Wood's Reach

by Steven Becker

  “You know where he stashed it?” a rough voice asked.

  Trufante was on full alert now.

  “Said it was in the back bedroom. Under the bed, there’s a plywood lid with a space below,” another voice said.

  Keeping his eyes on hers, he removed his hand from her mouth and put a finger to his lips. She obeyed the command. It sounded like the men were moving toward the bedrooms.

  “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  “It told you this was a bad idea,” he whispered back, instantly regretting it. “It’s okay.” He gave her a reassuring look.

  The sound of furniture being moved came from the back of the house, and then the whine of a cordless drill. He suspected they had found the stash.

  “Is that freakin’ silver?” he heard one man exclaim.

  “It ain’t candy,” the other man said. “Give me a hand, will ya?”

  Trufante knew the accent was from up North; maybe New Jersey, he thought.

  “You got it all?” New Jersey asked.

  “Yeah, Wallace. Let’s get out of here,” the other man said.

  Trufante pulled Pamela closer when he heard the man approach.

  “I’m gonna call the boss and let him know we’re good. He was more than a little pissed about what happened earlier,” Wallace said.

  Trufante felt the men moving toward them and tried to shrink, but it was too late. He could feel the couch sink as the man sat. If he swung his feet around, they would be discovered. There was nothing he could do but hope for some luck, something that regularly eluded him.

  “Hey, boss,” the man said. There was silence for a minute while he listened. “Yeah, we got it. Be over there shortly.”

  He thought they were in the clear until Wallace kicked the ottoman away. “We gotta go,” he said and stood up.

  The man’s foot landed squarely on Trufante’s calf, causing instant and intense pain. He bit his tongue to prevent any sound from escaping. The man must have felt something unusual and kicked again. Fighting the pain, Trufante managed to remain quiet, but it didn’t matter—the beam of a flashlight caught him square in the eyes.

  “Well, look here, Mike. We got that Cajun lover boy and his girlfriend. Must have been having a nice housewarming. Champagne and all.” He picked up the bottle. “Perrier-Jouët, very nice. Must be the girl that picked that out. Your sorry ass wouldn’t know that from warm PBR.”

  Looking up at them, Trufante realized they were Hawk’s men. The same men from the auction and the bar.

  “Get on your feet, you damn Cajun,” the man with the New Jersey accent said.

  Trufante looked from man to man, then to the door behind them, wondering if there was any way out. Pamela was fidgeting beside him. He tried to hold her down, but she struggled to her feet. There was no stopping her.

  “This is my house now. What are you guys doing here?” she said.

  “Let me handle the bitch,” the larger man, the one Mac had called Ironhead, said.

  “We got to get back to the boss. Take them in the back. I’ll try and find something to tie them up with,” Wallace said.

  “Too bad they won’t fit in the hole in the floor,” Ironhead said, waving the cordless drill at him and pulling the trigger.

  As the men debated his fate, Trufante looked for a way out. The open patio door was only feet away. He could probably get past them and jump to the ground, but he looked at Pamela next to him, clearly scared after they had rebuffed her claim of ownership.

  Wallace was looking at them strangely. “Might work. Good idea.” He turned back to them. “Let’s go.”

  “Serve them right for buying the house from under us,” Ironhead said and pushed Trufante toward the hall.

  They were in the back bedroom. The bed was pushed to the corner, and the carpet was rolled up halfway across the room.

  “I thought I told you to put everything back,” Wallace scolded the bigger man.

  “Ain’t no matter now,” he said and pushed Trufante to the floor. “He might be a little long, might have to cut off another appendage.”

  Trufante shot him the finger with his stub. He looked in the square space in the floor. It was about a foot high, the width of the joists, and three or four feet square.

  “The Cajun first. I’m thinking we take the girl back to the boss. Let him have a go at her, you know, for buying the house,” Wallace said.

  “I’d like a go at that,” Ironhead said and pushed Trufante toward the hole.

