Wood's Wall

by Steven Becker

  ***

  “Hey.”

  Mac jumped, but quickly regained his cool. He was walking away from the bait shack. “Mel?” His spirits lifted, but concern overtook him. “Stay back. Out of sight!” he whispered harshly.

  “They can’t hear us from here,” Mel said as she followed his pace, keeping in the shadows of the trap piles.

  “I’ll bet they’ve got someone following me. Stay out of sight and keep your voice down.” Mac said. “They let me go to retrieve the material.”

  “Where’s Jules?” Mel asked.

  “They’ve got her. That’s why they let me go. They know I’ll do whatever it takes to get her back.”

  “Crap. What do we do? She left the keys to the SUV under the mat. We can use that.” She said.

  “Ok, I’m gonna walk out of here. You stay here until you see the guy following me leave. I don’t know if he’ll be on foot or in a car. Once it’s clear, go for the car and get out of here. I’ll be walking north on US1 on the southbound side. That’ll make it harder for him to follow. Just cruise by and open the door. Don’t stop, just slow down a little and I’ll get in.” He paused, about to say something, but then moved on in silence, leaving her behind.

  ***

  She stayed behind the trap pile, watching for the tail. A few minutes later the door to the shack opened and a man came out. He went down a side path towards a truck. Needing a better vantage point, she started climbing a trap pile, using the slats of the traps as hand and foot holds, trying to gain a better vantage point. They supported her small frame easily, without toppling over. She got to the top quickly, holding herself with her eyes just over the top of the last trap, hands and feet wedged into the slats. Mac was out on the street now. The truck was following him slowly, keeping far enough back that Mac might not have seen it, lights out and idling. The sound of the engine and wheels crunching the ground coral soon blended in with the other sounds of the night.

  Her fingers were cramping when she descended the pile. The car was far enough away now that the driver wouldn’t be able to see her in the blackness, even if he looked in his rearview mirror. Slowly, she moved for the police SUV and quietly let herself into the driver’s side. Once there, she breathed deeply and reached for the keys. Her hand found nothing. She started to panic, her hand swiping around on the floorboard, but finally she found the keys. Looking around, she thought it was likely to be as safe as it was going to get.

  It was now or never.

  She started the car and shoved the handle into drive, then, not thinking of anything other than Mac, she peeled out and went for the road.

  A gun shot rang out, causing her to swerve. Another bullet quickly followed, shattering the rear window. The back-up lights from the truck came toward her from the driveway, while the gunman closed on her rear. Boxed in by equipment and traps on both sides, she put her hands on the steering wheel, hoping they wouldn’t just shoot her.

  “Out of the car, punta.” A dark guy opened the door, grabbed her shoulder, and pulled her to the ground.

  “Mac!” she screamed.

  “It’s no use. He’s gone, but once he knows that you’re my guest, he’ll cooperate even more.” He looked in the car, taking the keys and her cell phone.

  They walked along the gravel path back towards the bait shack, the man behind her with the gun. The door opened revealing Jules pressed into the corner, the man with the apron leering at her, Ibrahim pointing her own gun at her.

  “Mel. You OK? Sorry to get you in this.” Jules said.

  “It’s okay,” Mel said, not really feeling it. “We should be ok. They want Mac to do something for them, then they’ll let us go.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Jules muttered.

  “You two, smile.” Cesar used Mel’s phone to take a picture, then scrolled through the contacts and sent it to Mac as a text message. “That oughta get his attention.

  31

  Mac was soaked from rain and sweat. A rain cloud had just dumped its contents on him — typical this time of year. The aftermath of these short storms gave a new definition to humid. His muscles kept cramping and spasming as if they remembered the shocks he had been tortured with. Fatigue overwhelmed him. He walked, facing the oncoming traffic. If Mel had gotten out of the lot OK, she should be pulling up anytime. All he wanted was to get her safe and disappear. Maybe go back out to Wood’s place. Even if they could find him there, he would see them coming. The house offered a 360 degree view that went for miles. He walked closer to the street, wondering what was taking Mel so long. Suddenly Jules’ SUV pulled up. Relieved, he ran to meet the car, reached out to open the door, and realized too late that it wasn’t the right car. A boy and girl pointed at him, laughing, as they pulled away, leaving Mac in the street.

