Mac travis adventures bo.., p.50
Mac Travis Adventures BoxSet, page 50
part #4 of Mac Travis Series
His only hope was that if the woman didn’t know these waters, the coral heads and shoals could be an equalizing factor between the two boats. Several small islands were ahead, but steering directly toward the shallow water surrounding them would be too obvious. He needed a hidden obstacle. Steering straight ahead, he tried to calculate how long it would take the speedboat to reach them. It would be close, and that could be to his advantage.
“What are you doing?” Jeff staggered toward him. “That’s Elbow Bank your runnin’ at.”
“Yeah, and our girlfriend is right behind us,” Trufante said, cutting the wheel slightly. He had to rely on the speed of the boat chasing them, hoping the woman would blindly follow, not thinking about anything except catching them. “Watch this action.”
He skirted the hidden obstacle and looked behind to place the shoal directly between the two boats. She followed and he unleashed his thousand-dollar grin, but it was premature. Bullets flew past his head, causing him to duck and inadvertently spin the wheel. Staying low to avoid the gunfire, he tried to correct course. It was too late; they were both past the bank and she was gaining on them.
Given another few miles, he could have lost her in the maze of islands spread out in front of them. He looked down at the chart plotter, thankfully something that Jeff had spent money on. The GPS device overlaid the boat’s position on a nautical chart, a critical instrument for fishermen. They were running through the channel between Horseshoe and West Bahia Honda Key. Wood’s Island had just become visible on the horizon. Looking back, he saw her, only a hundred yards behind now and gaining. His only chance to avoid her was to steer wide of the shoals guarding the entrance to Spanish Channel, making it look like he was circling back and hope that she cut the corner.
He cut the wheel hard to port, spinning the boat almost a hundred and eighty degrees. Trusting the electronics more than his memory, he stared at the chart plotter and depth finder, staying to four feet of water as he rounded the bend and entered the channel. Turning back again, he watched her, his grin showing every bit of the Cadillac grill he was famous for. She took the bait, steering too close to the shallows. Even above the engine noise of the lobster boat, he heard the speedboat’s lower unit ground, spouting a huge stream of water into the air as the angle of the propeller shifted skyward.
“Got her!” Jeff slammed him on the back.
Trufante was not as confident as he slowed and looked back at her. The two boats were close enough that he could see her glare at him, one hand holding her phone to her ear, the other pointing the gun at them. He could see her close one eye and the flash of the barrel as a burst of gunfire tore apart the space his head had just occupied. Shards of fiberglass rained down on him.
Grabbing the wheel, he pulled himself level with the gunwales and heard the gun fire again. Another round of bullets struck around him. From this position, able to see over the windshield, he pushed down the throttle. The boat accelerated and he nudged the wheel to avoid a large brown spot ahead. The chart plotter was too high to see from here—he would have to rely on his memory and the old mariners rhyme: “Brown, brown, run aground. White, white, and you might. Green, green, nice and clean. Blue, blue, sail on through.” Slowly he cut the wheel and watched the water color ahead. A little farther and they would be out of range.
Finally he felt secure enough to stand and look back. The speedboat was visible in the distance, but there was a mile between them now. Wood’s Island was dead ahead, and he smiled seeing the trawler was gone. The only problem was they were directly in her line of sight.
Jeff slammed him on the back. “We made it!”
“Not so fast. She can still see us. Gonna have to go around to the back side,” Trufante said.
“Whatever, man. Mac keep any beer out there?”
“We need to get out of here as quick as a snapper goes for a shrimp. I seen her on the phone. I’d be expecting those two nimrods anytime. Just hope they don’t bring Manuel into this.” He passed the small channel leading to the lone pile with the center-console drifting from a line looped around it, and he cut the wheel to avoid the flats ahead. Steering a wide circle, he rounded the northern side of the island, wondering what their next step was. Ditching Jeff and taking the center-console might solve his problems. Mac would understand, and it seemed like the only way out until he rounded the point and saw the boat anchored off the beach.
