Wood's Fury

by Steven Becker

  Ned instantly agreed and they set a time a half hour out. After looking at the chartplotter and realizing they were past the point of no return, Mac continued to circumnavigate the island. Passing the Southernmost Point, he followed the coast.

  The navigation was straightforward, and a route he had traveled several times before. There was no point in plotting out the course, and he just drove the boat, lost in thought about what his endgame needed to be. Mel was deep into her phone and Trufante and Pamela were huddled by the transom, allowing him time to think.

  Passing Fort Zachary Taylor and the cruise-ship pier, he decided that the degree to which Trufante was in trouble was not his problem. His own standing with the FWC and staying out of jail had to remain the top priorities. In order to do that, he needed to find and turn over the drugs before they surfaced somewhere. It was that or come up with enough cash to pay off the agent—cash that he didn’t have. Even though he suspected Warner would sell the drugs himself, that couldn’t be his concern—at least for now. Unfortunately, knowing JC possessed them meant he would have to face Wood’s old enemy. With that unpleasant thought stuck in his head, Mac turned, instinctively shielding his face, as they passed the Coast Guard station and pier, before turning to starboard and taking the Flemming Cut, which led to Garrison Bight and the marina.

  As promised, Ned was waiting with a large grin on his face. Mac liked to see him happy, but knew that he was about to burst that bubble.

  “How much do we tell him?” he asked Mel.

  She looked up from her phone and answered. “Tell him everything. He knows things.” Growing up, he had been like an uncle to her. On seeing him, she jumped onto the dock, leaving Trufante with the lines, and greeted him with a bear hug.

  Ned returned the embrace, and turned to Mac, who was now beside them. “Don’t suppose this is a social call.”

  JC stood on the street side of the fence, trying to figure out which chickens would garner the most favor with the gods. Deciding on a rooster and two hens, he entered the front door of the Key West Wildlife Center, still unsure of how he was going to walk out with the birds, but knowing whatever it took, he would. The priestess had told him this was what he needed to placate the gods. The chickens, and her fee, of course.

  Fingering the roll of bills in his pocket, he approached the woman at the counter.

  She smiled, but he noticed her eyeing him suspiciously. He knew he looked different than their usual patrons.

  “All our traps are out,” she said, assuming from his looks that he was here to dispose of a nuisance chicken.

  “I’m here on another matter.” After already having been stereotyped, he paused to gauge her reaction.

  “Of course.”

  Her voice held the liberal uppity tone he expected. It was that attitude he would need to appeal to.

  “I’ve got a friend.” He paused again for effect. “You see, she has cancer.” A quick study of the woman’s face told him he was on the right track. “Anyway, chickens are kind of her thing and having a few in her backyard would mean the world to her.”

  “That’s so sweet.”

  He knew he had her. “Is there any chance I can take a few off your hands for her?”

  “We usually don’t—”

  “A donation would be in order as well.”

  “Well, we are a non-profit—”

  JC reached into his pocket and pulled out his wad of bills. Before he could start to peel off any, he saw the distress on her face.

  “Cash?”

  He already knew what he was dealing with and sighed to himself, trying to relax. Being pushy would only put the woman on the defensive. “If you don’t want to take it, I’d be happy to run it down to the bank and deposit it.”

  While she thought for a second, he wondered if her brain was any larger than the chickens she advocated for. From her looks, she seemed to resemble them.

  “No, I guess it’s all right, but maybe I should call the manager.”

  He was too close to walking out with what he wanted to risk her bringing someone else in; someone who might see through him. Peeling two more hundreds off his wad of bills, he pushed them across the counter, thinking these might be the most expensive chickens anyone ever bought. But if it pleased the gods, he would be rewarded a hundred-fold.

  Her eyes dropped to the stack of bills in front of her, then back to him. “We don’t have any cages. How will you transport them?”

  He cursed under his breath for not thinking about that. If it was up to him, he would have grabbed them by their feet and taken them, but that could be a deal-killer. “Just need a minute. I’ll be right back.” He caught her eye and smiled.

  Calmly, he made his way to the door, but once outside he looked around frantically for a solution. The facility was located in a large park with no stores in sight. His gaze settled on the water, where some blue-crab traps were partially exposed from the low tide.

  Running as fast as his boots would allow, he crossed Atlantic and ran to the shore. Entering the water, the boots became a help instead of a hinderance. JC reached the first trap, and dragged it onto the seaweed-lined shore. Cutting the buoy line with his pocketknife, he tossed it to the side, then reached in and removed several crabs, which he tossed back into the water. He pulled the trap to the sidewalk, where he lifted it above his head and smashed it against the hard surface. The concrete poured into the bottom of the trap to weight it in the water shattered, and he shook the wire until the pieces were dislodged.

  Without the concrete, the trap weighed close to nothing, and he easily crossed the street with it, then walked to the entrance of the Wildlife Center. It was perfect, except even his fish-conditioned nose could smell it. Deciding to leave it outside, he entered, caught the woman’s eye once again, and pointed through the glass door.

  A few minutes later, he was proudly walking back to the African Cemetery with his very expensive chickens in hand.

