Abducted in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  Ange had suggested that going out on the boat might not be a good idea. She assumed, for good reason, that Scarlett would need her rest after all she’d been through.

  “I’m not tired,” she said enthusiastically.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “It sounds fun.”

  We loaded everything up, then locked the house.

  “Ever been diving?” Ange asked Scarlett as she helped us carry a cooler and a few bags across the backyard.

  “Like diving into a pool?”

  Ange and I both laughed.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Ange said. “Looks like today’s gonna be your first lesson.”

  There’s a small boathouse on the edge of the channel where I kept our 22 Robalo center-console. Once we had everything loaded, I lowered the boat into the water using two davits. We moved down the concrete steps and climbed aboard. Inserting the key, I started up the 200-hp engine and began the beautiful commute to the marina.

  “Where’s the diving stuff?” Scarlett said, looking around the boat.

  “It’s all on the boat,” I replied.

  She looked around again, then looked at me like I was crazy.

  “The other boat,” Ange said, hitting me playfully. “We prefer to take the skiff over the truck when the weather’s nice.”

  “Less traffic,” I said with a grin.

  Fifteen minutes later, I brought us into the Conch Harbor Marina, and we tied off beside the Baia. The marina is a short walk from downtown and just north of the famous Mallory Square. With two long docks, each with eight fingers on each side, the marina usually has well over forty boats of various shapes and sizes tied off. The Yankee Freedom ferry to Dry Tortugas National Park sets sail just up the waterfront, and the Key West Coast Guard sector is just beyond it.

  I’ve had the Baia moored here since the day I bought it. Slip twenty-four, just a few slips down from where Jack keeps his boat moored at slip forty-seven. I peeked over and couldn’t see the Conch Republic and Jolly Roger flags marking the top of his boat, the Calypso. He was already out on the water. Day two of lobster season. Christmas morning round two.

  Scarlett stared at the Baia in awe for a few seconds as I climbed over and dropped a bag in the cockpit.

  “This is your boat?” she asked. Before receiving a reply, she added, “How rich are you guys?”

  Easy on the eyes, Baia Flashes have the perfect combination of speed, style, and comfort. The Italian-made thing of beauty turns more heads than a Ferrari.

  When I’d moved back to the Keys in the spring of ’08, I’d taken one quick glance at the housing costs before deciding that a live-aboard life was the life for me. I used savings I’d accumulated over the years, as well as some of the money my dad had left me after his death, to buy it. The house had come later. Finding the Aztec treasure and accepting a finder’s fee had bankrolled that purchase.

  “What? You’re not going to rob us, are you?” I asked.

  It was a genuine possibility. I’d seen this story play out before in movies and books. People lend a helping hand to someone down on their luck, only to be taken advantage of. A very common tale. The fact that she was a runaway orphan didn’t help her case. But there was something about her. Ange and I had both seen it already. We liked her.

  Still, I kept a sharp eye on her.

  “I wouldn’t know where to start,” she said with a laugh. “No, I saw what you did to those guys on the dock, remember? Plus, you did save my life.”

  We transferred our stuff over to the Baia.

  It was just after 1100 by the time we cast off. Already well over eighty degrees, it was also less cloudy than the previous day. Bright blue sky shone crisp from horizon to horizon. There were a few small patches of clouds here and there. A seven-knot breeze blew in from the east, carrying with it the smells of saltwater, nearby restaurant aromas, and faint boat fuel fumes.

  I brought us slowly out of the harbor. Scarlett and Atticus were up on the bow. I’m not sure who was more excited. They looked all around them, taking in every sight and sound. I’ve been on a boat with many different types of people. Few don’t like it, some are indifferent. Most take in the primal feeling of being out on the water with genuine happiness. Every now and then, however, you witness someone experiencing nothing short of pure ecstatic bliss. It was like she’d been a fish flapping on land her whole life and had just been tossed into water for the first time.

  “Alright, come on down,” I said as I brought us out of the opening into the harbor.