  He sat on a nearby park bench, trying to recover his pride, and watched the traffic. Another spasm shook his body, leaving him spent. He leaned over from exhaustion, when his phone beeped, signaling a new text message. He pulled it from his pocket and opened the message to see a picture of Mel and Jules staring at him.

  He got up and started walking, his fatigue replaced by rage.

  ***

  Mac stood in front of the apartment door waiting. He could hear voices coming from inside and felt the presence of someone on the other side of the door staring through the peephole.

  “You expecting anyone?” Mac heard a voice call out.

  “I’m popular.”

  Mac banged harder. The door opened, he pushed Jeff aside and entered the apartment. Trufante started to get up, but couldn’t find his legs.

  “Who are these guys?” Mac snapped.

  “These are the dudes that found the package.” Trufante slurred.

  Mac looked at them. “Should’a let it keep on going,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  He felt their eyes on him, standing in the small foyer, water puddling at his feet. Disgusted, he turned his gaze toward Trufante, ignoring the other men. “I’m gonna borrow a change of clothes, then we’re gonna figure out how to undo this mess you started.” He went to the bedroom, emerging minutes later dressed in a Bob Marley t-shirt and cargo shorts.

  “What’cha have in mind?” Trufante asked.

  “I’ve got no idea. They’ve got Mel and Jules. Even if we called the Feds, it might be too late as trigger happy as our boy is.” He sat down at the table.

  “If all they want is the box, couldn’t we just give it back?” Pete asked.

  “Sure, then they shoot us, and the girls. That box is the only reason any of us are still breathing.”

  “Shee-it,” Trufante said. “We gotta set ’em up. Classic con, man. “Down in the Bayou, you got to fend for yourself.””

  Mac knew better, but had no other ideas. “Go ahead,” he said.

  “They know the stuff you swapped out is low grade, right? We need some of the good stuff. Give them a little sample, let’m test it. Then we bring ’em out in the open. Get the girls back.”

  “Keep going.” A plan was forming in Mac’s head.

  ***

  Mel’s phone vibrated on the stainless steel counter. “Looks like someone wants you,” Cesar said, picking up the phone. “One new email. Let’s see what’s up in this pretty lady’s life.” She watched him, feeling violated as he scanned through her phone. “Interesting. What do you know about lover boy and Mexico?”

  “What are you talking about? Let me see that.”

  He tossed the phone to her. “I’m watching you.”

  She read the email. It has come to our attention that one Mac Travis had been in electronic communication with an unknown party in the province of Tabasco, Mexico. The language is cryptic, but it can be assumed he is communicating about some kind of antiquities. Please explain this, it affects our case. She pressed the button for more details, revealing the history of the message. It was forwarded from the NSA to Patel. She read it again, hoping it would make sense. “What does this have to do with anything?”


  “Maybe I can help.” Cesar tossed her the bag. “This was in his safe.”

  She opened it and took out the two gold pieces. They were ancient — two gold versions of a sea serpent, and she looked up, confused.

  “Unfortunately, I can tell from the look on your face that you don’t know anything about this. Very unfortunate.” He extended his hand for the pieces. “Looks like Mr. Mac Travis is in more trouble than he thought.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mel asked.

  Cesar started, “My people, the Chontal Mayans are descendants from the Olmec, a civilization long before the Aztecs and Mayan cultures. Our people are pure, untainted by Spanish blood. Those gold pieces belong to our tribe.”

  32

  Cesar was looking out the window at the yard. It had been deserted when they got here. Now it was starting to show activity, and that made him very nervous. Commercial fishing boats were pulling up to the dock to offload their catch. Wouldn’t be long before the place was crawling with fishermen. “We need to get out of here.”

  “Where to?” Ibrahim asked.

  “I’ve got an idea.” Cesar opened the door and pushed Jules out. “Walk to the truck. Do nothing to attract attention or I’ll put a bullet in your friend.” He pushed the gun barrel into the small of Mel’s back to prove his point, then turned to his henchman.

