Fallen Honor: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 7)

by Wayne Stinnett

  Guy’s not much to look at, GT thought. How’s a guy like that score a cute little hard-body like her?

  GT turned and started down the middle of the square. There were all kinds of street vendors, magicians, performers, and musicians, even a fortuneteller. They were set up all over the whole dock area, each with a hat or coffee can for people to put money in.

  The phone in his pocket vibrated against GT’s leg. Taking it out, he read a message from Erik, saying he was in the square now, but didn’t see GT or the guy.

  Looking over the crowd in general, he decided most of these people weren’t the type to visit hookers. A lot of them had families. As he stood in the center of the large crowd, suddenly everyone started cheering.

  GT looked around, but saw nothing worth cheering about. The sun had just gone down and it was getting dark fast, but he hadn’t seen a hooker anywhere in the square. Dude wouldn’t be here, then, GT thought.

  Pecking a message back to Erik, instructing him to head back to Duval Street and they’d start checking the bars, GT made his way back the way he came. Nearing the spot where he entered the square, he saw the little hard-body in the yellow dress again. She was hurrying ahead of the dissipating crowd, dragging the guy she was with by the hand. GT noticed her hair for the first time. She wore short dreadlocks.

  The smell of coffee woke me. Rather than an alarm clock, I use a twelve-volt coffeemaker with a timer. I’d had my fill of alarm clocks and preferred to wake up with my coffee ready for me.

  I rose and padded naked to the dresser, where I put on clean boxers and shorts. I looked out the large south-facing window. The only light on in the house was a little red one on the coffeemaker, so my eyes were well adjusted to the darkness.

  The rest of my island is connected to an electric grid, powered by a huge bank of deep-cycle twelve-volt batteries, kept charged by a large generator. My house is still connected to the original system I installed six years ago, four marine batteries kept charged by a solar panel and wind turbine on the roof.

  Nearly all electric on the island is twelve volt and the things that run constantly, like the refrigerators and freezers, run off of propane. My house has a small alcohol stove I’d salvaged from a boat many years ago. Charlie has two propane oven-and-stove combinations in her kitchen, for when we have visitors.

  The half-moon was near the western horizon. It lit the water’s surface and the islands to either side of Harbor Channel like an old black-and-white TV show, casting long, dark shadows. A light glow emanated from the south, several miles away in Big Pine.

  The wind looked calm, barely a ripple on the water. Above the horizon, stars lit the inky blackness of the night sky by the millions, unabated by the glow from town. You really can’t enjoy looking at the stars from shore, unless you’re in the middle of a desert. Other light sources wash them out and reduce your night vision. Out on the blue, they stretch across the heavens to the far horizon in all directions with equal intensity, each winking out as it slid below the western horizon, only to be replaced by another to the east.

  I went outside to where I keep my kayak and gear on the south deck. The kayak rests on brackets just below the roof overhang and above the window, where everything’s handy. Ten minutes later, with a thermos of coffee, a cooler of bottled water, and my favorite rod and reel, I paddled away from the house. At best, I’d drink half the coffee and one bottle of water, but it’s always a good idea to carry more than you need when you go out on the water.

  My kayak is a 4.7-meter Trident Ultra made by Ocean Kayaks. Unlike a traditional kayak that you sit inside of, this kind you actually sit on top of. It’s made of hard molded plastic and the top deck is depressed in the hull for sitting and storage.

  Mine’s set up for fishing, with several rod holders, storage wells, even a small tilt-up console for a fish finder and GPS. The console snaps shut between my legs, out of the way for heavy surf.

  It was still full dark as I paddled silently south along Upper Water Key toward the shallow gap between it and Lower Water Key. The setting moon and stars cast more than enough light for me to see.

  Turning west, I left the channel and crossed the shallow sandbar separating the two islands. Very little of the area around my home is navigable for any kind of powerboat. Some areas are deep enough, but surrounded by very shallow sandbars and cuts like I’d just crossed. Way too shallow even for my skiff to pole across, but the kayak glides easily in just a few inches of water.

