Wood's Wall

by Steven Becker

  Then the drug runner was back. “Trufante ratted you out the moment the first drop of blood spurted from his finger. Maybe the same should happen to you.”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  “You keep looking.” Ibrahim spotted a marine battery on the floor. “I will make him talk.”

  The terrorist found two wires and attached them to the battery. “Put his feet in the bucket.”

  Cesar complied.

  “Now, before I have to hurt you, you will tell me.”

  Silence greeted the question. Sparks flew as Ibrahim grabbed the terminals and brushed them together. Satisfied he clipped a clip to each earlobe and watched Mac writhe in pain.

  25

  Sweat dripped from Mel’s brow as she yanked the cord again. Nothing. She massaged her arm, tired from the exertion and sore from the thousand pushups she thought she’d done the day before. She’d been at it for a half-hour now, getting more frustrated with each failed pull. She’d moved Wood’s old skiff out of the mangroves, where he had fashioned a camouflaged shelter for it. Now the 18-foot aluminum hull sat in the water, bow resting on the sand, but it wasn’t going to do her any good if she didn’t get it started.

  Mel was no mechanic, but she’d grown up around outboards, and had no confidence that this one would start. The carburetor was sure to be gunked up from the old gas, and that was probably the least of it. Motors ran when you used them. Let them sit for a year and forget it.

  She’d been up since dawn, after a restless night spent sleeping in short spells, broken by reenactments in her head of how the fight with Mac could have gone differently. She’d tried him on the VHF radio, knowing it was kind of a long shot, and her phone was dead. The solar system worked well, but she had no cable to charge it. Feeling isolated, she’d checked the horizon every few minutes, not really expecting to see the hull of Mac’s boat appear, but hoping it would anyway. It would be afternoon at least before he came looking for her; knowing how long it took her to cool down was one of his attributes, although not convenient now.

  Waiting wasn’t in her genes, but the skiff wasn’t going to start. She tied the boat off, too tired to pull it out of the water, and noticed an old canoe pushed back into the mangroves. The water in the bottom had turned brown from the decayed mangrove branches, mosquitoes hatching on its surface. Spider webs clung to every possible attachment. She was able to pull it out, but it held too much water for her to flip it.

  Faced with the choice of cleaning the canoe or cleaning the carburetor, she chose the latter. She didn’t dread the paddle as much as she feared hitting a wave and swamping the canoe. She released the cowling from the engine and removed the cover. The carburetor was not immediately visible so she followed the fuel line to reveal it’s location. It took several trips back to the shed to accumulate the tools she needed to remove the fuel lines and choke cable from the carburetor. Once everything was disconnected she went to work on the screws holding it in place.

  Now for the hard part. She took the carb to the shed and cleared room on the workbench, leaving the door open to allow more light to enter. The 12-volt fan did little to cool her off as she began to disassemble the unit. A dog eared manual, pages splayed from humidity sat open on the workbench. It’d been a long time since she’d watched her dad do this. She followed the cryptic instructions wishing she had her phone so she could take pictures as she went. Taking it apart would be easy - putting it back together was the real challenge.

  Once she had disassembled the unit she set the parts to soak in an old can of cleaner that she hoped was still good. Strangely satisfied with the work — actually using her hands to do something — she started to straighten out the shed while she waited. Patience was never her strong point, but she waited what she thought was an hour before reassembling the components.

  She took the carburetor back to the boat and started to reinstall it. The job complete she set the cowling back on the motor and secured it. Fuel line connected she squeezed the primer ball until it was full. She pulled the cord and nothing happened. Two more pulls and a small cloud of smoke erupted from the exhaust. Another squeeze on the primer ball and she pulled again. This time it kicked to life. The motor evened out as she cycled the fuel, revving first and then letting it idle. Satisfied the motor was not going to stall she untied the line from the piling and hopped in the boat. She sat at the stern, holding the steering arm in her hand. A quick turn on the throttle and the boat moved off over the flats.

  26

  Jules was confused. This didn’t seem like a traditional kidnapping. “Strange that there hasn’t been a call about the women. He said twenty-four hours. Sounds like something more is going on here and Sleeping Beauty has the answers we need,” she said softly to Heather. They sat next to the hospital bed, waiting for Trufante to wake. He’d been unconscious since Heather had brought him in, and now lay on his back, IV in his arm, and the monitor on the other side of the bed beeping regularly, indicating he was still alive at least.

  The doctors had assured them that it looked worse than it actually was.

  “Can’t they give him something to wake him up so we can talk to him?” Heather asked.

  “I was thinking about giving him ‘til morning. We need to get a court order to make a doctor do that, anyway. I’ve already started the paperwork for that — just need a judge to sign it.”

  Sue came in the room, chart in hand. She checked Trufante’s vitals and added a syringe full of medicine to the IV.

  “I might be able to help you,” she said, overhearing their conversation. “Idiot here is, I guess, my boyfriend. I don’t think he did anything wrong — came over last night and I bandaged him up and gave him some antibiotics. I told him to stay put, but he must have gone out when I left for work.”

