Sitting in the sand, we waited for the tide to float the Island Hopper so we could go home again. I thought about a book I’d read once by Thomas Wolfe. Published after his death, it was called You Can’t Go Home Again. A single passage in that book haunted me for years. “I have to see a thing a thousand times before I see it once.” I’d seen death many times and experienced the pain of losing people who I was very close to. This was my daughter’s first experience with death and I was finally seeing it for the first time.
I hung my head. “I’m sorry I brought you here,” I whispered.
Kim leaned on my shoulder. “Don’t be, Dad. It’s a beautiful place that can only be marred by evil.”
I looked into my daughter’s eyes and wondered how a child could become so wise in only seventeen years. I put my arm around her and pulled her close as a small wave reached up and touched our toes. The tide was full. It was time to go home.
Rusty pulled the heavy anchor out of the sand and all four of us pushed on the pontoons and struts, until the sand finally released its grasp and the Hopper floated free. As Rusty and I continued pushing her to deeper water, Linda and Kim climbed aboard. We slowly turned her toward deeper water and continued pushing until the water was up to Rusty’s waist.
I ran through a quick preflight and started the big radial engine. Idling further out, I turned her into the light west wind and a moment later we were in the air, banking south toward Marathon as the sun neared the horizon. We arrived a half hour before sunset, talking very little during the thirty-minute flight.
Chapter Seven
I woke late on Monday morning. Sleep didn’t come easily. Linda had to leave right after we got the plane tied down at the Anchor last night. Kim and I got back to the island well after dark, though I don’t like being out on the water at night in the skiff.
It’s not so much local boaters I worry about. It’s just that even in winter we always seem to have a healthy mixture of alcohol, tourists, and rental watercraft. A bad combination anywhere, but throw in shallow water and coral outcroppings and it’s a recipe for disaster. We have dozens of incidents with tourists wrecking rental boats in shoal waters and colliding with one another when neither has running lights on after dark. Hell, most of those jet skis don’t even have lights.
Fortunately, we didn’t have any trouble getting back to the island. I was worried how Kim would process the events on Cape Sable and suggested we sleep on the Revenge, where we’d be closer together. Kim insisted she was okay and went to the west side of the western bunkhouse. Carl had converted the one-room bunkhouse, creating two rooms. The west side of it was Chyrel’s office and sleeping quarters for up to four women, while the other half remained the way it was, with bunks for eight men. I’d originally built them identical, but mirrored, with six sets of bunk beds inboard, a small open area outboard and doors at either end.
When sleep did finally come, it was filled with bad dreams. Dreams I hadn’t had in years. Sometime after midnight I got up and went into the east bunkhouse. I keep a few bottles of good rum in a cupboard for whenever the team comes down and there’s something to celebrate. I poured two fingers of Pusser’s in a highball glass and went back out to the fire.
Tossing a few more pieces of driftwood on, I sat on part of the old coconut palm that once stood in the middle of the island and stared into the multihued flames. At least it was warmer than the last few nights. Spring’s just around the corner, I thought and downed about half the rum.
Being a full-time dad wasn’t something I was ready for. Hell, I wasn’t ready for it when Eve was born and then Kim, just a few years later. The concern I was feeling for her wellbeing was akin to the way I’d once felt about the men under my command, but way more intense. Though she’d been with me for over four months and I knew she was a capable young woman, I still felt the need to “hold her hand while crossing the street.”
The rum was taking effect and my senses were slightly dulled. Not enough to slow my reaction, but hopefully enough to let me get some sleep. There was something about the actions of the two guys in the boat this morning that I couldn’t put a finger on.
Foregoing my warm bed in the house, I slept in my hammock by the fire pit. Close to the bunkhouses. I’d lost everyone I’d loved and because of my rash actions, I’d nearly lost Kim. That’s not gonna happen again, I thought as I stretched out in the hammock.