  Knowing the tide was almost full, I raised the console and switched on the GPS, striking out at a fast pace and easily getting into the rhythm. I was very familiar with the area and knew I’d have at least two feet under the keel for several miles. I only used the GPS to monitor my speed. At a brisk five knots, I settled into a smooth constant reach and pull with the paddle, using my whole body with every stroke.

  Having no need for it in the calm shallows, I had the rudder raised out of the water. The Ultra has a rudder for ocean paddling, so you can steer it with two pedals by the footrests. Just forward of the rudder is a deep recess behind the seat, large enough to store a scuba tank and dive gear. I was hoping to use it for something different this morning. It’s the perfect kayak for my needs.

  After ten minutes, I eased the pace, catching my breath, already sweating in the hot, still air. After a few more minutes, I stopped stroking altogether, resting the paddle across my thighs as the kayak continued to glide silently across the still and shallow water. I took a bottle of water from the cooler and drank half of it before replacing it and pouring a mug of coffee.

  Leaning back in the seat, I enjoyed my coffee and looked up at the indifferent night sky. After only a minute, I saw the first of several shooting stars. A good omen, I thought.

  The moon was slowly sinking toward the horizon beyond Raccoon Key, which lay just ahead and to the south. Most of the stars to the west were lost in the brightness of the moon, but to the north and south they sparkled like tiny diamonds under a bright light.

  Out here in the dark, away from everything and everyone, you could imagine being in a completely different time. A time where everything around you was calm, beautiful, and innocent. A far cry from the events of the day before.

  Carl was right, it is getting worse. Anywhere man could go easily soon became trashed. The more people, the more trash and crime. Build a bridge to an island and it too soon became trashed. I don’t mean just litter, but the human trash, like the three guys at the Anchor.

  My island is my escape from all the trash that society brings with it. Out here in the backcountry, I feel more alive. Finishing my coffee, I began paddling, slower now. I’d come about two miles and my destination was just ahead, Cudjoe Channel.

  The shallows all across this flat were just one or two feet deep before dropping into Cudjoe Channel and then back to just a couple feet on the other side. It’s a very narrow and natural channel, cut by the constant changing of the tides. Twenty feet deep in some places, it was deeper than it was wide in most. That deep trench has always been a great spot for big grouper, particularly this early in the morning. I approached the edge of the channel at the north end, where the waters from the Gulf entered.

  I paddled slower, making no sound whatsoever, like a tiger would move through the grass after unsuspecting prey. With the sun just starting to purple the eastern sky, I dropped my bait into the water at the north end of the channel and let the current carry me south. I had a half dozen finger mullet, a favorite of game fish. After drifting like a ghost for the whole length of the channel, down to where it spilled out into the flats surrounding the Tarpon Belly Keys, I lifted the paddle once more.

  I left the bait in the water and slowly paddled against the current to the north end of the channel once more. This time, as I drifted south past Riding Key, I got a bite. Reaching back, I released the bungee holding the rudder out of the water and pulled back on the rod, setting the hook. The rod bent, bouncing a little, as I held it tightly with one hand and secured t
he paddle in its holder with the other. The fight was on.

  The big grouper instinctively headed north against the current, toward the Gulf and open water. I could just make out the shallow edges of the channel and used the rudder controls to muscle the big fish away from one side and then the other, using his own pull to allow me steerage and angle away when he’d run, pulling the kayak sideways at times.

  The fight only lasted ten minutes before the big fish tired and rolled near the surface. As I approached, he flipped his giant tail, smacking the surface and sounding, pulling out line against the drag. The effort only lasted a few seconds and I reeled him back to the surface next to the kayak.

  It was a big black grouper. So big I had no need to measure, it was obvious the fish was a good foot longer than the twenty-two-inch legal limit and probably weighed forty pounds. That’d make for a few good meals. Strapping the big fish in place behind my seat, I stowed the rod and began paddling toward home.