  “Don’t,” Pamela pleaded.

  “Come on, lover boy, get in,” Ironhead said and kicked him.

  Trufante looked up at Pamela, pleading with his eyes. “Find Mac,” he said and put his body in the space. It was a tight fit, but he coiled up his lanky frame and complied.

  “He’ll die in there,” Pamela said. “You can have your damned house. Just let us go.”

  Ironhead was placing the plywood piece over the opening. What little light the streetlights cast into the room was gone, and Trufante found himself enveloped in darkness. He heard footsteps above him, and the whine of the drill as Ironhead secured the lid. The carpet was rolled out, and he heard the feet of the bed frame slide over him. He waited until he heard their car start before rubbing his butt against the wood. The phone was still in his pocket, but reaching it was another matter.

  He felt around the dark space with his hands. The joists surrounding him were solid—at least an inch and a half thick. The plywood below him was encased in stucco, making up the ceiling of the open space below. The only way out was above. He had only counted four screws, but the lid didn’t budge when he tried to push his body against the cover. Lying on his side with his knees in his chest, there was no way he could generate the force required to pull the screws from their hold in the joists.

  He was sweating now, the small space heating up quickly from his efforts. The air seemed stale as well, and he started to worry if there were enough cracks between the wood to allow air to circulate. The phone was his only way out, and he struggled to reach it. Contorting his body, he tried to roll onto his back, without success. He lay back panting, feeling light-headed, drinking in the last of the air.

  ***

  Mac sat back on the couch, holding the thumb drive in his hand. He thought about staying here, but figured once Hawk realized he had disappeared, he would connect the dots and have Trufante’s apartment checked. There were not that many options open, his antisocial behavior having made him more enemies than friends. He thought about hitching a ride to Key Largo instead of waiting until tomorrow for Alicia and TJ to come to him, but the Keys were different now than when he’d thumbed his way down here twenty years ago. There was a better chance of landing in jail than getting a ride.

  He got up and started pacing the living room. Feeling claustrophobic, he put the thumb drive in his pocket and left the apartment. There was a slight breeze coming from the southeast, probably less than ten knots, and he thought about protected anchorages. Not sure if Hawk would send his thugs by land or sea, he went downstairs to the center-console, released the lines, and started the engines.

  He pulled straight out of the slip and retraced his route through the harbor. At the beginning of the mangrove channel, he cut the engines and drifted, checking for the sound of an approaching boat. He heard the whine of an engine, but it quickly passed, the sound dying with it, and he waited another minute before starting the engines and running the channel.

  He exited the lagoon unchallenged and steered toward deeper water. Dropping the hook on the Gulf side, even with its small coves and lagoons, was not an option. The protected spots weren’t on his list of acceptable anchorages; houses surrounded them, and he feared a homeowner might call the police. The open water, although it provided good holding, was too exposed for his liking. Even with his white anchor light on the T-top lit, it wasn’t elevated enough to be visible from a distance, and he feared a casual boater or hungover fisherman would run into him.

  Boot Key H
arbor was too close to his old house, and crowded with liveaboards. The best solution was Sister Creek. The mangrove-lined shores of the inner channel were either deserted or government-owned, housing the radio towers that still broadcast propaganda to Cuba. Accelerating, he headed a quarter mile out before cutting the wheel to port and turning west to allow him enough clearance from the shoals to leave his electronics off. The navigation lights were dark as well, but his finger rested by the switch in case a boat approached.

  Mac cruised west, roughly following the coast until the lights of the cars and trucks on the Seven Mile Bridge became visible. Leaving the protected waters of the Gulf side, he headed for the gap between the second and third piling of the old bridge, about a hundred yards from land, pushing the throttle down to make sure he had enough horsepower to avoid the strong, swirling currents channeling through the concrete abutments. He cleared the bridge, and away from its protection, the waves grew and the wind hit his face. He had a decision to make. Slowing, he evaluated the conditions before choosing the outside passage. He cruised past the entrance to Boot Key Harbor, not regretting his choice even when the first wave crashed into the bow, sending spray across the boat. It was better to be wet than to be seen.