  The group walked to the SUV and Cesar settled into the driver’s seat, Jose rode shotgun, Ibrahim and the girls in back. He pulled out slowly onto the drive, and accelerated. They drove in silence, north on US1. He made a right at Publix and a left at the Sombrero Country Club. The turns started coming faster as he passed the Flamingo Key sign, checking his rearview mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed.

  Many houses were shuttered this time of year — a precaution against the coming hurricane season, their owners gone north for the summer. It was perfect. He pulled into the driveway of a large white stucco house with a garage — something that had increased the breadth of his search. Carports were common here, garages often converted to storerooms. He needed to keep the truck out of site.

  “Wait here with them.” He went to the rear of the truck and opened the tonneau cover that hid and protected the contents. Crowbar in hand, he closed the cover and went to the side of the house. A few minutes later, the garage door opened and he pulled the truck in. A quick check of the street and he pushed the button to lower the door.

  He went in first, followed by the girls and Jose. The house was like a tomb, the only opening the shutter he had jimmied open at the laundry room door. He went to the thermostat and turned on the AC, then checked the refrigerator, took out four Cokes, and handed them around. The group assembled in the living room.

  “I hope your boyfriend comes through for you.” He took Mel’s phone out and texted Mac to call when he was ready to make the exchange. “Make yourselves comfortable. We wait here until he calls.” He turned on the TV, sat back in the recliner, and sipped his Coke.

  ***

  Mac looked out the window of Trufante’s apartment. The sky was a light grey with several dark spots where thunderheads were building. Early evening was an active time of day for the storms, nurtured by the heat of the day; the wind had picked up, maybe two to four foot seas. Nothing bad, just a little bumpy for a night dive. But he didn’t have a choice; he had to retrieve the package to make the trade. Although he didn’t have any intention of handing over the material, he needed the bait.

  Mac remained at the table; Pete sitting across from him. Trufante was entrenched on the couch. Jeff paced the room. Mac was laying out his plan, but obstacles arose at every turn.

  “The problem is I’ve got no air. I used the last tank of Nitrox setting it down there.” He needed the Nitrox mix to increase his bottom time. Regular air tanks would only allow a few minutes at depth. The enriched air allowed almost twice the bottom time.

  “How deep do you have to go?” Jeff asked.

  “It’s eighty feet, and in the dark, it’s gonna take a while to find it.”

  “We’ve got a couple of tanks at the house. Plain air, though,” Pete said.

  “It’ll have to do. You got gear? I’d rather not go by my place.” Mac thought about the risks of the decreased bottom time using plain air. It was going to take him a while to find the stash at night. Visibility during the day ranged from twenty to over a hundred feet. He could usually see the shapes of the coral heads rising from the bottom as he descended. At night, he might have five feet of visibility. He would have to descend to the bottom, find the ledge, and work from there. A night time decompression stop to allow the nitrogen to dissipate from his blood was dangerous as well. In his current condition he wanted to get in and out as soon as possible.

  “We can set you up.” Jeff said.

  “What about your boat? We need that too. Get Trufante ready, we gotta go.” Mac rose from the table, his legs shaky.

  ***

  Mac scanned the water. He would have been more comfortable on his boat at night, especially a night as dark as this. He had spotlights, controlled from the wheel house and radar. The small boat had only the required navigation lights. He had kept the green and red lights on the bow on, but disabled the white anchor light to help their night vision. The moon had not risen and the tide was out, making the navigable portion of the channel smaller. Conditions could not get any worse to navigate the narrow pass. They moved slowly through Sister’s Creek Channel. Jeff stood in the bow, shining a flashlight on the markers, which were otherwise invisible.

  “Watch that one.” Mac pointed to the red marker on their left. “Big rock right on the other side of it. Seen a bunch of tourists try and cut that corner too hard in a rush to get out there, and tear the lower units off. Don’t want to be another Captain Crunch.”

  “How are you going to find the spot?” Pete asked.

  Mac pulled out his cell phone. “Finally figured out a good use for this sucker.” He opened the GPS app, scrolled through a couple of screens, and selected the waypoint labeled “Rock.” The screen showed a compass needle pointing in the direction they needed to go, and Mac set the phone down on the dash in front of Pete.