  We don’t usually catch large fish, simply because there is an abundance of smaller ones, and catching larger fish means refrigerating it. But my daughter Eve and her husband were coming down the next day, with my grandson, little Jesse. His full name is Alfredo Jesiah Maggio. Eve and Nick call him Alfie, but I think he prefers what his pappy calls him. The big black would be perfect to feed everyone and save a little for the next day.

  Pushing harder than I had on the way out, I maintained a fast pace all the way back to the house. Arriving, I was sweating hard and could feel the burn in the muscles along my sides and back. Swimming exercises a lot of muscle groups, but paddling really isolates the long, thin muscles from the low back to the groin. Let go, these form “love handles.”

  The sun was just peeking above the eastern horizon, when I reached the house. Carl was already up, the east door open, and I could hear the quiet burble of the big outboard on the Grady-White. I’d given him and Charlie the twenty-foot center-console, so they’d have a means of getting the kids to the bus stop on Big Pine.

  Carl was standing on the dock as I paddled up. “Whoa, man! That’s some big black.”

  “Caught him in Cudjoe Channel,” I replied as Charlie and the kids walked out onto the pier, with Pescador trotting alongside the kids. Though he was my dog, he spent a lot more time with little Carl and Patty, playing tag in the clearing or swimming in the lagoon.

  We exchanged good mornings, then Charlie had to hustle off to get the kids to the bus stop on time. As always, Pescador went along with them. She was planning to do some grocery shopping while in town and Pescador would wait for her at the marina.

  Carrying the big fish by the gills with both hands, Carl ducked into the dock area under the house while I took my gear up and rinsed everything at the shower under the cistern before putting it away. By the time I got down to the cleaning station, Carl had already filleted the big fish and cut the fillets into portion-sized steaks.

  “This’ll make a fine meal when Eve comes tomorrow,” Carl said. “You’re sure her husband will be here this time?”

  Eve had come down from Miami with little Jesse twice in the last few months, always with the intent of bringing her husband for me to meet. Each time, he’d gotten wrapped up in a legal case in the city and couldn’t make it.

  What Eve didn’t know, nor Carl, for that matter, was that I’d already met Nicholas Maggio. Last winter, he and his father had sent some local muscle to Elbow Cay to try to steal the treasure when we found it. They’d failed, and Deuce had made arrangements with his boss for Nick and his father, Alfredo, to avoid prosecution. He’d said it was mostly due to the fact that Nick was married to my daughter.

  However, I knew that they were both well-connected attorneys and it’s always good to have a lawyer in your pocket. In exchange, the Maggios had to cut ties with the crime scene and start taking pro bono cases for the poor Cubans in Little Havana. They quickly gained a much better reputation for championing those without a voice and actually gained more paying clients because of it.

  “I sure hope so,” I replied to Carl. “But you know how busy those hotshot lawyers are.”

  “Yeah, you mean a tee time at Fisher Island.”

  “You got room in your fridge?” I asked, nodding to the grouper steaks. “Mine’s about full of lobster and crab claws, left over from last season.”

  “Yeah, Charlie cleared a spot when she heard you paddling out,” Carl replied with a grin. “The woman has a sixth sense.”

  When he left with the fish, I told him I’d be down in a few minutes, I needed to make a call. Remembering that I’d left my cell phone on the bridge, I boarded the Revenge and climbed up to get it. A moment later, I sat down in one of the rockers on the south part of the deck and pulled up Kim’s number.

  She answered on the first ring. “Hey, Daddy, what’s up?”

  “A chicken’s butt when he eats,” I replied, which never failed to get a chuckle out of my youngest.

  “You get me with that every time. Hey, I was just leaving to meet a friend for coffee before chemistry class, so I only have a few minutes. How’s things on the island?”

  I told her about the new boat and how it handled, then we chatted for a few minutes about Eve and Nick’s visit tomorrow and how her summer classes were going. She planned to do the same thing next year and get her bachelor’s degree in just three years. I didn’t mention the drug dealers at the Anchor. She had to go, so we said our goodbyes and she promised to come down for a week before Labor Day.