  I was about to bring us up to speed. With no bow railing, the last thing I wanted was for her to tumble over the side as I brought us up on plane.

  She nodded and climbed around the windscreen with Atticus right behind her. Her face was big and bright, her eyes full of life. I couldn’t believe that this was the same girl I’d seen the previous night.

  “This is so beautiful,” she said, her smile so big it looked like her face might rip apart.

  “Yes, it is,” Ange said.

  She wrapped an arm around Scarlett’s waist and motioned for her to sit down.

  “Hold on,” I said.

  I slid the throttles all the way forward, throwing us back as the bow rose up high in the water. Scarlett loved it. Soon I had us up to our cruising speed, motoring south along the edge of Key West and into the straits.

  Ten minutes later, we dropped anchor at our destination seven miles southeast of Key West. There were a few other boats anchored in view, the closest being a small bowrider a few hundred yards off that I didn’t recognize. We were over sixty feet of water, and I didn’t need to look over the side to tell the visibility. It’s almost always over seventy feet in most parts of the Keys, especially that far offshore.

  Scarlett stepped out from the saloon behind Ange. They’d both changed into swimsuits, Ange into a teal bikini and Scarlett into a dark blue one-piece. Fortunately, she and Ange were nearly the same size. Scarlett looked excited and eager to get in the water.

  “First order of business is a swim test,” I said.

  She splashed in off the swim platform and did a quick lap around the boat. She was good, relaxed, in good shape, and she knew the strokes well. I handed her a mask and snorkel, and she peered down at the underwater world.

  “It’s amazing,” she said, popping her head up after half a minute of staring. “There’s so much going on down there. So much life.”

  We learned on the ride over that she’d never lived, or even visited, south of Miami before. And she’d never been so much as snorkeling in the ocean before. For her, tropical fish existed only in pet stores and in fancy lobbies in movies.

  Ange and I took a dip as well. After five minutes, we climbed out, toweled off, and went over the basics of scuba diving. We grabbed her a BCD and taught her each of the components and what they do. Then she slid into a wetsuit and strapped it over her back with a tank of air. You can explain what it’s like until your throat hurts, but nothing beats getting in the water and feeling it for yourself.

  We helped her down to the swim platform, then handed her a pair of fins. Once on, she spat into her mask and swirled the saliva around the inside of the lenses. After rinsing it off in the water, she strapped the mask over her eyes.

  “How do I look?” she said, turning to us and striking a pose.

  I laughed.

  “Like a scuba supermodel,” Ange said. She handed me her phone, then climbed down and posed alongside her. “In fact, I think a picture is necessary to commemorate this moment,” she added.

  I brought up the camera and lined it up. They both struck a pose, and I counted down, then snapped a shot. Then Ange wanted another with Scarlett’s mask down. I took it, then stepped over and handed the phone to them. They both hovered over the screen and inspected it, Ange shielding the sun from their faces.

  “Looks like it belongs in a magazine,” Ange said.

  Once in the water, we properly weighted Scarlett to counteract the positive
buoyancy of her body, wetsuit, and gear. Then it was time for her to drop down—only a few feet at first, just to get a feel for it. Breathing in and out of the regulator was strange at first. She breathed quickly but soon slowed and calmed herself. She used the power inflator button to control her depth well by venting and filling air into the BCD’s air bladder. I smiled as I watched her through my mask while treading water. She was a natural.

  I taught her a few quick necessary skills. First, how to clear her mask when water filled inside. A simple tilt back of the head and a forceful exhale through the nose. Then I taught her how to find her regulator if it ever fell from her mouth. It wasn’t the official PADI open water certification course by any means, but it was enough for her to understand how it worked. Besides, we’d be right by her side in case anything went wrong.

  Once ready, she climbed up and sat on the swim platform. Ange and I donned our gear. Scarlett was going off about how cool it was to breathe underwater. Even though I was seven when I went on my first dive, I can still remember it clearly. It was in the Red Sea with my dad, and it was one of the most exciting experiences of my life.