Slowly he idled the lobster boat over the white sand flats. When he felt the first tug of the bottom on the bow, he stopped before the propeller hit. The old twenty-foot boat had an inboard diesel engine, setting the propeller higher than the bow. “Wait here and sleep it off,” he said to Jeff, who was already snoozing in the shade of the overhang.
He slid over the gunwale, unable to gauge the depth of the gin-clear water. Hip deep, he waded toward the empty boat, scanning the shore for any sign of its occupants. Nothing moved except a pair of bonefish he spooked. Using the anchor line, he pulled himself toward the boat and was surprised when he reached it to see the PVC pipe. Curious now, he climbed the dive ladder and went to the cockpit. Shaking his head, he saw water pooled in the bottom of the gauges and wondered what was up. The question was, could he make it run.
The key was still in the ignition. He turned it and pressed the start buttons for each engine. Not expecting anything, he was surprised to hear the motors turn over, but they did not start. This was interesting, he thought, and went to the transom, where he removed the cowling from the port engine. It had definitely been underwater. Under normal circumstances, the oil should be drained and replaced from both the lower unit and engine itself, then the fuel lines would be purged of water, but he heard the throaty roar of the speedboat and knew these were not normal times.
Pulling the fuel line from the engine, he depressed the ball and tasted the gas. It appeared good and he reconnected the line. A few squeezes and the ball tightened, indicating the line was primed, and he went to the helm. With his fingers crossed he pressed the start button for the port engine and held his breath as it turned over. The starter ground against the flywheel and finally the engine sputtered to life. He left it running hoping it would even out while he replaced the cowling and removed the line from the PVC pipe. Back at the helm, he pushed the throttle forward, retrieved the anchor, and idled to Jeff’s boat.
“Come on, dude,” he yelled to Jeff. “Wake your ass up before the she-devil finds us.”
Jeff’s head rose over the gunwale and he suddenly came to life. “What the fuck?” He stared at the boat.
“Hop in. We can hightail it outta here in this,” Trufante said.
Jeff climbed over the gunwale, looking back at the fish rotting in the white bins. “We should take this and sell it,” he said, starting back to the lobster boat.
“Screw that. It’s rotten. Even Billy Bones ain’t buying that shit,” Trufante said, pushing down on the throttle and sending Jeff reeling backward toward the transom. He crashed against the gunwale and collapsed on the deck.
The longer the engine ran, the more it evened out. He left the wheel for a second and kicked Jeff. “Get up, dude. You gotta drive.”
Finally Jeff rose and went to the wheel.
“Ain’t got no electronics, just the compass. I’m going to work on the starboard engine,” Trufante said, setting one leg over the transom into the motor well.
“Where are we going?” Jeff asked.
“Key West, dude—where else?”
12
Mel leaned back in the chair and rubbed her eyes.
“Still alive?” Rusty asked from across the bar.
She got up to stretch and looked around. The previously deserted bar was now close to full. She went toward him. “Do you know anything about Big Sugar?”
“Just enough to enjoy a little in my coffee,” he laughed. “And enough to know it’s dirty politics in this state.”
What she had just found out amazed her. “How come no one outside of Florida knows about this?” All those years working federal cases and living in Virginia and she had never heard of the travesty that a handful of companies were committing to the Everglades.
“Everglades have been buggered up since Ponce de Leon first laid eyes on them,” Rusty said.
“Those fish Mac had are just the tip of a big iceberg. I’m surprised there has been no other fallout here.” From what she had read, Fort Myers had been especially hard hit, and that was only a couple of hours away. The sugar industry had caused a multitude of problems, and it had been going on far longer than most people thought.
Rusty walked away to serve someone, then came back over, handed her a soda water and looked over her shoulder at the screen.