  Shoving the phone in my pocket, I caught up with Carl at the temporary shack where the runabout rested. I told him about my idea of hoisting Kim’s skiff and parking mine under it to make room for the new boat.

  “Yeah, I think we can do that. Probably won’t take more than a couple of hours.”

  “We’ll go take a look at what we might need,” I said. “Once we’re done inspecting the wood boat.”

  “It needs a name,” Carl said. “Bad juju to go around in a boat without a name, man. We can’t just keep calling it the wood boat, or the runabout.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I don’t know. Something that goes with the old barrel-back racing design.”

  “Most of those racing boats back in the day had numbers for names, like fighter planes,” I said.

  Carl grinned. “Not late.”

  “Knot like the speed?”

  “Yeah, and a capital-ell-dash-eight for late. Not late.”

  I had to admit, it certainly fit the boat’s character. “Okay, from now on, she’s called Knot L-8.”

  We spent the rest of the morning, crawling over every inch of Knot L-8, using bright flashlights to search for any cracks or stress points in her gelcoat finish, above and below the waterline, inside and out.

  I raised the engine cover and leaned over the backseat, crawling head first between the engines and down both sides, examining every joint in the sturdy oak ribs, spars, beams, and hull strips.

  Carl did the same under the foredeck, which was too small for my frame. He spent nearly an hour under there, examining all the electrical connections and running a new power cable to a spot in the dash where we decided to install a touch screen GPS.

  Finishing the engine bay, I pulled up the deck hatch in the aft cockpit to check the bilges while Carl cursed and groaned, squirming around in the confines of the small storage area under the foredeck. Charlie brought out sandwiches a little before noon, just as we were finishing up and climbing out of Knot L-8.

  “I didn’t see a problem anywhere,” Carl said, wiping his hands on a towel before sitting down at one of the large picnic tables.

  “Me neither,” I said, stuffing a huge bite of lobster salad sandwich in my mouth. After swallowing it and washing it down with a gulp from a water bottle, I added, “Not a drop of water in the bilges.”

  After lunch, we spent an hour in the hot sun, checking the irrigation system and tanks for the aquaculture system. There were now four tanks to the system, doubling what we had orig
inally built.

  The two growing tanks are barely tanks at all. Long and wide, but only eighteen inches deep, they’re more like ponds, resting on a raised bed of sand inside a cinder block base. Each plant grows in its own square basket, made of a strong synthetic mesh, filled with crushed coral and partially submerged in the flowing water.

  The baskets are supported by stands made of PVC pipe wider at the bottom, and equally spaced in perfect unison, with the bottoms all touching. We have six rows of plants and twenty plants in each row. A lot of the plants have root tendrils trailing out of the baskets in the gentle current to soak up the nutrients in the warm water.

  The other two tanks hold crawfish and catfish separately, with dividers to keep the mature from preying on the young. These tanks are deeper and don’t have as much surface area. They sit a few feet from the ends of the vegetable tanks, water feeding from them to the fish tanks by gravity through large pipes connecting them.

  From the fish tanks, the water cascades from the end over six stacked beds of broken coral, where bacteria flourish in the wet environment and break the dissolved fish waste down into nutrients which the plants thrive on. The racks are inside large collection tanks, the bottom half submerged in the ground. Each of these tanks is connected to a pair of pumps that push the water back up to the vegetable tanks through a series of sand filters to further clean the water. The pumps are activated periodically by float switches in the bottom of the collection tank, coming on when they get full and shutting off after pumping most of the water out.

  Although everything is partially in the shade of the surrounding mangroves, gumbo limbos, banyan, and lignum vitae trees, we lose a lot of water to evaporation and irrigating the many fruit trees surrounding the edge of the clearing. The evaporated water is replaced by a reverse-osmosis unit on the east side of the island, turning sea water into nonpotable fresh water for the garden, the drip irrigators around the fruit trees, and the showers in both houses and the end of the north pier. Drinking water comes from two rain cisterns, one mounted above the back of my deck and the other at the end of Carl and Charlie’s house.