  Once ready to go, we stepped down and Ange sat beside Scarlett to don her fins.

  Before dropping in, I filled Atticus’s water bowl, then gave him a handful of treats. I cracked open a few of the windows to give him a nice breeze.

  “You’re in charge, boy,” I said, then shut the saloon door and headed for the stern.

  The three of us splashed into the water and descended. A world of colorful marine life opened its doors and surrounded us. We reached the bottom and finned along the reef. Up ahead, I spotted our destination—Joe’s Tug, one of the most popular dive sites in the Lower Keys. Despite its name, it’s actually a seventy-five-foot shrimp boat that originally sank back in ’86 before being raised and eventually resunk for the artificial reef program.

  The wreck was broken in two pieces, with about thirty feet separating the forward and aft sections. We approached from the bow, the barnacle-encrusted hull appearing through the water like a ghost ship. Scarlett’s reaction was just as I’d hoped. Here she was diving for her first time, and she was diving a tropical reef and wreck. Sure beat a swimming pool.

  The current was calm, and the bright sun far overhead made everything vibrant. Taking in the sights, we finned around the wreck, Ange and I keeping a sharp eye on Scarlett. She was very comfortable in the water for her first dive.

  We spotted a few moray eels as well as barracuda. We were also happy to find the wreck’s most famous inhabitant was in the building. Elvis looked even bigger than the last time I’d seen him. A massive goliath grouper estimated to weigh over seven hundred pounds. There were two other groups of divers, not surprising given the time of day and popularity of the wreck.

  I finned over the deck of the wreck, enjoying the dive thoroughly. Glancing at my dive watch, I saw that we’d been down half an hour. Using hand signals, I asked Scarlett how much air she had left. She informed me that she still had twelve hundred pounds left in her tank. Ange and I both still had fifteen hundred, so I figured we could spend at least another ten or even twenty minutes at depth if we wanted.

  Suddenly, the sound of a distant engine caught my attention. I glanced up, looking for the source of the sound.

  It was getting louder.

  I scanned back and forth and soon spotted a boat. It was motoring toward the Baia from the north, and it was going pretty fast given all the dive flags in the water.

  I reached for the carabiner strapped to my BCD. Three quick taps against my tank got the girls’ attention. I motioned up toward the approaching boat, then motioned for them to stay there.

  I thought about the guys who’d gotten away the previous night. Who’d motored out into the Gulf and vanished.

  It wasn’t the same boat we’d chased off into the night. I could tell that much even from sixty feet down. But maybe they’d switched boats. Maybe they’d stolen a new one and tracked me down somehow to try and exact their revenge. I told myself it was almost impossible, but I’d witnessed enough nearly impossible things in my life to always prepare for the worst.

  Looking up, I finned for the surface.

  ELEVEN

  I kept my eyes glued on the boat’s hull, watching its every movement as I ascended. I moved with a purpose. Fifty, thirty-five, twenty feet. There was no time for the recommended three-minute safety stop at fifteen feet down.

  I watched as the boat pulled up alongside the starboard side of the Baia. Shifting my course, I kicked for the port side.

  At five feet down, I took in a short breath, then reached behind me and twisted my tank’s valve shut. Then I pressed the purge button on my regulator to vent out the remaining air. The last thing I wanted was for my regulator to accidentally face upward after surfacing. The release of pressurized air would be loud enough to give away my position.

  Holding the shallow breath, I finned for the surface. I broke through with my body up against the port gunwale. Quickly undoing the straps and Velcro, I slid out of my BCD and fins and reached for my dive knife. While diving, I kept it strapped to the inside of my right calf.

  I planned out my moves. A quick look, a quick fling of my knife if necessary, and a dive for my Sig that was lodged in a narrow locker under the helm.

  Reaching overhead, I pressed my fingers to the top of the gunwale and pulled myself up out of the water. I heard voices coming from the idling boat. The second I peeked over the side with my knife drawn back, I gasped and relaxed down onto my side.