Mel recited from her notes. “Back in the 1920s, the first diversion ditches were dug to create more agricultural land for the sugar companies. After the 1928 hurricane flooded low-lying settlements along Lake Okeechobee, the Army Corp of Engineers came in and started shoring up the south shore. The Herbert Hoover Dike was begun and the earthen berm continued to rise, blocking not only the flooding, but also the natural drainage from the Kissimmee Basin and the lake through the Everglades and into Florida Bay.
“In the thirties, developers turned their sights on southeast Florida. Seeking more land from Palm Beach to Miami, they looked west to the Everglades. Canals were dug and huge swaths of the ecosystem were lost forever. Now the whole shooting match is controlled by bureaucrats.”
“Big Sugar and real estate tycoons.” Rusty shook his head. “That’s the history of Florida right there.” He went to help a couple that had just come in.
“Don’t forget the South Florida Water Management District,” a woman at the next table said.
Mel looked over at her. It was the marine biologist from the Turtle Hospital. “Jen, right?” she asked.
“A whole bunch of us are part of Friends of the Everglades. Check out the website.” She slid her chair over and reached for the keyboard.
Mel watched as the site appeared, and she started reading.
“Those fish that you guys brought in today, where did you get them?” Jen asked.
“Mac found them out in the Gulf.” She looked at the younger woman, wondering how much she could trust her. Deciding they at least shared a common concern for the environment, she leaned in so no one could overhear. “Out by Sprigger Bank.” She started pecking on the keyboard, opened the spreadsheet from the dead man’s phone and slid the computer back to Jen.
Jen looked at the numbers, scrolling back and forth. “Fish kills. The supermoon and that storm must have pushed the edge of the red tide down. Where’d you get this?”
Mel hesitated. She liked the young woman, but hadn’t known her long enough to trust her. “The Internet. I’ve been through so many sites, I’m not sure which one.” At least that much was true.
“Hey, any chance of getting a water sample where he found the fish?” Jen asked.
Mel felt alive with a cause now. “Sure,” she said, wondering where Mac was.
Mac stared at the catatonic woman sitting next to him in the wheelhouse. Pamela had gone into a trance, trying to channel her inner Trufante. He looked out at the water and wondered whether he should dump her off and head back to the Anchor. Mel would be wondering where he was by now, and bringing Pamela with him was a recipe for trouble. But he agreed with her that Trufante was involved in the explosion and he felt like he had an obligation to his friend.
She interrupted his inner turmoil.
“New boat,” she said.
Great, Mac thought. She was as whacked-out as her mentor. Cheqea and he had known each other since his first days here in the early nineties. Trufante had mentioned that Pamela had been hanging out with the old chief. Whether the Indian actually had any powers or got her followers so stoned on her mixture of fermented seaweed and homegrown weed that they thought she did, he had no idea. But Pamela had obviously bought in. “What about a new boat?”
“Shush, I’m getting something.”
He gripped the throttle, wanting to start up, but in her present state he was wary of her going over the edge. “Listen, we should go back and get Mel.”
She ignored him and started rocking back and forth. Mac started the engine, not caring now. The sooner he got her off the boat, the better. He spun the wheel and pushed down the throttle, steering a heading toward the Rusty Anchor.
“Where are we going, Mac Travis?” she asked, snapping out of her trance.
“Back to Mel. She’s at the Anchor. We’ll figure out what to do about Tru when we get there.” Mac pushed down the throttle to preempt any further conversation. They pulled into the canal several minutes later and docked in the vacant spot they had left. “Maybe you should wait here. See if you can channel him again, or whatever it is you got going,” Mac said.
“True that, Mac Travis. You go your way and I’ll go mine.”
Mac hoped that would indeed be the case, but suspected she was not going anywhere. From the time he had met her, he had been suspect. The woman was an enigma: a hippy with a credit card, and that usually meant trust fund. The type of person he had no time for. He tied off the lines, adding an extra spring line astern, as Rusty had advised, and walked toward the bar.