  Fifteen

  “Don’t know if you remember JC.” Mac didn’t need an answer; he saw the recognition on Ned’s face.

  “I may be old, but I wouldn’t forget that man.”

  Mac quickly told him the story, with Mel filling in any missing details.

  “So, you need me … why?” Ned asked, as if he had been taken away from some cutting-edge research he had been doing on a centuries-old wreck, which might well have been the case.

  “Just a shot in the dark, but you know more people here than we do. You knew that rabbi who gave us Van Doren’s journal. I thought you might know how we can find a Santeria priest.”

  “There’s a whole lot of real estate between a rabbi and the Santeria. Don’t exactly think they run in the same circles. Besides, I’ve still got an axe to grind with you over that diving bell of Van Doren’s we found.”

  Mac could feel Mel edge closer at the mention of Van Doren’s name.

  “Come on. Finding that treasure in the state park was going to get us nothing but trouble. The permits alone—“

  Ned shook his head. “And leaving it down there accomplishes what? Except that every damned poacher knows where it is now.”

  Mac knew he was right, but still felt no obligation to do the state’s work for them. There would have been a split between Mac, Ned, and the state? And though both parties cared about the money the state would take the lion share leaving Mac with little more than enough to cover expenses. Ned wanted to study the bell, and didn’t care if it ultimately ended up in a state vault somewhere, which likely would have happened. Mac thought it would better serve the public where it lay.

  “That tide’s been out a long time now,” Mac said. He could tell Ned was still frustrated. Mel whispered something in Ned’s ear, and his mood changed. Those two conspiring against him was as dangerous as Trufante on the loose, and Mac decided to move things along. “The rabbi?”

  “Yes, maybe he does know something.”

  “You brought your car?” Mac asked.

  She walked over to
Mac and pulled him aside. “Treat him with some respect. I know Dad walked all over him sometimes, but I won’t allow you to.”

  Mac grunted and returned to the group. People skills had never been his forte, especially when he was under pressure. Ned started walking toward the street and they followed. It was a tight squeeze into the small VW, but the drive was thankfully a straight shot down Margaret Street, requiring only a short detour around the cemetery, before they reached the B’nai Zion Synagogue.

  “Should we have called ahead?” Mel asked Ned.

  Ned shook his head and parked on Union Street in front of a stone-faced wall with a large menorah mosaic set into it. “Sun’ll be down soon. He’ll be here.”

  Ned led the procession to the side door where the rabbi’s residence was located. He knocked several times, receiving no response, then pulled out his phone.

  Mac fought off the urge to give Ned the “I told you so” look, and watched as the old man pecked out the message on his phone. Seconds later, a chime signaled in response. Ned read it and led the group to the front entrance.

  “Gonna wait out here,” Trufante said, parking himself on a bench by the walkway leading to the main doors. “Roof collapses, I don’t want it on me.” Pamela went to him and whispered something, then joined the others.

  At first, Mac thought she was going to stay with him, but he expected her interest in anything mystical would outweigh her need to keep the Cajun company. “Have it your way.” Mac was actually relieved that Tru wasn’t going in. It would have been like having a kid in an antique store; he was bound to break something.

  Mac pulled the handle on the large wooden door open and held it for Ned, Pamela, and Mel. It took a minute for their eyes to adjust to the low light. Daylight was already waning and the stained-glass windows filtered it even more. They stood there looking around the old temple until Ned finally took the lead and started walking to a door off to the side of the altar.

  They found the rabbi in his office, the same room where he had revealed Van Doren’s history and journal to Mac and Ned. Mel and Pamela started looking at the pictures, decorations, and books lining the walls.

  “Shalom, my friend,” the rabbi said, extending a hand to Ned.

  “Sorry for the intrusion,” Ned started.

  The rabbi waved him off. “You always bring something interesting with you.”

  Mac saw the rabbi glance over at Mel and Pamela. “This is Melanie Woodson and Pamela,” Mac introduced the women.

  “Ah, glad to meet you,” he said. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “We’re looking for Juan Cristobal,” Mac said.

  Ned cast him a glance and took over. “I’m sure you know him.”

  Mac saw the recognition in the rabbi’s eyes. “Yes, I know JC. There was a time when he was interested in the Kabbalah. It was a good day when he moved on.”

  “Well, it appears he moved on to Santeria,” Mac said.

  “That doesn’t surprise me in the least. He seemed to be a very superstitious man. I heard he married a Cuban woman several years ago.”

  “We were hoping that you might know some of the Santeria priests,” Ned said.

  “As a matter of fact, we have a coffee group twice a week open to all denominations.”

  Only in Key West, Mac thought, and waited for him to continue.

  “I can make a few calls, however they are very secretive. But I do know that they often conduct their rituals at the African Burial Ground by Higgs Beach.”

  The last bit was actually helpful. Mac had to stop himself from wondering what the weekly talk over lattes would be. “If you could, we would really appreciate it.”

  They were walking out of the office when Mac saw Mel turn. She held up a finger and walked back in. Mac waited outside the door. Mel and the rabbi were talking in hushed tones. A minute later she emerged with a folder. He couldn’t make out what it was, but he knew it was going to somehow affect him.