  “Holy shit,” Cal Brooks said. He was standing at the stern of his white Privateer Pilothouse, Zig-Zag, with his hands raised above his head. “We come in peace, Logan.”

  I pulled myself up the rest of the way and sat on the sunbed while I slid my knife back into its sheath. Just a false alarm. I won’t have to wipe any blood from the blade. At least not today.

  Cal owned Conch Republic Divers, a small operation out of Boot Key. There was a large group at his back. They were sitting and facing each other while going over their gear for an upcoming dive, but a few of them had noticed my brief inhospitable behavior.

  “Why so jumpy?” Cal said, lowering his sunglasses.

  “Sorry, Cal,” I said.

  I reached over the gunwale, grabbed my floating BCD and fins, then hauled them up into my boat. Then I slid off the sunbed and walked over to the port gunwale.

  “I had a bit of a long night.”

  “Permission to come aboard?”

  I told him to go ahead, and he climbed over. A member of his crew had thrown over a couple of fenders to keep our hulls from scratching each other.

  “I heard about that,” he said. “Any word on the ones that got away?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not yet.” I glanced over at the antsy group on his boat. “What can I do for you?”

  “The heel of one of our fins split,” he said. “I know you wear men’s large, so I was checking to see if you had an extra pair.”

  “I thought you had every piece of dive equipment in existence on that boat.”

  “Everything except what I need,” he said with a laugh. “Like looking for the right-sized lid in a Tupperware drawer.”

  I spotted a few bubbles break the surface beside the stern. I shook my head, then grabbed the carabiner from my BCD and stepped down to the swim platform. I crouched at the edge and dipped my right hand underwater. I tapped the hull with the carabiner, then gave the OK signal so Ange would know that everything was alright.

  Rising to my feet, I grabbed my extra fins from the storage space under the sunbed and handed them to Cal. He thanked me.

  “Maybe I’ll see you at Pete’s later,” he said as he untied the line. “It’s karaoke night.”

  “Not sure you could pay me enough to hear you sing the Cranberries again.”

  He laughed. I’d had “Zombie” stuck in my head for two days after the last karaoke night. And not the good version.

&n
bsp; “Might have to change it up tonight.”

  He thanked me again. They motored slowly to the other side of the wreck site and anchored closer to the other boats. It was like an armada of charters now.

  Ange and Scarlett surfaced after performing the recommended safety stop. They both removed their gear in the water, and I hauled it up and set it down with mine beside the transom.

  “False alarm?” Ange said as she climbed up the ladder behind Scarlett.

  “Just Cal,” I said, pointing over at his boat. “He needed some fins.”

  “I thought he had everything on that boat.”

  The three of us slid out of our wetsuits and toweled off. I let Atticus out and tossed his tennis ball a few times so that he could enjoy the water as well. Scarlett and Ange brought up a few lobster rolls and coconut waters from the galley. We sat and scarfed down while taking in the sights. Scarlett was unusually quiet. She’d expressed that she enjoyed the dive, but she clearly had something on her mind.

  “Who did you think that was?” she said after being pressed.

  “I wasn’t sure.” I chewed and swallowed another bite.

  “You thought it could be the guys that you chased last night?”

  “I thought there was a chance. I don’t like being taken off guard.”

  She took a few bites and thought for a moment. “I don’t think they’ll come back,” she said confidently. “I think you taught them a lesson.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said.

  If only lessons could be learned that easily. But I’d dealt with those types of people for most of my life. I could have scared them off, or I could have just pissed them off.

  “Cal also wanted to make sure we were alright,” I told Ange. “He’s keeping a look out for anything suspicious.”

  Ange nodded.

  “How does he already know what happened?” Scarlett asked. “Is he a close friend of yours?”

  “It’s called the Coconut Telegraph,” Ange said. “Conchs tell their friends, then they tell their friends. Pretty soon it’s common knowledge on every island. Never underestimate the Coconut Telegraph.”