It was busier now as the locals were getting off work. Mel sat in the corner at a table, talking to another woman whom he recognized as the marine biologist from the turtle place. As he got closer, he saw the look on Mel’s face and knew he was in trouble. Dodging the mystic on the boat and the advocate sitting in front of him, he moved to the bar.
“Looks like you could use a cold one,” Rusty said, sliding a beer down toward Mac.
“Women with a cause,” Mac lamented, taking a sip.
Jane slammed her hands on the wheel and tried the throttle one more time, even though she knew she was only digging the boat in deeper. She had no idea the water was this shallow this far out. At least around Miami, everything was properly marked. It was not her lack of knowledge that upset her, but rather that those two idiots had outwitted her twice now—in one afternoon.
She shut off the engine and called Hector, who said he would be out in twenty minutes. After yelling at him to make it ten and leave his brother behind, she sat down and planned her next move. Coming down here might have been a mistake. It was not her element, and it showed. The only way out was to erase any evidence that she had been here.
Her phone rang, bringing her back from her tantrum, and she looked at the screen. It showed Philip’s name. Taking a deep breath, she tried to collect herself and answered. He was not the kind of man you sent to voicemail.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Have you seen the news?” he asked.
“No. I’ve been a little busy putting things in order here.”
“There was a report about a dead body found floating near Marathon yesterday. All the networks are picking it up. They made an ID, and it’s the scientist,” he said calmly.
Despite his apparent demeanor, she knew he was angry. “I’ll handle it.” She looked back at Marathon, wondering where Hector was.
“Just remember we are under a deadline. The congressman will be here this weekend for the rally. Everything needs to be in order by then.”
The line went dead and she stared at the phone. This kind of conversation was typical for him, nothing to worry about on that account. But with the spectacle he was about to unleash, there was no room for error. Although business rivals, the major players in sugar allied in their fight for survival. Often one group would support Democrats and the other Republicans just to further rig the game and have everyone in their pockets. It had worked. Even public initiatives like the land buyback, where the state was empowered by the voters to purchase agricultural lands, allowing them to become overgrown, mosquito-infested swamps again, were squashed by the political clout of the alliance.
The environmental groups wanted the natural water flow restored, and he would be happy to accommodate them. They didn’t like the way Alligator Alley and Highway 41 cut across the state blocking the historical flow. Well, he could fix that too, but not in the multiyear, billion-dollar plans they had that would take away his land and penalize him financially. He was going to do it the easy way.
It was a win-win. Give the activists what they wanted and claim more land for sugar.
The sound of an outboard distracted her from her thoughts and she looked toward the bridge. A jet ski was heading in her direction, and she thought about picking the gnat off the water with one of the few remaining bullets she had left when she saw it was Hector. A minute later, he pulled next to the grounded boat.
“Give you a hand?” he asked.
“You can cut that smug bullshit right now,” she said, thankful that he had left his obnoxious brother back at the bait house. “Couldn’t you find anything bigger?”
“Manuel is in a rage. If it weren’t for claiming your car as collateral, he’d be out here himself. As it is, I had to run across the street and rent this.”
At least he had a little ingenuity. “Well, what now?”
“It’s no big deal. The tide is coming up. I’ll pull you off.” He slid the jet ski onto the sandbar and lifted the seat. Removing a tow rope used to pull water skiers, he hooked one end on the bow cleat of the hot rod and the other end to the jet ski. “Which end do you want?”
The jet ski scared her. Preferring the power and comfort of bigger, more luxurious vessels, she had never been on one; her only experience with the craft was their obnoxious sound ruining the solitude of her retreats. She climbed over the low gunwale of the hot rod and went to the helm.
Hector came behind the boat and pushed against the transom—the boat didn’t budge.
She would have shot him then if she didn’t need him, but she needed to get the two fishermen. They were going to pay for this. Her attention turned back to the jet ski. Hector started the engine and moved forward, slowly taking the slack out of the line. As it tightened he increased speed and, with a snap, the rope was taut. He gunned the engine, sending a plume of water back.