  “We’d appreciate any help you can give us. I won’t say anything to the hospital.” Jules said.

  “I appreciate that. I’m getting tired of sticking my neck out for him.” She looked fatigued as well. “He must have had some pain killers before I got a hold of him, because he wasn’t very coherent. Couldn’t tell me much of anything, really. Mac Travis might be your best bet. I don’t know how he’s involved, but he dropped our boy here off with me, so I’m guessing he knows what happened.”

  “I know Mac.” Jules said, wondering if this was Groundhog Day. The two men seemed to be connected at the hip when it came to trouble. “Here’s my cell. Can you call me when he comes to?” She handed Sue her card.

  “Sure, after I beat the crap out of him.”

  ***

  Mac slumped in the chair, unconscious. Water was pooled on the concrete floor around the bucket. His feet jerked again splashing more water onto the floor as Cesar applied the ends of the wire to his nipples. His body slumped again.

  “Enough!” Ibrahim yelled. “We need him alive!”

  “He’s still breathing.” Cesar went for the wires again, clearly enjoying himself. “This’ll wake him up.”

  Ibrahim grabbed him as he was about to apply the wires, but Cesar shook him off, throwing him to the floor.

  “We need answers. If I have to tell my contact in Mexico that you have been uncooperative, I’m sure he will show you the same treatment.”

  Cesar paused, wires in hand. The retribution Diego would exact if Travis was pushed too far and could not reveal the location of the material was enough to stop him. He set down the wires. “Maybe a change of scenery will help. He must have seen what we did to his friend’s finger. I can take him to the bait shack. Show him the grinder. Grind off a finger or two. That’ll jog his memory.”

  “You think this was not enough?” Ibrahim said. “We can try, but if you kill him…” he paused, “Where is this chum shack? Is the location secure?”

  “Si. It is almost dawn, and the fisherman will be heading out soon. We can have the morning there with no one to bother us. That should be enough time to get what we need from him. His friend proved to be very cooperative when we introd
uced him to the machine.”

  “Very well. We can’t stay here.”

  ***

  The black truck pulled onto US1, tires screeching as it ignored the stop sign.

  “Those guys are lucky they didn’t get a ticket,” Jules said as she turned into Mac’s street. She pulled into the driveway, and noted that the house was dark. “Stay here, I’ll check it out.”

  She released the clip on her holster and placed her hand on her weapon. Slowly she walked the path, her head rotating left and right. She reached the door. No one answered after repeated knocks, so she moved toward the back of the house, where she tried the rollup door, only to discover that it was locked. Without reasonable cause, she couldn’t enter the house. It was entirely possible that Mac was asleep upstairs and hadn’t heard the door.

  But she didn’t think he was.

  She went up the back stairs and knocked again. As she turned to leave, she noticed a dark stain on the concrete walk below, lit by the light from a window.

  She motioned Heather over, indicating the stain. “Can you test that for blood?”

  “I don’t have my kit.” Heather paused for a moment, then grinned. “Do you just need to know if it’s blood or not?”

  “I can’t go in without probable cause. If that’s blood, it’s enough. Gives me a reason to get in there.”

  “Got a first aid kit?”

  Jules ran back to the SUV and dug through the back and retrieved a first aid kit. She ran back around and handed it to Heather. “Here you go.”

  “Cool. If there’s some hydrogen peroxide in here, we can use that to test. It’s not bulletproof, though.”

  Jules laughed. “Honey, I just need an excuse. And a quick one.”

  The stain boiled when Heather splashed peroxide on it. Seconds later, it turned pink. Heather looked up, eyes glowing. “Well we’ve ruined it as evidence, but it’s definitely blood. I’d bet on it.”

  Jules nodded once. “If there’s blood out here, there’s blood inside, and that’s all the evidence I’ll need. Go back to the car and call for backup. I’m going in.”

  Heather ran back toward the patrol car, as Jules climbed the stairs, smashed a pain of glass with the butt of her gun and reached in to unlock the door. She ducked in, and a moment later Heather joined her.

  They took in the scene one piece at a time. The blood stains from the walk extended into the building and gathered in two pools, still wet, where it looked like someone had been shot. Although there was no blood in the office, the water bucket, battery, and wire brought up memories of old spy movies. She was horrified that another murder had occurred on her watch.

  She turned to Heather. “Call one of the deputies and have them bring whatever you need. And I mean whatever you need. Screw the budget, we need to figure this out now.” Her first thought was that the blood was from Mac.

  27

  Heather was working the crime scene, a deputy helping her out and keeping watch in case anyone returned. She’d already taken blood samples from the two pools on the deck. No bodies had been discovered, so the coroner hadn’t been called, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something here. She assumed from the pools of blood that two people had been killed, their bodies moved. She asked the deputy to open the overhead door and they followed the blood stains out over the deck, to the seawall.

  “Looks like they dumped the bodies in here. Can you call in and get us a diver?”

  “That would be me. I’ve got my stuff in the truck.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Yeah, dead bodies, awesome.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m going to call Jules while you get ready.”