Rising stiffly the next morning and looking around, I saw Carl working on the garden across the yard and realized that Charlie had already left to take the kids to the bus stop down on Big Pine Key. I looked over at the west bunkhouse and saw no movement. Had Kim gone with Charlie like she always does?
Noticing a carafe on the table with steam rising from it, I walked over and poured a cup from the stack on the tray. We never knew who or how many people might be here suddenly, so Charlie had taken to always having coffee and plenty of mugs on hand. I walked to the far side of the yard, where Carl was working.
“I’m disappointed, Jesse,” Carl said as I approached. “Kim was all excited this morning, telling us what happened yesterday.”
“I screwed the pooch, man.”
“Ya think?” he said irritably, setting aside a water test kit and turning toward me. “You’re a dad now, Jesse. A full-time dad. Ya gotta get your warrior instinct under control, man. What were you thinking charging through the brush like some kinda Rambo to confront men with guns and your little girl right behind you?”
He was a hundred percent right and I knew it. “I wasn’t thinking, Carl. It was just like you said, instinct. And it might have gotten Kim hurt.”
“Well, that’s my ‘Dad Lecture’ for the day, old son. Want to start installing the foredeck beams and braces today?”
“You have them already?”
“Got ’em back yesterday.”
“Let’s get on it, then,” I said, anxious to get my mind off of the events of the precious day.
The beams for the foredeck of the boat we were building had had to be made by a friend of Carl’s, a professional carpenter on Big Pine. He also made their matching ribs several weeks earlier. The beams were made from single pieces of solid maple, with mortise-and-tenon joints to attach them to the ribs. Joinery was something we couldn’t do here. Each rib was notched on the top of the inboard side to the depth of the mortise. The tenons on the beams would slide into the top of the mortise and then a cap rail, fitting the rib notches, would hold them in place, completing the mortise.
Before gluing anything, we test-fit each beam. If even one of them was too long, it would spread the ribs slightly and create a small gap in the next joint. Each one fit perfectly, no gaps anywhere. We used a strong marine-grade wood glue and, working quickly, we soon had each beam in place. In just an hour, we had all four beams in place and the cap rails glued to the tops of the ribs, with twenty clamps holding them until the glue set. We’d wait twenty-four hours, then remove the clamps and sand the joints smooth before laying the teak, mahogany, and maple deck planks. With any luck, we’d have the foredeck complete in a few more days.
Charlie and Kim returned while we were taking a break and Kim and I walked out onto the north pier with Pescador. Sitting there, I asked her how she felt about what happened up on Cape Sable the previous day.
“I was scared,” she said. “More scared for you than me, I guess. It was stupid for me to run after you.”
“It was stupid of me to go running off,” I said. “I’m sorry I put you in that situation.”
“Why’d you do it? Pescador was just barking at a passing boat for all we knew. How’d you know it was bad people?”
“Tough question. I don’t know, really. I’ve just always had sort of a sixth sense for trouble, I guess.”
“When they started shooting, I was halfway up the bank and you were at the top. I dove behind a dead palm tree and when I looked up, you were standing at the top of the dune, shooting back. Then you went charging down the dune. Most people would have done what I did, but not you.”
“Running away from danger is the most elemental, natural act of self-preservation. But I was trained for many years to move toward it. That’s not natural and I should have thought ahead. I’m sorry.”
She looked at me. “You couldn’t foresee what happened.”
“Look, everything that I’ve taught you these last several months—shooting, fighting, surviving on your own—those are all for your own self-defense. You’ve learned a lot, but you’re a defensive asset, not offensive.”
“Asset?”
“You know what I mean. I’m new at this whole ‘dad’ thing. I know fighting, strategy, and tactics. My actions could have gotten you killed.”
“Everything turned out okay,” she said. Then her face dropped and she added, “For us anyway.”
“Want to talk about that?”
“Not much to talk about. I liked Mister and Missus Toliver and could tell that you liked them, too. I hate that it happened, but I don’t think it would have been any different if we weren’t there.”