  Outside, they stood on the sidewalk, looking at the now-empty bench where Trufante had parked himself.

  With nothing to do except stare at the water and suffer the squawking of the chickens sitting in the cage beside his feet, JC waited for the priestess. Some might have taken the time to reflect on their lives; what they had done right, or where they had gone wrong, but his focus was solely on the sacrifice of the chickens and the prosperity it would bring him. He was even able to justify stealing the crab trap, which he knew would set some poor fisherman back a hundred bucks, as “the will of the gods”.

  With the glow of the setting sun outlining her wild, stacked hair, JC saw the priestess walking toward him.

  “Those are some fine-looking chickens,” she said.

  JC looked down at the cage, thankful that his prospective sacrifice had been approved. The chickens were oblivious to their fate. Pecking at the small mollusks attached to the trap, they seemed quite content.

  “Come, it is almost time.” She led him toward the memorial.

  They skirted the paved memorial and walked out onto the beach. Ahead was a section of rock-lined shore, then a seawall. The cage was getting heavy, but JC refused to delay the sacrifice. They were behind the West Martello Tower, which, through his wife’s donations, he knew to be the home of the Key West Garden Club. Thinking about her, he turned his head away, hoping none of her friends were there. Finally, the priestess stopped at a short but wide staircase leading to the water.

  “Let me have them,” she said, holding out her hand for the cage.

  JC was getting both excited and anxious. He could only hope that this would work. Extracting the first chicken from the cage, she took it by the neck as it fought, sensing its fate. Finally, she yanked hard, and it came free from the cage. After muttering a few words, she slit the bird’s neck with a hook-shaped knife. Blood sprayed from the chicken, covering JC in a diagonal line across his shirt. Following the same procedure, the priestess beheaded the other two birds. Blood from the last hit JC in the face. Putting his fingertip to it, he took a drop and placed it on his tongue, tasting the blood of his sacrifice. The gods had to be happy now.

  Leaving the stairs, he was in an auspicious mood. He paid and thanked the priestess then, as she started back to the memorial, he turned to the beach, deciding to return the crab trap to the area where he had taken it. Though he had damaged it by cutting the buoy line and removing the concrete, he left it on the beach just above the high-water mark. If the fisherman found his trap, it could only add to JC’s good karma.

  Walking away from the beach in the direction of the White Street Pier, his mood remained so good he was even thinking about buying his wife flowers—until he saw an old VW pull onto the shoulder ahead of him. The only thing JC could think of when he saw Mac Travis exit the car and start walking toward the memorial was what would have to be sacrificed next.

  It was a bad decision and Sloan knew it. Showing up at his father’s house immediately after his business had burnt to the ground would only add to the old man’s paranoia. His pickup was nowhere to be seen. There was a car in the narrow driveway that he assumed belonged to his father’s latest wife. He knew her well enough to fear her. Though he was part Cuban himself, there was a cultural difference between the generations. He was raised by the Batista Cubans, who had emigrated when Castro took power in 1959; she came with the Mariel Boatlift of 1980. The former were good, law-abiding people who had opened businesses and raised families here. The Mariels were the dregs of Castro’s jails. Upon their arrival in the U.S., being Cuban started to mean something different. His grandmother was from the Batista generation; his stepmother, a Mariel.

  Walking away from the house, he turned onto Grinnell Street, and followed it to Union, where he turned left. He had spoken to Eleanor earlier, and she had agreed to bring the boat down. With several hours to kill before she arrived, Duval Street was his destination. Only a dozen blocks away, he was content to walk, knowing there were both women and refreshment ahead, as well as his father’s new b
ar. If JC wasn’t home, chances were he was there.

  Despite the necessity of the fire to his plan, Sloan felt dirty, and he eagerly anticipated the taste of the tequila, which he expected would quench that flame better than water. Walking with a purpose, he looked forward to the half-dozen or so bars he knew along the way to Front Street. Eleanor would be conservative while bringing the boat in at night; he calculated that she would cover the sixty miles from Marathon to Key West in a little over four hours. If everything went as planned, he would be aboard the boat later tonight and make the rendezvous to deliver the drugs in Palm Beach this time tomorrow.

  That was the plan—until he saw Trufante sitting on the bench outside the temple.

  Sixteen

  The memorial was empty, but Mac wandered around for a minute to get a sense of the place. On his second circumnavigation, he saw two sets of footprints in the sand. Without saying anything to the others, he started to follow them.

  It was a unique pairing; the smaller prints clearly barefoot and those of a woman, while the other had worn boots, a fisherman for sure. This had to have been JC and his priestess. Mac continued walking next to the prints until they stopped at a staircase that led to the water.

  As he approached the access cut into the seawall, something glistened in the moonlight. Using the flashlight on his phone, he squatted down and examined the drops. It seemed like blood for sure; fresh, if he had to guess. A flood tide would have covered the stairs, but in the ebb, moving the light from side to side, he realized these weren’t the only bloodstains on the stairs. Some appeared newer, others older.

  Standing up, he almost bumped into Pamela.

  “Sacrifices,” she said. “Sympathy for the Devil, Mac Travis.” She started humming the Stone’s tune.