He took the knife and in few seconds was free. Rubbing the abrasions on his wrists, he returned to the helm. “Where we takin’ ’em?”

  “Thought over to the bridge rubble. We can load the nets and sink them. Let ’em rot down there,” Jeff said.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Trufante said. “How ’bout one of those beers now?”

  “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said this week,” Jeff said, turning the wheel hard to port after clearing the last marker. He accelerated toward open water.

  Trufante reached into the cabin and pulled out the cooler. Placing it on the seat, he pulled the zipper and opened the lid. “Ain’t no beer in here, man.”

  Jeff looked over. “Shit.”

  Trufante knew what he was looking at. “I guess we’re supposed to go down with the fishes.”

  “Toss that shit overboard,” Jeff yelled.

  “Wait a minute. She ain’t gonna blow it yet. Gotta be cool here—too close in. She’d want us in the deep water past the reef.” Trufante poked a finger in the wiring. “Just gotta figure what triggers her.”

  “What the hell. You’re going to blow us up,” Jeff screamed.

  “Exactly,” Trufante said. “We gotta be dead to live.”

  Jeff looked at him. It took a minute for him to figure out what Trufante was talking about. “Not as dumb as you look.” He slowed the boat as they approached the reef. “How’s she going to know when to call it.”

  “Those two nimrods probably told her it would take us about forty-five minutes to get past the reef. I’d bet she waits an hour, just in case,” Trufante said, looking back at the net in the corner by the transom. “How deep are we?”

  “Just passing a hundred,” Jeff said.

  “A little deeper. We don’t want anyone looking for a wreck and not finding anything,” he said, reaching for the net. He laid it out on the deck and placed the cooler in the center. He wound the netting around the cooler, cinching it with the buoy line.

  “Two hundred fifty,” Jeff called out the sounding.

  “Slow down,” Trufante said, grabbing a dock line and attaching one end to the bundle. He tossed it over and tied off the line when it was twenty feet back.

  “Ain’t much of a safety margin,” Jeff said.

 

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