  “Just follow that. Take her easy and go wide around Sombrero. This dark, you won’t see anything floating in the water.” Thankfully, lobster and stone crab were both out of season. Those times of year, the water would be littered with trap lines and buoys — instant death for a propellor.

  Jeff came back from the bow as the boat passed the red blinking light, the last marker before open water. In the distance, they could see the intermittent flashing of the light on Sombrero Key, marking the reef five miles out.

  33

  The phone started to beep as it zeroed in on the waypoint. Mac looked around for something to mark the spot, but came up empty. He took the wheel from Pete and started circling, checking the depth finder as he went. Thoughts of Mel and Jules were pushed to the back of his mind as he focussed on the task at hand. The adrenaline of the coming dive replaced the fatigue.

  “This is hard enough in daylight. We need something to throw out and mark the spot.”

  Mac yelled at Trufante, “Wake up, sunshine. We need the chair cushion.” Mac had handed the wheel back to Pete, and was stripping line off a fishing rod using his six foot wingspan to measure it. When he got to 150 feet, he cut the line. There was little on the boat to work with and he had to improvise. The pocket of the BC yielded a five pound weight, which he tied to one end of the line. “How much weight did you have in there?” He asked.

  “There was only eight pounds of weight in there. You’re bigger than me. How are you going to get down?” Jeff asked.

  “It’s going to be hard to get down and stay there without the weight.” Usually a very efficient diver, his air supply lasted longer than the bottom time. But without the extra weight he would have to work harder and use more air. Running out of air was now added to his list of problems.

  Trufante was moving now, slamming into the g
unwales, unable to get his body synced with the rhythm of the seas. “Got any beer? My buzz is fading fast.”

  Pete nodded toward the cooler but Mac cut him off. “Need him sober.”

  He tied the seat cushion to the other end of the line and waited for the GPS alarm to indicate that they were over the waypoint. It beeped and he tossed the weight, hoping the line wouldn’t tangle as he hand-fed it. When he was done, the cushion bobbed on the waves, marking the spot.

  “Stay with the cushion. If it moves - follow it.” Mac said as he suited up. “I’ll be on the other end.”

  He was in the water, flashlight in hand. He finned for the cushion, grabbed the line, and descended. It was pitch dark on the way down and looked like a disco ball spinning in a dark room as the light beam reflected off particles suspended in the water. The visibility ended at the range of the flashlight — maybe ten feet. Not great, but for a night dive you got what you got. Without the extra weight he fought to descend. The bottom came into focus as the light illuminated the coral and fish. He disregarded the scenery, double checked his air and started the timer on his watch.

  The reef was more active at night. He ignored the lobsters bravely walking across the sandy bottom, seeking new homes, empowered by the night. An octopus floated by him, translucent in his light. In the limited visibility he was unable to find the landmark coral heads, he took forty five frustrating minutes just to locate the rocks blocking the cavern. Now he was concerned about the time — already six minutes past the no-decompression limit, he calculated the stops he would have to make on the way up. Twenty feet for ten minutes, and then ten feet for another ten minutes. Nothing you wanted to do at night, especially without an anchor line to hold on to.

  He shivered as he removed the BC and set it on the sand next to the opening. Regulator clamped in his teeth, he moved the rocks blocking the entrance and eased his way in. The light illuminated the coral, and the lead ball was visible where he’d left it. He grabbed for it, pulled out of the cavern and reattached his gear. Ball in hand he grabbed the weighted line and started to ascend. A quick glance at his gauges showed the air pressure well below 500 psi, deep in the red zone. As if on cue, the air came harder with each breath, until it stopped. He didn’t need to look at his pressure gauge to know he was out of air. His depth gauge read sixty feet. At a second per foot, the fastest safe ascent, he would need to hold his breath for a minute to reach the surface safely. He kicked his fins, knowing he was going too fast. Ascending faster than your own bubbles was the first thing you learned not to do in your first open water class. But he had no choice. Better to add a few more minutes to his decompression time than to black out and drown.