  Once clear of the small group of boats moored in a cove on the outside of the markers, he rounded Knights Key and headed offshore enough to pass a small unmarked island surrounded by shoals that guarded the entrance to the creek. He saw the light of the first marker, steered a wide path around it, and entered the channel. When he reached the second marker, he obeyed the sign posted below it and cut his speed. Using the lights from the houses on the right to guide him, he stayed towards starboard until he was clear of the shallows, now impassable with the low tide. The radio towers were in front of him now, and he turned to port, slowing to drop anchor, when he changed his mind and reversed course. He would sleep a lot better if he knew what Hawk was up to.

  The entrance to the network of canals servicing Flamingo Island lay dead ahead, and he steered through the maze of man-made channels, careful to keep his speed down. No reason to anger one of the residents and get the police involved. He idled by the round house on the right that guarded the entrance, and turned to port at the first opening. This was no place to be if you didn’t know your way, and although it was one of his favorite mullet grounds and he knew these canals well, he turned on the navigation lights and chart plotter. He would look more out of place running dark here as well.

  He followed the canals around until he hit the last turn, and Hawk’s ship loomed large in front of him. Larger than the surrounding boats, its tower rose to the height of many of the sailboats’ masts. Killing the lights, he dropped speed again and coasted toward the boat. As he approached, he saw the lights on in one of the cabins. It was quiet, and he wondered what he expected to find here. Hawk was home, but there was no sign of his henchmen. Just as he was about to turn, a car pulled into the driveway of the small house by the dock and cut its lights.

  Mac let the current take him to the other side of the canal, where he grasped for the rail of one of the boats docked there. Doors slammed, and he heard a woman’s voice. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she was clearly not happy. Moving to the bow to get a better look, he saw Ironhead and the Weasel dragging a woman down the path to the boat. She looked familiar, and he cursed under his breath when he saw it was the same woman Trufante had been with at the bar.

  Chapter Eight

  The woman struggled as they pushed her across the short walkway from the dock to the deck. Hawk yelled something to Ironhead, who finally lifted her off her feet and carried her aboard. A minute later, the screams were almost inaudible, muffled by the steel bulkheads of the cabin.

  Grasping the bow rails and cleats of the docked boats, Mac pulled himself closer to the steel-hulled trawler. It was not like the fiberglass pleasure boats the name might bring to mind, but a heavy research vessel. The shiny paint job, deep green with yellow accents, concealed the heavy workhorse that it was. Though not fast, it was built for heavy work in big seas. The flared bow, designed to cut through big waves, towered over the low freeboard of the much smaller center-console, and he was able to use it to conceal himself as he moved to the edge of the neighbor’s dock and pulled the boat underneath the shadow of the bow. The center-console sat much lower in the water, but if he decided to board, he could reach the deck of the larger ship by climbing on the T-top. He was about to make his move when he heard the cabin door open and saw the shadow of a man on the deck.

  Climbing onto the neighbor’s dock to get a better look, he moved behind the cover of a large mangrove branch. From here he could see Ironhead walk back to the dock and cross to the path. He lost sight of him there, but the opening and closing of a car door told him where he was. A minute later, he emerged again, carrying several bags. He handed them off to Wallace, who waited on deck and returned to the car for another load.

  The cabin was quiet now, and Mac wanted a better look. Quietly, he slid back onto the boat and climbed the stainless tubing supporting the T-top. He slid onto the fiberglass cover, carefully avoiding the GPS and VHF antennae. Mac reached out for the railing of the larger boat, missing by only a few inches. Using one of the mangrove branches, he pulled the small boat closer, gaining the height he needed, then released the branch, ducking when it snapped back. The boats started to separate again, the strain of their lines pulling them back to their original positions. Mac didn’t waste any time. He rose and vaulted the rail, then flattened himself on the deck, waiting. He looked around at the foredeck. The only forward-facing windows of the wheelhouse were dark, making him confident he had not been observed. Slowly he rose to his knees and crawled around the structure until he could see into the large rectangular cabin windows.