  The deputy geared up, took a giant step off the seawall, and splashed into the murky water. Heather stood above him, watching his light move back and forth and holding her breath. Three dead bodies, all of them tourists, with one local missing and another in the hospital. This was getting weirder by the second. Suddenly a red inflatable float broke the surface. She had her phone in her hand, ready to make the call. The number was already on her screen when she hit dial, calling the coroner. The float could only mean the diver had found a body.

  The bubble trail moved closer to the seawall and the diver broke the surface. “Looks like your bodies are down here. I found one already. Going down to look for the second.”

  She nodded. “Got it. How do we do this?”

  “I’m going down to look for the other body. Then we wait for instruction from the coroner before I can move them. We’re on standby for a few.” He released the air from his BC and disappeared below the surface.

  Heather watched the light and followed the bubbles for a few minutes before the next float popped to the surface.

  ***

  Cesar dragged Mac into the bait shack, where a man with a rubber apron and gloves was grinding chum. He smiled, showing a gold tooth, when they entered, more enthusiastic about the disruption than was entirely appropriate. Mac, more conscious than he let on, let the drug lord drag him, hoping Cesar would let his guard down. His optimism waned when the door slammed.

  “Cesar, you’ve brought more for the bait?” The man asked in Spanish.

  “Si,” he let go of Mac and watched him fall to the ground.

  He slit his eyes and looked around the room for a weapon while still trying to appear unconscious. He needed to act fast.

  Cesar saw him move. “You saw your friend, the Cajun. We’ll do the same to you,” he snarled.

  Mac gasped, but stuck to his story. “What do you want from me? I just put the thing in the safe.”

  “Do not take me for a fool. You’re the only one that could have done this.”

  Mac could smell the fish oil on the breath of the man with the apron as he inched closer, but Cesar held up his hand.

  “Not yet, my friend. This one is different than the other.” The man went back to the chum table. “So, you see, I am not unreasonable. But you need to help me here.”

  “Alright, you want to talk? Why the hell are you working with terrorists that want to bomb us? You may be loyal to wherever you came from, but terrorism is bad for business. You think things are hard for you now, what happens after another attack? No more burner phones, more surveillance, drones? Your business will suffer.” He tried to feed doubt to the drug dealer. “Maybe you should tell that to your bosses. Your people need to plan better.”

  The door opened interrupting them. “Do you have my answers yet?” Ibrahim walked into the room.

  “We’re still talking.” Cesar moved toward the terrorist and Mac suppressed a grin. He had been listening, then. “Just for my curiosity, what are you planning on doing with the material when we retrieve it?”

  “That is between the faithful and Allah.”

  Cesar got toe to toe with him, “Well, you tell Allah that this faithful servant is going to need some information. Maybe Allah would be unwise to use this here.”

  “No, not here.”

  “You know you can’t fly with it. You’re going to have to drive whatever bomb you build somewhere. And I bet it’s close. Why would you risk transporting something like that? If it was me, I’d build it and blow it up right here,” Mac said.

  Cesar looked closely at him, considering, and then nodded. “Yes, my friend,” he said, turning to look at the other man. “Tell me your plans.”

  “He’s just going to lie. How much of your product goes through Miami? I know you sell some here, but this is too small a market. And Miami is the closest big city. For both of you.”

  “This is not yours to decide. I will call your patron. He will tell you what to do,” Ibrahim snapped.

  “Don’t you worry, terrorista, I will recover the material. What I do with it after is another matter.” He turned away from Ibrahim and went to Mac. A felt bag appeared from his pocket. Gold shined in the light as he pulled something out. “Maybe we need to talk about this as well.” He held the gold sea serpent in front of Mac’s face.

  “That i
s of no interest to me. If you are not willing to do what is necessary to find the material, I will do it myself.” Ibrahim said.

  Without warning, Cesar grabbed the Arab’s head and slammed him down against his knee. Ibrahim fell to the floor, unconscious.

  “Now, tell me about this.”

  “What’s there to tell? I bought it.”

  “You could not buy this. It is a Mayan artifact. They’re not available anywhere but the black market, and I do not see you paying black market prices.” He turned to the man with the apron, nodding at him to take over the interrogation. “Mi amigo, he is yours. I want answers.”

  ***

  Jules pulled back into Mac’s driveway and watched as the first body was loaded into the coroner’s van. Murder was rare here, and three in the last two days was not good for business. Although most crimes were committed by people passing through — crimes she couldn’t really control — it was still a matter of pride that Marathon was a safe place. She got out of the car and entered the house, carefully lifting the crime scene tape as she walked in. Temporary lights lit the space, numbered markers littered the floor. She smiled at Heather and walked around back. It wasn’t her place to interfere with the crime scene work. She would wait for them to finish, review the evidence, and go find the killer. She’d put a BOLO alert out for Mac, now that the bodies had been identified as women. Her instincts told her that he was not capable of this, but he was missing all the same. She had a feeling he was out trying to fix this himself. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  She sat at the back table and checked her phone, already knowing that she needed to call Jeff and break the news to him. Not able to put it off anymore, she selected the second 813 area code number from her call log and hit dial.

  He answered, sounding anxious. “Yes?”