“Yeah, I liked them. They were easy people to like.”
We talked some more, sitting there on the pier. She asked more questions about my past. Things I was reluctant to share with someone so young. Things that apparently still woke me in a cold sweat at night. Up to now, her questions about my past had been about my recent past. My social life, my late wife, my charters. I gave it some thought. She was more mature than her years and knew there was evil in the world. Wherever there’s evil, there has to be good to fight it. It was like she said yesterday—evil can mar the most beautiful places in the world. I remember a stretch of beach in Somalia that looks a lot like Cape Sable, wild, natural, and untamed. Just across that particular dune, you run smack into the reality of war, famine, greed, and poverty. The cause of all that was evil and no good there to stop its spread.
I answered her questions. I wanted her to know about me, how my past had shaped me into the man I am today. It was noon before we finally left the pier.
Charlie was making fish sandwiches and I suddenly realized I was famished. The four of us ate quickly, then Kim and I washed the plates and glasses in seawater, rinsing them at the freshwater shower at the end of the pier. As we were walking back, the sat-phone in my pocket chirped. It was Linda.
“Go ahead,” I told Kim and walked out to the end of the pier.
When I answered, Linda said, “They found the boat. It was stolen out of a marina on Long Key. The owner’s happy he’ll get it back, but pissed about all the bullet holes in it.”
“Any clues about who the guys were?” She was quiet for a moment. “Linda, I’m involved in this, like it or not. I screwed up yesterday at the lake and put my daughter in danger. I know that. I don’t want it to happen again.”
“They found more prints,” she said. “One matched the one on the shell casing they found on Cape Sable. Several prints also matched those found at half a dozen petty crime scenes in Miami. All gang related and unsolved. No match through IAFIS.”
The FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System held digital records of the fingerprints of every criminal that had been charged with pretty much any crime. The computers could scan them in hours, something that used to take weeks to do by hand. Not getting a match only meant that the two guys had never been arrested before, at least not in the States. Matching them with other gang crimes in Miami was a step in the right direction, though. Petty crimes and drug dealing were one thing, but murder and rape would bring in the heavy hitters of law enforcement and investigation.
“What gang?” There was silence for a moment. “Linda, what gang?” I asked again.
“Zoe Pound,” she finally replied. “DHS is taking lead in the investigation.”
“Really?”
“One of the guys’ prints came back connected to a suspected arms smuggling deal in Miami. One of Deuce’s team is flying down to interview you. He didn’t tell you?”
Just then, my phone chirped, telling me I had another call. When I saw that it was Deuce, I told Linda I’d call her back and ended the call, picking up Deuce.
When I answered, he said, “Is it possible for you to stay away from even the slightest bit of trouble?”
“I’m doing fine, Deuce,” I said, ignoring him. “How’s things in Homestead?”
“I’m sending Charity down there to do composites. You got the best look at the guys. She and another agent should arrive at the island in ten minutes.”
“Ever stop to think I might not be on the island?” I said. “I do take shore leave now and then.”
“Your phone is there and I’m talking to you on it.”
Damned technology, I thought, looking at my phone.
“I’ll try to give her the best description I can, but at two hundred feet, it won’t be much. Who’s coming with her?”
“Talk to you later, Jesse,” he said and the connection ended.
As I started back to the foot of the pier, I heard the sound of a chopper coming in low over the water. Scanning the sky, I finally picked it out, approaching from the northeast. The pilot must have been here before, as the chopper was no more than twenty feet over the water. Noting the wind direction from the flags flying on its pole east of the two tables, the pilot soared out over the water beyond the pier and performed a steep climbing turn to bleed off speed, sure to put any passenger’s stomachs in their throats. He came back in from downwind and landed without my help.