  He was about to move closer for a better look when he froze. The cabin door opened, and he heard activity on deck. Slowly, he moved past the dark windows and saw three men standing with their backs to him on the starboard side. There was a large bundle between them, and Mac expected the worst.

  “Bring the boom over,” Hawk ordered in a low voice. “Quietly.”

  That’s odd, Mac thought. Why would they need a boom to dump the body?

  “Gear up, Mike,” he said.

  Ironhead pulled a scuba tank, buoyancy compensator, and regulator from a locker by the transom and expertly set up the gear. He slid into the straps of the vest and waited while Wallace sprayed the mask with defogger, rinsed it, and handed it to him. His experience showed again when he silently moved to the transom and rolled into the water with a small enough splash that it would have given an Olympic diver a top score.

  He heard a motor whir and looked toward the boom, where Hawk was at the controls lowering the cable. Wallace wrapped the heavy wire around the package, snapping the hook around the standing line. Mac crept a step closer, almost to no-man’s-land, to get a better look when he saw a glint of silver just before Wallace sealed the bags with duct tape. Curious now, he watched as the boom lifted the package from the deck. Hawk manipulated the controls, moving the arm past the gunwale to extend over the water and then lowering the package into the canal.

  They had done this before, Mac thought. They were too organized and quiet for this to be the first time, and he wondered what else was down there. The narrow canals were somewhat of an illusion. As wide as a street, they were deeper than one would expect. Years ago, before it was made illegal, the contractors had dynamited them and excavated huge trenches, using the rubble as fill for the houses now sitting adjacent to the water.

  Over the years, Mac had dove in many of the canals to construct and repair the bridges connecting the small islands. He knew there could be fifteen or twenty feet below the waterline — plenty of depth for a well-concealed cache.

  An unfamiliar noise came from inside the cabin, bringing his attention back to more important matters—the woman. He moved back behind the structure, watching as Hawk and Wallace repeated the process three m
ore times. The boom was back in place, and Ironhead was aboard, stripping and storing the gear. A few minutes later, the men were dismissed, and Mac waited for the car to start, following its lights as it backed out, and turn onto the small bridge ahead of them that led to the mainland.

  It was just the three of them now, at least as far as he knew. This might be the only chance he had to save the girl. He needed a distraction to get Hawk back on deck. He saw the control box for the boom and slowly crept to the edge of the wheelhouse, slithering onto the rear deck. Lights were on in the cabin, but he was able to stay below the level of the windows, pausing when he reached the solid door to listen for any activity before crossing to the starboard rail and grabbing the control box. It was mounted on the boom, with about ten feet of electrical cable connecting the controls to the motors and hydraulic pump.

  Studying the box in the low light, he found the toggle to raise the cable and flipped the switch. The motor whirred and slowly reeled in the loose wire. Once the slack was out of the line, the hydraulics emitted a high-pitched whine that turned into a screech as the mechanism struggled against the tension of the line. As he expected, the ship went dark when the power surge overloaded the motor and blew the main breaker.

  It was time. Mac dropped the box and went to the port side, hiding behind the hinged side of the door. The beam from a flashlight could be seen in the cabin, and he readied himself. Looking around for a weapon, he found nothing—he would have to rely on surprise and subterfuge. The beam became more focused, and suddenly the lights came back on. Hawk had reset the main breaker. Now, Mac hoped he would investigate what had happened. Sensing the door opening before the hinges moved, he crouched down.

  Hawk emerged from the cabin, his shadow visible on the deck before his body. Although Mac would rather have smashed his head in, he waited patiently for him to start across the deck. The minute Hawk moved to the rail to check the boom, Mac slid around the opened door and quietly closed it. Turning the lock, he inhaled deeply and started searching the cabin.