As the rotors slowed, Charity jumped from the pilot’s seat, removing her flight helmet. She was letting her hair grow longer, I noticed. She’d always preferred a short hairstyle, but now her dark blond hair was nearly to her shoulders. She was tall, attractive, and in her late twenties. I should have known it was her by the maneuver. I’d seen her do it a few times over the last few months, training to board a moving boat from a chopper.
Charity Styles is a former Olympic swimmer and served as a medevac helicopter pilot in Afghanistan. She’d been captured by the Taliban and sexually assaulted for days before she was able to escape. She channeled the experience into her martial arts training and had been a Krav Maga instructor with Miami-Dade Police when Deuce recruited her into the DHS. She’s also a gifted sketch artist.
Striding across the yard toward me, her long legs covered the distance quickly as the copilot’s door opened and a man climbed down, carrying a small duffle bag around the front of the bird. It was Paul Bender. Deuce had mentioned a few months back that Bender was joining the team. He’s a former Secret Service Agent, the head of the Presidential Protection Detail when President Bush visited the Keys many months ago. Close-cropped brown hair, graying at the temples, he was a stout, blocky sort of man, quick witted and a consummate professional.
“Good to see you again, Jesse,” Charity said, then as always got straight to the point. “We can use Chyrel’s office.”
“You want to take me back up?” Bender asked Charity. “I think I left my stomach out over the water somewhere.” Then looking around, he said, “So this is the famous island? I thought it’d be bigger, McDermitt.”
“How are ya, Bender?” I asked, taking the hand he offered.
We started towards the bunkhouse as Kim came out of the Trents’ house, angling toward us. “Doing well,” Bender replied. “Nice to finally get to see this place. The guys talk about it like it’s some kind of tropical nirvana.”
We stopped as Kim reached us and I said, “Kim, you remember Charity Styles?”
“Nice to see you again, Kim,” Charity said, shaking my daughter’s hand. They’d met briefly before we went to the Bahamas in September.
“And this is Paul Bender. Paul, meet my daughter, Kim.”
She shook hands with Bender, saying, “Nice to meet you, Mister Bender.”
“We need to use the office for a little while,” I explained.
“Sure, Dad. Let me grab a few things.”
As she trotted toward the bunkhouse, Bender asked, “You have a daughter?”
“Two daughters. Kim’s the youngest.” We reached the bunkhouse as Kim was coming out with her rod and reel.
“Okay if I go fishing with Charlie?” she asked.
“Where are you going?”
“Raccoon Flats, for grunts.” I never met a kid who didn’t like catching grunts and Kim was no different. They actually make a grunting noise when you get them out of the water.
“Sure,” I said. “Just keep an eye on the sky and don’t be gone too long.”
“We won’t,” she said and dashed off toward the main house and the boats.
The three of us entered the bunkhouse and Charity produced a sketch pad from her briefcase. Within half an hour, she had pretty good likenesses of the two men who killed the Tolivers. At least as good as I could provide.
Bender asked, “Any idea what kind of guns they had?”
“Only one of them was shooting. He had a Colt forty-five semiauto.”
“You didn’t get much of a look at the shooter, but you’re sure about what kind of gun he had?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Investigators on the scene found a forty-five ACP casing, which confirmed what I already knew it was. I have one just like it.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Bender said. When the President visited, Bender had been concerned about my having guns aboard the Revenge, but the Secretary of Homeland Security had smoothed things over.
“I gotta get back,” Charity said, putting her sketch pad back in the briefcase after making a few copies on Chyrel’s machine.
“You sure you can’t stay for supper? Grunts and grits.”
“No, I have to get these sketches to Deuce right away. Enjoy yourselves.”
“Wait, what?”
“I’m staying here for the time being,” Bender said.
“What the hell for?” I asked, as the three of us walked back out into the yard.
“Deuce thinks you might need extra security here,” Charity said.
“Well, I don’t. Nothing personal, Bender.”
“Not an option,” she said, cracking a rare smile. “His words.”
Fallen King: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 6) Page 7
